keep up the spirits of those at home as well as the returning wounded. My blue uniform coat stood out among them.
On the walk home, I asked if anyone knew someone in the Wiltshires, adding casually, 'I haven't heard from friends in a while. Are they facing serious opposition? Should I be worrying?'
There was a general shaking of heads. Lieutenant Bellis added, 'I shouldn't, if I were you. Your letters probably haven't caught up with you yet.'
I had to leave it there.
Jack and Serena had gone ahead, to see that breakfast was ready for us, and afterward we played bridge. It was fun at first, but then the friendly bickering grew more strident as the better players argued over each hand. I lost interest and wandered away.
Captain Truscott was a tall, thin man suffering from nerves. His hands shook as he dealt the cards, almost like a palsy. No one had said anything as he twice dropped cards, or his fork fought to find his mouth at meals. But his mind was sharp and his sense of humor intact.
He too was soon banished from the tables, and he came in to join me in the music room. He'd asked me earlier to call him Freddy.
'May I join you?' he asked politely.
'Of course. This is a sanctuary for hopeless bridge players.'
He laughed. 'Do you play?' He gestured toward the piano.
'Not as well as I should like.' Pianos are delicate creatures and dislike being shipped around the world, much less being carted from cantonment to cantonment on the backs of camels or in swaying oxcarts, absorbing dust and monsoons in equal measure. Lessons were possible only when my mother could find an instrument in fair enough tune to make learning the rudiments of playing even possible. She has perfect pitch, and I realized much later what agony of spirit she must have endured, even trying to pass on a little of her skill to her only daughter.
Captain Truscott walked across the room, sat down at the piano, adjusted his chair a little, and began to play.
Freddy, I discovered, was amazingly gifted, his hands steady and sure on the keys. I came to join him, turning pages in the music he'd found. It was a pleasure to listen to him.
He smiled up at me, but I could see his mind was elsewhere, as if the music reached deep inside.
As he moved on to another piece, this one from memory, he said, 'Marjorie Evanson liked to listen to my playing. Her husband was Serena's brother. A pilot. They don't have much of a record for longevity. Marjorie formed a sort of club for women who were the wives or widows of fliers. They met once a week in her London house to give each other support and comfort.'
Something else I didn't know about this woman.
'Who has taken over the group now?'
He shrugged. 'I hope someone has. But she was the driving force. It may have collapsed without her.'
Moving effortlessly to another piece, this one an Irish ballad, the keys rippling softly under light fingers, he fell silent.
Then to my astonishment he said, 'There was another man. I don't think Serena knows. But I saw them together some months before Marjorie's death. Two? Three? I'm not sure. At any rate, they were in a small restaurant on the outskirts of Rochester. Not a place I'd expect to find her, but I knew her at once. I'd had a flat, you see, and had to wait for it to be repaired. So I'd come to The Black Horse to have something to eat while I waited. There was a girl with me-she was engaged to someone else and worried about gossip. I was taking her back to London for her fiance, it was completely aboveboard, but you know how people talk.'
I could easily see how that might happen. With trains so crowded and having to wait for troop-train priority, everyone asked for lifts from someone going their way.
'Did Marjorie see you?'
'Oh, yes, I'm sure she did. She was facing the door as I stepped into the room. She looked away at once, and I backed out, telling Nancy I didn't care for the restaurant after all. I couldn't see the man she was with. His back was to me, the lights were dim, and there must have been something wrong with the chimney, because there was a smoke haze hanging about. I knew it wasn't Meriwether, but that's about it. The man was dark, and looked to be about my height. Before Marjorie saw me, they had their heads together in a way that seemed rather-intimate, if you know what I mean.'
I did. And his description matched that of the man I'd seen. 'Could you tell if he was in uniform? Anything to indicate rank or regiment?'
He shook his head. 'I was too busy beating a hasty retreat. He could have been-'
And at that critical moment, the door opened and Cynthia came in with Lieutenant Gilbert.
'We heard the music,' she said. 'It's war in there-' She gestured over her shoulder. I could just hear Patricia arguing with Jack Melton about a hand. 'We've escaped.'
That was the end of a private conversation, but just before lunch, when we had no more than a minute alone, Freddy said, 'I can trust you to keep that confidence? I wouldn't want to hurt Serena.'
'Of course.'
And that was that. I walked over to where Jack was showing off his gun collection. The cabinet was mahogany and lined with a pale velvet. Two prizes were there on display. I'd noticed them before. Jack was just pointing to the early American Colt revolver.
'My uncle went out to the American West to raise cattle. He had a weak chest and he hoped either for a cure or to die of it more quickly out there. To everyone's amazement, he survived, made a fortune, came back to England, and lived to be seventy-seven.'
Everyone laughed, as they were meant to, and Jack's hand moved onto a pair of dueling pistols. Halfway there I saw his fingers pause for an instant where the lining was indented but nothing lay in that spot. It was an infinitesimal pause, but I saw the flicker of expression on his face and then he went on smoothly, 'These belonged to my great-grandfather. Handsome, aren't they? He bought them not to kill anyone but because he believed a gentleman ought to own a pair. They were never fired in anger, but I have it on good authority that when he tried them here at the Hall, they pulled slightly to the right, and he missed his target, hit his coachman's pet goat instead, and there was a terrible uproar. The goat survived, but the tip of one horn was shorter than the other for the rest of its life, and my great-grandfather was required by the magistrate to pay compensation. Only no one could decide on the value of a goat. In the end my great-grandfather paid the coachman five pounds, a princely sum in that day, and was ordered to swear he would never dismiss the coachman or eat the goat.'
I moved past them as his audience laughed again, and went to find Mary. Our train left for London an hour after lunch, and we were nearly ready.
She was rather quiet on the first leg of our journey. Busy with my own thoughts, I was content to let the silence between us lengthen.
After a time she said, 'You know, it just goes to show that to eat well, one should live on a farm.'
That was not as far-fetched a conversational gambit as it might sound. She was seeing a naval officer whose father was a gentleman farmer, like Jack, and she had been dithering over whether to marry him should he propose or find someone more likely to enjoy the social whirl in London.
I murmured something noncommittal, and she went back to her own reverie.
I myself had been thinking about Serena Melton.
I'd had no brothers-or sisters for that matter-to help me judge how one might feel in Serena's shoes, having lost Meriwether. Would I have been forgiving or vindictive? The closest I could come to imagining her emotional state was to consider something happening to Simon Brandon. He wasn't related, but I'd known him all my life and loved him dearly. If someone caused his death, I'd be furiously angry and determined to see that person punished.
Soldiers are mortal, we had all been touched by that loss. But Serena's brother hadn't given his life for King and Country. He'd died under tragic circumstances, just after the doctors had felt it safe enough to send him home. He'd had a good chance of surviving his wounds. First hope, then despair.
I myself had grieved in my own way for Meriwether Evanson. And so had Matron, for that matter.
I took a deep breath, more like a sigh, and Mary said, 'Was it a boring weekend? I'm sorry for dragging you there.'
'I was very glad I went,' I told her truthfully. But I was looking forward to spending the rest of my leave with
