Mackinac Island. You’d explore on horseback, sit on the famous veranda to watch the sunset over Lake Michigan, and have a real English tea in the lobby. I think you’d enjoy that.”
“Thank you.”
He was relaxing in his seat now, and I realized that he’d been quite tense after we’d reached the main road, waiting for me to overturn the motorcar on a curve or run us into one of the high walls in the surrounding villages. Smiling, I said, “I do drive well. I was taught by Simon Brandon, who never does anything by halves.”
“You must have been,” he replied, grinning sheepishly. “Neither of my sisters drives.” There was a pause, and then he asked, “Who is Simon Brandon?”
“A family friend,” I said, not wishing to go into the whole of my relationship with Simon. He had been my father’s batman when he first joined the regiment, and later rose to the post of Regimental Sergeant-Major. He and my father had always been close, despite the difference in their ages, for Simon was nearer to mine than to his. I had known him all my life. He lived in a cottage near our house in Somerset, and like my father, retired from active duty, he was often employed by the War Office in matters that were never discussed. They disappeared for hours or even days at a time, came home weary, sometimes bloody, and often grim.
“From the way you said that, he must be more than simply a family friend,” he pointed out.
I turned to him. “Are you jealous, Captain?”
I expected him to deny it, but he said slowly, “I think I am.”
We drove in silence the rest of the way to Nether Thornton, and on the outskirts I said, “I’m here to call on Mrs. Carson. Her husband was killed recently.” I explained the connection and was casting about, trying to think of a kind way to ask him not to come in with me, when he solved the problem himself.
“Then you don’t want a stranger underfoot. Just ahead-the pub, The Pelican. Drop me there. Just don’t forget to retrieve me when you’re ready to go back to Longleigh House.”
I smiled, grateful. “I shan’t forget. Dr. Gaines would be furious if I lost my minder. And I should like to borrow the motorcar again.”
“Anytime, Sister. Just ask me.” He paused. “Can you use the crank? Or would you prefer that I come to fetch you? Either way, I shan’t say a word to the good doctor.”
“Thank you, but I can manage,” I assured him. The Colonel Sahib had taught me the safe way to use a crank.
I drew up halfway along the High Street, setting the Captain down in front of the handsome half-timbered pub. He had more difficulty descending from the motorcar than he’d had getting into it. I looked away as he struggled, knowing he wouldn’t take kindly to an offer of help. Finally, standing straight, his cane in his hand, he said, “I’ll be as sober as a judge whenever you come for me. You needn’t worry.” And with that he walked in front of the motorcar and entered the pub. I was beginning to learn how much effort such bravado required on his part. And the cost in pain.
I drove on through the center of the village and to the house close by the church where the Major had lived after his marriage.
Leaving the motorcar by the front gate, I walked up to the door. Black silk draped the knocker, and I let it fall gently against the brass plate.
After a moment the door was opened by Tessie, who had been with the family from the time of their marriage. Tall and rawboned and kind, she said, “Miss Crawford! It’s so good to see you. Mrs. Carson will be delighted that you’ve come. Are you feeling stronger? You look quite yourself, you know.”
“And I am.” I explained about the clinic as she ushered me inside and down the passage to the sitting room.
Julia rose from her desk as I came in, exclaiming as Tessie had done and coming to embrace me. “I’m so happy to see you. How are you? Your father told me you’d had quite a severe bout with this terrible illness.”
“I was one of the lucky ones,” I responded. “It quite ravaged France.”
“Come, sit down. Tessie will bring us tea. I was glad that Vincent died quickly. We also lost our cook to the influenza, and it was a terrible death. Nineteen people died here in Nether Thornton, and we were told we had only a mild outbreak. But we were warned that it could return because of that. The possibility doesn’t bear thinking about.”
We sat and reminisced for a bit, and then when the tea was brought in, she said, “I thought my world had ended when the news came about Vincent. His commanding officer wrote to me. A Colonel Prescott. A lovely letter, assuring me that Vincent hadn’t suffered, and how much my letters had meant to him to the very end. He must have known my husband well. Little things are such a comfort at a time like that, and he told me that Vincent was liked by his men and that they had been brokenhearted by his death. That they had asked to see his body and pay their respects before it was taken away. Vincent cared for his men. It would have meant so much to him.”
All this was very interesting to me. How could Colonel Prescott have known so much about the Major’s death in the lines? Unless it was true. I felt a twinge of doubt.
“It was indeed thoughtful. Er-had he served under Colonel Prescott for some time?”
“Well, there were the censors, of course, and he seldom mentioned names in his letters. It was Private J. and Captain H. and Colonel R. He kept a journal too, and he used the same code, so to speak, in that. In the event he was taken prisoner and the Germans could use the information against us. I’m told journals are discouraged for that very reason.”
Piecing together such small bits of information could sometimes lead to a picture of a regiment’s strength and position.
“Did Colonel Prescott send his journal home with the rest of his possessions?”
“I don’t believe he knew about it or he would have looked for it. It wasn’t in the box of his belongings. I wept when they came. They still carried the scent of Vincent’s pipe tobacco. Do you remember? He had it made up for him in London. I could bury my nose in them and feel that he was close again. There was the pipe, his Testament and his shaving kit, and so on. Two of his books, one a volume of poetry, another a history. His other uniforms. So few things to mark a man’s life and death.”
I had to agree with her. Her husband had been an energetic, intelligent, and caring man. Hard to capture those qualities in the small packet of his possessions.
Still curious about the journal, I brought the subject back to that. “Did he ever show you his journal? When he was on leave?”
“He read to me bits and pieces, the parts that he said wouldn’t disturb me. The pages on his short leave in Paris were wonderful. He promised to take me there after the war. Well, after France was herself again. And he read me a section about his first crossing to France, and some of his feelings about leaving me and facing death. I remembered those lines when the news came. ‘I vowed to love, honor, and cherish Julia until death parted us, but this separation feels like a small death. If it should come to the worst, and be the real thing, if I am capable of carrying any thought into the grave with me it will be, I shall love you until the end of time, just as if I’d been at your side until we were old and gray and still slept in each other’s arms.’ ”
The tears came then, and I chided myself for being the cause of them. But she said as I comforted her, “I find I do well for the most part. And then suddenly I am bereft and I find myself crying uncontrollably. It’s so silly.”
“It isn’t silly at all.” Indeed, it showed me that there was no trouble in this marriage. “You miss him terribly, and I won’t promise you it will get any easier. But with time, it will be a different pain.”
She looked up at me. “Your mother said something like that to me. I was so grateful for her understanding.”
When she was calmer, I asked, “Was there anyone in France that Vincent was particularly close to, someone he confided in?”
“He and Andrew were close-they were at Sandhurst together. But Andrew died early on, at Mons. After that, Vincent was reluctant to make friends. It was too painful to send them into certain death. The price of promotion, he called it, when he had to give such orders himself.”
I’d heard other officers who felt the same way.
“Was there anyone he particularly disliked?”
“What an odd question!”
“Not really. Vincent was always such a good judge of character. And as I remember, he wasn’t one to suffer fools lightly.”
She smiled at that. “No, he wasn’t, was he? I asked him once-well, war is rather terrible, isn’t it, people
