It gives her time to observe, building herself a picture of the new world she’s meant to inhabit. She sees now why John was insistent and ashamed all at once. Her future father-in-law is a force of nature, a bully—a man like Jamieson, though his methods are far subtler. He’s a man used to the world giving way to him. Despite the similarity in their appearances, Ned seems to be his father’s opposite, quiet, and almost afraid. Wendy feels a surge of pity for him. The parts of the conversation she absorbs center on Ned’s brother, Allan. Not once does she hear her future father-in-law even mention Ned’s name. He is as much a fixture, a piece of furniture at the table as she, both to be moved around at will.
While he doesn’t look at his son, her future father-in-law looks at Wendy more than once, appraising, seeming pleased when she takes small bites of her food, keeps her hands folded in her lap otherwise, and maintains silence. She hates him, instantly and completely, but Ned, almost despite herself, she finds intriguing.
“Will you join me for brandy and a cigar, Mr. Darling? We have details to discuss.” Ned’s father turns to John as the plates are cleared, and Wendy starts, her stomach knotting with tension. She’d almost allowed herself to forget the reason for this luncheon.
“Of course.” John stands, nervous and flustered. She’s never known John to smoke a cigar in his life.
“Might we step outside for some air while you talk?” After so long in silence, Wendy’s voice sounds small in the room, lost among the gentle clink of fine china, polished silverware and delicately cut crystal glasses.
The four men turn to look at her. Ned’s father frowns. She imagines him making a mark on the debit side of a mental ledger. Rather than shrinking, she focuses her attention on Ned, smiling in a way she hopes will not intimidate him.
“I’d be pleased to volunteer my services as chaperone,” Michael says.
Wendy turns, surprised, just in time to catch the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. There’s amusement in his voice as well, and it fills Wendy with hope.
“Of course, the garden is quite lovely.” In his haste to stand and accommodate her request, Ned almost knocks his chair over. His father catches it before it hits the ground, righting it with a scowl.
If she were bolder, Wendy might loop her arm through Ned’s, if only to spite his father, but she restrains herself. After all, this man is a part of her life now; she doesn’t have to make an effort to like him, but she must at least try to get along.
As he and John retreat to another room, Wendy follows Ned and Michael through a set of double glass doors leading onto a stone terrace overlooking an enclosed garden. Crossing the threshold, Wendy takes a moment to appreciate the novelty of stepping outside of her own free will, of not being under the watchful eye of Dr. Harrington, or Jamieson, or any of the nurses. She draws in a deep breath, and not even the pinch of her corset is enough to dampen her joy.
Michael moves to one of the benches at the terrace’s far end. Wendy surprises herself with disappointment; he intends to chaperone them in name only. It isn’t that she fears being alone with Ned. A glance at his face is enough to tell her that he is still far more frightened of her than she is of him. Rather it’s the fresh loss of her brother that saddens her. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the old Michael, when he called her Windy, when he smiled as he offered to chaperone.
Perhaps it’s terribly rude of her, but she watches her brother for a moment longer, ignoring Ned. It’s been so long, surely he can’t begrudge her. A bright slant of sunlight picks out golden highlights in the wheat of Michael’s hair. It’s thinner than Wendy remembers. Everything about him is thinner. The suit jacket she’s certain John picked out for him hangs from his shoulders as if from a scarecrow. She can practically see Michael standing in a field, surrounded by high stalks of corn, staring endlessly at the horizon. A cloud of black birds might descend on him, and he would never move. Wendy’s heart aches for him.
Michael leans his cane against the bench beside him and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a tin of tobacco and a paper. She doesn’t miss the way his hands shake as he rolls the cigarette. He turns slightly, and her pulse snags, but he barely seems to register her. His face is lost in a wash of sunlight, ghosted out as he raises the tin toward Ned in a silent question. Ned shakes his head, and Michael turns away, his shoulders rising in an effective wall, shutting Wendy and Ned out.
The loss goes through Wendy again, like a bolt shot from a crossbow. Will she ever get her baby brother back? If she’d never shouted at him, if she’d found a way to be kind, would they be able to speak and laugh now as they did in the old days? Or would the war always be an un-healing wound inside him, regardless of her actions?
Wendy steels herself and turns her attention to Ned even as Michael remains an ache like a bruise at the back of her mind. “I hope you aren’t holding back on my account.” Wendy indicates Michael’s cigarette. She tries to make her
