Soldier On

by Erica Nyden

  As expected, she succumbed to his wheedling. Olivia’s lips turned upward.

  “I will.”

  Chapter 29

  More than anything, Olivia wanted to please her new husband. This meant shutting out their recent encounter with Lieutenant Blackwood and its implications for William’s future. Instead, she would relish in their new status as married.

  The homecoming helped. Mrs. Pollard had whipped the staff into a frenzy of preparations to welcome the newlyweds. When William (mindful of Olivia’s injuries) carried her over the threshold of Keldor’s grand entryway, Mrs. Pollard, James, and Annie greeted them with cheers. All three were sharply dressed in the black-and-white livery of yesteryear. A cork popped. Champagne frothed and dripped onto the tiled floor. Annie handed them squeaky-clean crystal flutes, likely unearthed from the depths of storage along with the champagne.

  James grinned as he poured, not at all bothered by the effervescent stickiness running down his hand. How changed the man looked when he genuinely smiled. Keldor was her official home now, and this small party of residents welcomed her with open arms.

  She remained bundled in William’s arms as they followed Mrs. Pollard upstairs to William’s bedroom—their bedroom. She rushed ahead to the door and opened it with a flourish, as though revealing an expensive piece of artwork to the crowned heads of Europe. The gray rain pelting the windows couldn’t diminish the explosion of pale pink tulips and flowering magnolia branches inside. Soft flames swayed within pillar candles scattered about their honeymoon suite. Oil lamps added to the glow, making the day outside look darker than it was. A crackling fire roared.

  Already Mrs. Pollard had drawn a bubbly bath. Once the others had gone, Olivia sank gratefully past the rising steam unfurling like mist off curling wave crests. She drew a deep breath of satisfaction as William lathered her back and dribbled warm water over her shoulders. Her empty stomach had assisted the champagne in melting away the upheaval of the last twenty-four hours, and the embracing heat soothed her. Even the loss of her baby—the inkling that had become a reality all too late—would heal with time.

  “Would you have hoped for a boy or a girl?” she asked, one hand tracing patterns in the bubbles.

  “I would be happy with either.”

  “You must have a preference.”

  He sat back on his heels. “I don’t. Do you?”

  She poked a few bubbles, making them pop. “I want a boy first and then a girl. I loved having an older brother. John loved to tease me, yes, but he was also the first to cheer me, especially after rows with Mother.” Her memories wandered, and she let them. “He said I took her too seriously, said I was too sensitive. How different it is for boys.”

  “That’s it, then? Two children?” His fingers spread across her shoulders, rubbing her aching muscles.

  “Not necessarily, but it’s a start. So what would you have hoped for?”

  “You mean, what do I hope for.” He leant forward and pecked the top of her head. “I hope for healthy babies and a healthy mummy. You’ll be pregnant again soon, if I have anything to do with it. Now let’s get more food in you.”

  Mrs. Pollard and Annie had delivered their meal in grand fashion: a large platter crowded with the finest china, polished silver, and sparkling crystal. Olivia ate fresh fishcakes, nestled into the covers and propped up by pillows, whilst William enjoyed his plate and toasted his new bride from a chair beside the bed.

  Finally, James came in to stoke the fire and replenish their wood supply for the evening. Dinner had been cleared and the blackout put in place. Candles glimmered. Olivia had never seen the bedroom look so romantic. Everyone had devoted such tremendous attention to detail, treating them like royalty on this special day.

  More than anything, she wanted William to make love to her—but she knew he wouldn’t. She wasn’t the only one who’d received an earful from her mother about abstinence and future children. Something told her that her new husband would be overprotective and inflexible about her recovery.

  She had to beg him to remove her nightdress. “Please, can we lie next to each other as if we had made love?”

  With the pursed lips of a know-it-all, he relented and carefully removed the nightdress he’d put on her an hour earlier. He kissed the hollow of her stomach.

  “You’re perfect,” he whispered, evidently satisfied with the removal of her clothing.

  She blushed and squirmed as he examined her dimples and blemishes under the wavering light.

  “This was your idea, remember?”

  “Yes, but—”

  His kiss silenced her, a kiss that began at her mouth but didn’t end there. Down her neck it traveled, visiting each shoulder via her collarbone. It then made its way to her torso before cutting a trail across her belly button. There, it turned into kisses up and down each hip. Olivia gasped with pleasure as the kisses made their way inside her thighs, where—

  She recoiled in pain.

  William sat up.

  She held her breath against the discomfort. She didn’t want him to stop. She could live with the pain for a little longer. Maybe.

  “What?” she asked innocently.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll stop.”

  “Don’t, please.”

  It was no use. His eyes told her that until she healed fully, anything below her neck was for viewing only. He gathered the blankets and brought them up to her chin, stoked the fire and extinguished the candles, and took his place beside her. As gently as he could, he wrapped himself around her bruised body.

  “How are you feeling, besides frustrated?” He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  “Better—because of you. And because right here is where we both belong.”

  Endless rain fell outside. Nose in her pillow, Olivia inhaled a scent she was growing tired of: sleep. Since she’d come home, every day had been spent in this bed as William, endorsed by Dr. Butler during an exam a week ago, had ordered. She didn’t mind so much when William was acting as her pillow, but once he determined that she didn’t rest when he was there with her, she spent naptimes alone. Without him, lying around was no fun.

  All this resting did nothing to hurry her healing. After seven days, she felt little improved. At least she could walk, but only if she took her time to avoid becoming winded, which meant she wasn’t out of bed often. It hurt to even breathe, and laughing was out of the question.

  Crying hurt most of all, but that didn’t stop her from doing it anyway. Images of torched buildings under an exploding sky, some from memory and some of invention, occupied the space in her head that wasn’t distressed over William’s impending return to the front. She’d avoided the latter topic, hoping that if they didn’t talk about, it wouldn’t happen. As a result, ten-minute spells of melancholy littered her days. These she cleverly hid. They might’ve lasted longer if they weren’t so bloody painful.

  The bedside clock read 3:04 p.m. It seemed as though six hours had passed since William had brought her lunch. Through their partially opened door, his deep voice broke the silence of the sleepy afternoon. Butterflies raged through her abdomen as frantically as they had the day after their first kiss. Was he on his way up to commend her on a long nap? Maybe not, for there were other voices too—all men. One belonged to Dr. Butler, but two others she didn’t recognize.

  She swung her feet to the floor and lifted her dressing gown from the foot of the bed, holding her breath at the pain of stretching so far. After a whispered curse, she put it on and padded to the door.

  At the bottom of the stairs stood a tall man with graying hair wearing a uniform similar to William’s, with more decoration. His eyes were kind, and he was smiling at William like a proud father. This was Colonel Adams, she was sure of it. Next to the colonel stood a dour, spectacled figure with a puffed chest and a self-satisfied smirk.

  She hadn’t expected this so soon. To keep her shaky legs from buckling, she sank onto the top stair. From this perch, Dr. Butler also came into v
iew. Her stomach tightened. Last week, she had barraged him with questions about William’s mental state: Could he endure combat? Would he come back a different man—someone she didn’t know, someone who would lose interest in life and possibly try to end it? She’d seen that before, she warned. Dr. Butler had seen it too, he said, but even if he deemed William mentally unfit for battle, it would do little to change the minds of the powers that be. As long as William could participate in some capacity, then he’d be utilized. He was an officer, after all, not some reckless youth who’d rashly signed up but now suffered beyond recovery.

  “The expansion in Durham is almost complete,” the colonel was saying. “You’ll hear from us sooner rather than later.”

  “You mustn’t get too comfortable in the interim,” the other man said with a cheeky smile. “Time’s ticking. The war won’t wait.”

  The colonel placed his hand on William’s shoulder as though giving him an accolade, not a death sentence. “Glad to have you back, Major.”

  Unwanted warmth wrapped Olivia’s rib cage, and the faint smell of smoke stung her nose. The image of her mother sobbing at John’s funeral and then at Henry’s months later chilled her limbs. The vision of another funeral entered her mind: an empty casket, a symbol of William’s unrecognizable corpse.

  An involuntary whimper escaped her lips.

  “Olivia,” William called before turning back to the visitors. “Excuse me, sirs. My wife, she’s not been well.”

  Dr. Butler gripped his arm. “I’ll see to her.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ll go. Would you be so kind as to show the colonel and captain out? Colonel, Captain, thank you for traveling to Cornwall. Until I hear from you.”

  William saluted and turned on his heels, taking the stairs two steps at a time.

  Olivia leant into him as he led her back to their bedroom, her eyes lingering on the powerful men below. Her objections would mean little to them. She felt as fettered as surely her mother had the day John came home saying he’d signed on with the RAF. Of course she’d been proud of him. But hours after his funeral, Olivia overheard Mother say that once she’d seen her son in uniform, she knew the day she’d bury him wouldn’t be far behind.

  At least William would listen to her, if they wouldn’t.

  “This is what you want?” she asked, her arms clenched at her side, even as he helped her sit on the bed. Each of her rapid breaths delivered small punches to her rib cage.

  “Olivia,” he said, sounding frighteningly like her mother, “I can no longer watch this war happen. Too much is at stake. I won’t shirk my responsibilities.”

  “But when I found the letter from the colonel, you knew then you were unfit to—”

  “At the time, I was unfit. Things have changed. I’ve changed. Plymouth reminded me first hand of what our country is suffering. I must do this.”

  Her grandmother once said that war made men think they were stronger than they were. She’d lost two sons in the first war as well, a husband too.

  “But aren’t you afraid you’ll be captured again? Or killed?”

  He shook his head as though she was too thick to understand. Perhaps she didn’t want to understand.

  “I’m more frightened of what’s happening to Plymouth, to Coventry, to London, and the rest of Europe. The blighter that shot at Polly and me? And Falmouth? How many more hits before it’s completely obliterated? None of us are safe, not even in Cornwall. This isn’t the world we want to bring our children into, is it?”

  She let him rant as she stared at the oil painting behind him. Twisted with knots of gold, the frame bordered an image of Steren Cove. Sun gleamed off the whitecaps and gulls flew above the surf. The artist had captured the scene long before metal posts and barbed wire contaminated its splendor, an oasis of beauty tarnished by the need to defend it from barbarians.

  “ … know I wasn’t raised to stand by and wait for trouble to sort itself out. I realize I can’t end the war on my own, but with my skill and knowledge, I can surely make a dent.” He was pacing. “Britain has a history of strength. Everything we hold dear must be safeguarded. If we care at all about our way of life, then we cannot lie down in defeat and allow ourselves to be bullied by a madman and a murderer!”

  Rage sat on the edge of his voice as though everything he was saying had been bottled up for some time. He apologized for the outburst, but he needn’t have: Loss was abundant and horror widespread. Her ordeal in Plymouth was a reprimand for forgetting. And there was no end in sight. To act as though she suffered worse than anyone else was incredibly selfish.

  Perhaps William was well enough to fight and her protests merely stemmed from wanting to keep him out of harm’s way. It wasn’t wrong, but considering the strength of the other side and their talent for destroying lives, it wasn’t right, either. More had to be done.

  “I agree,” she said.

  “You do?” His smile came quickly.

  Falling in love had distracted her from her own drive to do her bit. There was no way she could remain cocooned in safety whilst men, including the one she loved, were risking their lives.

  “It won’t do to cower at Keldor, away from the war, not for either of us.”

  “What do you mean, ‘for either of us’?” He crossed his arms, his expression not quite as triumphant as it had been seconds ago.

  “I told my parents I wanted to work with children, but that was my dream before the war started. I once had a notion to nurse abroad. I’ve got talents too. The Red Cross is—”

  He raised a hand as if she’d lost her mind. “Your parents won’t allow it, nor will I.”

  Was he serious? “You won’t allow it? So I’ve two mothers now?”

  She stood in preparation to huff out of the room, finished with the quarrel until she had more ammunition, but William trapped her in ready arms. She struggled to escape until her weakness stayed her and he dissolved in laughter.

  She wasn’t laughing.

  “I’m all right,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let me go.”

  In one gentle swoop, William placed her back in bed, the last place she wanted to be. “Have you always been so difficult, Olivia Jean?”

  His amused eyes tormented her, but this wasn’t a joke. She had phone calls to make and bags to pack. Where she was going, she didn’t know. If she were feeling stronger, he’d have witnessed a tantrum he couldn’t have imagined.

  Temporarily derailed, she flopped back onto the pillows and reluctantly accepted the kiss planted on her forehead and nose.

  “Relax, love,” he said. “We’ll speak more on this later. I’ve some things to discuss with Dr. Butler. Before I do, I’ll send Polly up with tea.”

  Whether her parents liked it or not, her notion to leave wouldn’t surprise them. And it shouldn’t surprise William. She was a nurse, after all, and her country needed her as much as it needed him. As he himself said: Lying down in defeat is not an option. We must do what we can to protect our way of life. We meant everyone—including her.

  Chapter 30

  Soreness still pestered her right side, but Olivia would waste no more days in bed. William would be gone soon. And once she received a clean health report from Dr. Butler, she would follow suit—a topic they had yet to agree upon. For days, over meals, lying in bed, and now, as they walked the coast path on her first day out of the house, the dispute went round and round like a dog chasing its tail.

  “Do you think I can’t take care of myself? That I’d foolishly put myself in harm’s way?” she asked. She wasn’t a child, though he was certainly treating her like one.

  “The fact that you’re asking this incredibly asinine question tells me you know absolutely nothing about what’s really happening out there,” he said. “Actually living and working in a war zone has nothing to do with worrying over whether or not you’d use your head.”

  He may have had a point. When she pictured herself helping injured soldiers—in a tent, perhaps, or on the deck of a crowded and
chaotic ship—her visions were nothing like the way she imagined him dodging bullets or recoiling as bombs rained from above. John, Henry, and countless others had lost their lives thanks to this war, but she had made a narrow escape; William had, too. Only luck would spare them both a second time.

  She erased the unsteadiness from her voice with a swallow. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. You’ll be off soon; I’ll be on my own. I can do as I wish. You’ll not stop me then.”

  She scrunched her face and looked out over the choppy sea. The desire to risk her life for Britain quickened her heart, yet the acrid fires of Plymouth that still coated the back of her throat soured her stomach. For a moment they stood there, Olivia struggling to hold the ground she was on the precipice of losing, and William in desperate need of recouping his.

  But then his expression changed, as if whatever wild card he’d been saving was about to be played. “You’re my wife, Mrs. Morgan, which also makes you mistress of Keldor.” Practically smiling, he took a step closer. “You have responsibilities here and to the community. Polly, James, and Annie can’t expand the garden on their own, and as he’s told us more than once, Dr. Butler could use your help at his surgery. Will you do this for me, love? Will you stay here and care for the home we’ll one day share with our family? Will you let this be your contribution to the war effort?”

  No one had told her how similar married life would be to living with her parents. The perks of love were brilliant, of course, but this submission? This forced confinement? Would she ever be trusted enough to make her own decisions?

  “You may not regard your tasks here as very important, but think of the peace of mind you’ll give me knowing that Keldor is in your competent hands.”

  He wouldn’t worry about Keldor if she left. He’d worry about her, and he mustn’t. In order to live, he needed to stay alert. He needed to win, and he needed to come home.

  Translating her loss for words as the acquiescence she wasn’t ready to give, he put his arm around her and suggested they head back for lunch.