Soldier On

by Erica Nyden

  “Mr. William,” Mrs. Pollard said, rushing across the garden and waving a bit of paper. She thrust a telegram into William’s hand.

  It was exactly what everyone thought it would be. The telephone call to confirm his pickup would come within twenty-four hours.

  He was leaving.

  Already.

  Her eyes were dry when they met his, but inside she was mourning the time they’d wasted quarreling. They would waste no more. Seemingly thinking the same, William said he’d pack later and suggested they enjoy their luncheon at Steren Cove.

  “I’ll gather items in the kitchen,” she said, matching his urgency. “You grab a blanket.”

  Ambling along the overgrown path to Steren Cove, William carried the picnic basket and a tartan. Olivia followed closely behind. The trail narrowed, and errant branches, alive with green, stretched across the footpath as if barring their entry to paradise.

  Despite her raging curiosity about where he was being sent, she was trying to respect his transition back into soldiering life by not asking too many questions. Military confidentiality often kept wives in the dark, but she had a mind to pry a little more.

  “You said training would last through summer. Then what?”

  “We’ll be off come autumn. Could be earlier, depending on circumstances.”

  “So soon,” she muttered, apprehension slowing her steps.

  Growing up, Olivia had seen her mother’s fears determine with whom the Talbot children could associate, where they could go, and when they were needed home. With one eye on the back of her beloved and the other on the trail ahead, she understood her mother’s fretting. Full of questions and opinions, she was acting just like her—yet another thing to worry about.

  A strong breeze assailed Steren Cove, but the air was warm. Olivia’s toes welcomed the sand’s dry warmth before wriggling beneath the surface to enjoy a cool, damp massage. Not far from where she stood, William wrestled mighty gusts as he laid out their rug. The sight of it whipping above his head before clinging to him like a starfish to a rock made her laugh.

  “I’m glad you find this amusing,” he grumbled through a smile that melted her core.

  Since Plymouth, Olivia had craved William the way she’d once craved chocolate and ice cream. But food cravings were short-lived. She hadn’t laid eyes on a chocolate bar in over a year, making it easier to forget what one tasted like. But William had flaunted himself before her for weeks, sometimes sharply dressed, other times undressed. Beside her in bed every night, his hands caught in her hair and his warm breath on her neck sent her into a tizzy. His careful kisses were granules of sugar dotting her lips without the cake and frosting to follow.

  And soon he would depart, out of her life for an indefinite amount of time. Would her hunger for him subside? Would she forget what it felt like to kiss him, to lie with him—something they still had yet to do as husband and wife?

  He had yet to flatten the disobedient blanket when she fell upon the man who would likely be gone by this time tomorrow. Without hesitation, his unruly kisses crushed her playful lips, but she didn’t complain.

  He moved her beneath him onto the blanket. “It’s only been three weeks. You’re sure?”

  She nodded, though she wasn’t sure, not at all. She also wasn’t sure if, after tomorrow, she’d ever see him again. Shoving that thought from her mind, she lifted her chin, inviting the fierce assault along her jawline and down her neck.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispered once his body joined hers.

  She’d missed him too. Defying minor discomforts along her rib cage, she sought his eyes. Steadfast, they summoned her life force the way mystics conjured spirits. Using hers as a portal, they elicited the inner workings of her heart. Her nature, the good and the bad, rose out of her like steam off a cup of tea. He drank them all in: her compassion and generosity, her penchant for justice, her stubbornness, and her need to win arguments.

  He had seen even her frailty, and yet his eyes promised that no matter what he saw, he would love her still.

  “How afraid are you?” Olivia asked him.

  She’d worry no matter what he said, so he went with the truth. “I’m mildly afraid.”

  It was three o’clock in the morning, and he was due to leave at eight. They’d fallen into bed after a late supper, but not for sleep. Now that they’d finally consummated their marriage, they couldn’t stop. Outside, the wind whipped angry raindrops against the blackened windows, having long ago erased the sun and warm breezes from the day.

  The atmosphere had changed indoors, too. The inevitable telephone call had finally come: a car would arrive for him first thing the next morning.

  “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  Olivia lay within the circle of his left arm. Besotted as always by her scent, he contemplated how to capture it and take it with him. She’d encouraged him to sleep, but he’d refused; he would sleep plenty on the train north. Tonight, he only wanted to enjoy her company.

  “I’m afraid this war will last much longer than we first thought. And I’m afraid of how dreadfully I’ll miss you. But most of all,” he lowered his voice, “I’m afraid that if something happens to me, something will happen to you.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked sharply, sitting up.

  “I don’t know how to explain this without sounding like I’ve got an enormous ego and that you’re not a brilliant, strong woman.” He traced his fingers up and down the locked bare arm supporting her.

  “Just say it.”

  His eyes shifted to the wall of black behind her. Flashes of hand-to-hand combat and months of imprisonment swept the canvas of his mind. “I’m not afraid of fighting. And I’m not afraid of being captured, because it wouldn’t be like before.” Saying the words aloud helped convince him; he hoped they helped her, too. “Knowing I have you to come home to once it’s all over, I could survive it. And dying—I’m not afraid of dying. My whole life, I’ve never been afraid of that.”

  He too sat up, unsure of what compelled him to continue. Perhaps it was the deep disappointment that resurfaced whenever he thought of his father. Or maybe he was looking in the mirror: The bond with his wife was impenetrable and their love so intense that he wasn’t sure how he’d behave had their roles been reversed. Was it Olivia’s changeable behavior over the past weeks—the bouts of tears, the fear and instability that incited the words he was loath to utter?

  “But I’m afraid of how you might react, should that happen.”

  She said nothing, but the way her eyes avoided his told him she knew exactly what he was talking about.

  “Promise me you’ll always look after yourself no matter what you think is happening to me. Don’t—don’t be like my father.” This was the first time he’d spoken of his father’s death himself. He wished he didn’t have to and was careful to spare her the unpleasant particulars.

  “Your father?”

  “He killed himself, Olivia, in the library. Not long before I was found in North Africa.”

  Dr. Butler had been the one to tell him about the suicide, but he’d refused to elaborate. Mrs. Pollard’s telling added details she didn’t want to share, like how she found him dangling beside his desk one night when bringing his supper. How once he’d learned William was missing, he’d refused to believe it and assumed his son was dead, just like his mother. Polly had piled excuse upon excuse as to why he’d done it, and none William could accept. His father had been incredibly selfish, and the more he thought upon it, the more it hurt.

  “And you think—”

  His hand went up. “Please. Keep your faith in me. If you don’t hear from me after a time, once I’m abroad, don’t assume the worst and consider me gone—because I may not be. I couldn’t bear it if you gave up on me, too.”

  That quieted her. She ducked her head as though to hide, validating the misgivings he’d rather have kept to himself.

  “Promise me that.” Impulse forced his hand to her chin, and he lifted it
with a firm jerk. “Promise me you won’t be like him. I beg you.”

  Obediently she met his gaze, blinking back tears as if she’d been slapped. “I promise.”

  He released her, appalled at the white marks his fingers left on her jawline.

  In the candlelight, her wet eyes twinkled as her smile overtook the moment. “You won’t have to worry. I’ll be here, cheering for you, awaiting your return, and warming this bed. I’ll not give up on you. I promise.”

  Lieutenant Hugh Jenkins arrived at Keldor sharply at 8:00 a.m.

  “Good morning, sir.” Jenkins saluted his superior the moment the front door opened on the torrential rain outside.

  After William’s returned salute, Jenkins began dutifully loading his bags.

  William folded Olivia in his arms and kissed her once more. The short moments before the lieutenant’s arrival had been spent in each other’s arms. William had covered her face with kisses and offered encouraging smiles. She accepted both whilst futilely forcing images of her immediate future from her mind: whether enjoying a book in the library or strolling to Steren Cove in the height of summer, she would be alone. She would go to bed alone; she would wake alone. Her one piece of William—his child and possibly her chance to ever conceive another—was lost in Plymouth. Should something happen to him, her distant future would be just as solitary.

  “I love you,” he said. His eyes reminded her of the ocean he would cross in the months to come. “Remember what we talked about. Don’t give up on me.”

  The heat of his hand and the pressure of his lips remained after he walked out the door.

  Frustrated at her inability to stop time, she followed him halfway down the stone steps. Water cascaded down the waxy material of his long greatcoat and beaded along the brim of his cap.

  At the motorcar’s open door, he looked up. “What are you doing?”

  She squinted against the downpour. Rain pelted the top of her head and soaked through her dressing gown and everything underneath. Water raced down the bridge of her nose, dripped over her lips, and trickled into her open mouth.

  “Olivia,” he shouted over the cacophony of falling water.

  Lieutenant Jenkins leant forward to get a closer look at the major’s potentially mad wife.

  “Olivia, what is it?”

  “Don’t die.”

  “What?”

  John had died, shot from the air. Whether he died from the plane’s explosion, the impact of its crash into the Channel, or simply drowned, it didn’t matter. Henry too had died, found dead under a pile of bricks. Was it a slow suffocation that killed him? Or was he crushed instantly? How would William die?

  Gripping the balustrade tightly, she took one step down, then another. “Don’t die. Please, William. Don’t—”

  He lowered his head into the car. “Lieutenant, one minute.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  William slammed the door and sprinted up the handful of steps to her. Forcefully, but with care, he backed her against the balustrade and pressed his forehead into hers.

  “I won’t,” he said roughly before cradling her cheek in his hand. Immersed in the unsympathetic rain, he kissed her again. “I love you, my sweet Olivia. I’ll return. You have my word.”

  Chapter 31

  It took Mrs. Pollard three hours to coax Olivia from her damp bed and into a hot bath after William left. Reprimands that sounded strikingly similar to her mother’s did nothing to budge her from her sad reverie. She was being childish—she didn’t need a reminder—but the clever Mrs. Pollard didn’t give up. Arms crossed, she approached the bed like a formidable headmistress.

  “Where’s your strength, then? Your courage?” she asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The strength you came here with. You lost half your family, then came here to care for a devil who wanted nothing to do with you. You weren’t crying in those days. So where’d you put it, then, your pluck? What’ve you done with it?”

  No wonder William had turned out so well under her watch.

  “Mr. William is to ring tomorrow, is he not? Do you want him to be proud of the woman he married, the woman he fell in love with, knowing she’s all right so he can focus on staying alive and winning this bloody war?”

  Olivia wiped her wet nose and cheeks. Head low, she trudged to the bathroom and slammed the door.

  The next evening on the phone, before William had even uttered her name, she apologized for her dramatic send-off. She promised that all was well, and each passing day proved this was true.

  Spearheading Keldor’s extended victory garden allowed no time for heartache. With her knees in the dirt and the sun on her shoulders, Olivia channeled the green thumb of William’s mother and prayed her spirit wasn’t devastated to see Keldor’s sprawling lawns plowed and sowed with root crops. Harvests came in waves assisting local families, schools, and hospitals. Keldor benefited as well, but no one gained more than Olivia. The sway she held over her garden gave her immeasurable comfort and a sense of purpose she hadn’t expected. Ripened produce and dead weeds enriched her long days. Thanks from gratified recipients ended them happily.

  And yet stormy summer nights were unbearably lonely, and she often went sleepless. Cooler temperatures reminded her that summer would end, as would William’s training. By then he’d be off fighting, and she’d be stuck at Keldor, suffering through shorter and colder days without him. She needed another occupation, far from here. Yes, William wished her to stay, but she’d never actually said she would. Joining the Red Cross meant she could work in Britain, an option William might swallow, but if she joined the army she could be stationed abroad—perhaps even someplace close to him. Though images of Plymouth still haunted her, she could manage the front. Helping others would expel her fears.

  Come September, she’d make inquiries.

  But then August arrived.

  Whilst William relayed how his men were finalizing their training, Olivia curled at his desk in the library, cleaning dirt from underneath her fingernails and savoring the warmth of his voice across the miles.

  “What will you do this autumn after the final harvest?” he asked. “Will you see Dr. Butler for a job? Didn’t I say Keldor would keep you well occupied this summer?”

  “I’ve been to see him, but not for a job.” She tried keeping the smile out of her voice but couldn’t. She wasn’t sure how she managed the first five minutes of the conversation, as bursting as she was with the news.

  “What is it? Is someone ill?”

  “Just a touch of nausea. It’s usually gone by midday.”

  “Nausea? It’s you? What did he say it was, something you’re eating?”

  “I’m going to have a baby.”

  “Do you mean it?” he shouted. “My love, that’s wonderful news! So, what is the protocol? You’re cutting back in the garden, I hope? How careful do you need to be? If you must hire help, do.”

  She could hear the voices on the other end of the line more clearly. It sounded as if the others in the room had guessed what had happened and were congratulating him.

  “Dr. Butler says physical work is healthy, as is being out of doors. I promise, I’m taking excellent care of my—” A whimper hijacked her voice.

  “Love—”

  “I’m fine,” she finally managed. “I promise. Truly, all I do is cry and vomit. I wish you were here to hold back my hair.” She feigned a weak laugh.

  The line grew quiet, exposing the sadness they both fought to deny.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she continued, “but I told my parents. Mother validated my hopes and urged me to see Dr. Butler.”

  “Of course I don’t mind.”

  “They’re delighted. I knew as soon as she learned she’d be a grandmother, war or no war, she’d be thrilled. I’ve asked her to deliver the baby. He or she will be here in January.”

  “January?”

  “Can you be here?” she asked biting at her jagged and rather stubborn
thumbnail.

  “I’ll put in a request right away.”

  The line fell quiet again. Was William questioning whether or not he’d make a good parent? The baby wouldn’t arrive for months. Did he doubt he’d even live that long? Her hand went to her flat stomach, a place it’d visited quite often lately. She would remain positive for all three of them—another promise she’d keep here on the home front.

  POST OFFICE

  TELEGRAM

  25 SEP 41

  COMING HOME ON SHORT LEAVE STOP SEE YOU IN 12 HOURS STOP LOVE WILLIAM

  The telegram had arrived at noon, and sleep got the best of her after midnight. Snug with a book under a blanket in the library, Olivia listened for an approaching motorcar on gravel. None came. By dim light and a toasty fire, she reread the same page over and over, her mind too busy anticipating William’s arrival to focus on anything else. Why was he coming home? How long would he stay? Did this mean he’d get to come home often?

  At one o’clock she awoke with a start, freezing. Intent on checking the fire, she sat up, but the broad silhouette of someone bending over her blocked her view.

  William’s fingers swept back the curls flattened to her face, and though she couldn’t make out his features the way she’d like, her heart sped.

  “Finally!” she cried.

  “Hello, my love.”

  His careworn smile and creased brow surprised her. She was about to say so until her mouth was assailed by a burning kiss, stirring places in her body that had lain dormant for too long.

  She quelled her passion to draw back and get a better look at him. Though her fingers could barely span the developed bulk of his arms, his normally squared shoulders followed the corners of his mouth in a downward slope. She hadn’t seen him this forlorn since January.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’ve just missed you. My God, Olivia, how I’ve missed you.” He enfolded her in his arms and lifted her, cradling her as he had on their wedding day.