Of War and Women

by D. Allen Henry

  Chapter 10

  Compassion Reborn

  Bergen-Belsen, Germany – April, 1945

  Felicité noticed that the weather had begun to warm just a tiny bit but by then, food becoming scarcer by the day, she could wrap her fingers all the way round the thickest part of her arm. Still, despite the death and misery that surrounded her, she redoubled her quest to survive, unwilling to fail so late in the struggle. She lived each day one at a time, hoping that it would be the last one before help arrived.

  Awakening one morning in mid-April, she found that the guards had disappeared. No one knew where they had gone, but it mattered little since there was not a soul left in the camp that was physically capable of escaping. Everyone still breathing simply lay in the bunks and waited. She knew now that there would be no more food - they would either be liberated by the Allies or she would starve to death within the next couple of weeks.

  On the afternoon of April 15 the British arrived. Had it not been British soldiers, Felicité might have nonetheless perished, but as it was her countrymen she was able to stand long enough to wave down a soldier, in the process convincing him that she was an officer in the British Army. After nearly a year in captivity and against all odds, she had somehow managed to survive the unimaginable.

  London - May, 1945

  The phone on Trant’s desk rang, and answering it, he announced into the receiver, “Wing Commander Sutherland here.”

  “Trant?” Walter responded on the other end of the line, “We’ve found her! The boys of the 93rd pulled out all the stops. I’m sorry that it took so long, but at long last, we know where she is!”

  Bolting from his chair, Trant bellowed in excitement, “I say, that’s wonderful news, Walter! Tell me, is she all right?”

  “That’s another question altogether. She’s in Bergen-Belsen DP Camp, Trant. She’s still there.”

  Paling at this revelation, Trant exclaimed, “Oh, bollocks! I hear they’re dying like flies there even now, a month after the war ended. Oh, God, she could still die. Do you know how she is doing?”

  “All that we know is that she’s alive. I’ve sent up the information to the Home Office. It should be there by this afternoon. I expect that they will cut you orders if you go round straightaway.”

  “Do you think that I shall be allowed to go get her?”

  “Are you kidding? How could they say no? She’s a war hero, Trant! She deserves a medal!”

  “I say, I suppose you’re right. I shall go round immediately and see what can be done. Hopefully, they will allow me air transport to go fetch her very soon.”

  Trant arrived at the Home Office an hour later. At first he was pushed around a bit, but eventually he had the idea to go to General de Gaulle’s London headquarters. The General had been back in Paris for some time, but his second in command promised to apprise the general of developments, and sure enough, the following morning Trant received a call from de Gaulle’s headquarters. “Monsieur Sutherland,” the voice on the other end volunteered, “General de Gaulle has already informed the Home Office of his dissatisfaction with their handling of Mademoiselle Delacroix’s extradition. I expect that you shall be hearing from them shortly.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Trant replied. An hour later he was summoned to the Home Office, whereupon he received orders to personally go and retrieve Felicité. He was to fly by transport to Amsterdam two days hence. From there, he would receive an escort vehicle that would take him to Bergen-Belsen.

  Bergen-Belsen DP Camp, Germany – Three days later

  Trant pulled the jeep slowly alongside the gated guardhouse, the soldier at the gate saluting as he did so. “What can I do for you today, Wing Commander?” the soldier queried.

  Handing him a sheet of paper, Trant replied, “Transfer orders, corporal.”

  The guard surveyed the sheet of paper and, handing it back to Trant, he explained, “Sir, you will need to report to the commanding officer, Colonel Branson. You will find him in the third building on the right. Please wait a moment while I open the gate.” The guard moved forward and opened the gate, subsequently motioning for the Wing Commander to pass within the compound.

  Once inside, Trant drove directly to the third building and, upon entering, he was escorted into the commanding officer’s office. He introduced himself and gave his orders over to Colonel Branson, who read the orders and handed them back to him, saying, “Yes, I’ve been expecting you here at Belsen. I’ll get one of my men to get her for you.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Colonel Branson. I am well acquainted with her. Just tell me what barracks to proceed to.”

  “That might not be a good idea, Wing Commander. Since she is a British soldier we have placed her in a special ward that is separated from the majority of the former prisoners, but it’s nonetheless pretty bad. You may want to wait here.”

  “No. Please, sir - this is something that I have to do. Please allow me to proceed on my own.”

  “Okay, Wing Commander. Barracks number 33. You are approved to proceed on your own. And good luck to you, sir.”

  “Thank you, sir,” at which the pair saluted one another in unison. Once outside he hopped back into his vehicle and headed directly for the barracks. Arriving there momentarily, he took a deep breath, fighting off nausea from the stench that emanated from every quarter. The door to the barracks stood open, the warmth of early summer bringing a bit of fresh air to the interior of the building. He cautiously stepped inside, having little idea what to expect. The barracks was filled with people who were in every stage of duress imaginable, each and every one of them laying prone, silently staring vacantly at him as he passed them by.

  For a fleeting moment he thought the colonel had been right. What if he failed to recognize his charge? What if time and suffering had distanced them to the point of no return, to the point that there was no vestige whatsoever of the two people who had once shared a weekend so long ago? It seemed to him as if a century had passed. Could it have only been five years?

  And then he saw her. She was lying on a wooden bunk in the third room. What little remained of her hair was grey, and she seemed to be the size of a twelve year old child. She stared with undiscernible emotion at him from sunken eye sockets as he came towards her, not a word, or even a look of surprise passing between them. She lay motionless, holding his gaze, willing him to see her as she was at this, the most vulnerable moment of her entire life.

  His eyes moistening noticeably, he nevertheless somehow managed to stave off further reaction. Instead he took in the moment, one that would remain with him like no other in his existence, for the remainder of his life. There would be time later for reconciliation, for the opportunity to attempt remonstration for things that could never be repaid nor restored. The moment at hand had its own self-contained universe – it was simply the act of being.

  He moved forward ever so slowly, his eyes captives of her unflinching gaze and, as he did so, he noticed the tiniest of movements. Suddenly, she reached for her head, feeling for her long lost tresses, and then, when he was but an arm’s length distant, she spoke softly, “I’ve been waiting for you. I hoped that it would be you. No, I actually KNEW in my heart that it would be you.” She continued staring at him, clearly unable to arise from her prone position. He in turn was frozen in midstride. Then, incredibly, she actually apologized, whispering, “I’m so sorry. I must look a fright.”

  At this, he broke into uncontrollable tears and, reaching down to her, he pulled her gently up into his arms, replying, “My dear Felicité, you are alive! That is all I need in this world at this moment,” and though she was weak and frail, she embraced him meekly in return. Seeing that the effort exhausted her, he lay her back down.

  For her part, she gazed up into his eyes, exclaiming in a meekly raspy voice, “One day, I shall have my match with you, Mr. Chicken. Over the last year, the struggle to simply continue to breathe, one horrend
ous day upon the next, one inconceivable event after another, has been very nearly unendurable. But the single thing that kept me going was the hope that one day I might have that moment. And now, unbelievably, it seems a possibility.”

  He gasped in torment, tears spilling down his face, and sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her tenderly from the barracks, and as he did so he whispered to her, “I promise you, my dear Felicité, you shall - you shall indeed have your match.”

  London – The Following Week

  Trant sat patiently awaiting the arrival of Dr. Milletson, the doctor in charge of Felicité’s recovery. As he did so, he thought back over the previous week. It had been a nightmare. More than a month since her rescue by the British, Felicité was still unable to hold down solid food. Although she had tried valiantly, most of it had come back up. It had been so long since she’d eaten significant solid food that her body seemed to be unable to assimilate nourishment when it was properly fed.

  But that was only the beginning. Felicité had screamed in terror when they had boarded the transport aircraft in Amsterdam. She somehow had become afraid of the most ordinary things. After surviving only God knew what, she was now inexplicably in terror of the simple and mundane.

  During her first week in the hospital in London she had slept little at all. She had explained during one of her more lucid moments that sleep had been a luxury not afforded to the prisoners over the course of the previous year. Instead, she claimed that she had naturally adapted herself to little sleep, but Trant was certain that it was much more complicated than she let on. He had stayed with her the first few nights in the hospital, and he knew that there was a much deeper explanation. During the very few times that she had actually fallen asleep in his presence, she had screamed intermittently, apparently wracked by horrendous nightmares.

  At that moment Dr. Milletson came down the hallway towards Trant and, greeting him, he shook his hand and beckoned him to enter his office. Once they had both seated themselves, he said, “Well, I’m not sure exactly what to say, Wing Commander. On the one hand, Felicité has survived. Against inconceivable odds, she is alive. And I would say at this point that although it will be many months before she regains her former vigor and vitality, the prognosis for her physical health is quite good. We have a sufficient number of cases in point, persons who were subjected to similar conditions and escaped the camps as long as two years ago, and it normally takes around a year or somewhat more for them to return to their former physical stamina.”

  “Will her hair grow back, doctor?” Trant queried.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Actually, that will likely be the first to improve. She simply needs nutrition, and her hair follicles will begin producing her formerly blonde hair. That should commence in earnest as soon as we can get her on a normal and stable diet.”

  “How soon will that be?”

  “Oh, I expect no more than a matter of a couple of weeks. As you know, we are already experimenting with possible diets toward that end. Now, that is all good news, but the outlook for her mental health is much more equivocal at this point.

  “I’m afraid that this part of her health is much less understood. Because it is a significantly longer term problem, we have little or no data to rely on. Unfortunately, there appear to be hundreds of thousands of survivors who were subjected to similar conditions at the hands of the Nazis. As a result, we are going to be facing this problem for a long time to come. We shall most likely become experts over the next few years with the mental illnesses associated with concentration camps.”

  “So you have no idea what will happen to her?”

  “I’m afraid that is correct, Wing Commander,” Dr. Milletson replied with discernible despondence.

  “Right,” Trant responded dejectedly. “So, let me ask you, doctor, rather than as a highly trained professional, but instead, more so as a concerned private citizen - suppose there was a person – a person capable of sustainable forbearance in pursuit of the heart of the matter, and suppose that this person had the intention to practice patience with Felicité, perhaps to the exclusion of all else in his life,” and at this pronouncement Trant halted and gave the doctor a piercing glance, “What advice would you give this person regarding how he might help Felicité to recover completely from the horrific events that she has suffered over the past year?”

  Eyes glistening, Dr. Milletson peered at Trant and suggested, “I’m afraid I have no words that can improve on what you have just suggested, Wing Commander. My advice, just as you have implied, would be patience and compassion, perhaps even infinite patience, I might add. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, sir, but each person is different in this world. Even with infinite forbearance, there is no guarantee that the person that you knew will ever re-emerge. You could well invest years of your life with little or no improvement in her mental state. Are you prepared to do that?”

  “Yes!” Trant responded emphatically.

  At this declaration Dr. Milletson stood, held out his hand, and exclaimed, “Well then, you have my utmost admiration, Wing Commander Sutherland. Surely if there is a prescription for Felicité’s recovery, your approach will provide the antidote. I wish you well in this endeavor, but I am afraid that I must forewarn you that this will most likely be the greatest challenge of your entire life.”

  Trant shook his hand and responded succinctly, “Thank you, doctor. I intend to succeed. She deserves nothing less.”

  Later That Day

  Trant decided to take his first proactive steps with Felicité. Practicing his prepared speech before he entered her hospital room, he announced upon opening the door, “Good afternoon, Felicité!”

  “Where have you been?” she responded possessively, “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

  “Sorry,” he answered apologetically, “I went to the library.”

  “Ah, the library. I wish I could go there.”

  “Well, perhaps you can before long.”

  “No,” she responded emphatically, “That won’t do.”

  “What? Why not? You should be able to walk well enough within two or three weeks, I would think.”

  She glared at him for what seemed an eternity and suddenly responded in evident irritation, “You know why.”

  He peered at her and blurted, “Surely you’re not worried about your looks,” and that was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

  At this she immediately burst into tears, crying, “You have no concept of what I’m going through! Why don’t you just get out of here and leave me alone, you jerk!”

  At this Trant was completely taken aback, but nonetheless determined to stick with it, he exclaimed, “I’m sorry, Felicité. That was callous of me. You’re right, I couldn’t know what you are enduring, and what you lived through. But I do so want to help. Tis just that I see you every day, and I’ve become accustomed to your physical appearance, which isn’t all that bad, under the circumstances. But perhaps you are correct - you might draw unwanted attention at this point in time. Still, the doctor says that your hair will grow back soon, and that you will be able to eat solid food before long. It shouldn’t be too long before you can go out without drawing attention to your appearance.”

  Felicité pulled her skeletal arms across her withered chest and hugged herself silently, simply staring vehemently at him.

  Fearful that he had only made things worse, Trant nonetheless felt it absolutely essential to continue the dialogue – silence being most assuredly the worst possible of all options. He determined to keep going, to keep on speaking, and perhaps even piling on more mistakes, until he hit upon a successful entryway back into her heart and soul.

  “So,” he said, attempting another tack, “I’ve brought some goodies from the library.”

  Although Felicité continued to stare doubtfully at him, she seemed to exhibit a glimmer of interest at this last comment, responding, “What did you bring?”

  “I broug
ht the complete collection of Jane Austen with me.”

  At this Felicité croaked, “Jane Austen! Why would I want to read Jane Austen? She’s completely out of date! Her writings have nothing whatsoever to do with the world today,” a complete about-face from her feelings of two years earlier.

  “Why do you say that?” Trant queried with sudden interest.

  “You idiot, they were after all written more than a century ago,” she replied impatiently.

  Trant thought for a moment and offered, “Suppose we take a gander at them and see, based on our perusal of them, if we agree that her literature is indeed out of date.”

  Turning to face the wall, Felicité muttered, “I don’t have time for this.”

  Refusing to be put off so easily, he asked pointedly, “Then what do you have time for?”

  She remained facing the wall for several moments, but then she turned back towards him and mumbled, “Alright, I agree. Let’s read Jane Austen, anything to stop your incessant yapping.”

  He was forced to admit to himself that she had somehow become the master of insult, but he refused to admit defeat. Where her insulting nature had alighted from, he had no idea, but he intended to find out, all in good time. For the moment, he responded, “Suppose we pick one to start with. Which one would you like to read first – Pride and Prejudice?”

  “No!” she responded emphatically.

  Mystified by her reticence, he implored, “Why ever not?”

  “Too combative,” she replied, but he had no idea what she meant by that. She continued, saying, “Let’s go in the order they were published. The first one was Sense and Sensibility.”

  Happy to begin anywhere she desired, he agreed, “Right, I have it right here. I shall begin reading it now, if that meets your approval.”

  “What! You’re going to read it aloud to me?” she exclaimed in stupefaction.

  “Yes, why not?” he queried, “How else are we to properly debate the merits of it?”

  “Oh, all right, but this will undoubtedly take forever,” she replied in exasperation.

  “Perhaps,” he responded, but he was thinking to himself that this was precisely the point.

  And so, that is how it began. Felicité having lost all semblance of her former self, in desperate need of help to rediscover that lovely young lady she had once been, and Trant seeking much-needed assistance from a woman who had died in 1817.

  Due to the nearly nonstop squabbles that it engendered, Sense and Sensibility took nearly three weeks for them to complete, and that was nothing as compared to the subsequent debate that their joint study of it elicited. By the end of the third page of the book, they were already engaged in conflict over this and that detail, much to the better for Trant’s clandestine plan. He reasoned that the more that Felicité was drawn into the magical world of Jane Austen, the more she would be distracted from the diabolical one in which she had descended for the past year of her life.

  Thus, when they argued over whether ‘sensibility’ really implied sensibility or sensitivity, their spirited exchange was much to the delight of Trant, despite the fact that Felicité stamped her feet in childish petulance when she was unable to convince him of her viewpoint on the subject.

  And when near the end of the book Trant accused Felicité of having behaved at his birthday party in 1940 much the same as Marianne had towards Willoughby, she flew into such a profound rage that he was forced to suspend his reading for a full two days. Still, he continued to be certain that despite her childish display, his clandestine means of diverting her mind from reality was the proper antidote to her affliction.

  Day after day they read, and each and every day they fought. Like two school children locked in mortal combat over possession of a brass farthing, they fought over nothing at all, she still driven by the deeply ingrained and now misplaced will to survive, and he in his turn driven by nothing more than the simple act of sustained distraction.

  When after an additional week they had finally grown bored with arguing the merits of Jane Austen’s first novel, Trant felt that he had shown good sense, and that she in her own turn had sprouted her first post-war signs of sensibility, although he was equally certain that she had no idea that their reading of the book had affected her in any way whatsoever.

  “By the way, did you know that Jane Austen had to pay a small fortune to publish Sense and Sensibility?” she queried.

  “She did?” Trant responded, well aware by now that he was out of his league with Felicité when it came to detailed knowledge of Miss Austen’s works.

  “Yes, and she made very little on it, believe it or not.” Trant in his turn was now beginning to come to the conclusion that these six novels were indeed priceless.

  By late June they were sufficiently exhausted from their incessant sparring over Sense and Sensibility that they decided to call a truce and move on to Jane Austen’s second published novel, the seminal Pride and Prejudice.

  “So, let’s begin tomorrow,” Felicité suggested.

  “Excellent. I must say, I’ve learned immeasurably from reading her first book with you. She was fascinatingly complex, wasn’t she,” he suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Felicité replied noncommittally.

  “Perhaps! What does that mean, Felicité?”

  “It means just that – perhaps.”

  Trant stroked his chin, suddenly fearing that he was once again out of his element, but before he found the opportunity to reiterate his ignorance, she rejoined with, “I would say, and this is just between you and me, that she was no more complex than the average woman. But I will grant you that she had a gift for expounding that complexity in print.”

  “Good God, you can’t be serious, Felicité! Surely the ‘average’ woman is not so complex as were Elinor and Marianne!”

  Felicité parried his query by asking a question of her own, “Would you consider me to be an average woman, Trant?”

  “Certainly not. You are well above average in every aspect.”

  “Well, then, my assertion must hold. Jane Austen’s writing portrays the average woman’s complexity.”

  “Good Lord, woman. That would imply that you are infinitely more complex,” he responded triumphantly, now certain that he had outdone her.

  But she responded with the rather pithy comment, “Just so, just so,” summarily putting him in his proper place.

  Aware that he had once again been outwitted at debating, Trant nevertheless left her hospital room that evening with the assurance that his plan was on perfect course.

  The Following Day

  Trant began reading Pride and Prejudice. They nearly came to blows within two hours of commencing their reading, as Felicité announced surreptitiously when Elizabeth cold-shouldered Mr. Darcy, “What an arse!”

  “What!” Trant responded in confusion, “You mean him, or her?”

  “I mean Miss Elizabeth Bennett, of course,” she replied with apparent irritation.

  “Why on earth do you say that?” he queried.

  “Anyone in their right mind knows that the English aristocracy is loaded with arrogant fops,” she replied.

  “And on what do you base that supposition?” he rejoined.

  “Experience!” she spat out at him, and at his confused look, she continued, adding, “Don’t look so innocent, you arrogant fop, I’m speaking of you!”

  “Well, first of all, I’m not a member of the English aristocracy,” he responded.

  “Pshaw!” she exclaimed. “You shall be! So that’s a mere technicality!”

  “Right, whatever,” he answered defensively, “But surely you can’t accuse me of being arrogant!”

  “Too late, I just did,” she said blandly.

  “Well! I never!” he responded arrogantly, thereby proving her point implicitly.

  At his rather ridiculous affirmation of his tendency towards conceit, she exploded with laughter, thus demonstrating her self-assurance that she was indeed correct regardi
ng his personality.

  Trant suddenly realized that his attempts to resurrect the long lost woman that he had known and cherished might well be on the proper course. Unfortunately, he was also forced to admit to himself for the first time that this course of action could cause him to lose the affection of that very woman forever. It was a sobering realization of the risk that he was undertaking, but upon reflection he was forced to conclude that despite that risk there was no alternative course of action. If in the act of recovering Felicité, she was simultaneously lost to him forever, so be it.

  A Month Later

  Trant had finally completed reading Pride and Prejudice. Unfortunately, if anything this book intensified the level of conflict between the increasingly erudite pair.

  Upon completion of the book, Trant continued pursuit of his singular goal, hatching what he thought was the perfect question, “So, Felicité, which of the Bennet sisters matched your personality the most perfectly?”

  “What!” she responded irascibly, “Why, none of them, of course!”

  “I thought it would have been Miss Lydia,” he responded deprecatingly.

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” she screamed at him. “I’ve had to put up with things you couldn’t even imagine over the past two years, but I don’t have to put up with your ignorant sarcasm. Now, get your stupid arse out of my room, and don’t ever come back here again. Do you hear me?”

  At this, Trant arose slowly and whispered candidly, “Yes, and I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. Goodbye,” and at this he turned and left her room. He sauntered down the hallway, but halted in the hope that she might follow him and recant. But as she did not, he carried on. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that she had meant what she had said, but, on the other hand, he felt that a separation of sorts might be useful at this point in time. He therefore decided to stay away for a period of time.

  On the fourth day of his exile the phone in his office rang. He picked up the receiver and said, “Sutherland here.”

  The voice on the other end of the line said, “Tis I,” and it was Felicité. There was a pause, during which the silence was deafening, and then she continued, offering bluntly, “I apologize. Now get your arse back over here to the hospital. I need you, damn it!”

  “Of course,” he responded, “I shall be there shortly,” and he was true to his word.

  When he arrived at her room a half hour later, she raised her hands towards him and said, “Please, Trant. I need a hug, please!” He came forward and embraced her, the first time he had done so since that unforgettable day in Bergen-Belsen.

  “This is progress,” he thought to himself.

  “Sooo, I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she volunteered.

  Having forgotten the details that had led her to expel him from her room, he inquired, “When?”

  “The last time we spoke, when I called you a son-of-a-bitch. You know, when you said that I was acting like Lydia.”

  “Oh, right. And?” he queried.

  “And you remind me of William Collins.”

  “What!” he replied in obvious annoyance.

  “Just kidding, Trant. Actually, you remind me of Mr. Darcy, or is it the other way round?”

  “Either way is fine, just so long as it is not Mr. Collins,” he replied, surprised by her first attempt at humor, however poorly played. Buoyed by this realization, he rejoined with, “What a little worm he was!”

  “So, which one of the five sisters do I remind you of?” she asked with genuine interest.

  “Oh, that’s obvious – Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful! When I was growing up, I consumed Pride and Prejudice. I so wanted to grow up to be just like Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, and you were,” Trant responded, before he realized what he was saying. Seeing the crushed look spreading across her face, he grasped her in a second embrace and whispered gently, “I’m so sorry, Felicité. I meant to say ‘are’ instead of ‘were’.”

  “Yes, but it would have been a lie, wouldn’t it. The truth is I am no longer the person that I was. I am painfully aware of that, Trant.” And at this, she stared wistfully off into space for a moment, but then she said something quite tender and telling, “Do you suppose it will ever be the same?”

  “What?” he asked, but in his heart he was certain that he already knew to what she was referring.

  “Us,” she responded.

  Trant gazed at her longingly for a moment, and then he for once gave exactly the right answer, “I hope so, I certainly hope so, but if you must know, I shall accept you any way possible, my dear.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for that,” she replied. “I have no idea what is possible myself, but I am trying. For the first time, I am really trying.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he replied.

  “You were right, Trant.”

  “Right? About what?”

  “About reading Jane Austen. She has magic. She has the ability to completely absorb you into her world of fiction. When we are reading her novels together, I am transformed to another world. And believe me when I say this - I so desperately need another world right now. When you disappeared for four days…” at which he started to deny that it was his fault, but she put up a hand to halt his interjection and continued with, “I know, it was my own fault that you disappeared, but anyway, in your absence, I started dredging up the horrible memories of the past year all over again. Within a few hours, I knew that there was only one way to push them away from my consciousness, and that is exactly what I did.”

  “What was that? What exactly did you do?”

  “I started reading Mansfield Park. I read it all the way through in three days. Frankly, I was surprised to find that I was still able to read, that I could actually focus long enough to take responsibility for my own entertainment. But I did it, and now I can honestly tell you that I don’t need you anymore.”

  At this, Trant stared forlornly at her, but she countered with, “Just kidding, of course. I need you more than ever, but I for one think that it is significant progress that I can actually read on my own, and even stay focused long enough to complete an entire Jane Austen novel.”

  “Perhaps so,” he responded noncommittally, now absorbed in terror with the thought that she would want to forego their subsequent reading sessions.

  “So, are you ready to begin reading Emma? That’s her next book, you know.”

  “You mean together?” he asked, precipitously feeling balanced once again. Recognizing this fact, he sensed fleetingly the unexpected notion that perhaps he too was somehow undergoing restorative therapy.

  “Of course,” she replied, at which he actually thought that he perceived a slight smile on her face.

  “Why, yes. Now is a good time for me,” and in so saying, he rummaged through the stack of books and, locating Emma, he subsequently opened it to page one and announced, “You have me here, Felicité. I have not read a single page of this novel.”

  “Nor have I,” she responded with a new-found sparkle in her eye.

  The next month was consumed with the exploration of what may be Jane Austen’s most enigmatic work of literature. How she came to write it is anyone’s guess, but it served Trant’s purpose mightily, as it provoked nearly continuous debate, with Felicité vacillating between consummate adoration and absolute hatred of the book’s heroine Emma.

  When Emma humiliated her friend Miss Bates, Felicité was absolutely beside herself with scorn for Miss Austen’s most maligned star. Trant in his turn actually agreed with her in this case, and he was surprised by the realization that it was the first time that he could conjure up wherein they had actually agreed on anything at all where these monumental novels were concerned.

  And when Trant queried Felicité as to whether she thought he was at all comparable to Mr. Knightley, she had denied such a possibility emphatically, saying, “Oh, you’re not like him at all!” Thus restoring his
reassurance that their tendency towards constant disagreement was not in jeopardy, since he secretly felt that by relegating himself to the role of her guardian, he was living the role of Mr. Knightley each and every day.

  Late September

  By now Trant had completed Emma. Fortuitously, by that time Felicité’s ability to digest food had so sufficiently improved that her blonde hair had returned in force. Even more importantly, she had regained more than half the weight that she had shed over the past year. It was now quite clear that Dr. Milletson’s predictions regarding her physical health were right on the mark.

  Thus, when Trant’s father inquired as to her physical stamina, Trant responded that she was now sufficiently recovered to withstand the stress of a small ceremony within a few weeks’ time. Lord Sutherland therefore proceeded to inform the proper authorities that they could move ahead with their plans.

  Meanwhile, Felicité set about reading Northanger Abbey at night, and during the day Trant read Persuasion, Jane Austen’s final novel, aloud to her. One day in early October, as he was reading, she commented, “This is the part I didn’t get to.”

  “I thought you read Persuasion before, Felicité,” Trant replied. “Were you not reading it in the garden that day that we chanced across one another at Wharton Manor?”

  “Yes, I was indeed reading Persuasion, but you distracted me that day, and I never quite got round to completing it.”

  “So this will be a first for the both of us!”

  “Yes, indeed, it will.”

  By midway through the book, Trant had grown a very bad premonition regarding this, the last of Jane Austen’s novels. Surely Jane Austen would not have allowed her final masterpiece to end on a sour note. “Does this book have an unhappy ending?” he asked Felicité.

  “I’ve no idea, I’m sure,” she responded. “Why?”

  “Surely Jane Austen would not have done such a thing in her final novel,” he responded disconsolately.

  “Good point, but she didn’t know that, did she?”

  “I don’t understand,” he replied. “She didn’t know what?”

  “She didn’t know that it would be her last novel, because she was unaware that she was dying,” Felicité responded. “It was, after all, published posthumously.”

  Trant’s concern was by now bordering on sheer terror, but he nonetheless persisted, inquiring, “How did she die?”

  “Well, she was only forty-one when she died. No one knows exactly what it was, but she had a slowly debilitating disease. It might have been a lymphoma, or typhus, or even something like tuberculosis. Whatever it was, it is likely that had she lived in modern times, she could have been saved, and we would now have perhaps twenty of her works, instead of only six. As it is, she is undeniably one of the greatest English authors of all time, especially given that she wrote so long ago.”

  With this ominous soliloquy Trant found himself searching for a way to deflect the subject onto something happier, thereby eliciting him to volunteer evasively, “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because we two are nothing like the pair in Persuasion.”

  “What makes you say that?” she queried.

  “Are we not like Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice?” he queried.

  “Our tale is a sad one, whereas theirs ends happily,” she offered. “We appear to be similar to Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth in the current novel - doomed to failure.”

  “How so?” he responded with dread.

  “In order to regain your respect for me after the party at Wharton Manor, I took the extraordinary measure of becoming a spy, and in so doing, I managed to lose you forever.”

  Trant arched one eyebrow in disbelief at this disclosure and, uncertain exactly how to respond, he blurted, “But you have not lost me, Felicité.”

  “Easy to say, but the fact is that I have lost myself, and that unfortunately amounts to the same thing, I’m afraid.”

  “This just won’t do,” he replied forlornly. “We simply must keep reading. Sooner or later we shall hit upon a duo whom we can emulate happily rather than what we have at the moment.”

  “Yes, but it won’t be Jane Austen, will it, since Persuasion is the last of her books.”

  A Few Days Later

  Trant peered from the cab as it pulled up in front of the National Library and, pushing the door open, he leaned forward to pay the fare.

  “Why are we here?” Felicité asked.

  “Tis a surprise,” Trant replied mysteriously. “We have a reservation for dinner at the Royal Inn right down the street there near St. Pancras Station, and I scheduled just enough time for a short stop here at the National Library before dinner.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “If you will take my arm, the head librarian is awaiting us within.”

  At this, Felicité decided that patience demanded her to await what he might have in store for her. They entered the building, whereupon a narrowly framed man came forward and announced, “Sir, I am Neville Whiting, head librarian at your service.”

  “I am Wing Commander Sutherland, and this is Lieutenant Delacroix,” Trant replied, taking Mr. Whiting’s outstretched hand.

  “A pleasure,” Mr. Whiting said, in turn also taking Felicité’s hand. “Now, if you will both follow me. We have the documents prepared for your inspection.”

  By now completely at a loss, Felicité cast Trant a quizzical glance, at which Trant returned her look with a small shake of his head, thereby implying that she must remain patient just a bit longer.

  The pair followed Mr. Whiting down a long hallway, whereupon he opened a door and gestured for them to enter. “Ahem,” he said, signaling the beginning of his discourse. “The documents are normally on public display. However, due to their importance to our history, and the risk of damage during wartime, these days they are still kept in a bomb proof vault under lock and key. The Home Office arranged for you to inspect them on this occasion because of your special interest in them. And here they are. They are laid out in chronological order on these tables.”

  “What are they?” Felicité queried.

  Mr. Whiting glanced at her doubtfully and replied, “I was given to understand that you asked to see them.”

  “I did, Mr. Whiting,” Trant replied. “For security reasons, the lieutenant was not informed in advance.”

  “I see,” Mr. Whiting responded, observing, “These are the original writings of Jane Austen, lieutenant.”

  “What!” Felicité responded wondrously, “Oh, my goodness. Let me see! Oh, but this is just too wonderful! Oh, Wing Commander Sutherland, my goodness, thank you so much,” and at this pronouncement, she rushed forward and immediately began perusing the documents. Mr. Whiting summarily departed, leaving them to their study of the priceless writings of Jane Austen.

  After half an hour, during which span of time Felicité kept up a continuous chatter regarding the manuscripts, Trant found himself forced to inform her that they would be late for their dinner reservation if she did not wrap up her inspection soon.

  “Yes, of course,” she responded. “Oh, Trant, thank you! Thank you so much!” And at this she shrugged within her overcoat, signifying that her perusal was at an end.

  London – October, 1945

  Trant arrived at the Home Office for the ceremony that morning, Felicité at his side. The pair entered General Sutherland’s office, whereupon Felicité saluted smartly saying, “Good morning, sir.”

  Returning her salute, General Sutherland inquired, “Good morning, Felicité. How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Chipper! I’ve gained another two pounds this week.”

  “Excellent! You will be back to normal before long at this rate. Are you ready for the ceremony this morning?”

  “I suppose that I am as ready as I shall ever be. Are they here yet?”

  “No, but you know how it is with these statesmen. Everyone has to wait on them, so the
y become accustomed to never being on time to anything. They shall be along shortly, I’m quite certain,” General Sutherland replied.

  While they waited, General Sutherland put in, “You are looking almost up to snuff, much better than you did four months ago, I assure you. Your uniform very nearly fits you now, and your hair has returned to its former color!”

  Caressing her hair self-consciously as if certain that it had fallen out during the night, she responded, “Thank you, sir.”

  General Sutherland now volunteered, “I’m so proud of you, my dear. You have done us all proud. Who can say, but perhaps we might not have won the Battle of Normandy had it not been for your heroic efforts.”

  “Thank you, sir. It has been an honor to serve my country.”

  At that moment the door opened, and in walked Sir Winston Churchill, General Charles de Gaulle, and General Dwight Eisenhower. Felicité rose from her seat and saluted the three statesmen, and on that momentous day Lieutenant Felicité Delacroix was awarded the British Victoria Cross, the French Croix De Guerre, and the United States Silver Star, thereby becoming one of the most honored female British soldiers of World War II.

  London – Late October, 1945

  Trant and Felicité were now approaching the conclusion of Persuasion. Anne Elliot had somehow failed to capture the heart of Frederick Wentworth, Trant having become increasingly convinced that he and Felicité had sadly become the living embodiment of the two main characters of this morose tale of love and loss. Indeed, he feared their failures so aligned with the novel’s anticipated outcome that he thought seriously of begging off reading the book before they arrived at its completion. But Felicité would not hear of it. For reasons that Trant could not fathom, Felicité seemed to revel in the misery of the spinsterish Anne Elliot.

  Finally, there came a day when it was evident that the book was destined to come to its inevitable conclusion with the penultimate reading by the pair. But to the surprise of both Felicité and Trant, Anne Elliot was overheard by Mr. Wentworth paying homage to the nature of true love, and within minutes the two were betrothed, providing perhaps the most shocking yet enduringly satisfying ending to any of the Austen novels.

  “Well,” Trant exclaimed with a happy smile on closing the cover the final time, “I certainly didn’t expect an ending like that.”

  “Nor I,” Felicité responded. “I thought that we were doomed.”

  “They, you meant to say ‘they’,” he replied diffidently.

  Felicité stared at him for a moment and murmured, “Did I?”

  Eyeing her in bewilderment, he inquired, “Didn’t you?”

  “No, Trant. I assure you, I meant ‘we’ rather than ‘they’.”

  Their eyes met and locked in passionate regard for the first time. Finally choosing to break the silence, he timidly broached the plan that he had been formulating for some time, “In that case, may I be so bold, my dear Felicité. Would the thought of going home be of interest to you?”

  Abruptly contemplating a problem she had not heretofore considered, she responded, “Home? Where is that? I no longer have a home.”

  “From your viewpoint, that may well be, but if you will humor me for a moment, I shall attempt my brand of ‘persuasion’ upon you, my dear.”

  She glared at him diffidently, then accused, “Don’t do that, Trant. Don’t assume that because I gazed longingly at you, that I am suddenly the person you knew years ago.”

  Trant responded ever so eloquently, “Nothing of the sort crossed my mind, I assure you. Although I choose to not make light of the look we just now shared, I am also aware that we cannot simply turn back the clock. Rather, I had another quite different possibility in mind, if you will permit me.”

  “Right, then proceed,” she responded noncommittally.

  “My father and I have discussed this, Felicité. Since the loss of my mother, Lady Sutherland, we have felt a distinct loss of familial contiguity at Wharton Manor. Quite frankly, we both miss the presence of a lady. At length, we both came separately to the self-same conclusion. It is our mutual desire that you should join us at Wharton Manor during the continuation of your convalescence from your injuries.”

  “I…I don’t know what to say,” she responded doubtfully. “I’ve not thought about it. In truth, I’m not certain that would work well at all.”

  “I’ve spoken to Dr. Milletson. You cannot stay in the hospital much longer. As we both know, you are still suffering emotionally, but you are physically well enough to be discharged. Thus, you need to alight somewhere to continue your recovery.”

  “And you and your father want to take pity on me, is that it?” she murmured miserably.

  “No, that is not it at all, Felicité. We have discussed this at length, I assure you most ardently, and the two of us agree that it is quite the reverse. It is we who are in need of you. We implore you to come home with us and live a quiet life with us for as long you see fit. We so desperately need the presence of a woman at the manor, and we intend you to make it your home for as long as you so desire.”

  “You’re not serious! Tis quite improper,” she responded.

  “Oh, pshaw!” he replied. “I remember years ago, I said something ridiculously immature to Lady Sutherland, and she told me on that occasion that my behavior was marked by, and I remember her words precisely, ‘unmitigated British priggishness and ignorance of youth’.”

  “Meaning what?” Felicité queried.

  “Meaning, the fact that we are not possessed of the same blood does not remove the fact that over the past five and more years, you have become like family to us. God, if only Lady Sutherland could be here to explain, she was so much more eloquent than I. Felicité, please, just imagine that she were here at this very moment. Imagine what she would say to you, and then answer as you would answer to her.”

  At this well-played pronouncement, Felicité halted momentarily and closed her eyes. Trant, fervently hoping that she was indeed capable of envisioning his mother’s supplicating invitation, waited patiently for her to come to her own conclusion. At length, she opened her eyes, now clearly glistening, peered longingly at him, and said the single word, “Yes.”

  Wharton Manor – November, 1945

  The vehicle halted in front of the manor and Trant stepped down from the driver’s side, racing to the other side so as to help Felicité.

  “You needn’t go to so much trouble,” she announced as she stepped from the car, “I am perfectly capable of caring for myself.”

  “Please, just humor me, Felicité. Now that the war is over, I have a hard time finding a means of making myself feel useful. If you will allow me, I propose that this shall be my job for the moment, to be your aide.”

  “Whatever,” she responded insolently. She then glanced about momentarily and, realizing that something was amiss, she expounded, “Oh, God, how shall we get along without Lady Sutherland. I simply cannot imagine Wharton Manor without her.”

  “I know. However, as I have myself discovered, I believe that with time you shall realize that she is still with us. Her spirit infuses the very fabric of Wharton Manor. Give it time, and you shall see.”

  Saying nothing in response, Felicité instead walked slowly up the stairs and directly into the house, whereupon she halted in mid-stride, apparently struck by a distant memory. “God, I can’t believe it,” she said to herself as she stared at the staircase.

  “Believe what?” Trant queried in confusion.

  “Can it have only been five and a half years? It seems like a lifetime ago. I walked through that doorway on a Friday evening dressed in a vulgar costume, and the first person I met was Mr. Robert the Robin!”

  “We’ve lived a lifetime. It is hard to conceive of the events that have transpired since that weekend,” Trant responded in agreement.

  “Do you suppose we can ever find those two young people again?” she asked pensively.

  Eyeing her intently, Trant excl
aimed, “There is nothing in this world that would please me more so, Felicité.”

  “God, I don’t know that I can, Trant,” she responded despondently. “I want to, but I have no idea how.”

  “I do,” he replied, “Or at least, I think I do.”

  “And what might that be?” Felicité asked with a perplexed look.

  “I have found the road back.”

  “There is no road back, Trant. There can never be,” Felicité responded flatly.

  “Perhaps you are right, but Lady Sutherland once said to me to ‘Always dig beneath the surface layer and focus on the heart of the matter’. If you will permit me to encroach upon your patience, I propose to do just that, my dear.”

  “I suppose that it is worth a try, Trant,” Felicité responded apathetically.

  “No, that simply won’t do. You must promise me, Felicité.”

  “I don’t know that I can,” she responded irritably.

  “But you must!”

  “Why?”

  “Because you once made me promise. You made me promise to allow you a return visit to Wharton Manor after the war.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, Felicité, you know very well that you did.”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Yes, and now you must promise me that you shall give me the chance to dig beneath the surface.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because there is a second part to your request – a match.”

  “You wouldn’t withhold that from me! You couldn’t!”

  “I assure you, my promise to you is as good as gold. You shall have your match, but not until you are completely restored to your former self. Therefore, I must also insist that you promise me that you will dig beneath the surface with me.”

  “I feel that I am being blackmailed, but when you put it that way, tis quite difficult to say no. If I don’t play along with you, you will not give me my match. Am I correct?”

  “That is perfectly correct, Felicité,” Trant replied.

  “Right, I so desperately want that match. I’ve lived so long for it, I simply must have it. I doubt that I would be alive today had I not lived for it. But you are not going to like what you discover when you start digging, I’m afraid.”

  “I shall take that risk, Felicité.”

  “Then so be it. I promise.”

  “As do I.”