Timepiece

by Merinda Brayfield

  “Is there anything you'd like to talk about regarding your time at the front? We’ve found it may be helpful to do so.”

  Frank shrugged again, still not meeting his eyes. He could hardly tell anyone the true reason his heart ached. “I was at the front for two years. I saw and heard and smelled and lost a lot of things. That doesn't go away with a few weeks in a comfortable bed.”

  “No, of course not,” agreed Green. He rummaged in his desk and came up with a card. “This is a friend of mine in London. If you decide to talk, or if you need to, please contact him.” He reached out and touched Frank’s hand, drawing his gaze to him. “He’s a good listener.”

  Frank pulled his hand away. The things in his heart were still illegal, no matter what a doctor might claim. Leaning on his cane, Frank got to his feet and took the card. “Thank you,” he said. “I believe the doctors expect me.” It was a lie, but he didn’t want to sit here under the man’s knowing gaze for a moment longer.

  “Of course,” he said mildly, “you might try writing as well. Perhaps you could tell your family how you’re doing.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Frank again, turning and limping out as fast as he could.

  Frank walked back towards his room. He should probably write Julia and the children. He could only hold onto the excuse of recovery for so long. Reaching the room, he found himself glad that McDonald was out.

  Getting into bed, he pulled over a writing desk with some paper and pens that left for them earlier. Picking up the pen, he regarded the blank page.

  Instead of Julia, he found himself composing a letter to Archibald. He wrote that he missed him and hoped he was well. He was just starting to talk about how he hoped Archibald didn’t blame himself for his injury when there was a knock on the door and an orderly let himself in.

  Frank covered the letter as the man came over with an envelope. “Mail for you. Did you have anything you needed to send?”

  “Not now, no,” said Frank. “Maybe in a little while.”

  “All right, Sergeant,” he said, turning around and closing the door behind him.

  Frank turned the letter over and was surprised to see that it was from Julia. His hands shook as he tore it open. A picture of Julia with Doris and Henry fell out. Frank felt tears in his eyes as he looked at the three of them, noticing how much Doris was taking after her mother. Taking a breath, he unfolded her letter.

  She apologized for not writing more often. She said she was looking forward to seeing him again and trying to make things work. Julia said that she couldn’t imagine what he’d been through, but that she and the children would be waiting to welcome him home.

  Frank dropped the letter and put his head in his hands, heart twisting. Sniffling, he pulled out the letter he’d begun to Archibald. How could he reach for another when she was willing to try and repair the damage?

  Stomach in knots, he crumpled up the letter he’d begun, burning it in the candle by his bed for good measure. The crumbling ashes matched the taste in his mouth.

  Once he was certain it was destroyed, he put the writing desk aside and lay down, curling up on his good side and facing the window. Silently, he cried with grief for what he had to leave behind and fear of what lay ahead. Duty and love warred in his heart. How could he ever be whole again?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  It was strange to be back at the farmhouse. Archibald had gone back to work fairly quickly, but he knew both Basil and Louis were watching him. The other officers watched him with newfound respect, but he barely spoke with them. His nights were haunted by nightmares as he slept on the edge of the bed, as if he were still crowded in a too-small cot.

  One evening, he found himself in the greenhouse. The building was a stark reminder of what he’d had, of promises made, and yet he couldn’t keep away from it. He was sitting on a bench, looking at the roses, when Louis slipped in and sat next to him.

  Archibald gave him a smile. “You’ve gotten taller. You’re growing up.”

  Louis smiled back, then bit his lip and looked away. “You and Corporal Martin. I know you miss him.”

  “Sergeant. And yes.”

  “A promotion is good,” said Louis. He fidgeted as he lapsed into silence. Occasionally, he glanced at Archibald, then looked away again, clearly working up to something. Archibald let him have his space, knowing whatever he had to say was difficult and important. At last, he spoke quietly. “I’m like you, I think.”

  Archibald’s heart froze. He glanced around to make certain they were alone. “What do you mean, Louis?” he asked.

  The boy’s voice was barely audible, even in the silence of the greenhouse. “I care far more for my friend Antoine than for any of the girls we know.”

  Archibald ached for him. “Louis, you must be careful. And you’re young—you still have time to figure things out.”

  Louis looked up at him. “When did you know?” he asked. Archibald’s shoulders sagged as he looked away. In truth, he’d been nearly the same age.

  Louis reached out to touch his arm. “It is okay that you miss him. And it is okay that we are the way we are. I know things in England aren’t so good for people, but they’re a little better here. And I will be careful. I’ve learned a lot from you.”

  Archibald took a few deep breaths, rubbing his temples. “I hope you have better luck than I’ve had.”

  “You’ll see him again,” said Louis, with all the confidence of a child.

  “I pray so, but he’s married, Louis. He has children of his own. I can’t interfere with his life back home.”

  Louis shrugged. “Papa sometimes spent time with Mademoiselle Vance down the road. I wasn’t supposed to know about it, but I saw him once or twice and heard him and Mama talking. She didn’t seem upset about it.”

  Archibald looked skyward through the glass. “Adult relationships can be complicated sometimes.”

  Louis patted his arm and got to his feet. “Papa will come home, and you’ll see Cor... Sergeant Martin again, I’m sure of it. Supper should be ready soon.”

  “I’ll be there in a few moments,” said Archibald. “Go on.”

  Louis nodded and hurried off. Archibald sighed and pulled out the small icon Louis had given him when he’d left the farmhouse for the first time. Bowing his head, he gave a quick and quiet prayer for Louis. Slipping it back into his pocket, he took out his pocket watch and looked at the picture of himself and Frank. He wanted to believe that someday they could meet again, but he had no idea how.

  Gathering himself, Archibald got to his feet and straightened his uniform. He glanced at the flowers one more time, then headed for the house.

  By the time he joined the other officers for dinner, he appeared to be his perfectly collected self. He ate quietly, listening to the conversation around him. Some of the officers were discussing numbers and possible casualties if the Germans struck a certain part of the line.

  Archibald put down his fork, no longer hungry. Casualties weren’t just numbers anymore, but people. He could no longer pretend otherwise. In his minds’ eye, he could see men falling into line under his orders, could hear shouting and gunfire.

  “Major?” asked a lieutenant, drawing his attention. “Are you quite all right?”

  Archibald blinked back his thoughts and picked up his fork again. “Yes. Perfectly fine,” he said, aware that the conversation had stopped and the entire table was looking at him.

  “Did you have thoughts about the attack?” asked one of the men who had been conversing.

  “Oh, I don’t have the data to give you a proper analysis,” said Archibald, stabbing a piece of meat with some force. “But I’m certain our soldiers will do their best.”

  “Still, I’d appreciate your take on it,” he said. “I’ll have the data delivered to you later tonight or tomorrow.”

  Archibald forced himself to smile at the man. “I’ll be glad to take a look at it.”

  The conversation around the table started to pick up again. Archi
bald finished his food as quickly as he could, then carried his plate into the kitchen.

  Avoiding the dining room, Archibald headed upstairs and went into his office. This work had to be done, no matter his own personal feelings. There was still a war to be fought. He simply needed to focus on the things he could control, rather than the things he couldn’t.

  But eventually, sleep pulled at his bones. He put his work away, then climbed the stairs to his room. A bottle stood on his dresser, and he poured himself a drink, downing it before changing into his nightclothes.

  Archibald briefly considered a second drink, but instead, he turned down the lamp and climbed between the covers, a pillow in his arms as a poor substitute for the man he missed with every breath.

  Sometime later, Archibald gasped awake again, his dreams the color of mud and blood, tinged with the taste of gunpowder.

  Sitting up, Archibald scrubbed his face. The house around him seemed quiet. Picking up his watch, he could see that it was the small hours of the morning.

  Archibald got out of bed, shivering in the night air. He threw on a robe and tied it closed before going to his dresser and picking up the liquor. He was surprised to find it was nearly empty; when had he drunk that much?

  There was another bottle in his office. That would do for now. Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone else’s rest, Archibald headed back down the stairs and pushed open his office door. He sat down behind his desk and lit the candle on it, as if the flickering light could push back the darkness in his mind.

  He’d just pulled the bottle out of the drawer and poured himself a glass when he was surprised by a light knock on the door. Basil pushed the door open at his call, standing in the doorway and taking in the sight before him.

  “Come to join me?” asked Archibald lightly, as if it were six in the evening and not three in the morning.

  “Perhaps I will,” said Basil, closing the door behind him and taking a seat across from Archibald.

  Archibald produced a second glass and poured Basil a drink. As he put it down, Basil reached for the bottle and deliberately set it out of Archibald’s reach. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “There isn’t much I can say,” said Archibald, sipping his glass and slouching back in his chair, letting Basil see how tired he really was.

  Basil nodded. “You’ve been drinking more, Archie. You know that won’t bring him or anyone else back.”

  Archibald looked into his cup. “I can’t sleep,” he admitted. “And sometimes I feel like I’m back there.”

  “A common enough malady,” said Basil. “I struggle with it myself, sometimes.”

  “Which is why you’re up at this hour,” said Archibald, watching him.

  “Indeed. I was just going back to bed when I saw your candle.” Somewhere in the distance, an artillery shell landed. In another time or place, the echoing boom could have been mistaken for thunder. “Might I make a suggestion?”

  Archibald sat up. “Of course.” Basil had a lifetime of serving in his Majesty’s army, after all.

  “Write a letter. You don’t have to send it. In fact, knowing you, you’ll probably destroy it. But tell him what you didn’t get to say.”

  Archibald looked at Basil’s concerned face in the dim light. “You know I can’t do that.” He could hardly believe they were even having this conversation.

  “It will help,” Basil assured him, throwing back the rest of his drink. He got to his feet, picking up the bottle as he turned away. “It never gets easier,” he said softly. “And now I have far more lives under my command. I’ve had to learn to live with the consequences of my decisions, for good or ill. I don’t regret sending you to the front, but I do want to help you.”

  Archibald swallowed hard, seeing the way Basil’s shoulders were bowed. “I don’t regret it either. And you’re a good man, and a good general.”

  Basil looked back at him. “Being good at one doesn’t always make me good at the other,” he said. “Consider what I said, and do try to cut down on the drinking. I’ve seen it destroy too many lives.”

  “I will,” promised Archibald, watching him walk out with the bottle. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and blew out the candle before heading back upstairs.

  Behind the safety of the locked door to his room, he lit another candle and sat at his tiny desk, pulling out paper and pen. He didn’t address the letter, but after a few hesitant sentences, found himself talking about how much he was missed, how strange things felt without him by his side. He talked a little about his work and the conversation with Louis, careful not to name names.

  It wasn’t exactly the same as having a conversation with Frank, but he did feel lighter at the end. Sitting back, he regarded the pages, then glanced over at the candle.

  Archibald had been careful all of his life, always holding himself back and apart. But then there had been Frank, and a world he’d never thought was possible. Making up his mind, he folded the pages and took them to his trunk. Maybe Louis was right and one day, he’d see him again. And if he did, then he could give him the letter. He moved things around, hiding the letter at the very bottom. Later, he could make a hidden compartment, but it would do for now, since he no longer had the threat of someone going through his things.

  Feeling better, he blew out the candle and climbed into bed with a yawn. He glanced once more at the trunk as he settled and drifted off, perhaps not needing to hold the pillow quite so tightly.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Not very long after the conversation with Green, Frank found himself packed up and waiting for a ride to a boat that would take him to England. A few others were headed home as well, but he stood a little apart from their excited chatter.

  McDonald came up to him, slightly out of breath. “Glad I didn’t miss you leaving,” he said, offering his hand. “Good luck.”

  Frank shook his hand firmly. “You too, when you go.”

  “Soon, they tell me. If you’re ever up in Edinburgh, come find me. We’ll have a drink together.”

  Frank smiled. “I can do that. And if you’re ever in London, that offer goes to you as well.”

  “Aye. Well, looks like your car is here,” he said, stepping back. Frank looked at it, then back at McDonald. He gave him a quick salute, then limped his way after the others. When he glanced out the window, McDonald gave him a salute in return before heading back into the hospital.

  The drive to the coast was quicker than Frank expected, but then again, he still didn’t know exactly where he’d been. Spring was in full bloom now as they boarded a ship to cross the channel.

  Frank watched the water as they crossed, seeing his own thoughts and feelings reflected in the swirling and choppy waves. By the time they landed in England, it was raining, perfect English weather as they went their separate ways, Frank boarding a train for London.

  As the train approached the station, Frank found that the anxiety in his stomach felt much the same as in those moments before going over the top. All fear and uncertainty. Logically, he knew he should feel safe and relieved, but this was quite the opposite.

  Frank’s hand twitched as he reached for a rifle he no longer carried. Taking a deep breath, he instead pulled his wedding ring out of his pocket. Julia had said that she wanted to reconcile, so he should make the effort. But even as he closed his eyes and slid the too-large ring on a thin finger, he could see Archibald’s eyes.

  Shaking his head, Frank reached for his cane. The train was slowing as it neared the station. Right. This was London. This was family and home.

  He glanced down at his wristwatch, taking strength from the weight of it. Archibald would want him to do this, want him to settle back into his life. What happened in France needed to stay there. After all, there wasn't anything else he could do. He closed his eyes again and murmured a quick prayer as the train came to a halt.

  When he opened his eyes again, a young porter was approaching him. “Do you need help?” he asked, reaching for the one
bag Frank had with him.

  “No, thank you,” said Frank as he got to his feet. “I’ve got it,” he said. Still, the porter stayed close by as he made his way down the aisle, and did help him down off the train.

  Frank scanned the crowded platform. Henry spotted him first. “Papa!” he called, running over to him, all gangly limbs and wild hair. Frank dropped his bag and wrapped his arm around him, holding him close and mindful of his still healing side. “You’re home,” Henry murmured into Frank’s chest, his voice hitching with a tiny sob.

  Frank felt his heart breaking. “Yes,” he answered. “Really here, not going away again.”

  Doris came up behind her brother, relief on her face, even if she held herself with more dignity. Henry let go so she could get a hug as well.

  Julia joined them a moment later, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Frank let go of Doris to kiss her cheek. There was a quiet clatter as his ring slipped from his finger.

  Henry bent down to pick it up. “Afraid I’ve lost a bit of weight,” said Frank, taking it from him.

  “We’ll fatten you up again,” said Julia. “There’s supper waiting at home. Henry, why don’t you get your father's bag?”

  Henry nodded and picked it up, sticking close by him as they started walking out of the station. “Your trunk was already delivered,” said Julia, slowing her steps to match his pace.

  “I’m healing,” he assured her, “but still a little slow.”

  “At least you’re here,” said Doris quietly, watching him as if he’d vanish all over again.

  They left the station and Frank breathed in the London air, taking in the almost forgotten scent and taste of the city.

  “I’ll get a cab,” said Julia, stepping away and leaving Frank with the children.

  Henry shifted the bag and looked at the way Frank leaned on his cane. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “Sometimes. I’ve been in the hospital for a while now, but now I’m home with you.”