Timepiece

by Merinda Brayfield

  One July morning, Frank was in his room, turning a pen in his hands. It was the one he'd bought for Archibald but never given him. And now it was too late, wasn’t it? The months had done nothing to ease his yearning for the man, but he didn’t even know if he was still alive. Likely, he’d gone back to the farmhouse. Frank had never seen his name in the papers as a casualty, but it was impossible to know for sure.

  There was a quiet knock on the door that sounded like Henry. Frank put down the pen and called for him to enter. The boy had grown taller, even in the last few months, and Frank was beginning to see the man he would become. “Good morning, Henry.”

  “You didn’t come down for breakfast,” Henry replied, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Ah, I suppose I didn’t,” said Frank, putting the pen down and scrubbing a hand through his hair.

  “Want to go to the park?” asked Henry.

  Frank gave him a genuine smile. “Sure. Do you think your sister would like to come?”

  “She already went out," shrugged Henry, picking at a thread on his trousers.

  “Ah. Well, you and me then, yeah?” Frank got to his feet.

  “I’d like that,” said Henry quietly. Frank patted his back. They headed downstairs, getting on hats and jackets and making their way outside.

  Henry kept silent as he walked by his father’s side. It was probably good that he tended to keep his own counsel. Frank knew that it was a trait that would serve him well as he grew. Henry always observed more than he spoke about. Perhaps it was the gift and curse of being a policeman’s son.

  The park wasn’t too far from the house. It had been one of the reasons they’d bought it, in fact. When the children were little and he and Julia still had some affection for one another, they used to push Henry in his pram around the pond, Doris skipping ahead of them.

  Frank gave Henry a little money and he went to buy some bread for the ducks and swans. Frank settled on a bench to watch the birds. Henry returned with a small pastry for him, then went down to the animals.

  Eating, Frank kept an eye on Henry while also observing the other people in the park. It was a nice day, with couples walking arm in arm and families that reminded him of his younger self. There were one or two men in uniform, but most were in civilian clothes, though they walked with the cadence of soldiers.

  Henry gave the last of the bread to some younger children and came back to sit on the bench. Frank let the silence stretch out, knowing Henry wanted to say something.

  “You and Mum never spend any time together, do you?” he asked at last.

  Frank gave Henry his full attention. He already knew the answer, going by the sad set of his shoulders. “Not really, no,” said Frank, knowing there was no point in lying about it. “But things weren’t so different between us before I left, either. I do hope you know I do care for you.”

  “I know,” said Henry quietly, looking out at the pond.

  Frank waited for him to say more, but silence stretched between them again. He shifted, still uncomfortable with the quiet. There was a loud noise as something large splashed into the pond and Frank flinched, automatically reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Right. London. He was in London.

  “Father?” asked Henry, worry in his voice.

  “I’m fine,” said Frank, taking a breath and adjusting his hat. “It’s quiet here.”

  Henry looked surprised. “London’s not very quiet. There’s so many people and animals and other things.”

  Frank looked at him. “There are. But compared to where I was? It’s quiet.”

  “Oh,” said Henry, studying his face and then looking away again. “Were you scared?”

  “Sometimes,” Frank admitted.

  “I prayed for you,” said Henry, picking at his trousers. “Still do.”

  Frank smiled softly at him, heart aching. He put his hand over Henry’s to still him. “Thank you. You’re a good young man, and I’m very proud of you. I know I was gone for a long time, but I did think about you a lot.”

  Henry scooted closer to him. “I missed you.”

  Frank put an arm around him. “Missed you, too. No matter how bad things got, I knew I had to get home to you and Doris.”

  Henry turned and hugged him. Frank hugged him back, public park and propriety be damned. After a long moment, Henry pulled away, rubbing his eyes. “Is it all right if I go to the library?” he asked.

  Frank nodded. “Of course. Just don’t be out too late.”

  Henry nodded and hurried off, as if not quite trusting himself to stay any longer. Frank understood that feeling very well. He stayed where he was for a little while longer, watching the waterfowl and the children at the water’s edge.

  Finally, Frank got up and headed home Julia was straightening things in the parlor when he came through the front door. Hanging up his jacket and hat, he stepped to the doorway, watching her, trying to remember the beautiful woman he’d fallen for so long ago. The woman he’d pledged his life to.

  Julia straightened and looked at him. "Yes?” she asked.

  “You could ask me how I’m doing sometime,” he said. “You said you wanted to reconcile and work things out, but I think you’ve barely said a dozen sentences to me since I got back.”

  Julia looked at him, then moved towards the kitchen. Frank followed and watched as she put the kettle on. “Where would I even begin?” she asked.

  Frank sat at the tiny worktable. “Ask me something?”

  “I’m sure you saw many things,” said Julia, glancing at Frank, then back to the kettle. “You’ve had bad dreams many nights.”

  “But you’ve never come to check on me,” said Frank.

  “Have you asked about me?” said Julia. “Asked me what it was like to be here alone?”

  “You weren’t alone,” said Frank, unable to keep some bitterness from his tone.

  Julia looked at him. “And were you utterly faithful over there?”

  Frank looked away, thinking of Archibald and the handful of others. “No,” he said quietly.

  Julia poured them each a cup of tea and brought them to the worktable. “I did want to try,” she said. “But this mountain between us has been there a long time.”

  “Yes, it has,” said Frank, suddenly feeling exhausted. He sipped his tea.

  Julia regarded him as she drank her own cup, then put it in the sink and returned to what she’d been doing in the parlor. Frank put his head in his hands and focused on breathing. Unshed tears burned behind his eyes. He hadn’t meant to start a fight. They were both wounded in this relationship, and it seemed they would keep on hurting each other.

  Frank got to his feet and put his cup next to Julia’s, looking at them together before turning and heading upstairs.

  “Father,” called Doris as he passed her room.

  He turned towards her, and she gestured him inside. “You and Mum had an argument,” she said.

  “A discussion,” corrected Frank, then sighed. “Well, sort of. Nothing to do with you or Henry.”

  Doris nodded. She looked at him a moment, then went to her dresser, pulling out a small box. “I think you need to see these.”

  Frank looked at the box. “I don’t want to leave you and Henry again."

  "You're both miserable,” she said. "We can still see you even if you and Mum separate,” said Doris, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

  Frank scrubbed his face with his hands. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I know I am,” she smiled, adjusting her dress. “I’m going out for a while.”

  “Be careful,” said Frank, tucking the box under his arm.

  “I will,” she said, turning towards the mirror and straightening her clothes.

  Frank watched her a moment, then headed back to his own room and closed the door. Sitting on the bed, he stared at the box for long minutes before opening it. It was full of letters. His stomach turned as he picked one up and read a random paragraph. They were the words of lovers.

 
; Closing the box, he got to his feet and stuffed it into the wardrobe before stretching out in his bed. He felt tears and wondered why he was even weeping. Perhaps it was for the lost time, perhaps it was for what should have been, perhaps it was for what had died long before he’d ever gone to war.

  Was it hypocritical to be so upset? After all, he’d had his share of lovers. But he’d done so with the knowledge that she had cheated first, and under the shadow of a war where life was in no way guaranteed. Could he be blamed for seeking out a little happiness in the face of almost certain doom?

  He thought of Archibald, missing secret smiles, a warm body sharing his bed, feet touching under the table. Of all his lovers, it was Archibald that had captured his heart and held it still.

  Now, he had proof of Julia’s infidelity. He could divorce her and move on with his life. But without Archibald, the idea seemed meaningless. Frank would think about it. Maybe in time, he’d free himself from this hollow shell where a marriage had once stood.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Summer gradually turned to fall, the war beginning to wind down with the turning of the seasons. Archibald watched, worried, as the diplomats did their work. The war had been awful enough as it was; he hated to think of such a thing occurring ever again.

  Archibald got a message that Basil had returned from France and only a few days later received an invitation for dinner. He accepted, finding himself eager to see him again.

  As he arrived and approached the front door, however, anxiety began to creep up. They’d barely been more than acquaintances before the war, after all. Having friends was something he was still getting used to, though he’d shared a few more lunches with Lewiston.

  A servant answered the door and let Archibald in, taking him to the library. Basil was talking to his youngest daughter, but he glanced up as Archibald entered. His smile melted away Archibald’s anxiety. “My friend is here. I’ll see you at supper, Sarah.”

  “Okay,” she said, giving him a quick hug, looking curiously at Archibald before hurrying out.

  “They grow up fast,” said Basil fondly, watching her go and then getting to his feet. “It’s good to see you, Archie,” he said warmly, coming over to shake his hand.

  “You as well. I’m sure your family is happy to have you home.”

  “Oh, they are,” said Basil, glancing over at the sound of two boys running in the hall. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”

  “Never a dull moment, I’d imagine?” asked Archibald.

  “Well, the older boys are usually away at school, and that helps a bit, but it’s a much better sort of busy and noisy.” Basil led him towards the dining room. “I truly don’t mind a bit.”

  “I’m sure,” said Archibald. It was plain to see just how happy Basil was. The noise of the family stood in sharp contrast to the echoing quiet of Archibald’s own home.

  Everyone gathered in the dining room and took their seats at the table. The six children, ranging in age from four to sixteen, mostly behaved themselves with company over. Basil’s wife, Ethel, was a formidable woman in her own right, and clearly used to running the household.

  But it was a warm family, a delicious meal, and he had missed Basil’s company. There were a few polite questions his way, but mostly, the family chattered easily amongst themselves.

  After supper, Archibald and Basil retired to Basil’s study. Basil made his way to the sideboard and poured them each a drink. There were a few mementos to the Whitestone family’s long service to the crown decorating the room. The family sword hung over the fireplace, and Archibald’s gaze lingered on it.

  Basil saw where he was looking and nodded as he handed Archibald his glass. “That belonged to my great-great-grandfather,” he said with quiet pride.

  “It’s an elegant weapon,” said Archibald.

  “One for another time,” said Basil. “But he was proud of it and his service.”

  “As he should be. I know your family has served for a very long time.”

  “Parker, my eldest, will become an officer in the next few years,” said Basil, settling into one of the chairs and gesturing Archibald into the other. “He’s never wanted anything else but to follow in my footsteps. I understand. I was the same way about my own father. If God is merciful, then he’ll never have to deal with a war like this one.”

  “I pray that no one’s sons will,” said Archibald, thinking of Frank’s. He sipped his drink and looked at the fire. “My own father died when I was young, so there were never expectations regarding my career, so long as it was respectable.”

  “You’ve done very good work in government service. I’d imagine they’re keeping you quite busy these days.”

  “They are,” acknowledged Archibald.

  “You always work hard, no matter the task.” Basil glanced over at him. “Not seeing anyone, I presume?”

  Archibald nearly choked on his drink. “No. Not at all.”

  Basil looked down at his own glass. “Not too late, you know. Could still find the right person. You deserve happiness as much as anyone.”

  Archibald swallowed around a swell of emotion. He took a swig of his drink and composed himself. “Perhaps,” he said at last.

  Basil let silence settle between them for a few moments longer before changing the subject to something safer for them both.

  Archibald relaxed as the evening wore on, glad for the company. When the children knocked and came to bid their father goodnight, Archibald took his own leave.

  The drive home was uneventful, his own house quiet as a church after the business of Basil’s. The hour was growing late, so he hardly expected anyone to be up as he climbed the stairs to his room.

  He changed into his sleeping clothes and climbed into his big bed. How could a narrow cot in a trench be more comfortable than this? There was a knock on the door and Murphy stepped inside, bringing him a cup of tea.

  “Thank you,” said Archibald, accepting it. “I don’t need anything else tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Murphy, studying his face a moment before going back into the dark corridor.

  Archibald sipped his tea, thinking of Frank, letting himself miss him, feeling his cheeks grow damp. When Basil had spoken of finding happiness, he had meant Frank, Archibald knew him well enough to understand that. Scottie was looking into him. What happened after that, well, Archibald supposed it all depended on what was found.

  Only a few days later, Scottie came to his office. Archibald moved his papers aside as he looked up expectantly. Normally the man worked faster than this.

  “Sorry for it taking a bit,” he said. “Had to confirm some things.”

  Archibald resisted frowning. “I’m sure it was necessary. What did you learn?”

  Scottie pulled folded pages from his coat and put them down on Archibald’s desk. “He’s on the force. Seems like the kind of steady bloke you’d want to solve your murder. Home address is correct. Son is home on school holidays, daughter is at home and working. That wife, though, well… It’s in the report there, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Archibald, sliding him over some cash. “Let me know if anything changes.”

  “Will do,” said Scottie, bowing slightly. “Good luck.” He turned and saw himself out.

  Archibald raised an eyebrow, then reached for the papers, unfolding them and smoothing them out. Scottie’s handwriting was atrocious, and he kept his words purposely vague, but it was plain to see that Frank’s wife had been having affairs.

  Rubbing his temples, Archibald folded the pages and put them in the back of a drawer, locking it. Frank hadn’t been faithful to her in France, that was true, but there was no evidence of him straying since he’d returned to London. Archibald pushed back a twinge of guilt; after all, he hadn’t been Frank's only relationship during the war. But despite Frank’s faithfulness at home, it seemed she continued to do what she pleased.

  Gathering himself, Archibald started packing up for the day, wondering if he should reach out. />
  Archibald mulled over it as he was driven home. While it was true that Frank hadn’t cheated on his wife, Archibald suspected that his presence would be a temptation. Best not reach out, yet. If Frank chose to leave his wife, then it would have to be his choice alone and not because Archibald was offering forbidden fruit.

  He ate dinner alone, as usual, then went to his study. Murphy came in a short time later. “I prepared a bath for you, sir.”

  Archibald put his work aside. “Thank you.”

  They headed upstairs, and Murphy helped him undress. “You’ve been more quiet than usual since you came home,” he said.

  Archibald knew how quiet he’d been before, so it was surprising Murphy had even noticed. Though nobody knew him better. “I’m adjusting,” he said. “But thank you.”

  Murphy caught his eyes. “If you need anything…”

  “I appreciate it. I’ll be fine.” Archibald gave him what he hoped was a convincing smile. “You can go.”

  “Yes. sir,” he said, holding his gaze for a moment longer. He turned to gather up Archibald’s clothes. “Shall I bring you a cup of tea before I retire?”

  “If you insist,” said Archibald as he stepped into the tub. He listened to Murphy leave, settling back and closing his eyes. As the warm water relaxed him, he allowed his thoughts to drift to another bathtub, to Paris, to Frank’s hands gentle on his skin.

  Could it be possible for Frank to be here? To share the quiet moments? A meal? Perhaps even his bed?

  Before the war, before Frank, Archibald had looked at the arc of his life and seen only loneliness and a life apart. But now, after Frank, the idea of a life alone almost seemed too much to bear. There were friendships now, in Basil and Lewiston. Murphy had always been present, but things were different between a master and his servant. None of them were a companion in the way that Frank had been.

  The nights were too dark, too quiet. Nightmares haunted the small hours and sometimes when he woke, he reached out for someone who wasn’t there. Someone who might never be there again.