“Well, I still blame myself for not stopping to think. Perhaps that will keep me from making the same mistake in the future.”
His hand squeezed mine, and I looked up in time to see doubt flash in his eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’re about to turn into an ogre, and try to lock me in a tall tower. Because I won’t stand for it.”
“No,” he conceded, though he didn’t sound certain. “But I do want you to be more careful.”
I tightened my grip on his hand. “Isn’t that what I just promised to do?”
“You can’t fault me for worrying about you, Ver?”
“No, but I will if it makes you a wet blanket,” I jested. “There’s no need for you to turn into a Mrs. Hardcastle.” I frowned. “I suspect she’s taken all of this rather hard.”
“I believe she’s still in denial, even though once pressure was brought to bear, her son essentially confessed to everything. I think she’s most furious you broke his nose.”
“She’s lucky I didn’t break anything else,” I grumbled.
There was a knock on the door.
“That’ll be Freddy, no doubt.” He pushed to his feet to pull on his dressing gown, knotting it at the waist before calling out for Freddy to enter.
“Good morning,” my older brother declared, already dressed and freshly pressed, the hair at his temples still damp.
Behind him another person poked his head around the door like an eager puppy. “May I come in as well?”
“Yes, Tim,” I replied, struggling to repress a smile. “As long as you don’t make me laugh while Freddy is changing my dressing.” I’d witnessed a remarkable change in my younger brother since my return from the hospital. He was lighter, happier, and much more inclined to resort to the comedic antics he’d indulged in before the war.
He held up his hand as if taking an oath.
“Well, then, Pip, how is my patient this morning?” Freddy queried, rounding the bed to stand over me.
“The pain was less when I awoke.”
“Good,” he declared, and then like a typical big brother dampened my hopes. “Though once the wound has finished knitting back together, it’s going to hurt like the dickens again when you begin moving it about to rebuild the muscle.”
The talk shifted to my injury while Freddy carefully prodded and examined it and then changed the dressing. Then as I pulled the nightshirt back over my shoulder to button it up, I turned to Tim, who was clearly anxious to share some sort of news. “All right, out with it. Before you burst.”
He grinned, unabashed. “First of all, I shared with Freddy what we discussed.” That he was speaking of his desire to work with aeroplanes was evident, and I was pleased to see the approval in Freddy’s eyes.
“I’m glad,” I replied, for Tim would need someone to talk to about it, someone who understood once Sidney and I returned to London.
“And Sidney put me in contact with Goldy. He’s invited me to come down to view his family’s aviation company, and what they’re doing there. Even offered to hire me on as an assistant, show me the ropes, so to speak, until I decide what to do.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said in delight, though I knew I should have expected nothing less from our friend.
He nodded, rocking forward onto his toes. “I’m going down sometime in January.”
“Then you’ll stay with us,” I ordered. “At least until you know what’s what.”
“Thanks, Ver.” A curious glint lit his eyes before he dropped them, toeing the base of the bedpost with his foot. “It felt all wrong, you know. Getting to come home when Rob . . . when so many others didn’t. I just”—he turned to the side—“I just kept thinking, why should I get the chance to live when they don’t?”
All three men fell silent, each plainly contemplating their own losses, their own feelings on this matter.
“I know it’s hard, but if the situation was reversed,” I murmured softly, knowing I spoke to them all, “if you were the one dead, and they were still living, wouldn’t you want them to embrace it?”
He nodded, meeting my gaze again. “That’s what I realized. That there’s no shame in feeling excited about the future. That what I’m wishing for is that they were here with me, not that I was there with them. But what’s the use of my living if I’m not really doing so.”
I smiled at him even as tears burned the back of my eyes. “You’re wiser than I remember, Tim.”
A snort of laughter escaped from Freddy’s chest.
“Hey, now, I’ve always been the sharpest of us lot,” Tim protested and then flashed an impish grin. “I just chose to keep it a secret so as not to trample your delicate pride.”
It was my turn to snort.
“Speaking of which.” His eyes narrowed at me. “I know you weren’t just some shipping clerk during the war.”
A taut silence filled the room as I fretted over just how much Isaac Hardcastle had uncovered, and how much I might have revealed unwittingly in my unconscious state.
Tim’s nose wrinkled grudgingly. “But I suppose you can’t talk about that. At least, that’s what Freddy thinks. Secrets Act and all that stuff.”
I turned to look at Freddy, but his steady regard never wavered. That, more than anything, told me he suspected the truth, and had accepted it. Perhaps even approved.
“So I suppose we’ll have to leave it at that,” Tim added, though the quirk of his mouth suggested he hoped I would say otherwise.
My dressing having been changed, Sidney shooed them out so that I could dress. Something he saw to himself, unwilling to pass the duty off to a maid. However, I balked at allowing him to style my hair.
“Send Grace to me,” I requested. At Everleigh Court, she was more often than not forced to groom herself without the assistance of a maid, so I knew she would have some semblance of an idea what to do. Besides, I wanted to talk to her alone, and we’d not yet had the opportunity.
Sidney left me perched on the bench before the vanity table, gazing into the mirror at myself. My skin had lost much of its luster over the past ten days. Dark circles ringed my eyes, and my collarbone protruded slightly more from the weight I’d lost. At this rate, I might achieve the slim, boyish figure that was now so desirable. But in time I would recover. At least, externally. My healthy flush would return and my curves regain their lushness, but I knew it would be some time before I trusted my judgment so readily again.
A trifle more caution was a good thing. After all, if I’d exercised it when I’d received that note that was supposedly from Violet, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. But I also feared it would make me hesitate when I could not afford to. When my confidence in my instincts and intuition was needed to extract me or others from a grave situation.
I breathed past the tightness in my lungs. I supposed only time would tell.
The door opened, and in the reflection of the mirror I saw Grace tentatively peer inside.
“You need my help?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yes. Please, come in.”
She slowly edged up behind me, her eyes dipping to my shoulder and the sling fashioned to cradle my arm against my torso.
“It’s my hair. I can’t do anything with it,” I confessed. “And I absolutely refuse to let Sidney make a hash of it.”
Her gaze shifted to my bobbed auburn tresses, perhaps wondering why I didn’t simply summon a maid. “I can try.”
I passed her my hairbrush, watching as she cautiously pulled it through my tresses, gaining confidence with each stroke.
“Why don’t you have a lady’s maid?” Her gaze darted to my reflection in the mirror and then back to my hair, as if expecting me to be angry with her for asking.
“Well, as you know, I had Matilda for a time. But she was really there to spy for Mother.”
Her eyes widened as if she’d not known this.
“So I sent her back here. And then . . . well, the war was still on, and I’d just found out Sidney was allegedly dead, and .
. . honestly, I wanted privacy more than anything. So I hired another war widow who lived out to come during the day to take care of my clothes and the flat, and I suppose I just got used to doing the rest for myself.” A corner of my mouth quirked upward in chagrin. “Though, I admit now I rather wish I’d hired someone.”
Grace listened to this with interest, but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
“Have you considered bobbing your hair?” I asked.
She reached up to touch her brown tresses. “Some of the other girls at Everleigh have, but Mother would have a fit if I did it.” Her gaze darted to me guiltily.
“Yes, I know she hates mine,” I said with a smile. “It’s brash and boyish and unbecoming.”
She smiled timidly.
I shrugged my good shoulder. “But I like it.” I grinned wider. “And so does Sidney.”
My smile faded as my sister’s eyes turned downcast. I knew what, or rather who, she was thinking of.
“Grace, I’m sorry about Cyril. If I could have spared questioning him I would have.”
“I know,” she replied automatically, though I didn’t think she truly understood.
I braced myself, knowing I was about to risk her enmity, but my next words needed to be said. “Grace, Cyril has a number of issues he must confront before he will ever be ready to be with someone on good terms.”
She stiffened. “He is not a coward.”
“I know.”
The stark certainty of my pronouncement startled her, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether a small piece of her had feared that he was despite her protestations to the contrary.
“He was injured in a motorcar crash while the enemy was shelling our boys. His injury and discharge were entirely honorable. But he still feels ashamed of it.”
“Why?” she asked in bewilderment. “Because of the way some people make him feel, thinking he injured himself on purpose.” Her eyes flashed, clearly thinking of Freddy.
“I’m sure that plays a part of it, but it has more to do with the fact he was injured behind the lines driving a motorcar rather than serving in the trenches. He feels conflicted.”
“But that’s ridiculous!”
“To you and me maybe. But not to him. And I imagine many of the men who served would understand.”
She stared at me in utter bewilderment, and I swiveled on the bench to face her directly.
“Grace, until Cyril confronts the shame he feels, until he is able to stand up to your family’s scrutiny and feel worthy of you . . .” I shook my head. “A relationship between you will never work. It will be wretched and painful. And whatever love you feel for him will eventually be snuffed out or twisted into something much less noble.”
Her jaw hardened stubbornly. “No, it won’t.”
“Yes, it will,” I insisted sadly. “I’ve seen it happen before.”
The mutinous set of her lips told me she refused to believe me.
I reached out to take her hand. “Grace, I just want to see you happy, and unless you wed someone who wants you as much as you want them, then it will only be a misery.” I gripped her hand tighter when she would have pulled away. “But if your heart is set on Cyril, then at least wait until he’s ready. At least wait until after you’ve visited me in London over the summer holiday.”
Her eyes widened at this pronouncement.
“Please, say you’ll come. Just for a few weeks. I should have asked you before. I should have done a lot of things. But we’ve already established I’ve been a dreadful sister. Positively beastly.”
Her lips quirked.
“But let me make it up to you. Please, say you’ll come.”
“Well, I suppose I can hardly refuse when you put it like that.”
I beamed. “Good. We’ll have the most fabulous time.”
It was a risk bringing her to the city, into Ardmore’s sphere, but I was certain he already knew of her existence. With any luck, by the time she visited he would already be locked away for his crimes. And if not, we would simply have to brave it, keeping a sharp eye out for trouble while she was with us. Because I refused to sacrifice my relationship with my family any more than I’d already done. Five missing years was long enough.
CHAPTER 32
Later that evening, it was my mother who assisted me up to my bedchamber and helped me to prepare for bed. As she settled the loose nightshirt around me and brushed my hair before folding back the covers for me, I wondered when it was that she’d last done such a thing for me. Our nanny had normally seen to such tasks, but from time to time Mother had performed them. Particularly when we were ill. I remembered a week when I was nine when she’d sat by my bedside, reading Beatrix Potter books to me while I lay sick with a fever.
I had been amazed by how quickly she’d adjusted to the fact that her daughter had been shot, but then I realized I shouldn’t have been. Rob’s death aside, Mother had always been steady and calm in the face of calamity and difficulty. And I would never dare criticize her for her reaction to Rob’s death. He was her son, after all. And in the end, her manner of grieving had been far healthier than mine.
She tucked the covers in around me and turned to go, but I stayed her with a hand to her arm. My words faltered as she looked back at me in surprise, but there was no disdain in her eyes, only concern. “Will you sit with me for a moment?”
“Of course,” she replied after another brief pause. She perched on the side of the bed at my hip, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt.
I faltered in the face of her scrutiny, even uncritical as it was, and the words I wished to say all seemed to jumble together and lodge at the base of my throat. Brushing my right hand over the stitching on the counterpane, I swallowed and forced myself to speak. “I want to say something, and I’m probably going to say it badly, but . . . please let me try.”
She gazed back at me evenly, the lamplight glinting in the silver hairs now threaded through her brown. “Go on.”
“I’m sorry that it took me so long to come home. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t here to support you as you wanted me to. I never meant to hurt you.” My voice wavered with emotion as I spoke my next words. “But just because I wasn’t here doesn’t mean I wasn’t grieving Rob. I grieved him deeply. I still do. But people grieve differently, and I just couldn’t face being here, surrounded by all my memories of him. I had . . . people relying on me, and I simply couldn’t afford to break down.” I searched her face for some crack in her reserve, some sign that she understood what I was saying. “I care about you, about everyone in our family, very much. That hasn’t changed. Even if I have.”
She didn’t speak at first, and I couldn’t read her expression, though I was desperately trying to. When her gaze dropped and she smoothed her hands over her lap once again, I thought for a moment she was simply going to nod her head and leave. It made a hollow open up behind my breastbone, that familiar aching place where I felt all of my mother’s slights and criticisms.
“Thank you for telling me that, Verity,” she said in a tentative voice that gained strength with each word. “For all that you seem to imagine me to be, I’m not a mind reader. When you don’t visit and barely telephone, I can only assume you don’t care. Unless you tell me otherwise.” Despite her poise, I could hear the pain fraying the edges of her voice and see it buried deep in her eyes. “Don’t assume I understand.”
That was reasonable, and I told her so, but she wasn’t finished.
“I know I’ve often made my disapprovals of your choices clear, but that is only because I worry about you. Worry about the life you’ve chosen to lead.” She drew herself up taller. “It’s not easy to watch your children behave in ways that you know can harm them. To want to shield them, and not be able to. When you and I have not seen eye to eye, it is because of that.”
“You’re right. Sometimes I do things you consider reckless or imprudent,” I conceded. “But other times, you know very well that’s not the case.” She opened her mo
uth to argue, but I cut her off. “Bobbing my hair, Mother, was not detrimental to my person in any way. Or do you think I’ll catch my death of cold from a chill across my neck?” I arched my eyebrows, awaiting her answer.
Her mouth tightened in aggravation before she huffed in acceptance. “Very well. Sometimes I’m a trifle too critical. But you had such lovely, long hair. The kind many women were envious of. I hated to see it all gone.”
“You never told me before that my hair was lovely.”
“Oh, you knew very well you had beautiful hair. Don’t go fishing for compliments.”
I might have become cross at this retort, but instead I chose to view it with amusement. Mother had never been the type to offer unsolicited praise. It was foolish to expect that to change now.
“I will never be exactly the daughter you want me to be. It is as simple as that,” I stated baldly. “And my life may never be as safe, and settled, and proper as you wish it, but it is my life. And I’m happy in it. I know approval is too much to ask, so all I ask is that you accept it.”
Her sharp gaze shifted to my injured shoulder. “Even when it means seeing you shot.”
“Even then.”
She turned away, and I didn’t know if that indicated her agreement or not. “Someday when you have children of your own”—her gaze snapped back to me—“if you have children of your own, you’ll understand.”
“Maybe. Probably. But I hope I’ll also still choose to meet them where they are.”
She huffed again, but then nodded. I chose to view that as her promise to do her best. And I supposed that was all I could ask.
“Cheer up, Mother,” I bantered. “After all, I didn’t say we would never have children. Isn’t that an encouraging sign?”
“Aye, well, you may be following that woman’s advice,” she said, referring to Marie Stopes’s book again. “But I’ll put my stock in the good Lord and the Whitlock blood you inherited from me flowing through your veins. No Whitlock woman has failed to bear less than five children in the past four generations.” Her eyes glinted with almost triumph as she rose to her feet. “If you don’t find yourself in the family way within the next six months, then I’ll buy myself a copy of that God-forsaken book.”
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