No one else was there in that instant, as far as Danny knew. Nothing else mattered. Audrey. Audrey was there. Audrey was alive, and she would forgive him. Oh, Audrey! He felt a smile rising to his lips for the first time in a long time. He would hold her again, and she would breathe in his ear, and he would admire the gentle curve of her throat as she stretched in the morning . . .
“Audrey,” he breathed, and was starting to reach for the door when she dropped the glass she was holding. She watched it fall; he heard it shatter from outside. And in the next instant, Pierre Antoine was there, offering her his handkerchief, patting the wet folds of her skirt in a manner far too personal for Danny’s taste, saying something Danny couldn’t hear.
Audrey didn’t seem to notice Antoine. She ignored his words, only shaking her head briefly once or twice. She stared at Danny, lips still parted. Her hand started to rise, as if she reached for him, but Antoine took it and kissed her knuckles.
The pain that shot through Danny in that moment was worse, in a way, than when he’d lost his leg. When that had happened, he had lost one appendage. Seeing Audrey with another man, he lost all hope. He shook his head, backing away, and her eyes followed his. The candlelight caught the shine of tears in her eyes, but Danny didn’t wait to see more. He turned away, pushing through the throng of protesters, ignoring Mick’s shouts. His head pounded, his eyes blurred, and he knew only that he wanted to get away—had to get away. He limped down the dark street, aiming for anywhere.
He would leave tomorrow, hide in a schooner, run rum, probably drink it again as well. What did it matter? Who cared? His peg landed in a puddle and slipped a little, but Danny kept on. Get away. Get away.
“Danny!”
He stopped but didn’t turn. Her voice rang down the street, over the mutterings of the placard-holding crowd, twisting like a knife in his gut.
“Danny!”
She was nearer now, and he heard the quick pat pat pat of her shoes on the pavement as she ran toward him. Please, Audrey, he thought. Please don’t do this. Please. I can’t. I can’t bear it.
“Danny!” She was breathless; her voice sounded choked. He couldn’t help himself. He turned toward her, eyes streaming.
“Oh, thank God, Danny! You are alive!” She ran without stopping until she could wrap her arms around his waist, fitting her body against his, where it should have been all along. “Danny, Danny, Danny,” she sobbed into his chest.
He held on to her, breathing her in, rubbing his sprouting beard against her hair, crying along with her. He thought he might lose his balance, but she was there; she had always been there. Always steadying him.
“Forgive me, Audrey,” he said. “Please, Audrey. I’m so sorry.”
She looked up, hiccupping on her sobs. “Oh, Danny. Of course I do. Of course! But I thought . . . Pierre told me you and Johnny were on the . . . the Known Dead list. He told me he saw your name there, and I couldn’t bear to see it, so I never checked. He said—”
“Why would the son of a bitch—”
“Danny, hush,” she begged. “We have so much to talk about. Don’t make it ugly.”
She was right. She always was.
“God, Audrey,” he said. “Every day I looked for you. I read the lists; I walked through the hospitals and morgues. I went to every place I could think of. You were never there. I looked, Audrey,” he said, trying to steady himself. “I thought you were gone. I’d lost hope.”
Audrey’s eyes suddenly looked sad. “My name wasn’t on any list?”
“No, not a one. And I read so many lists, my eyes just about fell out.”
She swallowed. “Pierre said he’d write my name down.”
Son of a bitch. “I . . . I talked to him a long time ago. He told me you were dead, that he hadn’t gotten around to adding your name to the list. Why would—”
“But he promised me!” she said, looking horror-stricken. “He said he saw your name on the Known Dead list, and he promised to put me on the Known Living list, in case anyone was looking.”
Danny looked into her eyes, feeling his strength come back, feeling hope tickle in his heart. “I’ve missed you so much, Audrey.”
But when he touched one soft cheek with his cold hand, she tilted her head self-consciously to the side, turning away just a bit, in a manner he didn’t recognize.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Her hand pressed on the cheek she’d turned away. When he reached for her hand, she resisted. “No, Danny. It was the explosion. It—”
“I’m your husband, Audrey. I love you. I only want to take care of you. What happened? Can I see?”
Her eyes looked devastatingly beautiful and just as pained. She closed them, then slid her hand away, and Danny saw a straight pink scar, the path a piece of glass or metal had taken, cutting a deep gash in her cheek. She’d been lucky not to have lost an eye.
“Oh God, Audrey. Are you all right now? If only I’d known! Oh, please don’t hide from me. It’s all right. You don’t have to cover anything in front of me. You know that. Here, how about we—”
A deep voice called Audrey’s name, its source hidden by the dark street. Brisk footsteps came toward them, followed by the muffled shushing and clacking of other shoes, and Audrey stepped away from Danny.
“Audrey!” a man called. “Are you all right? What’s all this?” The voice gathered strength with every step. “You can’t just leave a soiree like that. People will talk. Here. Who’s this?” he asked, his voice hardening to annoyance when he spotted the man beside her, draped in worn and tattered clothing. The outline of shirt and pants was easier to see in the dark than Danny’s face. The man stepped up beside Audrey and placed a protective arm around her waist, pulling her tight against him. “Is this man bothering you? Sir, leave the lady alone. How can I help you?”
Danny stared, his eyes hot from the fury boiling behind his eyes. His blood screamed, battling the restriction of his veins, demanding to be set free. Antoine. What was it Johnny had called him? The fellow who looked at Audrey as if she were a cherry on an ice cream sundae. Well, here he was with his crisp black sleeve hooked around Audrey—as possessive a posture as a man could show.
Danny stepped into whatever light the moon shared. “Good evening, Mr. Antoine,” he said, not bothering to disguise the hatred in his voice.
A small crowd of partygoers gathered, drawing protectively around Audrey. As if she needed protection from Danny. Did she? The group peered curiously at Danny, Antoine, and Audrey, eating up the scene with hungry eyes.
Antoine leaned toward Danny and frowned with suspicion, trying to make out his features. When he did, the Frenchman’s face underwent a fascinating transformation. His eyes opened very wide then narrowed almost at once, and his mouth snapped shut. He had gotten thinner since the last time they’d met, and grown a moustache, Danny saw. And a short beard. Behind the facial hair, Antoine’s lips were drawn tight, his nostrils flared. Like a dog with hackles raised and teeth bared, prepared to defend its property.
So that was how it was, Danny thought. Fine. Danny was always up for a fight if it called him.
Except . . . how could he fight this?
Months before, Danny had—consciously or unconsciously—pushed his wife into the street through his selfish actions. He’d hit her. The explosion had obliterated any possibility of discussing and mending the problems that had plagued their marriage. She had been alone and injured, both physically and emotionally. And she was perfect for Antoine, whose entire family had been destroyed on that crisp December morning.
Danny’s expression revealed nothing. He stared stonily at Antoine, measuring the man, wondering what he could possibly do to pry his wife from the grip of those wealthy, influential fingers. She was small beside the pristine black suit, hugging herself against the night chill, though Antoine held her tight. A glimmer of something on
her chest caught the moonlight, and Danny saw what he thought was either an emerald or a sapphire. Something Danny would never have been able to afford over his entire lifetime. Her hair was curled into shiny coils, her makeup fashionably done. He’d never seen her wear makeup before. It made her seem a bit like a stranger.
“Danny,” she whispered.
She looked torn. As well she might. With Antoine she reaped the benefits of society and all a wealthy man could provide. With Danny she would maybe share a tiny apartment with Mick and his typewriter. Right now she was living a life of luxury, knowing no want, needing no one.
He took a breath, then blew it out quickly, mind made up. “I’m glad you’re okay, Audrey,” he said, then turned and walked away, hands sunk in his pockets.
“Danny?” she called, his name almost lost in a sob.
Danny kept walking and didn’t look back. If he stopped he might never move again, he thought. God, why hadn’t the explosion killed him, saved him this pain? His throat thickened with dammed tears, and he held his breath to avoid swallowing. Tears started down his face, but he didn’t brush them away. She would remember his straight back, his head held high. Sure, she’d see his limp. There was nothing he could do about that. But she wouldn’t see him cry.
Audrey Baker
1918
THIRTY-SIX
He hardly limped anymore, she noticed. He walked as fast or faster than any other man with someplace to go. Where was he going?
Pierre cleared his throat. “Well, it appears he’s made his decision. Wise man.” He pressed his hand against her back. “Let’s get back.”
Danny’s solid shape swept past the regal row of houses, not slowing to breathe, never looking back. The light of lanterns in windows shone yellow as he passed, lighting his hair, briefly bleaching the black from his coat. She heard the step thump step thump of his passage echoing off the road and thought she might die.
I thought he was dead!
“Audrey. Pay attention.”
The fog in her brain began to clear, bringing her back to her own feet, which were wrapped in the latest uncomfortable fashion in shoes. Pierre took her elbow and smoothly turned her away from Danny’s receding form. Most of the crowd had dispersed and were walking back to the house, laughing among themselves, building tonight’s episode to such a height that it would soon be the more talked-about piece of gossip on everyone’s lips.
“You’re making a fool of yourself, Audrey. Come.”
She stared at Pierre, seeing a completely different man from the one she’d known the past few months. The one who had taken her in when she’d run from Danny on that frozen, horrible night so long before. She’d stayed in the maid’s room on the first floor, and in the morning the world had exploded. The war had found them! They were being bombed! She thought she might have lost consciousness for a moment, though she would never forget the deafening pressure of the explosion in her ears. Her window shattered, as did her mirror, and her mother’s teasing spirit whispered, That will bring you seven years of bad luck, my girl . . .
Pascale. So many times Audrey had pushed her mother’s teasing gaze from her mind, but now it was laughing so loudly she couldn’t ignore it. Ever since she’d figured out her mother’s “barter” system, living from bed to bed to support them both, Audrey had been determined she would not follow that path. Danny had been her one and only love, and she’d never thought farther than that until it all started to fall apart. What had Pascale done when Richard Black had disappeared? She’d mourned him, certainly. Audrey remembered the silent sobs in their dark tent and the pain in Pascale’s eyes whenever Audrey asked about him. She’d mourned him, then moved on. Ultimately, she fell ill, and when Audrey grew old enough to understand such things, she realized Pascale’s way of life, her method of surviving, had been the cause of that illness. And she’d died.
Audrey had mourned Danny after the explosion. She’d thought she would die from the loss of him and the knowledge that they’d left each other so horribly. She hadn’t died, but the emotions ripping through her chest made her wish for it. But then she’d moved on.
I understand, Maman. We do what we must, oui?
Pierre hadn’t been in the house when the world exploded. He’d left earlier that morning on a train to Boston for business. When she felt brave enough to trust the floor beneath her feet, Audrey struggled out of bed, using the walls to brace herself. She was dizzy, her legs unsure, and she had the strangest sensation on one side of her head—opposite to where Danny had struck her the night before: freezing cold air where it shouldn’t have been. A persistent buzzing noise vibrated in her ears. But without the mirror, she couldn’t check to see.
She listened for any kind of sound besides the buzz but heard no voices. She didn’t hear an air raid siren either.
She clung to the banister as she climbed the staircase, calling Mrs. Antoine’s name, listening for the children, but the house was still. At least the three youngest should have answered, since they were too little to attend school yet. The only sound she heard was the tinkling of loosened glass falling to the floor around her. The smaller, individual portraits she’d so lovingly painted hung in shredded pieces along the staircase.
It was in the master bedroom that she’d found Antoine’s family, and she’d run from the house as if the devil were chasing her, unwilling to believe what she’d just seen, unable to rid herself of the image. She burst outside and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to control her reaction. Her head hurt far too much for her to waste energy either vomiting or crying. What’s going on? Breathe, Audrey. In, out. Her heartbeat slowed, and she became aware of the chill in the air. She opened her eyes, hugging herself, and blinked into the glare. The sky was a pure, breathtaking cerulean blue, and it contained the largest white cloud she had ever seen. It seemed to extend for miles, soft and welcoming and harmless. But when she lowered her gaze, taking in the world below the beautiful cloud, she saw an entirely different story.
So it hadn’t just been the Antoines’ house. The damage was everywhere. Very few windows remained in the houses around her, and she was painfully aware that these buildings were sturdier than where she’d been living just one night earlier. She didn’t want to imagine what her house might look like now. The image of the Antoines’ bedroom came to mind, complete with small mangled bodies, and she choked on a sob.
Danny! Where are you, Danny?
She should be with him. She had to be with him. Oh God, Danny. In a daze, she started walking toward downtown, feeling tiny and vulnerable between the neat line of damaged houses.
She’d seen smoke, heard explosions, but she hadn’t expected to meet with such desolation. Emerging from the sheltered, wealthier streets, she looked down toward the sea and realized there was nothing left. The ground had been flattened for miles, and anything still standing either wobbled or burst into flame as the furnaces of collapsed buildings combusted. Ugly, broken hulks of ships poked through the water where there once had floated majestic, unsinkable vessels manned by sailors, carrying soldiers.
Placing one foot in front of the other, she carefully walked down the hill, following her heart toward the harbour, toward their sad little house, though her head screamed at her to stay away. The slope was too much, and her legs followed its angle until she was suddenly running, unable to stop herself. She reached out, wishing she had a cane to brace her—even better, Danny’s arm—but there was nothing. Then it was as if she were floating, the ground beneath her feet swaying like the sea on a cold, grey day, and a roar filled her head, sounding like the ocean on those thrilling, terrifying, stormy nights in Jeddore. When the sensation offered to carry her away, she let herself go.
She awoke to the gentle prodding of leather-gloved hands. Concerned frowns loomed over her, and the voices started to make sense.
“. . . hear me? Are you all right? Look, Jeffrey. Her eyes are open. Where’s that blasted w
agon?”
Audrey’s eyes rolled up, seeking darkness again, but the gloves shook her awake. “Come on, girl. Hold still a moment. You’re losing a lot of blood.”
Her head pounded, and she cried out when someone cradled the back of it, lifting her neck off the ground. Another pair of hands joined the first, and she whimpered helplessly as they wrapped a scarf around her head, covering her eyes. The pressure of it both soothed and irritated the searing pain on the side of her head. And now that she could see nothing, she wanted to see it all.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, trying not to struggle as they lifted her and laid her on a hard surface. It rocked, and she heard the jingling of a harness. A wagon? “What’s happening?”
“It’s all right, Audrey,” came a familiar voice. One of the husbands, she remembered. She’d painted his family. What was the name? King, she recalled. Donald King. She envisioned him as she’d painted him: tall, lean, and bald, decorated only by a pencil-thin black moustache. “You’re safe now. We’re taking you to the hospital.”
She assumed it was King who had brought Pierre Antoine to see her a few days later. She’d had to go through painful reconstructive surgery at the busy hospital, where they’d tried their best to sew her torn cheek back into place. It had been almost entirely ripped from her face when she’d arrived in the wagon. She wondered vaguely if she’d left a terrible bloodstain on the Antoine’s sheets, then she shoved the idea away, not wanting to envision his family’s fate ever again. Except she knew it would always be in her mind, the violent colours, the torn and terrible bodies, the peace on the children’s faces now that they were gone.
But it would remain in her mind. She would never, never put it to paper.
The women came to see her, Catherine and Simone and Elaine, all feigning concern in their big black hats and high collars. She kept the side of her face out of their view, though she saw them trying to look. There was nothing she could do about it. She was deformed now. Ugly beyond belief. It was probably good that Danny couldn’t see her like this.
Tides of Honour Page 27