by Stacy Henrie
The children were playing out front of the cottage and greeted Ada as she walked up. “Is your mother here or at Gran’s?”
“She’s inside,” Janey answered. “Are you here to see Daddy?”
Ada nodded.
“He’s still sad.” The ten-year-old girl frowned. “Mama says it’s normal, though.”
Compassion for all of them, Thomas most of all, prevented Ada from replying for a moment. “I think your mother is right. He has experienced quite a lot.”
“He cried when he saw me,” she said, looking up at Ada. “But he said it weren’t because he was sad right then. It was ’cause he was so happy.”
She ran her hand down Janey’s golden red hair. “I bet he was happy and very surprised with how big you are now.”
“I’m big too,” seven-year-old William announced with self-importance as he joined them.
Ada laughed. “Yes, you are.” She stepped toward the house. “I’ll duck inside.”
After a brief knock on the door, she walked in, calling out, “Minnie?” It reminded her so much of London that a wave of nostalgia washed over her.
“’Ello, Ada,” Minnie called back, her tone cheerful but weary. “I’m in the kitchen, just puttin’ together a cold dinner.”
Ada wandered into the kitchen. It was a large bright room with a range, similar to what they’d both had in their flats in the city. Her reminiscence swelled to gratitude that Minnie and her family had come to Yorkshire too.
“How is he doing?” she asked softly.
A pained expression passed over Minnie’s face as she arranged some cheese on a plate. “’E’s all right. Alive, praise the Lord. I think ’e’s still ’urtin’ more inside than out.” She looked at Ada, her eyes watery with unshed tears. “But it’s been a bit better since I told ’im I weren’t going nowhere. Yelled at ’im, actually. I told ’im I’ll love ’im no matter what’s ’appened to ’im. Or what ’e’s seen.”
“I imagine he did not take too kindly to that at first.” Ada chuckled. She could easily recall the time when Minnie’s heartfelt goading had helped Ada through her grief. “He’s probably feeling grateful for your words now, though.”
Minnie shot her an impish smile. “Oh, ’e was angry all right—we both were. Then we were crying and ’olding each other.”
“Do you think he’d like a visit?” Ada glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the stairs.
Her friend dried her hands on her apron and moved toward the back door. “’E’s out back. In the garden. I’ll tell ’im you’re ’ere.” She slipped out the door, shutting it behind her.
Ada waited, her stomach knotting with nerves. She wasn’t sure how to act or what to say to a wounded soldier, even if she’d known Thomas for years. Then Hugh’s remark from the other day returned to her. She could offer Thomas a listening ear if he wished to talk.
“’E says to go on through.”
Smiling, Ada crossed the room and paused at the back door. “Thank you, Minnie.”
“Thank you . . . for comin’ to see ’im.”
She nodded. “I’ll come back inside before I leave.”
The shade felt cool as she exited the cottage and walked the short distance to where Thomas sat in one of two chairs situated on the grass. He rose, with the aid of a cane, as she approached.
“Hello, Ada.”
She took his hand when he offered it and squeezed it between her own. “It’s so good to see you, Thomas.”
“Please . . .” He motioned to the empty chair beside him. Once she was situated, he dropped into his own chair and set the cane beside him on the ground. “I was right sorry to hear about Ned.” Thomas shook his head, frowning. “T’weren’t a better man.”
Ada felt a sting of grief. “I appreciate that. How are you faring?”
“Can’t complain too much,” he said with a sniff. “Most of me mates in our station lost more’n their legs. At least I’m back with me family. They won’t see theirs again in this life.”
The anguish behind his words and in his voice brought a lump to Ada’s throat. “I’m so sorry, Thomas. Ned would write and tell me how close he was to those he fought alongside. How they were almost like brothers.” She couldn’t imagine witnessing the death of so many close friends.
“Aye. That we were.”
She finally glanced at his pant leg. It had been hemmed below his left knee. Beyond that there was nothing. More loss, she thought sadly.
“Will you tell me about them?” she asked.
“Who?” He glanced at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. Perhaps he had.
Ada leaned against the back of the chair. “About your mates and what happened to them . . . about what happened to you.”
“Some of that weren’t fit for a lady to hear.”
“I won’t argue with you there,” she said as she met his level gaze. “But I would like to hear some of it.”
Thomas stared down at his hands. “Minnie keeps sayin’ I need to share it.” He gave a shake of his head, a brief smile alighting on his lips. “What I wouldn’t do for that woman.” He visibly swallowed. “I love her with all my breath.”
“And she loves you.”
“Aye, even when she’s ahollerin’ at me.” He smirked, but his hazel eyes shone with pure affection.
Some of Ada’s wistfulness returned. She could recall times when Ned had looked at her that way, and she missed it.
“While I’ve not been the recipient of her hollering,” Ada admitted after a moment, “I was rather angry with her last year when she called me a coward.”
“She did?” Thomas looked as surprised as he was amused.
“And she was right.” Ada wanted him to know she’d also struggled with feeling her grief, with sharing it. “I was being cowardly because I wouldn’t talk about how I felt after Ned was killed. I kept it all bottled up inside.” She gazed out over the garden. “It wasn’t until I finally told her everything that I could breathe again.”
Thomas shifted in his chair. “Are you tellin’ me this so I’ll talk too?”
“Yes.” She tempered her answer with a smile. “However, you don’t have to, Thomas. I would not blame you one bit if you don’t wish to talk. I certainly didn’t at first.”
Lifting his chin, he peered up at the clouds meandering across the sky. Ada wondered if he would keep silent. She wouldn’t judge him if he did. There were things she suspected even Hugh hadn’t told her about his time in France, and he hadn’t been there as a solider.
“All right,” he said after a long moment. “I’ll tell you some. But only some, mind you.” He wagged his finger at her. “Ned’ll come back to haunt me if I shared it all.”
That brought a brief smile to her lips. “I will listen to whatever you wish to share.”
Thomas paused again. Ada guessed he was gathering his thoughts, sifting through what he could and couldn’t give voice to. At last, he pushed out a heavy sigh and began. “There were four of us mates. Me, MacDonald, Perrish and Clompton . . .”
She lost track of time as she listened to his stories. Some of them made her laugh, others had her biting her lip to keep from crying out in horror. Then there were the tales that left her silently weeping, especially when he revealed that none of his three friends had survived the battle that cost Thomas his leg.
“That’s about it,” he said, throwing her a chagrinned look sometime later.
She brushed at her eyes with her thumb. “Thank you, Thomas.”
“Aye. You’ve been a great friend to me and mine for years, Ada Henley.” His next words came out slightly choked. “And you took care of me Minnie while I was away.”
Several more tears spilled onto her cheeks. “I think she was actually taking care of me.”
“Either way, I’m grateful.”
Ada rose from her chair. “If you think of other stories, I would like to hear them. It helps me too, Thomas.” She glanced down at the grass. “I feel close to Ned, even with him gone, whe
n I can better understand what he experienced.”
“Well, we’ll see,” he hedged, though his hopeful expression told a different tale. “Thanks for comin’ by.”
With a wave, she turned and headed back toward the cottage. Listening to Thomas’s accounts of the war had drained her of energy, and yet, she felt ironically buoyed up at the same time.
Minnie and Hugh had both been right—talking out one’s grief did loosen the burden, and not just for the one grieving. Ada entered the cottage less troubled in her own heart than when she had arrived.
Chapter 19
October 1917
The leaden clouds dripped rain, forming rivulets of water that ran into the fresh hole in the cemetery. Ada stared at her father’s casket. The rest of the funeral attendees, including her mother, grandmother, and Rosemary, had wandered over to the church gate, their umbrellas framing somber faces and hushed voices. But Ada couldn’t move. The moment she did, she would have to accept that her life had irrevocably changed—yet again.
While she’d once loathed her father’s silence, she’d also found comfort in the belief that he and Stonefield Hall would always be there. Now he was gone, and if she couldn’t turn things around with the estate, their home might be gone soon too.
Footsteps sounded on her right. It was probably the gravediggers, but she wasn’t ready to leave. Seconds turned to minutes as she stared at the clots of dirt she and her mother had thrown onto the casket below.
The responsibility of the estate—and its frightening financial situation—had officially fallen onto her shoulders the moment her father had taken his last breath. Ada lowered her head as the weight of those duties pressed with renewed heaviness upon her, the brim of her hat weeping with raindrops.
“Ada?” Hugh said, touching her lightly on the elbow. She peered up at his face. “The gravediggers are saying they need to finish before the rain grows any worse.”
She eyed the pair of men standing at a respectful distance with chagrin. “Right. Of course.” Glancing back at the grave, she bid a silent goodbye to her father.
Hugh fell into step beside her as she traversed the path through the wet grass and gravestones toward the gate. But the sight of all those people waiting to offer their condolences created a stir of panic inside her.
“I-I can’t leave yet. Will you tell my mother and Gran to take Rosemary home? I’ll walk back in a bit.” She turned to face the old stone church. “I would like some more time inside.”
She felt Hugh’s gaze on her. “I’ll tell them. My mother may wish to go with them as well. Let me drive you home, though. Whenever you are ready.”
Some of her anxiety slipped away in the wake of his kindness. “Thank you.” Averting her gaze from the crowd of mourners, she hurried back inside the church. The cool air felt surprisingly soothing. The priest was still outside with the others, which meant she had the place to herself for the moment.
Selecting a middle pew this time, Ada took a seat on the hard wooden bench. She unpinned her sodden hat and placed it beside her to dry. At last she was able to draw a full breath, one laden with the scent of candle wax. The tightness in her chest began to loosen.
She felt so very tired. Watching her father’s health deteriorate completely, working as Hugh’s secretary, and doing what small things she could think of to save the estate had all taken their toll. She longed to sleep for days.
The church door creaked open, alerting her that someone had come inside. Ada frowned. She wanted more time alone. The footfalls neared and she lifted her chin to see Hugh approaching. Her irritation gave way to relief. She didn’t mind Hugh’s presence right now. He sat beside her on the pew, but he remained, thankfully, silent.
Ada gazed about the church, stopping on the stained glass window at her left. It was a beautiful depiction of Christ raising Jairus’s daughter from the dead. When Ada had come across the story in her reading, she’d read it through over and over again.
How well she could relate to the man’s grief at losing his daughter. And then to see the girl alive and whole, as Ada had Rosemary that summer day at the school. Tears pricked her eyes at the memory.
What intense pain Jairus must have felt, pain Ada herself had felt this last year, before the miracle occurred of seeing his daughter’s life restored. And yet it was that heartache and grief that had led the man to seek Jesus. The same pattern had proven true in Ada’s life. Each painful experience had been an opportunity to seek God and to grow, even if she hadn’t always recognized it as such.
“I know coming home was the right thing to do,” she admitted into the silence. “Especially after learning how sick my father had become. And yet, everything has been so different from what I expected.” She turned to look at Hugh. “I thought I would have more time with him. And in spite of everything . . .” Her voice hitched with emotion as tears dampened her dry eyes. “I am going to miss him, Hugh.”
Instead of speaking, he simply scooted closer and tugged her toward him. Ada willingly went, weeping against his rain-splattered coat. She was trying so hard to be courageous. But today, in this moment, she needed someone else’s strength to lean on.
“Of course you will miss him,” he said in a low voice a few minutes later. “It is never easy to lose a parent. Especially after so short a reconciliation.”
Ada sniffled and brushed at her wet cheeks, but she didn’t sit up. In Hugh’s embrace, she felt protected, comforted. “My parents never wrote while I was in London—not even once.” A shadow of the pain she’d felt at finding that first unopened letter after her miscarriage fluttered through her. “I wrote a handful of letters, which were all returned. After Rosemary was six months old, I thought it best to stop trying.”
“Their silent disregard for you never did sit right with me.”
She inched back in surprise. “You knew about that?”
“I did,” Hugh said, his brow furrowed.
“You never said a thing in your letters.”
He turned to face the front of the church. “I wanted to, believe me. Especially when they would come to dinner or Mama and I would visit Stonefield Hall. But I didn’t feel it was my place to say something back then. I only said so now because . . .” Hugh looked at her again, his smile sad. “Because I want you to know that I understand this must be doubly hard for you today, Ada. To have so many years of heartache followed by so short a reprieve.”
“Thank you.” It pleased her to know Hugh hadn’t condoned her parents’ past actions. “Did your mother leave in the car with mine?”
He nodded.
“I’m glad. Helena will be a great comfort to her.” Hugh’s mother understood what it was like to lose a husband.
Hugh twisted on the bench to face her. “What about you? Who will be your comfort?”
Ada could recall asking a similar question of him. And though she guessed he meant the words to be playful, the look in his brown eyes was strikingly serious.
“You have already been a comfort to me, Hugh. More than just today.”
He rested his arm along the back of the pew. And though he didn’t touch her, she felt the warmth of his nearness and it caused her pulse to trip in a strangely new and pleasant way.
“I am glad to hear it,” he said, his mouth twitching with a hidden smile. “But only if I have not been foisting that help on you.”
The friendly banter between them was familiar territory and Ada latched on to it. “Perhaps only once or twice.”
He laughed. “I will take that as an improvement.”
“Which you should.” She gave him a full smile. His friendship meant the world to her and she appreciated his honesty as much as his teasing. A prick of guilt speared her at the realization she hadn’t been completely honest with him in return. “I do have a confession to make.”
“Sounds intriguing,” he said lightly. “And appropriate for the setting.” The amused retort was at odds with the sudden intensity in his gaze, though.
“Do you remember
last month when you asked if something was wrong and I told you about Minnie’s husband?”
Hugh looked momentarily confused, then he nodded. “I remember.”
“That wasn’t the only thing on my mind.”
“Ada . . .” The note of disappointment in his voice increased her regret.
She stared straight ahead, not wishing to see his expression until after she’d shared the truth. “Earlier that same evening, I had a visit from my father’s solicitor. Apparently, the estate is in great financial trouble.”
“Are you serious?”
She nodded. “My father has been quite indulgent, and while my mother knew the situation in part, she didn’t know the full extent. Even knowing it now, she still refuses to believe we must make changes if we want to keep the estate intact.”
“The estate is not entailed, is it?”
“No, and now that my father is gone, I have the final say on what we do.”
When he remained silent, she went on, eager to unburden herself to someone who wouldn’t balk at the changes she’d either made or proposed. “I have already let go of some of the staff and have been hoping to find a new land agent. However, I know so little about farming. I don’t want to sell any part of Stonefield, but I fear that may be inevitable.”
She studied her gloved hands as she thought of all the tasks they’d been required to do during her time in London. “It’s really too bad everything can’t be solved by simply thinning the soup or doing our own laundry or trading goods with our neighbors.” Her laugh held more irony than amusement, even to her own ears. “Those things were—are—still second nature to me.”
She regarded him again. He was watching her with a sorrowful expression that squeezed at her heart. “Why didn’t you tell me about the estate, Ada? I thought we were . . .” He frowned. “We are friends, are we not?”
“Yes,” she said earnestly, “the very best of friends.”
His frown increased. “Then why keep this from me? I could have raised your salary a month ago.”