War Brides

by Helen Bryan

  “Oh, you know,” said Evangeline, the smile quickly replaced by her usual bored look, “I have to be nice. He’s staying with Uncle Charles who invited him to Mardi Gras and to be an extra man at my ball. He’s leaving soon.” She prayed for the parade to end.

  “Evangeline looks funny, like she’s feelin’ sick.”

  At the Fontaines’ house the band had been told to play nonstop until the supper interval. Among the dancers and flirting couples Maurice was a brooding presence—withdrawn and drinking heavily, people noticed. Several were asking where Evangeline had gotten to. She had been dancing too much with that English fellow, and then disappeared. Now everybody was looking for her. Her mother was trying to extricate herself from a circle of old ladies all eager to talk to her about their own engagements and complain about “girls today.”

  “It’s the excitement,” Solange Fontaine said soothingly to Maurice, glancing over his shoulder for her daughter, drawing him into the circle of ladies so she could make her escape. “A girl doesn’t get engaged every day.” But she thought Evangeline was taking an inordinately long time to freshen up.

  Maurice’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me,” he said, “my overseer is signalling me from the door. Forgive the intrusion, Madame, evidently an important matter for him to disturb me in your house.” He withdrew and left Solange stuck again with the old ladies.

  In her own bathroom Evangeline straightened her clothes and pressed a cold cloth to her head. She had left Richard drowsily happy in a guest room, promising not to rejoin the party but to wait for her at the gate—the julep had worked and she was overwhelmed by the sense her life had veered out of control. She was going to have a colored baby, and she had just seduced another man. She would go to hell—and the Irish convent—unless the rest of her reckless plan worked. Now she had to slip down to the garden for a minute where her note had told Laurent to meet her, to tell him that she knew he was going to France and that she had found a way to join him. Then she had to get back to the ball and go through the charade of the announcement about her engagement. The band was playing away, but they would stop for supper any minute and her parents must be looking for her.

  Evangeline opened her door and peered down the landing. No one was about. She gathered up her beaded skirt and crept down the back stairs to the basement. She groped for the handle of the garden door, opened it, and whispered Laurent’s name. There was no answer, and she moved into the shadow of the house and peered into the darkness, where she could hear something at the end of the garden. Down by the swamp oak with the hanging moss, figures were moving. A white evening shirt gleamed in the darkness. There was a pause between dances, and over the hum of conversation indoors she heard the crack of a whip and a scream of pain. Behind her she could hear hurried footsteps in the basement, and the door slammed open.

  Andre’s breathless voice said, “Hurry, Philippe, God knows why, but Maurice is having one of his crazy fits and he’s brought his hired men to horsewhip somebody.”

  “Of all nights,” muttered Philippe, “why the hell…” She saw her brothers, in evening dress, running from the house toward the shadows and knew instinctively what had happened. She had to act or it would be too late.

  In the dark Evangeline slipped back into the basement and felt about for the old shotgun the gardener kept for killing groundhogs and snakes. She reached into the ammunition box, willing her shaking hands steady so that she could load the gun. Outside someone was shouting and pleading then the crack of a whip and another shriek of pain. She ran out as fast as she could in the hampering dress and down the lawn. The agitated men didn’t notice as she pushed aside the hanging moss curtain. Something bloody lay on the ground—no someone. He was bent in a strange position, obviously badly hurt. Laurent! Maurice was behaving like a madman, lashing the bullwhip across Philippe’s shoulders as he bent to help his cousin. Philippe’s evening jacket was slashed to ribbons by the force of the whip, and he staggered and fell.

  Andre was trying to wrest himself free from two rough-looking men who had pinned his arms behind him. He shouted, “Have you gone crazy? Why the hell are you taking it out on Laurent? It was the Englishman Evangeline flirted with!”

  “Here’s her note,” snarled Maurice, his face twisted with rage. “My overseer’s been watching them for weeks, found it on Laurent’s desk at the office this afternoon, real careless of him. At Belle Triste the Fitzroys gave slaves a good whipping if they stepped out of line, after that they got cut. I’ll teach this one a lesson, cut him first, then hang him right here in your garden where your whoring sister can watch!” A knife blade flashed.

  No one saw Evangeline beneath the hanging moss as she jammed the heavy shotgun hard into her shoulder, as Andre had taught her, swung the barrel at the white expanse of Maurice’s shirtfront, and squeezed the trigger.

  The old shotgun fired with a violent upward kick, recoiling into her face and bruising her shoulder. It felt like her nose exploded and something warm and wet ran over her mouth. Through a haze of pain she fired again, blindly. Maurice was on the ground now, making a horrible noise. Someone jerked the gun away from her.

  Suddenly Solomon the butler appeared, taking charge. The two rough-looking men were gone. Evangeline saw Andre bending over Laurent, and Philippe wrapping a handkerchief over his own bleeding hand. Back in the house people gathered at the lighted windows, peering into the garden.

  “What’s happening out there? Y’all all right?”

  “We’ve got to keep people away. Get that damn band playing,” Philippe ordered thickly. “Solomon, you’ll have to help me with Mr. Fitzroy. He’s hurt bad.”

  No one saw Evangeline stoop and snatch a crumpled piece of paper from the ground.

  Solomon mopped his brow, then stepped out from under the tree and called, “Y’all can go on back inside now, ladies and gentlemen. If I done told these chillun once I done told them a thousand times ain’t no firecrackers allowed in Mist’ Fontaine’s garden. Like to blow somebody up lightin’ them all at the same time. Crazy chillun! Y’all folks rest easy now, just chillun getting overexcited, the way they do at Mardi Gras. We pickin’ up the rest of the firecrackers befo’ somebody get hurt.”

  The band struck up, and most people moved away from the windows.

  A few guests were still hovering curiously on the terrace and peering into the garden. “Maurice is a regular hero,” Andre called, sounding nonchalant, “protecting those pickaninnies from the blast of the firecrackers!”

  “Pickaninnies and firecrackers! I declare, niggers got no more sense’n monkeys.”

  “Andre, is that Evangeline out there? We can see her pretty dress in the dark. What’s that girl up to now? Tell her her mama’s looking for her.”

  “We’ll do that.”

  Philippe was giving terse orders, panting hard. “Bandage Laurent up the best you can and get him down to our dock. We’ve got a ship sailing for Marseille tonight. Get him on it. He’s in bad shape, unconscious, but thank God we got here before Maurice used the knife. What was that about Evangeline and a note?”

  “I don’t know, I always thought his Fitzroy craziness was waitin’ to bust out,” Andre said. “He’s bleeding like anything.” He looked up and took in the spectacle his sister made—dress torn, eyes wild, nose gushing blood. “What the hell are you doing here, Evangeline? What have you done! Oh, God!” He turned to Solomon. “Get her upstairs before anyone sees her and causes another scandal. Mama’s going to have a fit.”

  Somebody dragged Evangeline up the back stairs. Delphy’s voice said, “Miss Evangeline? I got a poultice for yo’ face. Get it on befo’ yo’ mama see you. She on her way. Andre talkin’ to her, ’splainin’ this and ’splainin’ that to her, drawin’ it out so’s we got time to git you outta this dress and cleaned up fore she git here.”

  Delphy worked fast, unclasping jewelry, snatching off stockings and dirty satin slippers, wrapping the bloodstained clothing in a sheet and hurrying off to dispose of it. Evangeline loc
ked the door behind her. She flung open her closet, pushing aside frocks, ball gowns, tea dresses, and dancing slippers until she found her riding boots and a pair of old trousers and the dark jersey with holes in the elbows that she wore when she went fishing at her grandmother’s. Delphy was back, hammering on the locked door. “Let me in!”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Who all right?”

  “Laurent?”

  “They carried him off real smart. He goin’ to France tonight. He alive, just barely. Broken ribs, broken nose, bleedin’ hard, but sound like he gon’ live. Doctor with Mr. Maurice now. He rantin’ and ravin’, cain’t move his arms or legs. Mist’ Andre drug him in the study, empty the decanters all over the floor till everything smell like whiskey, like they drinkin’ heavy before whatever was doin’ with the fireworks and all. Yo’ papa done collapsed in the dining room, yo’ mama runnin’ back and forth between him and the boys. Oh Lord, Miss Evangeline! Yo’ plan, it ain’t gon’ work! Got the devil in it.”

  “Never mind the devil! It has to work. Tell the boys they have to keep Mama a little longer, let me get away.”

  “Miss Evangeline, Englishman got blue eyes, light hair. That baby born, he know where it come from. And they so many people downstairs, runnin’ around crazy as chickens, and yo’ fam’ly all comin’ to see you. You can’t get out the house! Ain’t gon’ work!”

  “Hush, I said! I have to think a minute. Go get me some more ice. Just keep everybody away!”

  Evangeline tucked her pants into her riding boots, snatched up a dark silk scarf to tie over her hair, turned off the bedroom lights, and opened the window. Andre and she used to scramble in and out of her room from the veranda roof as children, but tonight the ground looked far away and she felt dizzy. Her nose was badly swollen, it was hard to breathe, and she was sure her collarbone was broken. How would she manage? She gritted her teeth.

  Downstairs the band stopped playing and Uncle Charles was making an announcement, asking everyone to please go at once. There was a buzz of shocked voices and people began to depart, their cars disappearing down the drive, until the only person left was the tall, fair-haired man waiting in the shadows by the gates, looking back up at the house. Evangeline saw a pinprick of light as he lit a cigarette and smoked it, then another.

  Richard reminded himself that she had said best to wait till the house was closed up for the night. He watched Solomon close the doors, but the sound of the bolt driven home filled him with despair. What if she couldn’t get away? If she didn’t come he would die. He was on fire with longing for her. She had promised to go if he would marry her, and he’d said they needn’t wait for England, the captain could marry them once they were out to sea. Where was she? He thought anxiously of the tide. “We don’t want them to have time to follow us,” she had said. “Meet me at the gate.”

  Evangeline quelled another wave of dizziness, aware that she had little time left. Delphy couldn’t keep her mother away much longer. There it was, another pinprick of light, another cigarette. Now or never. Summoning the last of her strength, Evangeline climbed out of the bedroom window onto the sloping roof. Mustn’t look down. Remember, she told herself, you’ve done this many times. It’s easy. Slowly she dragged herself to the end where a fig tree grew against the house. Thankfully it was bigger than it had been when she was a child. Nearly fainting from the pain in her right shoulder, she used her left arm to let herself down the tree. She dropped to the ground in the shadows, then skirted the drive, a shabby figure in worn clothes with a swollen face. Just before she reached the gates she turned and looked back to her home, with its ornate balconies and sweeping garden, only a few lights showing through the shutters, which were closed now. Then Richard grabbed her hand and they hurried to the river and his waiting ship.

  Three hours later the captain performed a hasty marriage service on the bridge as the sun rose, wondering how on earth the girl had come by her blackening eye and swollen nose. He had never seen a shabbier girl or a happier groom. Then the ship began to roll up and down. The bride turned green and rushed to be sick over the rail.

  3.

  Crowmarsh Priors, East

  Sussex, October 1938

  As she unlatched the churchyard gate on Saturday afternoon, Alice Osbourne saw the handlebars of Nell Hawthorne’s bicycle poking up from the weeds where she had propped it against the war memorial with its long list of the village’s Glorious Dead and its Latin motto about happy are they who die defending their country. She was shocked by how high the weeds had grown and how unkempt the churchyard looked. Jimmy, the butcher’s boy, was supposed to keep it tidy, but since the death of Alice’s father, he hadn’t bothered. Ivy had crept over the gravestones, while stinging nettles and brambles had taken hold at the back.

  Alice felt fragile and insubstantial, as if she was recuperating from a long illness. Six months ago Richard had returned from America, and a stunned, appalled Penelope had rung her from London to break the news. “Darling, such terrible news, I hardly know how to tell you.”

  “Oh please, Lord, not Richard. Don’t let anything have happened to Richard! His ship?”

  Penelope’s voice sank to a whisper. “No, Alice. He’s…he’s come back from the United States. He’s, well, it’s just…I’m so very sorry.”

  “You frightened me out of my wits. Thank God he’s all right!”

  “He’s married.”

  “But…that’s impossible.”

  “To an American.” Penelope had sounded as if she were being strangled. “Alice, he’s bringing her down to Crowmarsh Priors to live. Apparently the girl may be…expecting. Alice, I’m so sorry!”

  “But…Penelope, Richard and I are engaged.

  “Engaged,” she whispered as she quickly put the receiver down on Penelope’s protests that the news was true. There must be some mistake. Alice had thought it was a cruel, wicked joke. And impossible.

  She did not believe it until one afternoon, a week later, she had seen Richard’s roadster pulled up in front of Penelope’s house. He had jumped out to open the passenger door. Alice’s heart was in her mouth as she saw him take the hand of a slender, dark-haired girl and help her out and up the front steps as if she were made of spun glass and might break. Then he swept her up in his arms and carried her over the threshold.

  Alice soon learned that they had met in New Orleans, eloped, and been married at sea. Jimmy had told Mrs. Osbourne, who repeated it to Alice over tea in a long, querulous lament. “Mrs. Richard” had indeed come to live in Crowmarsh Priors for the time being. “It’s all so shocking! How will Penelope Fairfax ever hold her head up again? I don’t know what your father would have said!” she concluded as she always did. It took all Alice’s self-control not to bite into her teacup, swallow the pieces, and choke to death on her own blood.

  The next day Richard had called on Mrs. Osbourne and Alice at their cottage. Alice answered the door and the color drained from her face. Unable to listen to whatever he had to say she had turned on her heel, leaving him to her mother, and fled out of the kitchen door. She walked aimlessly until it was dark. Richard had left the village the next morning, but his wife had stayed behind. Alice came face to face with her in the butcher’s. She had dark hair and pale skin and would have been beautiful but for the faint puffiness around her nose. Something about her looked bruised. Like rotten fruit, thought Alice bitterly.

  Since then Alice had gotten through the days somehow, going automatically about her daily routine at school, but when she got home her mother couldn’t resist a tirade about Richard’s behavior. Alice would run to her bedroom in tears. Now she was struggling to hang on to her dignity in public, painfully aware that the village knew she had been jilted for a sly baggage who dressed like a stable boy and spoke with an odd accent.

  The future stretched bleakly before her.

  Alice let herself into the vestry, breathing in the comforting, familiar smell of beeswax, old vestments, communion wine, polish, mice, and ancient i
ncense. It was a glorious, breezy autumn afternoon and the downs beckoned, but Alice enjoyed having the vestry to herself once Nell had finished cleaning. She undid her tightly knotted head scarf, which made her head look oddly small, and ran her hands through her hair. It stayed flat and lank, but Alice no longer cared what she looked like.

  She put down a freshly ironed altar cloth and took her flowered pinny, with its limp ruffles, from its hook. She tied it on over the drab brown tweed skirt and a twinset her mother had discarded, spread out some newspaper, and took down the brass and silver polish from their shelf. Nell had set out the altar candlesticks and the collection plate, while the silver communion chalice and wafer plate were in their baize bag beside a box of fresh candles.

  She shut her eyes, imagining her father putting the final touches to the next day’s sermon, trying it out in the pulpit to be sure it lasted exactly twenty minutes, no more. Since his death Alice had continued to prepare the altar for Sunday because no one else in the village had offered to do it. In any case she had nothing better to do on Saturday afternoons. There was a new vicar now, Oliver Hammet, but he was unmarried. Alice sighed. Mr. Hammet meant well, but he was young and this was his first parish. It would have been better if an older man had been appointed. Village gossip had it that Lady Marchmont, who regarded Crowmarsh Priors as her personal fiefdom, had had “a quiet word” with the bishop about Mr. Hammet, who was her distant cousin. When she had been assured that he was “doctrinally sound, very sound” she had demanded that he be given the parish living. As usual she had had her way.

  Alice unfolded the rags she had boiled at home and briskly rubbed polish on metal. The problem with Jimmy and the churchyard was the tip of the iceberg. The new vicar was a Cambridge man, as her father had been, but he was not a practical sort of person. He reminded Alice of a distracted owl, a tall, kindly one with glasses. He was wrestling inefficiently with his timetable—his pastoral duties, the parish council, the churchwardens, and the Mothers’ Union. He delivered his sermons in a nervous rush, so they were either very short indeed or rambled off confusingly for far too long.