Perhaps there was no escape.
Perhaps it was that the war dragged on, a miserable, bellowing dragon, leaving bodies aplenty in the mud behind it, a machine dragging on and on. And if it lasted much longer, perhaps he'd be recovered enough to be sent back to the front, even if he couldn't ride a horse. Not that he'd wish to slow his recuperation, but, well, it was rather a nightmare, wasn't it? To wish so hard to get well and for the pain to stop...and perhaps to get his wish and have it all start over again, knowing what he faced back at the front.
It would be cowardly to seek any way out of that at all, and yet, sometimes at night, he thought of it longingly. To be stuck recovering a little longer. To have an accident with a gun...
WAR OR NO, EDGEWOOD was disgusted to see the family seat put to use in such a travesty. He'd intended to give the young usurper his strong opinion on the subject, to demand better, to demand his fair share. Wiser heads had prevailed, namely his lawyer, who said he must keep his cards close to his chest if he was to have any chance later on.
Edgar began to hatch a different plan, to dig up enough testimony to see the upstart kicked out and all the money raked back from him, to see him die in debt and shame and ruin—namely, to prove that the marriage was a farce or a con somehow.
Not a great many men had survived from his cousin's unit, but Edgar was certain that he could either find, buy, or invent letters to cast doubt on whether or not it was a real marriage. The marriage had certainly been shoddily done and very last minute. With some letters and a sympathetic judge's ear, why, anything might happen.
There was a war on, after all.
MEANWHILE, HENRY HAD been having a shockingly poor time of it. Trapped behind enemy lines and out of his wits for quite some time, he'd been nursed back to health by a village woman who was far too old even for him to fall in love with (though it was a near thing, for he needed to fall in love with somebody, and she had been very good to him).
Then, when he was finally well enough to get out of bed and move about and aim a gun, to duck and hide and remember nearly everything, he was faced with a sorer challenge yet. Namely, that the front lines had shifted, and there was simply no way for him to work his way back across them. It was a fool's mission to even contemplate it. She begged him to reconsider, but in the end he stood firm; he must be on his way, even if not where he sorely wanted to go.
She sighed, and shook her head, and helped him attach himself to the local resistance. They saw his youth, and his blond hair which stood out a bit locally, and shook their heads. But they needed people even more than they needed tact, and the hair was easy enough to change. They died it with walnut husks, and gave him clothes to blend in, and took the wild young man under their wings, and taught him how to disappear in the forest, emerge to wreak brief havoc, and then disappear again.
It was brutal fighting, not that any of the war had been truly pleasant. But some days, he almost wished he hadn't wakened from that restless, mindless dream in the old woman's home, somewhere between life and death.
The leader saw it in his eyes and took him aside. "If you look for death, it will find you. But I won't have you bringing it on us. You must find some reason to live, or part ways with us."
He was a hard man. He'd needed to be.
The fervour of idealism drove the men, a fire in them, fierce and dangerous. Nothing mattered to them but the mission. Henry was heartily tired of war. He wanted rest, and solitude, and home. He wanted toast and cocoa in front of a crackling fireplace. He wanted this to all have been an unpleasant dream he could wake up from, and find himself home.
"What would you suggest?" he said, shoulders drooped, no witty reply in him, no pride left to insist he wasn't too tired to live much longer.
"Some men have a fiancée, a wife, a family. Are you alone in the world?"
He blinked. He wasn't, not really. Well, that was, if Isaac had survived that push. There was no guaranteeing anything, but he rather thought Isaac had lived. Then again, he'd been wrong about his own premonition of dying (at least so far), so who was to say? Anything could have happened.
"I—I have a husband," he admitted, and felt like blushing. "But I don't really need to live for him. He's set now." At least, Henry hoped he was.
Would Cousin Edgar find some way around the will, to destroy Isaac? Would Isaac even be allowed to leave the battlefields to attend to his mother and debts, even for a little while? Doubt caused him to frown. It would be dreadful to have offered Isaac the way out of his troubles, and then see fate snatch it away, when it was so close!
"At least, I think he is..."
The leader's brows rose slightly, then lowered. "It's up to you," he said. "But if you seek death, take some of them with you, if you please. If you care for this so-called husband, then find some way to prove it, and live."
THE TROUBLE WITH WALNUT dye was that it didn't wash out. Nor had he anything on his person, up to and including a scrap of uniform, to prove his claims. As things had begun to get dicey with spies, he had only his speech and powers of persuasion, and it took some time to get through to anybody. He spent a couple of hard nights of it in jail, was subjected to some rather rough questioning, and altogether began to wish he'd stayed with the local resistance instead of finding his way back over the lines, as soon as they'd come close enough.
He had decided to live after all, but it had not been an easy time and he still sometimes had doubts about the whole thing. It was such a lot of bother sometimes.
Still, after a week in a very disagreeable facility, someone was found who could vouch for him. An old comrade from the battlefield. He arrived after yet another week, and Henry, brown and dark-haired and whippet thin, was finally freed.
He was sent to superior officers to report. Since he now had a great deal of personal, on the ground information about the situation and lay of the land behind enemy lines, he was there reporting for quite some time. At least they had food, and he didn't have to kill anybody. But he wanted desperately to go home.
At last he was given a week's leave for his trouble. He was more homesick than he'd ever been in his life, and it seemed to grow worse the closer he got. He was certain somehow that it wasn't real, it would be ripped away from him. That nothing would be there, it would be razed to the ground like so much else.
War had taken everything from him, and now it would take the last illusions, that of home and some few days of safety and peace.
At last he stood outside the gate. He'd tried to brace himself for finding it changed, now a rest facility for recovering soldiers. It was still strange to see it. Everything seemed eerily as if he'd seen it in another life, familiar yet changed. He wandered up the road, looking and feeling lost.
"Go round to the tradesman's entrance if you're looking for work, lad," said a gardener, not unkindly. He was no one Henry knew. Nobody here was, the shuffling and sitting soldiers looking as lost and tired as he felt. And in that moment, Henry found he hadn't the strength to do anything more.
He sank onto a bench, putting his head into his hands. He felt lonelier and farther from home than ever. He knew he needed to announce who he was, ask to be shown in, ask to see Isaac, if he were here—but it was all so close and so final, and he'd used up everything he had just to make it this far.
He sat and breathed, head in his hands, shaking a bit and not sure why, except that everything was awful and perhaps he should have died in that battle after all. Perhaps he had, and ever since he'd been just a ghost, somehow thinking he was more or less alive.
"Henry?" said a familiar, shocked voice, and he raised his head from his hands, tears in his eyes, and saw—
Isaac. Standing there, blinking and shocked as if he'd seen a ghost, staring at Henry, and wearing what looked very much like Henry's clothing. The sight was so unexpected that a laugh burst out of him, sounding very strange. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd laughed, but it was the sound a stranger would have made, not he.
Then Isaac was t
here, to him in an instant, gripping his arms, staring at him, his face very pale, his eyes swimming with tears. "You're alive. How can you be?"
They embraced one another hard, babbling things they knew not what, slapping backs, both in tears now and unable to hide it, not even thinking to try.
Finally they thought to go inside, to have this reunion out of the public view, and they sat and drank tea and then beer and talked and talked, and cried a bit, and finally, finally, Henry was able to sleep. The bed he could use was Isaac's, since there were no spare rooms here now. It smelled of Isaac, and also of home.
He slept very well, and with no bad dreams. It was still home after all, and he wasn't quite a ghost, not yet.
ISAAC MET HIS OWN GAZE in the mirror steadily as he straightened the tie that he'd never felt was truly his, and now knew wasn't. It seemed stunningly unfair that Henry, for all he'd been through, had only a few more days before he had to return to the front. And really, longer than that, because it would take so long to get there. Meanwhile Isaac still hadn't been sent back, because of his blasted leg. No good having a fellow with a cane and a bad limp on the battlefield, right? But it seemed so terribly unfair.
It would take everything he had to preserve his equanimity when facing Henry again, because of that, and because of other things. Not that either had had much equanimity to begin with, or minded the lack, but things would be different now, after he'd slept.
They would eat. They would discuss matters like the grown men they were. They would talk about money, and Isaac giving back everything, everything he could...
He took a breath.
"How did you recognize me?" said Henry, from behind him.
Isaac jumped, and turned to see his ragged friend, so dear and familiar, and so changed as well, leaning in the doorway, smiling a little. There was a sad, aged crinkled look around his eyes, which now looked much older than the rest of him. He had gotten quite bronzed, and his hair was very different. But otherwise it was as it had always been. No one would be able to help loving him.
"I'd know you anywhere," said Isaac lightly.
"I look very different."
"Not really. Not to me." Something in the way Henry moved, more than his weight or clothes or hair, or anything really, except that it was him, and Isaac would know him anywhere.
He stepped forward and gave Isaac's outfit scrutiny. Isaac held still for it; it was no less than he deserved. "You look good in my things."
"It shouldn't take much work to get them tailored back. You've gotten so thin."
"No need," said Henry. He reached out and touched Isaac's elbow, then let his hand drop uselessly. "I'll be going back to the front."
"You're not going to tell me another premonition, are you?" said Isaac sternly.
Henry blushed a little. "You've had no cause to complain about it." He sounded rather gruff and unhappy.
"I rather think I have. You should've been there, you know. You should've been here, I mean, all along, not me in your things, eating your food and—and—" He took a breath because he didn't know what he was going to say, and he felt as if the tears were returning.
"Well, you did all right, old fellow," said Henry gruffly, not looking at his face now. "It was right to—to let them make the place a hospital. I wouldn't have it another way."
"You shouldn't have to go back yet. It's too soon."
"There are a couple of days yet. And you'll hold down the fort here till I'm back. I can go, if I know that."
"Well I won't then. I'll run off and do something dreadful. I'll gamble it all away and make you wish you'd gone on the run and hang them all." He hardly knew what he was saying; it could have been anything or nothing but noise.
"Hang is the right word," said Henry. "I've got to go back and you've got to stand it. We both do. But I think I can do it, if I know you're here. That you will be here." He looked at Isaac fiercely. "I had to find something worth living for or I wouldn't have gotten through some of it. And—and then I realised, it was you. You might not have had everything sorted out. My cousin might—" He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I thought of you here, when I needed to remember to...to survive, and...it worked." He didn't meet Isaac's gaze now. "So I think I'll do that again. If you're here, I'll know I've got to live through it, to come home, if only to—to get my clothes back."
"Yes," said Isaac, voice cracking. He sat down suddenly. He had to. "I'll hold it together. I'll be here. All of it." He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. "You can count on me."
"I know. I always could." There was warmth and sadness in his voice, and things Isaac didn't dare let himself hear. He kept his eyes firmly tight. He'd already become quite embarrassingly emotional.
"I married you to help you, you know, but I think it helped me, too. Please don't cry."
"I'm not," said Isaac miserably. "You sh-shouldn't have to g-go back."
"It won't be long. It—it can't last much longer, and then I'll come home, and we'll be comfortable."
Isaac shook his head but said nothing. He was too miserable to speak.
Henry slapped his thighs. "Now, what had my cousin been up to? It's hard to imagine he's held his peace all this time."
THE SOLDIERS, ISAAC reflected, would likely be here for some time, and keep coming for some time, as well. Did anyone truly get over all of it? Well, at least there was plenty of help in the garden. It gave one something to do with one's hands, and it was good to feel at least slightly useful.
He was on his hands and knees in a patch of cucumbers, weeding. It had been nearly a year since Henry had visited, and gone away again. Isaac had been turned down for a return to duty twice more. He was likely to need surgery on his leg at some point, and the doctors had not been optimistic about his gaining full health at any point.
Still, he could garden and putter about, and be of some use this way, for the recovering soldiers, and around the hospital area. It was good to be of some use. If nothing else, he could occasionally read to the recovering soldiers who couldn't see, or write out letters for the ones who couldn't hold a pen. It was heartbreaking work sometimes, but all the better for that, in some ways. In a strange way, he felt it ought to cost him something.
There had been a boy, with sweet eyes and a tormented smile, who tried very hard to be brave. But he wasn't recovering; he was dying. He had looked at Isaac like he could save him, like he had and would continue to hang the moon. And Isaac had held his hand and when they were alone, had kissed him. Nobody should have to die feeling unloved.
He was a very sweet boy. Neither of them spoke of the future. They couldn't lie to themselves that much. Still, Isaac had been miserable when the boy died. Nineteen was too young for death, and he was very beautiful. Not, thought Isaac severely, that that should matter. But he had always had a weakness for a pretty face.
He had nearly taught himself to stop missing Henry. Or anyone. It was best to take things a day at a time, and not think too hard, or feel too much. To focus on the garden, and the feel of the earth under one's fingers, and the quiet satisfaction of a cup of tea, or falling asleep in a warm, dry bed after a long day, and not having too many nightmares. He was as even-tempered, as kind and generous and hard-working as he could be, and if he still dealt with pain, he never complained, not even to his mother.
He was as good as he could be, as if he could affect anything that way.
It had been months since he'd gotten any word of Henry. It had been three weeks since the notice from the court, about the marriage being challenged by Cousin Edgar. Of course, it was all nonsense; Henry was still alive, so it wasn't a case of inheritance anyway. But Edgar was being a silly fool, and meant to drag it out in court, perhaps in the hopes that he'd win, and it would matter, if Henry died after all.
Perhaps the man lived in hope. Isaac didn't know how anyone did. It was just one day after another, one foot in front of the other, and best not to get any hopes up at all, about anything. The tiny comforts of daily life were the most t
hat could be asked, hoped for, enjoyed. He ripped up another weed.
"Isaac?" said a familiar voice, incredulous. "What are you doing down there, with your leg?"
Isaac squinted up at Henry, and was conscious of how grubby he was, what a ragged old gardening outfit he wore, and of Henry above him in uniform, slim and straight and tanned, smiling down at him with laughing eyes.
"Gardening," said Isaac.
Henry reached down a hand to help him up. Isaac grunted, and nearly held in the twitch of pain at being on his own feet again. He'd started to get a bit numb. He wobbled a bit, and Henry clapped a hand on his arm and held him up.
"You're back," said Isaac, feeling an awful fool and not wanting to look at him directly, as one wouldn't stare into the sun for risk of going blind.
"That stupid lawsuit got me sent home. Can you imagine? Never thought I'd say thanks to my awful cousin."
"What?" said Isaac.
"Oh, just a silly thing of testifying in court that yes, I really did wish to marry you, that no, it's not all a mistake, you didn't spend money you shouldn't have, and no, my cousin will never inherit, no matter what!" His eyes gleamed with mischief. "I don't suppose the court will ask me to bugger you in front of them," he observed. "I imagine a testimony will be enough."
"They wouldn't send you home for a lawsuit. Why are you really here?" asked Isaac, feeling rather hot in the face.
"Oh, my dear fellow, you underestimate how seriously the military takes the courts! There was nothing to be done but send me packing. My bags, you know. I'm to be cashed out. How I'll earn my bread I really don't know." He gripped Isaac's arm and his eyes laughed into Isaac's. "Anyway, you know it's all going to be over in a week or so. They're sending the favoured few to the front, and the rest of us to the back or home, so we don't take all the medals."
Two Soldiers (Marrying Men, #4) Page 2