by A. C. Wise
As Ned’s father leads the way to the dining room, Wendy tries to catch Ned’s eye again, but he studiously looks everywhere but at her. She contents herself with watching him instead, as unobtrusively she can, while still remembering the important things—which fork to use, to sit up straight, to nod and smile as though she’s listening. It’s easy enough. Once they’re seated, Ned’s father dominates the conversation. John occasionally contributes when he’s allowed. Michael doesn’t speak at all, and neither does Ned. Wendy isn’t even invited, as though she’s merely a piece of furniture or decoration at a table meant for men.
It gives her time to observe, building herself a picture of the new world she’s meant to inhabit. She sees now why John was insistent and ashamed all at once. Her future father-in-law is a force of nature, a bully—a man like Jamieson, though his methods are far subtler. He’s a man used to the world giving way to him. Despite the similarity in their appearances, Ned seems to be his father’s opposite, quiet, and almost afraid. Wendy feels a surge of pity for him. The parts of the conversation she absorbs center on Ned’s brother, Allan. Not once does she hear her future father-in-law even mention Ned’s name. He is as much a fixture, a piece of furniture at the table as she, both to be moved around at will.
While he doesn’t look at his son, her future father-in-law looks at Wendy more than once, appraising, seeming pleased when she takes small bites of her food, keeps her hands folded in her lap otherwise, and maintains silence. She hates him, instantly and completely, but Ned, almost despite herself, she finds intriguing.
“Will you join me for brandy and a cigar, Mr. Darling? We have details to discuss.” Ned’s father turns to John as the plates are cleared, and Wendy starts, her stomach knotting with tension. She’d almost allowed herself to forget the reason for this luncheon.
“Of course.” John stands, nervous and flustered. She’s never known John to smoke a cigar in his life.
“Might we step outside for some air while you talk?” After so long in silence, Wendy’s voice sounds small in the room, lost among the gentle clink of fine china, polished silverware and delicately cut crystal glasses.
The four men turn to look at her. Ned’s father frowns. She imagines him making a mark on the debit side of a mental ledger. Rather than shrinking, she focuses her attention on Ned, smiling in a way she hopes will not intimidate him.
“I’d be pleased to volunteer my services as chaperone,” Michael says.
Wendy turns, surprised, just in time to catch the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. There’s amusement in his voice as well, and it fills Wendy with hope.
“Of course, the garden is quite lovely.” In his haste to stand and accommodate her request, Ned almost knocks his chair over. His father catches it before it hits the ground, righting it with a scowl.
If she were bolder, Wendy might loop her arm through Ned’s, if only to spite his father, but she restrains herself. After all, this man is a part of her life now; she doesn’t have to make an effort to like him, but she must at least try to get along.
As he and John retreat to another room, Wendy follows Ned and Michael through a set of double glass doors leading onto a stone terrace overlooking an enclosed garden. Crossing the threshold, Wendy takes a moment to appreciate the novelty of stepping outside of her own free will, of not being under the watchful eye of Dr. Harrington, or Jamieson, or any of the nurses. She draws in a deep breath, and not even the pinch of her corset is enough to dampen her joy.
Michael moves to one of the benches at the terrace’s far end. Wendy surprises herself with disappointment; he intends to chaperone them in name only. It isn’t that she fears being alone with Ned. A glance at his face is enough to tell her that he is still far more frightened of her than she is of him. Rather it’s the fresh loss of her brother that saddens her. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the old Michael, when he called her Windy, when he smiled as he offered to chaperone.
Perhaps it’s terribly rude of her, but she watches her brother for a moment longer, ignoring Ned. It’s been so long, surely he can’t begrudge her. A bright slant of sunlight picks out golden highlights in the wheat of Michael’s hair. It’s thinner than Wendy remembers. Everything about him is thinner. The suit jacket she’s certain John picked out for him hangs from his shoulders as if from a scarecrow. She can practically see Michael standing in a field, surrounded by high stalks of corn, staring endlessly at the horizon. A cloud of black birds might descend on him, and he would never move. Wendy’s heart aches for him.
Michael leans his cane against the bench beside him and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a tin of tobacco and a paper. She doesn’t miss the way his hands shake as he rolls the cigarette. He turns slightly, and her pulse snags, but he barely seems to register her. His face is lost in a wash of sunlight, ghosted out as he raises the tin toward Ned in a silent question. Ned shakes his head, and Michael turns away, his shoulders rising in an effective wall, shutting Wendy and Ned out.
The loss goes through Wendy again, like a bolt shot from a crossbow. Will she ever get her baby brother back? If she’d never shouted at him, if she’d found a way to be kind, would they be able to speak and laugh now as they did in the old days? Or would the war always be an un-healing wound inside him, regardless of her actions?
Wendy steels herself and turns her attention to Ned even as Michael remains an ache like a bruise at the back of her mind. “I hope you aren’t holding back on my account.” Wendy indicates Michael’s cigarette. She tries to make her tone light, breezy, agreeable. Isn’t that what women should be? Now that they are as alone as they are going to be, a rill of nerves courses through her. Sooner or later, despite her best intentions, she’s bound to say the wrong thing.
“I haven’t touched a cigarette since the war.”
She shouldn’t be surprised, given Ned’s age, but somehow she is. He appears the complete opposite of her brother. Shy, yes. Frightened, but not by his past, rather by what stands right in front of him. She can’t imagine him holding a gun, or crawling through mud. Perhaps he was an officer, commanding from well behind the lines? Resentment bubbles up, thinking of Michael in danger and Ned safe in some bunker or camp.
“I thought all soldiers smoked.” The words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them, desperate to fill the silence.
Surprise shows in Ned’s expression, but to Wendy’s relief, he doesn’t seem to take offense at her words. It was unfair of her to judge him, even in her mind, without knowing anything about him.
“I take a pipe very occasionally, but never cigarettes. It reminds me of too much.”
Now it is Wendy’s turn for surprise. She looks to her brother again. Michael remains lost in his own thoughts, showing no interest in them. A cloud of smoke hangs around him, so she sees him through a haze, both older and younger than his actual age.
“Then why would…” she lets the words trail.
Ned’s reply is soft, compassion in his voice that startles her all over again.
“Perhaps that is precisely why your brother favors cigarettes. Many men don’t want to forget.”
Wendy turns to stare at him, this man who will be her husband. Her mouth opens slightly, but she’s at a loss for words. Under her attention, Ned’s cheeks color. He looks down, coughing slightly. Has she overstepped her bounds, or has he? Or are they both equally foolish and awkward? Silence stretches until it’s almost painful. Wendy reaches for something to say, anything to put them back on safe footing, but Ned saves her, falling back on bland formality.
“I must say, it is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Darling. Michael and John have told me a great deal about you.”
A faint stutter breaks into his words, and the blood rises to his cheeks again as he fights against it. That and the way he keeps a careful space between them makes Wendy swallow the response leaping to her tongue, too sharp for the situation: And they have told me nothing about you.
“John in particular has been a good fri
end to me ever since he came to work for my father.” Ned looks out over the garden as he speaks, not at her.
“If you don’t mind my asking.” Wendy tries to be careful with her words, not wanting to frighten Ned, not wanting to sound ignorant. Ned knows she’s been sick, but not where she’s been. Why does he think John and Michael have kept her a secret all these years? “How do you know my brothers? Were you with Michael in…”
She lets her words trail again, afraid of upsetting him. For all she knows, Ned bears scars every bit as deep as Michael’s and just as invisible to the naked eye. Ned’s mouth twitches beneath his moustache, but he schools his expression quickly.
Ned glances over his shoulder and Wendy follows his gaze to Michael.
“I was in the European theater at the same time as Michael, though we didn’t meet until after I’d returned home. John introduced us.”
“I’m glad Michael has someone to speak to, then. Someone who understands.” This much is true. She’s certain John and Michael don’t talk, not about the war at least, and she fears Michael may not have very many friends otherwise.
They lapse into silence again, but this time more comfortable. Wendy almost allows herself to relax, until she remembers John and Ned’s father are currently negotiating her future. Their future. After a moment, Ned gathers himself, his words emerging in a rush. His stutter returns, more pronounced now, and Wendy can’t help glancing back toward the dining room, half expecting to find Ned’s father looming in the doorway, a shadow against the curtains, a shadow over Ned’s whole life.
“I know this is all rather sudden, Miss Darling, and I wouldn’t blame you for any trepidations.” Ned hesitates, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket. “To be perfectly honest, I never expected to be married myself. I might have preferred… that is, I had assumed I would remain a bachelor.”
Ned looks down, and Wendy senses he’s trying to tell her something. There are words between his words, ones he’s afraid to speak, but for the life of her, she can’t guess at them. She bites back frustration. Why are people so fond of riddles, making others guess what they mean? Why is no one able to simply speak plainly?
Ned’s eyes, a warm, dark brown, meet her own. It is the first time he’s looked at her directly since their luncheon began. They are kind eyes; in that, at least, Ned is completely unlike his father.
“Miss Darling, I should like to be honest with you.” Ned lifts his chin. She sees the moment he wants to look away, but does not. Even so, the way he stands tells her he would much rather slouch, curl his shoulders inward as though to slip beneath notice, not just hers, but that of the world.
“It seems neither of us is to be given much choice in the matter of our nuptials. My father is rather eager for me to be married, quickly, and I fear that as your brother’s employer, and with your own health difficulties, he settled on you as a suitable match, feeling that you would be… pliable, lacking in other prospects.”
Ned coughs, a short, embarrassed sound, the color in his cheeks even higher. Wendy can only stare at him, at a loss for what to say in the face of his candor.
“Given that neither of us chose this situation for ourselves, I am content to be your husband in name only, if that is your wish. I will ask nothing of you, however I do hope that we might at least be friends.”
Earnestness shines in his eyes. There is a fragility there too, and even though they have only just met, she thinks that an answer in the negative might crush him. She has had so few friends in her lifetime, and she senses that in that regard, she and Ned may be the same.
“I…” Wendy opens her mouth, dazed by Ned’s vulnerability, dazed by his offer.
She has no idea what to think of the man in front of her, and that alone is enough to intrigue her. There is a gentleness to him, setting him apart from his father, setting him apart from Peter, her first real friend. She glances briefly to Michael. He assured her she would like Ned; perhaps this is what he meant.
“I shall endeavor to be honest with you as well.” Wendy smooths the front of her skirt, gathering herself and burying her nerves in the folds of the fabric. “I have not had many friends in my life. I am not the easiest person to be friends with, in fact, but if you are willing to try, then I am as well.”
The words feel reckless, dangerous, but in the instant, Wendy means them. It’s like the first time she flew, holding Peter’s hand, the way they stepped from the window and fell into the night. Only they didn’t fall. They soared.
She hasn’t decided what she will tell Ned of her life, and she doesn’t know what he may be willing to share of his. All she knows is that she would like to learn more about him. She would like to have someone else in the world besides Mary that she can rightfully call her friend.
Wendy allows herself a smile, a small one, and hope creeps into her chest. For the first time since walking out of St. Bernadette’s gate mere hours ago, she feels as though she can breathe properly.
“Thank you, Miss Darling.” Ned returns her smile, relief in it, and also genuine pleasure.
“Please,” Wendy says, “if we are to be friends, you must call me Wendy.”
* * *
Jane leads Timothy back to the spot where arrowheads and stones pelted her, keeping alert for more unseen assailants. She peers into the blue-blackness under the trees. Where the path splits and the trees bow inward, forming a natural tunnel and blocking most of the moonlight, the air looks almost solid there.
The very thought of walking beneath those trees repulses her, so that she can almost feel hands on her shoulders, turning her around, turning her away, pushing her back. It’s like Peter’s voice in her head, his eyes fixed on hers. Wouldn’t it be so much nicer to go back to the camp? There’s more meat to fill her belly, and more games to play. They can sit by the fire and be warm; no need to wander off into the dark where anything might happen, where monsters might eat them.
She can almost feel her name trying to slip away from her again as the thoughts roll through her mind, and Jane clenches her teeth so hard her jaw aches. The pain focuses her. She’s known since she was Timothy’s age that there’s nothing to be afraid of in the dark. It’s just like shadows, something blocking the light, but the light and the daytime always return. But she’s frightened nonetheless.
At home all that might be true, but here… Unreasoning fear grips her, a fear she can’t explain, like the crooked-tailed cat brushing unexpectedly against the back of her legs and making her jump. And just like that, she’s certain. As much as she doesn’t want to go—because she doesn’t want to go—the path through the trees is the one they need to take.
She touches the arrowhead still tucked into her sleeve. It feels like a token for good luck somehow. She can’t say why, but more than ever now she’s sure someone, or something, meant to warn her away, to keep her safe, not merely to frighten her. She offers a silent apology to that unseen guardian for ignoring their unconventionally delivered advice.
Beside her, Timothy stares into the space beneath the trees, his posture rigid, an eerie emptiness to his eyes.
“Do you know where that goes?” Jane asks. She keeps her voice low, but Timothy still startles.
“Peter said we’re never to go that way.” He worries at his bottom lip, and Jane is afraid for a moment he might cry. His terror is real, and after all, she reminds herself, he’s just a little boy.
“But do you know where it leads, why it’s forbidden?”
Timothy shrinks, pulling his shoulders inward. Jane hates to press him, but she needs to know.
Timothy frowns, and once again his brow furrows as though he’s trying to remember something. His hand inches toward the hem of his shirt, but he catches himself before bringing it to his mouth.
“It’s a bad place.”
He points, and Jane follows the line of his pointing, up above the trees, where a faint smudge like rising smoke hangs against the stars. She shivers, but forces herself to put her shoulders back and be brave.
/> “I’m sorry, but I think that’s the way we need to go. It’s okay,” Jane adds quickly. “I’ll keep us safe. I promise.”
She wants to believe it. If her mother were here, what would she do? Jane remembers when she was just about Timothy’s age and another girl knocked her down in the park. She’d been making fun of Jane for looking at bugs, calling her dirty, and when she’d said she was not the girl had pushed her. She’d landed face down in the dirt, cutting her lip on her teeth and making it bleed.
Fighting back tears, she’d demanded the other girl apologize, but the girl had merely smiled sweetly, claiming Jane must have tripped. Jane had run to her mother, calling the girl a liar and a monster, but rather than hugging her close as Jane had expected, her mother had taken Jane by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes.
“She isn’t a monster, Jane.”
“But, Mama—”
“No, Jane. She may have acted like a monster to you, and that’s different. But do you know why she acted like one?”
Jane had shaken her head, not understanding the distinction, or what her mother wanted from her. She’d only wanted to be held and comforted. But there was that look in her mother’s eyes, the one she got when Jane asked a wrong question. It made Jane think, even then, as young as she was, that they were having two different conversations. Jane was seeing the girl who pushed her, and the park, and her mother was seeing another world entirely. But her tone had been so serious Jane hadn’t dared argue. It was the tone her mother used when she wanted Jane to learn an important lesson.
“It’s because she’s afraid.” She had pulled Jane closer, but not into the hug Jane wanted. Her mother had turned her, holding Jane against her side so Jane could see the other girl, who didn’t look afraid at all. Jane’s mother had smoothed her hair, but the gesture didn’t feel comforting, and she’d put her face right next to Jane’s like she was telling her a secret.