Fiona Hood-Stewart – The Stolen Years (страница 12)

Walking into his ward later that day, Flora saw the hope that gleamed, for these men knew they were going home. They joked with one another, denying the past, looking toward the future—or a reprieve, at least, from the hell they had left behind in the trenches. But Angus didn’t talk; instead, he sat alone and aloof, in a world of his own.

“How are you, Angus?” she asked, touching his shoulder gently.

He looked up with a start.

“Flo.”

“It’s my tea break.” She sat opposite him on a wooden stool, smiling bravely. “Are you better?”

“Fine.” But his face was gray, eyes bleary, and he hadn’t shaved.

She glanced at him uncertainly then decided to speak anyway. “You know we can’t pretend it hasn’t happened, Angus dear. He’s gone. I know that it seems so strange…unbelievable, in fact.” She clasped her hands, forcing back the tears that threatened to burst forth whenever she mentioned Gavin’s precious name. “Sometimes I think I’m going to turn round and see him standing behind me,” she whispered, swallowing. “The odd thing is, I haven’t felt him at all. You know what I mean,” she added quickly.

“Do you think he’d come to you?” he asked, a glimmer of hope lighting his eyes.

“I don’t know. I don’t know enough about it. Just what I feel when the men are dying. The same as I used to when the animals were hurt or something bad was going to happen when we were little. Remember?”

He nodded, his eyes hollow.

They sat, absorbed in their own thoughts as a gramophone droned in the smoky air.

“I could have saved him,” Angus whispered suddenly. “I could have done something and I didn’t. Why couldn’t I move? Why was I paralyzed with fear? I’m a coward, Flo. And because of that he’s dead and I’m alive. Oh God.” He buried his head in his hands.

“You must stop, Angus. It wasn’t your fault. You aren’t to blame. Shell shock is as bad as any other wound, it just doesn’t show.” She pried his fingers from his face. “Angus, please. You can’t go through life feeling guilty for something you didn’t do. The war is to blame, not you. You must think of poor Uncle Hamish and Tante Constance.”

“It should have been me. It would have been so much better if it had.”

“Stop it. We all need you, Uncle, Tante—and me,” she pleaded, hoping she could reach through the barrier he’d erected.

Angus raised his head, and propped his chin on his hand. “You know, he asked me something just…before it happened.”

“Asked you what?” She frowned, her pulse beating faster.

“We were reading your letter, talking about you—” He stopped midsentence, far away once more.

“And what did he say?” she prompted softly.

He blinked, then continued. “As I said, we were talking about you, and…well…” He stopped, focusing on her. “He said that if anything happened to him, I should marry you,” he blurted out, closing his eyes.

Flora sat up with a start. “Marry me? But why would he say that?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged and glanced toward the men playing cards in their worn, striped dressing gowns and carpet slippers, smoke and two flies swirling around the lightbulb above them. “I know he wanted to marry you himself. He loved you, you know.”

“I’ll always love him.” She swallowed, clasping and un-clasping her hands, and realized she’d referred to him in the present tense. “It wouldn’t be fair if I married you or anybody else.”

“Yes, it would. I don’t care. I know I’m more like a brother to you, Flo, but at least we’d have each other. We could share what’s left of him.” His eyes became suddenly brighter.

“We’ll talk about it once you’re better. You’re in shock just now. We’ll see later. Try and rest.” She got up quickly, the gleam in his eyes making her uncomfortable. “I have to get back to the ward, but I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“All right. You really will come, won’t you?”

“Of course.” She hesitated before speaking. “Are you sure that was what he meant?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Yes. He didn’t want you to…belong to anyone else.” He glanced away, cheeks flushed, and Flora felt her own face burning. She had never talked about that, even with Gavin.

“I—I have to run. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned and almost ran from the ward. The thought of giving herself to anyone but Gavin was unbearable.

That afternoon and evening she worked herself into a stupor. It was only late that night when she lay in the dark, curled under her army blanket, that she allowed Angus’s words to surface once more. Tears for all that should have been and now would never be, for shattered dreams and cherished hopes buried, soaked her pillow.

Still, as days passed, she thought more and more about what Angus had said about facing the future together. In some ways, it made sense. It wasn’t only Gavin who had died. There were so many others, friends and relations, of their generation. Perhaps the only way to survive in the new world that would emerge after the war was by sticking together through thick and thin. Before leaving her quarters, she combed back her chestnut hair into a neat bun and placed her cap on it. But now was not the time for decisions. First, they had to win the war, only then could they try to heal the scars.

That afternoon when she stopped by for tea, Angus was waiting for her. She noticed immediately that he looked different, neat and shaved.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he proposed, sounding more like his old self.

“I’d love to. Perhaps we could wander over to that little house, the one I pointed out to you from the window.”

Flora wrapped up warm, for the day was cold and windy, and they left the ward behind, walking side by side down the main road that lead toward Etaples.

About a mile down the road, they reached the house. It was a magical oasis untouched by the world around it. Flora gazed at the whitewashed exterior, the blue shutters and the flower beds that would bloom again in spring.

“I thought about what you said,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the house, heart filled with Gavin.

“Will you marry me, Flora?” Angus half whispered the question, held out his hand, eyes filled with hope.

“I promise I’ll think about it.”

Angus clasped her hand. “Thank you, Flo. I don’t know if I could go on living without you. It’s what Gavin wanted.”

She ignored the sudden shiver that ran through her, and blotted out Gavin’s image again, as the afternoon died and they made their way slowly back to the ward.

6

The Black Forest, Germany, 1917

Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, Gavin heard a voice speaking German, then shivering and pain took hold as he was slowly moved. He heard a woman’s voice whispering to him. “Not a word. Pretend you’re out still.”

Gavin closed his eyes once more and fell back into a semi-comatose sleep, too weak to think, haunted by Angus’s indifference, Flora’s smile and Annelise’s fear-filled eyes. Frustrated, angry dreams, where his twin became a different being to the brother he knew, were followed by soothing images of Strathaird, standing high above the cliff with the sea churning below.

The next time he woke, Gavin knew at once something had changed. He sniffed, eyes closed, recognizing the subtle scent of crisp, fresh linen and lavender. When he opened his eyes, sunlight poured through a window onto a bright patchwork quilt. Taking stock of his surroundings, he wondered how he got here. The room was low-beamed and filled with heavy, rich furnishings, relics of a past era. He felt weak, but the excruciating pain in his hip and thigh had subsided somewhat. He tried to sit up and winced. For some reason, his arm lay across his chest, bandaged and wrapped in a neat sling. This must be the hunting lodge, he decided. Franz and Miles must have brought him here.

After a while he heard footsteps approaching and warily closed his eyes, unsure of what to expect. It might be someone other than his friends, someone who believed him to be a wounded German officer. The door opened, followed by a whiff of delicate perfume. A soft, cool hand stroked his forehead, lifted a strand of hair, then touched his cheek. A woman’s voice whispered something soothing in English before straightening the sheet and placing two fingers on the inside of his wrist. Finally, curiosity won and Gavin squinted warily. He stared in surprise at a pair of bright green eyes and high cheekbones that reminded him immediately of Franz.

“Shh. Stay quiet.” The girl stood, looking sad and serious as she measured the beat of his pulse. Gavin watched, fascinated, as the sunlight brushed the golden strands of hair that cascaded over her shoulders down to her waist, glinting like a burnished mane. Her face was youthful, and he guessed that she was no older than sixteen. He swallowed, taken aback by her beauty.

“Your pulse is regular now,” she said in perfect English, laying his arm back on the quilt. “Don’t worry. You are quite safe here.”

“Who are you?” he asked, trying to sit again.

“Don’t. You’re still weak. I am Franz von Ritter’s younger sister,” she said. Leaning forward to assist him, she plumped the fat goose-down pillows before retreating a step from the bed. He noticed how slim she was, her gray skirt too big and the woolen sweater too loose.