Soldier Doll (4 page)

“You know what?” Evan reaches into his pocket and fishes out two dollars. “It's on me.”

“No!” Elizabeth blushes again. “I can't. I just met you!”

“You might hate it though, and I made you buy it.”

“You're recommending it. You work in a bookstore. That's your job.”

“I insist.” He drops the money into the cash register. “There. Done. Nothing you can do now.”

“Well, thanks. That was really unnecessary.” Elizabeth takes the book. Her hand touches his for just a second; it feels cool.

“I hope you like it,” he says.

“I'm sure I will.” Elizabeth pauses.
Should I leave now? Or say something more?

“Are you on Facebook?” Evan pulls out his phone. “What's your full name?”

“Elizabeth Bryant.” She spells it for him. “Yeah, I'm on Facebook.”

“I'll find you. Do you have a cell phone? What's your number?”

Elizabeth pauses.
Damn.
“This is awful, but I don't remember. And I left it at home.” She curses silently; a string of expletives runs through her head like subtitles in a foreign film.

“You don't remember? Is that a hint?” Evan raises his eyebrows.

“A hint? At what?” Elizabeth looks at him, bewildered.

“That you'd rather never hear from me again?” Evan winks at her mischievously.

“Huh? Oh! No!” Elizabeth shakes her head furiously. “I'm just bad with numbers, and it's a new one. I feel really stupid.”

“Fair explanation.” Evan grins. “We'll see if you'll accept my Facebook invitation.”

“I will, I swear!”

Evan tucks his phone back in his pocket. “Nice meeting you, Elizabeth.”

“You too. And thanks for the book.” Their eyes meet. Elizabeth notices his are an unusual green color, almost like a cat's. Elizabeth smiles at him but turns quickly away. She doesn't want Evan to see her blush again as she leaves the bookstore.

. . .

“I'm sorry, Liz.”

Her mother is hovering near the door, worried, when she returns. She exhales loudly when she sees Elizabeth, clearly relieved. She's in her pajamas now, pacing the black-and-white tiled hallway between two piles of empty boxes her dad hasn't yet gotten around to flattening.

“It's okay. You were right,” Elizabeth says softly, dropping her purse to the ground.

“It's just that—wait. Did you just say I was right?”

“Maybe.” Elizabeth walks toward the kitchen. “I'm starving.” She opens the pantry. There isn't much, other than a box of cornflakes and a bag of pretzels. She opts for the pretzels, opening the bag with her teeth. She cuts her gums on the hard plastic and winces, running her tongue along the wound.

“Hold on, I want get to get that on tape.” Her mom follows her into the kitchen.

“On tape?” Leaning against the kitchen counter, Elizabeth rolls her eyes and bites into a pretzel. “I'm not even sure they
make
tapes anymore.”

“They do so.” Her mother fills a kettle with water and places it on the stove.

“Don't think so.” Elizabeth's voice is muffled by a mouth full of pretzel.

“I have a Dictaphone at work. It uses tapes. So there.” Her mother looks triumphant.

“A Dictaphone?” Elizabeth looks bewildered.

“It's like a miniature tape recorder.” Her mother takes out two mugs and places tea bags in each: peppermint, Elizabeth's favorite.

“I have no idea what you're talking about. Did you have to order it special, like, from the Smithsonian?”

“Very funny. What was I saying?” The kettle is whistling. Her mom pauses. She turns toward the stove and turns it off as the whistling grows louder and more insistent. Carefully, she pours the steaming water into each mug and hands one to her daughter.

“Thanks.” Elizabeth takes the mug and sips her tea. “You were nagging me about something, probably. Pretzel?” She offers her mother the bag.

“No, thanks. Anyway, I'm sorry about earlier.” She puts a hand on Liz's shoulder. “I was being unfair. If my parents moved me across the country at fifteen, I'd have probably run away.”

“Is that advice?”

“Don't even joke.” Her mother puts down her mug and gives her a tentative hug.

“I'm sorry too, Mom.” Elizabeth hugs her back tightly. She can feel her clothes clinging to her back like they've been pasted on, still sticky with sweat from her walk.

“So you had a nice walk?” Her mother picks up her mug of tea and inhales the minty aroma before taking a sip.

“Yeah.” Elizabeth is about to say more, but decides not to. She takes a sip of her own tea. “It's a nice neighborhood,” she says finally.

“I won't say I told you so.” Her mom smiles. “Was anything open?”

“Some stuff. I need to go back during the day. Maybe tomorrow.”

“That's great,” her mother yawns. “I should go to bed. I have a patient coming in before eight.” She brings the mug to her lips a final time before setting it in the kitchen sink.

Elizabeth shudders.
Eight.
A full three hours before she plans on even getting out of bed.

“Shut off all the lights before you come up, okay?”

“Sure, Mom. Night.” Elizabeth listens as her mother climbs the creaking stairs. Most of the house has been completely renovated by previous owners, but the staircase is part of the original house.

Elizabeth waits until the noise stops. She goes back into the hall and grabs the book from her bag.
The Soldier Doll.
So weird
, she thinks. She peels the lollipop off the back cover and marches to the trash, tossing the half-eaten candy in with relish. Leaning against the counter, she reaches for another pretzel and flips the book open to the poem. As she reads, she feels her heart speed up, thumping loudly against her chest.

“Cherubic face and eyes of blue/His boots are shined, his rifle new.” She reads it twice before carefully placing the book facedown on the counter to mark her place. She walks over to the fireplace.
Could it be?
she wonders. Evan said people have been searching for it. Elizabeth looks up at the little soldier. He stares back at her from his place on the mantle, serene and full of secrets. Could the little figure really be the soldier doll from the poem? But if it is, how on earth did he make his way to the yard sale? And, more importantly, where could he have been hiding all these years?

Chapter 3

Devon, England

1918

“Meg! Megsy! Wait for me!”

Meg paused and looked over her shoulder. Ned had almost slipped running along the grass, still slick with yesterday's rain. “I shouldn't think so!” she shouted. “You have to catch me!” Laughing, she lifted her skirts and continued her dash toward the river, long hair flying loose behind her like a kite's streamers on a windy day, the kind that children flew at summer picnics. The sun was strong and warm though now and then a brisk breeze would rattle the trees, cooling the April air.

Meg saw Ned groan and force himself along, out of breath from running. She sprawled out on the grass, lazily braiding her hair.

“Why so slow, lazy bones?” Meg's green eyes twinkled as he approached. She kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes. “My feet are sore from running so much quicker than you.” She grinned and looked out at the river. Spring was coming—there were signs of it all around—but the water would still be too cold for swimming or wading until perhaps June.

Ned collapsed next to her. “You really must stop that, Meg.” He coughed, his shoulders shaking slightly. “It's harder for me to keep up with you now.” He plucked a blade of grass and rubbed it between his fingers.

“Nonsense.” Meg looked away. “Don't be silly. You're well now. The doctor said it himself.” She found a stone and picked it up. With surprising force, she tossed it toward the river. It skipped once before sinking; they both watched it go down.

Ned coughed again. “I am on the mend, but I'm out of practice. I'm not quite ready yet for running races to the water.” He gave her an apologetic look and a hopeful smile. He took the blade of grass and ran it behind her ear, tickling her skin.

Meg brushed his hand away and stared at the ground. Ned had taken ill just past Christmas. She had been permitted to visit and had done so every day, bringing him books, soups, and freshly baked bread. The entire time, Meg had stubbornly refused to acknowledge Ned's pneumonia directly.

“You'll be on your feet again any day now!” she'd exclaimed whenever Ned had gently tried to broach the subject of his illness. But the days had turned into weeks, and the weeks, months. And then finally, a week ago, Dr. Porter had given Ned a clean bill of health. At last.

Ned touched her shoulder. “Megsy, I know you refused to believe I was really ill.” He let his hand rest there for a moment, feeling her hair.

“I did not!” Meg glared at him. “I knew you were, Ned. I came every day, did I not?”
Even when you were too ill to know I was there,
she added silently. She yanked a small daisy from the ground and twisted it in her hands. Angry, she plucked off a petal and tossed the daisy aside.

Ned grinned and shook his head. “There's no arguing with you, is there.” It wasn't a question. “I say, Meg. You're the most stubborn creature on earth.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “You're always saying that.”

“Because it's true! I reckon you get it from your father.”

Her mother had taken ill and died when Meg was only seven. Her father, a cabinetmaker, had raised Meg himself. He had never remarried. His reputation for stubbornness in the village was legendary. When his wife had died, he had mulishly refused repeated well-intentioned offers from the village's women to help care for Meg. “I can take care of my child just fine on my own,” he'd insisted. He had pointedly ignored parcels of food left on his doorstep, despite the acrid smell of burned meals emanating from his own kitchen as he attempted to assume his wife's former duties. It had paid off, though—with little Meg's help, he'd quickly learned how to cook basic dinners and manage a household.

“I am not stubborn.”

“You are! You are even being stubborn about not being stubborn! Confess. You're stubborn as a mule.”

“A mule! Now you've offended me, Edwin Roberts.” Meg turned away, trying not to laugh.

Ned sighed. “I'll say it again. There's no winning with you. Do you know that you have never once admitted that I've won an argument?” He buried his head in his hands in mock frustration.

“I can't help it if you're never right, Ned. That's something you need to work on yourself. Blaming me is unfair, really,” Meg replied cheerfully. She tapped Ned playfully on the shoulder.

Ned raised his palms in defeat. “Fine, then,” he said. He was smiling now. “We don't have to talk about it.” He coughed and reached over to give her braid a tug.

Meg stole an anxious glance at him. “You are better, Ned, are you not?” She had picked up the daisy again and now twirled it nervously. Meg thought of her mother and tried to remember how her cough had sounded before she'd died.

“I believe so, yes.” Ned took a deep breath. “That's why I wanted to talk to you today. Alone.” He fidgeted nervously.

What could be wrong with him now?
Meg looked at Ned, feeling worried. “Whatever is the matter?” She studied his face. He looked pale. “You are well now, aren't you? You haven't taken ill again?”

“I'm fine.” Ned moved closer to her. “But I had my eighteenth birthday last month. And Dr. Porter, he says I'm healthy now.” He put his hand on hers tentatively.

“You just said that, Ned.” Meg continued to look puzzled. Suddenly, she understood. Her expression turned to one of comprehension and then of horror.

“No!” She jumped up, accidentally squashing a patch of budding daffodils. “No!” Ned grabbed her arm, but she tore away from him, shaking off his grip. “No!” she wailed a third time. She started to run off but stopped after a few strides, sinking down again onto a rock. “No,” she said again. This time her voice was quiet.

“Please, Meg.” He looked pained. “I have no choice.” His voice was soft now. He crouched down beside her. A tendril of golden hair had come loose from her braid. Gently, Ned tucked it behind her ear. “Every man who can fight must go. You know that, Meg. It's the law.”

Meg glared at him. “You cannot go.” She was furious. She stamped her foot on the grass, intentionally crushing a small patch of violets. “You were just
ill
! You've not yet fully recovered. You're still coughing!” She stomped on the flowers a second time, taking pleasure in watching them wilt to the ground.

“Megsy.” Ned reached over and took her chin. “I have no choice. You know that. And even if I did—how could I not go like all the other men in town? What would people say about me? I would get a white feather. Please. Think about it.” His eyes were pleading. The sun, so strong just moments before, now seemed to have disappeared behind the clouds. Without its glow to warm them, Meg suddenly felt cold. Ned coughed into his arm, then reached over again toward her.

Meg pulled away. “Tom Jeffries, Peter Maines, George Taylor—none of them came back.” She stared at the river, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I'll come back. I know I will.” Ned reached for her again. “Please, Meg. I don't have a choice. Can I ask you not to make this any more difficult for me than it is already?” A gust of wind shook them. Ned buttoned his coat.

“You can't even keep pace with me,” she said through gritted teeth as her eyes filled with tears. “How will you march off to war?” Her voice was bitter now. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and pulled it tight.

“I'm not leaving quite yet.” Ned met her gaze. “And there's training. I'll be ready by then. Dr. Porter said—”

“That's it!” Meg leaped up again. “We shall speak with Dr. Porter. We'll explain to him that he must tell the officials you are still much too ill to be signing up.” Her eyes blazed with inspiration.

“No, Megsy.” Ned shook his head. He grasped her hands and held them tightly, pulling her back down next to him. “No. Please, darling. Listen to me. I have to go. I must—”

Meg shook her head, cutting him off. “You shan't. Dr. Porter is a close friend of my father's. We'll explain to him, and he will—”

“No, Meg.” Ned's voice was firm now. “Dr. Porter can't do that. He took an oath, as a physician. And even if he would do it—I would not want him to. It's not proper. I must go, and I shall. How would I feel, knowing that I was the only one in the town who did not fight?”

Meg didn't answer. She pictured Tom and George and all the others who had waved good-bye in their uniforms, so eager to go.

“Fine, Ned.” Her voice was dull now. “I can see I'm not going to convince you. No matter what I say, you're going to go.” She pulled again at her shawl, her shoulders slumping, and shivered.

Ned was taken aback. “Did I just win an argument?” He gave her a teasing smile, but she didn't respond.

“Meg?” He put an arm around her. “I have to go. And as soon as it's all over, I'll come right back.” He pulled her closer. For a moment, Meg let herself lean against him. His skin felt cool to the touch.

“Of course.” Meg's voice was brusque as she pulled away from him again. “Brrr!” She stood up. “It's getting colder. We should be heading back, really. I must start Father's tea.” She gathered her skirts and began walking, her pace hurried. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, still trembling.

“Meg—wait!” Close at her heels, Ned grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back to him. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. “Meg—I love you. You know that, right? I've always loved you. Since we were children.” He licked his lips, looking nervous.

Startled, Meg looked up at him. She wasn't sure how to respond. “Oh,” she managed, her voice shaking. “Well, I love you too, Ned. You know that.” Blinking in surprise, she let go of his hand and stumbled back a few paces. Ned quickly made up the distance between them and grabbed her hand again. He was sweating despite the cold, and his cheeks were flushed a bright pink.

“Well, then. Not exactly how I rehearsed it, but…” Ned's voice trailed off. He took a deep breath and bent down on one knee. Meg watched, shocked, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wooden box. Her heart was beating so fast, she could barely hear his words as he spoke. He released her hand to open the box and retrieved from inside a small gold ring. Meg breathed in sharply.

“I know it's not much.” He looked apologetic, his cheeks almost purple now. “But one day, if the printing business does well—”

“Sh,” said Meg. She put a finger to his lips, and then allowed him to slip the ring on her finger. “A perfect fit.” She looked up at him, eyes moist. “It's beautiful, Ned.” She held her hand up to get a better look at the ring. She stared at it, admiring, turning her hand in different directions, preening slightly. Ned watched her. She remembered he was there and dropped her hand back to her side, her own cheeks reddening.

“I gather that's a yes, then?” Ned coughed. He was smiling now but still looked anxious, fiddling with the box and shuffling his feet. “I asked your father's permission.”

“Did you?” Meg laughed. She pictured her father's embarrassed reaction and gruff response. “Poor Father. I imagine he got quite flustered.”

“Well, a bit.” Ned grinned. His color was returning to normal now. “But he gave it. Didn't seem all that surprised that I was asking. I suppose everyone will have seen this coming.”

Meg stared at her new ring again. “Shall we be wed soon, then, Ned? Before you leave?” The sun had come out again. In the sunlight, the gold of the ring glittered brightly. Rainbows scattered in every direction.

“Well…” Ned fidgeted with his hands. “I've been giving this quite a bit of thought. The thing is, I'd prefer to wait until I return. You're so very young, after all. And we can plan a proper wedding that way.”

Meg waved her hand dismissively. “I don't need a fancy wedding.” She shook her head. “Whatever for? I just want to be wed to you.” She laughed lightheartedly. She twirled a lock of hair around her newly adorned ring finger. In the sun, the color was almost a match to the ring.

“No.” It was Ned's turn to be stubborn. “I want you to have a nice wedding like all the other girls, with a proper dress. You deserve it. You're the prettiest and smartest of them all.”

“Ned,” Meg sighed in frustration. She rolled her eyes. “I don't care about a silly wedding and a silly dress. I think we should be wed as soon as possible. Before you leave.”

“No, Meg.” Ned took her hand in his and stared at the ring. “We'll have a beautiful wedding. Even if you don't want it,
I
want it for you.” He looked at her, earnest.

Meg bit her lip. She could see this meant a lot to Ned. She willed herself not to stomp her foot.

“Fine, then, Ned.” She laid her head gently on his shoulder. “We'll have your fancy wedding. When you return.” The breeze was picking up again, stronger now. Meg gritted her teeth, determined, and closed her eyes as the breeze became a wind, whipping against her face with increasing ferocity.

. . .

“So, did he do it, then?” Jim Merriweather gave his daughter an appraising look and put his hammer down as she entered the small cottage. He was building a kitchen pantry for the Thomas family next door. He picked up a rag and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His large size and wild hair gave him a rather intimidating appearance, but his eyes were kind and his soul gentle.

“That's romantic, Father.” Meg's voice was dry as she hung up her shawl. “What if he hadn't? You'd have ruined the surprise.”

“Bah,” Mr. Merriweather picked up the hammer again. “He couldn't have kept it a secret. Boy was never much good at hiding things. Feelings written all over his face.”

“Well, the answer is yes.” Meg grinned. She held out her hand to show off her new ring. “He did ask, and I accepted.”

Mr. Merriweather nodded his approval. “He's a good chap.” He hammered a nail into the door of the pantry. “You'll be happy with him. Promised me he'd take good care of you.”