Susan Speers (27 page)

He arrived late to dinner, bathed and dressed in clean clothing. I was careful not to comment or be caught watching him. His eyes were down cast, his movements weary, though I doubted all the fight had left him.

Dinner ended. When I rose to go, he put out his hand.

“Will you come see my work?”

We went out into the rose garden. The sky still held a little light, the sun had only dipped behind the trees.

The summer house door was locked. I looked a question at Jeremy.

“Let’s sit for a moment,” he said. We settled ourselves on the raw boards he’d just nailed into place.

Jeremy propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands. “I quarreled with Lawrence.”

“You did?” How could anyone quarrel with such a kind, gentle man? Although I remember more than once Amalia remarked on his stubbornness.

“I would have struck him,” Jeremy shocked me further, “but I managed to control myself. He expected it, though. He put his fists up. The silliness of that gesture made us laugh and we were friends again.”

“What was the quarrel?”

“I wanted to — to tell him something. He wouldn’t hear me. He said he wasn’t the right person, that I had only one telling in me. He said I had to tell you.”

“Me?” I wasn’t ready to hear Jeremy’s confession, I didn’t think I’d ever be ready. I wanted to strike Lawrence Pickety myself.

The growing darkness hid my panic.

“Will you hear me?” Jeremy asked.

“Yes.”

“I was a double agent, Clarry,” Jeremy said. “Do you know what that means?”

“Tell me.”

“They sent me into Germany to surrender. I had friends there from before the war. Friends and other English spies hidden among them. Diplomats are a slippery lot. They train us for that.”

“Why did they trust you?”

“I fed them information, accurate information at first. Good men died because of it. I bartered their lives for the big show.”

“Oh.” I felt a pain deep within me. “Was Dickon one of them?”

“He so easily could have been. War isn’t all valor, Clarry. It’s a dirty fight. Your illusions are the first casualty.”

Jeremy’s lips thinned. His face was flinty. “I betrayed my German friends, men I’d known from youth, men I drank with, admired, confided in.”

“It worked.”

“Oh, yes. Then another spy turned me in to save his own life. They executed him. They had worse in mind for me.”

Henry had told me with tears in his eyes about the scars on Jeremy’s back.

“Dr. Sachs said you were tortured.”

“I told my captors so much.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t, not for that. They knew my screamed confessions were lies. They sent me down the line as a reward for some bestial brutes. They kept me in a cellar, a hole in the ground, dying men around me. They brought me up every day to be flogged. They fed me scraps to keep me alive for sport. They placed wagers on how long I’d last before begging for mercy. They beat me harder if I begged too soon.”

“How did you bear it?” I whispered.

“I found a place deep inside myself to go where they couldn’t follow.”

Some things are too deep for tears. My stomach burned. My bones ached. But I knew there was more.

“Tell the rest,” I managed to say.

“I was with seven wounded Tommies. They had no food, only a dirty trickle of water. One by one they fell into stupors and died, their bodies left to rot among living. The rats came at night to feast.”

I couldn’t speak but he went on.

“One of the last men alive went mad and began to — to eat the flesh the rats had left. Another joined him.”

Jesus Christ, I prayed, let me hear this. I wanted to run away from Jeremy’s words, from the look on his face in the moon’s cold light.

“I killed him,” Jeremy said. “I beat in his head with a stone I’d saved for the guard. I strangled the other. Both Englishmen, both my brother soldiers. The last man stared at me from his stupor. ‘Traitor’ is what his eyes said. ‘Beast.’”

“Jemmy,” I whispered.

“It was the madness, you see. I couldn’t permit it or I would give in too.”

He was close enough now. The look in his eyes terrified me. I spoke to bring him back. “Did you use the stone to escape?”

“There was no chance of it with the first guards, though they were hungry too. Supply lines were cut. They were sent to the front and replaced by boys, children, Clarry.”

“I was so weak. I’d no food or water for days. A young boy, twelve at most came down in a patched old uniform. He had a link of moldy sausage. He took out his knife to cut a piece for me. I cracked his head with the stone. I slit his throat with his own knife, took his food and clothes and escaped.”

Here it was laid before me. What was done to him. What he did. I couldn’t take it all in, though even now his words haunt me.

“They made me into their image,” he said. “My truest self is beast.”

A long silence fell between us. I tried to weep, to wash away the smallest bit of this awful knowledge, but my eyes were bone dry.

“So now you know,” he said, “what I am become.”

I understood his self loathing. I would feel the same. In so many ways, Jeremy and I were one being and would always be so.

But I couldn’t let him think the worst. I was the stronger one, I was the smarter one. I had not been beaten and starved until my soul hid within me.

“What you are,” I said, “is a good soldier. What you are is a hero.”

“You truly believe that?”

“With everything I am.” I stared down his doubts and mine with all the strength I could muster. When my spirit flagged, I called on Dickon and Laura to have their strength bolster mine.

“But can you love me as you did before?”

His voice was so light, I thought for a moment I imagined the question. We’d come to the moment where a single word can alter a man’s fate.

“No,” I said. “I love you more.”

*

We sat on the steps, my head on his shoulder, then his on mine. I held his hand. Beneath the flesh of his fingers I felt misshapen edges where the bones had been broken and badly mended.

One by one the stars came out, pinpricks of light in the dark sky. I trembled and Jemmy put his arm around me. I wasn’t cold. I knew what would happen, what must happen for Jeremy to believe I loved him still, loved him better as I’d vowed.

If he looked full on his horrific past and chose to go on, so must I choose a future where Dickon was beloved, but a memory. I could never forget him, but I couldn’t run away from loving the man beside me.

We took a long, slow walk past our blue sitting room, the corridor that led to the library, the silent piano. Hand in hand we climbed the stairs and walked down a hallway he’d never seen. I opened my bedroom door and welcomed him inside.

The wonder we found in Geneva, our lovemaking in Willow’s cottage, even the desperate longing we’d known at the Watch Tower Inn didn’t prepare me for the beauty and passion of our reunion. Just as I held him perfect in my heart, so he held me and our damaged selves could heal in each others’ arms.

Long past the time we might have slept he held me close, his heartbeat matching mine. His lips rested against my forehead and I felt him smile.

“Every lady loves a soldier,” he said.

“I love a hero.”

“Well, if I’m a hero, then you’re —”

“Not a heroine.”

“No, no, never that.” His teasing voice grew serious. “You’re an angel, my angel, now and forever.” He tightened his embrace and fell into a deep sleep.

*

Henry knew right away. His manner was formal as ever, but he seemed lit from within, he very nearly beamed at us.

Jem and I had the luxury of time and space to find our way into the mature love we’d so long been denied. Night after night we fulfilled its promise and afterward slept sated in my bed. We took picnic hampers and rugs on long walks and made love in every secluded corner of Hethering.

Both of us grew strong and brown with healthy appetites and smiling faces. We spent long afternoons in my study, now his, as I turned over the reins of estate management.

“I’ll never have a better agent,” he said.

“Not one so devoted.” My fingers were tangled in his thick hair and we had good reason to lock the door and find our way to the sofa.

I finished Willow’s story and posted it to my publisher. I found renewed pleasure in embroidery and stitched a riot of rose covered cushion covers to decorate the summer house. I painted scenes showing the follies in all seasons, each one to be framed and hung in our sitting room, the salon or the library.

I’ll admit we gave no more thought to the future than heedless youths in love with love and each other. It was true Jeremy still had nightmares and bad moments in his waking hours, but I was there to comfort him, cajole him and love him past the spectres. He, in turn, spoke often of Dickon, in a casual way, to help me remember him without pain.

We made Hethering our kingdom and the last glorious weeks of summer our idyll, but the outside world was not long content to leave us in peace.

The first intruder in our paradise was Dr. Sachs. He sat closeted with Jeremy for a long time. When the salon door opened, I ceased my pacing and searched Jeremy’s face for the outcome.

His lips were pursed in a serious expression, but his eyes were dancing. “I am pronounced recovered,” he said. “I am pronounced fit. I will be demobilized with honor.”

I threw my arms around his neck, then stepped back blushing. I didn’t want his doctor to know how it was with us now.

“Dr. Sachs wants to speak with you, Clarry.” Jeremy’s voice was quiet, but when he turned, he winked at me. Jeremy winked! This was a happy day.

“You are blooming, my dear.” Dr. Sachs’ eyes twinkled as we sat down, alone. “Your cousin’s recovery blessed you too.”

“I believe you said it might.”

“Yes.” His face sobered. “Those were anxious days. You’ve done well, he’s done well. Neither of you lack for courage.” He looked at the piano. “You play for him?”

“Every night,” I said. “When he wouldn’t look at me or speak to me, the music got through somehow.”

“My wife played for me,” he said. “After dinner. I miss it.”

I’d always assumed his black mourning band was for a soldier.

“When the war is done, Mrs. Scard,” he said. “My duties will be less. I’d like to write a treatise on shell shock. I wonder if I might interview you for it?”

“If Jeremy agrees.” I couldn’t discuss my experience without revealing his.

Dr. Sachs searched my face. I was foolish to think I could hide what happened with Jeremy. I blushed again and we both smiled.

“Here I am, Mrs. Scard,” he said, “on an occasion that only requires words of praise, with another caution.”

Did Jeremy face another hurdle?

“Sometimes, as a last step into wholeness, a recovered spirit will reject his savior.”

I couldn’t imagine it.

Dr. Sachs raised his eyebrows. “Think how an infant runs from his mother. Remember how a young man or woman scorns loving parents.”

We could hardly wait for Dr. Sachs to leave. Jeremy was free.

A few days later, I came home for tea after hours spent sketching the Medieval Tower. Jeremy was off hacking a better path to Madison’s Folly. As I ran down the steps in a fresh dress, the great bell sounded.

Henry was below in the kitchens, so I pulled on the front door and came face to face with Rutherford Dane, dressed in a crumpled driving coat, his hair askew from the wind.

“Is there tea?” He demanded.

I burst out laughing and held out my hand. “Any minute now.”

Henry was run off his feet fetching urns of hot water and additional plates of scones and cake. I sat and watched Rutherford demolish mountains of refreshment. Really, his greed was an inspiration.

“I see your appetite has improved,” he commented. “And I heard your cousin is recovered.”

“He’s doing very well. I’m quite satisfied with his progress.”

“Moving on then, are you?”

“I — I don’t know. It’s still early days.” I felt the first shiver of alarm that our idyll wouldn’t last.

“The Germans are finished, you know,” he said. “The Americans are mopping them up like bread in sauce.”

“You think the war will end.”

“We’ll win it,” he said. “But the peace? There’s plenty of room for mischief there. Diplomats are needed, a gross of ‘em at least.”

“You think Jeremy will be summoned —” It was too soon, it was early days. But Rutherford had connections high up.

“He will be. They know he’s well. Word in your ear.”

After he left, Jeremy came in. He still avoided strangers.

“Who was that dreadful man?” He frowned at the wreck of the tea tray.

“Rutherford Dane. My father’s elder brother. He thinks to look out for me, but he’s not —” I was going to say ‘good at it’, but I was wrong.

“Must he shout every word?” The war made Jem jump at loud noises.

“Almost always. Did you hear what he said?”

“Not the words. Was it important?”

“It’s hard to say.”

*****

“This is the life we were meant for,” he said a few days later. We were on one of our picnics. I sat with my back against a huge elm in a meadow far across the estate from the Marchgate Wood. Jeremy lay sprawled on the rug, his head resting in my lap, a long piece of grass between his teeth. As perfect a moment as I could ask.

“I’ve written to Caroline.” In a split second our perfection splintered around me.

“Have you?” I said at last, my voice sticking in my throat.

“I asked her to send a photograph of Arthur.” He reached for a new piece of grass, examined it and exchanged it for the one in his mouth. “I asked her for a meeting.”

His casual tone of voice didn’t fool me. His shoulders were tense and a fine trembling transferred from his skin to mine through the thin stuff of my summer dress.

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I can’t wait any longer. We have matters, important matters to settle.”