Chapter Five

We could have heard a pin drop twenty miles away, the silence that followed his words was so profound.

Roger sat as if nailed to his chair for all of several seconds. George had the grace to look embarrassed. The rest of us were sitting there with our mouths open. I shut mine smartly, prepared for anything. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lydia’s expression: shock mixed with horror. She turned toward her husband, waiting for him to reply.

Whose daughter? That was the question in everyone’s mind. If she was the image of Juliana, then she must be Roger’s. Or Alan’s. And why was it necessary to find her?

Finally Roger said, “You’re drunk and maudlin, George. You should call it a night.”

Dr. Tilton stood, setting his teacup on the table beside him. “I’ll see him to bed, shall I? His usual room? Good.”

Roger Ellis stirred. His words to George had been clipped, the only outward sign of whatever emotion he was suppressing—anger, disgust, surprise. It was impossible to tell what he was feeling, but his eyes were so intensely blue that if they could have sparked, they would have. Turning to me, he said, “Miss Crawford, I hesitate to ask such a favor of a guest, but if you could assist Dr. Tilton, I’d be grateful.”

“By all means,” I answered, rising and praying that George wouldn’t vomit all over my pale green dress. He looked now as if he could be sick at any moment, his face gray. Or was that shame as his careless words finally sank in and he realized what he had done?

“I can manage,” he began, then nearly lost his balance as he rose from his chair.

Dr. Tilton and I each took an arm to help him to the door, but he caught us unprepared and pulled away, turning around to face everyone in the room.

“Malcolm isn’t here after all. I must have imagined he was. It was to him—to my brother—that I was speaking. I do apologize if I’ve upset anyone.” His eyes were quite sober now.

I remembered Roger mentioning earlier that Malcolm was George’s late brother. And it was obvious that the others also knew who Malcolm was. But even I could see the doubt in the faces turned toward us in the doorway. It was a polite lie intended to cover the truth. And it failed.

“Forgive me,” he added, and then let us lead him through the door.

As it was closing behind us, I heard Mrs. Ellis say, “Poor man. He hasn’t been the same since—” The rest of what she was about to say was cut off as the door shut with a soft click.

We got George to his room, where the lamps were already lit and the fire burning well on the hearth, thanks to the ubiquitous Daisy, and in short order we had him in his bed, leaning against pillows.

“I feel like an idiot,” he said to me as I smoothed the blanket we had pulled over his knees. Then he turned his gaze on Dr. Tilton. “I do talk to my brother sometimes, you know. A habit begun early in life and hard to break. We were close.”

Dr. Tilton said, “You mentioned a child who looked like Juliana. I thought your brother was dark.”

“Her mother was fair,” George responded quickly. “A Frenchwoman.”

But Dr. Tilton was not satisfied. “I thought most Frenchwomen were also dark.”

George smiled. “I can tell you that some are as fair as any Englishwoman. Miss Crawford can attest to that, I’m sure.” He looked to me for support.

I said to Dr. Tilton, “That’s true. Now I think we should rejoin the other guests.”

“Yes, yes, go on down. I’ll be with you shortly.” It was clear he would like to probe further into what Lieutenant Hughes had said. I was sure the family wouldn’t care for that, and Lydia had already warned me that he was a gossip.

I could understand, then, why Roger Ellis had asked me to accompany the doctor.

“Dr. Tilton. We have put Lieutenant Hughes to bed. That was our only charge.”

He looked up at me, on the point of telling me to mind my own business, when he must have realized that I was not simply a nursing sister but a friend and guest of Lydia’s. He wished Lieutenant Hughes a good night and added, “Send for me tomorrow if you feel unwell.”

We left then, shutting the bedroom door behind us and walking in silence back the way we’d come. The silence between us was uncomfortable, as if Dr. Tilton was clearly not accustomed to having nursing sisters or anyone else contradict him.

I wondered what had been said in the drawing room after we had taken Lieutenant Hughes away. But the conversation when we opened the door was stilted.

Gran was saying, “—and the latest reports from France leave one to wonder—”

Every head turned toward us as we entered, and Mrs. Tilton rose, saying, “My dear, I hadn’t realized how late it is.”

Her husband said, “Yes, I suspect we’ll meet with patches of fog on the way home.”

The Smyths rose as well, and then everyone was standing, bidding one another a good night, thanking Mrs. Ellis for the lovely dinner, and five minutes later Roger was swinging the hall door closed after his guests, and turning to face us.

I realized that Lydia wasn’t there.

Roger said, “It’s been a long day. Perhaps we should call it an evening.” And before anyone could question him, he strode through the passage door and closed it behind him.

Mrs. Ellis was running a finger around the now-empty porcelain umbrella stand, not looking at her mother-in-law as she said, “I must say I’m rather tired as well. Good night, Gran. Bess.” She crossed the room to kiss Margaret on the cheek, and then Henry as well.

Margaret said hastily, “Yes, it’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” And with a glance at Henry, she followed her mother toward the door, Henry at her heels.

Eleanor and her brother had slipped away earlier while Roger and Mrs. Ellis were saying their last farewells to the doctor and the rector.

Gran clearly wanted to return to what had happened in the drawing room, and she looked after them with a frown between her eyes. She stared at me for a moment, as if considering whether to broach the subject with me, and then thought better of it.

“Where’s Lydia?” she asked instead.

“I don’t know. I thought she came down with us.”

“Hmmph,” Gran said, and then bade me a good night.

I was left in sole possession of the hall. I stood by the fire for a few minutes more, relishing the quiet, although I could hear the wind picking up again outside.

Tomorrow, I thought, will be a stressful day. There will be no avoiding George, and Roger will have his hands full keeping his family from demanding answers.

And Lydia? What about her?

I went looking for her then, and found her in the drawing room, staring up at the portrait of Juliana, as if she’d never seen it before.

I’d just stepped into the room when Gran came in behind me. I could tell she’d been searching for Lydia as well.

Ignoring me, Gran said directly to her grandson’s wife, “He was drunk, Lydia.”

She didn’t answer or look away from her contemplation of the portrait. Below it a log fell in the grate as the flames ate through it, making all of us jump, and sparks flew up the chimney in a bright spiral.

“He does talk to his brother. I heard him only last evening, in his room, carrying on a conversation with Malcolm,” the elder Mrs. Ellis continued.

“It wasn’t Malcolm he was speaking to,” Lydia said at last, her gaze dropping from Juliana’s face and moving to Gran’s. “Henry was coming out of George’s room as I was going up.”

“Nevertheless, you know as well as I do that Malcolm’s death had turned his mind. Roger had even suggested that asking him to be here for Alan’s memorial would be too much for him.”

I’d heard that exchange. But I’d interpreted it to mean that Roger would be made uncomfortable, not George.

Lydia said, a sigh in her voice, “Gran. Thank you. But there’s no way to undo what was said here tonight. George will try to put a better face on them, and Roger will deny any knowledge of what he was saying, but the words were spoken. None of us can pretend we didn’t hear them. Or know that some sort of truth must lie behind them. The question now is, what will Roger do?”

“There couldn’t have been a child, Lydia. He’s been fighting in the trenches, for God’s sake. There are no whores in the trenches.”

“What about his wounded shoulder, Gran? He wasn’t in the trenches then. There was time. Was it a nurse who bore him a child? Or someone else?”

“Lydia, there is no child!” Gran said, nearly angry.

“I’m Roger’s wife,” she answered slowly. “I know when my husband is cold to me. I know when he isn’t eager to hold me or tell me he loves me. You’re his grandmother. It’s natural for you to feel he can do no wrong. I can’t fault you for that. But something is different. I’ve known it since the day he arrived, while Alan was so ill. I put it down then to sorrow and impending loss. But at some point—some point in his grieving, why didn’t he turn to me? And why, when I asked him for a child, did he strike me across the face? I thought it was because I’d mentioned Juliana as well. Now—now, I’m not so sure.”

“You’re overwrought,” Gran told her. “And not making any sense.”

“I’m making a great deal of sense. For the first time I see my way clearly.”

“Don’t do anything rash, Lydia. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“There’s no one else, Gran. Whatever Roger tells you, there is no one else.”

“In my day, a woman knew when to look the other way. Not that I ever had to, but I knew my duty all the same.”

“It isn’t your day and age now, is it? When we were married, Roger promised to forsake all others—”

“Don’t be naïve, Lydia. A man’s needs are very different from those of a woman,” Gran snapped.

“I’m not naïve,” Lydia retorted. “I’m jealous. Don’t you understand?”

“There’s no arguing with you in this mood,” the elder Mrs. Ellis said. “Perhaps you’ll come to your senses in the light of day.” With that she turned on her heel and walked past me and out of the room.

I think she’d even forgot I was there. For I caught a look of surprise in her eyes as they met mine, and then irritation before she’d closed the door behind her.

I said after a moment, “Perhaps I should go as well, Lydia. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

“No, stay.”

We hadn’t heard the door open again—or perhaps Mrs. Ellis hadn’t shut it firmly. Roger’s voice startled both of us.

Standing there just inside the threshold, he said, “And I think it would be better if Miss Crawford left,” Roger said.

“No. Whatever you have to say, she remains. What child was George talking about, Roger?”

“He told you. Malcolm’s.”

“We both know he was trying to cover up his gaff. What child, Roger? You might as well tell me. It’s out in the open now, you can’t pretend it’s a secret any longer.”

“I swear to you—” He cast a look in my direction.

“Is that why you don’t want us to have a child? There’s someone else, isn’t there? Someone you met in France and love more. Why couldn’t you tell me? Just—tell me.”

He glanced up at the portrait over the mantel, as if looking for courage. “I don’t love anyone else, Lydia. I never have.”

“Then she was what? A refugee? A woman of the streets? A girl willing to sell herself for food and a place to sleep that night? Who was she?”

“Lydia, this isn’t the time or place to be having this conversation.”

“Why not? He said she was the image of Juliana. It couldn’t be Alan’s child—he’s been on a cruiser in the North Atlantic. If he’d fathered a child in some faraway port, George would never have known that she looked so much like Juliana. No, this child is the reason why you didn’t take leave to come to England when you were wounded, the reason you haven’t had leave to return to England in three years of fighting.”

“Lydia, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. There was no woman. There is no child. Miss Crawford here can tell you how impossible it is to get leave, even when you’re wounded.”

“Leave her out of this.” She was looking up at him now, such misery in her eyes that I could have wept for her. I didn’t want to be a witness to this scene. But there was nothing I could do, except watch in silence, pretending I wasn’t there after all.

Finally Lydia said tiredly, “I don’t know what to believe. In London I’d believed that you struck me because of what I’d said about Juliana. I blamed myself for using such a vile weapon to make my point. I came home to apologize and beg your forgiveness. Well, if the truth has come out finally, it’s just as well. If Bess will have me, tomorrow I’ll be returning to London with her, until I can make other arrangements. Under the circumstances, I shall expect you to give me an allowance, so that I can live at least with dignity, if not comfort.”

“You can’t leave. We have guests. Mother and Gran—”

“Our only guests are Eleanor and members of your own family. They will understand—this time—why I need to go away and not think about anything for a while, until I’m able to decide what this has done to our marriage.”

She rose, walking to the door. “What’s more,” she said, with an overtone of spite, “before I went to London the first time, you were all but accusing me of having an affair with Davis Merrit. And you made me feel guilty, when I had done nothing more than read to the poor man. And all the while, you knew what you yourself were guilty of. I think that’s the most disgusting part of all this.” Her voice finally broke on the last words, and she left, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

“Damn it,” Roger began, but it was too late, she was gone. He turned to me then, and said, “I don’t know how to reach her. It’s impossible.”

“Is it?” I prepared to leave as well. “We all heard what Lieutenant Hughes said. You can pretend he wasn’t speaking to you. He can swear that he was drunk and talking to his dead brother. But neither will satisfy your wife.”

“There is no child!” he exclaimed, angry now.

“Sadly I’m not one of the people you must convince. Good night, Captain Ellis.”

“Wait!”

I stopped but didn’t turn.

“I must ask you,” he went on, as if the words were forced from him, “what Lieutenant Hughes said to Dr. Tilton.”

“He stood by what he’d said before he left the drawing room.”

“And Dr. Tilton? Did he pry?”

There was nothing for it but to tell the truth. “I’m afraid he tried. But I reminded him that we had done our duty and ought to return to the other guests, and he stopped.”

“Yes, damn it, that’s precisely what I was afraid he would do. Even what little he knows will be all over Ashdown Forest before tomorrow is out. That’s why I asked you to go with him. I couldn’t—it would look too much like I was trying to rush George away before he could say more.” He hesitated. “Thank you, Miss Crawford. I appreciate your loyalty.”

I turned then. “It wasn’t so much a matter of loyalty,” I said. “It was disliking the doctor’s taking advantage of Lieutenant Hughes when he was vulnerable. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to know any more. For Lydia’s sake.”

“What was the thrust of Tilton’s questions?”

“Coloring. If the child was fair, like Juliana, then in theory neither George nor his brother could be the father. While you are fair, and very like your dead sister, if we can draw such a conclusion from that painting.”

He took a deep breath. “Yes. I understand. Thank you all the same. Go on to bed. It’s very late.”

It was dismissal, and I was glad to take it.

I couldn’t read Roger Ellis. Either he was a consummate liar, or he was telling the truth. And I was fairly sure he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

I went slowly up the stairs, remembering that Lydia was determined to leave in the morning. I didn’t know what advice to give her—to go, or to stay and get to the bottom of what if anything her husband was hiding. She had been deeply hurt for a second time, and she couldn’t convince herself that this time it was largely her fault. And I couldn’t imagine Lydia taking Gran’s advice to look the other way. In an arranged marriage, that might be possible, but in a love match, it was the destruction of trust.

I opened the door to my room, glad to have the night to consider what to do in the morning.

Instead I found Lydia lying across my bed, crying.

For an instant I hesitated. And then I backed out as quietly as I’d come in. The wind rattled the window just as I was closing the door as gently as possible. I waited for several seconds, but Lydia didn’t call to me. Turning, I walked down the passage.

Where was I to go? All the bedrooms were occupied. And Lydia was safer where she was. With luck, no one would think to look for her in my room.

The hall was too large and empty and uncomfortable. I wasn’t particularly happy with the thought of sleeping in the room above the hall. Those long windows would be drafty and I’d be cold before morning. In the end I went down to the family sitting room and pulled two chairs together. There was a woolen lap rug over the back of another chair, and I pulled that round my shoulders. The fire here had died down to ashes, but there was still enough of a glow from the embers that I didn’t need to light a lamp. I was just as glad, thinking that at least no one would believe anyone was in here, if the room was dark.

I’d been there for well over two hours, unable to sleep, when George Hughes, in his dressing gown, quietly opened the door. He was looking for the brandy, I thought, but found me instead. He fumbled for the lamp and struck a match, the smell of sulfur strong in the air. Just as the light bloomed, I spoke, so that he wouldn’t be startled seeing me there.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, his eyebrows raised. As if the entire household had no reason to lie awake.

“Lydia is in my room. I think you’d better tell me, Lieutenant. Before this breaks up Lydia’s marriage. I won’t ask you who the father is. Only, where is this child?”

He sighed. “Her mother is dead. She was put into an orphanage. No one seems to know where. That’s all I can tell you.”

“In France?”

“Yes. In France.”

“Do you know her name?”

“No. But I saw her when she was only a year old. And she is so like Juliana it makes one’s heart stop. If I’d known—if I’d had any idea—I’d have claimed her myself. Brought her to England and raised her as my own. To hell with Roger. But that’s water over the dam. I remember Juliana, you see. Roger never really got over her death. Nor did I, if you want the truth. I thought when I saw Lydia for the first time that she must have reminded him of Juliana in a way. But he said not. I don’t know.”

“Did he have an affair?”

“I expect he did. How else do you explain the child? My God.”

“And the mother? Who was she?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“But you said you saw the child?”

“Quite by accident, actually. I was—” He broke off, turning toward the door. “There’s someone outside.”

I got up and went quietly to the door, opening it quickly. But if someone had been there, he or she was gone now. There was no one in the passage outside.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” he said as I closed the door again. He looked with longing at the brandy decanter, then sighed. “I was sitting there, staring up at Juliana’s portrait, and I couldn’t stop myself. I had to know what happened to that child.” He took a turn about the room, fretful and angry. “I’d waited for Ellis to say something. I’d given him every opportunity. When we were alone in the motorcar. Before dinner. I even mentioned the portrait that first night, to signal that Juliana—and by extension, the child—was on my mind. Instead he avoided the subject. I began to believe there was something he didn’t want to tell me. Had something happened to her? Was she dead? When he sat down near me at the end of the evening tonight, I thought, this was my chance. There might not be another. I intend to leave tomorrow. It will be less embarrassing all round.”

This time he stopped by the drinks table, lifted the brandy decanter, and poured a goodly amount into a glass. But then he set it aside untasted.

“As soon as I’m back in France, I’m going to find her. See if I don’t, by God. I must have been out of my mind to think Roger—” He swore under his breath, picked up the glass, and downed it in one long swallow. “She even smiles the way Juliana did. It was such a shock I stood there unable to say a word. And then they were gone, the nuns hurrying the children away. I caught up with them then, asked what the little girl’s name was. I think they must have believed I had some ulterior motive, that I meant her a harm. The older nun glared at me and told me it was none of my affair. Damn it, I don’t see how he could walk away from his own flesh and blood. But he has.”

“But what if Captain Ellis is telling the truth? You can’t be certain the child is his, just because she reminds you of Juliana. Can you? A fleeting resemblance that touched a chord of memory when you were already tired, under great stress—”

“No, I’m not mad, and I’m not mistaken. Ellis got very drunk one night, talking wildly about someone dying. He’d got a letter, he said, and he’d burned it because he didn’t want to know what was in it. Now he was frantic to read it, and it was gone. I asked him how he knew someone was dying if he hadn’t read the letter, and he told me it was enclosed in another letter. The next morning he was gone. I don’t know how he wangled leave, or even if he did. Three days later he was back, haggard, unshaven, looking as if he hadn’t slept. He asked if I had any money, and I gave him what I had. He left again, and by the time he returned that evening, I’d already lied twice to cover for him. I asked if everything was all right, and he nearly took my head off. A day or so later he told me that if anything happened to him that I was to see that money went regularly to a small convent south of Ypres. He said he was paying for perpetual prayers for someone’s soul.”

He broke off, and for a moment I thought he was going to the decanter again, but he only walked to the door, and as I’d done, opened it quickly and peered out. Satisfied, he closed it again and went on, as if he couldn’t stop himself.

“I was curious, and months later when I found myself within a few miles of the convent, I went there. It was in ruins, and the nuns had moved to a house farther south. Some three months after that, when I was sent to Calais to expedite supplies coming through, I managed to trace the nuns. That’s when I discovered that they actually had an orphanage. I hung about for an hour or more, and the nuns appeared with a crocodile of children. All ages, some of them wounded, others in a state of shock, moving like their own shadows, and a handful of very little ones holding hands. The middle one was a girl in a dress too large for her. Hardly more than a year old, at a guess, and just barely walking well. I noticed her because she kept tripping over her hems, which were dragging on the ground. One of the nuns stopped and hitched the dress up with a ribbon or something. And the child looked up and smiled at me over the nun’s shoulder. I stood there, my mouth literally hanging open. The nuns marched the children several times around the house they were using as their convent, and then led them back inside. I tell you, the likeness was uncanny. Not a faulty memory or wishful thinking. It was real. I went straight to the door before they could shut it to ask about the child, but my French wasn’t all that good, and I think the nuns believed I wanted to take a child away for my own purposes, and they sent me smartly about my business.”

“Did you ask Roger Ellis about her? Did you go back?”

“I said nothing to him then. Well, a man generally doesn’t ask another man if he’s got a bastard child. I stood up with him at his wedding to Lydia, for God’s sake. But I kept an ear open for news of the convent, all the same, and went back a second time. And I saw her again. I hadn’t been mistaken, the likeness was even more pronounced. The third time, I was determined to speak to the nuns, to ask who she was. I’d taken care to work on my French, and I thought I could persuade them that I knew the child’s father. Only this time, the house was empty. I went around the village, frantically asking what had become of them. The old priest told me they’d moved south of Angers. His housekeeper was sure that some of the nuns and a number of the children had been taken in by a convent near Caen. The next time I saw Roger, I asked him what he knew about the house. And he said he’d never heard of them. I reminded him of the perpetual prayers. He told me then that he’d lied to me about them, that it was a gambling debt he was anxious to pay. But that was a lie as well. I’ve never known Roger Ellis to gamble. I went on searching, but France was in chaos, and one small group of orphans was impossible to track down. And then the bottom fell out of my world. Malcolm was killed, I was wounded and sent back to England, unable to learn anything at all. It was enough to turn anyone’s mind.”

Lieutenant Hughes lifted the decanter again, and I said quietly, “Perhaps you’ve had enough for one night.”

He nodded, putting it back where he’d found it. Raising his head to meet my gaze, he said, “I told Ellis outright that I knew why he’d been sending money to the nuns. He told me then that the mother had died after childbirth, and the child’s father had asked him to see that the child was cared for. I called him a liar to his face, and he told me I could believe what I damned well pleased. But I was haunted by what I’d seen, and I wouldn’t let it go. I kept asking, and he refused to answer me, except to say I’d been delirious. And all this while, even from England, I’ve done everything I could to find the nuns. But they might as well have vanished.”

The little ormolu clock on the mantelpiece chimed two, the silvery notes loud in the quiet room.

“Good God, I’ve kept you up all night,” he said contritely.

“Can you rest now?” I asked.

“Yes. For the first time I know what to do. Thank you for listening. You won’t—you won’t share what I’ve said with Lydia, will you? Or anyone else? It would be unkind. And God knows, I’ve done enough damage already.” He shrugged, annoyance mingled with embarrassment. “I must have drunk more than I knew, to confess like this.”

“I see no reason to hurt them. If Roger wishes them to hear the truth, it’s best coming from him, don’t you think?”

“Thank you. Good night, then, Sister.”

After he had gone, I made myself as comfortable as I could, regretting having to sleep in my pale green dress, but there was nothing I could do about it. With a sigh, I pulled a large silk cushion from one of the other chairs and wrapped my arms around it to keep me warm. And after some little time, I was finally able to sleep, although it was a fitful rest at best.

I awoke the next morning to a hubbub somewhere in the house. Smoothing my hair with my hands, I put the silk cushion and the lap rug back where I’d found them, then went to the door. The shouting seemed to be coming from the hall. I hurried in that direction, not knowing what I would find. But the urgency told me that something was wrong.

Lydia stood in the middle of the room in her traveling dress, the same coat she’d worn when first I’d encountered her in London. Her face was set, and at her feet was a large valise. A smaller one was clutched tightly in her hand.

It was Roger Ellis who was doing the shouting, telling her that he wouldn’t allow her to go away again. His mother was trying to pour oil on troubled waters, and Gran, standing to one side, was saying, “Lower your voices! What will Margaret and Eleanor think?” as if they were all that mattered. But everyone was ignoring her, their eyes on Lydia’s face.

She turned as I came into the hall. “There you are!” she exclaimed. “Where on earth have you been? I’d looked everywhere for you. You haven’t changed from last evening. Hurry and pack, Bess. I’ve already sent Daisy into Hartfield for the station carriage.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, adding, “it will take a few minutes to collect everything,” in the hope that this would give her a little time to change her mind. But I had a feeling she wouldn’t. I glanced at her husband, afraid he might strike Lydia again, if he was angry enough with her. The first blow was always the hardest. And that had been struck already.

“Ask Molly to help you, then. Bess, I beg of you. I can’t stay here, don’t you see?” Her eyes as well as her voice pleaded with me.

There was nothing else I could do. Casting a worried glance at Mrs. Ellis, hoping she could keep her son from losing his temper completely, I hurried away. Just outside the door to my room, I encountered Molly.

“I was just about to send for you.”

But she said, “Miss? Have you seen Lieutenant Hughes? He hasn’t been down for his breakfast, and he’s not in his room.”

“He’s probably gone for a walk. Mrs. Roger has asked me to hurry and pack. Will you help me?”

“I don’t think he even slept in his bed. It’s been turned down.”

“Turned down?” But Dr. Tilton and I had put him to bed, and I’d assumed he’d gone back there after leaving the sitting room. “Show me.”

She opened the door to the Lieutenant’s room, and I could see that she was right. The bed had been tidily made, and then turned back, as if ready for the night. I looked in the wardrobe. It was empty. When had he dressed and taken his luggage down?

“Is his motorcar still in the yard?”

“Yes, Miss, I remember seeing it there. The wing’s all dented.”

“Well, then, I shouldn’t worry.”

“It’s just that I need to be clearing away the dining room, before Mrs. Long begins preparations for the luncheon. And you’ve had no breakfast neither, Miss.”

“I’ve had a little headache,” I said, prevaricating. “Perhaps I’ll have a little tea later.”

She grinned. “I seen that you was sleeping in the sitting room when I come to make up the fires.”

“Mrs. Roger was in my bed,” I replied. We went back to my room, and I changed quickly into my traveling dress, and then between us we repacked my valises and set them by the door. When that was done, I said, “I’ve just looked at the time. It’s after ten. Lieutenant Hughes may be back by now.”

“Yes, Miss, I’ll go and have a look. Thank you, Miss.”

I went down to the hall, where Mrs. Ellis was sitting with Lydia. It was obvious that an uncomfortable silence had fallen between them while Lydia waited for me.

Mrs. Ellis said, “My dear, have you seen George this morning? I’ve been trying to persuade Lydia to talk to him before she leaves. Surely he can explain himself.”

“Molly was just looking for him. He must have gone for a walk.”

“Oh, dear, I expect he’s gone to St. Mary’s. Lydia, please, would you at least go with me to the church and hear what he has to say? There’s more than enough time before the train leaves. For my sake.”

“He’ll only lie. Just as he did last night,” she said, and I thought she was probably right.

Still, I said, “Lydia, I think Mrs. Ellis has a point. This is a major decision, after all. It can do no harm to hear what Lieutenant Hughes has to say. In the cold light of morning, when he’s completely sober.”

I could see that she wanted no part of anything that could weaken her resolve. But she said finally, “If we hurry. If it doesn’t hold us up.”

The first time she’d fled to London had been ill-considered. This time, she needed to be sure.

Mrs. Ellis said, “You won’t regret this, Lydia. And if it takes longer than it should, I’ll drive you to the railway station myself.”

“I’d rather go in the carriage,” Lydia said. “Thank you, but it’s better if I do. And that way, Roger can’t blame anyone else for my leaving.”

We brought down my valises, and just then I heard the carriage wheels on the drive.

Mrs. Ellis fetched her coat, and by that time we had taken our luggage out to the carriage and stowed it.

Daisy had just finished helping us, and Mrs. Ellis said to her as she turned toward the house, “Did you by any chance see Lieutenant Hughes in Hartfield?”

“Lieutenant Hughes? No, Ma’am. Should I have been looking for him?”

“No, not at all.” She turned to us. “Then it’s certain that he’s at St. Mary’s,” she said, joining us in the carriage. “Thank you, Daisy.”

Lydia said to the elderly driver, “We’d like to go to Wych Gate Church first.”

The carriage turned and set out for the track through the forest.

Mrs. Ellis said anxiously, “He could have walked over to his grandfather’s house. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“If he isn’t at the church, I’ll speak to him in London,” Lydia replied, fighting down her impatience.

I sat there, listening with only half an ear. I had a feeling that something was wrong. The way the bed had been made. The fact that the man’s belongings were already taken down, the room looking as if he’d never been there. I was remembering too what Roger Ellis had said, that he was surprised, given George’s moodiness, that he hadn’t taken his own life. I’d thought, listening to him in the night, that he had every reason to live—to find the child he’d seen. But in the cold light of day, given the uproar over his remarks in the drawing room, George Hughes might well have decided that the search in France was hopeless. And in a flush of self-pity, he could very well have walked away from Vixen Hill and killed himself.

Pray God, not on the memorial to Juliana!

It was cold that morning, although the sun was out, colder than it had been before the storm, as often happened. In the open carriage, we felt it. We rode on in silence, listening to the jingle of the harness and the clip-clop pace of the horses over the hard ground. Finally I could see the church tower above the trees that enclosed it.

Mrs. Ellis got down as soon as the carriage had stopped. “I’ll find him and bring him to you.” I had expected Lydia to get down with her instead. I wouldn’t have let my own mother walk into that churchyard alone. But Lydia was wrapped up in her own misery and had no room for anyone else’s.

“You will hurry, won’t you?” was all she said.

I quickly stepped down from the seat beside Lydia and said, “I’ll go with you, shall I? In the event he’s taken ill—”

Mrs. Ellis turned to wait for me, and together we approached the side gate. Mrs. Ellis was saying, keeping her voice low, “She’s being so foolish, Bess. See if you can talk any sense into her before this goes too far.”

“I’ll try,” I replied, my gaze on the wrought iron bars of the gate, almost feeling as if I ought to hold my breath. “But it will take some time before she can forgive the Captain.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she answered. We were in sight now of her daughter’s grave, and relief washed over me.

George wasn’t lying there, his service revolver in his dead hand. I’d been able to picture it so clearly that for a moment I lost track of what my companion was saying.

“Roger told me himself this has become something of an obsession of George’s. The doctors haven’t diagnosed it, but Roger thinks it must have something to do with shell shock.” She swung the gate open, and we walked into the churchyard. I could see frost in the shadows where the sun hadn’t reached. “It apparently started with Malcolm’s death. George has convinced himself that this refugee child exists. And that’s something to cling to while everyone around him seems to be dying. To tell you the truth, I don’t think George always remembers that Juliana wasn’t his little sister too. He wants to find and save her. This imaginary child. For all we know, he may well have seen a child who reminded him of Juliana. That may be how it began.”

It was a very persuasive argument. But Roger Ellis had lied to his mother. I knew that shell shock didn’t work like that. What’s more, George Hughes had told me chapter and verse exactly what he’d discovered about this child. And it hadn’t sounded like an obsession to me. Yes, he might have seen what he wanted to see. We all do that. But if she was Roger Ellis’s child, the resemblance could well have been more than passing.

We stood for a moment at Juliana’s grave. Just beyond it was Alan’s stone, achingly new.

“I thought he’d be here,” Mrs. Ellis said, looking around her as if she’d misplaced the Lieutenant. “He comes here nearly as often as I do. Well. Perhaps we ought to look in the church. It shouldn’t take long. There’s still more than enough time.”

As she led the way to the massive west door, I heard Lydia’s voice, pitched to carry. “Is he there? Mama? We need to hurry.”

The door was slightly ajar. Mrs. Ellis took a deep breath as she put her hands on the thick wooden panels. I helped to push the door wider, and we crossed the threshold side by side.

The interior felt—quite literally—as cold as the grave, and it was quite gloomy as well, despite the early attempts of the sun to break through. The stained glass on either side of the aisle and above the altar had no life, although it must have been quite glorious on a sunny day.

I couldn’t imagine sitting here for any length of time, cold as it was. And at first glance the church appeared to be empty. It felt empty as well.

“George?” Mrs. Ellis called, her voice echoing around the walls, so that it sounded rather like “Geo-orge-orge.”

Six slender pillars divided the nave, creating two narrow aisles on either side, memorials lining the walls between the windows. Before the altar was a delicate stone rood screen, setting off the choir. The pulpit was also stone, with worn steps leading up one side.

She called again, but there was no answer.

“I don’t think he’s here,” I said. “But shall I walk as far as the altar, to be certain?”

“Yes, if you would, my dear.” Mrs. Ellis’s voice sounded hollow. Her face seemed pinched, uncertain.

I walked away, listening to my heels echo on the stone paving, glancing right and left as I went. But there was no one here. I reached the rood screen, paused, and then went into the choir. It too was empty, the east window behind the altar rising above me and reminding me of the oriel window above the door at Vixen Hill.

Behind me, I heard Mrs. Ellis say, “I’ll just have a look in the organ loft.” I turned and walked back along the opposite aisle, meeting her as she came down the stairs.

“I was so sure,” she said distractedly, “that we’d find him here. It was almost a premonition.”

“He went for a walk, after all,” I reassured her. “He may have been here and moved on.”

We went through the west door again, letting it swing shut behind us. It made a great booming sound like the gates of hell closing.

Both of us winced.

We walked right around the church, but there was still no sign of George, and I was glad to come back again to the wrought iron gate where we had entered. The empty, quiet, isolated church seemed almost to be glad to be rid of us as we went to leave. I looked again at the lovely little marble statue of the kneeling child, and marveled at how well Juliana’s features and smile had been captured in stone.

Small wonder George Hughes had been captivated by the child with the nuns, and why he wanted so desperately to have her be Roger Ellis’s daughter. But was she?

“Someone’s moved the kitten,” Mrs. Ellis said, and she stopped to set it just within reach of Juliana’s marble fingers. “I expect it was George. There.”

As we walked out of the churchyard and shut the small gate behind us, Lydia said, “He wasn’t there? I could have told you—a wild-goose chase. Mama, if you hurry, there will just be time to take you back to Vixen Hill.”

“I just want to walk a short way down the path. Roger and George used to play here sometimes. You must remember the little stream they were always talking about. I won’t go any farther than that.”

And without waiting for an answer, she started down the overgrown path, almost like a tunnel through the winter dead grasses leading to the unseen stream. I went with her, shutting out Lydia’s protests. In gratitude, Mrs. Ellis turned and smiled at me over her shoulder.

Someone had been here before us. Even I could see that much. A deer, perhaps, if there were any left here in the Forest, or a ewe looking to drink from the stream. There were only a few bent stalks of grass here and there, and it was impossible to tell how recent it might have been.

The path turned, turned again, and then the stream lay below us, half hidden in grasses along the bank, many of them bent double with the weight of ice as the water splashed over them.

We saw his feet first, encased in his Army boots. And then his legs. One more step brought us to a sloping overlook, and from there we couldn’t miss the rest of him sprawled across the bottom of the path, his face and shoulders in the clear, cold water, his dark hair moving gently with the current, his greatcoat wet across the back from the fitful eddying of the stream over its rocky bed.

Had he killed himself, after all? Not across Juliana’s grave, as I’d feared, but here in this quiet place where the only sound was the water spilling over rocks.

But where was his service revolver?