I HAD MISSED luncheon and was beginning to wish Dr. Philips’s culinary skills had extended to more than making a cup of tea. But Susan met me at the door with the news that Mrs. Graham had asked her to set my meal aside.

“Mrs. Nichols—she’s our cook—has gone to have a little nap. Come along into the kitchen. It’s warmer there,” she urged, and I followed her.

As she took my plate out of the warming oven, she went on shyly, “I’ve been wanting a chance to ask you about Mr. Arthur. How it was at the end. I’ve not got over his dying. It doesn’t seem real to me, somehow. I think of him away fighting, as I always did, and then must remind myself that he’s not.”

I told her what I’d told the Grahams, and she listened with tears in her eyes. “He never gave up hope,” I ended, “and everyone who knew him was saddened by his death. He was as popular a patient as he was an officer, and it was some time before the staff got over what had happened.” I could feel my own throat tightening. “I don’t believe he suffered,” I lied, for Susan’s sake. “And he was unconscious for the last hours. That was a kindness.”

She nodded, turning her back to me. I saw her lift the corner of her apron and wipe her eyes. She busied herself about my meal until she was sure her voice was steady, then said huskily, “Thank you for telling me. I didn’t feel right asking Mrs. Graham. She took his death hard.”

She set a bowl of soup before me, thick with barley, and then slices of chicken with potatoes and swede. After the tension of dealing with Ted Booker, I was hungrier than I’d imagined, and Susan watched me eat with pleasure.

“Nice to see someone enjoying their food,” she said with a smile. “They never say much, above-stairs. I try to please, but it’s hard to find the meat and vegetables they’re used to. The war and all. I’m at my wit’s end, sometimes.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Since I was sixteen. I came with my mother, and after she left to live with my brother, I took over as housekeeper, more or less. They don’t call me that, but they might as well give me the title. I do the work.”

“Were there others in service here, before the war?”

Her face clouded a bit, but she said, “Half a dozen. Except for Mrs. Nichols—and she was too old to consider war work—the women left one by one as the men went off to fight. The footman died on the Somme, and we lost the coachman soon after. You’ve only to walk in the churchyard to see how bad it’s been for us.”

“Yes, I noticed the graves.”

“And that’s only them that died at home.”

As I was finishing my pudding, there were footsteps on the stairs, and Mrs. Graham came into the kitchen, frowning. “My dear! I didn’t intend for you to be served here. Susan, what were you thinking?”

Susan went red in the face, and I said quickly, “The kitchen was warm, and I didn’t wish to put her out. It’s my fault, truly.”

As I’d finished my meal, she carried me off to the sitting room, apologizing again for Dr. Philips’s demands on my time and skills. “He has no sense of what is right. You didn’t come here to deal with Ted Booker. A tragedy, I’m sure, but not ours. I don’t know what your parents will think of me, letting such a thing happen.”

“They will understand. I’m trained to help. It would have been difficult for me to say no.” To change the subject, I asked about the rector and the work he was doing in the church.

“It’s the war,” she said with a sigh, as if that explained everything. “Our sexton lost an arm at Ypres, but he can still carry out most of his duties, and so he was given his old position back. But the church needs constant upkeep, and when no one is looking, the rector, Mr. Montgomery, sees to it. There were protests at first, but he reminded us that Christ was a carpenter. And I must say, he’s got quite good at what he does, and it has saved church funds time and again. But it isn’t right, somehow. Call me old-fashioned if you will, but this making do at every turn is trying.”

I said, “Of course his own duties come first, but it must give him a sense of satisfaction to know that the fabric of the church isn’t suffering from the war.”

She tilted her head as she considered that. “I hadn’t looked at it quite that way. But I’m sure you’re right. He was on a ladder, inspecting the stained-glass windows last week, when I went to see to the flowers, and he said the saints were taking the war in stride. I see now that he was pleased. I’d taken his remarks to be rather—irreverent.”

She got up to poke at the fire, though it didn’t need it.

“Perhaps I ought to ask Robert to speak to him. To offer help, if he’ll accept it. Robert has been my right hand for so many years I don’t know how I could have survived without him.” There was a warmth in her voice that conveyed the closeness of that relationship. “He was always my favorite cousin, you know, and the only one who stepped forward in my time of need. I was so young when my husband died, and the responsibility was overwhelming. The estate to run, my sons to care for. I hardly knew where to begin. And all these years later, Arthur’s loss to endure.”

I wondered where she was going with this unexpected confession of vulnerability. She was a strong woman, I’d felt that from the beginning. I should have guessed what her purpose was.

Turning from the fire, she came to sit by me. “Jonathan has spoken to me. Are you sure Arthur didn’t tell you the circumstances surrounding his message?”

“Absolutely. He entrusted me with that, and nothing more.” I didn’t add that my imagination had been busy filling in the blanks.

“Yes, well, it’s rather a mystery. Was he perhaps being given morphine? Or was he out of his head with fever?”

“He’d been given something for pain, but he knew what he was saying. I think he died more comfortably, knowing his duty was done.”

“Duty. That’s an odd way of putting it.” She sighed. “I really don’t know what to make of it.”

I found myself wondering if that was true and she was intentionally blinding herself to what Arthur wanted. On the other hand, I couldn’t help the growing suspicion that she was probing to discover how much I knew about the matter. It was hard to judge what lay behind her sad smile as she stared into the fire, and I was feeling rather uncomfortable.

What surprised me was that Jonathan had confided in his mother. Had she importuned him until he had given in?

I couldn’t stop myself from commenting, “Perhaps he expected Jonathan to understand. The message was meant for him, after all.”

“I did it for Mother’s sake….” She repeated the middle of it, as if trying to work it out. “But what was that?”

“Sometimes it’s a girl….”

Her eyes flicked to my face.

“What makes you think such a thing?”

“I’ve sat with many wounded men, Mrs. Graham. And some of them were in love when they went off to war. But their family or the girl’s family refused to let them marry. That sometimes weighed heavily on their minds, at the end. They often wanted the girl to know that they regretted not marrying her.”

“My sons haven’t been involved with any young women.” Her voice was harsh. I’d met that resistance before. Mothers who believed that their sons had formed no attachments because they were too young…I knew better, I’d written passionate letters to sweethearts from men barely old enough to enlist.

“I didn’t mean to suggest—we were speaking of what men at war talk about at the end. When they know they’re dying.”

She smiled. “That was pompous of me, my dear. Certainly there was no one in Owlhurst for whom Arthur and Jonathan had feelings, and it was natural to assume….” There was a brief hesitation. “Of course there’s Sally Denton. Timothy was quite taken with her for a time. But I can’t believe it was a serious attachment.”

“Then perhaps it was something left undone, something that he’d expected to set right when he came home again.”

“Undone? No, surely not. Typical of Arthur, he’d put everything in order before he sailed. Well. I expect we’ll never know what was in his mind. You must be tired, my dear, after your experiences with Dr. Philips’s patient, and I’ve selfishly kept you sitting here talking. Would you like to go up and lie down for a while?”

I wouldn’t, but it was a dismissal, as if she preferred to be alone with her thoughts, and I was very happy to escape this conversation. I said, “Yes, that’s very kind of you. If you don’t mind…”

“Not at all.” She put out her hand to take mine. “I can’t tell you how happy it has made me to have you here.”

I closed the sitting room door behind me and walked toward the stairs. Timothy was standing in the shadows of the hall, and he turned as he heard me approach.

“How is Booker?” he asked.

“Resting quietly when I left.”

“What a nightmare it must be. Is there nothing to be done for him?”

“I’m afraid not. Somehow he must find the will and determination to let go of the past. And often even that isn’t enough. His wife is afraid of him, which doesn’t help matters. They say time…” I let my voice trail off. We didn’t know enough about shell shock to offer hope. But I didn’t want to admit that.

“We were friends before the war. I’ve seen little of him since he came back.”

“Perhaps he needs his old friends,” I suggested tentatively. “To take his mind off his brother.”

“What do I know about war?” Timothy asked bitterly. “It’s not something I could share with him, is it? The experience of the trenches, the fear of dying when you go over the top.”

“It isn’t war he needs to talk about, you see. It’s ordinary things, the life that was.”

“I’d have married Sally, if she hadn’t chosen Ted. There’s that as well.”

Men and their wretched self-importance.

“If Ted Booker shoots himself, there may be another chance for the two of you.”

That shocked him, and he looked at me with surprise and distaste. “I don’t want her that way.”

“Well, think about Ted Booker in his dark world, will you? An effort on your part to save her husband’s sanity will be a gift to her. If you loved her, you’d want to do that.”

He swore under his breath.

“I wasn’t trying to distress you. But I just spent several hours watching a man who wants to die. There are too many dead, Mr. Graham, and I’m heartily sick of bodies to be buried.”

I turned to walk away, and he called to me, “Did you see through Arthur as easily as you see through me?”

“I don’t know that there was anything to see through. He was dying, and that tends to sweep away the trivia of living. He wanted something done, and that’s why I came, because it was so important to him.”

“Were you in love with him? Most of the girls were. He was the pick of the Grahams, you know. Better than all of us.”

I answered carefully. “I liked your brother very much. Perhaps more than I should, but I watched him believe in his future, and then I watched him give up all hope. That made me feel something for him, compassion, pity, affection. Sometimes you see briefly into someone’s heart, and it becomes a bond between you that goes beyond friendship. But not as far as passion.”

“You’re blunt.”

I smiled. “Am I? It’s my training, I suppose.”

And this time I walked on. He didn’t stop me from going.

My intent was to go up to my room, but the house seemed airless, suffocating. I went to the kitchen instead and begged Susan for a cloak from the entry pegs, and walked out again.

This time I didn’t turn in the direction of the rectory but went down the lane on which the Graham house stood. It ran for a short distance, then split, and I took the left fork. The houses here were comfortable, but not as fine as the Grahams’. At the end of this lane, where another crossed it, I found myself in a row of small cottages, some of them very old but well kept up.

I had walked almost to the end of these when a door opened and someone called, “Susan, is that you?”

I turned to see an elderly woman peering out at me, squinting to make out who I was. It was then that I realized that Susan must have lent me her cloak.

“No, I’m afraid not,” I answered. “I’m staying at the house and borrowed her coat to walk a bit.”

“Then you must be half frozen. Come in to the fire, do, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

I debated accepting, but she was holding the door open for me, and I turned up the path with a word of thanks as I gave her my name.

“Mine’s West, Matty West.” She shut the door behind me and shivered. “I think it’s colder this winter than last. Though it’s probably my bones a year older.”

Leading the way into the kitchen, she pointed to the kettle on the boil. “It’s nearly ready. Sit down and warm yourself. I’ll see to the pot.”

As she bustled about, she said, “You’re at the house, you say? I didn’t think they were taking on more servants at present.”

“Actually I came because I knew Arthur Graham and was with him when he died.”

She stopped, her hands holding the saucers. “You knew Mr. Arthur? Oh, my dear, tell me he died peacefully!”

“Yes, it was very peaceful,” I replied. “Did you know him well?”

“I was housekeeper there while the boys were young. Then my son lost his wife and I came to keep house for him and his children.”

“Oh. You’re Susan’s mother.” When I’d been told she’d gone to live with her son, I’d assumed distance, as in Dorset or Hampshire. Not in Owlhurst.

“Indeed I am.” She went on setting cup into saucer, finding a spoon and the jug of milk. “He was my favorite of the lads, though Mr. Peregrine was the eldest, you know. Mr. Peregrine was—different. I was never sure why. His father blustered and tried to make out that the boy was bright, nothing wrong, but his tutor said it was a shame about him. It must have been true. I put it down to his mother dying so young. But then he never knew her, did he? When his father married again, he was still hardly more than a baby.”

“They never speak of Peregrine,” I ventured. “Is he dead?” I felt guilty for lying, but my curiosity got the better of my conscience.

“As good as. I remember him well—happy and busy and strong, he was.”

“Where is he now?”

She looked away. “It’s not my place to tell you, Miss. He got himself into some trouble, and was taken away. Mrs. Graham sobbed and cried, and the doctor feared for her. But I thought it was no more than an act. She never loved Mr. Peregrine the way she loved the others. If she had to lose one of the boys, it would have been Mr. Peregrine she’d have sacrificed.”

“She admitted to me that Arthur was her favorite.”

“He was mine as well. A finer young man you’ll never see. When the word came he was dead, she took to her bed for two days.”

I left the subject, and said, “Susan has worked for the family a long time. She would make a good wife and mother.”

“She’s devoted to the Grahams. They’re all the family she needs. I’d hoped there might be something between her and Mr. Robert, but there never was.”

“It was Robert who brought me from the station.”

“He’s a strange one, keeps himself to himself. But he’s never failed the family, I will say that for him.”

“Mrs. Graham told me he was a blessing, dealing with the boys after her husband died.”

“They were a rowdy lot, right enough. Just the wrong age to lose a man’s firm hand over them. Mr. Jonathan was the worst, always coming up with this bit of mischief or that. I was that surprised he went into the army. Not one to care for discipline, was he? His mother tried to get him off, but he was determined to go. And he got a medal for bravery, as well. Hotheaded, I’d have called him, but I expect in a war that’s useful.”

I smiled. “Sometimes, yes.”

The tea was ready, and she poured my cup, then her own.

“I’m supposed to be having a nap,” I confided to her.

“Yes, well, you’re young. Old bones feel the wind more. How did it happen you were with Mr. Arthur when he died?”

“I volunteered as a nurse. I was assigned to Britannic until she was sunk by a mine. I didn’t want to drive omnibuses or till the land. My father had been in the army, you see, and I felt I had to do something for his sake. Nursing was much harder than I’d dreamed it was. Helping people, yes, I liked that, but watching them suffer and die was dreadful. I’m still not used to it.”

Susan’s mother nodded. “I was midwife for a time. I just fell into it, because I was the eldest of seven, and my auntie had six, and there was never time to call the doctor to them. When a baby died, I felt guilty, as if I’d done something wrong. I still dream of it, from time to time. Not as much as before, but sometimes. Those wee little faces, so still and pale. No future for them, no love nor laughter nor happiness.”

“I understand.”

“I expect you do.”

We talked for another quarter of an hour, and then I took my leave. She asked me to remember her to her daughter. “For she has no time for visiting just now, with the maids all gone. That’s why I was glad to see what I took for Susan coming down the road.”

I promised and walked back to the house, coming in again through the kitchen and passing on to Susan her mother’s greetings.

“My brother’s children are grown now, and she keeps house for him. But this is still her family as well. I expect she was as glad of news of Mr. Arthur as I was.”

“Hardly happy news.”

“No. Would you like some hot chocolate, Miss, I was just about to put the kettle on.”

“Thank you, no.” I was awash with tea. “I’m going up to my room.”

Susan grinned at me. “Mrs. Graham said you was sleeping. I didn’t tell her otherwise.”

I got to my room without encountering anyone, and Susan brought me a pitcher of hot water shortly afterward. I sat down in a chair by the window, and the next thing I knew there was a tapping at my door.

It was Mrs. Graham, inviting me down to the sitting room. I went with her, and we sat by the fire, talking about the war and any expectation that it would be over by the spring.

“Will you be going back to sea?” she asked me at one point.

“I expect to be assigned to another hospital ship, yes. But the decision isn’t mine. I might be sent to France.”

“You’re a brave young woman,” she said thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t have cared to be sunk, as you were. It was in all the papers, you know. But what do you expect of the Hun?”

“I’m sure the mine was intended for bigger game, not an empty hospital ship.”

“Where did you live as a child? In Somerset?”

“No, I traveled with my parents. We lived in India for a time, and then wherever my father was sent by the army. I had a few friends my own age, but most often I got to know the country through the servants.”

She raised her eyebrows at that.

I explained. “We had any number of servants in India. My ayah, what you would call a nanny, was particular about where I went and what I did. But sometimes the gardeners or the grooms would take me to market with them. Our cook was a man, and quite good. He would bargain ferociously, and he had a reputation for being a hard man to cheat.”

“You enjoyed this way of life, did you? Among the heathen and their idols?”

“I knew nothing else, you see. Since I was an only child, my parents preferred to keep me with them rather than to send me to England to be educated. I realize now how fortunate I was.”

Jonathan came in at that point, and the subject was changed. He was fretting over his wound. It seemed to be irritated by the wind, and he’d stopped in at Dr. Philips’s, in the hope of being given an ointment for it. “But he has his hands full—two births, and of course Booker. The man’s a coward, he should be shut away with others of his kind.”

I opened my mouth to argue—and shut it firmly.

His mother said, “That’s unkind. You’ve known Ted almost all your life. He’s not a coward.”

“It’s different, Mother, when you’re fighting. You see a man in his true colors then. Whether or not he lets his side down.”

“Your own brother has been called a coward, because he isn’t wearing a uniform. It has hurt him very deeply. Surely you don’t believe it’s true.”

“Tim was born with a club foot. It’s not his fault. That’s very different.”

His brother came in at that moment, and we all sat there with feathers on our faces, as if we’d eaten the canary.

Timothy looked from his mother to his brother and said, “What is it?”

“We were talking about Ted Booker. It’s a painful subject for your brother,” Mrs. Graham answered him.

“Yes, sometimes I think that medal has gone to his head.”

They glared at each other, but there was a tap on the door, and Robert stepped in.

“There’s been a message. Peregrine has pneumonia.”

There was a stunned silence.

“And what are we expected to do about it?” Mrs. Graham asked after a moment.

“He needs nursing. They would like to bring him here.”

Jonathan said explosively, “No!”

Mrs. Graham spoke over him, saying, “We don’t have the staff to look after a sick man. Tell them that.”

“They think he’s dying. They would prefer that he do it elsewhere.”

I could hear Timothy swearing under his breath. “Then we have no choice,” he said to his mother.

Her face was set, grim. “I want no part of this business. For one thing, it’s not safe.”

“He’s no danger to himself or others, in his present condition.”

“Tell the messenger it isn’t possible.”

Timothy said, “Mother.” It was a warning, and a glance passed between them. “If he’s delirious—”

“If you like, I could stay a day or two, and care for him,” I said before I’d thought. “I’ve some experience with pneumonia.”

They turned to stare at me as if I’d offered to climb to the roof and sweep the chimney.

“It’s what I do,” I said. “Nursing.”

Robert considered me. He said to Mrs. Graham, “It’s true. She helped Dr. Philips to manage Booker this morning. I saw Mrs. Denton in the stationer’s shop. She was regaling the Marshalls with a full account.”

“You know that’s not possible. Bringing Peregrine back. God knows what thoughts or memories it might trigger,” Mrs. Graham added forcefully.

“He’s going to be sent here, whether we like it or not,” Robert retorted. “I’ve told you. They don’t have the staff to care for a dying man.”

“It will most certainly kill him to bring him out in this cold,” Jonathan put in.

His mother turned to him, her mind working.

It was an odd feeling, sitting in the midst of a family that was deciding the fate of one of its own as if he were a stranger. But it occurred to me that after all these years, he might seem to be.

“If he’s wrapped up well, and there’s a way to keep the air he breathes warmer, he could travel,” I said, doubt in my voice. “I wouldn’t recommend it, but if he’s not likely to be given proper care…”

“He’s in the asylum,” Timothy answered. “You must have seen it last night when you came from the station.”

Robert had pointed it out. As if I should know its significance. As if he was certain that Arthur must have told me about Peregrine.

“The messenger is waiting,” Robert reminded them quietly.

I was beginning to see that he had more influence in this family than a cousin ordinarily possessed.

Mrs. Graham bit her lip. “No,” she said finally. “It can’t be done.”

“Perhaps Dr. Philips could care for him,” I suggested.

“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Graham responded, not looking at me.

“Perhaps I should leave you alone while you decide what to do.” I started for the door, but Robert was blocking it.

“It might be the best course,” he said, ignoring me. “If you think about it.”

Mrs. Graham stared at him as if she could read his mind. And then she nodded once, as if she understood what he was suggesting.

“All right, then. Let them bring him here. If Miss Crawford will be kind enough to see to him until it’s over, I would be very grateful.”

“Mother—” Jonathan began.

“No, Robert’s right. As usual. This is perhaps the answer we were looking for.”

“That’s settled, then.” Robert shut the door.

Mrs. Graham said, “Timothy, if you don’t mind—I’d like a whiskey and water.” She sat down, as if her knees were about to give way. He went to the drinks table and poured a little whiskey into a glass and added the water. She drank it almost thirstily, as if she needed the support it offered.

Then she turned to me. “I have imposed on you, my dear. It is not something I would have wished. If I’d known—” She broke off, and looked at her empty glass. “When Peregrine arrives, we must do our best to make him comfortable. Timothy, would you ask Susan what is needed to open his room?”

He left us, and Jonathan said, “Mother, I hope to God you know what you are about.”

I asked, tentatively, why their son and brother was in an asylum. It was expected of me, and I didn’t want them to know what Dr. Philips had already told me.

“Because, my dear, he murdered someone. In cold blood, but not in his right mind.” The suffering on her face was real.

She hadn’t beaten about the bush. I hardly knew what to say. “That’s—it must have been a terrible time for you.”

“Peregrine’s never been—he had difficulties as a child, you see, but we never suspected—the truth is, you don’t suspect your own flesh and blood of—of having that sort of nature.” There was distress in her voice, a tightness that must have been a mixture of shame and of inexpressible shock as she looked back at the past.

Her emotional confession made me wonder if perhaps I’d been a little hasty in offering my services. She knew better than I just how safe her stepson was. But I couldn’t take back my offer now. The Colonel Sahib would tell me that retreat was the better part of valor, but I knew for a fact he’d never retreated in his life. I wasn’t about to spoil the family record now.

She must have read something in my expression because she said at once, “You needn’t fear him. They say he’s become quite docile—he’s accepted his fate.” She squared her shoulders, as if preparing herself to face what was to come. “Robert is right. They don’t have the means to care for my son as ill as he is. So many of the orderlies and the nurses went off to war that they’re fortunate at the asylum to be able to function at all.”

After that we waited in an uncomfortable silence, expecting the knock on the door at any time that would announce the arrival of the sick man. I thought—belatedly—that I must send a telegram to my parents. I wouldn’t be coming home as planned.

Finally, almost when we’d given it up for the evening, the door knocker sounded like the crack of doom.

I went out into the hall with Mrs. Graham, and she opened the door herself.

A man in a heavy coat stood there, and behind him were two stout men with a stretcher between them. Their breath steamed in the cold air.

On the stretcher lay a tall man, swathed in blankets.

Just then I heard him cough, and I knew the worst. His lungs were terribly congested. And the cold air during the journey had done them no good. Nor had standing there in the winter night.

The stretcher bearers were coming through the door, now, and somehow between them they managed the stairs, grunting and struggling every step of the way. I thought how difficult it must be for the man they jostled and tilted like an egg carried in a spoon, but he never complained.

I went up after them, but Mrs. Graham stayed below, talking to the third man.

Somehow Susan had managed to make a room ready, and I watched the stretcher bearers settle their burden in the bed, drawing up the sheets to his chin.

He lay there, exhausted, his face gray.

I went to the side of the bed as the two men left, and looked down at Peregrine Graham. As murderers went—and I was most certainly no authority—he didn’t appear to be any different from the dozen of pneumonia cases I’d dealt with on Britannic’s next-to-last voyage.

He opened his eyes then, and they were dark, pain and exhaustion mixed in their depths. As he struggled to speak, I wondered if he was dumb. His mouth moved, but he appeared not to know how to shape words.

Finally he managed, “Where am I?” His voice was a husky whisper, I could barely hear the words. “Where have they taken me?”

I realized that no one had told him what was happening. “You’re in your own home, at Owlhurst. I’m here to take care of you.”

“Home?” His eyes looked around, as if trying to place his surroundings. “I must be dying.”

“Early days,” I said, and then watched him start to shiver as the fever came on again.

I ran to the stairs to see if the men had left any medicines for me, but they were gone, and Mrs. Graham was still standing in the hall, her face turned toward the door.

I said, “Could you send Robert to Dr. Philips? I need something for a heavy fever, and something as well for a cough and congestion in the lungs.”

She turned to me, looking up the stairs with shadows on her face that seemed sinister in the low lamplight. “I was told he was dying. That medicines were of no use.”

“We need to make him comfortable to the end,” I pointed out.

After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “Robert will see to it.”

And an hour later, Timothy was at the door with a small box containing the medicines I’d requested. But he wouldn’t come into the room. It was as if he had no wish to see his brother.

It was a measure of the family’s feelings.

♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥