Gather the Bones

Cover Copy

War leaves no one untouched
 

The horrors of the Great War are not the only ghosts that haunt Helen Morrow and her late husband's somewhat reclusive cousin, Paul. Unquiet spirits from another time and another conflict touch them.

A coded diary gives them clues to the mysterious disappearance of Paul's great-grandmother in 1812, and the desperate voice of a young woman reaches
 
out to them from the pages. Together Helen and Paul must search for answers, not only for the old mystery, but also the circumstances surrounding the death of Helen's husband at Passchandaele in 1917.
 

As the mysteries entwine, their relationship is bound by the search for truth, in the present and the past.
 

Teaser

In the shadowy corridor, Paul could see the slight figure in a blue robe of some kind standing at the door to Evelyn’s room. She stood quite still her arm outstretched as if pointing to the library stairs.

As he reached her, Helen turned and screamed. Her knees appeared to buckle and he caught her and held her by the forearms, turning her to face him.

“Steady,” he said. “Just take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

She sank in his grip, and for a moment he thought she had fainted. In the watery moonlight that filtered in through the windows her face looked ashen.

“Paul?”

His name came out in a whispered rush as she hung limp in his grasp. Instinctively he put his arms around her, drawing her in toward him like he would a small child. Helen leaned against his chest and he could smell the sweet, floral scent of soap in her hair.

She looked up at him and frowned, stiffening in his embrace. He released her, taking a step back as she ran a shaking hand through her hair that fell loose around her face.

Gather the Bones

By Alison Stuart

Gather the Bones

9781616504076

Copyright © September 2012, Alison Stuart

Edited by Ann-Marie Smith

Book design by Lyrical Press, Inc.

Cover Art by Renee Rocco

First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: September, 2012

Lyrical Press, Incorporated

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PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products

of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated

Dedication

Dedicated to the memory of my father-in-law. CHB. Educator, philosopher and friend
 

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my husband, DJB, for his unswerving love and support (and for taking me to visit the battlefields of
 
World War One), my mother in law, PJB, for her eagle eye and my writing group, The Saturday Ladies Bridge Club, for their encouragement.

Author’s Foreword

In a quiet war cemetery in France is the grave of a young man, a cousin of my father. An old family photograph shows a solemn little boy with fair hair and glasses who was destined to go into the church when he finished university. Instead
 
he went to war and died at Pozières in 1916 at the age of 22 with the rank of Captain and a Military Cross to his name. Just one of thousands upon thousands of young men from all over the world who found themselves in this small corner of France and Belgium. They went for the adventure and in a belief that they were serving their King and Country but so many never came home.

As I sat by the simple white head stone, the mother in me wept for the boy, the soldier empathized and the writer decided it was time to tell a story about the Great War.

Prologue

3rd London Territorial General Hospital October 22, 1917

Paul turned his head on the pillow and watched as Evelyn Morrow, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield, followed the nurse past the rows of beds. Her gaze did not move from the woman’s starched back as if she was unable to bring herself to look around her at the carnage the war had wrought.

The breath caught in the back of his throat and a coward’s voice in his mind whispered:
Not here, not now.

He knew she had been watching and waiting for him to return to the world. Through the haze of drugs and delirium he had been aware of her standing sentinel by his bed, clad in black from head to foot, a shadow. He knew he had to face her, but he lacked the strength to match her grief against his.

Feigning sleep, he shut his eyes.

“Now, only a few minutes, Lady Morrow. He is still very weak,” the nurse said. “I will be at my desk if you require anything.”

Paul heard the efficient clack of the nurse’s heels on the linoleum floor as she returned to her place at the end of the ward.

Through the pervading scent of carbolic, he could smell his aunt’s perfume and once again he stood on Waterloo station, a small boy clutching a battered suitcase. A beautiful woman in a blue gown had bent down and taken his hand, enveloping him in a cloud of lavender.

She hadn’t kissed him then and she didn’t kiss him now. Lady Evelyn Morrow just stood at the foot of his bed, looking down at him.

“Paul? Can you hear me?” Her tone commanded obedience and his eyes flickered open, meeting hers, dark pools behind the black netting that covered her face.

Evelyn clutched the metal bar at the end of the bed and the feather on her hat began to quiver as her whole body shook with the force of her emotion. “You promised.” Her voice rose on a crescendo of despair. “You promised you would keep him safe. Where is he? Where’s my son? Where’s Charlie?”

Paul felt her grief as a palpable force, sending shock waves down the rows of beds that lined the ward. He wanted to say, “I promised. I know I promised but I couldn’t keep it. Charlie is gone.”

His fingers tightened on the starched sheet and his breath came in short, sharp gasps as the words formed and then stuck fast.

The chair at the nurse’s station scraped on the floor and her hurried footsteps beat a rapid tattoo on the linoleum floor.

“Lady Morrow. Really, I must protest. Come away with me this instant.”

The nurse placed a firm arm around Evelyn’s shoulder, leading her away. Evelyn shook off the encircling arm and turned back to look at him, the tears Paul knew she had probably not allowed herself to shed were now spilling down her face.

“Lady Morrow, please. You are overwrought. I’ll fetch you a nice cup of tea.” The nurse’s tone softened and with her arm around Evelyn’s shoulders she led the woman into the glassed-in office at the end of the ward.

Paul turned his head on the hard, lumpy pillow, feeling the starched linen crackle beneath his cheek. In the bed next to him, a young subaltern who had lost both his legs lay immobilized by the stiff sheets and blankets. The impeccable bedclothes, pulled up to his chin, hid the reality of his horrific injuries from his visitors, reducing the war to something neat, tidy and manageable.

In the office, beyond the line of beds, the nurse handed a cup to Evelyn. The door opened and the Matron of the hospital entered the little office and began to berate the errant visitor for her unseemly behavior. Lady Evelyn Morrow sat hunched in a chair like a schoolgirl and even through the glass snatches of the scolding–inappropriate behavior and upsetting the patients–filtered out into the ward.

The nurse returned to Paul’s bedside, making a pretence of straightening his pillow.

“Really,” she tutted as she fussed over him. “I would have expected better from a lady.”

“Outward displays of grief should be reserved for the lower classes?” he murmured.

“Pardon?” the nurse replied.

“Tell her I want to see her,” Paul said.

The nurse straightened. “Are you sure?”

He nodded and with a sniff, the nurse bustled back to the office. She whispered in Matron’s ear and the older woman stiffened, casting a quick glance in Paul’s direction. Evelyn looked up as the Matron spoke. She too glanced through the window toward him and rose to her feet, tucking her handkerchief back into her purse.

Her back straight, Evelyn looked the Matron squarely in the eye and her words, audible through the glass, echoed down the long ward. “I assure you, there will be no repeat.”

Once more the nurse, this time in the company of Matron, conducted Evelyn to his bedside. A rustle of anticipation rippled through the ward and Paul imagined the faces of the other patients turned expectantly toward his aunt. If nothing else, her outburst had provided an entertaining highlight in an otherwise dull day.

“Now, Lady Morrow,” the Matron said as Evelyn took the seat beside Paul’s bed. “I am sure I don’t need to remind you, Major Morrow is easily tired. A few minutes, that’s all.”

Paul looked up at the ceiling while his mind framed the words. He knew what had to be said and that the words would not bring her the comfort she sought.

“Evelyn?”

She raised her eyes and once more they looked at each other, these two strangers, bound together by ties they could not sever.

“Evelyn...I’m sorry...” he said, shocked at how weak his voice sounded.

She leaned toward him. “No,” she said in a low voice. “I was unfair on you, Paul. It is I who should apologise.”

“I know what you want to ask me,” he said.

Evelyn did not hesitate. “Is he dead?”

Paul closed his eyes as he struggled with the simple word that would give her the answer she sought. He had no tears of his own to shed for Charlie. Three and a half years in the trenches had robbed him of the ability to show sorrow and his own grief for his cousin ran too deep for such an outward display.

He heard her breath catch and knew she had read the answer in his face even as he answered. “Yes.”

Her lips tightened in a supreme effort to control herself. “What happened, Paul? Please tell me how he died and why I cannot bury my son.”

He turned his face away from her. “I don’t know, Evelyn. God help me, I don’t remember. I just know he is dead.”

Evelyn sat in silence, watching him. As she rose to leave, in a gesture that would have seemed foreign to her in the long days of his childhood, she placed a gloved hand over his good hand. Her fingers tightened on his, binding him to her.

Chapter 1

Helen Morrow took a deep breath, her hand tightening on her daughter’s. She felt a corresponding squeeze, looked down into Alice’s upturned face, and smiled. Why were children so much braver than adults?

She raised the knocker on the old oak door and let it fall. The sound reverberated around the quiet courtyard and she took a step back as the door opened to reveal a small, round woman wearing a spotless white apron over a flowered dress.

Before Helen could speak, the woman’s face lit up with a smile.