Authors: Alison Stuart
Helen turned and hurried back toward the house. In the courtyard she stopped and leaned against the wall, gathering her breath and her thoughts. Angela had intimated that there had been something more than friendship between herself and Paul. Did she want to revive the relationship? Helen took a steadying breath. She should be glad if they had rediscovered each other. They both deserved happiness in their lives. Anyway, she told herself fiercely, as she walked back into the house, it was none of her business.
What she didn’t understand was the unfamiliar ache that the thought left in her heart.
* * * *
Paul stood at the stable yard gate long after Angela had ridden away. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, his thoughts not of Angela but of a simple, obvious, innocent question from a child. A question he couldn’t answer: “
Where’s Daddy
?”
He braced himself, dismissing the dark memories. It would be a good half hour until lunch. That gave him time to sort through some notes. In the library he found Helen standing at the window, her arms folded in front of her in a curiously defensive posture. He could not see her face, only her straight back and the long graceful neck, revealed now by her short haircut.
“Helen?”
Her shoulders rose and fell but she did not turn to face him. “Do you know where he is, Paul?”
Paul took a deep breath but said nothing.
Helen turned to face him. He expected to see signs of tears again but her face, while pale and strained, showed no sign of obvious distress.
Paul looked up at the ceiling, trying to find the right response, all the platitudes he had worked so hard at developing deserting him when he needed them most. When he brought his gaze back to Helen’s, he said, “What do you want me to tell you, Helen?”
“As much as you do remember.”
He looked away, the confused visions of his nightmares crowding in on him. He closed his eyes, knowing as he did so, that the bursts of light and the tightening band around his temples presaged a migraine.
“Did you kill him?”
Her words took his breath and he knew the shock registered in his face. It was not the first time he had heard the whisper but to hear it come from Helen appalled him. “Why do you say that?”
“I heard some of the others gossiping yesterday. They said there were stories that you –”
“Helen,” he cut in sharply. “Is that what upset you yesterday?”
She lowered her eyes. “Mostly. There were other things to do with Charlie and me.”
“James Massey,” Paul said in disgust. “He is one of those malicious people with nothing better to do with their time except cause trouble. Helen, Charlie was as close to me as any brother could have been and there is not a day goes by when I don’t feel his loss as keenly as you must, but I can’t tell you what happened.”
“Will you ever, Paul?”
He met her eyes wanting to say, “
Perhaps one day. One day I will, but not now, not here
.”
“You heard Alice?” she continued. “It’s the first time she has ever asked about her father. What do I say? How do I explain it to her?”
“You can’t, Helen.”
She turned back to the window, bowing her head.
He knew he hadn’t answered her question, hadn’t denied the accusation. He longed to touch her, reassure her, tell her what she so desperately wanted to know–instead he turned away, closing the door behind him, intent only on reaching the sanctuary of his bedroom before the black beast of the migraine felled him completely.
* * * *
Passchandaele, Belgium September 16, 1917 2200 hours.
It seemed almost impossible that in the middle of a war there could be such complete and utter silence. Paul twisted the matchbox in his fingers, conscious of the three taut faces turned toward him. Brent, only just twenty, a Lieutenant commanding a company, chewed his lip and glanced nervously at Collins, Captain and Commander of B Company. Collins had been at the front too long. His nerves had gone and he had trouble hiding the fact that his hand shook as he brought the stub of his cigarette to his mouth.
They all knew the answer and they all knew why Paul hesitated.
He set the matchbox down on the table and turned to the third person seated at the table.
“Charlie,” he said, forcing himself to meet his cousin’s eyes.
Charlie neither blinked nor looked away and in that brief moment his eyes said more than words ever would. They had discussed it often enough over the past few weeks.
“Captain Morrow, your objective is the pill box,” Paul said, spreading his hand over the map on the table before him. They all knew the layout of the German lines. They had been staring at them for months.
“How?” Brent exclaimed
“The pillboxes are designed for mutual support,” Paul said. “The slits are on the diagonal.” He drew a rough sketch on a corner of the map. “Their front is blind”.
“Their front may be blind, but there are plenty of other eyes,” Collins put in.
Paul nodded. “H hour is zero six hundred. Charlie will take two men armed with grenades out into no man’s land while it is still dark.”
“The brass’ll skin you alive!” Collins said.
“The brass won’t care,” Paul said bitterly. “It’s merely a heavily armed patrol.”
“The Huns’ll see them coming.”
“Charlie knows to keep low and use the shell holes as cover and if we have a feint at the far end of the line, that will keep them busy until Charlie can reach the pill box.”
“What sort of feint?” Brent asked.
“A bit of obvious movement.”
Brent creased his brow. “But, won’t that give the whole game away?”
“It won’t matter. We’re going over at H hour and the game will be on for one and all,” Paul said.
“What about the artillery barrage?” Collins put in. “Those idiots can’t hit anything,” Charlie said.
“You’ve spent too long in Australia. You’re starting to sound like them.” Paul said with a half smile. “Brent, you’ll provide the diversion and then act as the reserve once we go over the top. Collins, you’ll take your company and Charlie’s as the main attack force.”
Collins raised his shaking hand and wiped his mouth. “And you, sir?” he asked.
“I’ll be with you in the main charge,” Paul said. “Our objective is to take these trenches.” He indicated the map. “And if we can push through the objective, then we damn well will.”
“Is that in your orders, sir?” Collins asked with a suspicious frown.
Paul just looked at him.
After the others had gone, Paul and Charlie sat back against the cold earth of the dugout and smoked in silence.
“I’ve no choice, Charlie.”
Charlie blew out the smoke. “I know that. We’ve discussed it often enough. Time to see if it works.”
Paul closed his eyes. “I can refuse–”
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Paul. If you refuse it won’t change anything. You’ll be shot as a coward and we’ll all still be going over the top into certain death. It’s better for us all if you’re with us.”
Paul shot his cousin a rueful look. “Well, you better damn well make sure it works, Captain Morrow.”
Chapter 12
Helen knocked on Paul’s door and sighed with relief when she heard his voice. He sat in his chair by the fire, a book in his hand. Looking up at her, he set the book aside. Sarah had told her at breakfast that a migraine had laid him out and his face was still ashen with dark circles under his eyes.
“Sarah said you wanted to see me,” Helen said. “Are you better?”
He shrugged.
“I’m so sorry about what I said yesterday,” she said, filled with remorse and a nagging fear that it had been their confrontation that had brought on the migraine.
“What for? You didn’t give me a migraine,” he said. “It had been threatening all morning.”
“I’ve not been idle while you’ve been out of action.” Helen smiled. “I finished your report.”
She handed him the papers and he flicked through the report, before laying it to one side.
“Thank you. That’s saved me days of work. Now, I have something for you.”
He pulled himself to his feet in a manner that suggested every bone in his body ached. When he saw her face, he gave a rueful smile.
“I feel a hundred years old tonight.”
He limped over to the table by the window and gathered some sheets of paper together. He turned back to face her and gestured at the spare chair.
“If you’re in no hurry, sit down.”
He handed her the papers and resumed his own chair.
“The diary. You broke the code.” Helen looked up at him.
“It wasn’t that hard but I have to give the credit to my great-grandmother, it was clever.”
Helen scanned the pages, trying to make sense of Paul’s now familiar scrawl that was completely at odds with Suzanne Morrow’s feminine hand in the diary itself.
“January 30, 1812,”
she read aloud
. “For the last two days I have been employed in the compilation of this simple yet effective code. I am sure a man of no great intelligence could see through it at once but for a simple woman, it will serve my purpose well enough.”
Paul smiled ruefully. “It is good to think of myself as a man of no great intelligence. It’s taken me hours.”
“
...A letter came from Robert this morning. A brief epistle which I dutifully read to Lady Morrow. Another recounting of a battle, of the cold and the shortage of food. Robert is so far away. S is here in England and I do not know when I will see him again. At night before I sleep, I imagine his face. Why is it when I close my eyes, I can see this man so clearly and not the face of my husband?
“
Lady Morrow remarked on my high color and asked me if I ailed. Indeed she insisted I retire to my bedchamber for the morning. She is of the opinion that I am far too excitable.
”
“She seems to be a woman ruled by her heart not her head,” Helen commented. “Surely she knew the consequences of conducting an affair of this nature. If she was to be found out, she would be ruined.”
“
February 5,
”
she continued
.
“
A letter from S. He will put no identifying mark on the letter and if asked by Lady Morrow I shall say the letters are from an old friend or my dear brother and of a personal nature. My heart trembles at such deceit. I feel at every step I am being drawn into a net from which there is no escape but I cannot prevent it.
“
I have burned the letter but every word is committed to my memory.
“
February 12: Last night Viscount Hartfield held a farewell party at Wellmore House for Adrian who must return to his regiment. You cannot imagine my joy on beholding S among the guests. I could not meet his eyes or pretend any knowledge of his presence beyond the formal presentation by Lady Hartfield.
“‘
Of course we met at New Year,’ he said, taking my hand. His touch sent a thrill from my fingers to my heart. His fingers, so firm, so sure, held mine, only so long as propriety required. ‘Lady Morrow,’ he said. ‘You look enchanting tonight.’ We continued with the pretence of genteel acquaintance throughout the evening. After supper, Lady Hartfield declared that I should entertain the company with a song. Oh how I hate such occasions. My good father in his earnest desire to educate me, neglected instruction in the most basic of female arts and left me quite unskilled in matters of needlework, painting and piano forte. Lady Morrow was so scandalized by my upbringing that she insisted I should have lessons and Signor Montefiore has attended Holdston on a weekly basis to correct my shortcomings but despite his best efforts I fear I will always be but a mediocre artiste.
“
Nonetheless I acquiesced to the request with a smile on my face and to my great delight S offered to turn the pages of the music for me. To have him so close to me that I could breathe in the very scent of him was a distraction I could well have done without. As he leaned over my shoulder, I felt the hairs on my neck rise in anticipation of his proximity. I sang for him alone. When I was done, the company applauded politely and S took my hand and kissed it. The touch of his lips was no more than gossamer but his eyes spoke more words then I cared to hear.
”
Paul shook his head. “I feel like I am reading some penny dreadful romance novel.”
Helen looked up at him and smiled, before continuing.“
February 13: I cannot contain myself. I have devised a way that we can meet in perfect secrecy and I am beside myself to impart the information to him. When will he come? Adele is teething and fretful. I held her in my arms and wept from fear of what the future may hold. My children have been my life. What am I doing?
“
February 15: Lady Hartfield called yesterday afternoon accompanied by Barbara and S. I suspect that Lady Hartfield has some designs on S for Barbara and why indeed not? He has ten thousand a year, if Lady H is to be believed, and she comes with a sizeable dowry. I smiled to see the pathetic girl simpering over her cup of tea, trying to interpose on our conversation with some inanity of her own. I had to bide my time until the party came to leave at which point I slipped a note into his hand.
”