Authors: Rachel Francis
“Mama!” Emily yelled before hitting her head on the floor.
“I am so angry!
I AM the mother of this house, and I will not allow you to behave this way!”
Lady Worthing continued shouting as she dragged Emily into the hall.
“Peter would never want this!
I will not allow it!”
Lord Worthing, and the younger sisters came to see what was the matter, along with every available maid.
Emily, rubbing at the knot on her head, thanked the Four Virtuous that her bedclothes were modest and sensible, though holding them below her hips took the other arm allowing no power to struggle.
No one dared stop Lady Worthing, the fire bursting from her spirit the strongest since her last bout of illness.
This was the fierce truth of Lady Worthing, were she not held back by her body.
“Mama,” Emily gasped.
Her mother took her straight down the stairs, minding no bumps or bruises.
When they reached the bottom, Elizabeth Worthing took hold of the back of her daughter’s neck and marched her outside, down the front walk, panting with effort.
“Look at the sun, feel it on your face.
Does it not remind you of him?”
Lady Worthing sniffled and let go, collapsing to her knees.
Emily could not stand without help, and cut her leg on the stones, no extra layers protecting the sharp bones of her shin.
As ordered, she turned her face up to the sun.
Emily balled up her clammy fists, and allowed hot tears to roll and fall.
Both men she had lost felt like this warmth, an incomparable glowing happiness.
“Mama…
Mama.”
Emily reached out a hand.
Lady Worthing wiped her tears and took it.
“That’s my girl.
Reach for me, and I will help.”
Lord Worthing hugged his two daughters, and not one handkerchief among the witnesses stayed dry.
They all thought that maybe Charlton could be healed, if it could not be whole.
Just once in her adult life, Mary Wingrave wanted everything to be well.
In no way did she shirk responsibility for Peter’s death.
“I’m am a cursed creature,” she breathed.
Every mistake, every misstep stabbed at her temples.
The window shutters swung back and forth, calling to Mary.
What did she have left?
The tribulation she had begun fifteen years ago was as awful as she ever wanted to witness.
With parents who befriended no one for fear of betrayal, a brother giving his life so that they might escape the ruinous fate Mary had assigned them all, and Peter now a casualty of war, driven to service in much the same way as Elijah, she concluded that her presence brought only disaster.
“Would they be relieved?” she wondered.
Mary grasped the sill and bent her head, stopping to rest her forehead on it, tears leaking onto the wood.
Emily Worthing appeared unbidden in her mind, that last stare she’d bestowed before Mary heard the news.
“Why couldn’t I be more like her?”
Agony strangled her throat.
Emily would never have believed a man like Jude had good intentions.
She would never have misled Peter, a true gentleman, into a courtship with no satisfying conclusion.
Emily’s strength humbled Mary, struck her to the bone.
Pure shame lifted her head.
With nary a pause, Mary stepped on the chair.
“Excuse me, your ladyship, a letter has arrived for Miss Emily,” said Velma.
“Thank you, V.
Read it.
The script is unfamiliar to me,” said Lady Worthing.
Emily pinned a lazy bun, for she had not the strength yet to hold her arms above her head for very long.
Yesterday she would have welcomed a quiet death, to pass into her dreams.
Had her mother not taken drastic action, that reality would have come to pass.
But today, Emily had a letter from a mystery writer, and she took some happiness in this small surprise.
“Who would be writing me?” she wondered.
Her fingers, spindly and frail upon examination, now that Emily used her real eyes to see, unstuck the wax.
“Dearest Emily,
Peter is alive, as a prisoner of war, and I am negotiating his release.
It may take time, but I will do whatever is required to procure his safety.
As his commanding officer, I offer an apology for what has occurred.
I wish your family good health.
Capt. Wingrave.”
Emily shrieked and flung herself into her mother’s arms, bowling the Lady off her feet.
“He’s alive!
He’s alive!”
Emily tried to stand and help Lady Worthing up, but her condition forced dizziness.
“Peter?” said Lady Worthing, trying to hold Emily straight.
“Yes!
Call Papa!
Call my sisters!
He’s alive!”
“Roland!” Lady Worthing shouted, quite surprising everyone who thought her outburst to be over.
She hustled to the railing above the stairs, leaving Emily to pant with the effort of being so happy and out of bed.
Lord Worthing rushed from his study, assuming someone had been hurt.
“Yes, my dear?
What is it?”
The news of his son had taken its toll on Lord Worthing as well, his haggard face drawn up in alarm.
“Our son lives!
Emily has had a letter,” said Lady Worthing, “Bridget is about the grounds with Genevieve and Ms. Pierce, you must tell them.”
He obeyed at once, striding outdoors without his coat.
Lady Worthing returned to Emily and helped her to sit.
“Who wrote you?
What does it say?” said Lady Worthing.
Emily read her the body, skipping the greeting which puzzled her.
‘Dearest Emily,’ when the rest of the letter was so formal and curt?
Was it possible that he loved her?
Her feelings had run away with the assumption that he could not have felt as deeply as she had, but then discovering from Edward exactly what the secret was had tangled it up in mystery again.
The Worthings celebrated that night with Emily’s first large meal since returning to Charlton.
They danced and played and anxiously whispered.
Then, the wait began.
Every day that ended without a letter burdened them like a prison sentence.
Emily’s health returned and with it a renewed sense of her feelings.
She was at once angry with, and grateful to Elijah Wingrave.
Very angry, and very grateful.
And still very much in love.
All the Mr. Coreys in Dunbarrow could ask for her hand and Emily would still choose Capt. Wingrave every time.
She cherished the only two words he’d given her in months, ashamed to be so excited about a pittance.
Mary’s breath was lost in the high wind and the world began to spin in hypnotic color.
She cried.
For herself, her child, Peter, the Worthings, her mother and father, her brothers.
At the last, she may have even shed a tear of pity for Jude.
“Peter,” she said.
He, Elijah, and Emily swam in her head.
The maid Katherine knocked on the door, and entered, thinking that Miss Wingrave had gone out, to see Mary perched on the window ledge looking down.
Mary went limp as she saw the terror in Katherine’s face, causing her to fall back into the room.
“Miss?
Miss!”
Katherine rushed over to her mistress and patted her cheeks.
“What were you about Miss Mary?
Tell me you weren’t thinking of leaving us early.”
“I…
I…
Sorry,” muttered Mary.
Katherine, even at her age, sprung to the door and assured another servant that all was well before shutting and locking it.
She put Mary in bed, and frowned down at her.
“Sorry is for accidents, ma’am.
Listen to this old woman.
There is no point in life at which you are lost until you surrender.”
Mary wept.
“Katherine, you remember, don’t you?
What is was like at Landhilton before?”
Mary’s throat was raw as if she’d been screaming.
Katherine pursed her lips.
“Excuse me for plain-speaking, Miss Mary, but I was good friends with Mrs. Pratchett.
I am the only servant in this house who knows what happened here, and I can tell you one thing.
You’re not to blame.
Your parents blame themselves, and your brothers blame that man.
It’s a wise thing to own your guilt, milady, but impossible to own the guilt of others.
You’ve been tearing yourself asunder thinking you made this house tremble, and I am here to tell you, life would be much worse without Miss Mary Wingrave,” said the old woman.
Mary blanched at this impromptu lecture, but Katherine was not finished.
“And another thing.
That boy that died, the one that made you an offer.
He was right to do so.
He was also right to do something useful after being refused.
Remember him with honor, and don’t shackle him with your death.
Do you think he’d feel alright, sitting up in the Afterlife, watching you jump out a window?”
Morbid curiosity got the better of Mary, and she asked, “Katherine, how many children do you have?”
“Thirteen, counting my sister’s orphans.”
“They have a good mother,” said Mary.
Katherine smiled on her mistress.
“Are we at an understanding, Miss Mary?
Will I worry if I leave the room?”
Mary took a deep breath and nodded.
“There now.
I’ve a letter from Mr. Elijah, maybe it will cheer you.”
Mary took the letter.
She waited as Katherine brushed dust off her dress.
“Thank you, Katherine.
I needed what you said.”
“Absolutely, Miss.
Ring if you need me, I mean it,” said Katherine, slowly leaving the room.
“I am weak,” said Mary to herself, “to try and escape this pain.”
Even though she’d had word from Edward that Emily fared no better, Mary still hated that she lacked the fortitude so present in Miss Worthing.
Even Katherine outpaced her pitiful constancy.
“Elijah…” she whispered, tracing his script.
Without much thought as to what he could have written, she tore it open.
“Mary,
Peter lives.
I cannot write much more as I have much to do to guarantee that statement.
I hope this can ease your deepest despair, at least.
Love,
Elijah.”
“Katherine, your monthly wages have just increased,” said Mary, hugging the parchment to her chest.
SEVEN DAYS PRIOR
In the end, Elijah could not bring himself to write Mary about the loss.
In part because he didn’t know how to deliver the blow, and because he didn’t believe it himself.
Capt. Wingrave had inspected every body that came back from the front line that day.
He’d written a personal letter to the Jakes family when he recognized their son.
Peter was nowhere to be found.
Elijah knew very well that it meant little; there were places he could have fallen where no one would find him, especially if the wildlife had their way.
The Captain shook his head.
Five weeks had passed, and not a letter had arrived from Mary.
She could not have escaped the crushing news, so she was either angry with him, or so despondent she couldn’t pick up a quill.
Edward had written him several times to ask for absolute confirmation of Peter’s fate, and Elijah disappointed him every time.
One particular line haunted Capt. Wingrave.
“Bridget will survive, being of a positive temperament, and Genevieve is too young to be forever scarred, but Emily, coming to this event in poor spirits, has fallen ill and may not possess enough resilient fiber to recover despite the innate strength I have witnessed in her myself.”
“Captain!
Captain!
An emissary has crossed the battlefield with a communication, sir,” called Swofr. Barnes from the other side of Elijah’s personal quarters door.
In only trousers and his undershirt, Capt. Wingrave threw the door open.