Secrets of Nanreath Hall (22 page)

“The old earl was always a hard, unforgiving man,” Mrs. Polley said.

“And a coward. Didn't even do his own dirty work,” Minnie added. “Sent Lady Boxley in his stead.”

“She's as cunning and hard as the old earl. Looks soft, but she's sharp as an adder. Always was,” Miss Dawlish intoned down her narrow hook nose.

“At least the young Lord Melcombe takes after his father,” Mrs. Crewe said.

Minnie sipped at her tea, her fingers tight on the cup, her eyes focused on the sketch of the ruins. “So Her Ladyship's always said.”

May 1915

W
aterloo Station was crowded with soldiers. The platform rolled and swirled like the sea with a crush of hats and coats, bobbing umbrellas slick with spring rain, and here and there the slender white flash of a waving hand as each loaded train moved out with a mournful hoot of its whistle. Even the moaning rise and fall of voices as loved ones were parted with a final glimpse through a grimy window reminded me of a mournful ocean gale.

I pushed my way through the sobbing wives and lovers wiping red eyes on white handkerchiefs, the swish of their long black skirts, as if they already counted their men dead and gone, the stoic fathers with white bristling mustaches guiding stooped and faded mothers by the arm, their eyes still glassy with shock.

I paused, scanning the lower platform where William's train waited, hoping to spy him through the mob. He'd been evacuated home to recover from a bullet wound to his upper arm, barely a trifle amid such appalling losses, but for a month I breathed easier,
knowing he was safe in South Audley Street. I might be forbidden from seeing him, but I could lay aside the tiring weight of my fear for a short time.

Now I stood on tiptoe, withstanding the buffeting currents as people came and went. There . . . just to the left of that last column. William's height lent him an advantage, his chestnut head standing like a flame among the sea of brown and gray surrounding him.

Even from here I could see he wasn't the polished barracks officer of last fall. His face bore a thin, haunted look; his mouth was a twisted line. His shoulders were stooped, as if he were in pain or braced for the blow poised to fall. Looking around, it was easy to pick out the veterans from the raw recruits. A year in the trenches had swept away the crisp pleats and shining brass, the swagger and the arrogant sense of superiority. What remained was a gritty, cynical, dead-eyed cadre of survivors, leading ranks of starry-eyed boys who dreamed of honor and glory as they marched off to avenge the dead of the
Lusitania
, the passenger liner sunk by the Germans three weeks previously off the Irish coast.

William spotted me, and I waved before plunging back into the descending current. The stairs were slick, and I nearly fell, only the press of people to all sides holding me upright as they carried me along with them. I broke free with a well-placed elbow and a poke of my umbrella, finding myself alone at the far edge of the platform.

William smiled then his gaze passed beyond me, the pleasure fading from his face. I turned in time to see my parents descending the stairs behind me, their expressions strained, their posture rigid and unapproachable as ever. Before they spotted me, I stepped back into the shadow of the column, letting them pass, unaware their wayward daughter was only feet away. I smelled Mama's perfume, Papa's cigars. It might have been my imagination but I could have sworn I caught a whiff of lemon oil and beeswax, and even the briny
tang of Nanreath's sea air caught in the folds of her coat and his fur collar.

I ached for my home as I had not done since I'd walked away from my aunt's house in Simon's company.

William greeted them stiffly and the three stood in quiet conversation. I looked around, expecting Cynthia to appear just behind, perhaps with Hugh in tow. My brother, too, seemed to gaze up the stairs as if expecting his wife to wish him good-bye, but a small shake of Mama's head seemed to answer the unspoken question. He shrugged and glanced my way, his voice low, his words unmistakable.

Mama spun, her hands curling into her chest, as if protecting herself while Papa's icy stare nearly froze me breathless. Then William's eyes met mine, clear and insistent, and I wasn't afraid or ashamed.

I stepped free of the column. “Hello, Mama . . . Papa. I hope you're well.”

I had seen those twin looks of disgust and disapproval many times, usually when we'd had to mingle uncomfortably with the unwashed masses; though never had they been aimed at me. I felt my insides curling, my confidence failing beneath the sneering, hard-eyed condescension.

Papa turned his back. It felt like a knife to the chest, and I think I gasped out loud. A flash of pain crossed Mama's face and she reached a hand for me, so quickly that I wasn't sure I saw it, but at a clearing of Papa's throat, she firmed her narrow chin, dropped her arm back to her side, and followed Papa's lead.

“What are you doing?” William growled.

“We no longer know this young woman. Nor should you if you care for your reputation. Her indecency and lack of morals are all too clear just by looking at her.”

I admit I wasn't dressed in the first stare of fashion. My skirt was heavily mended, my blouse washed so frequently that the fabric was worn nearly translucent and my coat had come secondhand from a market stall. But my hat was new, the violets in the band perfectly complimenting the blue of my scarf and the blue of my eyes.

“My reputation?” William's bark of laughter was ugly to hear. “There is a far more disgusting indecency going on across the Channel. Would you really shun Kitty for following her heart?”

“One's heart doesn't enter into it. Sentimental youth sees love in every charming smile and nervous flutter. Those smart enough to understand this realize there are greater considerations to take into account. Your sister was a fool and she will end as all fools do, lamenting her folly.”

As always, my mouth ran away with me, my anger outstripping my tact. “Is this how you convinced William to marry Cynthia? By pointing out those greater considerations of duty, honor, and the family reputation?”

“Kitty . . .” William warned.

Papa brushed off my accusations with a gruff snort, but at least he was acknowledging I existed. “William knew his worth to the family and to himself and behaved accordingly. You behaved cheaply and thus were bought for a tinker's price.”

I swallowed back the tears. I refused to let this man see me cry, but his words hurt like a physical pain. I wanted only to hurt as he hurt me. To cause pain equal to that inflicted, but as anyone knows who lashes out blindly in fury, it's not only the intended target that gets hurt.

“So where is Cynthia now? Shouldn't the perfect daughter-in-law be here to see her husband off to war? After all, it wouldn't be the first time she kissed a lover good-bye before battle—maybe not the last, either.”

“Kitty, stop,” William said quietly, but I was too far gone to halt the stream of anger.

“Perhaps she's not as dear a prize as you thought, Papa. Perhaps her affections can be bought for far less than you believed. Why don't you ask her when you see her next? Ask her who the lucky man is.”

“Kitty, enough.”

It was not my parents' sputtered fury but William's cold, clear, knifing voice that dragged me back to my senses. He stood vibrating like a coiled spring, white ringing his mouth, his eyes painfully bright. Hands clenched.

I wiped my face, drew a breath. “I'm . . . William, I'm so sorry. I have to go. I shouldn't have come. Take . . .” I met his gaze for one long, painful moment. “Take care of yourself.”

I turned and ran, never getting to hug him good-bye or offer one last kiss. But I watched from the farthest corner of the upper platform as his train pulled out. The young soldiers who hadn't yet experienced the horrors of the front sang songs. As my nose ran and tears burned my eyes, I hummed along as they raised their voices in “The Homes They Leave Behind.”

June 1941

T
he ward scullery, an old anteroom converted and improved with a sink and a small burner ring when the house changed hands, still bore the orange and gold damask wallpaper of its heyday and a chandelier, which sparkled down on a metal table, two chairs, and an enormous ugly army-issue cabinet. The room was noisy, too close to Sister Murphy's gimlet eye for comfort, and the upper doors of the cabinet had a disconcerting habit of swinging open at odd times and catching one in the face. But the biscuit tin was always full, the kettle always at the boil, and the talk always juicy.

Coming off duty, Anna retired to fix a restorative cup of tea before climbing the stairs to her room and falling into bed, hopefully for six hours of dreamless sleep.

“Thought I'd find you here.” Hugh dropped into a chair beside her. “I'd kill for a whiskey.”

Anna poured him a cup of tea instead and set it at his elbow. “Has Lieutenant Forbes's wife arrived yet?”

“No. That's three times she's canceled.” He stared into the mug, hands plowed to either side of his head. “Bloody bitch.”

“It's hard to see someone you love suffering.”

“You mean it's hard seeing them with half a face and no hands. Forbes shouldn't even be here, Anna. Why hasn't he been sent on to Basingstoke or the Queen Victoria?”

“He's due to be transferred any day. He's only here now because Southampton ran out of beds.”

“Bloody fucking war.” Hugh pulled a flask from his pocket, pouring a generous amount of whiskey into his tea. Swirled it around. So much for sobriety.

“Surely it will make a difference, now the Russians are on our side,” Anna remarked, nibbling a shortbread biscuit.

“I'd like to say Hitler's bitten off more than he could chew, but who would have thought he'd manage as much as he has in such a short time? The damned little corporal in Berlin may look a clown, but he's no bloody fool. He'd not attack Stalin if he didn't think he'd beat him.”

“It must do us
some
good. We're not alone in this fight anymore. That has to count for something.”

“Meanwhile, the Lieutenant Forbeses of this war languish while the people who profess to love them shy away out of revulsion and fear.” A hand fell to his thigh, kneading what was left of his leg. “We're damaged goods set out for the refuse heap.”

“Stop it,” Anna snapped. “Stop behaving as if your life is over because you've lost a damned leg. Look at Forbes. Is he complaining? You're perfectly capable of doing anything you put your mind to if you took two seconds to be grateful for what you have rather than always moaning about what you've lost.”

He offered her a wry if somewhat apologetic smile. “You know, I wonder sometimes if the advantages of gaining a new cousin are worth the grief. Nobody else scolds me like you do. Well . . . no one but Mother, though her reprimands are far less vocal. She can make me feel guilty with no more than a lift of one perfectly plucked eyebrow and a sorrowful half smile.”

A voice barked, “In there.”

Speak of the devil. Anna looked up in time to catch Sister Murphy jabbing a finger in her direction and Lady Boxley offering a curt empress-like nod of gratitude.

She wore a pale green dress with a fashionable close-fitting hat to match. Her hair and makeup were impeccable, and she moved in that brisk yet patronizing way of all upper-class women, as if she had just swept out of her chauffeur-driven Bentley after a day of shopping at Harrods and taking tea at Brown's Hotel.

Hugh stood as his mother entered the room. Anna noted the way his hand clutched the table and the sudden leaping pulse in his jaw. No doubt, Her Ladyship expected Anna to hop to attention like a doorman or a housemaid with a submissive curtsy, but she was too tired and her feet hurt. She stayed where she was and spooned honey into her cup.

“Set an army of her ilk on the Germans, they wouldn't stand a chance,” Lady Boxley grumbled after Sister Murphy departed.

Anna caught her gaze, and for a moment they shared a feeling of mutual accord. Then Her Ladyship ruined it with a cool, dismissive look down her regal nose as she addressed Hugh. “I'm glad to see you safe and sound, Hugh dear. I thought something must have happened when you didn't turn up at the station with the car.”

“Blast! I'm sorry, Mother. It completely slipped my mind. I was working with Anna all morning and lost track of time.”

“That's all right, my darling. I'm sure your business here was
more important.” She made a sweeping study of the cluttered scullery and the table set with tea and biscuits. “Overseeing repairs?”

“Helping on the wards, actually.”

“Were you? What an odd thing to do.” She offered him a thin smile and patted his cheek as if he were ten. “It's all right. Mr. Gough was at the station with the estate wagon. I was able to ride along with him . . . plus four cans of paint, a case of tools, five bags of wheat seed, and a small motor. A diverting if somewhat grubby journey.” She sighed. “I'm sure after a hot bath and my medicine drops, I'll be right as rain again. Don't give it another thought.”

“Truly, Mother. I am sorry. How was London?”

“Horrid. Traveling is always a travail, more so now when one can't count on any sort of timetable, and proper decorum seems to be a thing of the past. We were delayed over an hour, then our driver turned out to be some young snippet of a girl, and Claridge's is not up to its prewar standards. Everything is make-do and catch as catch can. I don't know why I continue to make the journey.”

“Because you can't invite your friends down here any longer now the hospital's been taken over.”

“Would you have me entertain them in my boudoir? Or the housekeeper's room, perhaps? We could huddle round a camp table and play at being on a picnic.”

“It won't be forever.”

“Won't it? By the time this war is over, will there be anything of the Nanreath Hall I remember worth returning to?” Lady Boxley's face narrowed, and she glanced round the scullery, no doubt sizing up the wreck the military had made of her home. Anna couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy.

“Cheer up.” Hugh gestured toward an empty stool. “Join us for a mug and you can tell us all the juicy gossip from the big bad metropolis.”

Lady Boxley wrinkled her nose. “Not now, dear. I'm all done in, but perhaps you can help me upstairs.”

“I can't just now, Mother. I've promised one of the lads to help him write a letter to his mum. He wants to assure her he's quite all right and comfortable here in hospital, and she needn't worry.”

“And Nurse Trenowyth can't accomplish this complicated feat of secretarial work?”

Hugh's face bore a hard, mulish look. “It's more than that. You see, he's . . .”

“Trooper Murphy is dying, ma'am,” Anna said, stepping in. “His mother works in an aircraft plant and can't make the trip to see him.”

Her Ladyship seemed at a loss, her eyes still crackling, but an obvious shifting of gears going on behind the scenes. She relaxed into a gracious yet somehow condescending smile. “I know you're trying to help, Hugh my love, but isn't that why we've invited these lovely young women into our home? They're far more adept at handling these unfortunate situations than you could possibly be.”

“Hugh's been invaluable, actually,” Anna replied.

“Thank you, Miss Trenowyth, but I think I know what's best for my son. I won't have him overtaxing himself with unsavory hospital work. He's suffered enough death and sorrow to last a lifetime.”

“But that's what makes him so wonderful. The men look up to him. They see how he's managed to move past his injuries and they take heart from that.”

“Has he, though?” Lady Boxley argued. “Is that what you call nights spent carousing at the pub until he can barely see straight?”

“That's enough, Mother,” Hugh muttered.

“Nightmares from which he wakes screaming and drenched in sweat?”

“Please.”

“Constant pain and open sores as he adjusts to that ugly contraption he wears in place of a leg?”

“Mother! I said enough.” Hugh was almost shouting. He swallowed back his anger, jaw jumping.

Lady Boxley pressed her lips together, her eyes hot and anguished. “Hugh needs to forget this war. Not have it relived every time he walks onto those wards.” She drew herself up. “Hugh, please escort me upstairs. Now, if you will.”

He offered Anna an agonized look as he pushed away from the table. “Of course. Tell Trooper Murphy I'm sorry, Anna.”

She shouldn't. She really shouldn't, but Hugh's defeated, resentful attitude goaded her into action. “No. You tell him yourself.”

“What?”

“You lost a leg, Hugh. You didn't lose your brain or your heart. You've got plenty left to contribute if only you'd see that instead of acting as if you're already dead and buried.”

“How dare you talk to him that way?” Lady Boxley growled.

“I dare because no one else will, and if he continues to listen to you, he'll be no good to anyone—least of all himself.”

Lady Boxley's face went the color of porridge, which only seemed to accentuate the blue tinge to her otherwise scarlet lips. Her body grew rigid with fury. “You rude girl. Not that I expect anything more from someone of your . . . repute.”

“A bastard, you mean?”

“For God's sake, why can't you leave well enough alone?” Her Ladyship flattened a palm against her chest, as if she was having an attack of some sort, and her voice was harsh and wheezy. “Why can't you leave
us
alone?”

Her porridge look gave way to an even worse shade of gray-green like an old bruise, her eyes rolled up into her head, and she sagged like a deflated balloon to the floor.

Hugh caught her just before she hit the edge of the metal counter, but for a split second, he and Anna shared a look. And she truly thought he might let her fall.

T
he shingles case in Ward B says you punched Her Ladyship,” Tilly exclaimed with fiendish delight. She sat on her bed reading her latest
Vogue
while Sophie worked on her mending. “Serves her right, the nasty cow.”

Sophie wet her thread before spearing it through a needle. “I heard Lady Boxley suffered a stroke. I wouldn't be surprised. She's not been looking well for ages.”

“Do you think you killed her, Anna?”

“No.” Anna stood up. “But I
am
going to find out what's going on.”

“How?”

“I'm going to see the MO. He'll know.”

Anna ignored the look that passed between Tilly and Sophie, and departed her billet in search of Captain Matthews. She found him in his office.

“But no one's allowed in,” his clerk informed her. “He's got Matron and Lord Melcombe in there with him.”

“Perfect,” Anna said, clasping her hands together as she pushed her way past and through the door to the strains of the poor harried clerk's protests.

She arrived in the midst of a heated conversation between the MO and Matron while Hugh perched on the arm of a chair looking unusually stern-faced and grim. Her heart sank into her shoes.

“. . . firmly advise against it,” Captain Matthews said rather sharply. “She shouldn't be moved until we can be certain she's stabilized.”

“But we're nearly at capacity. We've not the staff to accommo
date Lady Boxley, and should the expected patients arrive, we'll be in a right muddle.” Matron was on obvious edge. Her normally calm demeanor seemed strained under the potential addition of an aristocratic and demanding patient under her care.

“Anna?” Hugh said, catching sight of her. “What on earth are you doing here?”

She glanced uncomfortably at the circle of somber faces before gathering herself for the attack. “I've heard Lady Boxley's been taken ill. I want to do what I can to help.” She wrung her hands before dropping them at her sides and meeting the incredulous gazes head-on. “It's my fault. I'd make it right if I could.”

“Rubbish,” Hugh shot back. “It's not your fault. Mother's had a bad ticker for ages. Her doctor's told her to take it easy, but she refuses to listen to him.”

“Nevertheless . . .”

Captain Matthews folded his arms along his desk as he regarded her. “If you
are
the reason Her Ladyship collapsed, perhaps your presence might not be the most beneficial medicine.”

“That may be, but she's”—Anna cast a helpless glance at Hugh—“she's my aunt. Family should be able to count on one another, shouldn't they?”

“Are you sure, Anna?” Hugh didn't look convinced. “She's not exactly an easy person to deal with at the best of times. She'll be grumpy as a poked badger.”

“I'm sure.” To Matron, she said, “Is it all right with you, ma'am? My half day is tomorrow anyway, and if I'm needed longer I'd make it up. Perhaps double shifts if things get busy.”

“It does solve our problem perfectly.” Captain Matthews leaned back in his chair, polishing his spectacles. “Lady Boxley can remain under her own roof, where she'll be most comfortable. Trenowyth here isn't on duty anyway, so she won't complicate the rota unneces
sarily. And we keep it in the family. A winning situation all the way around?”

“I don't know . . .” Matron hedged. “What if Her Ladyship doesn't want her there? She might be family, but she's not exactly welcome, is she? Naught but the cold shoulder since she arrived.”

“You let me worry about my mother,” Hugh said. “She'll welcome Anna with open arms—or else.”

“All right.” Matron offered a grudging nod of approval. “But I hope you know what you're getting into, Trenowyth.”

“Yes, ma'am. I hope so, too.”

T
hat afternoon, over Tilly's and Sophie's strident objections—“Are you certain you're not still suffering from that bump on the head?”—Anna reported for duty.