Tides of Honour (25 page)

Audrey Baker

1918

THIRTY
-
SIX

He hardly limped anymore, she
noticed. He walked as fast or faster than any other man with someplace to go.
Where was he going?

Pierre cleared his throat. “Well, it appears he's made his decision. Wise man.” He pressed his hand against her back. “Let's get back.”

Danny's solid shape swept past the regal row of houses, not slowing to breathe, never looking back. The light of lanterns in windows shone yellow as he passed, lighting his hair, briefly bleaching the black from his coat. She heard the
step thump step thump
of his passage echoing off the road and thought she might die.

I thought he was dead!

“Audrey. Pay attention.”

The fog in her brain began to clear, bringing her back to her own feet, which were wrapped in the latest uncomfortable fashion in shoes. Pierre took her elbow and smoothly turned her away from Danny's receding form. Most of the crowd had dispersed and were walking back to the house, laughing among themselves, building tonight's episode to such a height that it would soon be the more talked-about piece of gossip on everyone's lips.

“You're making a fool of yourself, Audrey. Come.”

She stared at Pierre, seeing a completely different man from the one she'd known the past few months. The one who had taken her in when she'd run from Danny on that frozen, horrible night so long before. She'd stayed in the maid's room on the first floor, and in the morning the world had exploded.
The war had found them! They were being bombed!
She thought she might have lost consciousness for a moment, though she would never forget the deafening pressure of the explosion in her ears. Her window shattered, as did her mirror, and her mother's teasing spirit whispered,
That will bring you seven years of bad luck, my girl . . .

Pascale
. So many times Audrey had pushed her mother's teasing gaze from her mind, but now it was laughing so loudly she couldn't ignore it. Ever since she'd figured out her mother's “barter” system, living from bed to bed to support them both, Audrey had been determined she would not follow that path. Danny had been her one and only love, and she'd never thought farther than that until it all started to fall apart. What had Pascale done when Richard Black had disappeared? She'd mourned him, certainly. Audrey remembered the silent sobs in their dark tent and the pain in Pascale's eyes whenever Audrey asked about him. She'd mourned him, then moved on. Ultimately, she fell ill, and when Audrey grew old enough to understand such things, she realized Pascale's way of life, her method of surviving, had been the cause of that illness. And she'd died.

Audrey had mourned Danny after the explosion. She'd thought she would die from the loss of him and the knowledge that they'd left each other so horribly. She hadn't died, but the emotions ripping through her chest made her wish for it. But then she'd moved on.

I understand, Maman. We do what we must,
oui
?

Pierre hadn't been in the house when the world exploded.
He'd left earlier that morning on a train to Boston for business. When she felt brave enough to trust the floor beneath her feet, Audrey struggled out of bed, using the walls to brace herself. She was dizzy, her legs unsure, and she had the strangest sensation on one side of her head—opposite to where Danny had struck her the night before: freezing cold air where it shouldn't have been. A persistent buzzing noise vibrated in her ears. But without the mirror, she couldn't check to see.

She listened for any kind of sound besides the buzz but heard no voices. She didn't hear an air raid siren either.

She clung to the banister as she climbed the staircase, calling Mrs. Antoine's name, listening for the children, but the house was still. At least the three youngest should have answered, since they were too little to attend school yet. The only sound she heard was the tinkling of loosened glass falling to the floor around her. The smaller, individual portraits she'd so lovingly painted hung in shredded pieces along the staircase.

It was in the master bedroom that she'd found Antoine's family, and she'd run from the house as if the devil were chasing her, unwilling to believe what she'd just seen, unable to rid herself of the image. She burst outside and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to control her reaction. Her head hurt far too much for her to waste energy either vomiting or crying.
What's going on? Breathe, Audrey. In, out.
Her heartbeat slowed, and she became aware of the chill in the air. She opened her eyes, hugging herself, and blinked into the glare. The sky was a pure, breathtaking cerulean blue, and it contained the largest white cloud she had ever seen. It seemed to extend for miles, soft and welcoming and harmless. But when she lowered her gaze, taking in the world below the beautiful cloud, she saw an entirely different story.

So it hadn't just been the Antoines' house. The damage was everywhere. Very few windows remained in the houses around
her, and she was painfully aware that these buildings were sturdier than where she'd been living just one night earlier. She didn't want to imagine what her house might look like now. The image of the Antoines' bedroom came to mind, complete with small mangled bodies, and she choked on a sob.

Danny! Where are you, Danny?

She should be with him. She
had
to be with him.
Oh God, Danny.
In a daze, she started walking toward downtown, feeling tiny and vulnerable between the neat line of damaged houses.

She'd seen smoke, heard explosions, but she hadn't expected to meet with such desolation. Emerging from the sheltered, wealthier streets, she looked down toward the sea and realized there was nothing left. The ground had been flattened for miles, and anything still standing either wobbled or burst into flame as the furnaces of collapsed buildings combusted. Ugly, broken hulks of ships poked through the water where there once had floated majestic, unsinkable vessels manned by sailors, carrying soldiers.

Placing one foot in front of the other, she carefully walked down the hill, following her heart toward the harbour, toward their sad little house, though her head screamed at her to stay away. The slope was too much, and her legs followed its angle until she was suddenly running, unable to stop herself. She reached out, wishing she had a cane to brace her—even better, Danny's arm—but there was nothing. Then it was as if she were floating, the ground beneath her feet swaying like the sea on a cold, grey day, and a roar filled her head, sounding like the ocean on those thrilling, terrifying, stormy nights in Jeddore. When the sensation offered to carry her away, she let herself go.

She awoke to the gentle prodding of leather-gloved hands. Concerned frowns loomed over her, and the voices started to make sense.

“. . . hear me? Are you all right? Look, Jeffrey. Her eyes are open. Where's that blasted wagon?”

Audrey's eyes rolled up, seeking darkness again, but the gloves shook her awake. “Come on, girl. Hold still a moment. You're losing a lot of blood.”

Her head pounded, and she cried out when someone cradled the back of it, lifting her neck off the ground. Another pair of hands joined the first, and she whimpered helplessly as they wrapped a scarf around her head, covering her eyes. The pressure of it both soothed and irritated the searing pain on the side of her head. And now that she could see nothing, she wanted to see it all.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, trying not to struggle as they lifted her and laid her on a hard surface. It rocked, and she heard the jingling of a harness. A wagon? “What's happening?”

“It's all right, Audrey,” came a familiar voice. One of the husbands, she remembered. She'd painted his family. What was the name? King, she recalled. Donald King. She envisioned him as she'd painted him: tall, lean, and bald, decorated only by a pencil-thin black moustache. “You're safe now. We're taking you to the hospital.”

She assumed it was King who had brought Pierre Antoine to see her a few days later. She'd had to go through painful reconstructive surgery at the busy hospital, where they'd tried their best to sew her torn cheek back into place. It had been almost entirely ripped from her face when she'd arrived in the wagon. She wondered vaguely if she'd left a terrible bloodstain on the Antoine's sheets, then she shoved the idea away, not wanting to envision his family's fate ever again. Except she knew it would always be in her mind, the violent colours, the torn and terrible bodies, the peace on the children's faces now that they were gone.

But it would remain in her mind. She would never,
never
put it to paper.

The women came to see her, Catherine and Simone and Elaine, all feigning concern in their big black hats and high collars. She kept the side of her face out of their view, though she saw them trying to look. There was nothing she could do about it. She was deformed now. Ugly beyond belief. It was probably good that Danny couldn't see her like this.

But Pierre hadn't seen it like that. He had come to the hospital and sat beside her for as long as the Red Cross people would let him. He held her hand, and she let him bore her with his stories, first of Boston, then of having to clean up the mess when he got home. His face had tightened at the thought of his family, but he hadn't dwelt on their demise. She told him how sorry she was, and he'd squeezed her hand, thanking her graciously for her condolences. When she was well enough, he brought her to his home, which was quickly being reconstructed. She wasn't surprised to see its steady progress, since Pierre seemed to own most of the construction contracts in the city. He offered her his wife's bedroom, but she'd slept in one of the children's rooms instead. She said she'd prefer a smaller space, not wanting to offend him. The truth was that she never again wanted to open that door and remember what she'd seen. It was all too much.

And then he'd come to her, his dark expression miserable, and confessed that he'd found Danny's name on the Known Dead list. She'd told him it wasn't true—
couldn't
be true—but he'd taken her hands in his and assured her with a look of complete empathy it was. Danny was dead. Audrey was a twenty-year-old widow.

They'd had no more than months together, she and Danny. Less than twenty-four hours in France, a few months of letters, less than a year of marriage. Did it all even add up to a year?

She'd excused herself, she remembered, then stumbled to her
room, neither eating nor speaking for two days. She just sat on her bed, staring at the flowered wallpaper or pushing her good cheek against the tear-soaked pillow. How easy it was to forget the most recent months, to excuse the strain Danny's depression had put on their marriage. How easy it was for her to recall only the tall, handsome soldier staring at her from across the road.

But in moments of lucidity, she felt the fire of his hand hitting her cheek, recalled the impact of her body on the floor when his fury had sent her sprawling at his feet. Oh, she'd known he hurt inside, burned with guilt and self-hate, but she had never imagined it might come to this. Never thought him capable of hurting her. Not her Danny.

As the print of his hand on her cheek softened, fading from red on impact to a yellow bruise, she realized it was the last touch of his she would ever feel. That would be the last time he would ever touch her with any kind of emotion. With any kind of . . . anything.

She couldn't go back to his family, because they'd want to know what had happened. How had she survived while he hadn't? Why weren't the newlyweds safe and sound in their own little house, holding together when the world had come apart? If she went back now, she wouldn't be able to lie when they asked what had happened. And that meant she would always be a reminder to them of how their son had changed, how he had shamed them all in that one weak moment. No, she couldn't hurt them like that. She decided it would be better if they thought she'd died along with Danny on that awful morning.

Over time Pierre persuaded her, helped her see how lonely they both were, and how they could help each other with that particular pain. He'd fed her, kept her under his reconstructed roof, given her the best brandy, dressed her in the most beautiful things she'd ever seen. He bought her new, expensive painting supplies,
and when the society people started coming together for parties or dinners, Audrey became a fixture on his arm, often wearing a new trinket he'd given her.

With one hand, Danny had slapped her so hard she'd ended up in a whole new life. She'd never consciously chosen this life, but here she was.

Whether she was painting, attending meetings, or going to parties, Audrey was now in the middle of whatever was happening in Halifax. In the past she'd admired these wealthy, influential people from afar, both intrigued and intimidated. Now she had only to walk into a room and someone usually wanted to speak with her. Was it what she wanted? Maybe. And maybe, on some level, she'd needed it—or at least needed to experience it for a while. But for the rest of her life? Of all the life changes she'd struggled through, all the ups and downs, she still wasn't sure where this one fit in.

She was safe, dry, fed, appreciated, even celebrated. Would she give it all up if Danny walked through that door?

She'd known all along that she was Pierre's prize. After all, she was just over half his age, she was still beautiful—despite the scar—and her art made her something exotic. When he offered her the world, she accepted. And when he came to her one night, his breath heavy with whisky, she felt she couldn't turn him away. She closed her eyes and did all she could to imagine herself somewhere else, and she never once objected to his advances.

Because he was right. She was lonely. To the bottom of her soul. Empty. If Pierre noticed the tears on her pillow every night, he made no mention of them.