We went down the front steps and turned toward the churchyard. The wind had dropped, and the air was crisp. I said, as we walked, “I’m afraid I’ve upset your mother. But Arthur was still very much in command of his faculties when he asked me to speak directly to you. I don’t think he intended-” I broke off.
“We were close,” Jonathan said, but somehow I hadn’t got that impression from Arthur. He’d not spoken of his brothers except in passing. I knew very little about any of them.
We opened the iron gate and walked through it into the churchyard, my boots crunching in the cold, dead grass. Above us the golden stone of the church apse led the eye upward to the pinnacles gracing the top. Against the blue-gray sky, they stood out like sentinels.
The church door was not locked, and we went inside, where the cold stone seemed to hold on to the stormy chill of last night. I pulled my cloak around me as Jonathan led me to the brass plaque that had been set in the wall between two windows. The stained glass spilled color onto the floor at my feet, and I looked up to the figures of saints high above my head before I could bring myself to look directly at Arthur’s memorial.
He was gone.
There was a finality to that as I read the name and dates engraved into the brass. Beneath them were the words Beloved son and brother in graceful script.
I very much wanted to reach out and touch it. But not with Jonathan there.
I had not been at the service when his body was committed to the sea. I had been standing in the operating theater fighting to save another life. I had felt the ship slow, then resume her speed, and not allowed myself to think why.
I swallowed my tears and said as steadily as I could, “He would have been pleased.”
“Yes.”
We turned away without another word and walked back into the sunlight. Standing in the shadows of the west door, Jonathan said, “I expect I’ll be as ready now as I ever will be. What was it Arthur entrusted to you to say to me?”
CHAPTER FOUR
I TURNED AWAY, looking at the gleaming white walls of the rectory in their black framework, the tiny panes of glass set into the windows like small diamonds glittering in the morning sun.
“Go on.” There was impatience beneath the urging.
I took several seconds to think. To wonder if I’d done the right thing in coming here. The message seemed different suddenly. Futile, and somehow infringing on something I didn’t understand.
I tried to set the stage, so that Jonathan Graham could see what I had seen. “He had finished his medicines, and he took my hand, pulling me closer. I thought at first that he was having difficulty seeing me, but it was only to drop his voice so that no one else could hear him. He asked me if I’d carry a message to his brother for him. It was very brief, I had no difficulty remembering it. ‘Tell Jonathan I lied. I did it for Mother’s sake. But it has to be set right.’ And afterward, he made me promise to deliver the message to you in person.”
He was watching me, his gaze intent.
“Tell Jonathan I lied. I did it for Mother’s sake. But it has to be set right.”
“Yes, exactly as he told me.”
“And what did you make of his request?”
I could feel my face flushing. I could hardly say what had gone through my mind over the weeks that had passed. It would have sounded presumptuous even to hint at it. I answered only, “I don’t know, Lieutenant Graham. I’d hoped you would.”
“And he didn’t explain to you what it was he was trying to convey?”
“No. To be frank, I don’t think he would have said anything at all, if he hadn’t realized he was dying. But something was preying on his mind, I could see that. And it was disturbing enough for him to try to do something about it while he could still speak.”
“Then why not write it in your letter?”
“I don’t know,” I said again. “It was almost as if-” I stopped.
“As if what?”
“It was almost as if he hadn’t wanted to put it in writing. He was insistent that I come to you personally.”
“But Arthur has been dead some months. If it were a pressing matter, surely it would have been better to come here at once?”
I prevaricated. “You were in France, Lieutenant Graham. And there were my duties as well. And this-” I indicated my arm.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” He continued to stare at me, but his mind was elsewhere. Then he said again, “And that’s all of the message? You’re quite sure?”
“Yes. I’ve given it word for word.”
“Thank you, Miss Crawford. It was kind of you to carry out my brother’s wishes. But I think you liked him, a little. Is that true?”
“He was a very likable man,” I answered honestly. “Very popular with the men and with the nursing staff.”
“And he said nothing about this matter until he was-dying?”
“To my knowledge, no. None of the other nurses told me anything about promises.”
“But then you didn’t tell them, either, did you.”
“No.”
“Why do you think he chose you?”
I knew I was pink again. “Because I took the time to be with him during his last hours. I assure you, he wasn’t the only one I watched over or read to-or wrote letters for. It’s hard to explain, Lieutenant Graham, but when you are sitting by a wounded man and he’s telling you what to say to his mother or his wife or his sweetheart, there’s an intimacy that can’t be avoided. I have had men say things to me that were terribly personal, messages to their wives that they would never have shared in any other circumstance.” I paused. “It’s almost as if I’m not there, they’re simply talking aloud. But I hear these things and try not to listen at the same time. If you understand what I’m saying.”
Jonathan Graham nodded. “Yes, I’ve asked the nursing sisters to write letters for me, when the bandaging covered my eyes.” After a moment he roused himself from whatever thoughts were distracting him, and said again, “Thank you. It was a great kindness. I hope you’ll consider staying the weekend. I think my mother would be grateful if you could.”
“I don’t wish to impose-”
“It’s no imposition. She would take it as a great favor.”
We walked on, the wintry sun trying to peer through the bare trees.
“Have you been to Owlhurst before, Miss Crawford?”
“No, it’s my first visit to this part of Kent.”
“We were once famous for our owls. On the far side of the churchyard there’s what’s left of the great expanse of wood that covered much of Kent in the distant past, an almost impenetrable forest. When my parents were first married, I’m told they could walk through it of an evening and count two or three species of owl calling in the dusk. I daresay they’re still there, those owls. I like to think of the continuity of life here. It helps, a little, in the trenches.”
“I remember Arthur saying something about them. He could never find where they nested.”
Jonathan smiled. “That was Arthur for you. Always trying to get to the bottom of things. My mother will tell you he was a very clever child, interested in science but with a leaning toward the law. I expect he’d have become a solicitor but for the war.”
I said nothing. Arthur had told me that he had turned away from the law as a profession. I tried to remember his words.
“There’s evil in goodness and goodness in evil,” he’d said. “I’ve seen too much of the evil in the law to be comfortable with it.”
“What would you like to do, then, when the war is over?”
“I think I’d like to grow coffee in East Africa. Somewhere new where I could start over.”
“Why should you wish to start over?”
“Because there would be no memories of the past infringing on the present.”
I’d thought he meant memories of the war. Now I wondered.