CHAPTER FIVE
I HAD MISSED luncheon and was beginning to wish Dr. Philips’s culinary skills had extended to more than making a cup of tea. But Susan met me at the door with the news that Mrs. Graham had asked her to set my meal aside.
“Mrs. Nichols-she’s our cook-has gone to have a little nap. Come along into the kitchen. It’s warmer there,” she urged, and I followed her.
As she took my plate out of the warming oven, she went on shyly, “I’ve been wanting a chance to ask you about Mr. Arthur. How it was at the end. I’ve not got over his dying. It doesn’t seem real to me, somehow. I think of him away fighting, as I always did, and then must remind myself that he’s not.”
I told her what I’d told the Grahams, and she listened with tears in her eyes. “He never gave up hope,” I ended, “and everyone who knew him was saddened by his death. He was as popular a patient as he was an officer, and it was some time before the staff got over what had happened.” I could feel my own throat tightening. “I don’t believe he suffered,” I lied, for Susan’s sake. “And he was unconscious for the last hours. That was a kindness.”
She nodded, turning her back to me. I saw her lift the corner of her apron and wipe her eyes. She busied herself about my meal until she was sure her voice was steady, then said huskily, “Thank you for telling me. I didn’t feel right asking Mrs. Graham. She took his death hard.”
She set a bowl of soup before me, thick with barley, and then slices of chicken with potatoes and swede. After the tension of dealing with Ted Booker, I was hungrier than I’d imagined, and Susan watched me eat with pleasure.
“Nice to see someone enjoying their food,” she said with a smile. “They never say much, above-stairs. I try to please, but it’s hard to find the meat and vegetables they’re used to. The war and all. I’m at my wit’s end, sometimes.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Since I was sixteen. I came with my mother, and after she left to live with my brother, I took over as housekeeper, more or less. They don’t call me that, but they might as well give me the title. I do the work.”
“Were there others in service here, before the war?”
Her face clouded a bit, but she said, “Half a dozen. Except for Mrs. Nichols-and she was too old to consider war work-the women left one by one as the men went off to fight. The footman died on the Somme, and we lost the coachman soon after. You’ve only to walk in the churchyard to see how bad it’s been for us.”
“Yes, I noticed the graves.”
“And that’s only them that died at home.”
As I was finishing my pudding, there were footsteps on the stairs, and Mrs. Graham came into the kitchen, frowning. “My dear! I didn’t intend for you to be served here. Susan, what were you thinking?”
Susan went red in the face, and I said quickly, “The kitchen was warm, and I didn’t wish to put her out. It’s my fault, truly.”
As I’d finished my meal, she carried me off to the sitting room, apologizing again for Dr. Philips’s demands on my time and skills. “He has no sense of what is right. You didn’t come here to deal with Ted Booker. A tragedy, I’m sure, but not ours. I don’t know what your parents will think of me, letting such a thing happen.”
“They will understand. I’m trained to help. It would have been difficult for me to say no.” To change the subject, I asked about the rector and the work he was doing in the church.
“It’s the war,” she said with a sigh, as if that explained everything. “Our sexton lost an arm at Ypres, but he can still carry out most of his duties, and so he was given his old position back. But the church needs constant upkeep, and when no one is looking, the rector, Mr. Montgomery, sees to it. There were protests at first, but he reminded us that Christ was a carpenter. And I must say, he’s got quite good at what he does, and it has saved church funds time and again. But it isn’t right, somehow. Call me old-fashioned if you will, but this making do at every turn is trying.”
I said, “Of course his own duties come first, but it must give him a sense of satisfaction to know that the fabric of the church isn’t suffering from the war.”
She tilted her head as she considered that. “I hadn’t looked at it quite that way. But I’m sure you’re right. He was on a ladder, inspecting the stained-glass windows last week, when I went to see to the flowers, and he said the saints were taking the war in stride. I see now that he was pleased. I’d taken his remarks to be rather-irreverent.”
She got up to poke at the fire, though it didn’t need it.
“Perhaps I ought to ask Robert to speak to him. To offer help, if he’ll accept it. Robert has been my right hand for so many years I don’t know how I could have survived without him.” There was a warmth in her voice that conveyed the closeness of that relationship. “He was always my favorite cousin, you know, and the only one who stepped forward in my time of need. I was so young when my husband died, and the responsibility was overwhelming. The estate to run, my sons to care for. I hardly knew where to begin. And all these years later, Arthur’s loss to endure.”
I wondered where she was going with this unexpected confession of vulnerability. She was a strong woman, I’d felt that from the beginning. I should have guessed what her purpose was.
Turning from the fire, she came to sit by me. “Jonathan has spoken to me. Are you sure Arthur didn’t tell you the circumstances surrounding his message?”
“Absolutely. He entrusted me with that, and nothing more.” I didn’t add that my imagination had been busy filling in the blanks.
“Yes, well, it’s rather a mystery. Was he perhaps being given morphine? Or was he out of his head with fever?”
“He’d been given something for pain, but he knew what he was saying. I think he died more comfortably, knowing his duty was done.”
“Duty. That’s an odd way of putting it.” She sighed. “I really don’t know what to make of it.”
I found myself wondering if that was true and she was intentionally blinding herself to what Arthur wanted. On the other hand, I couldn’t help the growing suspicion that she was probing to discover how much I knew about the matter. It was hard to judge what lay behind her sad smile as she stared into the fire, and I was feeling rather uncomfortable.
What surprised me was that Jonathan had confided in his mother. Had she importuned him until he had given in?
I couldn’t stop myself from commenting, “Perhaps he expected Jonathan to understand. The message was meant for him, after all.”
“I did it for Mother’s sake…” She repeated the middle of it, as if trying to work it out. “But what was that?”
“Sometimes it’s a girl…”
Her eyes flicked to my face.
“What makes you think such a thing?”
“I’ve sat with many wounded men, Mrs. Graham. And some of them were in love when they went off to war. But their family or the girl’s family refused to let them marry. That sometimes weighed heavily on their minds, at the end. They often wanted the girl to know that they regretted not marrying her.”
“My sons haven’t been involved with any young women.” Her voice was harsh. I’d met that resistance before. Mothers who believed that their sons had formed no attachments because they were too young…I knew better, I’d written passionate letters to sweethearts from men barely old enough to enlist.