I knew what she was fishing for. She could have come and asked him about his care herself.
“He was hardly able to speak more than a few words,” I told her. “He asked where he was, and if the war was still going on. He asked what year it was…” I let my voice trail off, as if I were having trouble remembering anything else. I most certainly couldn’t tell her that he believed she or Robert had killed his father.
She seemed to be surprised that he didn’t know what year this was. “But surely they tell him-” She stopped, then went on in a different direction. “Well. He’s always been troubled in his mind. Even as a child. At least he doesn’t appear to be any worse-violent, difficult to manage.”
“I don’t think he had the strength to be difficult.”
We had just finished our pudding when Dr. Philips came to the door and asked to speak to me.
While I was playing angel of mercy, Ted Booker had tried again to kill himself, and it had been necessary to strap him down to a bed and keep him at the surgery.
“I don’t know what will happen to him. I feel I’ve failed him in some fashion. He wants to see you. Meanwhile I must contact the clinic and tell them to hurry. Booker can’t wait six weeks for space. Not now.”
“He’s asking for me? I’m surprised he remembers me at all.”
“I expect his wife may have told him. Will you come?”
Mrs. Graham protested, but this time it was more form than substance.
I went to fetch my coat and stepped out into the still, cold air.
“When I heard that Peregrine was ill,” Dr. Philips said as I preceded him down the walk, “I offered to come. They told me you were managing very well. I wasn’t surprised. I’d already witnessed a little of your skills.”
I turned my head to look at him. “But-I kept wondering why you hadn’t at least overseen what I was doing.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Graham would have sent for me if she’d believed he was truly in danger. It was a compliment that she trusted to your training.”
I opened my mouth to tell him just how ill Peregrine Graham had been, how I’d lain awake hour after hour, worried as he struggled to breathe. And then I stopped myself in time. What good would it do to make him wonder why Mrs. Graham had turned him away?
It hadn’t yet begun to snow, and I made some remark about how heavy the clouds were. Dr. Philips told me snow was unlikely. The awkward moment passed.
We walked in silence to his surgery, cutting through the churchyard. I told him about the rector’s carpentry.
“He’s quite good with his hands. I could wish him a stronger force-he’s sometimes of two minds about what should be done when he ought to be taking a stand.”
“Perhaps he’s chosen the wrong profession.”
“You haven’t heard his sermons. They’re quite good as well,” the doctor assured me. “It’s solving problems of a practical nature where he’s something of a paradox.”
I wondered if he was thinking about the rector’s views on Ted Booker.
The doctor’s housekeeper met us at the door and let us into the surgery, saying as I entered, “You’re the young woman who knew Arthur.”
“I did, yes.”
“We all mourned him. Such a shame.”
What do you say in response to that? I smiled, and she took my coat before leading me back to the small room where they had put Ted Booker.
He lay on the bed, his eyes closed, but he opened them when Dr. Philips said quietly, “She’s here.”
I saw such misery in their depths. My heart went out to him. But I said in my brisk voice, “What’s this I hear about you doing yourself a harm?”
He looked at the doctor, and both Dr. Philips and the housekeeper withdrew, shutting the door softly after them.
Lieutenant Booker said, “I’m a coward. Just as they say. A brave man would have got it done properly.”
“Perhaps it isn’t your time to die,” I replied. It was an echo of what I had said to Peregrine Graham. “Had you thought about that?”
“No.” It was blunt.
“Well, it’s something to consider. Hasn’t your poor wife suffered enough? Even for Harry’s sake? He would be the first to tell you to put the living before the dead. You won’t bring him back by sacrificing yourself as well, you know. And he doesn’t have a son to carry on his memory. But you do, and it’s your duty to see that your own son remembers his uncle with pride and honors him for his courage.”
He held up his wrists, bandaged now. “I couldn’t do it. Not even for Harry.”
“Then I’m proud of you. Something deep inside prevented you, and that means in time you’ll heal. The living must go on living, or we fail the dead.”
“It wasn’t that. I heard my brother crying out to me. As clearly as I hear you now. He stopped me, I didn’t stop myself.”
I digested that, then said, “Which proves I was right. There was some reason for you to live.”
“It shook me to the core.”
I could see that it had. “Of course it did.” I pulled up the only chair in the small room and sat down by the bed. “I expect he watches over you. And always will.”
He stared at me. “I told myself it was proof of my madness.”
“I’d say, rather, proof of your sanity. Why did you send for me?”
“Because none of them has been to war. You’ve come close.” He frowned. “I thought I’d seen you in France. When Harry was taken to the dressing station.”
“It was dark, you were very upset. We look alike in our uniforms.”
“That’s true…” He hesitated. “Will you tell the doctor that I won’t try again? He won’t believe me. My mother-in-law is set on sending me back to the clinic. I want to stay here.”
“Dr. Philips has already given you one chance. And Mrs. Denton is sick with worry for her daughter. Wouldn’t you be in her shoes?”
“I tried to make her understand about Harry,” he said defensively.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Lieutenant. If you had a daughter and she’d married a soldier who seems bent on breaking her heart if he doesn’t frighten her to death first, what would you do?”
He gave me a twisted smile. “I’d try to knock some sense into the bas-” He broke off. “Beg pardon, Sister.”
“That’s precisely what Sally’s mother feels.”
“Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them to give me one more chance. I won’t let them down.” His eyes pleaded, and I tried to judge whether he meant it at this moment but would succumb to his nightmares again.
There was no way of telling. “I’ll speak to Dr. Philips.”
“I can’t help that the trenches come back-”
“That’s not your fault,” I agreed. “This”-I gestured to his surroundings, the bandages and the straps holding him down-“this is your doing.”
He shut his eyes, and I could see tears beneath the lids. Men don’t like to be seen crying. I turned and quietly left him alone.
I wasn’t sure Dr. Philips believed me when I told him that Ted Booker had promised not to do anything rash again. I could read the skepticism in his face. After all, I was a nurse, and he was the medical man.
Walking back to the Graham house, I was overtaken by the rector-he called to me, introducing himself in the same breath.
“Miss Crawford? I say, I’m Christopher Montgomery, the rector.”
I turned to meet him as he caught me up.
He was a man of middle height, with light blue eyes and fair skin. I put his age at forty, perhaps forty-five.
“I understand you were with Arthur Graham when he died.”
“Yes, I was. I came to Owlhurst with messages for his family. We nearly met before, Rector. I was in the church the other day, when you were repairing something in the organ loft.”
He smiled ruefully. “I must have been making a terrible racket. But the bench was wobbly, according to my organist, Mr. Lessing, and I took it upon myself to find a solution. Thankfully, all four legs of the bench were even when I finished.”