“Yes, I remember Julia. Miss Greenshaw,” he said, his eyes darting to Great Aunt Sylvia. “She married Ted Wiley and emigrated to America. He was our groundskeeper,” Sir Rupert added for our benefit.
“That’s right. My mother gave me this ring when I got my overseas orders. It was a gift from Lady Sutcliffe. This is the Pemberton crest, I was told.”
“Well, the coat of arms, to be precise,” Great Aunt Sylvia said.
“What does it mean?” I asked, leaning over Wiley’s shoulder, unable to resist butting in. It was a gold ring with a flat surface engraved with a chevron and what looked like three small buckets.
“This coat of arms comes down to us from Sir George Pemberton of the seventeenth century,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “The buckets represent his service furnishing provisions for the army. Beer, perhaps. Possibly not the most prestigious coat of arms in the Empire, but still, not every family has one.” With that, she gave Sir Rupert a withering stare.
“I didn’t know Louise had given that ring away,” Sir Rupert said, sounding a bit confused.
“Now do you believe me?” Meredith said. Sir Rupert ignored her. Believe her about what, I nearly asked, but managed to keep my mouth shut.
“And how are your parents?” Sir Rupert asked Wiley.
“My father died when I was a young child,” Wiley said. “My mother passed away six months ago. I wasn’t able to be at the funeral.”
“Blasted war,” Sir Rupert said, suddenly overcome by emotion. He took a breath and continued. “A painter, are you?”
“Yes, sir. I work in a cartography section for the navy, so at least I can use my skills. But I like to get away when I have a day off and paint in the outdoors. Drawing and coloring maps for days on end in the same room becomes a bit dreary after a while. When I found out how close I was to Ashcroft, I thought I’d ride up. My mother spoke about it so often I wanted to see it in person. I only wish I could have told her I made it here.”
“Well, of course you can paint here to your heart’s content, my boy,” Sir Rupert said. “Terribly sorry about the reception, it was simply a surprise to see that ring.”
“I should have written, not just shown up on your doorstep,” Wiley said.
“Well, you’re here now, and you must stay for dinner,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “Will that be all right, Rupert?”
“Of course, you must stay,” Sir Rupert readily agreed. “Where are you billeted?”
“Near Torquay, a place called Greenway House. I’ve been there a couple of months. This is the first time I’ve had leave.”
“And you came here?” David asked, half in jest. “What about the delights of London?”
“Oh, I knew I had to come here,” Wiley said. “It meant so much to both of my parents, I had to see it. It was their home, after all. It’s where they fell in love. Besides, it’s only about thirty minutes away. I’d spend all my time on trains if I went into London.”
“If you’re on leave, then do stay the night,” Sir Rupert said. “We can show you around the place in the morning, and you can come back to paint whenever you like.”
“That’s very kind, Sir Rupert. I’d like that.”
Sir Rupert then did proper introductions all around. Wiley looked at David several times while they spoke, never once flinching as he looked at the pilot’s ruined face. When Helen was introduced, she looked at Wiley with a frank, appraising stare. I wondered, was she thinking about her own behavior? Had this stranger’s acceptance of David, as he was, finally given her cause to think?
Maybe. She took David’s arm and leaned in to him without stepping around to his good side, her eyes studying Peter Wiley intently.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dinner was a curious affair. Sir Rupert did his best to act the genial host, even as he mopped the sweat from his brow, his face pale and his breath short. Meredith was positively chatty with Peter Wiley, asking him about his upbringing in America and his art studies. Helen looked bewildered by it all, but at least she leaned in now and then to speak to David in a low voice, as if he were suddenly a safe refuge instead of a hideous parody of the man she’d married. Edgar ate and drank with his usual gusto, indifferent to the reactions of others, or maybe glad that the new guest drew Meredith’s attention away from him. Great Aunt Sylvia smiled quietly and watched the proceedings as if from a great distance. A wistful look passed over her, and for a second I could see the young woman she’d once been, with a pretty, round face and those intelligent eyes. At ninety, they still missed nothing.
Dessert was strawberry cake, the fruit courtesy of the ever-remarkable Crawford.
“What did your father do for a living, Lieutenant Wiley?” Meredith asked as she passed him a slice.
“Please call me Peter, if you don’t mind,” Wiley said.
“Of course we will, Peter,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. Coming from a proper lady like her, that was a stamp of approval.
“My father opened a small hardware store in New York City, on the Lower East Side, as soon as he found a place to live,” he said. “He died a few years later. My mother kept it going, even during the Depression. She managed to save up enough to send me to New York University.”
“America certainly is the land of opportunity,” Meredith said. “Even a groundskeeper can own a shop, and a maid can send her child to university. Remarkable.”
“Opportunity is what you make with what you’ve been given,” Sir Rupert said sternly. “Julia and Ted seem to have done well with young Peter here, and he’s lucky to have an artistic flair. But opportunity is not limited to the New World, not at all. Our family has done well in the colonial service. A decent income, good investments, and a title. That’s where opportunity comes from: hard work. You and Edgar should ponder that, Meredith.”
The table went silent, whether from shock at Sir Rupert’s words or the fact that he had actually spoken to Meredith, I couldn’t tell. I ate a bite of cake and waited for someone to say something.
“It may be, Sir Rupert,” Edgar said, his hands flat on the table, “that the greatest opportunity one has in life is to do the right thing, regardless of the cost. Please excuse me.” Edgar pushed away from the table and left the room, creating an even deeper silence. Peter Wiley looked at me askance, and I shrugged as if to say, Don’t ask me, pal, I’m just passing through myself.
The gathering broke up quickly after that. Sir Rupert said he was tired and made plans to show Peter around in the morning. Meredith walked out without a word, leaving Helen and David looking somewhat uncomfortable. Great Aunt Sylvia surveyed the remaining group with assured calmness.
“Is there anything else we can do to make you more comfortable, Peter?” Great Aunt Sylvia said.
“No, thank you, you’ve been very gracious,” he said. “Though I would like to put my motorbike under cover. Is there a garage or barn?”
“Stables, garage, barn, take your pick. Then do join us in the library. It’s almost time for the nine o’clock news.”
David went with Peter, and the rest of us joined Edgar in the library. He was fiddling with the dial on the wireless, tuning in the BBC. Neither Helen nor Great Aunt Sylvia commented on Meredith’s abrupt departure, although Helen did tell Edgar that David had gone with Peter to ensure he didn’t ride off in the night on his motorbike, which got a laugh. These people seemed to take their odd interactions for granted.
“Peter rides an old Norton Model Sixteen,” David said when they returned. “Same as the motorbike I had before the war. A bit older and more rusty, to be sure.”
“You have your own bike?” I said. It didn’t sound like it would be on any motor-pool inventory.
“Yes, I bought it when I first came to Torquay. I wanted my own transportation, in case I had any free time,” Peter said.
Great Aunt Sylvia hushed us as the announcer declared it was the BBC Home Service’s nine o’clock war bulletin. There was an American offensive in the jungles of New Guinea. The Soviets had retaken Sevastopol. We’d bombed Budapest. With cookies? I wondered. The biggest excitement was about an RAF raid on Gestapo headquarters in The Hague. A pinpoint strike had destroyed the building, along with files on Dutchmen the Gestapo had planned to arrest and send to concentration camps in Germany.