Ashley knots the line and crawls back to the tent. It takes some time to get inside, for Price has retied the tapes to keep out the snow. At last Ashley ducks into the shelter and collapses onto his sleeping bag, gasping. The cold air sears his lungs.
— Get into that bag, Price yells. You’ll freeze.
Price shakes Ashley and tries to pull the sleeping bag over him, but Ashley does not move. It is ten minutes before Price gets Ashley into the eiderdown.
— How are your hands?
— No feeling at all.
Price kneads at Ashley’s hands for some time, struggling to restore circulation before frostbite sets in. Ashley’s fingers remain numb. Price beats at the flesh desperately and Ashley turns his face in agony, groaning and biting his tongue. He knows that Price’s hands cannot be in much better shape. He does not ask.
It is an hour before they lie still in their bags again. Ashley knows he is too chilled to recover any warmth tonight and they are only going farther up the mountain in the morning. He thinks he does not sleep. The night passes between fits of delirium and chilling lucidity, his coughing fits marking the only certain intervals. He is so cold that he burrows his face into the soaked flannel lining of his bag, but the thin air suffocates him and he comes out gasping. Ashley turns onto his side and stares at the icy canvas.
~ ~ ~
The war has been over for four months. Ashley has been in London for three days. He gives his uniforms to his tailor as scrap and buys three new suits, two in flannel and one in Cheviot tweed. After years of being clasped by a stiff tunic and trousers, the garments feel impossibly soft. On a dismal Sunday afternoon, without invitation, he takes a taxi to the house on Cavendish Square and claps the knocker. He announces himself to a maid. The father comes to the door.
— You say you knew my daughter?
— I did know her.
— What was your name again?
— Walsingham. Ashley Walsingham.
— I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of you.
Ashley takes a cardboard folio from his coat pocket. He opens it to reveal the portrait.
— Where did you get that?
— She gave it to me. Look at the inscription on the back.
— That’s quite all right.
The father’s eyes dart around the other houses of the square. He looks back at Ashley.
— You’ll understand our daughter’s absence is hard enough without strangers coming here. I don’t say you’re here to profit from it, but in any case I’m sure there’s nothing I can do for you.
The father shuts the door. Ashley claps the knocker again, but only the maid comes and Ashley quarrels with her pointlessly for several minutes. The maid slams the door. Ashley bangs the knocker again, wondering if he could knock down the door with his shoulder if he ran hard at it. He stands on the porch for another minute, flushed with anger. He returns the picture to his pocket and walks back across the square.
The next week he receives a brief letter from Eleanor suggesting they meet at the Lyon’s Corner House on Coventry Street. Ashley goes to the barber beforehand for a fresh shave. He expects the meeting to be some kind of warning, but when he enters the vast dining room and sees Eleanor stand and wave from the table in the far corner, he knows at once that he was wrong. Eleanor forces a smile as he approaches. She looks on the point of tears. They sit down.
— I’ve ordered tea, Eleanor says distractedly. I don’t suppose you’re hungry, Mr. Walsingham? If you wish something to eat, they’ve quite a menu—
— Tea will be lovely.
— I’ve never been in this Lyon’s before. It’s not so bad, really.
— Not at all.
They fall silent. Ashley watches her across the table and thinks how beautiful she is. She has the same eyes as her sister. The pot of tea arrives and Ashley pours out two cups. He does not drink from his.
— I’m so glad you’re well, Eleanor says. I’ve thought of you often. Of course, Imogen hardly spoke of anything else—
— She’s alive, isn’t she?
— Yes.
— But not in England.
— No.
— Where is she?
Eleanor folds her hands in her lap and looks away.
— I can’t say.
— Then why meet me at all?
— I was at the house when you called. I heard Papa talking to you at the door and it made me sick. I thought you deserved more. I know you do.
— Won’t you tell me where she is?
— That’s not my choice. It’s hers. She’d have told you herself if she wished you to know.
— Then it was her decision to go away. Not your father’s?
— I don’t know, Eleanor sighs. It was Imogen’s decision to stay away.
— But why all the secrecy? Why not simply go abroad like anyone else?
Eleanor takes a sip of tea.
— I suppose she wanted to start over. Perhaps she didn’t want you looking for her. But it wasn’t only you. You know Imogen can’t bear to do things normally. Papa’s tried to get her to come back many times. But she wanted a new life, and we hadn’t any choice but to go along. I can’t tell you everything—
— But you’ve already spoiled the ruse.
Eleanor shakes her head. She looks into her teacup.
— It’s gone on long enough. I don’t think it matters if I tell you she lives. You knew that already. And she’s never returning to England, that’s for certain. She’s so headstrong, and you’re the same, and it breaks my heart to hear you calling at the door. I thought if I didn’t see you, you might go on like this for years—
— I’ll go on until I see her.
— You mustn’t, Eleanor pleads, looking up at Ashley. Probably you could find her, if you looked hard enough. But what then? You’d have forced yourself upon her. She’s gone so far to be herself alone. I know it’s terribly cruel, but you must let her go.
She smiles a little. — It’s peculiar. Imogen said you were always jesting. But sitting before me now, you seem the gravest person I’ve ever met.
They both drink from their cups and Eleanor pours more tea. She hesitates, straightening her napkin on her lap.
— Perhaps I oughtn’t to have come, when I hadn’t anything good to tell you. All week I’ve thought how extraordinary it is that you should go on caring for Imogen for so long, having known each other such a short time. But it struck me this morning that those two facts may explain each other. For in a way, it’s been the same in our family. When I was younger I was convinced our parents loved Imogen more because she was so hard to love, because they could never quite have her for their own, not fully—