Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [3]
Joseph blinked. “Last time? Last time I was home I was fine.”
“Last time I was here you weren’t even conscious,” Matthew replied ruefully. “I was very disappointed. I couldn’t even shout at you for being a fool. It’s the sort of thing Mother would have done.” His voice caught a little. “Tell you she’s so proud of you she’d burst, and then send you to bed with no dinner for frightening the life out of her.”
He was right. Were Alys Reavley still alive that is just what she would have done, then later send Mrs. Appleton upstairs with pudding on a tray, as if she were sneaking it up and Alys did not know. In one sentence Matthew had summed up everything that home meant, and the impossible loss of their parents, murdered at the end of June two years ago, the same day the Archduke and Duchess were assassinated in Sarajevo. The loss washed over Joseph again in stinging grief, and for a moment his throat ached too fiercely to reply.
Matthew blinked. “Actually for this she’d have had you down again, for hot pie and cream,” he said a little huskily. He fished in his jacket pocket and brought out something in his hand. It was a small case, of the sort in which good watches are presented. He opened it and held it up. It contained a silver cross on a purple and white ribbon.
“Military Cross,” he said, as if Joseph might not recognize it. “Kitchener would have given it to you himself—it’s good for morale, especially in hospitals. But he’s pretty occupied at the moment, so he let me bring it.”
It was the highest award given to officers for consistent acts of courage over a period of time.
“I’ve got the citation,” Matthew went on; he was smiling now, his eyes bright with pride. He took an envelope out, opened it up, and laid it on the table beside Joseph, then put the cross on top of it, still in its case. “For all the men you rescued and carried back from no-man’s-land.” He gave a tiny shrug. “It mentions Eldon Prentice,” he added quietly. “Actually there’s a posthumous M.C. for Sam Wetherall, too.” His voice dropped even lower. “I’m sorry, Joe.”
Joseph wanted to answer, but the words would not come. He remembered the death of war correspondent Eldon Prentice as if it had been a month ago, not a year. He could still taste the anger, everyone else’s, not just his own. The night Charlie Gee was wounded, Joseph could have killed Prentice himself. And he had never stopped missing Sam. He had never told Matthew the truth about that. “Thank you,” he said simply. There was no need for elaboration.
Matthew understood this as well. “I heard Tucky Nunn’s not doing too badly. He’ll be home for a while, but he’ll get better. In the end his wounds weren’t as severe as yours.”
Joseph nodded. “Doughy Ward got it,” he said quietly. “I’ll have to go and see his family, when I can. They’ll just have the five girls now. It will be a hardship for the old man. There’ll be no one to take over the bakery.”
“Maybe Mary will,” Matthew suggested. “She was always the equal of her father at the baking, and more imaginative. Susie could keep the books.” He sighed. “I know that’s not what matters. How’s everyone else? The people I know?”
Joseph smiled ruefully. “Much the same, or trying to be. Whoopy Teversham is still a clown, got a face like India rubber.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “Last time I was here the Nunns and the Tevershams were still not speaking to each other.”
“Cully Teversham and Snowy Nunn are like brothers in the trenches,” Joseph said with a sudden ache in his throat, remembering them sitting together all night in the bitter cold, telling stories to keep up their courage, the tales getting wilder with each one. Two men half a mile away had frozen to death that night. They found their bodies when they brought the rations up the supply trenches the next morning.
Matthew said nothing.
“Thanks for the phonograph records.” Joseph changed the subject abruptly. “Especially the Caruso one. Was it really popular?”
“Of course it was,” Matthew said indignantly. “That,