Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [39]
He would not yet tell her that he was considering not returning at all; somehow it was not a thought he wished her to know of. Of course if he followed it through, then he would tell her in the future. He had considered describing the slow, sweet fragrance of the spring, longing to share it with her, but it seemed a luxury out of place with the urgency of her question.
I am sorry to learn of the young soldier you write about. I have seen that look on men’s faces. We call it “the thousand-yard stare.” It happens to men who have seen more terrible things than the mind can bear. Some of them are very young. I wish I knew of a way to reach the agony and ease it, touch with healing what is broken inside, but I have not found it. All I know for certain is that I cannot bring myself to blame anyone that is so terribly wounded, and through no fault of their own. I would be no man’s judge in what I can barely understand, even though I have heard the incessant, beating noise myself, and seen the mud and the death. Who knows what hell another man walks through?
But others may think very differently. Their own losses, or their anger, fear, and ignorance may make them wish for a violent resolution that they feel represents justice. In any decision you make, please never forget this, and take the greatest care.
Then he went on to speak of his own village, the garden, the orchard, and the fields. He hoped he had made his advice plain enough that she would understand. He dared not be clearer. There was always the possibility the letter would be censored, and greater clarity would in itself prevent her from doing anything but turning in the young soldier.
He could not tell her even that he had indecision in his mind. He sat alone in the study and stared at the small, exquisite painting of the sea. And he prayed.
The following morning Joseph was barely dressed when Hannah knocked hard and peremptorily on his bedroom door, calling his name.
“Come in,” he said, alarm too swift for irritation. “What is it?”
She stood in the doorway, her face pale. “The vicar is here to see you,” she said breathlessly. “He looks absolutely terrible, and he says it can’t wait. He won’t even sit down. I’m sorry, but you’d better come. He looks beside himself, but he won’t tell me anything at all. Joseph, do you think the Germans have landed?”
“No, of course not,” he answered suddenly, moving toward the door. “The vicar wouldn’t be the only one to know. Where’s Archie?”
She swallowed. “He’s still asleep. Should I waken him?”
“No! No. I’ll go and see what he wants.” He was annoyed at the disturbance. “It might be nothing much. He panics rather easily. But just in case it’s someone in the village lost a son or brother and can’t cope, you’d better keep the children busy. We don’t need them frightened.”
“If it is, you’d better tell me who . . . in case I can help.” Her face was even whiter, her voice husky.
“I will.” He moved to go past her onto the landing.
“Here.” She reached out to retie his sling where it was roughly done. “It needs to be taut or it won’t support your arm.”
He stood obediently while she redid it, then went down to the sitting room with a feeling of sickness in his stomach. He realized how good it had been not to have to face death, maiming, grief, not to be the one who had to be first there and try to deal with the pain of it and make sense to the people left.
Hallam Kerr was standing in the middle of the room, his body rigid, his hair wet and sticking up in spikes. His face was pale. Joseph was used to the signs of shock, but it still caught him by surprise.
Kerr took a swaying step toward him. “Thank God you’re here!” he gasped. “Something terrible has happened! Ghastly!” His breath caught in his throat, his chest heaving. “I simply don’t know where to begin. . . .”
“You had better sit down and tell me,” Joseph said firmly. He closed the door. “What has happened?”
Kerr stood rigidly, flapping his hands as if trying to grasp something that eluded him. “There