Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [5]
Joseph smiled.
Matthew shrugged. “I suppose he has to,” he said resignedly. “If he brings them in too fast, he could lose his own election in the autumn, and what use would that be!”
“I know,” Joseph agreed. “Maybe while I’m at home I’ll have time to think about the Peacemaker a bit. There might be other people we haven’t considered.” He had in mind Aidan Thyer, his old master at St. John’s, and he was startled how the idea hurt. It had to be someone they knew, which made it the ultimate betrayal. It was difficult to keep the hatred out of his voice. Perhaps Matthew would take it for pain. “What else is happening in London?” he asked aloud. “Any new shows worth seeing? What about the moving pictures? What about Chaplin? Has he done anything more?”
Matthew smiled broadly. “There’s some good Keystone stuff. ‘Fatty and Mabel Adrift,’ with Roscoe Arbuckle and Mabel Normand, and a great dog called Luke. Or ‘He Did and He Didn’t,’ or ‘Love and Lobsters,’ if you prefer. They all have alternative titles.” And he proceeded to outline some of the highlights.
Joseph was still laughing when Gwen Neave returned, clean sheets folded over her arm and a roll of bandages in her other hand. She smiled at Matthew, but there was no denying her authority when she told him it was time for him to leave.
Matthew bade Joseph goodbye briefly, as if they saw each other every day. Then he walked out with a remnant of his old, slight swagger.
“My brother,” Joseph said with a sense of pride that startled him. Suddenly he was filled with well-being, as if the pain had lessened, although actually it was just as grave.
Gwen Neave set down the sheets. “He said he was up from London,” she remarked without meeting his eyes. “We’ll change those dressings first, before I put on the clean sheets.”
The implicit rebuke in her voice hurt Joseph. He cared what she thought of his brother. He wanted to tell her how important Matthew’s work was so she did not think he was one of those who evaded service, the sort of young man to whom girls on street corners gave white feathers, the mark of the coward. It was the ugliest insult possible.
She slid her arm around him and put an extra pillow behind his back so she could reach the raw, open wound where the broken ends of the bone had torn through the flesh.
“He works in London,” he said, gasping as the pain shot through him in waves. He refused to look at the wound. He still needed to tell her about Matthew.
She was not interested. She dealt with the injured, the fighting men. She worked all day and often most of the night. No call on her care or her patience was too much, no clasp of the hand or silent listening too trivial.
“He can’t tell us what he does,” he went on. “It’s secret. Not everybody can wear a uniform. . . .” He stopped abruptly, afraid to say too much. The physical pain made him feel sick.
She gave him a quick smile, understanding what he was trying to do. “He’s obviously very fond of you,” she said. “So is the other gentleman, by all appearances. He was upset you weren’t well enough to see him.”
He was startled. “Other gentleman?”
Her lips tightened. “Did they not tell you? I’m sorry. We had an emergency that evening. Rather bad. I dare say they forgot. They wouldn’t do it on purpose. It . . . it was distressing.” Her face was bleak. He did not ask what had happened. It was too easy to guess.
“Who was he?” he asked instead. “The man who came?”
“A Mr. Shanley Corcoran,” she replied. “We assured him you were doing well.”
He smiled, and a little of the tension eased out of him. Corcoran had been his father’s closest friend and all of them had loved him as long as they could remember. Of course Corcoran would come, no matter how busy he was at the Scientific Establishment. Whatever he was working on would have to wait at least an hour or two when one of his own was ill.
She eased him back as gently as she could. “I see your brother brought you your medal. That’s very fine, Captain, very fine indeed. Your sister’ll