Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [80]
“I’ll come in and make tea, or something, if you like,” Lizzie offered. “Tidy up, whatever’s needed. I can stay the night with her, if she wants me to. You can’t do that.”
He smiled at her. Whatever madness had made Theo Blaine begin an affair with another woman? Who knew why anyone fell in love? Who knew why one person would betray another, or a belief, a nation?
“Thank you,” he accepted. “She might feel better if you do. We’ll . . . we’ll see.” It was time to move. There was no point whatever in putting it off. This was always a kind of hell. He undid the door with his good hand and eased himself out before Lizzie could come around and open it for him. He walked up to the front door and knocked.
It was several moments before it was opened, then Gwen Neave stood there like a ghost, a woman from whom life had departed. There was no recognition in her eyes.
“Joseph Reavley,” he said quietly. “Broken arm and shell injury in my leg. You looked after me in the hospital in Cambridge when I first came back from Ypres, about four weeks ago. You were there every time I woke up, always knowing what I needed. I wish I could do as much for you, but if you would like me to stay, to talk a little, or not, I’m here.”
“Oh . . . yes.” Her voice was hoarse, the words hard to form. “I remember you. A chaplain . . . weren’t you?” She stepped back a little.
“I still am,” he answered, following her in. “Mrs. Blaine drove me. Can she do anything to help . . . practical, perhaps? I’m afraid I’m still rather useless.”
She backed farther in toward the sitting room, but with a blank look as if she had not understood him. Lizzie followed, but went toward where she assumed the kitchen must be.
“Chaplain . . .” Gwen Neave responded. “I’m not sure that I want . . .” There was fear in her face, as if she thought he would start telling her something unbearable.
“It’s irrelevant,” he said. “Just to help you place me. You must have so many patients.”
“Military Cross.” She stared at him. “For bringing injured men back from no-man’s-land. I remember you.” She sat down, not so much in any kind of ease but simply because she was losing both her balance and her strength to remain standing.
What on earth could he say? This proud woman who had helped so many men in their extremity of physical distress, perhaps even death, did not want platitudes about suffering or resurrection. She must have heard it all. She might not even be a Christian, for all he knew. It would be a presumption of extraordinary insensitivity to start speaking as if she were. No words had helped him in the first shock of Eleanor’s death. There was only a vast, aching hole inside him where there had been light and love just a few hours before. What had he wanted to hear, to say? Nothing comforting, nothing prepared and necessarily impersonal. Other deaths had not mattered to him. Only Eleanor’s was real, eating into his heart. He wanted to talk about her, as if it kept her close and real a little longer.
“Tell me about your sons,” he asked her. “My brother-in-law is at sea, on a destroyer. For all the hardship and the danger, there’s a part of him that wouldn’t do anything else. The sea has a kind of magic for him.”
She blinked. “Eric was like that. He had a toy boat he sailed in the village pond when he was little. He had very fair hair, straight as stair rods. It flopped up and down on his head when he jumped with excitement. His father used to rig his boat for him and put it in the water, and when the wind caught it, it went right to the other side. Terrified the ducks.”
There was a moment’s agonized silence, then she went on, memories crowding her mind, falling over each other as she found words for them. Lizzie brought tea in and after she departed, Gwen continued to explore the terrible wounds of her love.
Then at last she could cry. She bent over, great wrenching sobs of raw, tearing loss for her children who were gone. Joseph said nothing, but very gently knelt