Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [145]
“I can see that,” I told her, speaking only the truth. “But actually, we’ve come to talk about another matter.”
“I’m happy to teach your husbands. I’m good with men.”
“It concerns a young soldier you once knew, by the name of Gabriel Hughenfort.”
It was as if I’d kicked her in the stomach. All her high spirits vanished into instant wariness; she even took a step back. In a moment, I thought, she’d break into a run—or reach for a weapon.
“Damn,” she said. “Damnation. Well, I knew you’d come eventually.”
The man in the chair, wondering perhaps where we had got to, had rolled outside again and now called out, “Are you ladies going to stand there and freeze to death, or can I shut this door?”
Raising her head, but not taking her eyes off us, the pilot shouted, “We’ll be right there, Ben.” She waited until the door closed, then she leant forward and spoke in a low, forceful voice. “If you hurt him, if you so much as make him uncomfortable, I swear to God you’ll never lay eyes on him again.”
Then she stalked off to the office. Iris stared after her, with an expression that asked about the pilot’s sanity, and said, “But why on earth would we want to hurt that poor man?”
I shook my head, but not, as she thought, from an equal incomprehension. Instead, I was asking Iris to wait, as I propelled her forward by the elbow, trying to keep down my excitement. I could be wrong—those small hints, the odd coincidences; the ring she didn’t wear, her willingness to leave France during the last, victorious weeks of the War. I could be mistaken. But the green-eyed woman’s attitude made no sense, unless—
I could be wrong.
But I was not.
Iris saw him a split second after I did, standing at the side of the pilot. It took her a moment longer to understand what she was seeing.
A child, about five years of age, with his mother’s green eyes.
Everything else about him was pure Hughenfort, from the lift of his chin and his stocky grace to Marsh’s raised eyebrow.
Gabriel’s son.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Iris swayed, when her mind finally comprehended what her eyes were telling her, and I seized a beat-up wooden chair and jammed it behind her knees.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Oh my God.”
This reaction quite clearly was not what the boy’s mother had anticipated. The child had retreated from the peculiar behaviour of these two strangers, and now stood half hidden behind his mother, her hand resting on his shoulder by way of protection.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Her brother took it further. “What the hell is going on here?”
“My name—,” Iris began, but I cut in on her.
“Before we get into the details, may I suggest that the boy be excused? That way you can choose how best to talk to him about what we are going to tell you.”
The green eyes thought about it for a while, then flickered over to Ben. “Would you and Gabe mind going up to the house and starting lunch? The boys will be here before long and they’ll be hungry. This may take a while.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything, but I think it’d be a good idea. You go with Ben, okay, Gabe? You can start the sandwiches.”
Iris’s rapt gaze followed the boy until the door had shut behind him. Immediately the door closed, the still angry but now confused pilot dragged up another chair and dropped into it.
“Lady, you better start talking.”
“May I ask one question first, Mrs—” I stopped, then apologised. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure of your name.”
“Hewetson,” she said, then corrected herself. “I call myself Hewetson.”
“Mrs Hewetson, I don’t know how to put this so it isn’t offensive, so I won’t even try. Before we go any further, we have to know: Were you and Gabriel Hughenfort, who was known at the time as Hewetson, legally married?”
She eyed me, thinking about the question’s implications—but not, going by her expression, just those that were offensive.
“Why don’t you know that already? And if you don’t know that, how did you find me?”
By way of answer, Iris reached into her handbag and pulled out the worn red