Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [149]
“I have seen as many wounded men as you have, Mr. Mason!” Judith retorted icily. “Don’t patronize me.”
His eyes widened slightly and there was reluctant admiration in them. It could have been for her spirit, or the fact that she drove an ambulance. Or it could simply have been that she was beautiful. Anger and grief had taken the bloom of innocence from her and refined the strength. Cullingford had awoken the woman in her, and scoured deep with loss, all in the same act. Perhaps Mason saw something of it in her, because another kind of certainty had gone from his eyes, and whether she was aware of it or not, it was she who had caused that.
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and went through the doors to the dining room, leaving him to follow or not, as he wished.
Joseph found himself smiling, even though he was overtaken by a wave of fierce and consuming protectiveness toward her, and a knowledge that he could never succeed; no one could protect Judith, or be protected from her.
He followed after her, awed, proud, and a little frightened.
As always, he could smell the sour stench of the Front before he heard the guns, or saw the lines of troops marching, the broken trees, the occasional crater beside the roads where heavy artillery shells had fallen. There was a terrible familiarity to it, like reentering an old nightmare, as if every time sleep touched you, you were drawn back into the same drowning reality.
Like anyone else, he had to walk the last few miles. He was passed by Wil Sloan, driving an empty ambulance. He stopped, but not to offer a lift; it was forbidden and Joseph knew better than to hope.
“How’s Judith?” Wil asked anxiously, sticking his head out of the side and trying to make himself smile. “I mean . . .” He stopped awkwardly, memory sharp in his eyes.
Joseph smiled. “Last time I saw her she was making mincemeat out of a top war correspondent,” he answered. “She looked gorgeous, in a long, blue gown, and she was going in to dinner at the Savoy.”
Wil looked uncertain whether to believe him or not.
“Actually,” Joseph amended, “that wasn’t the last time. I did take her to where she was staying after that.”
Wil relaxed. “She’s going to be all right?”
“In time,” Joseph told him. “We all will be, one way or another.” He stood back, waving him on, to avoid the embarrassment for Wil of having to explain why he couldn’t offer a lift, even to a chaplain.
Wil smiled and gave a little salute, then slipped the ambulance into gear again and moved forward. Joseph watched him drive into the distance on the long, straight road with its shattered poplars and the ditches on either side. The fields were level, a few copses left. One or two houses were burned out. There was a column of smoke on the horizon.
It was dusk and the heavy artillery was firing pretty steadily, sending up great gouts of dark, sepia-colored earth, when he reported to the colonel.
“You look rough, Reavley,” Fyfe observed. “Leave doesn’t agree with you. Feeling all right?” He asked it casually, but there was a genuine anxiety in his face.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. I ran an errand to Gallipoli. Bit of bother on the way back.”
Fyfe raised his eyebrows. “Bother?”
“Yes, sir. Ship I was in got stopped by a German U-boat. They let us off before they sank it, but rather more rowing than I care for.”
“Are you fit to be here? You look stiff!”
“Yes, sir, but not too much.” Deliberately Joseph used the words he had heard from so many wounded men. “I’m a lot better than many of those who are fighting.”
Fyfe