Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [90]
Now, looking at him, seeing his eyes, his face, his hands on the table in front of him, she knew it was because she wanted to be wherever Cullingford was. She wanted to watch him as he talked with the men, see the hope rekindle in them as they listened to him, feel the shiver of pride because they believed in him. She had seen his unguarded moments; she had a close, painful idea of how much it sometimes cost him to maintain that façade when he knew numbers they did not, facts and figures that added up to something close to despair.
His odd, dry half-jokes made it bearable, the things he spoke of very seldom—walking, his dogs, horses he had loved, quotations that pleased him—made sense of the battle that cost so unbearably much.
Now he was waiting for her to explain herself, to tell him something about his family, the people he belonged to. She forced herself to meet his eyes and smile very slightly, as if she were simply a messenger and neither knew nor understood anything more than the facts of the errand. She was acutely aware of the new young driver sitting opposite.
“When I was in London I managed to call on Mrs. Prentice,” she told him. “She wrote a letter and asked me if I would give it to you personally, sir. She was afraid it might take too long to get to you otherwise.” She took the envelope from her pocket and held it out.
He reached up and took it. He did not mention the young man, or even glance at him. From the intensity of his gaze upon her it was as if he had forgotten the new driver’s existence.
“Thank you, Miss Reavley. That is very good of you. Have you just returned?”
“Yes, sir. I went to Poperinge first, then to my ambulance unit.” Would he understand from that that she had requested to resume her job? She heard the echo of accusation in her voice, and was embarrassed by it. She did not want him to know she minded. “Then I got ordered to drive a load of wounded men to Poperinge again,” she added.
“Of course.” There was every shade of expression in his voice, and she could not read any of it.
“Thank you for visiting Mrs. Prentice, and for bringing the letter,” he repeated. He seemed to be about to add something, then changed his mind. It was pointless to ask how a bereaved woman was; she could only be racked with grief. The issue was only how openly she showed it, and that meant nothing. “You must be tired after your journey, and you have the care of your vehicle to attend to. Good night.”
Was that as remote as it sounded? Or simply the necessity of the circumstances?
“Yes, sir.” She stood to attention, then turned away immediately so he should not read in her anything more than a kindness accomplished, such as anyone might have performed.
Outside she found Wil waiting for her. She walked on, into the square toward the ambulance, furious with herself for the emotion boiling up inside her until she was choked with tears, and a rejection so agonizing it almost took her breath away.
Wil caught up with her, taking her arm.
“They’re right,” she said with an effort, keeping her face turned away from him, even in the dark. “He looks like a schoolboy.”
“Then he shouldn’t be too hard to get rid of,” he retorted.
“General Cullingford may prefer to have a male driver,” she said stiffly, opening the ambulance door and climbing in.
Wil went around to the front, cranked the engine to life, then got in on the driver’s side and they moved off slowly. “My ma always reckoned my pa didn’t know what was good for him, until she’d fixed it,” he said casually, deliberately not looking at her, giving her the privacy of pretending she wasn’t weeping. “Great woman, my ma.” She could hear the warmth in his voice, the pride and gentleness, even though his face was hard to see in the sporadic light as they bumped over the cobbles and out of the square.
“Thank you, Wil,” she said softly.
They were two miles