We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [52]
And then last year they had quarreled. It had not been violent, in a way that might be healed, but quiet, and with certainty. She still cared passionately for the same hopeless, naïve ideals she had started out with, and he had seen them for the delusions they were.
Except perhaps they were not. Perhaps Oldroyd was right, and faith, whether founded in dreams or in reality, was the only thing worth fighting or dying for. Or, more importantly, worth living for.
Still, he knew that if it were she who had been murdered in the casualty station, he would feel as if the light had gone out everywhere. There would be nothing left to win, or to lose.
The man, the lance corporal, did not know who had been killed; he could only say that it was a nurse. Mason moved on, mostly on foot. Always there was the smell of death and the knowledge of cold and pain, the sound of guns in the distance and squelching, struggling feet walking beside him.
He found her in the ambulance bay at the Casualty Clearing Station miles from the lines now, somewhere behind Ypres. She was bent over the engine, muttering to herself, an oily rag in her hands and her hair wet and falling forward over her face.
The relief was overwhelming. He wanted to laugh and shout and run over to her across the earth and stones, clasp hold of her, swing her around, kiss her so hard and so long she would fight for breath. Of course he could not. They had parted as enemies, at least ideologically. He had denied everything she had believed in, and her loyalty to her dreams was greater than to him. Perhaps that was the way to survive. Maybe she was one of the few who would come out of this something like whole?
He walked toward her, then stopped. She did not look up.
“Broken?” he asked. “Or are you just cleaning it?”
She froze, then very slowly turned and looked at him. Her eyes widened, and suddenly the disappointment and the hurt were there. His heart pinched. That was what he loved in her, the passion and the courage to care enough to be hurt and not grow bitter or run away.
She straightened up and took a deep breath. “Hello, Mason. Come to report on our murder? Or are you just passing through to the front? I think we’re well beyond Menin now.” She sounded nervous, even defensive.
He made himself smile, trying to look as if he were at ease. Would she believe such a pretense? Perhaps. She had no real idea how he felt. There was no certainty in her eyes, none of the confidence of a woman who knows she is loved.
“So I hear,” he agreed. “I came about the murder. Actually…” Should he tell her the truth? It might not be wise, but there was no time to retreat from a lie. A couple of weeks and the war could be over. Would he find her after that?
She was waiting.
“Actually I heard about it near Messines, but they didn’t know who it was, just a V.A.D. I was afraid it could be you.”
Her face barely changed. In the reflected light from the lamps he could not see if she was blushing. “I’m all right,” she said, looking away. “It’s just rather rotten for everybody because we have no idea who did it, so we are all looking sideways at one another and misunderstanding half of what’s said. You don’t want to think it’s anyone you know, but you can’t help wondering.” She stopped again, still keeping her face averted as if concentrating on the engine. “The worst thing is you realize that some people have very different ideas from the ones you thought they had. I am happier not knowing