Part 2 (2/2)

He frowned. ”Graham...Rings a bell somewhere.”

”He had something to do with racing, I think-a horse called Merlin the Wise.”

”Ah. One of the finest steeplechasers there ever was. That Graham. He died some years ago. His first wife was a cousin of Peter Neville's. He lost her in childbirth, and Merlin had to be put down that same year. Neville wrote me that it turned his mind.” He finished his tea and sat back. ”Any particular reason why I should remember the Grahams tonight?”

My father was nothing if not all-seeing. His subalterns and his Indian staff had walked in fear of him, believing him to have eyes everywhere. I knew better-it was a mind that never let even the tiniest detail escape his notice.

”Not especially.” I was fis.h.i.+ng for words now, the right ones. ”His son Arthur was one of my patients, you see.”

”Arthur? Was that the child's name?”

”Arthur was a son of the second family. Ambrose Graham married again.”

”Ah. Go on.”

”At any rate, Arthur was healing quite nicely. Then his wound went septic almost overnight, and he-died,” I ended baldly.

”And you felt that somehow it was your fault. You must have been very tired and upset, my dear, to believe such a thing. Men do die from wounds. I've seen perfectly hardy souls taken off by the merest scratch while others survive against all odds. Even Florence Nightingale couldn't have done more. You must accept that as part of the price of nursing.” His voice was unusually gentle.

”No. Not that. I mean, yes, I felt-it was appalling that he died, that we'd failed, although we'd done all that was humanly possible.... There is something else. As he was dying, Arthur made me promise to give one of his brothers a message. He was insistent. I don't think he would have died in peace if I hadn't agreed.”

I could see Arthur's face again, taut with suffering as he reached for my hand, intent on what he was saying, urgent to make me understand why I must carry out his wishes. He'd died two hours later, without speaking again. And I'd sat there by the bed, watching the fires of infection take him. It was I who'd closed his eyes. They had been blue, and not even the Mediterranean Sea could have matched them.

”What sort of message?” He knew soldiers, my father did, and his gaze was intent. ”Something to do with his will? A last wish? Or more personal, something he'd left undone? A girl, perhaps?” When I hesitated, he added, ”It's been some time, I think, since you made your promise. Is that what's worrying you, my dear? There were no wounded on Britannic' Britannic's last voyage.”

”It was the voyage before that-if you remember, I had only a few days in London before we sailed again.” I should never have brought up the subject tonight. I don't even know why I had, except that as our train rumbled through Kent, and I was finally safely back in England, I faced for the first time the unpalatable truth that I could very well have died out there in the sea, one of those thirty lost souls. And if I had, and there was any truth to an afterlife, it would have been on my soul that I'd failed Arthur. I was sorely tempted to change trains there and then in Rochester, and make my way unannounced to Owlhurst. It would have been a foolish thing to do-my father was waiting for me in London, and for all I knew, Arthur's brother was in France, out of my reach. But the urgent need to a.s.suage my sense of guilt had been so strong I could hardly sit still in my seat. I knew what it was, of course I did. It was the taste of near failure, and to my father's daughter, failure was unthinkable.

I tried now to find a way of disentangling myself from what I'd begun, but I was in too deep and heard myself saying instead, ”The message-how am I to judge it? How can I know if I waited too long, if I'm already too late? Arthur wasn't delirious, he knew what he was telling me and why. What we'd been giving him hadn't affected his brain. I know the dying dwell on small things, something left undone, something unfinished. This was different. He was still in command of his senses when he held my hand and made me swear. I think until the last minute, he still believed he'd live to see to it himself. He desperately wanted to live. He turned to me as a last resort.”

”If the moment made such an impression on you, why have you put off carrying out his wishes?”

I rubbed the shoulder of my bad arm. ”I don't know,” I said again. And then was forced to be honest. ”Fear, I think.”

”Fear of what?”

”I was still grieving, not for the man his family knew, but for the one I'd nursed. They'd remember him differently, as their son, their brother, their friend. I wasn't ready for that Arthur. I wanted to hold on to my memories for a little while longer. It-I know that was selfish, but it was all I had.” I looked at my father, feeling the shame of that admission. ”I-it was a bad time for me.”

”You cared about this young man, I can see that. Do you still?”

I hesitated, then made an attempt to answer his question. ”I'm not nursing a broken heart. Truly. It's just-my professional detachment slipped a little. I-it took a while to regain that detachment.” I stirred my tea before looking my father in the face. ”You've commanded hundreds of men. There must have been a handful of them who stood out above the rest. And you couldn't have said why, even when you knew you oughtn't have a favorite. They're just-a little different somehow, and you want the best for them. And it hurts when you lose them instead.”

”Yes, I understand what you're saying. G.o.d knows, I do. I've sent men into danger perfectly aware that they might not come back, and equally aware that I could not send someone else in their place. If you remember, when you first decided to train as a nurse, I warned you that the burden of watching men suffer and die would be a heavy one. Young Graham just brought that home in a very personal way. It happens, my dear. He won't be the last. War is a b.l.o.o.d.y waste of good men, and that will break your heart when nothing else does. I'd have liked to meet this man. He sounds very fine.” He cleared his throat, in that way he had of putting things behind him. ”As to the message. Would you like to tell me what it is, and let me judge?”

I considered his suggestion, realizing that it was exactly what I wanted to do. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. ”I had to repeat the words two or three times, to be certain I knew them by heart. 'Tell Jonathan that I lied. I did it for Mother's sake. But it has to be set right.'”

My father frowned. ”And that's it?”

”Yes. In a nutsh.e.l.l.” I was tense, waiting. Afraid he might read something in the words that I hadn't.

”I don't see there's been any harm done, waiting until now to pa.s.s it on to his brother,” he replied slowly. ”But you have a responsibility not to put it off again. A duty to the dead is sacred, I needn't tell you that.”

I lied. I did it for Mother's sake. I repeated the words in my head. I couldn't tell my father that with time those words had become sinister. It was only my imagination running rampant, of course. Still, I was relieved that he'd found them unremarkable. I repeated the words in my head. I couldn't tell my father that with time those words had become sinister. It was only my imagination running rampant, of course. Still, I was relieved that he'd found them unremarkable.

”It's not your place to sit in judgment, you know.” And there it was again, that sixth sense that told him what I was thinking. ”There must be a dozen explanations. Perhaps he tried to make himself seem braver than he was. Or safer than he was. Or perhaps there's a girl involved. Someone his mother had hoped he might marry one day. And he'd lied about how he felt toward her. Men do strange things in the excitement of going off to war. Make promises they can't keep, get themselves involved more deeply than they might have done otherwise. If Arthur Graham had wanted you to know more, he'd have explained why his message mattered so much. For whatever reason, he didn't.”

And that was the crux of it. Arthur had never told me anything. And I'd been afraid that it meant there had been someone else....

It wasn't merely vanity.

I had listened to too many men in pain, in delirium, on the point of being sent home, dying. The dying often regretted a hasty marriage that would leave the girl a widow. Sometimes they regretted not marrying. And how many letters had I written to girls who had just told the wounded man that she was expecting his child, and he would turn his head to the wall. ”It can't be mine,” they sometimes murmured in despair. Or they were in a fever to find a way to marry her before the baby came. War and women. They seemed to go together.

There were other worries facing the wounded, of course. Debt, a family's need, a mother's illness, how to live with one arm or without sight. But Arthur had said, It has to be set right... It has to be set right...

I heaved a sigh, not of relief but of self-knowledge. Arthur Graham had confided a responsibility to me. I'd made a promise to carry that through. And there was an end to it. His past was never mine to judge, and caring hadn't altered that.

I must must go to Kent. I'd done both Arthur and his family a disservice by putting off doing what I'd sworn to do. If nothing else, they should have a chance to carry out Arthur's last wish. Their duty. And not mine. go to Kent. I'd done both Arthur and his family a disservice by putting off doing what I'd sworn to do. If nothing else, they should have a chance to carry out Arthur's last wish. Their duty. And not mine.

Honor above all things. I'd heard my father drum that into his subalterns and his younger lieutenants.

What I needed now was to hear my father say that it wasn't selfishness that had held me back after all, it had been a matter of another duty, and I'd had to answer that call first. That Arthur hadn't misplaced his trust.

To put it bluntly, I wanted comforting.

But he didn't answer that need. And I couldn't ask.

My own guilty conscience nattered at me instead. And the Colonel was right, there was no excuse for failing in one's duty. No comfort to be given. I thought bitterly, whatever I discovered in Kent would teach me that dying heroes sometimes had feet of clay.

Then my father said gently, ”Bess. If you'd gone down with Britannic, Britannic, there would have been no one to deliver his message.” there would have been no one to deliver his message.”

Which brought me back to the nightmare that had haunted me on my long journey home. Full circle.

”I can't go now-” I gestured to my arm.

”You aren't fit enough to travel again just now, and you must write to this brother first and ask if the family will receive you. Your mother would tell you that war or no war, the rules of courtesy haven't changed.” He smiled. ”You do know how to reach the Grahams?”

”He made me memorize the address as well.”

My father studied my face. I wanted to squirm, as I'd done as a child when I'd got caught in a mischief. He said, ”It's not wise to get close to a soldier, Bess. Ask your mother.”

I wanted to cry, but I forced myself to smile, for his sake. ”Yes, so you've told me. A solicitor, a banker, a merchant prince. But never a soldier.”

But in my mind I could still see Arthur's face. The worst of it was, I knew very well he'd have done everything in his power to carry out my my last wishes. How could I have let him down? last wishes. How could I have let him down?

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