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attack, and one wistful passage about the Justice parkland in April. Compared
with his earlier letter, Gabriel quite clearly had his feet beneath him, and
looked to be having what survivors called a good war. I was certain there
had been other letters between these two, but taking them as the only
representatives, I found the change in his attitude and self-assurance
striking.
I then took up his third envelope. This was thinner, and contained but a
single sheet of paper. It had also had a much harder journey to reach Justice
than the other two: a worn crease across the middle, one edge crushed in, the
back of it looking as if it had ridden about in a filthy pocket for days, if
not weeks. The glass showed me several thumbprint-sized smudges and the
remains of no fewer than three crushed body lice. Sub-Lieutenant Hughenfort
had carried this letter a long time before it had been posted.
The sheet inside was undated. It read:
Dearest Pater, Beloved Mama,
I write from a nice dry dug-out left behind by Jerry, who shall, with any
luck, not be needing it again. I trust that you are well and safe within
Justice Hall. I think often of the peace inside the Park walls, of how sweet
the air smells after a mowing, the dash of swallows in the spring and the loud
geese that ride the autumn winds. We have received orders for the morning, and
although this has been a quiet section of Front recently, there is always the
chance that a German bullet will find your son. If that were to happen, please
know that I love you, that I would happily give my life ten times over if it
served to keep the enemy from Justice Hall. My men feel the same, willing to
give their all for their little patch of England, and I am proud of every one
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of them.
For your sakes, I shall try to keep my head down on the morrow, but if I
fail, please know that death found me strong and happy to serve my King and
country. You formed me well, and I will do my best to remain brave, that I
might live up to my name. Righteousness is my strength.
Your loving son,
Gabriel
Lies, I thought, all of it pretty lies to comfort the mother and bereft
father, just as families were told of clean bullets and instant death even if
their boy had hung for agonised hours on the barbed wire of No-Man s-Land. I
only hoped it brought his parents some scrap of comfort, when it reached their
hands.
The last letter was addressed by a different hand. It read:
7 August 1918
Dear Sir and Madame,
By the time this letter reaches you, you will have received the foulest news
any parent could have, the death of your beloved son. I did not know Gabriel
well, but over the few months of our acquaintance, he impressed me profoundly,
as a soldier and as a man. The men under his command, too, had come to respect
him far more deeply than they did many officers of longer experience and
greater years. I do not claim to understand the forces that conspired to bring
your son to his end, but I am convinced that as an officer, your son inspired
nothing but loyalty and courage in those under his command, and that at the
end, all that he did was for their sakes.
Joining you in your sorrow, I am
Very truly yours,
Rev. F. A. Hastings
This last letter I read several times. Taken in conjunction with the
alternate wording of the official death notification, I began to see what had
led Marsh to the conviction that Gabriel had been executed. I do not claim to
understand the forces that conspired sounded awfully like a lament for a
loved deserter. I could only wish that the Reverend Mr Hastings had gone into
a bit more detail concerning all that he did.
With relief, I slid the letters back into the large envelope and turned to
the youthful journals with a lighter heart. They had all been written before
Gabriel Hughenfort went to soldier; their sorrow and bloodshed would be
limited to anguish for a dead pet and the slaughter of game birds.
I read long, grasping for the essence of the boy and finding a degree of
sweetness and nobility that was hard for my cynical mind to comprehend.
Afternoon tea inserted itself on my awareness as nothing more than a cup at my
elbow and a sudden brightness as the maid turned on the light. The next thing
I knew, it was a quarter past seven and a woman s ringing voice startled me
from my page: The Darlings had returned.
I looked down at my tweed-covered lap and dusty hands, and knew it was
unlikely that we should be excused from changing two nights running. I closed
my books and shut down the lamps. After returning the envelope into Marsh s
hands, without comment from either of us, I went to don the hair-shirt of
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civilisation.
My perusal of the two dinner frocks in the wardrobe was interrupted by a
knock at the door. I tightened the belt of my dressing gown and went to see
who it was, opening the door to find Emma, the house-maid whom I had nearly
sent flying on the 1612 staircase.
Beg pardon, mum, but Mrs Butter sent me to see if you d like a hand with
your hair. I was a ladies maid at my last position, she added, as if Mrs
Butter might sent a scullery maid for the purpose. I stepped back to let her
in.
She chose my dress, rejected the wrap I had chosen in favour of the other,
picked a necklace and combs, wrapped my hair into a slick chignon, and finally
produced a powder compact and lip gloss. The ugly duckling thus transformed
into a higher species, the gong sounded as if she had made some signal giving
permission.
I thank you, Emma, you re an artist. Before you go, tell me, how formal is
Saturday dinner?
Oh, it ll be black tie, mum. There s one or two might wear white tie, but
that ll be only the older guests.
In either case, I ll need to send for a dress. If I put a letter near the
door, will it go in the morning?
Certainly, or you could ring, and someone will come for it.
I had discovered writing materials and stamps in the table under the window.
Mrs Hudson would not receive the letter until Saturday morning, but I felt
sure she would rise to the challenge of getting evening apparel here to
Justice by the afternoon.
And if it did not arrive, I should have a good excuse to plead a head-ache.
I very nearly used that excuse to avoid that evening s demands on
sociability. Following my afternoon s reading, aware that the tragedy of
Gabriel Hughenfort would be moving restlessly through the back of my mind, the
thought of spending two or three hours making light conversation was a
torment.
But when the gong sounded, I went.
Dinner was in the parlour where we had taken breakfast, and more comfortable
it was than the formal dining room. Sidney Darling had spent the day at his
club with friends; Lady Phillida had spent the day at a lecture and the shops
with friends. He began the evening superciliously amiable, she determinedly
cheerful; both of them detested Iris Sutherland.
I could not tell if their palpable dislike was due to the potential for
rivalry she represented, or to Iris herself. Phillida kept glancing irritably
at Iris s dress, a subtle construction of heavy chocolate-brown crepe with
flame-coloured kid trim that fit Iris like an old shirt and made her
sister-in-law s ornate velvet-and-beads look like dressing-up. Sidney seemed
particularly irked by Iris s arrival; he found the soup cold, the bird tough,
the fish going off, and the wine inadequate.
Marsh watched these undercurrents with lidded eyes, and then over the meat
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