Charles Todd - A Bitter Truth

We left then, shutting the bedroom door behind us and walking in silence back the way we’d come. The silence between us was uncomfortable, as if Dr. Tilton was clearly not accustomed to having nursing sisters or anyone else contradict him.

I wondered what had been said in the drawing room after we had taken Lieutenant Hughes away. But the conversation when we opened the door was stilted.

Gran was saying, “-and the latest reports from France leave one to wonder-”

Every head turned toward us as we entered, and Mrs. Tilton rose, saying, “My dear, I hadn’t realized how late it is.”

Her husband said, “Yes, I suspect we’ll meet with patches of fog on the way home.”

The Smyths rose as well, and then everyone was standing, bidding one another a good night, thanking Mrs. Ellis for the lovely dinner, and five minutes later Roger was swinging the hall door closed after his guests, and turning to face us.

I realized that Lydia wasn’t there.

Roger said, “It’s been a long day. Perhaps we should call it an evening.” And before anyone could question him, he strode through the passage door and closed it behind him.

Mrs. Ellis was running a finger around the now-empty porcelain umbrella stand, not looking at her mother-in-law as she said, “I must say I’m rather tired as well. Good night, Gran. Bess.” She crossed the room to kiss Margaret on the cheek, and then Henry as well.

Margaret said hastily, “Yes, it’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” And with a glance at Henry, she followed her mother toward the door, Henry at her heels.

Eleanor and her brother had slipped away earlier while Roger and Mrs. Ellis were saying their last farewells to the doctor and the rector.

Gran clearly wanted to return to what had happened in the drawing room, and she looked after them with a frown between her eyes. She stared at me for a moment, as if considering whether to broach the subject with me, and then thought better of it.

“Where’s Lydia?” she asked instead.

“I don’t know. I thought she came down with us.”

“Hmmph,” Gran said, and then bade me a good night.

I was left in sole possession of the hall. I stood by the fire for a few minutes more, relishing the quiet, although I could hear the wind picking up again outside.

Tomorrow, I thought, will be a stressful day. There will be no avoiding George, and Roger will have his hands full keeping his family from demanding answers.

And Lydia? What about her?

I went looking for her then, and found her in the drawing room, staring up at the portrait of Juliana, as if she’d never seen it before.

I’d just stepped into the room when Gran came in behind me. I could tell she’d been searching for Lydia as well.

Ignoring me, Gran said directly to her grandson’s wife, “He was drunk, Lydia.”

She didn’t answer or look away from her contemplation of the portrait. Below it a log fell in the grate as the flames ate through it, making all of us jump, and sparks flew up the chimney in a bright spiral.

“He does talk to his brother. I heard him only last evening, in his room, carrying on a conversation with Malcolm,” the elder Mrs. Ellis continued.

“It wasn’t Malcolm he was speaking to,” Lydia said at last, her gaze dropping from Juliana’s face and moving to Gran’s. “Henry was coming out of George’s room as I was going up.”

“Nevertheless, you know as well as I do that Malcolm’s death had turned his mind. Roger had even suggested that asking him to be here for Alan’s memorial would be too much for him.”

I’d heard that exchange. But I’d interpreted it to mean that Roger would be made uncomfortable, not George.

Lydia said, a sigh in her voice, “Gran. Thank you. But there’s no way to undo what was said here tonight. George will try to put a better face on them, and Roger will deny any knowledge of what he was saying, but the words were spoken . None of us can pretend we didn’t hear them. Or know that some sort of truth must lie behind them. The question now is, what will Roger do?”

“There couldn’t have been a child, Lydia. He’s been fighting in the trenches, for God’s sake. There are no whores in the trenches.”

“What about his wounded shoulder, Gran? He wasn’t in the trenches then. There was time . Was it a nurse who bore him a child? Or someone else?”

“Lydia, there is no child!” Gran said, nearly angry.

“I’m Roger’s wife,” she answered slowly. “I know when my husband is cold to me. I know when he isn’t eager to hold me or tell me he loves me. You’re his grandmother. It’s natural for you to feel he can do no wrong. I can’t fault you for that. But something is different. I’ve known it since the day he arrived, while Alan was so ill. I put it down then to sorrow and impending loss. But at some point-some point in his grieving, why didn’t he turn to me? And why, when I asked him for a child, did he strike me across the face? I thought it was because I’d mentioned Juliana as well. Now-now, I’m not so sure.”

“You’re overwrought,” Gran told her. “And not making any sense.”

“I’m making a great deal of sense. For the first time I see my way clearly.”

“Don’t do anything rash, Lydia. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“There’s no one else, Gran. Whatever Roger tells you, there is no one else.”

“In my day, a woman knew when to look the other way. Not that I ever had to, but I knew my duty all the same.”

“It isn’t your day and age now, is it? When we were married, Roger promised to forsake all others-”

“Don’t be naïve, Lydia. A man’s needs are very different from those of a woman,” Gran snapped.

“I’m not naïve,” Lydia retorted. “I’m jealous. Don’t you understand?”

“There’s no arguing with you in this mood,” the elder Mrs. Ellis said. “Perhaps you’ll come to your senses in the light of day.” With that she turned on her heel and walked past me and out of the room.

I think she’d even forgot I was there. For I caught a look of surprise in her eyes as they met mine, and then irritation before she’d closed the door behind her.

I said after a moment, “Perhaps I should go as well, Lydia. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

“No, stay.”

We hadn’t heard the door open again-or perhaps Mrs. Ellis hadn’t shut it firmly. Roger’s voice startled both of us.

Standing there just inside the threshold, he said, “And I think it would be better if Miss Crawford left,” Roger said.

“No. Whatever you have to say, she remains. What child was George talking about, Roger?”

“He told you. Malcolm’s.”

“We both know he was trying to cover up his gaff. What child, Roger? You might as well tell me. It’s out in the open now, you can’t pretend it’s a secret any longer.”

“I swear to you-” He cast a look in my direction.

“Is that why you don’t want us to have a child? There’s someone else, isn’t there? Someone you met in France and love more. Why couldn’t you tell me? Just-tell me.”

He glanced up at the portrait over the mantel, as if looking for courage. “I don’t love anyone else, Lydia. I never have.”

“Then she was what? A refugee? A woman of the streets? A girl willing to sell herself for food and a place to sleep that night? Who was she?”

“Lydia, this isn’t the time or place to be having this conversation.”

“Why not? He said she was the image of Juliana. It couldn’t be Alan’s child-he’s been on a cruiser in the North Atlantic. If he’d fathered a child in some faraway port, George would never have known that she looked so much like Juliana. No, this child is the reason why you didn’t take leave to come to England when you were wounded, the reason you haven’t had leave to return to England in three years of fighting.”