Charles Todd - A Bitter Truth

I thought of the old legends of cursed land. Or Mr. Conan Doyle’s tale of great black hounds haunting the moors. One could believe in them in such a place. I couldn’t help but remember the comfortable drowsiness of Somerset, a soft green countryside where I would be now if I’d gone home with Simon.

“Vixen Hill,” Lydia said. “Home.” There was a hint of melancholy in the words.

As we came out of the looping drive, I could see the pair of holly trees standing guard on either side of the doorway, their tough, glossy leaves like armor in the pale light, the rich red berries bright against the brick. Whoever had planted those hollies, I thought, must have been hungry for even a small bit of color.

The carriage drew to a halt before the massive door, arched and faced with stone, barred with iron. It was either very old or a Victorian replica that had weathered well. I looked up at the long oriel window, and thought I saw a flicker of movement there. But it was only a trick of the light as the clouds scudded overhead.

Lydia gripped my hand like a drowning woman reaching for a lifeline. I could see, glancing at her face, that she was more likely to turn around and leave than get down and walk to the door. “I feel sick,” she whispered.

But it was too late to walk away. She would have to face whatever lay beyond that door. I wondered what role Roger’s mother and grandmother might play in this reunion. I hadn’t thought to ask Lydia about that.

“I’m here,” I said quietly. “Chin up, and take your courage in both hands. You’ve come home of your own free will.”

She smiled, a shaky one at best, but a smile nonetheless. “Is that what you tell your patients when you send them back to their regiments?”

“Of course,” I lied, paying the driver and grateful to be seeing the end of that pipe. What I told my patients was very different. Take care. And God go with you. Only I never spoke that last aloud. It was a silent prayer that they would survive another week, another month, another year. So many of them didn’t.

The horses moved restlessly, steaming in the cold air. Lydia got down and marched to the door like a man walking to the gallows, upheld by pride alone. I followed her. The carriage was on the point of turning in the drive, and as she realized it, she called to the elderly man who had brought us here, “No, wait.”

At that moment, the door swung open, and it was a middle-aged woman in a dark blue uniform who greeted Lydia with relief, staring anywhere except at that bruise as she said, “I thought I heard the carriage. Mrs. Roger? You’re all right then?”

“Hello, Daisy. Is Mr. Ellis at home?”

“I was told by Molly that he’d gone out again to search for you. He’s been that worried.” Her gaze moved from her mistress to me, politely curious.

“I’ve brought a guest with me. Miss Crawford, from London.” Lydia’s voice was steady, but I heard the undercurrent of nervousness. I hoped Daisy didn’t.

Daisy swept me an old-fashioned curtsey and welcomed me to the house, then took my valise and led me inside.

If I’d thought this was once a hunting lodge, I was proved right as I entered the hall. The ceiling was high, there was a massive stone hearth on one side, and displayed on the walls were an array of weapons and the mounted heads of game staring down at me.

Lydia, noticing my appraisal, said, “When the house was rebuilt in the late seventeen hundreds, this room was kept. The rest is more comfortable, I promise you.” Turning to Daisy, she asked, “Where is everyone?”

“Your grandmother is resting. Mrs. Matthew is putting together the menus for the guests she’s expecting. And Miss Margaret has gone out for a walk.”

Lydia said contritely, “Oh, dear, I’d forgot we’re to have guests. It completely slipped my mind. Mama Ellis will be wondering what on earth I was thinking of! Could you put Miss Crawford’s things in the room overlooking the knot garden?” And to me she added, “You’ll like that room. It looks away from the Forest. Nowhere near as gloomy as most of the other rooms. And you won’t mind, will you, Bess, if we speak to my mother-in-law before we go up?”

We crossed the hall, passing the stairs built into the wall on one side, and Lydia opened a door at the far end of the room. Beyond was a passage that branched left and right, leading to the two wings of the house. Lydia turned to her left and opened another door into a very pleasant, very feminine little room. She said tentatively said, “Mama?”

Over her shoulder I saw the woman seated at the desk by the window look up and stare for a moment, then rise to embrace Lydia.

“My dear. Your poor face!” she exclaimed. I remembered that the blow must have been just a red splotch the last time she’d seen Lydia, and that the bruising must have come as something of a shock. “Can nothing be done for it? Are you in any pain?”

“It’s all right, Mama. I promise you. I’ve been in London-visiting a friend. She’s come home with me. Elizabeth Crawford. She’s a nursing sister, just back from France.”

Mrs. Ellis smiled at me. “Welcome to Vixen Hill, Miss Crawford. I’m Amelia Ellis, Roger’s mother. I hope you’ll be comfortable here. Has Lydia shown you to your room?”

“Not yet,” I said, taking the hand she offered me. “I look forward to my stay. It’s a lovely house.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, not with arrogance but with pride in her home. “I’ve been happy here.” But even as she spoke the words a shadow crossed her face, as if this was not the whole truth. “You must be in need of tea, after that cold drive from the station. I need a bit of distraction myself. I’ve spent all morning on menus and arrangements.”

Lydia said contritely, “And I was not here to help.”

“Never mind,” Mrs. Ellis said cheerfully. “There’s still much to be done.”

She led us from her small sanctuary to the sitting room next door. There were long windows letting in what light there was, and a tall music box in a beautiful mahogany cabinet stood between them, the sort of music box that played large steel discs. The rest of the furnishings were a little shabby, as if this room was used often. The chair I was offered was covered in a pretty chintz patterned with pansies faded to a pale lavender and rose, each bunch tied by a white ribbon. Mrs. Ellis crossed to the hearth and rang the bell beside it.

As she turned back to us, she said, gesturing to my uniform, “You’re only just returned from France? What is it like out there? My son won’t tell me the truth. He says that the casualty lists are exaggerated.”

A sop to his mother’s fears?

“I only know how busy we are when there’s a push on,” I said, trying not to make her son out as a liar. “As you’d expect. But my father has high hopes, now that the Americans are coming over. He says their General Pershing knows what he’s about.” He’d also said that we badly needed fresh viewpoints at HQ, but I thought it best not to mention that.

“Crawford,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Not related to Colonel Crawford, by any chance, are you?”

“He’s my father.”

“My dear! How wonderful,” she exclaimed. “My husband met him briefly in India. Oh, years ago. Matthew had gone out on one of the mapping expeditions, and he hoped to do a little exploring while in the north. Your father-he was a captain then-was his contact in Peshawar. They got on well and corresponded until Matthew’s death. I wonder if Colonel Crawford remembers him.”

“I’m sure he will. I look forward to asking him.”

Another middle-aged maid appeared in the doorway and then stepped aside as a tall, vigorous woman with very white hair came in. “What’s this I hear about Lydia coming back?” She turned her sharp gaze on her granddaughter-in-law, but before she could say anything more, Mrs. Ellis asked for tea to be brought. The woman, whose name was Molly, quietly shut the door as she left.