Fiona Hood-Stewart - The Stolen Years

“Angus,” she gasped in amazement. “Is it really you?” Tears burst forth as she threw her arms around the stiff, motionless figure. Then, leaning back and holding his hands, she realized that his eyes were devoid of expression. “Angus.” She shook him anxiously. “Angus, it’s me, Flo. Say something, please.” She shook him again gently. Then another thought occurred. Gavin. Where was Gavin? She glanced around, as though expecting to see him among the group of men smoking and playing cards. Then she squeezed Angus’s hand once more.

“Angus, you’re all right now. You’re with me.” His eyes flickered and her heart leapt. “Oh, Angus, darling, please. Please come back. Please tell me where Gavin is,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“Dead.” The voice was flat.

She stared at him, then shook her head. “No. It can’t be. No.” She shook her head again, her hands gripping his sleeve savagely. “Not Gavin.” She began shaking, then laughed hysterically. “People like Gavin don’t get killed. They’re immortal.”

“It should have been me,” he whispered.

“A thrilling drama of passion and revenge, brilliantly set against the epic backdrop of the twentieth century.”

—Carla Neggers, bestselling author of The Carriage House

Also available from MIRA Books and

FIONA HOOD-STEWART

THE JOURNEY HOME

www.mirabooks.co.uk

As always, for my boys,

Sergio and Diego.

For Daddy,

in loving memory.

This book is dedicated to all the men and women

who gave their youth, their hopes and dreams

and all too often their lives in the name of freedom.

May we honor them by preserving their legacy.

F.H.S.

My deep gratification to David d’Albis for his untiring dedication in helping me research this manuscript.

To Jean d’Albis, of Limoges, France, for recounting events as they took place and for the documents he furnished me with.

Many thanks to Laure Kovats, Fran Garfunkel, Frances Lynch, Carter Parsley, Bonnie Skop,

Miranda Stecyk and Donald Maas, my agent, for all the help along the way.

Part One Part One 1917–1918 Surely, surely there must be somewhere in which the sweet intimacies begun here may be continued, and the hearts broken by this war may be healed. —Vera Britain A Testament of Youth

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part Two

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part Three

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part Four

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Surely, surely there must be somewhere in which the sweet intimacies begun here may be continued, and the hearts broken by this war may be healed.

—Vera Britain

A Testament of Youth

Edinburgh, Scotland, 1917

She waited, tiptoeing along the chilly corridor and creeping quietly into the darkened ward, listening intently as the matron’s footsteps faded to a distant whisper on the worn flagged staircase. Except for the occasional muffled groan, the long row of narrow metal beds was quiet, their chipped white paint glittering harshly in the filtered moonlight.

Taking advantage of the matron’s absence, Flora Finlay sat down gingerly in the single uncomfortable wooden chair the ward offered, careful not to crush her starched uniform. After casting a covert glance at the door, she finally opened the letter that had been burning her inner pocket since early that morning. As Angus’s neat, precise letters swam before her, she chided herself for the twinge of disappointment, aware she should be thankful for any news at all. Unfolding the single sheet of flimsy paper, she held it close to the dim aureole of light escaping from under the battered shade of the solitary lamp and smiled. Angus’s writing reminded her of Miss Linton, their old governess, who on more than one occasion had made pointed comparisons between Gavin and Flora’s sloppy calligraphy and Angus’s perfectly formed loops.

Skimming the text rapidly, she jumped hopefully to the end, knowing it was silly but unable to help herself. Why couldn’t Gavin write something, however short, in his own hand, instead of sending vague messages through his twin? But that was Gavin, she realized with a sigh. Seeing him in her mind’s eye, bright-eyed and impulsive, she wondered why she expected him to be any different, when this was the way she loved him.

The letter was dated three weeks earlier and was postmarked from Arras, where the fighting on the western front was at its worst. Terrifying images of the twins, lying buried in the bloodied gut of a shell-torn trench, their features unrecognizable amidst the mass of mangled bodies, flashed through Flora’s mind in eerie succession. But she ousted them and instead concentrated her attention on the letter, knowing the matron could return at any minute.

Today it pours and we’re up to our calves in mud. The only trees that have survived the shelling are two stringy poplars to our right, but the landscape bears all the scars of war. After the last onslaught things have been fairly stalemate, but it is my feeling there is more to come. How they expect us to fight in this pockmarked, muddied mess beats me. There simply isn’t any suitable terrain for the kind of breakthrough we hope for.

But I’m rambling on about the war, when what you really want is news of your beloved Gavin.

We are in a front-line trench now. I know that sounds worse, but you mustn’t worry. Actually, it’s preferable. Gerry’s shells fly over us rather than straight at us—for now, at any rate.

Oh God, Flo! It all seems so bloody futile. We hammer them, they hammer us, and for what? I’m sure the German chaps, huddled in their muddy, lice-infested dugouts across no-man’s-land are asking themselves the same damn questions we are. Wishing they could get on with their lives, instead of being burrowed here like moles, for God knows how much longer, waiting to be wounded or die.

But once again I’ve deviated and I know you must be thoroughly impatient. Gavin is up to his old tricks, hobnobbing with the French, as I told you in my last letter. Now that they know we both speak the language fluently, they’ve selected us for all the liaison missions! Need I tell you whose idea that was? I hate every minute of it, but Gavin loves it. He is utterly fearless, and I have come to the conclusion that he thrives on danger. The other day he went on a reconnaissance mission where he all but got himself killed. I begged him not to go but he listens to no one, and is as determined and headstrong as ever. Unlike me, he is a true officer and leader of men. Even the seasoned soldiers listen to him, which is quite something. You can imagine how ridiculous it makes one feel, giving orders to a man old enough to be our grandfather, who knows much more than we ever will. There’s one old fellow in the unit who fought in South Africa and is probably the best man we have. Doesn’t it make you question a system that appoints young men like Gavin and me as officers, merely because we are gentlemen?