A Bitter Truth

Chapter One

London, December 1917

A cold rain had followed me from France to England, and an even colder wind greeted me as we pulled into the railway station in London. As I handed in my ticket, I looked for my father, who was usually here to meet me. Or if he couldn’t come, he generally sent Simon Brandon in his place.

But there were no familiar faces among the crowd, and after waiting nearly fifteen minutes, I decided that my telegram from Dover must have been delayed. Of course military traffic was always given priority, but the telegraph office had assured me that they would do their best. There was nothing for it but to find a cab for myself.

Outside Victoria Station, a family with small children was just bespeaking the last one. Well, then, it would have to be an omnibus. As I walked on to the nearest stop, the wind whipped along the street after me, plucking at my skirts, prodding my back. One going in my direction was already approaching, for which I was grateful, and as we rumbled through the darkness toward my destination, I took stock of the city I hadn’t seen for several months.

Even at this hour it was quiet, the streets empty except for a few brave souls going about their business with heads down and coats wrapped tightly against the probing fingers of the wind. Shops were already closing, and everywhere curtains were drawn to keep out the night. In front of a pub we were passing, a few men stood talking for a moment, hands deep in pockets, and even as I watched, they said their farewells and hurried their separate ways toward home. A boy raced up the steps of a church and disappeared through the heavy door, a shaft of light briefly illuminating his worried face. The sound of voices just reached me, a boys’ choir, and at a guess, he had nearly missed rehearsal.

We were only three stops from where I usually got down when the omnibus came to a lurching halt.

Just ahead of us, I could see torches flashing this way and that in the street, and someone was shouting at us.

My first thought was that we had struck someone.

I got to my feet, ready to offer whatever aid was needed, just as a middle-aged constable hurried up to the omnibus and spoke to the driver. We couldn’t hear what was said, but soon enough the constable had opened the omnibus door and stepped inside. He frowned when he saw me standing there.

“Is anyone hurt?” I asked quickly.

“No, Sister,” he said harshly. “Resume your seat.”

I did as I was told, and he scanned each of us with a thoroughness that indicated he was intent on finding someone. Finally, apparently satisfied, he was gone, mercifully closing the door behind him and shutting out the wind. But I heard his boots climbing the rear stairs to the upper deck, where no one had had the courage to sit, then pelt down again after several seconds. He and the driver exchanged a few more words, and I saw the driver reluctantly nod. And then the constable was hurrying away, caught for a brief moment in the glare of our headlamps.

A man just behind where I was sitting demanded fretfully, “What’s happened? Why did we stop?”

Outside, the driver got down from behind the wheel and opened the door once more, poking his head inside, his face barely visible above a thick blue muffler. “Deserter,” he informed us. “We won’t be allowed to move on until this street has been cleared. The police have reason to believe he’s hiding hereabouts. Or being hidden.”

Everyone began asking questions at the same time, but the driver simply shook his head and closed the door. I was looking out the window, clearing the glass with one gloved hand, watching the play of torches against the windows and doors of the houses on my side as the police went on with their search. And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure in black slip down a service passage, disappearing into the deeper shadows cast by the houses on either side. There would be a stout wooden gate at the end leading into a back garden, and with luck, another at the bottom of that, giving onto another garden and another passage to the street beyond. Either a trap-or an escape.

It had happened so fast, I couldn’t judge whether it was a man or a woman. Or if I had imagined it altogether. The deserter? Or someone else nearly caught up in the tightening net?

A constable must have seen the figure as well, because he blew his whistle and ran forward. But when he turned his torch into the blackness, it showed only the closed gate. After a moment, he walked halfway to the end of the passage before coming back.

I sat there, trying to come to terms with my duty. As an officer’s daughter I understood the need for discipline and order in the Army. To walk away and leave one’s fellow soldiers to their fate was, in my view, dishonorable. And yet I’d seen the horror of war, the suffering and the awful cost of doing one’s duty. For some men that was insupportable.

There were other reasons too. For all I knew, the hunted man had risked everything to come home to a wife who was desperately ill or to see a newborn child. Even to sit by his mother’s deathbed. The Army was not always generous with compassionate leaves, refusing to allow a man torn between love and duty the few days he so badly wanted to comfort those who needed him at home. I’d seen men in despair driven to shooting themselves in the hand or foot in a bid for leave.

Who was I to decide the fate of this man? The constable had already looked closely at the passage, hadn’t he? And decided that it was empty?

But this deserter would eventually be found. And shot. The Army was relentless in its determination. It was just a matter of time.

And so I sat there, unable to bring myself to step off the omnibus and speak up. Instead I listened as the hue and cry swirled up one side of the street and then down the other. The shouts of constables, their whistles shrill in the night, were loud at first, then fading as the hunt turned back the way we’d just come.

It was late when the same constable, out of breath now, came to inform the driver that we could go on our way. The driver must have asked the question on all our minds, for I saw the policeman shake his head. And then we were moving, lumbering through the darkness as we continued on our route.

The man behind me said, “I don’t envy those constables. It’s not a fit night for man nor beast to be out there.”

And a woman behind him asked anxiously, “Will he be given a fair trial, when he’s caught? The deserter?”

“He’ll be found guilty, right enough,” an elderly laborer answered her. “It’s not the Army’s way to be lenient. Mark my words.”

And from the last seat, a soldier in the uniform of the discharged wounded said quietly, “God help him.”

I could see my corner coming up now, and I dreaded getting down. Even in my boots, my feet were icy cold from the long wait, and my gloved fingers as well, although I’d tried to keep them tucked under my arms.

Stepping down in the lee of the omnibus, I had a moment to catch my breath before it moved on and the full brunt of the wind struck me with such force that I nearly stumbled.

Narrowing my eyes against the bite of it, I walked on briskly, listening to the far-off sounds of police whistles. Ahead was Mrs. Hennessey’s house, where friends-also nursing sisters-and I had taken a flat. As I drew nearer, I saw that there were no lights shining from the windows of the ground floor, and I remembered that this must be Mrs. Hennessey’s night for dinner and a cozy gossip with an old friend. Above, on the second storey, the windows of our sitting room were also dark. Tired as I was from two days of traveling, I was just as glad that no one else was in London. I could leave the gifts I’d found for each flatmate with Mrs. Hennessey. She would enjoy playing Father Christmas when next she saw them.

Busy with my own thoughts, I didn’t at first notice the dark figure huddled in the shallow outer doorway, pressed so tightly into that pitiful bit of shelter that only a vague outline was distinguishable in the shadows cast by the streetlamp. When I did, my first thought was that the deserter was hiding here. Would he force his way into the empty house when I reached Mrs. Hennessey’s door?

And in the same instant, I realized that it wasn’t a man, it was a woman.

But what was she doing there? Did she have anything to do with the deserter?

As I slowed, she stirred, murmured, “Sorry!” and moved into the street away from me.

Two things registered as she spoke. Her voice was thick with tears, and she was shivering, as if she’d been out in this wind for a very long time.

I remembered what the man on the omnibus had said, that this was a night not fit for man nor beast.

“No, wait-” I said, putting out a hand to stop her. But she shrugged it off, keeping her face turned away as she made to slip off into the night. It was close on ten o’clock now, and the empty streets were no place for a woman to be walking aimlessly at this hour.

My gloved fingers reached for her sleeve, missed, and then caught in the belt of her coat. “Come inside and warm yourself for a quarter of an hour.” I added quickly, “It will do no harm.”

I could see that she was tempted-but she was also desperate to get away, on the point of pulling free when a gust of wind, stronger than before, buffeted both of us. I realized that her coat-unlike mine, which was meant to keep me warm-was well cut and fashionably thin, not designed for walking on a night like this one. It was intended for stepping out of a cab to enter a restaurant or theater. I wondered, fleetingly, if it was hers or if she had been given it by a mistress or found it in a charity shop. It was even possible that she’d been sacked, with nowhere to stay.

“Thank you, I’ll be all right,” she said, still keeping her face in the shadows. “Let me go. Please .”

I hadn’t been wrong about the tears. And to my surprise her voice matched the coat, well bred and well educated. I had no choice but to release her belt.

“No, you won’t be all right,” I told her bluntly, before she could hurry away. “You’ll make yourself ill. Pneumonia. Pleurisy. I’m a nursing sister, I’ve just returned from France. I know what I’m talking about.” I hesitated. “I won’t ask questions. Or try to stop you when you wish to leave. Warm yourself, have a cup of tea. There’s no one else about. I promise you.”

I had the outer door open now, and there was a lamp burning on the small table under the stairs. It must have seemed a haven in this weather. She hesitated an instant too long, and I touched her sleeve again, urging her inside. I myself was shivering with the cold now, and I knew she must be chilled to the bone. Even for a London December, it was unbearably wretched.

With an anxious glance over her shoulder, she preceded me through the door, then stood there in the small entry as if she couldn’t think what else to do.

“I live up the stairs. This way,” I went on, not looking at her as I started to climb. “There’s no one here but me. My flatmates are all in France.” I prayed it was true as I heard her follow reluctantly in my wake. After all, I realized, no lamplight could mean that someone was there but already asleep.

“Only for a few minutes,” she said as we reached the landing. “I’d be grateful for that tea.” Her voice was still husky with tears, but cultured, polite.

We reached the door of the flat, and I took out my key, unlocking it and fumbling for the lamp just inside. As a rule I could light it in the dark or even with my eyes closed, I’d done it so often, but now my fingers were stiff with cold. Finally brightness bloomed, illuminating the flat, picking out the small area we called our kitchen, our sitting room, and the closed doors to our five bedrooms.

I breathed a sigh of relief. There was no luggage piled in a corner or coats thrown over the tall walnut clothes tree. We were alone.

“Here,” I said, pulling out a chair for her. “Let me take off my coat and in a moment I’ll have that tea for us. I can tell you, I long for a cup myself.”

I’d made a point not to look her in the face, knowing she’d be embarrassed for anyone to see she’d been crying. But now as I came back from my own bedroom and caught her staring around the flat, I could see the mark across her cheek, the swollen eye rimmed with black, and the deep bruising.

Someone had struck her, hard and fairly recently because the redness was only just giving way to a darker blue. I immediately looked away. I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been attacked on the street-or in her own home. Was this why the deserter had come to England? To catch his wife in an infidelity? He wouldn’t be the first-nor the last-to suspect that all was not right in his marriage. She was married. I’d seen the handsome rings on her left hand when she pulled off her gloves.

I didn’t hold with men who struck women. I’d never seen my father raise his hand to my mother, and I regarded men who did as despicable.

She hastily put up her hand to hide that side of her face, turning as if she intended to rush out the door and down the stairs before I could ask questions. I had glimpsed the stark alarm in her eyes when she saw me looking.

“I told you I wouldn’t pry,” I said quickly. “But I’m not blind. Let me put the kettle on, and I’ll give you a cool cloth to help bring down the swelling.”

She was a very attractive woman, and I put her age down as midtwenties, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six. Certainly no more than that. And I’d been right, her clothes were stylishly cut, and of good cloth, although from before the war. But then very little was available in the shops these days. I made the tea, ignoring her while I worked, and then while it steeped, I went to find a cloth for her face and wring it out in cold water. She took it gratefully and held it as a shield. When the tea was ready, I set a cup down before her with the bowl of honey. “I’m sorry, there’s no milk. One of my flatmates must have used the last tin.”

“No, this is lovely. Thank you very much.”

I let her drink it in peace, then said as offhandedly as possible, indicating the other doors, “There are five bedrooms here. One of them is mine, and the others are empty just now. Won’t you stay the night, what’s left of it, and wait until the morning to go on your way? I know I’m a stranger to you, and you to me, but there is a lock on the bedroom doors, if you feel the need.”

“I must go-” she began, but I didn’t let her finish.

“Where? If you had a place of your own, you wouldn’t have been sheltered in Mrs. Hennessey’s doorway. I don’t know your reason for being there, that’s your affair. It’s just that I wouldn’t send a dog back out into this weather. And I think you must know that you aren’t dressed for spending the night in the street.”

She looked down at her clothes, smiling ruefully. “I was in something of a hurry.”

“There’s another cup in the pot,” I urged. “And I believe there are some biscuits in the cupboard. Have you had any dinner?”

“I don’t remember. When I last ate, that is. Yesterday?” She accepted the second cup of tea and even one of the biscuits.

I had set my satchel down at the door, and I went to fetch it and put it in my own room. Opening the door to Diana’s, I said, “This should do. The sheets are clean. Mrs. Hennessey sees to that for us. The bed’s quite comfortable, and a good night’s rest makes sense. Tomorrow…” I shrugged. “Everything looks better in the daylight, doesn’t it?”

Biting back tears, she said, “Yes, all right. Thank you very much. I don’t like to be a burden, but I dread going back outside. You’re very kind.”

I smiled. “You would have done the same for me, I think, if you had found me on your doorstep with nowhere to go.”

She nearly laughed at that. “My doorstep?” she began, then broke off, shaking her head. “I live in the country,” she added after a moment. “We seldom find strangers at our door.”

Then she was not from London. What had brought her here? Or perhaps I should say, who had brought her here? I waited, hoping she might tell me more, but the moment had passed.

I went to fetch soap and towels, setting them on the table beside her. “You’ll find a fresh nightdress in the tall chest, middle drawer. You and Diana must be of a size. If not, we’ll look for one in Mary’s room.”

I busied myself clearing away the cups and filling the pot for tomorrow morning. I knew what my father and Simon would have to say about taking in a stranger, most particularly one who might be hiding from the police, but my mother would have understood that leaving her to the streets on a night like this was unconscionable. There was no way this woman could have guessed that I would be coming home tonight. She had simply chosen a doorway in which she could find a little respite from the wind. And perhaps, as well, shelter from whoever had struck her such a blow.

She took the towels and after a moment, pulled off her coat and hung it on the rack by the door, as if to be handy if she had to leave in a rush. Her clothing was of the same quality as the coat and her hat.

In the street below, I heard the sharp blast of a constable’s whistle. Was the hunt still on? My guest heard it as well. Crossing quickly to the window, she pulled the curtain aside just far enough to look out. Down in the street someone burst into a drunken song, breaking off as the constable ordered him to move along. Relieved, the woman let the curtain drop, then flushed as she turned to find me watching her. But she didn’t explain her anxiety, ducking her head and moving past me without a word.

I felt a moment’s unease, but it was forgotten as she reached the door to Diana’s room and swayed, suddenly dizzy. From worry? Not eating properly? Bad as it was, I couldn’t quite believe that the blow to her face had been that severe.

The dizziness passed, and I said nothing.

Sitting on the bed in Diana’s room, she allowed me to bring her a fresh cloth for her face, and then gently shut the door behind me with another murmured word of gratitude. I could hear her moving about as she prepared for bed, but I had a feeling she hadn’t looked for a nightgown. Would she leave, once she was warm enough to face the cold again?

I blew out the lamp, went into my own room, and when I had undressed, lay down on the bed to keep watch. But in spite of good intentions, I went soundly to sleep, and when I awoke, it was late morning. I sat up, wondering if my orphan of the storm had left while I slept. I hoped she hadn’t; I could hear the patter of a steady rain. I hastily threw on some clothes and went to see.

To my surprise, I saw that her coat was still there on the tree, and I suspected she was even more tired than I had been. Emotionally as well as physically.

It was close on ten o’clock when I heard her stir, and then she came frantically through the door, still trying to button her jumper, as if somehow believing I’d discovered her name and sent for whoever it was she’d run from. When she found me sitting there with a cup of tea in my hands, looking out the window at the rain, she stopped, suddenly shy.

“I was dreaming,” she said. “I thought-I didn’t recognize my surroundings when I woke up.”

A nightmare, I reckoned, rather than a dream.

“Let me make you a fresh cup.” The bruise was darker today, and there was heavier blackness around her left eye as well. It would be a week-ten days-before it faded completely.

“No, this will do nicely,” she told me, coming forward to pour her own tea. With her back to me, she said, “You must be wondering how I got this-this-” Not able to find the right word, she gestured in the general direction of her face. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t wish to speak of it?”

“Someone struck you.” I let the words fall between us. “I told you, I’m a nurse. I can’t help but know that much,” I went on. “As I said, it’s your affair, of course it is. But if for a while you need sanctuary…” I let my voice trail away.

She was torn. I could see that. At a guess, she’d dashed out of the house in the clothes she stood up in, too shocked or frightened to think beyond the need to get away. It would only have occurred to her later to give any thought to where she was going and what she would do when she got there. In fact, I wondered if perhaps she had very little money with her, unprepared to pay for food or hotels or other clothing.

If she was telling the truth about living in the country, perhaps even reaching the train to London had seemed an impossible task. I wouldn’t have wanted to walk from my parents’ house in Somerset to the nearest railway station. Yet when I glanced at her shoes, I could see that they hadn’t seen hard use on a country lane in winter.

She didn’t answer my suggestion directly. Instead she confessed, “I thought-I thought he might follow me. After leaving the railway station, I walked and walked. For hours. First this direction and then that. Until I was completely lost. And there was nowhere to turn, no one I could trust. Not even the constables I passed from time to time. But they must have seen me, because suddenly they were hunting me. He must have given them my description. And I didn’t know what they would do with me, if they caught me. I’ve heard-the suffragettes. They were treated cruelly in prison.”

“The police last evening weren’t hunting you,” I said gently. “They were searching for a deserter. I was on an omnibus. They stopped it and told us why.”

“A deserter?” She stared blankly at me. “I- Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Unless, of course, the man you speak of is wanted by the police.”

“No, of course he isn’t.” She seemed shocked that I should think such a thing.

I realized then that a guilty conscience had led her to believe the worst.

“He. Your husband?”

“No. Yes.” She came to take the chair across from me, staring at the window. “I wouldn’t want you to think ill of him. That he’s brutal. It was as much my fault as it was his. I-I taunted him. I said things I shouldn’t have. When he struck me, he was as shocked as I was. But I couldn’t stay, you see. Not after that. We can’t take back our actions, can we? However much we may wish to.”

She was taking the blame for what had happened. But I kept an open mind on that issue, having been accustomed to hearing battered women in hospital claim that their drunken husbands hadn’t meant to strike them, that it was their own fault. Their excuses were infinite. Dinner was late, or their husband’s trousers hadn’t been pressed properly, or the children were noisy. I had been a junior sister on a women’s ward where broken bones and bruised bodies were common, and the husband, once sober, came to beg forgiveness. I knew, as the women in the ward had known, that the words were hollow, the promises too. But almost invariably, the wife returned to her home, because she had nowhere else to go.

I thought it best to change the subject before she had talked herself into a deeper sense of guilt. I said, “We weren’t properly introduced last evening. My name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Crawford. Most of my friends call me Bess. What would you like me to call you?”

Startled, she said quickly, “I’d rather not-”

I smiled. “It’s rather awkward not to know what to call you. I don’t mind if it’s not your true name.”

At that she gave me a faint smile in return. “Yes, all right. My mother’s name was Lydia.”

I went about clearing away the tea things, my back to her, giving her a little privacy. After a few minutes I said, “I must leave to do a little marketing. You must be as ravenous as I am. But you’ll be safe enough here. No one will come, I promise you. And the shops are just a few streets away. I shan’t be long.”

She made no comment. But after a little time had passed, she said, regret in her voice, “I was terribly foolish. I can’t think what came over me. But he’d never struck me before. I was mortified. And angry. And frightened. And so I ran away.”

I could see that in the light of day she was beginning to have very cold feet indeed. I wondered where that would lead her. At the moment she appeared to be convincing herself that the best course open to her was to return to her home. But that could change. I wondered if it was true, that he’d never struck her before this, or if she was concealing other occasions of lashing out in anger. And I still wasn’t convinced that her husband wasn’t in some trouble or other. She wouldn’t betray him. Whatever he had done, whatever they had quarreled about.

I put on my coat and took an umbrella from the stand. “You’ll be here when I return?” I asked. “It’s only that I need to know what to buy.”

She looked at the window, listening to the cold rain pelting down. “I haven’t the courage to leave,” she said in a very small voice.

And so I went out to do my marketing, finding the shops dismally short of everything, but in the end I managed to find half a roast chicken for our dinner, a loaf of bread, and some dried apples as well as a little poppy seed cake for our tea. Walking back to the flat, I wondered if I would find it empty, after all. Without an umbrella, she would be wet to the skin in ten minutes. Even with one, I was hard-pressed to keep my skirts dry.

I came through the door, calling her name softly, but our kitchen cum sitting room was empty. Then the door to Diana’s room opened, and she came out to meet me, looking a little sheepish.

“I heard someone on the stairs,” she said, “and took fright.”

“You needn’t worry. No man-not even my father-escapes the sharp eye of Mrs. Hennessey, who lives on the ground floor.” I hung up my damp coat to dry, returned the umbrella to its stand, then began putting away my purchases. “Even if by some incredible bit of luck your husband discovered you were here, she wouldn’t let him trouble you if you didn’t wish it.”

I could see she didn’t quite believe me, and I wondered just how persuasive her husband might be. Not that it would matter to Mrs. Hennessey, who took pride in protecting the young women she’d accepted as lodgers. Neither cajoling nor bribes would get him anywhere.

A few minutes later, Lydia said out of the blue, as if it had been on her mind all morning and she couldn’t hold it in any longer, “I shouldn’t have brought up Juliana. It was wrong of me.”

Who was Juliana? A member of the family? Her husband’s former sweetheart? His mother? It could be anyone, of course, and yet I could tell from the way she spoke the name that this was someone who mattered a great deal.

I brought out my mending to repair a tear in one of my stockings, giving Lydia an opening to go on talking to me if that eased her mind a little, because it was clear she was wrestling now with whatever was troubling her. A silence fell. As I finished my work, I glanced in her direction. Her thoughts were far away, and I realized that she had herself under control again and was unlikely to blurt out anything more. After putting away my needle and the spool of black thread, I paused by the window, opening the curtains as I tried to think of a way to persuade Lydia to confide in me without seeming to press her. If I could help her to look clearly at whatever had caused the quarrel with her husband, she might be better prepared to consider the future.

“Oh, no,” I said involuntarily, glancing down at the street below.

Instantly she was on her feet, the bruises garish against her pale face, as she all but ran across the room to peer over my shoulder. I could see that she was trembling. “Who is it? Is it Roger?” She was searching the street below, panic in her eyes. “So soon? I’m not ready to face him yet.”

“It’s-a member of my family,” I said, watching Simon Brandon stride toward the door of the house, his motorcar standing just under our window. “My mother must have got the telegram about my Christmas leave.”

“I must go-” Lydia said, hardly listening to me as she turned to look for her coat and hat. “I’ve stayed too long as it is. I couldn’t bear to have anyone else see me now. Not looking like this.”

“He won’t come up,” I told her. “Mrs. Hennessey’s rules? Remember? She’ll inform me that he’s here. And I’ll go down. You needn’t worry.”

“She’ll want to know who I am-why I’m here in your flat. I can’t blame her-this is her house. I’ll leave. It’s best.”

“And where will you go then?”

She stopped in midstride, staring at me. “I-I don’t know.”

“Then stay here. I’ll hurry down and speak to Simon before Mrs. Hennessey comes to our door. Will that be all right? There’s nothing to fear from him, by the way. He’s traveled here from Somerset, and he’ll want to ask what my plans are.”

That seemed to reassure her. She dropped her headlong dash for her coat and hat, sitting down in the nearest chair as if her limbs suddenly refused to hold her upright any longer. I could see that touch of dizziness returning as she closed her eyes against it.

“You’re very kind. I don’t like to take advantage…” Her voice trailed away.

I went to the door, smiled at her, and then closed it behind me.

Simon was standing in the entry, a tall, handsome man with that air of confidence about him that had always marked him and my father, the Colonel. My mother told me once when I was young that it was the badge of command. Simon had served with my father, rising through the ranks to Regimental Sergeant-Major, and leaving the Army when the Colonel Sahib, as my mother and I called him behind his back, retired. He’d been a part of our lives since I could remember, and I trusted him implicitly. But how to explain that to my nervous guest? It was better to leave it that he was a member of my family.

He greeted me and then said apologetically, “We only received your telegram early this morning. Or I’d have met you at Victoria Station. Your mother has sent me to collect you. The Colonel is away.”

My father, though retired, was often summoned to give his opinion and offer his experience to the War Office. As was Simon. I never knew what they did, nor did my mother, but they would sometimes leave rather abruptly and return looking as if they hadn’t slept in days, telling us nothing about where they’d been or why. I did know that my father had once been sent to Scotland for a week, because he brought my mother a lovely brooch to make up for missing her birthday.

“Simon-” I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I can’t come with you just now. Let me walk with you to the motorcar.”

He was used to my ways. He said, “Bess,” in that tone of voice I’d heard so many times.

“Not here,” I replied and stepped out into the raw, cold morning air. The rain had become a damp drizzle, but the clouds were still dark enough to promise a downpour sooner rather than later. He took off his coat and settled it around my shoulders.

I huddled gratefully into its warmth, and when we were out of hearing of the woman up in my flat, I said quickly, “There was someone in the doorway last night, when I came home. A woman. She had nowhere to go, and her face was badly bruised. I took her in, and she’s still upstairs, very frightened. I can’t leave London until I’ve sorted out what brought her here last night. ”

“And her husband will come looking for her, mark my words,” he warned. “This is not a very good idea, Bess.”

“Even if he does, he can’t have any idea where to begin. You see, she took a train to London and then just walked aimlessly for hours. It’s a wonder she hasn’t made herself ill. She wasn’t dressed for the weather.” I sighed. “What was I to do, Simon, leave her standing there in the cold wind? And what should I have done this morning, let her walk out into that pelting rain, and consider myself well out of it? Even Mother would agree I didn’t have a choice.”

“Your mother is as tenderhearted as you are. Yes, all right, I take your point. What is this woman’s name? Where does she come from?”

“She hasn’t told me yet,” I admitted. “At the moment she’s trying to convince herself that she made a mistake, leaving. She feels her husband is just as unhappy that this happened.”

“Men who take their own fury out on women always repent what was done. Until the next time.”

“Oddly enough, I’m beginning to think this isn’t the usual case. I think it may be true that Lydia was shocked by the blow.”

“I thought you didn’t know her name.”

“Well, no, it’s her mother’s name. I told her I had to call her something.”

He took a deep breath. “Very well. If she decides to leave in the next few hours, we’ll drive Lydia to the railway station and put her on the next train going in her direction. Will that do?”

“Simon, she has nowhere else to go. I can’t walk away, knowing that, and I can’t rush her into making a decision that could be wrong. What’s more, I have a feeling she left in such a rush that she has little or no money with her. And she doesn’t even have a change of clothing. For all intents and purposes, she’s destitute.”

Simon had to agree with me, however reluctantly. But he reminded me, “It’s also possible her husband keeps her deliberately short of money. All right, shall I take the two of you out to a restaurant? I’d like to form my own opinion of your Lydia.”

“It’s very kind of you to suggest that, but I don’t believe she’ll want to be seen in public. She’s terribly embarrassed by her appearance. The bruising really is quite stark. There’s no way to hide it with a little powder.”

“Fair enough. I won’t choose a restaurant where she might be recognized. Tell her that.”

I wanted to look up at the window, to see if Lydia was watching us. But that would have given away the fact that we were discussing her. “There’s one other thing.” I hesitated. “The police were searching for a deserter last night. Not on this street, but still, it was just east of here. She thought her husband had sent them to find her . This morning she’s afraid that her husband is going to appear before she’s prepared to face him again. But what if that’s just wishful thinking on her part? What if Lydia’s husband doesn’t want her to come back? For instance, there’s someone called Juliana who is involved.”

“My dear girl, you can’t fight her battles for her.”

“No, I understand that. But since I can’t abandon her, it may be necessary to take her to Somerset with me until this is sorted out.”

“See if you can discover her true name, and I’ll find out what I can about her background. Meanwhile, persuade her if you can to join us.”

I could tell that Simon was afraid I might have been led down the primrose path, that Lydia was lying to me or taking advantage of my sympathy for her own ends.

The best way to prove him wrong was to do as he asked.

“I’ll try, I promise you.”

I handed Simon his coat and went back into the house. Mrs. Hennessey came out to greet me, asking about France, and I told her that I was fortunate enough to have Christmas leave.

“How lovely for your mother and father,” she said. “Did I see Sergeant-Major Brandon pass my window just now?”

“Yes, I came down to speak to him. I thought you might be resting.”

She nodded. Simon was quite her favorite, and had been since the summer when he’d all but saved her life. And mine. She asked about my family, and about Somerset, and finally after telling me that she would be happy to bring up anything I needed, she went back into her own flat.

I hurried up the stairs and found Lydia listening at the door. “I overheard. You’re expected in Somerset,” she said. “And here I am, keeping you from leaving. I’ve trespassed long enough on your kindness.”

“As a matter of fact,” I told her, “Simon has come to take me out to dine. Would you like to go? Somewhere you aren’t known, of course.” I added cheerfully, “It will be all right.”

“No, I couldn’t possibly consider it.”

“Well, it’s rather early, at that,” I said, sweeping aside her refusal. “I believe he has some business to see to first, but he’ll come again at one o’clock. There’s time to reconsider.”

I hurried out the door, as if Simon was waiting for my answer. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, and I asked him to collect me at one o’clock, and he reluctantly agreed.

“I may bring a friend along,” I said, for Lydia’s benefit. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he answered, and then with a gleam in his eye that told me he was getting his own back, he added, “Is it Diana? I’ve missed her.”

“I think she’s in Alexandria,” I told him, making a face.

Then I set about convincing Lydia that she would be safe with us.

It was an uphill struggle. She wavered between worrying that she had already been away too long, that Roger might believe she wasn’t coming back, and the certainty that all would be well once she could see him face-to-face and tell him she’d been wrong.

Watching that inner battle, I was well aware that it wasn’t wise to pry. But I was beginning to think that knowing who Juliana was might help me understand why Lydia had fled to London. She couldn’t have known how badly her face would be bruised. She must have needed to put distance between her and something-or someone. And where were the other members of her family-or Roger’s-to let her go without making certain she was properly clothed and had the money to support herself for a few days?

I waited for an opening to ask questions, but it was clear that she wasn’t ready to talk to me or anyone else.

In the end I don’t think it was my persuasion that convinced Lydia to let Simon take us to lunch as much as it was her own need to escape from the torment in her head. All the same, she went down the stairs warily, as if she expected this to be a trap. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d suddenly dashed away as soon as she reached the street.

Instead, just as we arrived at the door and were about to open it, she put her hand to her cheek and said, “No. I’d forgot. I can’t go out like this. I can’t face the stares. On the train it was awful, people would look at me and then look away. I was mortified.”

“Natural curiosity,” I said bracingly. “Here in London they’re more likely to assume you were in an accident of some sort. Or fell.”

But she refused to go. And then Simon was there, at his most charming, and the next thing I knew we were walking toward the motorcar and she was listening to him, her face turned toward his.

Even then I would have given much to ask him what his impression of Lydia was, but of course that was impossible. Still, I’d caught the fleeting glance he’d given me as he closed her door and turned to hold mine for me. He was not happy that I’d been unable to find out the information he’d asked for.

The restaurant was not one where Lydia or her husband were likely to meet anyone they knew. For one thing, it was well outside of London, on a narrow turning from the main road. For another, it was a country inn, more comfortable than elegant, the paneling old and the wide hearth decorated with horse brasses and coaching horns. But the food was very good, consisting of vegetables from the owner’s own cold cellar, and meat from his farm, and the service was impeccable. We sat at a table where the bruised side of her face was turned away from the other guests, although from time to time she raised a hand to shield it, so conscious of it was she. Still, before very long, she was telling Simon about growing up in Suffolk.

He said, “Were you sad to leave Suffolk when you married?”

To my surprise, she answered him readily. “I’d seen my new home first in high summer. It was winter that I found almost unbearable. Have you ever lived at the edge of a heath? It’s extraordinary, and each season is so different.” She realized then what she was saying and changed the subject almost at once. “My brother inherited the house in Suffolk, but he’s dead now, killed in the war. His widow and two sons live there. I’ve visited sometimes, but it isn’t the same without him.”

Which told me she couldn’t turn to them in her distress.

The meal went well, and I did justice to the slice of ham that I’d ordered, small by comparison to the generous portions we were used to before the war. We had cabbage and steamed apples, and onions stewed in a cheese sauce, with a flan to follow. Lydia ate with an appetite but afterward seemed to be a little pale, as if the food sat heavily in her stomach.

We took our tea in the lounge, and then there was no excuse to linger. Simon went to find the motorcar.

Lydia said, “He’s a very nice man, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” I agreed. Turning to look out the windows, I added, “It will be dark before very long. And another cold night, I expect.”

Lydia was silent, and then, pressing her fingers to her swollen face, she said, “Bess, you’ve been so kind. In spite of the fact that you know nothing about me.”

“How could I turn you away?” I asked. “But I wish there was something I could do to make whatever is troubling you easier to face.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

I hadn’t seen the request coming. I was totally unprepared.

“Would you consider going with me to Vixen Hill? I think it would be easier to face Roger and his family if I had moral support. You’re stronger than I am, Bess. I could take my courage from you. Besides, it will be easier to explain to Roger and his family that I had come to London to stay with a friend. What I did would seem less-rash, ill-considered.” She made a deprecating face. “It would only be a small lie. No one would know that it was.”

“My parents are waiting for me in Somerset,” I began, and then realized that it was the wrong thing to say. “Lydia. Perhaps if you told me why you quarreled and how it was that your husband struck you-if I understood the circumstances a little better, perhaps I could help you see your way more clearly.”

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s presumptuous of me even to think you could come with me.”

“Lydia-”

But Simon was walking through the restaurant door to fetch us, and we followed him out to the motorcar without speaking.

The drive back to London began in silence. Simon, concentrating on the road as the rain began again in earnest, was taciturn. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see that Lydia was anxiously smoothing her gloves, as if regretting broaching the subject of my traveling with her to her home.

Finally, as the rain let up a little, I said to Simon, “Lydia has asked if I’d go with her to Vixen Hill. That’s her home.”

“Where is Vixen Hill?” he asked, raising his voice a little so that she could hear him.

“It’s in Sussex,” she replied after a moment, her voice reluctant in the darkness.

“Tomorrow we’ll drive you there, shall we?” he suggested. “It will be no trouble.”

“No-that’s lovely of you to ask, but I think-I’d rather not take you so far out of your way,” she answered him, trying to refuse him as politely as she could.

“On the contrary,” he said, “Bess would like to see you safely home.”

“I couldn’t consider it,” she told him. “Please. No.”

And that was the end of that.

I could see Simon’s profile in the dim reflection of the headlamps and could almost read what was going through his mind-that her refusal struck him as odd, given the fact that she’d just asked me to accompany her to Sussex. But I thought I understood her. My presence wouldn’t appear especially threatening. Arriving with someone like Simon as well could send a very different message-that she felt the need of protection.

I said, trying to cast a little oil on troubled waters, “There’s no hurry, Lydia. Truly there isn’t.”

“I must mend this quarrel somehow. It can’t go on-Roger is leaving for France on Boxing Day. I don’t know what to do.”

I thought of offering to let her stay in the flat after I left for Somerset, but I had a feeling she would refuse. And even if she accepted, without money, how would she feed herself, or buy warmer clothing to see her through?

Simon asked, “I know a Roger Markham from Sussex. Royal Engineers. Is he by any chance your husband?”

“Oh, no. No. His name is Ellis. Roger Ellis.” She added his rank and regiment.

How simply Simon had discovered that!

“He’s home on compassionate leave,” she went on when Simon said nothing more. “His brother Alan died a fortnight ago. Alan is-was-a Navy man, torpedoed off Ireland. He was severely wounded, but there was hope for a time. And then the doctors could do no more, and we brought him home to Vixen Hill. It was rather awful. I shouldn’t have quarreled with Roger, under the circumstances. It was foolish of me.”

We were coming down the street to Mrs. Hennessey’s house now, and Lydia added wistfully, “We were all so fond of Alan.”

We thanked Simon as he walked with us to Mrs. Hennessey’s door, and Lydia preceded me up the stairs, giving me a moment alone with him.

I could say very little-she was within hearing-but I asked, “You’ll stay over in London tonight?”

“Yes, of course,” he answered. “I’ll come in the morning.”

Just then, Lydia paused on the stairs, and I turned quickly to see her leaning against the banister, her head down.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, seeing my alarm. “I seem to have hurried too much and given myself a headache.” She went on up the stairs more slowly, and I heard the door to the flat open.

“Go ahead, make sure she’s all right,” Simon told me, and then he was gone.

I followed her up the stairs and into the flat. “When did your head begin to ache?” I asked.

“It was a sharp pain, catching me off guard. It isn’t as bad now.”

“Lydia. Sit down and let me have a look.”

Removing her coat and hanging it on the tree, she did as I’d asked. With the light from the lamp trained on her face, I examined the bruising and the swelling around her eye. “Where was the sharp pain?” She pointed to the side of her head just above and a little behind her ear. I carefully ran my fingers over the area, and she winced just as I touched what appeared to be a raised wound. Parting her thick, fair hair, I saw that it was actually an open cut that had bled a little and then clotted.

“How did you come by this?” I asked, letting her hair fall back into place.

“After Roger struck me, I ran up the stairs to our room to find my coat. I tripped in my haste and fell forward, hitting my head against the edge of the newel post. I saw stars, I can tell you,” she added with a smile. “But I was all right after a moment. I got up and went on to our room.” She pointed to her knee. “There’s a bruise here as well. Rather a colorful one.”

“Did you know it was bleeding? Where you fell against the newel post?”

“Not until last night, as I was preparing for bed. I really hadn’t given it much thought until then.” She grimaced. “I just knew that it hurt-my face and all that side of my head.”

I pressed my fingers carefully on either side of the wound, but as far as I could tell there was no indication that the skull had been fractured. Still… “You ought to see a doctor,” I began, but she cut me short.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I don’t like Dr. Tilton. He gossips, and he’ll want to know how I got this bruise.”

“It isn’t the bruise that worries me. There are doctors here in London.”

She wouldn’t hear of it. But I thought, remembering her dizzy spells, and now the headache, that she must have a concussion. “Have you felt sick? Nauseated?”

“Only when I ate too much at the restaurant,” she replied wryly. “I hadn’t realized just how hungry I was.”

I made her a compress for her face, then said, “Will you go with me to Somerset for a few days, Lydia? I think it would do you good to rest before you go home.” And she could see our doctor.

She refused outright. “If I go anywhere, it will be to Vixen Hill,” she told me. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her. And the thought of her wandering about London, alone and with a concussion, was worrying.

“Why won’t you let Simon drive us to Vixen Hill?”

“I don’t believe it would make it easier for me to face Roger,” she said earnestly.

“Lydia. Is that your real name?”

She flushed. “I’m so sorry. Actually it is. And it was also my mother’s name.”

“If I agree to go home with you-tomorrow, let us say, or the day after-and deliver you safely to your family, will you promise to see a doctor? Just as a precaution.”

“You must stay the night,” she told me, trying to keep her hope from showing in her face. “There’s only the one train a day, coming north, and by the time we reach Vixen Hill, you’ll have missed it.”

“Yes, all right. One night. As long as you agree to see that doctor.”

“Bess, you won’t regret it. I promise you. And the sooner the better. I shan’t be able to sleep now, thinking about tomorrow. Are you quite sure?”

It was the only solution that I could see to the problem of what to do about Lydia. It set me free to go on to Somerset, and I could leave her in Sussex, secure in the knowledge that she had returned safely to her family. I was sure Simon wouldn’t approve, but tomorrow morning I could explain to him why I’d made this decision, and arrange to have him meet me in London on my return. After all, Lydia had told him who her husband was, and where she lived. It wasn’t as if I were going off with a complete stranger to an unknown destination.

And if I had any reason to believe that Lydia had made the wrong choice, if her husband refused to take her back, then she could come with me to Somerset until she could decide what she ought to do next.

Her happiness at having the decision to return to Vixen Hill taken out of her hands was obvious. For her sake, I hoped that her faith in Roger Ellis was justified.

I said, “There’s one thing I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind. Who is Juliana?”

At first I didn’t think she was going to tell me. And then she said, “Juliana? She’s Roger’s sister.”