Gather the Bones

  Cover Copy

  War leaves no one untouched

  The horrors of the Great War are not the only ghosts that haunt Helen Morrow and her late husband's somewhat reclusive cousin, Paul. Unquiet spirits from another time and another conflict touch them.

  A coded diary gives them clues to the mysterious disappearance of Paul's great-grandmother in 1812, and the desperate voice of a young woman reaches out to them from the pages. Together Helen and Paul must search for answers, not only for the old mystery, but also the circumstances surrounding the death of Helen's husband at Passchandaele in 1917.

  As the mysteries entwine, their relationship is bound by the search for truth, in the present and the past.

  Teaser

  In the shadowy corridor, Paul could see the slight figure in a blue robe of some kind standing at the door to Evelyn’s room. She stood quite still her arm outstretched as if pointing to the library stairs.

  As he reached her, Helen turned and screamed. Her knees appeared to buckle and he caught her and held her by the forearms, turning her to face him.

  “Steady,” he said. “Just take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

  She sank in his grip, and for a moment he thought she had fainted. In the watery moonlight that filtered in through the windows her face looked ashen.

  “Paul?”

  His name came out in a whispered rush as she hung limp in his grasp. Instinctively he put his arms around her, drawing her in toward him like he would a small child. Helen leaned against his chest and he could smell the sweet, floral scent of soap in her hair.

  She looked up at him and frowned, stiffening in his embrace. He released her, taking a step back as she ran a shaking hand through her hair that fell loose around her face.

  Gather the Bones

  By Alison Stuart

  Gather the Bones

  9781616504076

  Copyright © September 2012, Alison Stuart

  Edited by Ann-Marie Smith

  Book design by Lyrical Press, Inc.

  Cover Art by Renee Rocco

  First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: September, 2012

  Lyrical Press, Incorporated

  eBooks are not transferable. All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced,

  transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or

  mechanical, without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products

  of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the memory of my father-in-law. CHB. Educator, philosopher and friend

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my husband, DJB, for his unswerving love and support (and for taking me to visit the battlefields of World War One), my mother in law, PJB, for her eagle eye and my writing group, The Saturday Ladies Bridge Club, for their encouragement.

  Author’s Foreword

  In a quiet war cemetery in France is the grave of a young man, a cousin of my father. An old family photograph shows a solemn little boy with fair hair and glasses who was destined to go into the church when he finished university. Instead he went to war and died at Pozières in 1916 at the age of 22 with the rank of Captain and a Military Cross to his name. Just one of thousands upon thousands of young men from all over the world who found themselves in this small corner of France and Belgium. They went for the adventure and in a belief that they were serving their King and Country but so many never came home.

  As I sat by the simple white head stone, the mother in me wept for the boy, the soldier empathized and the writer decided it was time to tell a story about the Great War.

  Prologue

  3rd London Territorial General Hospital October 22, 1917

  Paul turned his head on the pillow and watched as Evelyn Morrow, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield, followed the nurse past the rows of beds. Her gaze did not move from the woman’s starched back as if she was unable to bring herself to look around her at the carnage the war had wrought.

  The breath caught in the back of his throat and a coward’s voice in his mind whispered: Not here, not now.

  He knew she had been watching and waiting for him to return to the world. Through the haze of drugs and delirium he had been aware of her standing sentinel by his bed, clad in black from head to foot, a shadow. He knew he had to face her, but he lacked the strength to match her grief against his.

  Feigning sleep, he shut his eyes.

  “Now, only a few minutes, Lady Morrow. He is still very weak,” the nurse said. “I will be at my desk if you require anything.”

  Paul heard the efficient clack of the nurse’s heels on the linoleum floor as she returned to her place at the end of the ward.

  Through the pervading scent of carbolic, he could smell his aunt’s perfume and once again he stood on Waterloo station, a small boy clutching a battered suitcase. A beautiful woman in a blue gown had bent down and taken his hand, enveloping him in a cloud of lavender.

  She hadn’t kissed him then and she didn’t kiss him now. Lady Evelyn Morrow just stood at the foot of his bed, looking down at him.

  “Paul? Can you hear me?” Her tone commanded obedience and his eyes flickered open, meeting hers, dark pools behind the black netting that covered her face.

  Evelyn clutched the metal bar at the end of the bed and the feather on her hat began to quiver as her whole body shook with the force of her emotion. “You promised.” Her voice rose on a crescendo of despair. “You promised you would keep him safe. Where is he? Where’s my son? Where’s Charlie?”

  Paul felt her grief as a palpable force, sending shock waves down the rows of beds that lined the ward. He wanted to say, “I promised. I know I promised but I couldn’t keep it. Charlie is gone.”

  His fingers tightened on the starched sheet and his breath came in short, sharp gasps as the words formed and then stuck fast.

  The chair at the nurse’s station scraped on the floor and her hurried footsteps beat a rapid tattoo on the linoleum floor.

  “Lady Morrow. Really, I must protest. Come away with me this instant.”

  The nurse placed a firm arm around Evelyn’s shoulder, leading her away. Evelyn shook off the encircling arm and turned back to look at him, the tears Paul knew she had probably not allowed herself to shed were now spilling down her face.

  “Lady Morrow, please. You are overwrought. I’ll fetch you a nice cup of tea.” The nurse’s tone softened and with her arm around Evelyn’s shoulders she led the woman into the glassed-in office at the end of the ward.

  Paul turned his head on the hard, lumpy pillow, feeling the starched linen crackle beneath his cheek. In the bed next to him, a young subaltern who had lost both his legs lay immobilized by the stiff sheets and blankets. The impeccable bedclothes, pulled up to his chin, hid the reality of his horrific injuries from his visitors, reducing the war to something neat, tidy and manageable.

  In the office, beyond the line of beds, the nurse handed a cup to Evelyn. The door opened and the Matron of the hospital entered the little office and began to berate the errant visitor for her unseemly behavior. Lady Evelyn Morrow sat hunched in a chair like a s
choolgirl and even through the glass snatches of the scolding–inappropriate behavior and upsetting the patients–filtered out into the ward.

  The nurse returned to Paul’s bedside, making a pretence of straightening his pillow.

  “Really,” she tutted as she fussed over him. “I would have expected better from a lady.”

  “Outward displays of grief should be reserved for the lower classes?” he murmured.

  “Pardon?” the nurse replied.

  “Tell her I want to see her,” Paul said.

  The nurse straightened. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded and with a sniff, the nurse bustled back to the office. She whispered in Matron’s ear and the older woman stiffened, casting a quick glance in Paul’s direction. Evelyn looked up as the Matron spoke. She too glanced through the window toward him and rose to her feet, tucking her handkerchief back into her purse.

  Her back straight, Evelyn looked the Matron squarely in the eye and her words, audible through the glass, echoed down the long ward. “I assure you, there will be no repeat.”

  Once more the nurse, this time in the company of Matron, conducted Evelyn to his bedside. A rustle of anticipation rippled through the ward and Paul imagined the faces of the other patients turned expectantly toward his aunt. If nothing else, her outburst had provided an entertaining highlight in an otherwise dull day.

  “Now, Lady Morrow,” the Matron said as Evelyn took the seat beside Paul’s bed. “I am sure I don’t need to remind you, Major Morrow is easily tired. A few minutes, that’s all.”

  Paul looked up at the ceiling while his mind framed the words. He knew what had to be said and that the words would not bring her the comfort she sought.

  “Evelyn?”

  She raised her eyes and once more they looked at each other, these two strangers, bound together by ties they could not sever.

  “Evelyn...I’m sorry...” he said, shocked at how weak his voice sounded.

  She leaned toward him. “No,” she said in a low voice. “I was unfair on you, Paul. It is I who should apologise.”

  “I know what you want to ask me,” he said.

  Evelyn did not hesitate. “Is he dead?”

  Paul closed his eyes as he struggled with the simple word that would give her the answer she sought. He had no tears of his own to shed for Charlie. Three and a half years in the trenches had robbed him of the ability to show sorrow and his own grief for his cousin ran too deep for such an outward display.

  He heard her breath catch and knew she had read the answer in his face even as he answered. “Yes.”

  Her lips tightened in a supreme effort to control herself. “What happened, Paul? Please tell me how he died and why I cannot bury my son.”

  He turned his face away from her. “I don’t know, Evelyn. God help me, I don’t remember. I just know he is dead.”

  Evelyn sat in silence, watching him. As she rose to leave, in a gesture that would have seemed foreign to her in the long days of his childhood, she placed a gloved hand over his good hand. Her fingers tightened on his, binding him to her.

  Chapter 1

  Helen Morrow took a deep breath, her hand tightening on her daughter’s. She felt a corresponding squeeze, looked down into Alice’s upturned face, and smiled. Why were children so much braver than adults?

  She raised the knocker on the old oak door and let it fall. The sound reverberated around the quiet courtyard and she took a step back as the door opened to reveal a small, round woman wearing a spotless white apron over a flowered dress.

  Before Helen could speak, the woman’s face lit up with a smile.

  “Mrs. Charles,” she exclaimed. “Welcome to Holdston. I’m Sarah Pollard and you must be Miss Alice.” She turned a beaming smile on the child before standing aside to usher them both inside the cool, dark hallway and through to a grand room, smelling of beeswax and dominated by a long table and a large fireplace emblazoned with carving. “We expected you on the later train. Sam was all set to take the car to the station to meet you.”

  “We caught the bus from the station and walked. Sorry if that caused any inconvenience,” Helen said

  “Oh none at all. You’re here and that’s what matters. Come in, come in. Leave your suitcase. I’ll take it up to your room. Lady Morrow’s in the parlour. I’ll show you through.”

  Helen removed the pins from her hat and set it down on top of the case. She took off Alice’s hat and fussed over the unmanageable fair hair that refused to stay confined in a neat plait.

  “Are you ready to meet Grandmama?” she asked her daughter, with what she hoped was a confident smile. She didn’t need Alice to see the nerves that turned her stomach into a churning mass of butterflies.

  They followed Sarah Pollard’s ample girth across the wide, stone-flagged floor. Helen looked up at the portraits of long dead Morrows who glared down at her from the wainscoted walls. If Charlie had lived, she would have been the next Lady Morrow and her portrait would have joined theirs, a colonial interloper in their ordered society.

  Sarah opened a door and announced her. A slender woman, in her late middle age, her graying hair piled on her head in a manner fashionable before the war, rose from a delicate writing table by the window.

  “Helen. You’re earlier than I had expected,” Lady Evelyn Morrow said. “I would have sent the car for you but you are most welcome to Holdston at long last. And you.” She turned to the child. “Let me look at you, Alice.”

  Alice looked up at her mother, her eyes large and apprehensive. Helen gave her a reassuring smile and with a gentle hand in the girl’s back, urged her forward for her grandmother’s inspection.

  “You’re not much like your father,” Lady Morrow concluded.

  Helen could have listed all the ways in which Alice was, in fact, very much like her father, the father she had never known, from the hazel eyes to the way her upper lip curled when she smiled, and her utter lack of concern for her own safety. She must never stop forgetting.

  Sarah Pollard bustled in with a tea tray and Lady Morrow indicated two chairs. Alice perched awkwardly on the high backed chair, her feet not quite touching the floor. Her eyes widened at the sight of the cake and biscuits piled high on the tea tray.

  “I trust you had a good voyage?” Lady Morrow enquired as she poured the tea into delicate cups.

  “Yes.” Helen smiled. “It was a wonderful adventure. Wasn’t it, Alice? We thought about Cousin Paul as we sailed through the Suez Canal. He must have some incredible stories to tell about the archaeological digs.”

  The lines around Evelyn’s nose deepened. “If Paul has incredible stories, he does not share them with me, Helen.”

  “But he writes to me and tells me all about them,” Alice said. “Every Christmas and every birthday. Last birthday he sent me a little glass bottle from...where was it, Mummy?”

  “Palestine,” Helen replied. “He said it was Roman.”

  “Does he indeed?” Evelyn’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I am glad to hear he recognizes his responsibility to you, Alice.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him. They told me he was with Charlie...” Helen began.

  Evelyn stiffened, the teacup halfway to her lips. She set the cup down and folded her hands in her lap. “If you are hoping that Paul will shed any light on what happened that day, Helen, then you will be disappointed. Paul was badly injured in the same action and has, apparently, no memory of–” her thin lips quivered, “–the incident.”

  Helen caught the sharp edge of an old bitterness in the older woman’s voice. “I see,” she said.

  “You and I, Helen, must mourn over an empty grave,” Lady Morrow said.

  She rose to her feet, walked over to the piano and picked up one of the heavy silver-framed photographs that adorned its highly polished surface.

  “Did you ever see this photograph?” She handed it to Helen. “I had it taken before Charlie went to France in March 1915. Paul was home on leave and Charlie had just taken his comm
ission.”

  The photograph showed two young men in the uniform of infantry officers, one seated and the other standing, a photograph like thousands of others that were now the last link with the dead. Helen had a single portrait of Charlie, taken at the same photographic session, sporting an elegant, unfamiliar moustache and grinning from ear to ear, like an over-anxious school boy, keen to join the ‘stoush’, kill the ‘bloody Bosch’. She felt a keen sense of pain that reverberated as strongly as it had on the day he told her he would have to return to England.

  “I can’t leave them to fight the Huns, Helen,” he said. “Damn it, I have a duty to England.” The drunken words came back to her and she could see Charlie in the kitchen of Terrala with his arm across her brother Henry’s shoulders, as they celebrated their mutual decision to join the war.

  Henry had already enlisted in the Australian Light Horse and Charlie told her a few days later that he intended to return to England to join his cousin’s regiment.

  “Do you think I would leave Paul to uphold the family honor?” he said.

  And he’d gone.

  Even as she had stood on the dock at Port Melbourne, the cold winter wind whipping at her ankles, she had known he would not return. She wondered if his decision to go would have been any different if they had known she was carrying his child. Probably not.

  She turned from her husband’s smiling face to his cousin, Paul Morrow, the professional soldier, never destined to take the Morrow title until one day in a muddy field outside Ypres had turned his fortune.

  The long months of war had already begun to leave their mark and, while he affected a smile, she saw no warmth in his eyes. In normal circumstances, with the strong jaw and good bone structure, it would be a handsome face but he looked tired and drained, and years older than his cousin, although he was the older by little over a year.