Another Homecoming Read online

  Bertrand started to dismiss the gardener but was held back by the gleam in the man’s eyes. There was a genuine affection in Jim’s tone as he said, “A party. Now ain’t that nice. Think maybe it’d be a garden party?”

  When Kyle seemed perplexed by that question, Bertrand found himself offering, “Perhaps if the weather is nice.”

  “Then you oughtta come out and show me where you’ll have your guests,” Jim said eagerly. “Maybe I can put some pretty flowers around, dress things up a little.”

  Bertrand was hard pressed not to smile. The gardener had a thousand excuses for avoiding any extra work. But the little child had this effect on the entire household. There was something special about Kyle, as though a glorious light shone from her heart, even at this early age, something so special that it lit up the lives of everyone around her. Everyone, that is, except for—

  “Ah, good, there you are. For once you’re ready on time.” Abigail Rothmore carefully swept down the steps on her high heels. “James, I noticed the flowers in the front hall are wilting.”

  “We were just talking about that very thing, Mrs. Rothmore.” The gardener shifted over far enough to block Bertrand from view as the butler ducked into the front seat and flipped the blanket up and over the stuffed animals. “I believe the roses are ready.”

  She dismissed him with a flick of her gloved hand and inspected her little girl. “Turn around and let me see you, child. Well, it appears you’ve managed to keep yourself clean for once. Very well, Bertrand, you may open the door.”

  “Yes, madam.” He bowed lower than necessary, the only way he could hide the glint of anger as he saw the child freeze under her mother’s austere gaze. When they were both settled, he shut the door and found himself facing the gardener. Jim was still watching Kyle through the car window. He caught Bertrand’s eye and gave a slight grimace before turning away.

  Bertrand walked around to his door, reflecting that he and Maggie had only two reasons to put up with Abigail Rothmore, and those were her husband and her daughter.

  Before he even started the car, Abigail was off on her usual litany of instructions. “Sit up, child. Straighten your dress. And just look at your hair. How on earth do you manage to—”

  “Where to, madam?” Bertrand asked, putting a bit more bark into his voice than necessary.

  “What? Oh, the dance academy, of course. It’s Thursday.” But his question had the desired effect and deflected Abigail from further berating the little girl.

  “I don’t like ballet,” Kyle said very softly. “It makes my toes hurt.”

  “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, dance will teach you both proper posture and an appreciation of music. Besides, it will introduce you to our kind of people.”

  “I don’t have any friends there,” Kyle quietly persisted.

  “Of course you do. I just heard that the Crawleys’ lovely daughter is being sent there as well. She will make an excellent friend.”

  “I don’t like Emily Crawley,” Kyle said. Her voice was so quiet as to almost go without noticing. “She’s mean to me.”

  “Nonsense. Emily Crawley comes from one of the finest families in Chevy Chase. Not to mention the fact that her father sits on the Rothmore board. Even if the idea of him having a daughter at his age is positively scandalous.” Impatiently Abigail tapped her fingers upon the polished burl of her armrest. “Bertrand, I have a luncheon in town. You shall need to drop me off, go back and pick up Kyle, and bring her home on your own.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Rothmore.” At least there was that to look forward to. Kyle liked to sit up front with him, hugging one of her animals and asking all the questions that she kept to herself whenever her mother was around. Bertrand had never known another child of her age to be so bright and inquisitive.

  And yet nothing could please her mother. “Nanny says you have finally managed to learn all your alphabet.”

  “Yes, Mother.” A hint of eagerness. “Can I ’cite them?”

  “Recite, child, recite. You really must practice your elocution. And no, it is quite enough to hear a positive report from Nanny for a change.”

  Bertrand clenched down hard on his irritation as he observed the little girl through his rearview mirror. Kyle gave a little frustrated kick, then commented, “I wish I could have a baby brother.”

  Abigail gave her daughter a look of genuine horror. “Where on earth did you come up with such a notion?”

  “Maggie says her daughter’s just had a new baby. A little boy. Can we, Mama? Please?”

  “Absolutely not. Out of the question. As if you were not already more than I can manage. Oh, do stop swinging your legs, Kyle. Can’t you be still for an instant?”

  Bertrand’s heart lurched as he watched her subside into a shadow of the bright little thing who had chattered with them earlier. But Abigail was not finished. “Really, you must stop treating the staff like they were family. It just isn’t proper to call the cook by her first name.”

  “But she’s . . . she’s my very best friend,” Kyle protested.

  “Don’t talk nonsense. Help are not friends. You are a privileged young lady, and you must learn to act the part. I don’t see why it is so much to ask, expecting you to be at least a little grateful for everything that has been given to you.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” Kyle said dully.

  “That’s better.” Abigail Rothmore adjusted the fold of her skirt. The diamonds in her bracelet caught the sunlight and shimmered little rainbows round the car’s interior. “Now if only you could learn how to behave in a way that reflects your social standing and family position, I will be satisfied.”

  Kyle’s chin quivered a moment, but she brought it under control. When her mother’s attention was caught by something outside her window, Kyle gave her eyes a swift little wipe. She raised her gaze, and Bertrand attempted all the warmth he could manage into the smile he gave her through the rearview mirror. Then and there he decided he would treat her to her favorite snack, a chocolate malted milk and a box of animal crackers. They would stop by the sweetshop on the way home, no matter what Maggie might say about the child’s appetite being ruined. He would give anything to see the little girl smile again.

  Howard Austin removed the stethoscope from his neck and fitted it into his black carrying bag. He forced a cheery tone. “Fit as a fiddle, heart big as a mule’s. Nothing’s going to keep our Harry down for long. I want you to start walking with just one cane—see how far you can make it.”

  Harry gave a silent nod, the expression on his face not changing. When he had first arrived home, he had been wasted down to skin and bones, but now he was beginning to put on weight. His leg was mending well. But nothing could be done about the eyes that looked empty of everything, or the flat, toneless voice that expressed the few words he chose to say. At the moment, he chose not to speak at all.

  As Howard backed toward the doorway, he tried to find some cheerful note to end the visit. He could only think of the news that was on everyone’s mind that summer. “Looks like we’ve got the Japs on the run once and for all. Can’t be long now.”

  Harry looked up from his chair. It was placed just beneath the bedroom window so as to catch whatever breeze the sultry day might bring. Sunlight falling through the lace curtains turned his face into stark lines and shadows. The words he spoke now carried deep feeling. “Wish I were over there with them, Doc. That’s where I belong. The army’s the only thing I ever found worth doing.”

  “Where you belong is right here with your family,” Howard responded, feeling his smile was as false as his hearty tone.

  “America’s finest hour,” Harry mumbled, as though the doctor had not spoken at all. “And here I am, trapped in this chair with a gimp leg.”

  “You’ve done your part,” Howard insisted stoutly, more because Martha was standing there beside him than because he thought the words might do some good. “Now you’re home, where a lot of our boys wish they could be. And
your leg was saved. Count your lucky stars, Harry.”

  When Harry did not respond, Howard started down the hall, saying to Martha as he passed, “There’s no need to see me to the door.”

  But Martha Grimes pushed one hand into the small of her back, making her belly protrude even further, and moved slowly along behind him. Still a small woman, she was carrying this second baby very low. Two weeks until term, and he wondered if her size indicated twins. Only when the screen door had shut behind them did she speak. “He’s not getting any better.”

  “Of course he is.”

  “Even when one of his old buddies comes by, all Harry does is sit around. There’s no fire left.”

  “Just give it time, Martha.”

  “And when he does talk, it’s about the army. How much he misses it. How he hates his leg. How his wound has kept him from staying with the one profession he’d ever like. That’s his name for it, his profession.” She sighed deeply and absently rubbed the curve of her belly with her other hand, as though able to adjust the load she bore. “Talking like the army was a calling, like being a doctor or something important.”

  “It is important—or was,” Howard Austin replied quietly. “At least to Harry.”

  “He’s been mourning the loss for way too long as it is.” Her hand kept moving, as though she sought comfort from the child she carried. “I just don’t know how much more I can endure, Howard.”

  “Be patient,” Howard said, the words coming automatically. He seemed to be saying them a lot these days. “Be strong. He’ll come around.”

  Instead of arguing, Martha carefully examined his face. “You’ve changed too, Howard. You look the same as before you left, except for some new lines on your face. But your eyes—they look a hundred years old.”

  He did not try to deny it. From somewhere down the street, a radio blared out a marching tune. Another house was full of revelry, and at five o’clock in the afternoon. It seemed as though Baltimore had been one vast party ever since the Germans had surrendered three months earlier. “He’s been through a lot, Martha. It will take him time to come around. The scars on the outside are easy to see. They’ll always be there, I’m sorry to say. The ones on the inside, who knows how long . . .” Howard let his voice trail off. Martha did not need to hear all the details.

  Howard found himself recalling the one time Harry had let down his barriers since returning from North Africa. Frustration and anger and bitterness had poured forth from the lips of a broken man. Howard had stood helpless and silent, listening to heartrending accusations directed at Martha for giving away his child. He wanted their daughter, he had shouted over and over. He wanted his baby back. Harry had wept with uncontrollable sobs when Howard had told him firmly that there was no way to undo what had been done. It had been an ugly scene, one that had left Howard with nightmares.

  Harry had never spoken of his lost child again.

  “He just sits there and stares at nothing,” Martha went on, almost to herself. “For hours on end, he won’t say a word.”

  The thousand-yard stare. That was the name Howard had heard. He had seen a lot of that during his time at the military hospital. And a lot of other things he would rather forget. He pushed away the memories that suddenly began crowding forward and produced a tight grin. “This is something, isn’t it, how I’ve gotten back in time to deliver your second baby?”

  But Martha did not respond as he had hoped. She brushed away a wisp of hair matted to her forehead, her face flushed from the exertion of bearing such a heavy load. “Tell me the truth, Howard. Will my Harry ever come back to me?”

  Howard fought back a sudden longing to reach forward and take her into his arms. He had thought he was over his yearning for her. After all, he had returned to find that Harry Grimes had not been killed. Upon hearing the news about Harry’s return, Howard Austin had stamped down tight on his dismay, locking away his feelings for Martha along with all the other emotions the war had left as a legacy, things he never wanted to think of or feel again.

  But here he was, caught flat-footed and openhearted by a single look.

  “Martha,” he sighed, wishing for all that was impossible to have. “I can’t lie to you.”

  “That’s why I’m asking,” she responded, her tone as quiet as his. “I need somebody I know will always tell me the truth.”

  “The truth,” Howard said quietly, his heart aching. Once again he was glad he had not poured out his feelings to Martha before he left, and that he had held to a friendly tone in his few letters. He had wanted to wait and confess his love for her face-to-face. He had owed it to her, if for no other reason than because she had already lost one man to the war, or so he had thought. Now his disappointment was an acrid twisting to his heart, but at least it was private, something he had shared with no one. “The truth is, your husband is home.”

  “Is he?”

  “He has returned with his body relatively intact. His mind is okay, as far as I can tell.”

  “It doesn’t seem that way to me.”

  I care too much. The accusation had been leveled at him time after time on the front. Other doctors had taken him aside and told him repeatedly that if he did not grow a tougher hide around his heart, he would not survive. Howard drew himself up. “Martha, Harry was a man made for soldiering. You’ve told me that yourself. And now he’s got to learn to accept that there are other occupations for him than the army. He needs to count his blessings, find a job, raise his family. Having a new baby will help bring him around.”

  The dark brown eyes did not waver in their careful inspection of his face. Martha asked quietly, “What about my needs, Howard? I lost my husband and then my baby. I spent almost a year mourning the pair of them, thinking my husband was lying dead some place with a strange-sounding name.”

  “El Alamein,” Howard said quietly. “A lot of good men didn’t come back from there, Martha. You should count your blessings.”

  “Blessings.” Her mouth pinched down, as though she had tasted something bitter. “What about my baby girl? I dream about her, you know. After all this time, I wake up and wonder where she is, and I feel like my heart is going to break.”

  “Blessings, like the child you’re bearing,” Howard plowed on determinedly. He fought down the urge to tell her about Harry’s bitterness over losing the baby girl. It would serve no purpose, other than perhaps ease his own nights. “Blessings, like having your husband home from the war.”

  She stared hard at him, the gaze carrying the force her words did not. “Tell me where my baby is, Howard. I’m begging you.”

  “For the last time, Martha, I can’t. And even if I could, it wouldn’t do you any good. The child is theirs. And that’s final.” He tipped his hat to her and turned for the steps. “I’ll see you in a day or so. Call me if anything changes.”

  Briskly Howard started down the sidewalk, pausing for a final wave before turning the corner. Up where the street joined a main thoroughfare, a young man hawked papers, shouting more news about the war. Howard tuned him out, the action having become automatic.

  I care too much, Howard repeated to himself as his shoulders slumped in defeat. It was a flaw he really had to overcome.

  3

  KYLE RACED AROUND THE CORNER, one hand holding her leather satchel, the other her hat. Her long dark blond hair and the cap’s blue ribbons flew out behind her as she hurried toward the car. Her brown eyes sparkled with anticipation.

  The chauffeur stood stiffly at attention as he waited for her, his face set in downward sloping lines. “I’m sorry, Bertie,” she said breathlessly, “but Miss Pincushion made me stay after class again.”

  Bertrand opened the front passenger door. He could not keep an aggrieved tone from his voice as he said, “I do wish you would permit me to wait for you in front of the school, Miss Kyle.”

  At the sight of the front door open and waiting, Kyle gave off a little exclamation of delight, swiftly stifled. She gave the empty rear seat a quick glanc
e, then asked, “Where’s Mother?”

  “Mrs. Rothmore felt it necessary to remain behind and prepare for her charity function this afternoon,” Bertrand replied stiffly.

  “Oh, Bertie, don’t be like that.” Kyle slid into the seat and straightened the blue skirt of her school uniform. When Bertrand shut her door and started around the car, she allowed herself a smile. Mother couldn’t come after all. The day was already wonderful and would soon be even better. A lunch with her father, all to herself, was one of her favorite things in the world.

  When the chauffeur opened his door and climbed in, Kyle gave him a look of utter appeal. “Bertie, I’ve told you how the other girls make fun of me when they see you waiting out front.” Further protest was diverted when she glanced at the little round clock set in the burl dash. “Oh, look. You’ll have to hurry. Daddy doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “I am well aware of your father’s attitude toward time,” Bertrand replied. “And I am certain that the young ladies of St. Albans have seen a chauffeur before.”

  “Now you sound just like Miss Pincushion.” Miss Pincus taught eighth-grade math at the exclusive St. Albans Preparatory School, and she was the bane of Kyle’s existence. “Not in a Rolls. And not the way you wait for me.”

  “And just what, pray tell,” Bertrand demanded, “is the matter with the way in which I wait for you?”

  “Oh, you know. Standing there by the door with your gloves and hat and everything. You look like a soldier at attention.”

  “I merely intend to show proper respect.”

  “You look like you’re waiting for . . . for a princess.” Kyle laughed, a musical sound. Then she confessed, “I don’t like the other girls to know, that’s all.”

  “There are many wealthy young ladies at St. Albans, Miss Kyle. And if memory serves me correctly, young Miss Emily Crawley is collected in a Rolls.”

  “But the other girls are nicer, the ones that aren’t so, you know, well off.” She avoided the additional point, which was that Emily Crawley and her cold, aloof ways frightened her. “If they see you . . . well, I’m afraid they won’t like me.”