The Keeper of Her Heart Page 10

  The man’s smile conveyed understanding. “Have you seen Harry then?”

  “No, not yet. I’ve been told I will see him tomorrow.”

  As usual the thought of a reunion with his brother elicited both anticipation and dread within him. He couldn’t wait to see Harry again, and yet he feared it too. What sort of older, protecting brother was he to let his younger brother run off to fight without joining him? Hugh had told himself over and over again that he was needed in Yorkshire to run the factory. But he wanted to know Harry was as proud of him for staying behind as Hugh was of him for being a soldier.

  “I can’t tell you how good it is to see a familiar face here.” Smiling, Ned shook his head. “Have you seen my mother? Is she all right?”

  Hugh indicated that Ned should sit back down as he took a spot along the nearby wall for himself. “I looked in on her before I left Yorkshire and she was doing well. What about Ada? How are she and your little girl faring?”

  “They’re well.” Ned leaned his head back against the wall. “Ada’s been working at a paper warehouse since last year. Seems to like it too. She’s taken to life in London,” he said with evident pride.

  He was glad to hear it. “What about her parents? Have they come around?” It had bothered Hugh greatly that Charles and Victoria Thorne refused to speak of Ada or, according to his mother, hadn’t bothered to write her either.

  “No, they haven’t come round.”

  A pang of sadness and anger shot through him at Ned’s answer. At least Ada sounded happy, in spite of her parents’ actions.

  “How are things at the boot factory?” Ned asked.

  Hugh told him how they were turning out four hundred pairs of boots a day, then he asked how Ned’s time at the print shop had been. Soon they were swapping stories back and forth about Yorkshire and London. Some of Hugh’s guilt eased with the camaraderie. Though a soldier himself, Ned didn’t seem to condemn or judge him for not fighting in France.

  “Shall I take a letter back to your mother?” It was a simple thing, but Hugh wanted to help Ned in some way. And hand-delivering a letter to Maud Henley would mean she would hear from her son sooner.

  Ned’s expression lit with enthusiasm. “That’d be wonderful. Thank you.”

  “I will let you write it,” Hugh said as he climbed to his feet, “while I talk with some of the others.”

  He finished making his way around the room, conversing with the soldiers. When he returned to Ned’s corner, the man stood and handed him two letters.

  “I’ve one for Ada too. Will you post it when you get back to Britain?”

  Hugh slipped both letters into his jacket pocket. “Of course.” His driver signaled him from the doorway. Unfortunately, it was time to go. “It’s been good to see you again, Henley.”

  “You too.” The two of them shook hands again. “Thank you for looking in on my mother.”

  “It’s the least I can do. And know that we are praying for you and Harry and all of the others from Yorkshire.”

  Ned dipped his head in a nod. “Thank you for that.”

  “Take care.”

  “I will. Tell Harry hello from me.”

  Hugh smiled. “I’ll pass on the greeting.” He started to walk away when Ned called him back.

  “Whittington?”

  He turned back. “Yes?”

  The man’s face registered far more seriousness than Hugh had ever seen on it. “Can you do something else for me?” At Hugh’s nod, Ned continued. “If something should happen to me . . .” He maintained a level gaze, though his eyes filled with momentary pain. “Will you promise to look after Ada and Rosemary for me?”

  Hugh didn’t need to consider his answer; he knew it at once. “I give you my word, Henley.”

  “Thanks.” Some of his somberness seemed to fade with Hugh’s answer. “You’re a good man, Hugh Whittington. I wager God’s got you right where He needs you.”

  Though the statement took Hugh aback, it still had the power to push at his shame too. “I hope so.”

  He waved goodbye to Ned, who offered a wave in return, then Hugh followed his driver from the building. It had been more than coincidental that he’d run into Ned. He felt certain God had orchestrated it—perhaps for both of them.

  • • •

  London, July 1916

  The knock didn’t sound like Minnie’s. It was heavier and more ominous, Ada remembered later. She wiped her hands on a towel and instructed Rosemary to keep reading at the table as she went to open the door.

  A delivery boy, no older than thirteen, stood waiting, an envelope clutched in his hand. At the sight of it, Ada froze. Her eyes and heart knew exactly what the youth’s presence and the telegram signified, but her head still protested. She’d had a letter from Ned only two days earlier, and he was due for leave again soon. News such as this could not come now.

  “For you, Mrs. Henley.” The young man extended the envelope toward her, though she didn’t miss the pained look in his eyes. “My deepest sympathies, ma’am.”

  She could only manage a nod as she closed her trembling fingers around the envelope. The boy offered her one more sympathetic glance before he turned and headed down the stairs. Ada shut the door, her thoughts chaotic, her feelings numb. Ned might only be injured or missing in action. It might not be what she feared the most.

  “Who was at the door, Mummy?” Rosemary called from the kitchen.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s a . . . a letter.”

  “From Daddy?”

  Ada sucked in a sharp breath at her daughter’s innocent question. A prick of pain attempted to breach her shock, but she fought it back. She must get through dinner and putting Rosemary to bed. Then she would look at the telegram; only then would she feel.

  “No, not this one, pet,” Ada answered as she walked into the parlor and set the envelope facedown on the trunk. “Shall we eat now?”

  Somehow she managed to make conversation with her daughter through the meal and as they washed and dried dishes afterward, though Rosemary had to ask her more than once if Ada was listening. Numbness had wrapped itself tightly around her and she welcomed it.

  “What shall we read tonight?” she asked with feigned cheerfulness when the kitchen had been set to rights and Rosemary had donned her long white nightgown.

  “You still have your apron on.” Rosemary giggled.

  Ada looked down, not even remembering what dress she’d put on that morning. “So I do.” She removed the apron, draped it over the vanity chair, and forced a quick smile. “Now I’m ready.”

  Rosemary surveyed her mother, her blue eyes unusually grave. “Is something wrong, Mummy?”

  Everything, pet. But Ada couldn’t say that.

  “We’ll be all right.” The words tasted more of lies than truth. “Will you go pick a story?”

  As Rosemary left the room, Ada sank onto the bed, her hand splayed against the blanket. Would Ned ever lie here again beside her? Emotion raced up her throat, bitter and choking. She hurried to swallow it as her daughter reentered the room with a book in hand.

  Ada leaned against the headboard while Rosemary snuggled next to her, then she began to read aloud. It seemed to take longer than normal for her daughter to finally fall asleep. Ada didn’t know whether to feel frustrated or relieved by that. Now nothing stood between her and the envelope in the parlor.

  She scooped up her daughter and placed her on the bed in the corner. Pulling the blankets over Rosemary’s sleeping from, Ada was bombarded with the first rush of tears. But she bit her lip, hard, to stay them a little longer and slipped into the parlor.

  Eyeing the envelope, she moved to the bookcase to put the bedtime story away. She straightened a few knickknacks. An intense weight pressed against her lungs and the backs of her eyes until she could hardly breathe. There was no sense avoiding the inevitable any longer.

  She picked up the envelope and sat in the armchair—it was still Ned’s seat to her, even in his absence. Its soli
dness brought a flicker of comfort to her. She broke the seal and removed the single sheet of paper, letting the envelope slip to the floor.

  Killed in action.

  They were the only words she saw, the only ones that mattered. And though they weren’t entirely unexpected, they still hit her with the force of a locomotive.

  She squelched the urge to crush the telegram in her fist and toss it into the rubbish bin. This was one of her last connections to Ned, so she forced herself to read every painful word of the short message.

  There was mention of sympathy from the War Office, which brought a bitter laugh from her dry lips. They hadn’t known Ned, hadn’t loved him as she had, hadn’t believed they’d have a long life together. The feeling of detachment cracked wide open at the latter thought, and with it, Ada’s heart. A powerful ache filled her chest. How could her husband be gone for good?

  “Oh, Ned,” she whispered as much in anger as in agony. “Why? Why?”

  Tears burned her throat and eyes, insisting on release. Ada couldn’t have held them back now if she’d wanted. Pressing her fingers to her mouth to muffle her cries, she sobbed, the telegram strangled in her other hand. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Ned was supposed to live, to come back to them again. She didn’t want to raise their daughter alone.

  She remained in the chair until her sobs and her energy were both spent. Then she slipped to the floor, too shattered to sit upright any longer. She pressed her cheek to the rug. Should she stay in London, near the O’Reillys? After all, she had a job here. Or should she return to Stonefield Hall and attempt to reconcile with her parents?

  No, she thought in answer as fresh anger stirred inside her. Her parents had never accepted Ned. If she went back now, it would almost be like he—and the life they’d created here—had never existed.

  She and Rosemary would stay in London.

  Her next decision ought to be how she would tell her daughter the news about Ned. Another ache knifed through Ada. She didn’t want to think about that. The little girl had only a handful of memories of her father, and now there was no hope for more.

  Why, God? She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed back a wail. Her faith felt more fragile than it ever had before. I can’t bear this alone. Please help me.

  She lay on the rug a long time, the tears dry on her face. Exhaustion filled her limbs, her mind, her heart. Would God answer her anguished prayer? Was He really with her or were her own words of comfort to Belinda and Minnie not applicable to her?

  After a minute, Ada climbed stiffly to her feet. She smoothed the wrinkles from the telegram and placed it inside Ned’s Bible before moving toward the bedroom. She hoped sleep would come mercifully swift tonight.

  Chapter 11

  Hugh rubbed at his tired eyes, then attempted to focus once more on the order form he held in his hand. While overseeing the boot factory could be exhausting, especially these days, he was grateful to provide proper footwear to the men in the trenches and to help out as well by employing their mothers, sisters, wives, and sweethearts. He now had far more female employees at the factory than men. And while the majority of them were more talkative than their male counterparts, all of them had proven to be hard workers.

  The animation and quiet strength they brought to the factory reminded him of Ada Henley, working herself in London. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he recalled times from Ada’s youth when she’d demonstrated a similar streak of independence. Was it really a surprise then that she’d married the man she’d wanted to, instead of allowing her parents to dictate her choice? Hugh admired her for that. Her and Ned both.

  He thought back to his chance meeting with Ned in France two months earlier. The man’s parting words—I wager God has you right where He needs you—had entered his thoughts over and over since then.

  Hugh wanted to believe he was in the right place, doing what God wanted him to do here in Yorkshire. He’d made his choice at his father’s death to assume responsibility for the factory—as the elder son should. And he hadn’t felt right about renouncing that role, even after England had gone to war. Besides, unlike Harry, he’d never had aspirations to be a soldier. There were still moments, though, when he wondered if he’d rather be wearing the boots from his factory instead of making them.

  Tossing the form onto his desk, he leaned back in his chair. He’d been devoting all of his time and energy to managing the factory as well as the estate for a long time now. But was his contribution enough?

  “Enough for who?” he asked out loud, sniffing in amusement at talking to himself.

  Were his efforts enough for his family? His country? His God?

  A knock at his office door interrupted his introspection. Sitting forward, he called out, “Come in.”

  His secretary, Mr. Bertrup, entered the room, looking apprehensive. “There’s a delivery boy here to see you, sir. Says he has a telegram. Shall I send him in?”

  A telegram? Hugh could think of only a handful of reasons he’d be receiving a telegram and most of them meant unpleasant news. His chest squeezed with dread, but he forced himself to take a full breath.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bertrup,” he said with outer calm. “Please send him in.”

  One of the lads from the village slipped inside the office. He appeared as anxious as Hugh’s secretary.

  Hugh stood. “How may I help you, John? It is John, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.” John approached the desk. “I ’ave a telegram for you, Mr. Whittington, sir.”

  The lad extended the envelope. Hugh took it, feeling the weight of its contents in spite of the envelope’s lightness.

  “I’m right sorry, sir.” John’s sorrowful expression conveyed how much he meant the words—they weren’t trite.

  “I’m sorry too.” He studied the boy. “You have a rather beastly job at present, don’t you?”

  John shrugged, but the look on his young face told a different story. “It pays . . .”

  “But it’s difficult too,” Hugh finished. After a moment, John dipped his chin in a nod. How many other boys throughout Britain were shouldering similar burdens, delivering vital but unwanted news? It was more grief and pain than boys this age should have to bear.

  The lad shuffled backward. “I best be on my way, sir.”

  “Goodbye then, John.”

  Hugh waited for the boy to exit his office before he sat down. He swallowed past his suddenly dry throat as he broke open the envelope and withdrew the telegram. The pounding of his heart seemed to stop altogether when he read the short message. Harry had been killed in action.

  Grief, sharp and cutting, speared his chest as he dropped the telegram onto his cluttered desk. Never again in this life would he watch Harry bustle into his office, a ready grin on his brother’s face and a teasing remark on his tongue. They would never share another laugh or confide their deepest thoughts to each other.

  Resting his elbows on his desk, he pressed the palms of his hands against the tears in his eyes. If he’d been the one to go to war and Harry had stayed . . . He cut off the thought. Harry had never had any inclination to manage the boot factory.

  Hugh would need to tell his mother and sisters the news as well as the young lady in the village who Harry had been sweet on before leaving for France. Fresh pain cut through him at having to share such awful tidings with all of them, but especially his mother.

  Harry was the youngest of the five Whittington children and the crowning joy of their mother’s life. Hugh only hoped this news wouldn’t kill her. The notion of bearing the weight of his family’s grief, along with his own, left him feeling weary down to his bones.

  He pushed back his chair and stood, anxious to get the dreadful task over sooner than later. Surely he could leave the factory early. But a second knock sounded at his door.

  “Come in,” Hugh called.

  Mr. Bertrup poked his head inside again. “Sorry to disturb, sir, but Maud Henley is here to see you.”

  Why did Ned’s
mother wish to see him? And did he have the strength for such a visit when the unspoken weight of Harry’s death pressed heavily on his shoulders? He considered putting off the meeting until tomorrow, and yet, he felt he owed it to Ned to find out what Maud wanted.

  “Show her in.”

  Maud Henley stepped into his office and waited for his secretary to close the door before she spoke. “Do you have a moment, Mr. Whittington?”

  “Yes, of course.” She looked near to collapsing, which prompted his next question. “Did you walk all the way here?”

  He was relieved when she shook her head. “I rode in Farmer Terry’s cart for part of the way.”

  “Please,” he said, coming around the desk and pulling out a chair for her. “Have a seat.”

  Hesitating only a moment, she sat, her hands curled tightly around the handle of her purse. “I thought you’d like to know . . .”

  “Know?” The note of shock and resignation in her tone had Hugh immediately on edge.

  Mrs. Henley lowered her chin and directed her next words toward her lap. “I learned from Ada yesterday that . . . that Ned has been killed.”

  “No.” Hugh dropped onto the edge of his desk, a fresh wave of sorrow rocking through him. First Harry and now Ned. “I am so very sorry, Mrs. Henley.”

  When she glanced up, her eyes were filled with tears. “He was my only child.” Her voice hitched with emotion. “Even when I heard he was leaving for France, I didn’t think he’d go before me.”

  “What mother does?” Certainly Helena Whittington wasn’t expecting such an outcome either. “I am truly sorry for your loss, ma’am. Ned was among the best of men.” He coughed as his own grief threatened to engulf him. “I am afraid I’ve received word about Harry as well.”

  Her damp eyes widened and she shook her head. “He’s been . . . ?”

  “Yes.” The affirmative answer tasted bitter on Hugh’s tongue.

  In the next moment the woman was on her feet. “I’d like to see your mother.”