He pulled the knife from his belt and stabbed the wide blade into the ground. He moved the knife around, back and forth, loosening the soil in a generous circle around the small cedar.
“I shouldn’t mind living in two places,” he said, his attention on the digging. “Home can be many things, a life’s work, or a person.” The blade went deeper, exposing tree roots, intricate and fragile like a network of veins. “What troubles me is that I might not always come back here as planned, every winter, for reasons we can’t yet envision. You know what will happen then? I’ve seen it happen to others: two versions of my homeland will begin to exist, one that is built on the myths of my memories, and the real place, which keeps moving forward without me. One day, I might not recognize it anymore when I return. It might not recognize me.”
His fingers worked diligently now, carefully removing clinging stones and lumps of soil from the sapling’s pale tendrils. She’d never tire of looking at him, she realized; she could stand right here for the rest of the days and gaze at the strong, tanned curve of his neck, how his back muscles worked under his vest, how gentle his hands could be and how his hair curled out from under his cap. I will love you with all that I have, she vowed. Love could not fix everything, but it could be a strength, a shield, and a comfort.
“You will always have a home here,” she said quietly. “And wherever you go, you carry the mountains with you and will leave an imprint.”
He looked back at her over his shoulder, his expression softening. He sheathed the knife and stood up, cradling the cedar sapling to his chest with the care one would afford a newborn.
“It’s coming with us,” he said. “The roots are good. They will grow again.”
* * *
Waves washed over the sandy shore of the small island. A sailboat bobbed gently in place, anchored in shallow waters. A man and a woman floated on their backs, their hands entwined, their faces upturned to the blue expanse of sky above. Now and then a wave lapped over the woman’s face and left a salty taste on her lips. Her eyes were peaceful. She was smiling.
Epilogue
December 14th, 1918
The general election fell on a wet Saturday. Newspapers prophesied doom—no woman would turn up to cast her vote in the rain, in winter. We shall see about that, Lucie had said, we shall see. For the past four years, women had driven ambulances to the front lines, flown aircraft, served as spies, and replaced millions of absent men in factories, schools, hospitals, and office buildings. They might just dare to get their feet wet for an afternoon.
A convoy of three Rolls-Royces moved slowly through the drizzle toward Westminster Palace. Annabelle sat in the backseat of the first vehicle, protected from the cold by an elegant winter coat and with her granddaughter nestled comfortably against her side. She had cast her ballot in Belgravia this morning and had stayed on to assist first-time women voters. Since leaving, she had had Jamie stop the car twice, in Chelsea, and in St. James, to collect Hattie, Catriona, Lucie, and various offspring from their respective voting booths.
For the last hour, she had sent the convoy through the London districts, pointing out different polling stations to Aurelia, and they had tried to count the women in the queues as they passed. Annabelle glanced down at Aurelia’s small face and watched the girl’s quiet green eyes take in the history being made. She tried to remember her life when she had been Aurelia’s age, ten years old. This close to Christmas, she would have been helping her mother and the maid in their small country kitchen, eager to sneak raisins and bits of dough.
They passed Parliament Square. Westminster Palace looked blurry behind its thin veil of brown fog. Annabelle leaned forward and placed her hand on the upholstery of the driver’s seat. “Stop right here, darling.”
“We are meeting Father at the Old Palace Yard,” Jamie replied, his eyes on the road. “It’s coming up in a minute.”
“I know. Stop here.”
“Mummy, this street is not for parking,” he remarked, but he pulled over and stepped on the brake.
The wide pavement was busy with pedestrians. Straight ahead, a queue of voters ran past St. Margaret’s Church and disappeared into a building on the corner of Broad Sanctuary.
“So many have come,” Annabelle said, not for the first time. “Lucie was right.”
Jamie looked back over his shoulder, his faintly amused expression a copy of his father’s.
“How could you have doubted Lucinda?”
“Frankly, I hadn’t known what to expect.”
The war effort aside, the Representation of the People Act that granted women over the age of thirty and all men in Britain the vote had only just come into effect; it was so new, it was barely real. The suffrage cause itself had been dormant throughout four years of war. Even the militant suffragettes had laid down their weapons and dedicated their efforts to supporting the nation. The world was still in turmoil. The armistice had been called a month ago, but peace returned only slowly; Claremont’s west wing was still a makeshift hospital and convalescing soldiers were wandering around the grounds at all hours. Here in London, motorized omnibuses with American flags hanging from the windows pushed through the traffic.
“I should like to get out for a moment,” Annabelle said.
Jamie glanced at the rear mirror. The automobiles behind them had come to a halt, forming a haphazard line along the curb. Annabelle could see Lucie gesticulating quizzically from behind her wheel. Next to her, their granddaughter Josephine was making faces. That girl. She takes after you, Annabelle would tell her friend; No, she very much takes after you, Lucie would reply, and thank goodness for that. As long as she doesn’t take after Ballentine, was all Sebastian ever said to that. To this day, the duke was baffled to find himself tied to a once-notorious lothario by way of his elder daughter’s marriage to said lothario’s son, and that his and Ballentine’s heritage would mix so well in two delightful grandchildren.
“Very well.” Jamie switched off the engine. He opened his door and Annabelle watched as he carefully climbed down the step, then limped alongside the automobile to assist with her and Aurelia’s descent. Ever since shrapnel had taken the proper mobility of his legs, her son had forgone a chauffeur and driven the Silver Ghost himself. She took his arm because she wanted to be close to him, not because she would have required assistance. Once safely on the pavement, she glanced up at his stoic profile.
“I’m glad you are by my side today,” she said.
He gave a nod. “Of course,” he said. “It’s your victory day.”
Indeed, but not all children cared to understand their mother’s battles.