“I did,” Colonel Mabry agreed. “I spent most of the war in France and Belgium.”
“Did you know my husband?” I asked, keeping my voice calm. “When you served? Alex Manders?”
Mabry regarded me calmly, but a quick spark of interest crossed his gaze, a light that I could not quite read. “It is possible, Mrs. Manders, that I came across him at some time or another. I will give it some thought. My aging brain does not recall names as quickly as it used to.”
Of course. I had hoped for honesty, but he was humoring me, as would be expected when an army colonel spoke to a civilian woman. The realization did nothing to bank my anger.
“I would appreciate it if you could recall any memories of him.” I tried to sound sweet, though I was not certain I succeeded. “I cherish any memories of him I can find, as you can imagine.”
“As any good lady would,” he agreed. “Where are your people from, Mrs. Manders?”
“London,” I replied, lying blithely, as if I had people. “Though my mother now lives in Hertford. She is retired.”
“Well earned and well deserved, I’m sure,” Mabry said, and suddenly I knew that he knew I was lying. A liar knows a liar, my mother had always said. My mad mother, who had retired to an asylum in Hertford, where she dug her nails into her own neck. “I am certain you do both her and your husband credit. The brave widows of the war are a part of what makes England a great nation.”
“Oh, but I am not necessarily a widow.” I was not sure what had come over me, but the words would not stop. “You must not count me in that number. My husband disappeared when his plane went down, you see, and his body was never found.”
“Manders,” Dottie interjected, her voice choked, “Colonel Mabry is not interested in your anecdotes.”
“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Forsyth,” the colonel said. “Mrs. Manders, though I do not recall your husband, you can rest assured that he provided an invaluable service to England. Perhaps more so than you, a lady, can ever quite know. It is his sacrifice that matters. That much I am confident of, sight unseen.” He picked up his teacup and turned to Dottie. “Mrs. Forsyth, please continue.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“He was lying,” I said to Martin.
We were sitting on the back terrace as night fell. I was perched on the tiled marble slabs of the steps, my coat around my shoulders, my arms hugging my knees. I still had my hair tied back neatly, and I still wore the new, modest heels Dottie had had me buy. I watched darkness creep over the trees, savoring the slap of fresh air that likely reddened my nose.
“That’s a tall accusation, Cousin Jo,” Martin replied. He sat next to me, a scarf wound around his neck. I hadn’t seen him all day, and the pained lines of his face told me why. Still, he seemed to enjoy our moment of peaceful privacy as the dinner preparations went on in the house behind us.
“He knew who Alex was,” I insisted. “I’d bet all of my money on it. He fed me a dose of claptrap about brave widows, but it was all a lie. I think he just wanted to watch me swallow it.”
“Jolly good,” Martin said, watching me with some wariness. “You’re a little frightening right now, I don’t mind saying. However, if you start shouting at one of Mother’s cronies, it’ll be the most entertainment I’ve seen in a year.”
“He lied to me,” I said. “Alex, I mean. He lied to me about his leave. I’ve spent three years not asking questions because I was terrified of the answers—it was too hard. But now I think I want to know. I’d like to know what Colonel Mabry could tell me, if only I could convince him to help me.”
Martin sighed and gazed off into the trees. “I know what you mean. I tried to find answers myself, you know—to his disappearance. While I was over there. I don’t suppose I’ve told you that.”
I stared at his pale profile. “No. You never told me.”
“I didn’t know you—I wasn’t sure you could handle it,” he admitted. “However, now you’ve asked. I was in the hospital when Alex disappeared, barely conscious most of the time. But it haunted me. The thought of him simply gone like that—it’s hard to get used to, in a different way than death, which I’ve seen plenty of. I started thinking about it, specifically about his plane.”
“His plane?” I asked.
“Yes. Did anyone see it go down? Who found it? How closely did they go over it? Was there some possibility, some clue that pointed in any direction? Anything at all? I was lying in bed with nothing to think about, nothing to do, and it tormented me. I kept having nightmares about his crashed plane, the cockpit splattered with blood and brains.” He stopped himself and stared at me. “Oh, God, Cousin, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you weren’t over there with me, growing accustomed to it all. I’m an idiot.”