Yet, this morning, waking with Belle tucked beside him, her soft breath fluttering over his skin, that panic seemed a little further away than it had. He could perhaps endure the day, for Belle’s sake. It would make her happy if he stayed, and God knew it didn’t seem to take much from him to do that.
How could she profess herself happy after the appalling way she’d been treated? He simply didn’t understand it. Yet he’d seen the sincerity in her eyes, heard the truth in her words when she’d said she loved him. It was humbling, shaming, even, to be so undeserving of such loyalty. Yet she’d promised him nothing he could do could drive her away. There was nothing he could do or say that would make her leave. At the time she’d said it, there was a dark part of him that had wanted to test that theory because he doubted it was true, no matter how much she might think it. But now, upon waking, there was a kind of liberty in knowing that she would always be here. Somehow, the need to drive her away, knowing that he would need to truly break her heart to do so ... Well, he couldn’t do that. He could hurt himself, deprive himself of her love and warmth, but he couldn’t hurt her.
His head was still a snarled up in a tangle of confusion and panic and fear, and yet underneath it all, there was Belle. Like a guiding light in the dark, Belle would shine and keep him on the path, and even if he veered off course from time to time, she would never waver.
So that morning, he dressed and accompanied his wife and sister, Aubrey and the Falmouths, to the ancient church in the village of Longwold. He managed to get through the service well enough, as he need only duck his head and make a pretence of listening. He may have mimed to the singing, unable to find the wherewithal to raise his voice in celebration. Not yet, at least. But he actually enjoyed listening to those around him, and was absurdly charmed to discover his wife was tone deaf and quite obviously oblivious to the fact. He greeted all of his neighbours and tenants, and made time to speak to those families whose sons or husbands or fathers had not returned as he had.
There was young Tommy Green, only twenty-two but had lost an arm at Toulouse; his friend Harold Smith was too badly injured to leave the house, and Edward promised he would call upon him after Christmas. He’d get Puddy to send around a hamper in the meantime to make sure there was food enough for Christmas. Then Henry Morris. Only one of the Morris brothers had returned, and the older brother, Henry, wept when speaking of the loss of his younger sibling. The guilt in the man’s eyes at not having saved his brother, as was his responsibility as the eldest, was palpable. He himself walked with a limp now, after a bullet shattered his knee, so his work as a thatcher was over, as he could no longer climb the ladders and kneel for hours as the job required. Edward had almost bawled himself on hearing all this, but managed to force enough words out to make the young men understand that he would find work for them, not charity, but something they could adapt to, even with their injuries.
Speaking to Mr and Mrs Abram, however, who had lost all three of their sons to the conflict, had been enough to send his head spinning with panic and guilt. His heart had begun to thud and his skin felt clammy and tight, his mind retreating from the admiration in their eyes, when they had lost so much. They were staring at him, waiting for him to speak, expectation in their eyes, and he felt like he’d turned to stone. He was locked in a cage far away, screaming inside and yet no one could hear him.
The couple began to look nervous and those around them began to stare and whisper - and then Belle took his hand.
“Lord Winterbourne still finds the war difficult to speak of,” she said, her voice so calm and full of assurance that he managed to turn towards her, like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. “So many wonderful men, like your sons, were lost, and he feels that loss very deeply indeed. Especially on days like today when we miss those who are gone from us most of all. But perhaps next week, you would like to come to visit us at Longwold? I have been thinking we should do something for those men who have come back wounded, in body or in mind,” she said, looking up at Edward with such an expression of adoration that his heart ached. He took a breath, feeling the panic recede, just a little. “I know that my husband would very much like to start some sort of organisation to help the men who have returned and are struggling to find work, and also those families who have lost their bread winner and are unable to make ends meet any longer.” She moved closer to Edward, holding his hand tighter and placing her other hand on his arm, though her attention was fixed on Mr and Mrs Abram. “Do you think perhaps that would be something you’d be interested in helping us organise?”
Edward managed to tear his attention away from his wife for long enough to see that Mrs Abram was nodding, her eyes bright with tears, but waving a handkerchief to signify her approval, too overcome to speak. Her husband, though, reached out a hand and grasped Edward’s arm.
“We would be honoured to be a part of any such plans, my lord. We’re right proud to see you back at Longwold, and if I may be so bold, you are a very lucky man, Lord Winterbourne, to have such a wife beside you.”
Edward swallowed as the cage that had caught him so securely seem to diminish and fade away. He looked down at Belle and found a smile had caught him off guard as he stared down at her lovely face.
“I could not agree more, Mr Abram,” he said, finding his voice steadier than he’d expected, and quite unable to tear his gaze away.
***
After they had returned to Longwold for breakfast, they were alerted to the sound of raucous singing and headed to the front of the house to be entertained by mummers. A rowdy group had gathered in all manner of outrageous costumes. Their faces were painted and an assortment of hats and garments were decorated with brightly coloured ribbons and painted paper. One fellow had paper fire tied under his chin and large eyes sewn to his hat, and as the play began, it became clear that this was the dragon. In that case, the fellow with the red cross sewn onto the remnants of a tatty old bed sheet was undoubtedly St George. This heroic figure, who was markedly shorter than his fellows, strutted about wielding a wooden sword and shouting about his prowess while the dragon roared and belched intermittently. Belle suspected the wassail cup had been generous among the houses previous to this one.
It was ridiculous and very funny, especially as near the climax the hero was grievously wounded, but the comical Doctor Quack, who looked even deeper in his cups than the dragon, came to the rescue and patched the wounded soldier up again with much theatricality. Naturally, in the end, St George prevailed and the dragon was slain.