“He told me to tell you he loved you.” I shuddered silently. “He was so terribly weak.” My words faded out, and the brutal memory of Berkeley came back to me, the hopeless fear in his eyes, his young form turning limp and lifeless.
I looked at Carrington. His eyes seemed broken as he struggled to regain his countenance. He looked out the window, away onto the horizon, tears welling uncontrollably. A few dreadful minutes passed. I suddenly wondered if I’d been wrong. Perhaps he didn’t already know that his friend had died. Had I unconsciously broken the worst news he could ever want to hear?
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I thought you knew. I thought, well, I didn’t know what to think.”
“I did know,” he mumbled, clearing his throat. “His mother telephoned. She knew we were friends, although she never knew—” He cut off, frowning inscrutably. “I don’t mind if you hand me in, you know,” he said, a stern pride controlling his tears. “You can do your worst. I don’t care. I have nothing left to hide.” He looked pensively at the drifting clouds and added in a rather dreamy way, “I have nothing left at all.”
“I’m not going to hand you in,” I said as gently as I could. “I made a promise to him.” I paused, thinking this was all far stranger than I had imagined.
He came and sat back down on the sofa opposite me. “Tell me what happened.”
“He kept talking about you—how you’d be lost without each other, that he was the lucky one for dying first—and then he rolled over, his breath slowing until it finally slowed”—my words were fizzling out—“to a stop.”
I know it didn’t happen exactly like that, but this is surely what Berkeley would have wanted me to say. I remember when Harold died, yearning for him to speak my name, or give me a message. But he didn’t, and the best that I can do is to find some kind of peace by giving this gift to someone else.
Carrington put his head down and wept into his large hands. I sat watching for a while, feeling like I was intruding, wondering if I should leave. Then I looked out onto the horizon myself and realized that loss is the same wherever you go: overwhelming, inexorable, deafening. How resilient human beings are that we can learn slowly to carry on when we are left all alone, left to fill the void as best we can.
Or disappear into it.
I went over and sat next to him and, after a minute or two, I put my arm around him and he turned and wept silently into my shoulder. I wondered if I was the only person who knew, the only shoulder he had.
The sound of a distant door opening and heavy footsteps in the hall announced the return of the Viscount, and Carrington stood quickly and limped over to the window, promptly composing himself, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
“That’s my father,” he said without looking around. “He wouldn’t understand.”
“No, I imagine he wouldn’t.”
“Thank you for coming,” he added slowly, and I took this to be my cue to leave. He clearly didn’t want his father inquiring after my purpose for calling.
As I stood and straightened myself, he turned and said, “Really, thank you, Mrs., er—”
“Mrs. Tilling.”
He smiled, and I caught a glimpse of a different man, a different world, a handsome youth who might have enjoyed life had he not been wrenched into the center of a bloody war.
“Mrs. Tilling,” he said. “May I visit you sometime? I mean, if I survive this beastly war.”
I shrugged. “Of course you can. I live in Chilbury, Ivy House.” He smiled again, genuine connection in his eyes, and I knew that I would see him again, hopefully on a better day, under happier circumstances. “Things will get easier, you know.”
He opened the door for me, and we went into the magnificent hallway. A dual staircase rolled up on both sides and came together in a type of royal balcony overlooking the expanse of parquet flooring. A clock ticked interminably, and I just wanted to get out, launch myself away from this oppressive place and into the fresh and wild outdoors.
The butler was waiting for us, his gaze meeting my eye. Then he turned and gave a rather circumspect grimace to young Carrington.
“I informed the Viscount that you had a visitor, and he requested to meet her,” he said pompously. “If you would be so kind as to wait here, madam, I will fetch him directly.” He bowed again and strode off into the passage.
I felt a thud in my stomach. I was going to meet the Viscount whether I liked it or not. Carrington had gone rather pale. “I expect he just wants to see if you’re a young lady. Some romantic hopeful, if you know what I mean,” he said, attempting a smile.
“Yes,” I said wearily, hoping but not expecting him to be right.