Silence for the Dead(44)
“What is it?”
“Where did she go?”
Matron looked surprised. “Who?”
“The nurse before me. Maisey Ravell. Where did she go when she left here?”
She frowned. “To the village, I assume, unless she got another position.”
“The village?”
“Yes. Bascombe. The village on the mainland, at the other end of the bridge. You would have passed through it on your way here.” Her gaze narrowed. “Why do you ask that?”
“Because she left some belongings behind. A locket and a few other things. I thought perhaps she might want them. I’d like to write and ask her, if that’s allowed.”
Again Matron considered. “Very well. I’ll have Nurse Fellows give you the address we have in the records. The post goes in the morning.”
It wasn’t much, but it was something. And before she could speak again, I was off, my steps taking me down the corridor and away from Portis House as fast as I could go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
July had almost arrived, and true high summer was beginning. To me, the season was usually marked by humid, smoggy London days, clothes that stuck to my skin as I worked, sheets I had to dampen with water so I could sleep in my airless room at night, the smells of smoke and dirt and motorcar fumes like lingering gas attacks. I had never spent summer out of the city.
The air was fresh here, blowing over the marshes in a warm exhale tinged with earth and salt. I unpinned my cap, untied my apron, and dropped them on one of the chairs in the garden as I went through the garden gate.
Past the back of the house and the gentle rise of the hills were hunched clumps of low trees, bordering the marshes themselves. I pushed on, farther than I had ever gone while supervising the men at exercise. Long grass, each blade as wide as my thumb, brushed at my skirts with a silvery shushing sound matched by the persistent whistle of the wind in my ears and punctuated by the calls of birds. I leaned my body into the climb up the slope, feeling my legs stretch in their cotton stockings, the pull of the muscles on the backs of my calves. My feet in Maisey Ravell’s practical leather boots sank into the soft earth. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, not the slick sweat of fear but the honest sweat of effort, dried quickly by the summer wind.
I had to lift my skirts as I climbed. I should have been cursing my uniform, with its fussy blouse and petticoat, but I was growing used to it. I had never worn a corset—it seemed a pointless extravagance to me, and I had no desire to look like an old biddy—and the uniform, mercifully, did not require one. After several days of hard work in it, I had to admit that it was easy to move in, easy to bend and stretch in, sturdily sewn with minimum fuss. What had seemed prudish a few days earlier I now realized covered everything no matter what difficult position I found myself in. It was nice to know you could help a man vomit into a pitcher on the floor without showing him your calves or giving him a look down your blouse.
So I pushed myself along now, skirts rustling in the grass, beginning to enjoy the blood pumping in my body despite how tired I was. By the time I reached the top of the rise, my cheeks were hot and I felt damp sweat under my pinned-up braids.
From here I could see the thicket of trees, clustered like a crowd of commuters on a busy train platform, that were solid land’s last gasp before the marshes began their march to the sea. The grass grew thicker there, tangled with brush and undergrowth, uncut by any visible path. Beyond the trees, the marshes stretched like patchwork, mossy and silvery, their colors strange even in the workaday summer sunlight. They faded into an impenetrable horizon that must be the sea, though I saw no sign of any boat or mast in the long moments I searched for them.
I turned back to the house. It looked different from here; it was so large I’d only ever seen pieces of it, like the portico on that first day in the fog. There was something both magnificent and ominous about it from here. It stood alone, showing its wealth and outright splendor, spreading its wings against the tremendous expanse of the marsh and the horizon, as if flung down by a giant hand. It was a massive, wide square of pure stone, dwarfing its ornamental gardens in shadow, its windows staring indifferently at the sky and the sea.
I walked along the rise, unwilling to descend just yet. My hour was likely up soon, but the sun was shining, and this far from the house I could almost feel the ghosts and the devils falling away. The house was just a house from here, after all. I should have been amazed at the quiet and the loneliness, or even horrified, being a London girl; the emptiness here was entirely new to me. But I’d always craved solitude, even on a crowded factory floor. Solitude was safe.
There was movement in one of the upper windows of the house. Someone was watching me.
For a second my eyes wanted to see a shirtless man, but no. It was a dark-haired man in the pale shirt of Portis House, sitting on a familiar window seat in an unmistakable pose. Even from here, I knew Jack Yates.
I had no idea how long he’d been watching as I’d stood staring out to sea without cap or apron, oblivious, my skirt blowing against my legs. He lifted one hand now in salute, palm out, a silent greeting. I raised my own hand in return, held it there. We were locked together for a long moment, and I imagined my hand pressed to the glass of his window. Matron had been right. I should never have burdened him with my problems or sought comfort he was in no position to give. My first priority should have been his care. I’d been selfish, as always.