Miriam lowered the volume on the wireless and sat in the armchair that was usually Ann’s favorite spot. “You must tell me about the abbey. Did you sit with Miss Duley and Miss Holliday?”
“Yes. We were right near the back, and there were people in front of us, so we couldn’t see much. The music was lovely, though.”
“We will listen to it later. Did you not say it would be on the wireless this evening? In the meantime we should have something to eat. I will prepare some sardines on toast.”
“I, ah . . . I think I had better wait. I’m feeling a bit off my feed.”
“What is wrong?” Miriam asked, noticing how pale her friend had become.
“I feel a little light-headed. That’s all. I only need a minute.”
The kettle was singing, so Miriam returned to the kitchen, filled the teapot, and left it to brew. Then she found a clean dish towel and dampened it with cold water. Returning to the sitting room, she folded it in quarters and set it on Ann’s perspiring forehead.
“Voici. This should help.”
“I don’t know what’s come over me,” Ann fretted. “I ought to have eaten something earlier.”
Miriam was about to reassure her friend that she simply needed a cup of tea or a bite of toast, and then she would feel better and all would be well. And yet . . .
Ann had been feeling unwell for several weeks. Often in the morning, and not always when she was hungry. It never lasted for very long, and after nibbling on a plain cracker or a piece of dry toast, she always said she felt better. She had been tired, too, so tired that she had been going to bed at eight o’clock or even earlier, and she had even complained, more than once, that she was exhausted. Ann, who never complained about anything. Ann, who—
Of course. How had she not realized, long before now, that Ann’s missed breakfast had little to do with her white face and trembling hands, and her exhaustion had nothing to do with their endless hours at work on the gown?
She sat beside her friend on the sofa and gathered Ann’s hands in her own. “Are you going to tell me?” she asked, her voice gentled to the merest whisper. “Because you know, do you not? At the very least, you suspect it.”
“I am. I . . . I was going to tell you.”
“I know.”
“I can’t stay here. People will talk. I want my baby to have a good life, but here, he or she will forever be Ann Hughes’s bastard. I’m sure it’s the same in France.”
“It is.”
“I’ll go to Canada. To Milly. In Canada no one needs to know. I can be a widow and no one will ever question me about how . . . how . . .”
Ann squeezed her eyes ever tighter, but she wasn’t able to hold back the tears that rained down her ashen face. “Oh, Miriam. This is my home. This is all I know. I can’t bear to leave it all behind.”
“You can bear it. You will.”
“I’m running away.”
“You are not. You are beginning again, that is all. As I did when I came to England.”
“So is distance the cure? To simply take myself to the opposite side of the world?”
“It will help. It helped me, and I did not go so very far. But time is also important. Time will help you to heal, and it will wash away some of the memories that trouble you.”
“I don’t think I can ever forget.”
“No,” Miriam admitted. “You will not. But the weight of it is not so much after a while. Perhaps it is the case that you grow stronger? For you will. I promise you will.”
“And until then?”
“You endure. You have done it before, have you not? When your brother was killed?”
Ann nodded, her movements slow and pained. “Yes,” she whispered. “You’re right. I have done it before.” Straightening herself, she wiped at her eyes with the tea towel. “What now? What do I do next?”
“First, I think, you wait a little. To be absolutely certain of the baby. Once you are sure, you write to your Milly and ask for her help. You tell Miss Duley you are moving to Canada to be with your family there. You sell what you can. You take what you cannot bear to leave behind. You say your farewells. And you never look back.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Heather
September 4, 2016
Excited as she was to have been invited to Miriam’s reception, the question of what to wear had concerned Heather, who hadn’t anything more formal than a sundress in her suitcase. When her panic level could still be classified as low grade she’d texted Tanya, who had promptly replied with the name and address of a boutique in Soho and firm instructions on what to do once she got there.