She ran her fingers over the worn cover and thought of George Anderson. Not only him, but all the men who had been called up.
Where were they? Was it as drearily dull for them?
She truly hoped so. Better to be bored than in danger.
Slowly, she opened the book, noting how the old spine didn’t bother to creak, as though it had been oiled by age, and began to read.
What she found within was nothing like the texts she’d read in school that offered dry accounts of maths or broken down sentence structures and word formation. No, this book, when finally given the proper attention it deserved, somehow locked her in its grasp and did not once let go.
What started as an accusation in the beginning spiraled into treachery before tailspinning into the greatest betrayal. Word after word, page after page, she was pulled deeper into a place she had never experienced and walked in the footsteps of a person she’d never been.
She was emotionally invested in the tale, her eyes darting faster and faster across the page to devour every word, desperate to know what would become of Edmond—
“Grace?” Mrs. Weatherford’s voice broke into the story, shattering the scene playing out in Grace’s mind.
She startled and looked up at Mrs. Weatherford.
“Supper is nearly ready.” The older woman glanced about and tsked before rushing to the window. “You didn’t draw the curtains. I’m certain we’ll hear of it from Mr. Stokes later.”
Grace blinked, caught in a momentary state of confusion. It had grown rather dark. She’d recalled noticing it briefly and meaning to put on a light, but that had been when Mercédès and Edmond had their engagement party and the nefarious plotting had truly begun to unfold.
A light snapped on, a flash of brilliance that made the page bloom white in front of Grace’s eyes and rendered the stark black letters so much easier to see.
“What are you reading?” Mrs. Weatherford angled her face at the cover as she stepped closer.
“The Count of Monte Cristo.” Grace’s cheeks warmed. “It was the book Mr. Anderson left for me before he was called up.”
Mrs. Weatherford’s eyes dimmed. “That has always been one of Colin’s favorite books as well.”
“Have you heard from him?” Grace asked.
Mrs. Weatherford wandered aimlessly around the room, straightening an immaculate pile of magazines and plumping pillows that could truly not possibly fluff anymore. “I haven’t, though I expect I soon shall. You know how they train those boys so thoroughly before…” Her voice caught.
Before they’re sent into battle.
The words hung unsaid in the air, as well as the implication of danger.
“If you’d like to read it when I’m done, you may borrow it,” Grace offered in an attempt to change the subject.
“Thank you, but I have a lovely novel by Jane Austen from one of the book tokens you gave me. I haven’t read Emma yet.” She fidgeted with the blackout curtain, making sure it fell just so. “And I stay quite busy with the other women of the WVS, of course. Now come along before supper cools.”
The Women’s Voluntary Service had done Mrs. Weatherford a world of good in Colin’s absence. Not only did it keep her busy so she didn’t scrub the floors of the house into a carbolic oblivion, but she was in the company of other mothers in similar situations, whose sons were also at war.
Grace obediently set the book aside and went to the kitchen where they’d taken to eating their meals. The formal dining area felt far too large without Colin sitting opposite his mother.
Viv grinned at Grace as she entered. “I figured you wanted to skip our tea today considering how involved you were with George’s book.”
It was as though Grace had tipped fully into another world and was just now finding her way back into reality. She laughed, feeling somewhat foolish. “I’m so sorry I didn’t hear you come in. I didn’t even notice the room had grown dark.”
Yet even as she chatted through supper and ate the tender chicken Mrs. Weatherford roasted for their meal, Grace found her thoughts turning back to Edmond Dantés. More than that, she recalled his experiences with the same poignancy as if she herself had lived through them rather than the character in the book.
This was clearly what George had meant when he described how he felt about reading.
That night, she stayed up with the blanket covering her head and a torch illuminating the pages as she fell back into Edmond’s story. After every chapter, she swore to herself it would be the last until her eyes finally fell closed, blending the images in her mind with those of her dreams.