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Edward wandered through the fields, intently studying the composition of the ground, the proximity of the river, the height of trees, the indigenous shrubbery that hedged in the garden, the darting animals and flickering birds with their long melodious high-pitched calls. All of them added color to the strong gray canvas of the backdrop Edward lived among. He walked until there were no steps left within him. His delicate ears burned in the piercing cold. Turning toward Agnes's home, he hastened his steps. Consigned to the knowledge that he would be required to answer her questions of his early return, his cold hands welcomed the thought of the promised cup of tea that would soon fill them.
When he entered the house it was eerily quiet, as if all livelihood had disappeared down some dark hole. It was more than that the house was quiet in Edward's dulled ears. There was a palpable difference in how it felt.
“Agnes?”
No reply. He moved into the kitchen, where he so often found her soaking up the warmth of the fire as a cat basks in the sun's glow.
“Agnes?” he said, again.
She came to the doorway now and stopped before entering the room. The frame hugged her, as if upon seeing her tense expression even the house sought to comfort her. She said nothing, but stood fixed with a somber look on her face. His eyes questioned her.
“What is it?” he started to ask, but the words stopped in his throat in an impassable lump, when he saw what was in her hand. No, this is not what he had meant. This was not the distraction he had wished for.
He crossed to her now and waited for her to speak when she was ready. He waited to see if his cousin had not lived to be a man or if the love he had tried to protect had been cut short. No doubt, George or John had been killed in the terrible fight and the news arrived in the telegram Agnes clutched in her long pale fingers. Still, she did not speak and so he gently reached for her hand to pry her fingers loose from the page. He lifted it and read, rushing his eyes over the words to get to the name.
“Martin Henderson,” he read aloud, looking up at Agnes with a question in his eyes.
“I thought—” he began.
“You thought what I thought— that John or George—”
“Did you know him?” he asked now.
“No,” she said, quietly.
“Agnes, I don't understand.”
“When the telegram was delivered, I felt depths of sadness I have never known, all my very worst fears were realized. With shaking hands, I opened it— both wanting to postpone the moment and desperately needing to know,” she paused.
“And then?” he prompted.
“And then, I read Martin Henderson and I felt such relief. It wasn't John! It wasn't George! And then, I felt so overwhelmingly sick.” She looked as though she were on a boat and would lose her footing momentarily. He put his hand out on her arm to steady her.
“Because?” he coaxed.
“Because, he wasn't my John or my George but he was someone's Martin. And so I felt immense guilt and— I also began to worry if someone else had received a telegram intended for us.” Her voice quivered, as she spoke these last words. He held his arms out to her and she melted into her cousin's sheltering embrace.
“Edward?”
Her voice was muffled against his coat and so he did not hear her. She took a step back to help him hear her better.
“Edward, we have to find them.”
“Them?”
“Martin's family. We have to deliver it to them.”
He nodded, accepting a new mission of search and recovery.
Though Edward and Agnes had committed to a mission that neither had any way of knowing how long would last, it proved far easier than either could have imagined. Their first stop had been the post office. Yes, the clerk had indeed heard of Martin Henderson. He slipped the address into Agnes's hand and bid the two farewell.
“Is it far?” Edward asked Agnes as he read the address, still unsure of the intricacies of English geography. So many of these small towns had similar names and it was easy to mix them up.
“Not far at all, really. We could walk there in half an hour.”
“Oh my, that is close then. Shall we go now?”
Her eyes hesitated just a moment, unprepared to face the difficult circumstances ahead. An altruistic streak, so alive and widening daily, within Agnes won out though.
“Yes, let's go.”
They walked in almost complete silence, both preparing themselves for what lay ahead, until they had walked a good twenty minutes already.
“Tell me about the house,” Agnes said suddenly.
“My house?”
“Yes. I have been replaying too many difficult scenarios in my mind about what will happen when we reach the address. We are about to break someone's heart—at least someone, perhaps several hearts—and I need an encouraging word.”
“I suppose the very reason you gave is why I want to open my house as an antique shop. There are so many beautiful things that have survived. It seems we should celebrate what has lasted, not only mourn what has been lost.”
“Tell me what you've found.”
“There are several dozen teacups, piles of embroidered linens, books of postcards, yards of the finest fabrics, enough furniture to outfit two or three houses of similar size.”
“And are there paintings? I always love paintings—a pristine landscape, a carefully arranged still life, or best yet a portrait that can see into you.”
He looked at her, surprised at the words. Could she know? Could she know that the painted girl had looked into his heart and read him? No, of course not. It was too crazy even to think. Agnes misinterpreted his surprise for confusion or perhaps she had not spoken loud enough for him.
“Did you hear me all right? Do you know what I mean?”
He nodded slowly.
“Yes, I have such a painting. I've hung her above the sitting room's mantel.”
“Oh, you must let me come see her sometime,” she said. Though he thought perhaps he better not consent, seeing the momentary distraction of happiness it caused made up his mind for him.
“All right,” he said, “I'll show you. Just let me fix the room better for you to visit first.”
“You really don't—” she began but then, deciding to allow Edward the courtesy of showing his house to her in the condition he chose, stopped herself.
“Thank you. I will look forward to it.”
***
“READY?” EDWARD SAID, as they stood on the doorstep. Agnes, still clutching the telegram in his hand, reached for Edward's hand with her other. She took a deep breath in, scattering the cold air around her in wispy clouds.
“Ready.”
Edward raised his hand to knock. When there was no reply, he wondered if his touch had been too light. Perhaps, the soft rap he had heard was not as amplified as he assumed it would be.
“Did I knock loud enough?”
“You did. I don't think anyone is home.”
The two turned away to return another day. Agnes paused in her footsteps and turned abruptly.
“What is it?” Edward asked, and then turning, saw the man at the door.
“Did someone knock?” he asked, but across the expanse Edward only heard the word “knock”.
“Yes, we did,” Agnes said, quickly crossing back to the house and pulling Edward along with her.
“Who is we?” the man asked and it was then that Agnes saw the bandages over his eyes.
“Agnes Walters,” she introduced herself, “and my cousin, Edward Jamison.”
“Hello,” Edward said, when he had been introduced.
“Well, if my ears don't deceive me, I believe you must be an American.”
“That's right. My mother married an American,” he explained.
“I see,” he said, “Well, I don't see, but I understand.”
His said the words, not in bitterness, but with a sense of humor.
“Please, come in,” he said to the two, opening his front door wide to welcome their entrance. Agnes looked at Edward, not quite sure what to make of this man in front of them. His shoulders drooped in a half shrug and he held out his arm to indicate that he thought they should oblige this stranger. The two entered the house that was very dim since its occupant seemed to have no need for light.
“You are probably wondering if I live alone,” he said to Edward and Agnes, who were indeed wondering such a thing.
“And if I do, then how am I able to manage?” he said with a knowing smile, as if performing a magic act as part of a parlor trick. Without waiting for either to reply, he continued,
“Well, the answer is that yes, since returning from battle, I live alone. I will be joined soon though by my brother, I'm sure when he returns. The neighbors come to check on me and so I manage.”
Edward stared at the man, who employed so opposite a coping strategy to himself.
“Your brother,” Agnes said slowly, turning the attention to why they had come. Edward had momentarily forgot, as he marveled at this man.
“Yes?” the man asked.
“Well— I'm not sure how to put this, but I'm afraid we are the bringers of unhappy news.”
“Oh?” he said and for the first time in their knowing him the smile had been dismissed from his face. Agnes looked at Edward, imploring him to say something as a fellow soldier.
“You see, we received a telegram today, by accident. We think it was intended— unfortunately— for you.”
“A telegram, well, please, read it to me,” he said.
“Perhaps, we better just tell you,” Agnes said.
“Yes?” his voice now bore the extreme curiosity so apt to grip a person's mind, when confronted with such a situation.
“Sadly, your brother has— in a valiant effort— died in France. I am so very sorry.” Agnes said and then reached her hand out to reassuringly touch his arm.
“My brother? But, how can this be?”
Edward, so familiar with the feelings of detachment when faced with such news, spoke now.
“I know, as a soldier myself, that these things can be difficult to believe.”
“Yes, that's true, but you seem to misunderstand. It is impossible.”
“Sometimes war causes that which should be impossible and so we think it is,” Edward said, risking his own vulnerability he felt in saying it.
“Would you tell me the name it gave on the telegram please?” The man asked.
“Martin Henderson,” Agnes said. The two watched the man in front of them digest the information. Agnes leaned in, lest he should suddenly collapse in tears and need her comforting arms. Perhaps, it was the teacher in her that always believed a troubled soul could be consoled with a welcoming hug. She was quite progressive in that respect and employed mutual affection rather than harsh punishment in dealing with her students.
The man began to shake and Edward thought his tears must be too quiet to hear. He looked up at them though and, rather than tear-strewn cheeks in long tracks, he was smiling again. And now, he began to laugh!
“Martin Henderson isn't my brother.”
“Oh?” Agnes said, thinking that the telegram had mistakenly been delivered again and dreading the thought of having to live the whole ordeal again— same heartbreak, different stranger.
“You see my brother is not away at war. He has simply gone to London to oversee the work in his factory.”
“Oh!” Agnes said now, quite surprised, “Sorry, to have bothered you. I suppose we'll be on our way to find Martin Henderson's real family.”
“But, you've found something better. You've found Martin Henderson. I am him.”