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After their strange, unorthodox meeting, Edward found himself returning often to Martin, if not literally, then mentally. Martin had an infectious love of life, despite the cruel hand he had been dealt. Edward decided a few days later that he had avoided his house for quite long enough. Edward, who had faced the fighting so willingly, was ashamed to admit that a painting had got the best of him.
Having decided to accept the inevitable and realizing that it would not only be wasteful but also completely crazy to never return to the house, Edward unlocked the door now with trepidation knocking on the chambers of his heart. When he had made up his mind to confront his fear, he wasted no time in seeing it through. Edward the soldier marched straight to the painting and stared it down, waiting for the attack, believing he had the resolve within him to not only stand and fight but to win.
She looked so pristine from the painting, not at all exhibiting the smugness that now accompanied her in his mind. He felt suddenly foolish, as one does when wrongfully accusing a friend or becoming cross with one who merits only respect. He stood eye-to-eye with her now, waiting to see if anything would happen. No questions came. There was no taunting or torment or internal whirl of oppressive protest and interrogation. There was only the ticking of the clock and a veteran standing before a very old painting. Having made his peace, he turned away to resume his work.
Edward reached for the box propped against the wall that he had left off at. It was about half unpacked and papers torn open peeked their heads out of the top of the box. The paper fell away from the opalescent gown surrounding a slender vase, the way a dancer's costume flows with her body with each step on the dance floor. He turned the vase to see if there were any visible markings to indicate its maker, origin, or age. Something was etched into its base, but time had dulled its appearance presenting Edward with the challenge of discerning what it said. To aid his reading, he crossed to the fire and held the vase nearer to it. The flames crackled softly in the hearth and he coaxed greater light from them.
“You know why you do it,” a voice spoke. Edward's head spun, dizzied by the rising voice that he assumed was departed from his house.
“You're beginning to understand,” it said again. Edward looked to the painting. Surely, surely those lips had parted! But, he knew that they had not. When he raised his eyes to the painted lady, she had not opened her mouth to speak. But, her appearance was changed. A mirage of kaleidoscope colors splashed from the vase and flames onto her ordinarily solid-colored dress, the way a prism scatters light.
Edward placed his hand over the vase and stared intently at her. No sound, no words, and no message were forthcoming. Removing his hand, he waited,
“Ah, you're getting it now.”
“Good heavens,” Edward exclaimed, suddenly realizing what was— or at least seemed to be if it could be believed— unfolding before him.
Edward set down the vase and gathered all the glass around him that he could find. One by one he held each piece: saucers, teacups, vases, spectacles, pocket watch, and hand-held mirror up to the painting. Sure enough, the voice spoke each time a piece reflected against the painting and silence filled the gap when there was no reflection.
Edward picked up a fluted bowl and held it up for the lady's inspection now.
“What are you hoping to learn?” the voice asked, pitching awkwardly high and low with the undulating glass.
“Amazing,” Edward said aloud, “absolutely amazing.”
Gone was the fear that had previously gripped him, when the painting had first read him. In its place was the excitement encountered when one has discovered something that no one else knows. Only, what if others did know? The thought struck him now that the painted lady was three or perhaps even four hundred years old or more. Surely, in that time someone else must have encountered this fascinating secret. He pressed his palm to his temple, in hopes that applying pressure would force a solution more readily to the surface.
“I have to investigate. I have to know more about the painting!”
His declaration spoken aloud, he tore up the stairs and searched through the papers he had found in the accompanying boxes near where he had first discovered the painting. Suddenly, he wondered if there were perhaps more paintings endowed with the ability and if he had been too limiting in assuming this gift, or whatever it was, lay only in the one painting. In a bevy of excitement, he peered into every portrait he had uncovered. To an onlooker he would have appeared daft. None of the portraits, nice as they were, returned the same reading of him as the woman's portrait did. What was it about her? It was not that her painting differed in size from the others. It was neither larger nor smaller. Indeed, all the paintings varied. It was not that she was older than the others, because there was a religious icon that he was certain predated her by at least two centuries. As nice as she was painted, if one were objective, she was not especially grander than any of the others.
“Animals,” he said aloud, thinking that perhaps his focus had been too limited when considering only portraits of people. Ordinarily, animals could not hold a conversation with someone as another person could, but then ordinarily neither could a painting.
Edward spent the better part of an hour peering into the painted faces of dogs and cats, horses and fowl. He even looked at a rabbit—fat and slain—on the board of a Dutch still life warning against the unnecessary excesses of life. In all of the paintings, Edward found himself reading the story of the piece before him. It was natural and involuntary for him to do so, but none of the pictures returned his reading with an evaluation of him as the painted lady did.
Returning to the piles of paper, he scanned them quickly, separating the stacks of what might be of use and what was not. He had no idea what he was searching for and when he had completed dividing the first stack, only two papers lay in the discarded pile— one a receipt for paint and the other a diagram of the roof. Glancing down at these two stragglers, his mind changed altogether and he hastily shoved them back into the middle of the pile. Realizing he was accomplishing little but undoing his weeks' work of tidying the house, he decided his frenzy had to be channeled. Working in a feverish frantic was getting him nowhere.
“Edward?” a voice said behind him and he jumped in his surprise, sending a stack of piled papers balanced on the arm of a chair cascading to the floor.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.”
Edward turned and saw Agnes standing there. From the movement of her face, she seemed to be talking very loudly.
“Is something the matter?” he said, coming to his feet now and dusting off the seat of his pants.
“Oh no, I just thought I would come by. I know I said I would wait—”
“But, you don't like to wait,” he finished for her.
A hint of a smile slipped through her lips.
“Oh Edward, don't be cross with me. I wanted to see what occupies you so.” Bathed in the streams of the setting sun, she looked half her age. Her impish grin only added to the appearance. Since their days of meeting Martin, she seemed lighter. She smiled more easily and did not seem as sad. Hope had been injected into both of them that expected negativity could vanish in a moment and that this war could mean more than mounds of horror. She still worried, of course, for George and John but her burden had lightened.
“I'm not cross with you,” he said and her smile forced his own curvature of the mouth.
“Come on, fix me a cuppa,” she said, still with the aura of a young girl delighted at the thought of a tea party.
“A cup of tea,” he repeated.
She nodded with a smile, thinking he was merely ensuring he had heard her correctly. Edward, though, was not repeating for clarity and was suddenly faced with the uncertainty of how he would be able to honor her request. The only chimney and hearth that had been safely cleared for a fire rested just beneath the portrait. Serving his cousin a cup of tea unquestionably demanded the use of glass. Agnes, in her way, would undoubtedly insist on helping him and that would place her in exactly the same position he had been in when first discovering the secret of the painting. He was not prepared to tell Agnes of his discovery. She would worry that he had been gassed in the trenches and it was only now showing its effects. He was also unwilling to allow her to discover the secret for herself.
“We could do that, but actually I have something I want to show you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I have an idea for a project but it requires your help.”
“Oh good!” she said and clapped her hands together in delight.
He led her down the stairs and crossed the foyer to the coat rack. Agnes looked confused. “The project requires coats? I thought you had decided to catalog the antiques and wanted my help.”
“Actually, the project doesn't have anything to do with the house.”
“Oh?” she said, following him outside now, after he had bundled up to fend off the cold.
“What do you see?” he asked, as they stood just outside the door.
“What do I see,” she repeated, scanning the horizon to see if she had missed something.
He lifted his arm now, passing it horizontally through the air, mapping out some grand design.
“Land,” he said.
“Land,” she repeated.
“Yes, land, for farming, for gardening. We can help feed England! We can assist like the Army Agriculture Labor Corps. Other veterans, like Martin I am sure, would want to help and you could organize a brigade for the women's land army— if you wanted that is.”
Agnes slipped her arm through Edward's.
“Land,” she said, smiling.
***
CLARA'S HEART THUDDED nervously against her ribs, as she bounced along in the carriage beside Harold. The doctors and nurses had declared her fit enough to be released and travel. Her memories did not accompany her on the journey but she could not be kept in the hospital until they all returned, especially because no one knew if they ever would return. Clara peered out the window of the carriage, swept away in a sea of green grass, watered generously by the overflowing clouds so apt to unleash their showers like a stream of life from a watering can's spout.
“Just there is the Smithersons' cottage. He's a blacksmith and she makes the finest apple tarts for miles.”
Clara nodded politely, wondering if she had ever met a blacksmith or if she liked apple tarts. From the way that Harold spoke, he seemed to accept it as fact that everyone did.
“And here are the Smiths, a rather plain name but a quite interesting family. There are seven sons and each brother is taller than the one before him, so as their ages increase their heights decrease if you stood them in a line.”
Harold had a story for every cottage and Clara was convinced he knew the whole of England. The cottages began to congregate more closely now, like friends gathering to speak when church has let out. A meandering stream wove through the countryside, like a perfectly placed silver ribbon. Below the raised seat of the carriage lay a land foreign but pleasant. Despite being foreign, there was a friendliness in the unfamiliarity.
“Have I been here before?” she asked Harold now, feeling especially brave. It was difficult to admit that she could not remember.
“Yes,” he said, with that smile of his that was filled to the brim with joy. Her curiosity was piqued and she turned to him, wondering when she had visited such enamoring countryside.
“Actually— you used to come here often. Your grandparents lived not twenty minutes from here.”
“Really?” she said.
He nodded with that slow and steady smile of his.
“Whoa,” the carriage driver said, as they pulled up in front of a house.
“We're here,” Harold said. For the moment, Clara's questions of her grandparents' home were quieted by the tide of nervousness swelling in her stomach. The house before her was larger than she imagined it would be. It lacked the quaint nature and the pretty thatch of so many houses and cottages that they had passed. Still though, there was a definite charm. It was not the charm of petite hidden treasures, but the grandiose delight of a manor house. Clara stepped from the carriage with Harold's assistance and stood staring, wide-eyed at the palatial home that seemed to deepen and grow the nearer they approached.
“Hello, Harold!” a stout woman of similar age with the same warm and easy smile greeted him, as she clamored down the front steps.
“And you must be Clara,” she said, before allowing either the chance to say anything first.
“Yes,” Clara said.
“Now, Emma is a fine sister and an even better friend. Don't you worry, Clara. Everything is going to work out just fine.”
Clara bid farewell to Harold and turned to enter the house with Emma, where Harold had generously arranged for her to become a housekeeper. He also hoped, though he had not told Clara, that living so near where she had spent so many happy moments of her childhood would help her remember. Besides, Clara was sure to like it here. There was the fresh air instead of the stuffiness of the city, beautiful countryside, his sister Emma to watch over her and kind neighbors. Harold thought that Miss Emily, cheerful despite the war, would be especially helpful to Clara. He supposed that the benefit of eighty-three years, come June as she always reminded everyone, allowed her the experience of knowing that though trouble and hardship came there was always the promise of all that truly mattered providing a stronger permanence. The seeds of hate and suffering though planted deep, were always capable of being uprooted by love, joy, hope, peace and faith. Miss Emily was always reminding Harold of that message. There was that veteran who lived nearby as well, the blind one. Yes, young Martin Henderson was sure to provide a little sunshine for Clara.