England
ALAIR HELD HER BREATH as she watched the men leave the train. So many things crowded into her mind as her eyes searched for him. She remembered the first time she had ever seen Luc Montrose, his confident walk, his cap at a jaunty angle, the ultimate cocky airman. And yet there had been a sensitive part of him, the sweet, poetic side of him that perhaps only she knew. The letters he had written from prison had revealed a man even deeper, more introspective, more spiritual, than she had glimpsed. The ordeal of being a prisoner of war would change anyone. He had written as if they might not ever see each other again, and yet in another few minutes Luc would step out of that train and—
Her first thought was how pale and thin he was. His uniform hung on his tall frame, the tunic collar loose. She was shocked to see he was leaning heavily on a cane as he emerged from the passenger car. Luc’s leg had been broken in two places when he parachuted from his burning plane. She hadn’t realized that he might be crippled. But perhaps it had not been set properly or had not healed well due to the horrible conditions in camp.
Luc did not see her right away, so she called out to him. She took a few steps, then halted. She couldn’t seem to move any farther. Then she held out her arms, tears streaming down her face. His gait was awkward as he hobbled toward her. Dropping his cane, he went into her arms. She felt him sag against her, felt his shoulders shaking as they clung to each other wordlessly.
After a few minutes Alair gently disengaged herself, stooped and picked up his cane, handed it to him. “Come, darling, we’re going home.”
“Home?” he echoed, as if he’d never heard the word.
“Blanding Court, for now,” she said, and holding his arm, she guided him toward the car parked at the curb, where Lady Blanding’s chauffeur, Manning, waited, his own faded-blue eyes misty as the couple made their way toward him.
Luc stood looking down into the crib at his sleeping son. He put a gentle finger alongside the rosy cheek, touched the chubby hand, the golden curls. Alair came up beside him, slipped her hand through his arm. He turned and gazed down at her.
“Although I prayed for this day, I don’t think I really believed it would ever happen,” he said, smiling ironically. “That says a lot for my faith, doesn’t it?”
“But darling, two years is a long time.”
“It seemed an eternity. Sometimes I thought it would never end. To get through each day, I had to drag out what I could remember, what I had to come back to.”
“The letters you wrote were full of faith, Luc. You made me believe. You kept me strong.” Alair pressed his arm, leaned her head against his shoulder.
“We’ve lost so much time together,” Luc sighed.
“We’ll make up for it, darling,” Alair said soothingly. “Mama has arranged with Jill Cameron for us to have Larkspur Cottage. We’re to take little Noel and go away, just the three of us, so we can get to know each other all over again and so you can get to know your little boy.”
“I can’t seem to think very far ahead, about the future…. I guess I’m so used to just thinking an hour at a time.”
“It’s all right, darling. Everything will be all right. We’ll just take it one step at a time.”
“I understand now why Aunt Kitty felt the way she did,” Luc said. He might have said more, but he saw Alair’s expression tighten and he realized she didn’t want to talk about the war or what it had done to him, to both of them. Maybe he’d just have to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself for a while, until he was able to handle them. He’d have to keep them prisoner as he had been a prisoner. He had heard that unless you’d experienced it yourself, you couldn’t understand. The attitude most of the POWs maintained—had to maintain, for their own protection, their own sanity—was to keep their emotions locked, never let their captors sense a vulnerability, a weakness. It was the only way to survive in a prison world. Luc was strong-willed. He had fought those black times when the despair and depression would overwhelm him. He’d learned how to close himself off from his own feelings. It had meant iron self-discipline. He’d lose track of time altogether. Days would go by and the black cloud would envelop him. Freedom came with a price. He would have to reverse what prison camp had taught him, not let Alair see that it was always hovering just behind him, over his shoulder, ready to pounce.
It was his problem, his battle to fight. He’d have to remember that. Alair had been through enough. He was determined not to burden her with his memories. He would eventually get over it, he prayed. In the meantime it was probably a good idea for them to go away together. He did feel somewhat like a biblical “stranger in a strange land.” He had to learn to be normal again, had to build a life with Alair and their little son. Luc knew for sure that he wasn’t ready to go back to America, to Virginia. He was still in shock after learning his father had been killed while he was in prison camp. Aunt Cara had closed Montclair afterward. Even so, Luc did not have the energy, the strength, the incentive, to go back to Mayfield and take over. He felt weary; he felt a hundred years old. Would he ever feel young again?
He didn’t have to decide anything right away. Alair was already talking about packing, getting things together to leave for Jill’s little cottage. There they would find each other again, find the love that had first brought them together, the love that had kept them together through the years of separation. At Larkspur Cottage, surely it would all come together for them again.