The Manuscript
October 18, 1916
New Forest, Hampshire, England
Archie pulled me back into the bed. The inn’s mattress was lumpy and uncomfortable, but we didn’t care. We didn’t really use the mattress for sleeping anyway.
With his arms wrapped around me under the warmth of the cotton coverlet, I felt safe. Nearly as protected as in those summer days of my childhood at Ashfield, where everyone I loved had gathered safely under one lovely roof. Feeling foolish to have ever doubted my husband’s state of mind, I surrendered into his embrace and indulged in the fantasy of this security, knowing it was only temporary and would vanish the moment Archie returned to the dangers of war. His survival thus far was nearly miraculous, and I feared that the odds were no longer in our favor.
“I have something to tell you,” he whispered into that vulnerable crook in my neck and then kept his face nestled there. His words sent a shiver down my spine. After the awkward, disjointed reunion on his last leave and the strange rages of his recent letters, we’d found one place where we understood each other perfectly—in bed.
“Something delightful I hope,” I whispered back.
He pulled away ever so slightly, enough to convey that this disclosure wasn’t the romantic sort, and I saw trepidation in his expression. What was he anxious to tell me? “You know how I’ve been struggling with my sinuses while flying?” he asked, burying his face back in my neck.
From the beginning of his aviation training, Archie suffered terribly in his sinuses—his ears never seemed to equalize, and the pressure was often unbearable in the air and on the ground—but he insisted on persevering. I’d found his bravery and fortitude in these circumstances awfully attractive, but I knew it made flying extra taxing for him. “Of course. You’ve been so strong to suffer through all that pain for the good of England.”
“I’ve been grounded. For good.”
I understood now that he’d hidden his face in my neck because he couldn’t meet my eyes. He was devastated that his wartime contributions would be cut short and fearful that I’d think less of him. But he was thinking of the innocent young girl I’d been and how she’d been dazzled by the young pilot he’d been. Did he not realize that I was no longer her exactly, that I’d seen suffering and death, that all I cared about was his safety? Had this announcement been brewing while he wrote me that spate of disturbing letters?
I knew what I had to say, and I meant the words. “Thank God,” I cried.
Pushing himself up on his elbow, he looked down at me. “Do you mean it?”
“Of course. You’ll be safe. It’s the answer to my prayers.”
“You won’t be disappointed that I’m not serving as a pilot in this war?” His voice quivered.
“How could you think that, Archie? You’ve served as a pilot for two long years and survived, and I’m blessed in that. Our country is blessed with your service. But no more. This grounding is a gift. Your life means everything to me.”
“You are everything to me too,” he said. Leaning down, he kissed me long and hard, an indistinguishable blend of passion and relief. I allowed myself to be engulfed by him.
Later, we roused ourselves from the comfort—and delights—of the bed and decided to take a stroll in the New Forest, a royal forest since 1079 and a place Archie had reveled in exploring since his youth. Stepping into its woods felt like stepping back into the forest primeval. A wondrous mix of pasture lands, woodlands, and heath, alight with autumnal color, we proceeded hand in hand in rare, companionable silence, focusing on neither future or past but relishing our present.
After an hour or so, we stumbled upon a post hand-painted with the sign To No-Man’s-Land. Archie turned to me with a wide smile. “I’ve always wanted to follow that path.”
I smiled back. “Let’s follow it. Now.”
He looked hesitant. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
He grabbed me close and said, “God, I love your spontaneity and sense of adventure. Let’s go.”
We ambled down the dirt trail to the enigmatically named No-Man’s-Land. Eventually, the wild tangle of the landscape grew orderly, and we realized that No-Man’s-Land was actually a poorly tended apple orchard. The crimson apples gleamed, and we were tempted to pull a few off the trees. I urged Archie to wait for permission, and soon enough, we spotted a woman in the orchard.
“Good morning, ma’am. Can we buy a few of your apples?” he asked.
The woman, ruddy-cheeked from a life spent outdoors, could have been thirty or fifty. She smiled at us and, taking note of Archie’s uniform, said, “No need for payment. I see from your uniform that you are air force, as was my son. He was killed—”
Archie turned ashen, and I couldn’t stop from interjecting, “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
She put up a hand to stop my flow of condolences. “He was doing his part for our country, just like your man here. Eat your fill and take as many as you can carry. It’s the least we can do,” she said and turned away.
We took her at her word, although her disclosure had turned the permission bittersweet, and Archie couldn’t start picking apples until he’d smoked a cigarette, a new habit he’d developed since his last leave. An hour later, bellies full and pockets stuffed with apples, we sat down on a stump, beyond satiated. We chatted about nothing—certainly not my work as a nurse or in the dispensary and definitely not his pilot service—until I decided to make my own disclosure to him. Without his personal confession about flying, I don’t think I would have had the courage.
“I have something to tell you,” I said.
“You do?” he asked, appearing simultaneously curious and alarmed.
“I’ve written a book.” I forced myself to say the words I hadn’t even said to my mother.
Archie glanced over at me as if he hadn’t heard me correctly. “A book? You’ve written a book?” His voice wasn’t judgmental, merely perplexed. He knew that I’d dabbled in writing in the past—I’d explained that after my aspirations in music faltered, writing filled the void nicely, with its ebb and flow not unlike performing music—but I hadn’t mentioned it for some time. It seemed silly and inconsequential in light of the war.
I gave him a small, slightly bashful smile. “Well, you told me to stay busy while you were gone.”
He laughed. A big, boisterous laugh, the sort I’d never heard from him before. “Did you bring it for me to read?” he asked.
“I did,” I admitted. “It’s back in the hotel room, in my suitcase.” I didn’t mention that I’d buried the manuscript in the bottom of my suitcase, uncertain as to whether I’d have the nerve to show it to Archie.
“What sort of story is it?” he asked.
“A murder mystery.”
“You?” He laughed again. “My sweet wife? You wrote a murder mystery?”
“Yes, it’s a story about a rich elderly woman who’s been poisoned at her home, a manor house, while several possible culprits are staying with her as guests. One of the houseguests, a soldier by the name of Arthur Hastings recovering from the war, enlists the help of his friend, a Belgian refugee by the name of Hercule Poirot.” I explained to him how the story and characters unfolded for me during the slow hours at the apothecary, in particular how my detective evolved from my experience helping the group of Belgian refugees who’d settled in the parish of Tor after a harrowing escape from the Germans. But, I explained, once I’d conceived of Hercule Poirot, he’d grown on the page of his own accord, as if he were a real person.
“Sounds very timely and ingenious, no doubt.” Shaking his head, he said, “Still, I can’t believe you wrote a murder mystery.”
I laughed along with him. “I’m sure it sounds far-fetched, but Madge bet me that I couldn’t create a mystery that a reader couldn’t solve—”
He finished my sentence, having grown to understand the nature of my relationship with my sister. “And you certainly wouldn’t lose a bet to Madge.”
I thought about the wagers Madge and I had made over the years, each one furiously fought and each one fixed with set terms. The backgammon games that went long into the night. The increasingly high horse jumps that required us to defy gravity. The book challenges that led to teetering stacks all over Ashfield. In retrospect, it seemed as if Madge, eleven years my senior, was trying to strengthen my courage and resolve, because Mummy was determined solely to cosset and baby me. I supposed I should thank her for her efforts, but that would spoil our ongoing game and give her an edge I wasn’t willing to yield.
“Certainly not.” I smiled but then hesitated. “Would you read it? To see if you like it? To see if you can solve it? I know it will take away from our time together, but—”
“I’d love to,” he said, then asked, “What’s it called?”
“The Mysterious Affair at Styles.”