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ALEXANDRA SAT IN THE back of an open-air lorry that rumbled alongside the River Thames. She counted more cows grazing the pastures than people during her hitchhiking tour from West Wycombe to Cookham. The rural parish spread itself thirty miles west of London, and though somewhere similar the bones of her ancestors filled the ground, England remained a foreign land to her. She yawned, having spent the previous night at an inn beset by the ghost of a barmaid killed centuries ago by members of the diabolical Hellfire Club.
She hoped her pending reunion would be less haunting. In 1922, she visited her brother and made a royal muck of it. She had been unprepared to see his disfigurement. He did not require her hysterics as a reminder that the war left him irreparably scarred. A mirror sufficed.
On this second opportunity, Alexandra committed to remaining composed and optimistic: keep a stiff upper lip, be full of good cheer, give it some stick, and whatever other British idioms came to mind. Will had grown up an aloof, rough and tumble lad, and they were never close. She’d attempted to establish a bond by writing letters, but for every dozen mailed, he’d respond with one posing little emotion to its ink.
What she knew of his existence was that he lived as a hermit since invalided out of the hospital. He’d sent no pictures over the years, leaving her to wonder if an unwashed hobo dressed in rags would greet her: shoeless, with crinkly whiskers, uncut fingernails, and untenable long nostril hairs. The lorry stopped. Alexandra hopped off and shouted thanks to the driver as he departed. Will’s cottage stood up a narrow path amidst a patch of trees. As much as she felt sorrow and regret over the fate of her brothers, festering within endured a veiled rage at their abandonment over a decade ago.
They had left eager to save the world, but neither had returned to save her.
Alexandra took a seat along the riverbank. It was a pleasant temperature for an English afternoon, as spring had decided to arrive before summer’s end. Vibrant dandelions abounded and animated squirrels chased down new leads on ripened berries. Rowdy lads passed by rowing skiffs, sending a gaggle of white swans to hasten their glide upon the tepid surface. There still existed moments the world seemed antiseptic, yet testimony otherwise was never far off.
Will had taken a terrible hit of shrapnel at Amiens in 1918. It tore a crater into the left hemisphere of his face, eviscerating his eye socket, cheekbone, and part of his temple. His left arm was lost at the elbow and burns ran from his neck to shoulders.
Alexandra picked up her bags and wearily marched up the pathway. She reminded herself, “Commander Dyott says to treat him like a ‘whole man.’ A whole man... Olemén... Olemén...” Someone watching her vanished from the window. She settled at the door and knocked. When no one came, she knocked harder.
“William! It’s your sister...”
Nothing. “William! It’s Alexandra! I’m being attacked by angry bees.” To the continued silence, she again raised the ante. “Will! I am desperate for a loo. Let me in!”
The door finally opened. Before she could attain any sense of the stranger that answered, a large dog stormed forward and knocked her over. The cream-colored lab slobbered her face until called off.
Alexandra sprang to her feet. “I’m sorry. I thought this to be my brother’s cottage.”
“You don’t recognize the missing arm? Barnabus often tries to tug off the other.”
On closer inspection, it was Will.
She felt dumbfounded with delight. He was dressed in a tweed jacket, perfectly groomed, and appeared the quintessential English gentleman. Alexandra soaked in with marvel the painted tin mask that obscured his most egregious wounds. It blended in brilliantly with his skin tone and facial contours. They had even matched a fake eye near perfect to his other. Round spectacles held the prosthetic in place, leaving scars running into his brown hairline and burn marks the only blemishes left to direct view. It was a major improvement to the leather patch he’d worn five years ago.
She quashed her delight to casually state, “I departed Montana with one suitcase and now find myself overburdened with two. I was looking for a closet to hang some clothes and thought of you.”
“Mother warned you might pop in. How long are you to stay?”
“For at least tonight,” Alexandra suggested. “I slept with Suki last night at the George and Dragon Inn. She’s rather naughty. Needless to say, little sleep was realized.”
He lifted her heavier suitcase and escorted her inside. The thatched-roof cottage was quaint and clean. The sitting room held a phonograph, Crosley radio, two leather chairs, a sofa, and a square dining table. Stacked books rose to each side of a stone fireplace. Skimming the titles, Alexandra could see that Will, a once avid outdoorsman, had fallen casualty to intellectual pursuits.
The mantle hosted a shotgun and a hair-laden rug spread below: domain of Barnabus, half-chewed bone and all.
“It’s all very nice, Brother.”
“I have a girl who brings groceries and tidies up each morning.”
Alexandra noted Will struggled when speaking: moving his jaw just the slightest to respond in a low but clear voice, void of much inflection. She said, “Do you venture out to shoot much? Pheasant and the like?”
He turned to her. “Only if the loader will also fire it for me.”
“Good show! What’s on the menu this evening?”
“Kidney pie. The guest room and loo are upstairs.”
“You have gone native,” Alexandra said disapprovingly. She peeked into the den. A mahogany desk hosting a phone, lamp, and a wireless set dominated the space. Haphazardly resting the floor, entwined in its leather straps and harness, was a wooden arm.
Will gazed at his watch. “It’s time Barnabus and I take a stroll.”
“I’ll cook up something more American. Ta!”
The kitchen was small but functional. Alexandra flipped on the radio and inspected her options once they departed. She decided on omelets with roasted potatoes. While battling her ingredients, she wondered what course to take to dip Will’s toes back into everyday society.
She was yet ready to plate a meal when he returned, and needled, “I can’t believe you have no ham to cook in Cookham.”
Having won her battle to not set the kitchen ablaze, Alexandra plated and joined him. It surprised her to see him bow his head in prayer. They had engaged in little formal religion in their youth. Their mother was irreligious, and their father was too often elsewhere to bring them to Saint Peter’s Episcopal in Helena.
She almost thought to join him.
Will seemed to enjoy his first taste of home. “How have you fared in London thus far?”
“Better since I became involved with this Japanese masseuse,” she said, tightening and then relaxing her shoulders with a sigh. “She does such wondrous things to my body. I never knew.”
He raised a perplexed eyebrow to her euphoria. “Anyway, will you be staying in England?”
“I’ll be taking holiday across Europe. Care to join me?”
Will slowly chewed his food. “I think not.”
Alexandra had swung for the fences and missed, which was her nature. Laughingly, she recalled, “The last time I visited, Father took me to a dinner with the colonial secretary. General Allenby and some other la-di-dahs were present. My dining partner was a lowly ranked officer in the RAF named—”
“Yes, John Hume Ross,” Will interrupted. “Both you and our father have shared the story.”
It was nice to hear that his long-term memory was intact. She continued, not one to let redundancy interfere with the telling of a good tale. “Anyhoo, this Ross fellow was so serene. Throughout the evening, all he wanted to discuss was his love of the desert.”
Will wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Colonel T. E. Lawrence.”
“The hero of Arabia?” Alexandra sampled her wine. “No, I don’t believe he was there.”
“John Hume Ross is T. E. Lawrence. He changed his name. They are the same man.”
“That would explain a lot,” she conjectured, “but I think not.”
“You win!” Will refocused on his dinner, wishing for an ice pick to finish his eardrums.
Will was too familiar with dining alone, in peace. As she babbled when nervous, Alexandra considered herself the perfect remedy. Any thoughts on my going to Palestine? You might care to join me. There are places in the world a girl still needs a proper escort.”
“That is impossible.”
“Of course.” She finished her wine. “If Commander Dyott were to give me the call, I must be up for the physical challenge. I thought tomorrow we might rent a skiff and row the Thames.”
Will shook his head. Alexandra still seemed unaware that others were not firsthand privy to the people she met or the follies she incurred. He tossed his fork onto his plate. “Have you traveled across the Atlantic just to torment me? I do not know a Commander Dyott, nor a Suki, nor do I have two arms for rowing!”
Her cheerfulness subsided. “I thought to be the oarsman. I thought it would be an enjoyable outing for you. My apologies.”
Will left the table, summoning Barnabus to join him.
The door slammed upon their exiting.
Alexandra had achieved the near-impossible: making a man fearful to leave his home, flee his house. She washed the dishes and entered the den. On the desk was a letter sent from Düsseldorf by a Gunnar Heise. Will having correspondence from a Boche troubled her. Next to it was a framed photograph of Will in uniform with a young woman. She was a pretty thing, with a slight frame and dark curls that cascaded over her shoulders. Alexandra could tell what the girl had once meant to Will.
He had rarely smiled, and in her arms, he glowed.
Alexandra penned her farewell note.
In departing, she noticed a newspaper clipping on the wall. It was the article the Daily Sketch had written about her Papua experience. At the bottom was a picture of the four of them: Thomas, Will, Emma, and herself. Tears filled her eyes, not in remembrance of lost days, but that Will had displayed it so prominently. Perhaps it was his way of remaining connected or even proud of her.
She scurried, hearing the door open.
Will removed his fedora and looked down at her bags. “I can still mount a temper. I acted poorly. You gave me quite a start today. I’m not accustomed to pleasant surprises.”
Alexandra said, “Rather stupid of me to drag you across the continent.” She moved closer. “It was always me who found the horse droppings to step in when we were kids. Little has changed.”
Will took her hand. “Tomorrow, you will take me rowing. For tonight, all I ask is that once I retire, you do not disturb me. I remove my tin when sleeping. Indeed, rarely wear it when alone. It is why it took me so long to answer the door.”
“Take it off now so it will trouble you no further.”
“I’m quite monstrous. It would be too severe a shock for you.”
“You’re my brother. I’ll entertain no more self-derision.”
Alexandra released his hand and lifted the glasses off his ears, taking care not to bend the prosthetic’s thin casing or rip any skin off its adhesive. It surprised her how much foam padding filled its interior and how vacuous the area it covered truly was.
Her stomach turned, her legs wobbled, but her hands remained surgeon still.
“I was fortunate. Doctor Harold Gillies runs the best tin-nose shop in England,” Will said with a wavering voice. “Recently, he referred me to an artist in Paris, Anna Coleman Ladd. An American, mind you. She has given her talents to paint new faces for thousands of veterans. It has allowed me to take Barnabus out for walks without scaring the children.”
Alexandra knew if she spoke too quickly, something stupid would come out, but to wait too long would deem anything said to sound contrived. It was a conundrum for the ages.
“I think such people remind us that the world is yet lost. We must send them a donation, so their work may aid others.”
“Agreed.” Will half-smiled. “Let’s get your bags upstairs.”
—‡—
WILLIAM BATHENBROOK sat helpless, having unwittingly fallen into her trap. Alexandra rowed them up the Thames, showing excellent form in her oar strokes while babbling on like an over-caffeinated race caller at Churchill Downs. Eleven years of pent-up older brother torment had finally hunted down its mark.
He leaned back against the stern of the boat, accepting there was no means to escape short of jumping overboard and drowning, which remained under consideration.
“After Mister Winston taught me how to light the cigar, he chortled a most boisterous belly-hoot at my inability to breathe. John Hume Ross, who you oddly elect to call T. E. Lawrence, thought the secretary’s behavior uncouth, and apologized for laughing, too.”
Will had known all his life that there was something peculiarly wrong with his sister.
Alexandra was beyond brilliant yet failed in everything. He recalled her mastering Mozart’s “Rondo Alla Turca” but for one exception—every so often she would run a glissando. No instruction could amend the defect, and she had stopped playing the piano. A tutor identified her as having a gift for languages. Several were taught simultaneously, ceding a linguist fluent in seven tongues of gibberish, for Alexandra could not help but mingle her words in buffoonish foreign imbroglios.
Thereafter, she learned only French.
Her ingenious, slightly askew mind, had not dulled with age. Just this morning—after stating having read The Histories without understanding a word—she orated a tactical account of the Delian League’s flawed strategies to defeat Sparta that Herodotus might applaud from the grave.
Somewhere in Alexandra’s head, one wire was faulty or missing.
Their parents suffered the most. As a girl, Alexandra had been a prolific bedwetter, rendering her self-esteem an equally leaky vessel. She had disrupted many social gatherings by blurting something inane at precisely the worst moment. Their mother would seethe, yet their father, while embarrassed, was never harsh with her. He seemed aware that nothing in Alexandra’s behaviors held intentional malice. She was simply afflicted with some indeterminate malady that rendered her calamitous.
And yet, she had matured into a stunningly attractive misfit; one seeking to travel the world and start a business. Will foresaw countless perils in that. Alexandra was rich, socially isolated, and vulnerable to emotional manipulation and financial plucking, though he sensed she had a better grip on her impulses. He was unsure where his duty in protecting her resided these days. Over breakfast, she’d voiced intent to marry some actor named Archibald Leach, but only after he divorced whatever wife he was married to at the time.
Alexandra was physically fit yet athletically clumsy. While faring well at rowing a boat, she’d drown many if piloting a Viennese gondola. She stopped sculling to catch her breath and inquired out of the blue, “What do you recall of my birth?”
Will sat up. He was only six and remembered little. “It was difficult for Mother. She left for Chicago to seek more suitable doctors and needed to convalesce for many months. Emma went with her, and Aunt Adelaide joined them. Thomas and I surely ran the nanny mad.”
“I’m petering out,” Alexandra said. She submerged one oar to spin them around. “And where was our father?”
“I think he planned to be home from... wherever, by August.”
She regained her wind, and the skiff picked up speed. “Mother is evil, you must know.”
Will could not defend their mother’s cold turn. “Alee, once she attained her inheritance, she lost all interest in being a parent. As the youngest, it was worse for you.”
“Who were you trying to reach on the phone all morning?”
Alexandra’s visit had come at an inopportune time. He knew she would not like his guests. “I was to have friends spend the night and have found little luck reaching them to make other arrangements.”
Her look was joyous. “Here I thought the hotel never booked.”
It rarely was. “Gunnar and Hildegard are friends.”
Her joy was felled a quick death. “They sound rather German.”
“Yes, I figured that out. Thank you,” he noted. “I had occasion to meet Gunnar moments before being struck down. I bayoneted him in the shoulder. Odd how some friendships can start.”
Alexandra taunted, “Did he apologize for starting the war?”
“I do not believe he ever traveled to Sarajevo.” Will did nothing more to stir her ire. She had been so close with Thomas—he was gone—and she would hold forevermore the Germanic people accountable. They returned to Cookham Landing in silence.
Barnabus was first off to water the grass. Alexandra lent Will a hand as he stepped off and then made the jump herself.
They headed for the cottage.
Alexandra looped her arm within Will’s. “I can spend another night sleeping with Suki while you entertain the happy Huns.” She abruptly stopped walking.to ask, “Why did Father wish to get home by August?”
“You weren’t expected until August,” Will said. “Two months premature. Inexplicable, you even survived.”