He would always remember the moment he first saw her, as if it were etched on his memory as a photographic negative onto silver. Her profile was classical—straight nose, strong brow, high forehead, a determined chin. Indeed, her stillness made him think she could easily have been carved of marble. Richard could also see that she was painfully thin, but her skin was the perfect ivory of an English rose, her hair, though disheveled, the rich brown of polished wood, and her lips as plump and luscious as a midsummer strawberry. She was tall, nearly on a level with him, straight-backed, long-limbed, and fine-boned. Her hands were large, with long, slim fingers that were, at present, clenched into fists that made her knuckles quite white.
She reminded him of a sleek, tremulous grayhound and he had known as soon as he looked into her startling violet-gray eyes that accepting her as a patient had been a terrible mistake. A mistake to invite a woman into what, with the exception of Mrs. Biggs and Nurse Bardcombe, was an all-male enclave. He had been expecting a frumpy housewife, not this. Even her voice was a delight—melodious and clear as a treble bell.
Unfortunately, it was too late to change his mind—she was here now, her husband had departed, and there had been no plausible reason he could summon for turning her away.
The look on her face was at odds with her careless beauty; it was as contemptuous a scowl as had ever been directed at him. She was rigid with fury, the slight shake of her shoulders a clue to her controlled emotions. The straitjacket had been a sensible precaution, but he couldn’t keep her bound forever, and she didn’t appear, for the moment anyway, to be hysterical.
He was about to explain things to her when a loud wail caught his attention and he moved to the window to determine the cause of it.
Robbie Danvers, former Wing Commander of 149 Squadron, who had piloted Wellington bombers over German-occupied France on too many missions to count, was standing outside in his pajamas. He had lost his doll again. It wasn’t strictly speaking Robbie’s. In actual fact it was Robbie’s niece’s—she’d given it to him before he came to Embers, telling him the doll would watch over him, but Robbie was often so distracted he kept putting it down and forgetting it and then causing a stink when he couldn’t find the wretched thing. The doll was also filthy from being left outside in all weather and somewhere along the way had lost its dress and sunbonnet. Despite Robbie’s neglect, it was nevertheless obvious that he derived much comfort in having something, even an inanimate object, that was his and his alone. Just as a young child might be unable to sleep without their favorite teddy bear, Robbie was inconsolable when he lost the doll, and so Richard continued to indulge him in this. The poor man had suffered so greatly that he wasn’t about to take anything that soothed him, however unlikely, away from him.
“Wait here a minute,” Richard said. “I’m afraid that’s another of our patients. He’s lost Susie again.”
“Susie?”
He shrugged apologetically. “His doll.”
“A doll?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“We saw one as we arrived. Not far from the jetty.”
He noticed that she appeared annoyed at the admission, as if she were cursing herself for speaking. “Oh, excellent. That could only be her. Thank you.” Richard raised the window sash and called out. “Robbie. Try down by the jetty.”
There was a pause in the wailing.
“Yes . . . the jetty. But put some clothes on first, old chap, or you’ll catch your death.” Richard withdrew his head from the window and turned to face Esther. “Come on then, let’s unwrap you.” She stood, unmoving, as he undid the buttons at the back of the gown and his fingers fumbled slightly as he noticed the curls of hair at the nape of her neck. There was something vulnerable about the way she bent her head to give him better access and he was reminded of undressing another woman in very different circumstances.
Marianne: a nursing sister at Northfield with whom he’d had a brief romance during the war. They’d had six months together, stealing time whenever their shifts allowed it, before she had been posted to Hong Kong. They wrote, of course, and he’d even considered proposing though they were probably both too young, but then a day had come when a small envelope, addressed to him in an unfamiliar hand, arrived. Her sister, who wrote with news of a bomb hitting the hospital. Marianne had been at the center of the impact. A new influx of patients at Northfield the same week meant that there had been little time to mourn her.
He caught the scent of Esther’s perfume, something delicate and floral, and cleared his throat, retrieving his focus. “There you are. Jean can give you some ointment for those scrapes later. Best if you come with me now and I’ll introduce you to the chaps. There are three of them at the moment. Robbie lives in one of the cottages. He’s been with us for nearly six months. Then Wilkie—Colonel William Cooper-Jones—he’s a relatively new arrival. And finally, Captain George Menzies. They should all be at breakfast, that is if Robbie has found Susie.”
“And did you bind them when they first arrived?” Esther asked, her expression grim.
“It has sometimes been necessary, yes,” Richard admitted. “But I’ve found that it’s seldom for long. Most of our guests quickly adjust to the regimen here. In any case, I’ll give you a full briefing after we’ve eaten.” He had finished unbuttoning her and loosened the fabric that bound her arms, reaching for her wrist. “I’ll take your pulse while we’re here.”
He felt her blood throb in her veins where he pressed.
“Hmm. Sluggish,” he said to himself before abruptly releasing her arm. “There’s some water in the ewer on the table over there—cold, I’m afraid—and soap and a towel next to it. Jean will show you everything else. Come downstairs when you’ve changed and into the kitchen—it’s at the back of the house, just follow the smell of toast—you’ll find we don’t stand on formality.”
Richard left the room, though he found himself unable to shake the aroma of the woman’s perfume, which seemed to follow him along the corridor, and could not erase the image of the scowl that had twisted her face but failed to mar its beauty.
He went downstairs, where Wilkie was sitting at the kitchen table forking up scrambled eggs and George spreading blackberry jam on a hunk of homemade bread. He bade them a warm good morning and then took a seat himself. “Now then, chaps, we have a new guest staying with us. You may have seen her arrive yesterday. Mrs. Durrant is here at the behest of her husband. I trust you will treat her with respect and kindness.”
“A female of the species?” asked George as he bit into his toast. “I say, things are looking up.”
“Steady on there, Captain. Mrs. Durrant has suffered a great tragedy, no less than you fellows. You will do well to leave her be.”
Robbie, who had just entered the kitchen, the missing doll under his arm, caught the tail end of the conversation. “Roger that, Doc,” he said with a salute.