Laurel Gate
APRIL 1923
Julian woke with a groan and turned over to push his good ear into the pillow. Perhaps if he ignored her knocking, she’d let him be. Sleep would come again.
But Gwen was nothing if not persistent. She got in by some other means and peeled off his quilt. “Good morning!” she cheered. “Beautiful day.”
Julian curled in on himself, knowing how childish it looked and not caring. Even with the medicine, he hadn’t slept well, restless with anxious dreams.
Gwen threw open the curtains, allowing in the sun to burn his eye. “I should think you’ve slept long enough. Celia said you missed dinner last evening—you must eat, Julian. You’re a living, breathing thing, mind, and we like the world better with you in it.”
Julian didn’t move. Not until Gwen sat on the edge of the bed and tickled the top of his ear. “I know you can hear me, darling brother mine.”
He shoved her hand away. “I’m tired.”
“Clearly.” Gwen tilted her head, peering down at him as his eye came open. “But you cannot behave thusly or you shall become your mother.”
Julian sat up dizzily. He held the side of his head where things had healed on the surface, but still ached within. His left hand was beginning to move when he wanted it to, though the burnt skin was oddly thick and didn’t stretch.
“How did you get in?” he asked.
“The door doesn’t quite lock. Looks to’ve been hung sideways.”
He’d have to engage someone to repair that, along with the drafty windows, the plumbing in the kitchen, the leaking roof. Though it was a lovely Tudor house, Laurel Gate—plenty of rooms, with oak walls, low cornice ceilings, and ivy crawling up the brick. The property was nestled in a quiet piece of country with wildflowers and a lake. Julian had liked it instantly, and was so desperate to be out of Braemore, he’d taken it the day he’d seen it.
That was the first day he’d left Braemore. His bones had smarted, jostled by the deep tremble coursing through his body. Despite having Gwen at his elbow for support, he’d had to pause outside the front door to get his bearings, doddery as an old man. She had waited patiently whilst he breathed, counted to ten, counted to ten again, and opened his eye, waiting for the tunnel to open up and allow him to see the world more fully.
When it did, there was the fountain, the hedges, the lawn, the gravel, and Anna and Richie chasing each other round the motor. On weak knees, Julian had stepped down, one stair at a time until his shoes touched the earth—hard and cold and solid. He had stopped again.
“There’s nothing to fear,” Gwen had said, nose rosy from the wind. “Apart from a chest cold.”
He’d looked over at her, and though he couldn’t bring himself to smile, he felt warm. It was by this warmth he got into the car that took them to Laurel Gate.
When he’d stood before Castle Braemore for the last time, he’d had no remorse. He had only felt free.
“Come,” Gwen said now, “we must get you up and about. Jolly big day, this.”
As she scurried to his wardrobe, Julian took his mask from the bedside table. He passed his fingers over his scars as he did each morning, to ensure they were still there and he was truly home, that war was over and he’d returned alive. The copper mask was always cold in the mornings, and as he pressed it against his cheek and eye, he shivered.
Gwen returned with a grey suit, a crisp white shirt, and the silk tie she’d given him for Christmas 1913. He remembered because it was the last Christmas they exchanged frivolous presents.
“Routine,” said Gwen, laying the clothing on the bed. “I still believe in it, you know.”
Julian scratched at his whiskers. “I’m not sure of this.”
“Something darker, perhaps?”
“Not the suit.”
Gwen sat with a sigh and rubbed circles over his back. “Change is healthy, my boy.”
They looked about at his new bedroom. The walls were pale yellow, the furnishings taken from Braemore not in keeping with a place so humble. Julian hadn’t taken his father’s bed, nor anything from the apartments. He’d wanted never to see any of it again.
Thinking of that room now, he bowed his head, holding the place where the gun had burst beside his ear. He was glad he had gone unconscious, and not lain aware of himself as he’d been in the blast. There were moments while he recovered during the war when he was disoriented, unsure of where he was or what was happening to him. But nothing had been so confusing as waking in bed following the gunshot to see Celia smiling at his side.
He’d thought their voices were nurses’, and that he’d been thrust back in time to a field hospital in Amiens. Then he had seen Celia and thought her Gwen. Too old to be little Cece. But she’d taken his hand and smiled and said, Did the starlings talk? and he knew it was her. They’d discussed Lily for a time, and it had been good to speak of her with someone who had loved her. Then they had discussed everything else—all the lost years—until they knew each other again.
Julian had wanted an end. He had lost his home, his money, his pride. He had lost his sister’s trust and good society’s respect. He had lost Bertie. He had lost any hope that life could be more than the days he spent alone inside his apartments, for he could not bring himself to leave. He didn’t resemble himself, nor feel himself, and he had wanted the stranger that occupied his space in the world to be gone.
His hand had shaken when he’d brought the gun to his temple, but it had been easy to pull the trigger. He’d come close to death before and it wasn’t frightening. It was peaceful.
In the end, he was glad to be alive. Mr. Beaton said Bertie was having a baby. Julian had not been ready to go to her, though it pained him to stay away. Leaving Braemore had been difficult, and he’d yet to travel on his own. If he was going to see Bertie again, he would stand strongly before her, or not at all.
“Julian?” He brought his head up and tried to focus on Gwen. “You’re all right, you know.” She set her hand against his heart. “Tick, tick, tick. That’s all it takes.”
Julian put his hand over hers. “Thank you.”
“No need for that.”
He tightened his fingers around hers. “I ought to have thanked you every day since I learned to speak. It is you alone who has prevented this family from falling apart.”
While Julian changed, Gwen joined Celia downstairs. Her sister stood at the dining table, fluffing a bouquet of crocus and daffodils whilst humming to herself.
Gwen wrapped her arms around Celia’s shoulders. “Those are lovely.”
Celia leaned back into the embrace. “The garden is bursting. If I don’t pick enough of them, I fear Julian and I may be eaten up.”
Gwen chuckled and kissed Celia’s cheek. “Is all ready?”
“Yes—come and see.” She took Gwen’s hand to lead her into the parlor.
It was a relief to find Celia had taken to Laurel Gate much as Julian had. Gwen wasn’t sure how she’d feel about staying in the country, when Roland was off to the London flat Julian had taken for him. But Celia was content enough to run this house for her brother, and was close enough to Stanfield to help Gwen with her charity work—with luck, her reputation could be salvaged. By any means necessary, Gwen would see to it that her little sister found a place of her own in the world.
The house suited Julian’s personality—stately, yet snug and characterful. And though Huxley and Mrs. Burns had retired from service, he kept on Cook and a few of the maids. Things were not so different. Yes, Laurel Gate had done splendidly.
The large leaded window in the parlor was left open, primrose sweetening the inside of the house. Richie and Anna played with marbles on the worn floorboards, where Celia had rolled up the rug and pushed it to one side. She’d set an armchair near the window, with a stool alongside holding a basin of water and a new shaving kit.
“He’s no excuse now, has he?” said Gwen.
“How does he seem?” Celia asked. “He slept later than he’d promised.”
Gwen touched the surface of the water absently, watching the ripples. It had been a long eight months, from the weeks Julian spent recovering from the shock of being alive, to the agonizing months that followed, when Gwen had to force him out of bed, make him eat, lead him out of his room a bit further each day so that eventually he could leave Braemore entirely. He’d done it, at last, and now he appeared lighter. The wounds healed, and though it still took much to make him smile, he left his room to listen to the gramophone in the parlor, and swam in the lake, and took meals with Celia. Things were far better than they’d been.
“He’s ready,” said Gwen. “I feel sure of it.”
From the hall came the creaking of worn treads. Celia made a gasp so that the children would look up. “Who’s coming?”
Anna jumped to her feet. “Uncle Earl!”
They went to the hall to wait while Julian dragged his heavy feet downstairs. He looked well in a fine suit, and was smiling by the time Richie and Anna reached him. He ruffled Richie’s hair and hugged Anna to his side. There was a new way in which he looked at her that transformed his face, and each time, Gwen felt the sting of tears.
“Right—Anna?” she said. “Have you something to give to your uncle?”
Julian eyed her skeptically, but she ignored him, instead watching as her daughter reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out an ancient gold ring. It was one of the few possessions Lily had left behind, and he’d refused it the last time Gwen offered it to him. Now it looked massive in Anna’s little hand.
Julian crouched to her level and held his palm out for her to drop it in.
“I’ve looked after it really well,” Anna said.
He smiled, and brushed his thumb over her cheek. “You’ve done a fine job of it. But wouldn’t you like to keep it?”
Anna glanced over her shoulder at Gwen, who merely raised a brow. “Mama said to give it back. That you need the ring for permission.”
“Tradition, Anna.” Gwen chuckled.
“Oh—I meant tradition. It’s got your coat of arms on, not ours.”
Julian took up her hand to press the ring into her fist. “Dash tradition. I want it to be yours.” Anna threw her arms around his neck, elated.
“All right, all right,” Gwen said, ending the scene before she broke down completely. “Outdoors with the both of you before the weather turns.”
The children were more than happy to oblige. With heaps of overgrown garden to explore, they could hardly miss Castle Braemore.
Celia took Julian’s elbow as he rose to a stand, and swept her hand theatrically towards the parlor. “Right this way, my lord. You’ve reserved the finest seat in the house.”
Julian looked warily at Gwen and she chuckled, giving him a shove. He stumbled over and lowered himself into the chair with a groan, rubbing his burnt hand in the other. Gwen’s memory of their father was fading fast, but the way Julian looked just then, in the dusty fog of the parlor, with his beard and his straight shoulders, she thought he resembled the late earl.
Julian said, “I’ll need to see credentials before I turn my life over.”
“Worry not, pal.” Celia collected a folded towel from the stool. “Roland gave me a lesson.”
She shook out the towel and draped it over Julian’s front, fastening it behind his neck with a safety pin. When she moved round to face him, he smiled at her and she returned it. It had taken Celia nearly eight years to move past her grudge, and less than a minute for Julian to forgive her. That was what big brothers were for, Gwen supposed, taking a few on the chin for their little sisters’ sake. Julian had survived quite a thrashing.
Gwen stood by the window, one eye on the proceedings and the other watching her children in the garden. While Julian removed his mask, Celia dipped the soap into the basin to wet it, and worked the brush over for a thick lather. Then, with her brow pinched in concentration, she painted the soap over Julian’s whiskers. The ones on the right were thick now, though there were only patches on the left. That would be the tricky bit—where the scars made things rough and uneven.
When Celia took up the razor, Julian lifted an eyebrow.
“Just relax,” she said. “And remember, it grows back.”
Julian’s beard fell into his lap in dark curled tufts. As Celia shaved him, he closed his eye, allowing his chin to be turned and tipped. Once it was smooth, Celia cleaned him off with a wet towel, and Gwen went to stand next to her, putting an arm round her shoulders.
Her breath shook until she held it. It had been ever so long since she’d seen the precise lines of his short chin and round jaw, the hollows of his flat cheeks, the youthful bow of his lip. There was an oddness to seeing clean face and overgrown hair, but he was certainly much closer to looking like the brother she knew.
“Well done, you,” Gwen said to Celia. “He’s five years younger, at that.”
Julian’s eye opened. “Have I still got my head?”
“For now. But it’s next to go.”
Celia took up the scissors. This was the task Gwen was not so confident her younger sister could master. She stood close beside Celia, supervising as she snipped and snipped, and walked around Julian’s chair to see his head at all angles. All the while, Julian might’ve been asleep, sitting so calmly with nothing but trust for them.
In the end, Julian’s hair was trimmed closely at his nape and round his ears. They’d left enough length on top that the curls remained, the way Roland wore his. Celia stuck a finger in his pot of brilliantine and rubbed it between her palms before combing it through Julian’s hair. When she and Gwen stepped back to see him fully, Gwen’s eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, do stop,” said Celia. “It’s only Julian.”
And it was only Julian. The way he was meant to look. The way he’d looked for so long before the war. This was not the man who was consumed by melancholy, but the one who had risen above it, had come through, who’d struggled every day to heal.
Gwen waved her off. “I’m allowed to cry; I’ve been through a lot.”
Julian felt his cheek with his good hand and looked around him at the fallen hair at his feet. There was quite a lot of it. He reached behind his neck to feel where it had all gone, and turned pink. “Better or worse?” he asked.
To which the women replied in unison, “Better!”
Then the front door was thrown open—Gwen really had to rid Anna of that habit—and her daughter came darting towards them. She stopped dead in the threshold, mouth falling open.
Julian’s chin dropped to his chest, his hand covering his scars, shoulders shuddering with uneven breaths. Gwen touched his back to comfort him. Anna had never seen him without his mask.
“Darling,” she said, “you cannot leave your brother outdoors—”
“Uncle Earl!” Anna ran right into Julian’s knees, looking up at him so there was nowhere to hide. “Where has your beard gone?”
Gwen held her breath, exchanging a glance with Celia.
Julian said, “To the floor, mainly.”
Anna kicked a bit of it with the toe of her shoe. Julian tucked his hands under her arms and lifted her onto his lap with an exaggerated grunt. He held still while she prodded his chin and cheeks, paying no mind to his scars, if she noticed them at all.
“Can you get it back?” she asked.
“In a week or so.”
“Oh, good.”
Gwen let out a long breath, lovingly pinching Julian’s shoulder.
Anna settled in with her legs spilling over his lap and looked up at Celia. “What’s that for?”
Celia wiggled her brows. She’d retrieved a silver hand mirror from the stool and was holding the glass against her chest. “This is for your uncle to have a look at himself.”
Julian’s gaze slid to Gwen. She wanted to laugh at the pale terror on his face, for the notion was ridiculous to her. When she looked at him, she felt nothing but adoration for what she saw. Why should he be so frightened? But she remained steady for his sake and nodded her encouragement.
“I suppose,” said Julian, “it’s as good a time as any.”
Gwen stood behind Celia with her hands on her shoulders and gave them a rub. Anna propped herself up so her face would be in the reflection, too.
“I know it’s been a long while,” said Celia carefully. “But remember that how you see yourself in this mirror is how we see you, and we love you so very much.”
She smiled, and turned the glass.