A Refuge at Highland Hall (4 page)

“Oh, yes. You could tell they were glad for the outing.”

“And did you have enough food for everyone?”

Lydia nodded as she sank down on the bench beside Helen. “You should have seen them. They swarmed that tea tent like ants at a picnic and ate every last bite.”

Helen laughed. “I'd have liked to have seen that.” Emily joined in, though Lydia didn't think she knew why she was laughing.

“It made for a very busy afternoon.” Lydia's smile faded as the images of the wounded men rose in her mind. “But it wasn't easy seeing so many soldiers with frightful scars and missing arms and legs.” She shook her head. “Those poor men…Their lives will never be the same.”

Helen sighed. “So many have given so much.”

“Yes, they have, and it was good to give a little back today.” Lydia rubbed her shoulder, trying to ease her sore muscles. “How was your day?”

Helen clicked her tongue. “Those boys are going to give me gray hair before I turn thirty!”

“Oh, no, what happened this time?”

“I sent Donald and Jack out to the front garden to work off some steam, and they ended up throwing rocks at each other and breaking one of the library windows.”

Lydia gasped. They'd been in tussles before, but they'd never broken a window.

“You'd think that would make them settle down and behave themselves, but not a half hour later, Donald got into a fight with Tom. And they nearly knocked me down when I tried to separate them.”

“Oh, those dreadful boys!” Lydia shook her head. “Shame on them.”

Helen rubbed her forehead. “I hate to think what Dr. Jon will say when he sees that window. I must go up and tell him before he finds it himself.”

“He's a good man. It'll be all right.” Still, how long would his patience last if the boys continued to stir up mischief every day?

“I don't want him to think I can't manage the children on my own.”

“Oh, I'm sure he won't think that.”

“What if he does and sends me packing?”

“He won't. He knows the boys are a handful.” Lydia shook her head and stared toward the fireplace. “We should've taken the boys with us today. Maybe seeing those wounded men would've sobered them up and made them think about doing what they should, instead of breaking windows and getting into fights.”

The Fosters were good people. They took children off the streets and gave them a home and an education. But most of these children had never received the love and discipline every child needed. Getting them on the right path and teaching them how to behave wasn't easy, especially when it came to the older ones.

Mrs. Murdock entered the room. “I thought I heard your voice, Lydia.”

Lydia gasped and darted a glance at the clock on the wall. “Dr. Jon and Mrs. Kate want dinner served in”—she calculated the time—“ten minutes.”

Mrs. Murdock planted her hands on her hips. “Well now, I wondered when they'd be coming home. I've been keeping dinner warm for over an hour, but it will take me more than ten minutes to get it all upstairs.”

Lydia rose from the bench. “I'll wash up and lend a hand.” Dr. Jon was a stickler about cleanliness, especially when serving food.

“I'd help you, but I have to put these two to bed.” Helen pushed back from the table. “Then I have to tell Dr. Jon about the window.”

Mrs. Murdock pursed her lips. “I wouldn't like to be the one to give him that news. But don't worry about dinner. Lydia and I can serve.” The cook bustled down the hall toward the kitchen. Lydia followed.

Thoughts swirled through Lydia's mind as she soaped her hands and rinsed them under warm water. When she first came to London three years ago, as Miss Kate's lady's maid, all she did was dress Miss Kate, fix her hair, and care for all her clothing. There'd been a bit of sewing and repairing hats and undergarments, but that was the extent of her duties.

But now that Mrs. Kate and the doctor had turned their home into a refuge for orphans, Lydia's days were full. She tended the children from sunup until every last one was tucked in bed and fast asleep. Even then there were often tasks she needed to finish.

She loved children, even the unruly ones who had come right off the street. Seeing how a little kindness and a good home could help them change made her happy…but it also made her long for a family of her own.

Last month she'd turned twenty-three. The days were slipping away. With the war and all she had to do, how would she ever find a husband?

Would she ever have children of her own to care for and love?

“If your hands aren't clean by now, then there's no hope for them,” Mrs. Murdock called.

Lydia turned and grabbed a towel. “Sorry. I'm coming.”

“Bring the peas and potatoes.” Mrs. Murdock lifted the platter of ham and started toward the door.

Lydia sighed. “I'm right behind you.”

A
lex climbed the steps that led to his mother's front door, then set his duffel bag by his feet. At least he hoped this was his mother's front door. It had been almost two years since she'd replied to one of his letters. Had she moved since then? He glanced at the number above the door and fingered the folded envelope in his pocket—her last letter.

He pulled in a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. A painful twinge shot across his upper chest, catching him by surprise. He had been released from the hospital and given permission to return to training, but he still had some healing to do—and he'd be wise to remember that. He lifted his good arm, preparing to knock, then pulled his hand back.

What made him think showing up after all this time was a good idea? He should've written to let his mother know he'd been injured and was in town being treated at St. George's. He hadn't even told her he had enlisted, let alone crashed during training. She probably thought he was still at sea, working on the steamship
Mina Brea
…if she thought of him at all.

Now he had a three-day leave before he returned to Upavon…but nowhere to stay. Would she invite him in, or would she turn him away as she had when he was thirteen?

He clenched his jaw and tried to hold back those painful memories, but they came flooding in and filled his mind.

He and his father had loved their life in India, but his mother had never been happy there. Shortly after Alex turned eleven, she decided to flee her unhappy marriage and return to England, taking his sister, Lindy, with her. His mother said she wanted to take Alex too, but his father didn't like the idea.

His mother hadn't even put up a fight.

Her departure and the divorce that followed stole his father's will to live. Two years later he died a broken man, and Alex had been sent back to England to live with his mother. But she had remarried by that time, and her new husband, Roger Tremont, wanted nothing to do with the active, untamed son of Charles Goodwin.

After a week of stormy confrontations, Tremont shuttled Alex off to live with his father's parents. Grandmother Goodwin had been kind and welcomed him, but his stern grandfather seemed to dislike Alex from the moment he walked through the door. Alex supposed it was because he looked so much like his father, and his grandfather and father had been estranged for years.

He'd only seen his mother once or twice a year after that. When he turned seventeen, he'd gone to sea, and almost five years had passed since his last short, uncomfortable visit with his mother, his sister, and Roger Tremont.

He shook his head, disgusted with his tense stomach and burning throat. He was a grown man, ready to head into battle and fight the enemy. Surely he could face his mother and her husband and say a proper good-bye.

Maybe it would be better to leave things as they were and not try to push back into their lives. He leaned down and reached for his bag—just as the door swung open. He dropped the bag and looked up.

A slender young woman with dark-brown hair and wide brown eyes looked out at him. “May I help you?”

Recognition flashed through Alex. “Hello, Lindy.”

Her brow creased. “I'm sorry. Do I know you?”

His appearance had changed quite a bit in the last few years, but it was still a bit of a blow that she didn't recognize him. He swallowed and forced a smile. “I'm Alex, your brother.”

She gasped. “Oh, my goodness! Alex, I'm so sorry. You've grown so much, and with that uniform, I didn't recognize you. Please come in.” She stepped back and pulled the door open wider.

There was no going back now. He lifted his bag and stepped inside. “Thank you.” He looked around the large entryway. “Is Mother home?”

“Yes. She's upstairs. I'll go and tell her you're here.”

She turned to leave, but he reached for her arm. “Is your stepfather here?”

Some unexplained emotion flashed in her eyes, then quickly faded. “No, he's at the club. He won't be home until this evening.”

Alex released the breath he had been holding and nodded.

“Please, have a seat in the parlor.” She motioned toward the open doorway to the left. “I'll be right back.”

Alex walked into the parlor. Should he put his bag down? Perhaps that would make his mother think he expected her to invite him to stay. Maybe he should just hold on to it. No, that would be awkward. He deposited the bag by a chair near the door, but out of view, then glanced around the room.

Heavy, dark-green drapes had been pulled back to let in some sunlight. Several flowering plants sat on wooden stands in front of the windows. An elaborately carved grand piano filled one corner of the room. Memories stirred and rose to the surface. His mother had a beautiful voice, and she had often played the piano when he was young. After she left he'd tried to learn to play, but with no one to teach him, he'd given up.

He turned and scanned the other side of the room.

Bookshelves lined the wall on both sides of the fireplace, and chairs and sofas were grouped together in the center of the room. A large landscape of the English countryside hung over the fireplace. It was an attractive room, yet there was a stiffness and formality about it that made Alex uncomfortable.

He crossed to take a closer look at the photographs lining the fireplace mantel. His mother and stepfather's wedding portrait sat on the far left, then two photographs of Lindy, and finally one of Lindy, his mother, and Roger Tremont.

He clenched his jaw and glanced at the bookshelves and then the end tables. There were no photographs of him, though his grandparents had taken him to a photographer twice and sent those portraits to his mother.

It shouldn't hurt so much after all these years, but it did.

“Alex.” His mother swept into the room wearing a silky blue dressing gown, followed by Lindy. “My, this is a surprise.”

The years had been kind to her. She still looked almost as young and lovely as she did in the wedding photograph taken years ago.

“Hello, Mother.” He hesitated. How, exactly, should he greet her?

She stretched out her hand, answering his unspoken question. He took it and bowed slightly.

“Aren't you going to kiss me? I am your mother.” She lifted her thin eyebrows, a hint of disappointment in her eyes. Or was that embarrassment?

“Yes, of course.” He leaned toward her cheek and kissed her, breathing in the soft scent of roses.

“Well, let me look at you.” She stepped back and sized him up. “I didn't realize you had enlisted.”

“Yes, that's one reason I wanted to see you before I go back to Upavon.”

A slight line creased the area between his mother's eyebrows. “Upavon?”

“Yes, I'm taking pilot training with the Royal Naval Air Service. As soon as I get my wings, I hope to be stationed in France.”

Lindy's eyes widened. “You're going to be flying an airplane…in France?”

“Yes. That's what RNAS pilots do.”

She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Of course, but it sounds rather dangerous.”

He pondered his answer for a moment. “There are some risks, but I want to do my part to win this war. Certainly soaring through the clouds sounds much more exciting than slogging through muddy trenches.”

His mother sniffed. “You sound just like your father.” Her voice took on a cold edge. “He never could pass up an opportunity for
excitement.
”

Heat flashed up Alex's neck. How could she still be bitter toward his father after all these years, especially when she was the one who had sought the divorce, quickly remarried, and then settled into a new life that conveniently excluded Alex and his father?

Sympathy shone in Lindy's eyes. “How soon do you have to return to your base?”

Alex steeled himself for his mother's response. “Not until Monday morning.”

His mother's eyes widened for a split second, then she schooled her expression. “Roger should be home by six, and we'll be eating at seven. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

So, that was all she would offer—a stiff, formal dinner with his stepfather seated at the head of the table, issuing orders and making Alex and everyone else sorry that he'd come. Still…if crumbs were all she would give, he was hungry enough to accept them.

“Yes, thank you.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air between them. Alex shifted his weight to the other foot and glanced at his sister.

Lindy turned to their mother. “Shall I ask Mrs. Peterson to bring us some tea?”

“Yes.” His mother motioned toward the closest chair. “Have a seat, Alex. Tell me how you've been.”

Alex sat down and gave her a brief summary of his last few months at sea, ending by telling her about his grandfather's death in November.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize your grandfather had passed away. No one informed me.” She sent him a pointed look.

He would not let her make him feel guilty. “I didn't hear the news myself until we returned to port. By then I'd missed the funeral. Grandmother sold the house here. She's living in Glasgow now, with her daughter, Ethel.”

His mother frowned and glanced toward the window. Surely she realized he had no other family in London and nowhere else to stay for the next few days unless he paid for a hotel room.

Lindy walked back into the parlor. “The tea will be here shortly.” She sat down across from Alex and asked about his training. He relayed a few details, careful to avoid anything that might make her or their mother worry about his safety.

A door opened and closed. Footsteps crossed the entryway. Alex looked up, expecting the housekeeper to bring in the tea, but Roger Tremont walked into the parlor.

Alex tensed and met Tremont's surprised look head-on.

Tremont's steps stalled, and he shot a glance at his wife.

She rose and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, but her movements looked stiff and forced. “Alex is in town, and he stopped by for a visit.”

Alex rose and held out his hand. “Mr. Tremont.”

Tremont shook Alex's hand, but his grip was cool and loose. He looked him over with a slight frown. “So, I see you've signed up to join the fight.”

“Yes, sir. I have.”

“Alex is training to be a pilot.” Lindy's eyes shone, and she sent him a warm smile.

“Is he?” Tremont's eyebrows rose and took on a haughty slant. “That sounds like something you'd choose.”

Alex bristled. “Why do you say that?”

“There's no need to take offense. I simply meant you've always been a rather daring young man. It's probably due to your years in India and your lack of exposure to the gentler influences of English society.”

Alex shot his stepfather a dark look. What made the man think he knew him well enough to make that kind of judgment? Was he repeating something Alex's mother had said, or had he come to his own conclusion?

Tremont's expression hardened. “You've grown up to be very much like your father.”

Alex straightened and met Tremont's gaze. “I take that as a compliment.”

“Take it any way you like.”

Alex clenched his jaw, barely able to hold back the sharp reply rising in his throat.

“Your father was a cool-hearted adventurer, a risk taker, but it's unfortunate he didn't consider how those risks would impact others.” Tremont glanced toward Lindy and their mother.

Fire flashed through Alex. “You didn't know my father. You've no right to criticize him.”

“I may not have known him personally, but I've heard enough to understand he was self-absorbed and cared very little about his wife and daughter.”

Alex's mother stifled a gasp, and Lindy's eyes widened.

Alex stepped toward Tremont. “My father was a brave, honorable man, and I won't allow you to discredit his memory.”

Tremont's eyes flashed a warning.