Tides of Honour (24 page)

THIRTY
-
FIVE

Despite his indifference, Danny found
the whole process of protests and “meetings” fairly interesting. Some of the men in the group were smart, and their tactics at making complaints known were impressive. Then there were others, subtle as hammers and just about as smart. Danny wished they'd stay behind or at least keep their mouths shut. Every time one of the intelligent ones said something, a stupid one would say another thing and bring the whole conversation back a step. When it happened one time, Danny just about hauled off and slugged the man behind him. The guy wouldn't shut up, just kept hollering, “More jobs! More jobs! More jobs!” But starting a fist fight wasn't going to help anything, so Danny just turned away in disgust.

Sometimes Mick's group, which wasn't really his anymore, tramped across town and camped outside the stately home of someone influential. They'd carry signs and spend a couple of hours yelling demands. The people in the house peeked through thick curtains, then dropped the material with a movement that could have signalled either fear or revulsion. Or maybe both. Danny didn't figure this kind of protest was ever going to lead anywhere, but as the months wore on, he didn't mind so much. It
wasn't nearly as unpleasant to stand outside now that it was March and was getting warmer. And he liked seeing the big houses on the south side, steeped in wealth and tradition. They were pretty to look at.

Tonight's planned protest was at a fundraiser, Mick had said. The socialites had gathered for an auction in one of the homes, celebrating the advent of spring, raising money for homeless shelters or something like that. The group of protesters stayed hidden around the corner, not wanting to raise suspicions until all the guests had arrived. They watched glamorous people alight from automobiles, dressed in long gowns and black suits, arm in arm, laughing as if they didn't have a care in the world. And they probably didn't, Danny thought.

What would that be like, not to worry? He hardly remembered. But if he really thought back, he could recall long, still nights in East Jeddore, where the stars were so endless they seemed to pour right into the sea, serving up an infinite shimmering of peace. He vaguely remembered playing around the fire with his friends and brothers when there was no such thing as war or explosives, when the idea of seeing a dead body was something spooky and exciting, like seeing a ghost. The memory seemed to lighten his shoulders. He recalled how he and Johnny—

No. He wouldn't think about Johnny.

The walkway in front of the home had been quiet for a while, suggesting the guests had all arrived. The protesters were getting restless. At a signal from their leader, they walked en masse toward the house, a simmering crowd in tired old greys and browns. Mick liked to walk up front, and Danny liked to walk with Mick, so he was one of the first to reach the front doorway. When they were there, Mick faced the crowd of twenty or so, giving them last-minute instructions.

Danny turned toward the front window and spied movement
within, a shifting of shapes unaware of the noise his group was about to make. The people inside had left the curtains open, probably to show off their beautiful view of the harbour, though the night was mostly dark due to wartime blackouts. Candles flickered throughout the room, casting an orange glow, darkening and lightening the shadows of the guests.

A sign was posted just inside the window, displayed on a music stand. Danny squinted, trying to see the list of items up for auction. His eyes skimmed absently down the tiny print, but he saw nothing because he wasn't really looking. He didn't really care.

Danny was bored. Life was one long, dull day for him now, with no hope of night. Never-ending drudgery. Mick and the little boys provided colour but not enough. He remembered how much Audrey had needed colour in her life, how the city had drained her. She had been right all along, of course. Danny knew he would have to go home to Jeddore soon. That was the only place he thought he might find what he needed. If he didn't, this endless day would go on and on.

Another music stand was set up beside the first one, and Danny shifted to his left to get a better view. It was a painting, he realized, of a soldier. The man was—

Danny stopped dead. He might as well have been dead, because his heart stopped, and his breath caught in his chest. It was a painting of
him
, as real as could be. It caught his tall build, the strong jawline and soft curl of brown hair. The way he tilted his head when he doubted something someone had said. The way he tucked his thumb into his waistband. And he saw the haunted, distrustful eyes Danny saw in the mirror every morning.

Audrey. Only Audrey could have done this. Danny jerked around, scanning the room beyond the window. Was she here somewhere? Was she—

Their eyes met at exactly the same moment, and their mouths fell open.

No one else was there in that instant, as far as Danny knew. Nothing else mattered.
Audrey
. Audrey was there. Audrey was alive, and she would forgive him. Oh, Audrey! He felt a smile rising to his lips for the first time in a long time. He would hold her again, and she would breathe in his ear, and he would admire the gentle curve of her throat as she stretched in the morning . . .

“Audrey,” he breathed, and was starting to reach for the door when she dropped the glass she was holding. She watched it fall; he heard it shatter from outside. And in the next instant, Pierre Antoine was there, offering her his handkerchief, patting the wet folds of her skirt in a manner far too personal for Danny's taste, saying something Danny couldn't hear.

Audrey didn't seem to notice Antoine. She ignored his words, only shaking her head briefly once or twice. She stared at Danny, lips still parted. Her hand started to rise, as if she reached for him, but Antoine took it and kissed her knuckles.

The pain that shot through Danny in that moment was worse, in a way, than when he'd lost his leg. When that had happened, he had lost one appendage. Seeing Audrey with another man, he lost all hope. He shook his head, backing away, and her eyes followed his. The candlelight caught the shine of tears in her eyes, but Danny didn't wait to see more. He turned away, pushing through the throng of protesters, ignoring Mick's shouts. His head pounded, his eyes blurred, and he knew only that he wanted to get away—
had
to get away. He limped down the dark street, aiming for anywhere.

He would leave tomorrow, hide in a schooner, run rum, probably drink it again as well. What did it matter? Who cared? His peg landed in a puddle and slipped a little, but Danny kept on.
Get away. Get away.

“Danny!”

He stopped but didn't turn. Her voice rang down the street, over the mutterings of the placard-holding crowd, twisting like a knife in his gut.

“Danny!”

She was nearer now, and he heard the quick
pat pat pat
of her shoes on the pavement as she ran toward him.
Please, Audrey,
he thought.
Please don't do this. Please. I can't. I can't bear it.

“Danny!” She was breathless; her voice sounded choked. He couldn't help himself. He turned toward her, eyes streaming.

“Oh, thank God, Danny! You are alive!” She ran without stopping until she could wrap her arms around his waist, fitting her body against his, where it should have been all along. “Danny, Danny, Danny,” she sobbed into his chest.

He held on to her, breathing her in, rubbing his sprouting beard against her hair, crying along with her. He thought he might lose his balance, but she was there; she had always been there. Always steadying him.

“Forgive me, Audrey,” he said. “Please, Audrey. I'm so sorry.”

She looked up, hiccupping on her sobs. “Oh, Danny. Of course I do. Of course! But I thought . . . Pierre told me you and Johnny were on the . . . the Known Dead list. He told me he saw your name there, and I couldn't bear to see it, so I never checked. He said—”

“Why would the son of a bitch—”

“Danny, hush,” she begged. “We have so much to talk about. Don't make it ugly.”

She was right. She always was.

“God, Audrey,” he said. “Every day I looked for you. I read the lists; I walked through the hospitals and morgues. I went to every place I could think of. You were never there. I looked, Audrey,” he said, trying to steady himself. “I thought you were gone. I'd lost hope.”

Audrey's eyes suddenly looked sad. “My name wasn't on any list?”

“No, not a one. And I read so many lists, my eyes just about fell out.”

She swallowed. “Pierre said he'd write my name down.”

Son of a bitch.
“I . . . I talked to him a long time ago. He told me you were dead, that he hadn't gotten around to adding your name to the list. Why would—”

“But he promised me!” she said, looking horror-stricken. “He said he saw your name on the Known Dead list, and he promised to put me on the Known Living list, in case anyone was looking.”

Danny looked into her eyes, feeling his strength come back, feeling hope tickle in his heart. “I've missed you so much, Audrey.”

But when he touched one soft cheek with his cold hand, she tilted her head self-consciously to the side, turning away just a bit, in a manner he didn't recognize.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Her hand pressed on the cheek she'd turned away. When he reached for her hand, she resisted. “No, Danny. It was the explosion. It—”

“I'm your husband, Audrey. I love you. I only want to take care of you. What happened? Can I see?”

Her eyes looked devastatingly beautiful and just as pained. She closed them, then slid her hand away, and Danny saw a straight pink scar, the path a piece of glass or metal had taken, cutting a deep gash in her cheek. She'd been lucky not to have lost an eye.

“Oh God, Audrey. Are you all right now? If only I'd known! Oh, please don't hide from me. It's all right. You don't have to cover anything in front of me. You know that. Here, how about we—”

A deep voice called Audrey's name, its source hidden by the dark street. Brisk footsteps came toward them, followed by the
muffled shushing and clacking of other shoes, and Audrey stepped away from Danny.

“Audrey!” a man called. “Are you all right? What's all this?” The voice gathered strength with every step. “You can't just leave a soiree like that. People will talk. Here. Who's this?” he asked, his voice hardening to annoyance when he spotted the man beside her, draped in worn and tattered clothing. The outline of shirt and pants was easier to see in the dark than Danny's face. The man stepped up beside Audrey and placed a protective arm around her waist, pulling her tight against him. “Is this man bothering you? Sir, leave the lady alone. How can I help you?”

Danny stared, his eyes hot from the fury boiling behind his eyes. His blood screamed, battling the restriction of his veins, demanding to be set free.
Antoine
. What was it Johnny had called him?
The fellow who looked at Audrey as if she were a cherry on an ice cream sundae.
Well, here he was with his crisp black sleeve hooked around Audrey—as possessive a posture as a man could show.

Danny stepped into whatever light the moon shared. “Good evening, Mr. Antoine,” he said, not bothering to disguise the hatred in his voice.

A small crowd of partygoers gathered, drawing protectively around Audrey. As if she needed protection from Danny. Did she? The group peered curiously at Danny, Antoine, and Audrey, eating up the scene with hungry eyes.

Antoine leaned toward Danny and frowned with suspicion, trying to make out his features. When he did, the Frenchman's face underwent a fascinating transformation. His eyes opened very wide then narrowed almost at once, and his mouth snapped shut. He had gotten thinner since the last time they'd met, and grown a moustache, Danny saw. And a short beard. Behind the facial hair, Antoine's lips were drawn tight, his nostrils flared. Like
a dog with hackles raised and teeth bared, prepared to defend its property.

So that was how it was, Danny thought. Fine. Danny was always up for a fight if it called him.

Except . . . how could he fight this?

Months before, Danny had—consciously or unconsciously—pushed his wife into the street through his selfish actions. He'd
hit
her. The explosion had obliterated any possibility of discussing and mending the problems that had plagued their marriage. She had been alone and injured, both physically and emotionally. And she was perfect for Antoine, whose entire family had been destroyed on that crisp December morning.

Danny's expression revealed nothing. He stared stonily at Antoine, measuring the man, wondering what he could possibly do to pry his wife from the grip of those wealthy, influential fingers. She was small beside the pristine black suit, hugging herself against the night chill, though Antoine held her tight. A glimmer of something on her chest caught the moonlight, and Danny saw what he thought was either an emerald or a sapphire. Something Danny would never have been able to afford over his entire lifetime. Her hair was curled into shiny coils, her makeup fashionably done. He'd never seen her wear makeup before. It made her seem a bit like a stranger.

“Danny,” she whispered.

She looked torn. As well she might. With Antoine she reaped the benefits of society and all a wealthy man could provide. With Danny she would maybe share a tiny apartment with Mick and his typewriter. Right now she was living a life of luxury, knowing no want, needing no one.

He took a breath, then blew it out quickly, mind made up. “I'm glad you're okay, Audrey,” he said, then turned and walked away, hands sunk in his pockets.

“Danny?” she called, his name almost lost in a sob.

Danny kept walking and didn't look back. If he stopped he might never move again, he thought. God, why hadn't the explosion killed him, saved him this pain? His throat thickened with dammed tears, and he held his breath to avoid swallowing. Tears started down his face, but he didn't brush them away. She would remember his straight back, his head held high. Sure, she'd see his limp. There was nothing he could do about that. But she wouldn't see him cry.