Laura laughed darkly. “Well, then, all is forgiven, I suppose.”
· · ·
The retired eminence, Mary’s good old boy called Munster, lived in a soaring mansion in Mayfair. Laura, Mary, and Pim alighted from their taxi and were admitted into a lounge full of Benares brass, dark furniture, British and American uniforms. The room was monstrously hot.
Pim was pleased. “I’ve never met a general.” She was wearing black and looked heartbreaking. Every head in the room turned to mark her progress.
“They’re much like other folk,” said Laura. “Perhaps more self-important.” A bead of sweat rolled down her spine. The room was packed. Far too loud. It made her jittery. She made straight for the drinks cart, shot the nearest officer a smile. He mixed her a cocktail; she drank it off quick and got another, ignoring Mary’s disapproving look.
The general, Munster, matched his house. He was old, fussy, busy, his skin yellowed. His mustache was impeccable. He didn’t, Laura thought, look well. There was an odd flush on his cheeks, a glaze to his eyes, something strained in his bonhomie.
General Gage was far younger: not yet fifty, his accent faintly Irish and his manner quick and expansive. He circled the room with effortless charm. Laura could see why he was favored in General Headquarters, and in Whitehall; he was one of those people who listened with flattering attention, looked at you like nothing else mattered. He made the American officers—a rather stiff and dour bunch, very Methodist-looking—laugh uproariously, and then he circled round to Mary, Pim, and Laura.
His eyes fastened on Pim’s flawless face. “No one told me a trio of angels were come to grace our rough company.”
Laura tried not to look cynical. Pim appeared simultaneously flattered, delighted to make his acquaintance, and innocently unavailable. She’d probably practiced that expression in a mirror. Mary shook the general’s hand, smiling. Laura took a deep swallow of her cocktail. The lieutenant behind Gage was looking at Pim, visibly awestruck.
“Are these ladies your volunteers, Mrs. Borden?” inquired the general.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mary. She introduced Pim and Laura and then launched into a discourse about her hospital, its rich backers, its interested journalists, its good work.
Gage listened courteously, but when Mary wound down, he said, “What brings a fine lady like yourself across the sea, Mrs. Shaw? I honor your patriotism, but surely your family could not spare you.”
Mary pressed her lips together. Pim said, “I am a widow, sir. I wanted to—to honor my son, James, who has passed.”
Laura expected Gage to make sympathetic noises. Instead, he frowned. “James? A James Shaw, is that right? A Canadian?”
What was that in Gage’s face? Not quite recognition. Unease? Pim said, “Yes, indeed, sir. Is there a chance—I mean, could you have known—”
The bell for dinner interrupted her.
“Yes—perhaps? I—we shall speak…after dinner,” said Gage. “Lovely to meet you, ladies.” He strode away.
“Maybe he knows something about Jimmy,” said Pim, with bright hope in her face.
Laura doubted it. He was probably just hungry. “Anything is possible. Come on, I want my supper.”
· · ·
As they went in to dinner, Laura told herself, sternly, that there was no call to despise General Gage. It wasn’t his fault that he was well dressed and well fed, well mannered and effortlessly charming. That he commanded his army from a comfortable château, that for him losses were numbers in ledgers, a question of mathematics.That he would probably be created a peer after the war. It was just the way of things. She needed another drink.
As they were all sitting down at the dining table, a pleasant, rather silly voice at Laura’s elbow said, “Idoremember you. It’s Iven, isn’tit?”
It was the lieutenant, the aide who’d stood behind General Gage and stared at Pim with such ardent admiration. He had unfortunate jug-handle ears, a slim, overbred face, and an exquisite cut to his clothes. His eyes were already moist with wine. Hastily, Laura searched her unreliable memory. But the only association that came with that face, vague as smoke, was nonsensical:asparagus.
“Yes, sir. My name is Laura Iven,” said Laura. “I was a nurse with the CAMC.”
The lieutenant saw her blankness, and said, with a disarmingly toothy smile, “Name’s Young. You don’t remember, I imagine. We met in ’15, you know. When Fritz—”
“Yes, I remember,” said Laura, suddenly recalling. Asparagus indeed, the poor man. “How do you do, sir?”
“Can’t complain,” said Young, heartily. “I’m on my uncle’s—I mean—the general’s staff now.” His eyes strayed sideways to Pim. “Is this your first time in London, Mrs. Shaw?”
Pim looked round and he immediately flushed up to his hairline. But Pim was unruffled. “Yes, it is. How nice to meet you. Laura and I were so pleased to be invited tonight.”
Young was still pink. “Pleasure’s mine.”
The conversation proceeded predictably. Young was delighted that they’d be at Couthove, and that Pim was afraid of horses. “Don’t worry,” he said, finishing his wine. A little swagger had come into his voice. “I could teach you to ride. You’ll be jumping gates in no time.” Self-importantly, he added, “My uncle and I are going back day after tomorrow. Can’t linger at home too long, not these days.”
