Time for Silence

“Oh!” she said mockingly. “Dear Lucinda, Robert adores you and you adore him. You’re the perfect match. You’re so alike. When you marry him, you’ll go down to the country, have ten children and be the perfect married couple who’ll live happily ever after.”

“Annabelinda, will you stop arranging my life?”

“I’m not arranging it. I’m just saying what it will be—and it will be the best thing for you.”

“Are you adding clairvoyance to your many accomplishments?”

“I am just being logical and seeing what is right under my eyes. You look really cross. Do you want me to go?”

“Yes…if you are going to foretell the future. Why don’t you look to your own?”

“I do, Lucinda. I do all the time.”

I looked at her steadily. I could see how her mind worked. She had taken a great fancy to Marcus Merrivale. His family was rich and socially desirable, while he himself was so attractive—a perfect combination. She was hoping to see him again, to enchant him—something which she felt herself capable of doing—and she was just a little fearful that, simply because of the advantage I had of being the niece of his superior officer, I might have opportunities that were denied to her.

I laughed at her, but after she had gone I began to think of the implication of what she had said.

Was it true my family was eager for me to marry Robert? I knew they would welcome it, because they were fond of him. And Robert? He had been very tender and a little cryptic…if one could imagine his ever being so. He had intimated that if I were older he might propose marriage to me.

The thought gave me a pleasurable, comfortable feeling.

Perhaps I was flattered. I liked Robert very much. On the other hand, images of Marcus Merrivale kept intruding…I remembered him on the road to the border between France and Belgium…traveling to Calais between France and Belgium…traveling to Calais…and later in our own drawing room.

I was rather excited because Annabelinda clearly saw me as a rival.

Christmas had come: a Christmas of curtailed activities. There was a war on and people remembered that earlier it had been said it would be over by Christmas; and here was Christmas and the war was still with us.

The easy victory was not to be. Some of the wounded were being brought back across the Channel, and still it went on.

From the first, my mother had been deeply involved in charities. Now she saw an opportunity to do more.

It was in April of the following year that she had the idea of turning Marchlands into a hospital for wounded soldiers.

Marchlands was convenient. It was not too far from the coast or from London. It was in a good situation, surrounded by forest, and the pure air would make it ideal for convalescence. The house was large and suited to the project.

There was a great deal of excitement; my mother was completely absorbed. My father, of course, would have to stay in London during the week, but he could come down for weekends. The household would be moved down there. Two doctors would be employed with several nurses. Miss Carruthers and I could be of use. We were not trained, of course, but there were lots of jobs to be done in a hospital which did not demand that skill. We were all caught up in it. There were journeys to and from Marchlands. Everything seemed to have been overshadowed by the plan—even the war.

It was in May when Marcus came again. He was with Uncle Gerald and they were both preparing to leave for Gallipoli in a few days’ time, although the week before they had just come back from France.

It was a lively meal we had, with Uncle Gerald and Marcus talking most of the time about military matters. Uncle Gerald had always been like that, my mother had told me once. He loved fighting battles on the tablecloth with the pepper pot representing some fortress and the salt for the guns. He would pick up some dish to stand for the opposing forces.

My father listened intently. He was very preoccupied these days. There was anxiety in high places. The war was not proving as easy to win as some had calculated.

“The whole operation is to relieve the Russians,” Uncle Gerald was saying. “That’s why we are coming to grips with the Turks on the Dardanelles.”

“Fisher doesn’t approve,” said my father. “And you know he is in charge.”

“That’s bad,” said Uncle Gerald. “The First Sea Lord creating the wrong impression.”

“Churchill’s opinion is that a combined military and naval operation could knock Turkey out of the war.”

“That’s what we’re aiming to do.”

“This will be a little different from France,” said Marcus. “We’re getting tired of trench warfare.”

“An awful way to go to war,” agreed Uncle Gerald. “Living like troglodytes almost. Dodging the enemy instead of going out to fight him.”

Afterward I had a few words with Marcus in the drawing room.

“When are you leaving?” I asked.

“Any moment. When the call comes. One is never absolutely sure.”

“How uncertain everything is in wartime!”

“I believe, dear Lucinda, that it can even be so in peacetime.”

“Do you think it will soon be over?”