Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2) Read online

  Saving the Soldier’s Heart

  By

  Jane Beckenham

  The Emerald Quest

  Book 2

  Saving the Soldier’s Heart

  Copyright © December 2014, Jane Beckenham.

  NOTE: This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Emerald Quest Series

  About the Author

  Other books by Jane Beckenham

  Chapter One

  The eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month for the entire world was unforgettable. For Maggie Francis it was the day she chose to escape.

  Battling against the crowds, she tugged her thin, worsted coat tighter around her and clutched her battered leather bag. The hand-tooled initials were a stark reminder of what she’d lost, and brought instant tears to her eyes. All around her men and women danced, children laughed and ran amok. Everyone was ecstatic. Why wouldn’t they be? They’d survived four years of bloody battles and death.

  For Maggie it proved an anathema and she couldn’t get away fast enough. A hand groped around her waist, pulling her up hard.

  “’Ere let’s have a kiss.” The young soldier leered at her, his breath rancid from too much ale.

  Maggie jerked her elbow into his ribs and he let her go, growling as he spun away. His disappointment didn’t last as he latched instantly onto another woman in the crowd.

  Revelers were packed like sardines along the Mall, all heading for one place—outside the gates of Buckingham Palace to await the King’s presence. They had a right to be happy. Four years of war. Death. Destruction. Starvation. All ended. Over.

  But Maggie knew it wasn’t really over. People were still dying like flies—although now the second wave of what they were calling the Spanish flu had receded somewhat, the deaths had lessened. She’d seen too much death. Lost too many loved ones. This place. London. Home no more, it held too many sad memories. Keeping her gaze steadfast, she repeated her mantra in a silent wave. Start again. Afresh. Somewhere new. And Armistice Day was the perfect opportunity. Case in one hand and clutching onto the felt hat her mother had made with the other, Maggie pushed against the crowd like a salmon swimming upstream. Though happy this bloody war was over, she didn’t want to celebrate. She just wanted to leave.

  The train at St. Pancras station belched smoke from its smokestack, readying to leave. Maggie found her seat, stowed her bag and waited, back ramrod straight, hands linked in her lap.

  Today was the first day of her new life. A new adventure. A tiny tickle of nerves bubbled just under the surface. Digging into the pocket of her coat, she retrieved the singe page letter.

  Dear Miss Francis.

  I’m delighted to offer you the position of housekeeper for Mr. Abbott. He has recently returned from the front and is unwell.

  Please take the train from St Pancras to Bellerose in the village of Danesthorpe. A train ticket is enclosed.

  Sincerely, Mrs. Abbott.

  Folding the letter precisely, she returned it to her pocket. She knew nothing about this Mr. Abbott or his family, but her need to leave London overrode any hesitation. Escaping this world—which had gone crazy these last years—was paramount. Maggie stared balefully out the carriage window as the train jerked into motion and slowly edged out of the station heading for Derbyshire—and her new life.

  The journey was slow, stopping at every station. Crowds packed the platforms to welcome home returning soldiers. There was much singing, and dancing, and joy. Maggie couldn’t deny them their happiness. She understood the relief. As the train continued its journey, Maggie stared out at the wintry landscape. The first fall of snow, blanketing the land in a crisp white carpet. Oak and yew were already bare of leaves, their branches a deathly scratch in the pale horizon.

  At last the train came into the station.

  She had arrived and her new life was about to begin. Excitement and trepidation ran through her in tandem. Standing, she arched and massaged the tight muscles in her back and neck, then buttoned up her coat. She reached for her bag from the overhead rack.

  “You wanna ‘and with that, miss?”

  A young soldier approached. Bright, almost glassy eyes fixed on her, a trickle of snot running from his nose. Maggie reeled and clasped a hand across her nose and mouth. She’d seen those eyes before. Those symptoms. “No. No. I can manage.” She stumbled away, racing for the exit, hearing the young man’s hacking cough as she sped away.

  She knew the sound of that cough too. Knew the feel of the ‘hot’ eyes, the runny nose. Knew the nosebleeds.

  She’d survived while many hadn’t. Millions, or so the papers had reported.

  Maggie couldn’t comprehend millions.

  Out into the chilly afternoon, she walked briskly away from the train, trying desperately to stem her shaking. As she reached the exit, she stalled, expecting to see someone waiting for her. She retraced her steps. Perhaps she had missed them. The station was empty and outside the small wooden building, no one waited for her either.

  Uncertain what to do, Maggie waited. And waited. The station’s clock ticked away and night began to fall, cold creeping through her coat. Panic gripped her.

  Just then the stationmaster exited the guardhouse. “You still ‘ere. Who you waiting for?”

  “I’m not sure.” Maggie rummaged for the letter of employment. “I’m meant to be going to Bellerose.”

  “Really?” The man’s shaggy white brows rose. “What you doing up there?”

  “I'm looking after Mr. Abbott.”

  “That’ll be the day. The place is locked up tight, he sent everyone packing.”

  “But that’s impossible, this letter says I was to come.”

  “Well good luck, that’s all I can say. ‘E’s changed since...” The man shrugged, his mouth grim. “Suppose we’ve all changed since those bloody Germans picked a fight.”

  How true. She’d changed. Her dreams shattered. Her life broken apart.

  The man tipped his cap at her. “The house be that way.” He pointed up the winding snow-covered lane. “A bit of a walk, but if you start now, you’ll get there ‘afore this weather sets in.” He eyed the darkening sky. “Reckon we’re in for another snowfall. Bit weird this early, but then the world is a topsy turvey place these days.”

  For a few moments, Maggie simply watched the man walk away. She lifted her gaze skywards, and then redirected it down the narrow lane.

  Walk to the house? Or stay where she was?

  She had no choice. It was either walk, or freeze on the spot and she’d not survived the last four years to give up now.

  Clasping her case in one hand and tucking her handbag under the other arm, Maggie tipped her head down to ward off
the icy breeze and began to walk.

  Walking in snow had not been on her agenda and quickly her feet began to freeze in her tattered leather shoes.

  Finally, after what seemed an insurmountable walk as the snow drifts rose higher and higher, she reached the set of impressive wrought iron gates, guarded by stone carved peacocks.

  Thank God! The gates were not locked; in fact, the rusty latch fell to the ground at her touch.

  Maggie frowned. A large estate with such a grand entrance and yet, it appeared to be falling apart.

  Against the night sky the house appeared almost a ghostly shadow. Not one window offered a hint of what lay inside. The curtains were pulled across them all and closed off any soupcon of illumination.

  She took the snow-laden steps up to the front entrance, which was covered in the vines of a creeping rose, now dormant. She inhaled a deep breath. “This is it, Maggie. A new beginning.” She reached for the door pull and yanked it hard—and heard nothing. She tried again. And again and again.

  Was anyone at home?

  At her unspoken question, a flutter of nerves erupted once more. What if this was a mistake and no one was home, as the stationmaster had inferred? She had nowhere to go, having walked away from the only home she had known. There was no one left to go home to.

  The fall of snow increased, flakes dotting her cheeks and eyelashes in seconds. A shiver shimmied down her spine. The temperature had dropped by several degrees.

  There was no way she could stay outside in this weather. She had to do something. Anything. Fisting her hand she banged on the door. Again. And again.

  Finally, a light flickered through a gap in the curtain, and Maggie exhaled. Thank God.

  She knocked again.

  “Go away.”

  A voice. Male for certain. Her Mr. Abbott?

  “It is Maggie Francis, Mr....Mr. Abbott.” Teeth chattering, she stumbled over the words.

  “So go away.”

  “But...I can’t. Open up. I’m here as requested.”

  “Requested!” The door was flung open and Maggie gaped in astonishment.

  Her employer was not as she expected. Bedraggled would be an apt description. Dressed in dark trousers and a shirt that really needed laundering, his jaw unshaven for probably several days, hair in dire need of a trim, and eyes bloodshot. He stared resolutely at her.

  But it was not his dissolute state, but the vicious wound that slashed across his left temple and down to his jaw, a ridge of white puckered flesh and blisters and scabs.

  She quickly recovered. “Mr. Abbott, I presume?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Maggie Francis.”

  The man’s expression never flickered. “Is that supposed to mean something to me? What the hell do you want?”

  “I have your letter.”

  “My...? Look if you’re here for a hand out, I don’t give them.”

  “I’m here about my job.”

  The man’s unusual emerald green eyes darkened to the color of the forest surrounding Bellerose, and narrowed on her. “Job? What job?”

  “The one I’ve been employed to do. To look after you.”

  A sudden croak of whiskey-soaked laughter rumbled from his chest, and he smiled.

  Maggie swallowed. The man was demented. Surely, he couldn’t be her employer?

  “Nice try, Miss whoever-you-are. I never employed anyone. Now get the hell out of here.”

  “But I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Not my problem.” He went to close the door, but Maggie reacted and tossed her case at it, jolting the door from his grip. She scrambled up the last few steps and stood firmly in the doorway.

  “You cannot just throw me out. I’ve been asked to come. I can prove it.”

  His dark brows quirked, and though he was haloed by the faint glow from the few working bulbs in the immense chandelier, he was a handsome man, despite the brutal reminder of war.

  He waved her away. “Not interested.”

  “But you have to be.” She ripped off one of her gloves and dug deep in her coat pocket. “Here.” She shoved the letter toward him.

  His wary gaze switched to the letter in her hand. She pushed it closer to him. “Read it.”

  Saying nothing, his mouth set in a grim downturn, he took the letter.

  Maggie’s nerves fired, and she tucked her hand back in her pocket so that he wouldn’t see her shaking.

  For a moment he scanned the letter.

  “Your wife has signed it.”

  “Wife! I don’t have one.”

  “But that signature. It says Mrs. Abbott.”

  “I’m sorry for your trouble, Miss…” He glanced down at the letter, “Miss Francis.” He passed the letter back to her, “but it seems my mother has overstepped the mark.”

  “What mark?"

  “She is the writer of the letter.”

  “So go ask her.”

  “She’s in Scotland, very conveniently absent, I must say. I’m sorry, but your time has been wasted.” He pulled the door fully open and stood back as if he expected her to exit.

  Maggie stood her ground. “You can’t just send me packing. That’s not fair.”

  A guttural snort echoed from him. “Life is not fair, Miss Francis. Believe me, I know that for a certainty. Now, if you would excuse me, I have something I was doing.”

  Maggie sniffed loudly. “You stink of booze.”

  “That’s my business.”

  Maggie refused to budge. “It seems to me that you need me.”

  “You’re wrong. I don’t need anyone.”

  Desperation surged and she fisted her hands. She had to convince him. Somehow. “Really? Look at you. You’re drunk and it’s not even five in the evening. Your clothes are in dire need of cleaning and you look as if you haven’t slept for days.”

  “All true.”

  “So let me stay.” Please let me stay. Please. Maggie swallowed back her silent plea.

  His expression hardened. “No.”

  Hope shattered.

  Don’t give up.

  Maggie straightened, stared hard at the man she needed to convince. “Your mother obviously thinks you need help.”

  “She has no business in offering you employment.”

  “I’ve left my home.”

  “So go back.”

  “I can’t.” Not now. Now she needed to be strong. Determined. “My home is all gone. Everything.” Damn it, unbidden tears sprang and she quickly looked away, blinking them back. Don’t cry. Don’t be weak.

  “That is not my concern. Good afternoon, Miss Francis.” He spun away from her and it was only then as she watched him stumble across the marbled foyer that she realized he had other injuries. He was using a cane.

  “Mr. Abbott?”

  He hesitated, and the cane in his hand fell from his grip. She rushed to his aid, but he held up a hand and her footfall stalled.

  “I do not need your help, Miss Francis.” He scooped up the cane, face contorting with pain.

  Maggie took another step closer to him.

  He held up the flat of his hand. “One night, Miss Francis, and then you go.” He turned away and walked into another room, slamming the door behind him, leaving her alone, in the home of a man who definitely didn’t want her around.

  “We’ll see about that, Mr. Abbott,” Maggie sniffed. She closed the front door, shutting out the snowy landscape and listened.

  Silence reigned. No chaos of London, horns tooting, people rushing, uncaring. Pure glorious silence. Precious.

  But what now?

  She didn’t intend to give up this chance of a new life. She eyed the closed door to what, she supposed, was the lounge.

  It was no use going to him and asking where she should sleep, so she took the stairs to the first floor, opening each door along the hallway as she went.

  Near the end of the passage, she came to a room where a bed was the only one made up. Weary beyond exhaustion, Maggie dropped her ca
se where she stood.

  Shucking off her coat, hat and shoes, she eyed the bed. With an exhausted shrug she tugged the bed covering back, and not caring that she remained fully clothed, she climbed into it.

  Images of the day replayed in a blur, in her brain, the moment she laid her head back and closed her eyes.

  London. The soldiers. The cheering crowds coming from all directions. The joy and laughter. The sound of Prime Minister Lloyd George announcing the end of four years of hell.

  It was over.

  A single teardrop trickled down the side of her cheek. She swiped at it with the back of her hand but others followed, unhindered, until she tugged the blankets around her, rolled into a fetal position and cried until there were no more tears.

  ***

  The sound crept into his sub-conscious, recalling him from hell.

  She cried. Somewhere in this mausoleum he called home, that woman...Miss Maggie Francis who had turned up on his doorstep demanding to be let in, cried in loud, hiccupping sobs. The sound unnerved him, and edged beneath his conscience.

  Hauling himself up from the faded velvet sofa, Clayton stumbled across the room, his vision off-center. “Too much whiskey, you fool.”

  Spasms shot through his leg and his knee gave out. He grabbed at the back of a chair. “Never enough.” He spied his reflection in the mirror over the now dead fire. It was never enough to douse the pain, the memory of his dying comrades, or eradicate the visions of himself.

  Through barely open eyes he peered at the empty bottle on the sideboard. “Shit.” So were the other two bottles that chit Florrie had purchased.

  His brain clouded.

  When had it been?

  Last week?

  Yesterday. Only yesterday.

  “Drunk. You’re a drunk.” Clayton shook his head. Bad move. His head ached. Hell, everything bloody ached. He hurt inside and out.

  What he needed was sleep more than anything, although hell revisited his dreams most nights. He hobbled towards the stairs.

  Again a sound echoed from above and he stilled, staring toward the next floor. Still she cried.

  She has left everything.

  Guilt charged through him for an instant, but he shook it off. He couldn’t help her. He wanted no one near. Better he be the only witness of his descent into hell than let others be a spectator of his absolute destruction.