Free The Wild Dark Flowers by Elizabeth Cooke

alcohol. . . .”
    Atticker must have reached the same line now. He gave a derisory guffaw. “You know of course that the Banburys come from Nonconformist stock in Gloucestershire.”
    “Do they?” William asked, puzzled.
    Atticker tapped the letter. “Teetotal. But they can’t stop a fighting man drinking. Quite unnatural.”
    He went on reading. Banbury had not described specific incidents, for that would have been censored, but he spoke of Harry’s reaction to them.
“We have found him sleepwalking; he does not seem to eat very much. . . .”
    Atticker at last put down the letter. “You’ve spoken to the boy?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Need my advice?”
    “If you don’t mind.”
    Atticker considered a moment before replying. “We’ve sent last-century troops into this war with last-century tactics,” he said at last. “Tactics of the sort that we used against the Boers and Zulus.”
    “It worked for us then.”
    “Indeed. But it won’t work now. This is a war of machines. We are sending cavalry against machine guns. The laws are being rewritten out there; it’s a young man’s game. And Harry is a young man, making up this war as he goes along. He’s got no lines to follow, no rules. We’re banging them up there, William, in these cardboard and tin planes, and these boys survive by wits and cunning. They have to be reckless to be alive.”
    “And so . . .”
    Atticker folded the letter, and gave it back to William. “Banbury says that Harry has a week’s leave. Take the boy out riding. Fishing. Something peaceful. Or let him rest. It’s all you can do.”
    “Banbury asks me to speak to him.”
    “I’d advise against it. Don’t let on that his CO has written. It’s not a reprimand, it’s information. Most irregular—one would hardly credit that Banbury has the time. But keep it to yourself. It would just inflame Harry, that’s my guess.”
    The two men walked to the door, and Atticker put his hand briefly on William’s shoulder. “And if I were you,” he added, smiling, “I wouldn’t tell Octavia about this either. We mustn’t make the dear ladies overly anxious, must we?”
    *   *   *
    B y noon, Harry and Octavia had returned to Rutherford.
    As it was still an hour before luncheon, they parted company on the stairs, and Octavia went to her room.
    Here, she flung off her coat and sat down with a sigh in the armchair. Amelie was soon at her side. “May I get ma’am anything?”
    “No thank you,” Octavia replied. “Don’t bother with my hat—I shall do it myself. Please come back in a half hour and bring my afternoon dress then.”
    “As you wish, ma’am.” And Amelie was gone, closing the door softly behind her.
    Octavia sat stock-still for a few seconds and then, “My
God
,” she gasped in exasperation. She tore off the hat, scattering the long peacock-tailed pin that kept it in place. She threw her gloves on the floor.
    It was not just Ferrow’s attitude at Blessington that infuriated her so; it was not just that awful feeling that crept up on her whenever Harry was home—the feeling that the longed-for event was come and was fleeting away too quickly—no, it was not just that. It was not even that she had to bear William’s puzzled, inquiring looks, as if he was trying to see into her soul.
    The source of her frustration was much deeper.
    Sometimes she would sit in her bedroom and think of John Gould—think of him here, with his hands on her; think of the things that he had told her. Think of the things he had done. At such times she felt cold, and every bone in her body ached as if she were carrying an enormous weight. It wasn’t only a physical longing; it was a need for John’s cheerful outlook on life—his enthusiasm, his humor. She wanted to hold his hand; she wanted to hear his voice.
    And there was a secret about them both: a secret brought into this house, and hidden in this very room.
    John Gould had been writing to her for months.
    Amelie,