Page 16 of When Stars Dream at Midnight (The Midnight Stars Saga #3)

16

MIREILLE

O n the first day of the year, I woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed, clutching the blanket against my chest. I’d had a dream of Peter. The details of which were fuzzy but had left me with a feeling of dread that lived in the back of my throat. We’d not heard from him since before Christmas, but Mrs. Westbrook had written to him about George’s death. The letters took so long to reach us and vice versa. It might be weeks before he heard the devastating news. Somehow, that idea that he didn’t know filled me with great anxiety. He might not forgive himself for going about his life, getting married, and spending a happy time together with her family, and all the while, his best friend was dead.

Knowing Peter, he would wonder why it hadn’t been him and not George.

The last few weeks, the house had felt more like a mausoleum than a warm and loving home. Memories of George lurked in every corner.

As deep as my grief was, it did not alleviate the worry I had over Mrs. Westbrook. She rarely left the house, her once impeccable appearance now replaced by disheveled hair and a housecoat. She seemed in a fog, walking ghostlike through the house, leaving Mrs. Burns to take care of the day-to-day decisions.

Betsy had taken on even more hours at the hospital. She came home after eight most nights, eating a warmed-up plate of food in the kitchen. She’d grown too thin, with circles under her eyes that deepened with each passing day. Lately I could not see even a glimpse of the athletic, optimistic girl I’d met all those years before. I suspected she pushed herself so hard at the hospital in some attempt at atonement for something that wasn’t her fault. We’d loved George, and he’d loved us. He was gone and we were still here. Regardless, none of us could be blamed for his death. We could put that firmly in the hands of evil, power-hungry leaders.

Like Betsy, I took on more hours at the office. While I was there, surrounded by never-ending mounds of paperwork to translate, I could lose myself in the work. However, grief hit me hard on the train ride home and followed me into the house, turning Mrs. Burns’s good food into sawdust in my mouth. In the evenings, I held myself together for the others’ sake. I had this sense that if I showed them the depths of my grief and despair, it would make things worse for my dear Betsy and the two people I now thought of as second parents. Thus, I’d use the excuse of an early morning and retire not long after dinner so that I could finally let the tears flow without them knowing. After I’d bathed and brushed my teeth and put on my flannel nightgown, I’d crawl between the sheets where I could cry my eyes out, clutching my pillow tightly to muffle the sound.

Like Betsy and me, Mr. Westbrook threw himself into his work at the factory, but he seemed to move with less vigor. His voice, once booming and full of life, had quieted. The sparkle that used to dance in his eyes had disappeared.

On a Saturday morning several weeks into January, Betsy and I sat together in the parlor, sipping tea by the fire, the flames offering little comfort against the pale, weak light of a winter that dragged on and on. I had a book in my lap but couldn’t concentrate. Betsy had the newspaper open on the coffee table, reading God knew what about this horrendous war.

A sharp knock on the front door sent a jolt through me. Betsy and I exchanged a glance that could be described with no other word than terror. Was it another telegram?

A moment later, Mrs. Burns entered the room, holding a piece of paper delicately, as though it might explode in his hands. “A telegram for the family,” she said softly.

Betsy rose first, taking it from her with steady hands. Her calm exterior never wavered, though I could see the tension in her shoulders.

I couldn’t breathe as I watched her fingers slide under the seal, pulling out the folded paper. Her eyes scanned the lines quickly, her face unreadable at first. Then, she closed her eyes and let out a long breath. “It’s about Peter.”

“Peter?” I leaned closer, my voice trembling. “What is it?”

She placed a hand on mine to calm me. “He’s alive. He was injured in a bombing. They say he’s stable, but…he’s in the hospital in London.”

A flood of relief rushed through me, my hands shaking as I reached for the telegram. Lieutenant Peter Westbrook injured in London bombing. Recovering in hospital. Condition stable. Will update on transport.

I let the paper fall into my lap, a tear slipping down my cheek. He was alive. Hurt, but alive. “Transport? Does that mean they’re sending him home?”

“Yes, but why wouldn’t he go to his wife’s family’s home?” Betsy wrung her hands, backing into the couch. “Unless something’s happened to her. They worked in the same building together.”

“Oh, God.”

Betsy nodded, her mouth pressed into a grim, thin line. “I’ll tell Mother and Father.” She stood, pausing for a moment to press my shoulder gently. “We’ll know soon enough.”

After she left, I sat staring at the telegram, my mind racing. Relief warred with fear. How badly was he hurt? What would it mean for him? Had his Diana been killed? And why did the war seem determined to strip away everything and everyone we loved?

The news of Peter’s impending arrival seemed to wake Mrs. Westbrook from the fog. She rallied all of us to get prepared for his return, seeming to return to at least a version of her former self. For the first time since George’s death, Mrs. Westbrook was up and dressed before Betsy and I came downstairs to leave for work. In the weeks following the telegram, Mrs. Westbrook threw herself back into working with the Red Cross and managing the household. “Peter mustn’t come home to find me an utter mess,” Mrs. Westbrook said to me one evening. “I’m ashamed of how I’ve been behaving. George would expect better of me.”

“You’ve been doing the best you could,” I said, holding out my arms to embrace her, this woman who had become a mother to me, just as she had to George. “No one could blame you for mourning in your own way, especially not George.’

An evening a few weeks after the telegram came, we received a letter from Peter that didn’t answer any of our questions but gave us a better understanding of what had happened to George. He’d come across the report of George’s last minutes and shared with us the details of his bravery. I must have read the letter from Peter a dozen times, relishing the description of George’s heroism, so enormously proud of him and to have been his wife. We also learned that Diana was pregnant. The news about the baby filled me with dread. Had Peter lost his wife and unborn child just after writing to us? How could the world be this cruel?

Then, several days later, we got another letter from him—this one dated just days after the first one he’d sent. We were all gathered in the parlor when Betsy came in with it in her hand. “It’s from Peter.”

“Read it to us, sweetheart,” Mr. Westbrook said, crossing the room to sit next to his wife, taking her hand in his own. “Please.”

Betsy unfolded Peter’s letter with trembling hands. She cleared her throat, but her voice wavered as she began.

Dear Mother, Father, Betsy, and Mireille,

By now, you’ve received the telegram about my injury. I’m recovering after surgery to my leg, which was crushed in the bombing. Diana was with me and did not make it. They found her buried in rubble. She’d just come from spending time with her family, where she’d told them our happy news about the baby. I’d promised to take her to our favorite pub to celebrate the holiday. Soon after we were seated, ready to enjoy a warm meal, a bomb fell, killing a dozen and injuring many more. Much of the neighborhood was destroyed, including the apartment building where we lived.

My convalescence will take months, and the doctor has said it will have to be done at home. I will no longer be able to serve here in London, but I’m hopeful they’ll find a position for me in the States once I’m better. The doctors tell me I’ll walk again, though likely with a limp. As I said, I’ve undergone surgery and am being transferred back to the States as soon as I’m cleared to travel.

I should arrive in Greenwich at the end of February. I’ll send a telegram when I know the exact date.

With all my love,

Peter

For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of Peter’s words, of his loss, rendered us speechless. I stared into the fire, my mind reeling. Peter had sounded so happy in his letters about Diana, despite the war. He’d been in love and looking forward to a future. And now to learn there had been a baby growing inside his wife? To have it all snatched away so suddenly? How would he recover?

Mrs. Westbrook moaned a sharp, heart-wrenching sound, and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “My poor boy. A baby. His young wife. It’s too much to bear.”

Betsy sank into the sofa beside me, her hands shaking, and stared down at the letter as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d just read. Mr. Westbrook rose abruptly and stomped to the bar to pour himself a drink, cursing under his breath. When he turned back to look at us, his face had reddened. He was angry, I realized. He’d had enough. “Diana was to have had a baby. A grandchild for us. After all this horror, something good and pure. And now, here we are again. One more blow.”

Betsy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “They keep coming, don’t they?” Her tone was so bitter, and her expression scathing that they took my breath away. What was this war turning us all into?

Mr. Westbrook, drink in hand, went to stand at the front window, looking out at the yard I suspected he could not see.

Mrs. Westbrook sobbed quietly, clutching her handkerchief. “My poor boy,” she said again.

I looked down at my hands, clenched tightly in my lap. My own tears slipped down my cheeks, but I made no move to brush them away. Dear, faithful, steady Peter. He deserved so much better than this. Such a fine person. A perfect son and brother and my fast friend. Now, he was coming home to us, broken but alive.

Looking around the room at the remnants of what remained of the Westbrooks, I realized how shattered we all were. There was only one way forward. Only one way to have any semblance of healing. We had to support one another. At the moment, I would have to be the strong one. It was up to me to remind them that we were all still here. A family.

Standing, I strode over to stand in front of the fire. “We will be here for him. Mrs. Westbrook, you’ll love him and comfort him. Betsy, you will nurse him back to health. I’ll get him back on Apollo. Mr. Westbrook, you can give him work to do while he recovers. Something to take his mind off his grief, just as Betsy and I have found in our work. We’ll somehow manage to stay strong for him. We have to. He needs us more than he ever has, and we cannot let him down by showing him how sad and battered we are. He’s going to come home to a world without George.” My voice broke, but I didn’t stop. “It will sink in when he comes home and sees that George will never ever walk through that front door, full of mischief, grinning like a fool from the pure joy he found in life. And it will compound his grief over his wife and child. He’ll think he cannot withstand it, but he will because we will be here to love him. Just as you all have for me.”

Betsy nodded, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve. “Yes, you’re right. We have to fake it so that we’re all fine, and maybe in doing so, we’ll find a little relief.”

Mr. Westbrook turned from the window, his expression grim. “I agree with you both. It’s not the time for self-pity. Not when our boy will need us.”

Mrs. Westbrook nodded. “We’ll love him back together—put all those broken pieces back where they belong.”

Yes. And in doing so, we might put ourselves back together as well.

Please, God, let it be so.

At the train station, Betsy and I held tight to each other, the unforgiving February weather that chilled a person to their very bones, gray and dim. No leaves on trees. Nothing yet sprouted from the brown earth. Mr. Westbrook and Mrs. Westbrook were next to us. All four waiting, holding our breath, wondering if he really would step off the train or if it was all a dream.

We heard the whistle of the train first, then saw the smoke before it roared into the station, a thunderous cacophony of grinding steel and hissing steam. Brakes squealed sharply, and smell of hot metal and coal smoke filled my nostrils. Steam billowed from beneath the engine as the doors creaked open. Passengers began disembarking, some hurrying past with their heads down, others lingering to greet loved ones.

My heart thudded, scanning each face, desperate to find Peter and yet frightened too. Until there he was. Peter. Hobbling on crutches and his left leg in a cast. His uniform hung from his thin frame. His once-strong, athletic, healthy glow had faded, leaving behind a sallow gray complexion. Hollows beneath his eyes were stark against his sharp cheekbones. More disturbing than his appearance, perhaps, was the way the life seemed to have been leaked out of him. This was not the Peter who had left us that day, that now seemed a lifetime ago.

“There he is,” Betsy said. “Peter, here!”

Beside me, Mrs. Westbrook let out a soft cry, pressing a hand to her mouth. Betsy took a step forward and launched herself into his arms. Peter wrapped her in a hug before turning to his mother and doing the same.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Peter said. “Mother, are you well? You’re so thin. Both of you.”

“We could say the same of you,” Betsy said. “Don’t worry, though. Mrs. Burns will fatten you up in no time.”

“I’ve not held up well since we learned about George.” Mrs. Westbrook dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve taken it hard.”

“We all have,” Betsy said, glancing my way.

Mr. Westbrook took his turn, enveloping his boy into his wide chest, both of them sobbing at the sight of each other.

“My dear boy. My dear, dear boy,” Mr. Westbrook said, his hands cupping Peter’s gaunt face.

“Father.” Peter pressed his cheek against the shoulder of the older man’s tweed jacket and closed his eyes. “It’s good to see you.”

Finally, Peter shifted his gaze to me.

“Welcome home, Peter.” I smiled, suddenly shy, and held out my hands. He returned my smile, taking my hands as his gaze lingered on my face, perhaps seeing in me what I saw in him.

“Thank you, Mireille.” He gathered me close. “I’m sorry about George. I almost thought he’d be here.”

“I know what you mean. Sometimes, I swear I see him at home, coming around a corner, and then I remember all over again.” I looked into his eyes that no longer sparkled with intelligence and empathy. Instead, he simply looked tired. “I’m sorry about Diana and the baby.” I wanted to say so much more. Like, I wish I didn’t, but I understand how you feel. How the loss just follows you around every moment of the day and in the middle of the night when the darkness works into your heart, pumping black blood through your body. And how mad you are at God. How sick you feel knowing you’ll never hold them in your arms again or hear them laugh. Or meet their gaze from across the room and have your knees weaken.

But I didn’t say any of it. Yet, as it had always been between Peter and me, I knew he heard it all anyway.

“Me too,” Peter whispered. “Me too.”