Page 17 of When Stars Dream at Midnight (The Midnight Stars Saga #3)

17

PETER

T he first several days after my return home, I slept a lot. The trip had been hard for me. My leg was still healing, and the jostling in rough waters kept me up many nights. I was also plagued with nightmares, reliving the worst moment of my life over and over again.

But the first time I climbed into the bed in the room of my childhood, I fell asleep and didn’t rise until noon the next day when our family doctor came to have a look at me. He examined me fully and deemed me as healthy as could be expected. “The cast will remain for three more weeks. After that, we’ll start your rehabilitation. Until then, force yourself to get around on your crutches as much as you can. Building your strength up is important. Once that cast is off, we can start working on your leg muscles.” He prescribed daily fresh air and to pay particular attention to my nutrition. “We need some meat back on those bones.”

After he left, Mother tried to convince me to have my dinner sent up, but in a moment of spunk, I insisted I could come down and join the family in the dining room.

“Are you sure you feel well enough?” Mother asked, fussing with the bedcovers.

“The doctors told me I had to jump back into a normal routine when I got home. They said the longer I lie around, the less likely I’ll recover my mobility.”

“Yes, all right. I’d be delighted to see your face at my table again. Would you like your father to help you dress?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“All the more reason to get up and on with things, I guess,” Mother said, leaning over to brush back a lock of my hair that had fallen over my forehead. “We’ll get you a haircut too, shall we?”

I chuckled, warmed by a Mother’s love. “I’m not one to argue with my mother.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, her brow furrowing with obvious worry. “When or if you want to talk about Diana, we’re all here for you.”

“I will. Just not yet.” As relieved as I was to be home, enjoying any of it felt like a betrayal to Diana, her family, and our unborn child.

“How is her family? I feel terrible for them.”

“They’re devastated,” I said, truthfully. “I don’t know if they’ll ever move on from their grief. She was very well loved.”

“I wish I could have met her.”

Diana’s family had come to visit me in the hospital, treating me with such kindness and asking for details more than once about their daughter’s last moments. I answered their questions as best I could, knowing that I would be the same should she have died while we were apart.

I told them of our last conversation, how excited we’d been for the future, which made her mother weep. Lord Hawthorne had patted my shoulder and thanked me for making her so happy.

I’d started to cry then, too broken to care about how I appeared to others. I did the same now, letting the tears flow from my eyes in bitter relief. “My heart’s broken, Mother. I don’t know how I’ll move on either.”

“You will. Somehow.” Mother held me close, stroking my back as she had when I was sick as a child. “But in truth, I feel that way too. Losing George had been…it’s impossible to feel anything but sad. He’ll never come home to us. I keep wondering why. Why did this have to happen?”

“But there’s no answer, is there?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“How’s Mireille?” I asked, wiping my eyes.

“She’s devastated about George. And, of course, this revelation about her parents has made it all worse. I think she feels very alone, even though she knows we’re here for her. She tries to hide how much she’s hurting, but we all hear her crying at night. It’s a sound that will haunt me the rest of my life.”

Mother got up and went to the window, where the shades had been pulled back, washing the room in the light of the golden hour just before sunset when the world still seemed full of possibilities, only to be dashed not much later when darkness nudged away all hope. “I understand why her mother and father and her biological mother made the choices they did, but for Mireille, it feels like a betrayal.”

“It’s an impossible situation,” I said.

“She didn’t open the trunk for months, perhaps intuitively knowing that the contents would turn everything in her life upside down. And then she did, and the letter explained everything.”

“And there’s been no word of Pierre?” I asked.

“No. He may still be alive—a prisoner of war—but we just don’t know. Mauve hadn’t heard from him since he’d been captured.”

My stomach tightened. “Mother, I saw some things—reports that came over my desk—about what they were doing to prisoners of war if they’re of Jewish heritage. He is most likely dead.”

She paled, clutching at the collar of her dress. “Oh, Peter. These awful people. Why would they do such things?”

“We can’t understand why. Maybe that makes us lucky. Regardless of what they do to us, we will never give up on kindness and compassion instead of a lust for power and fortune.”

Mother excused herself, promising to send Father up to help me dress. In years past, we might have had a valet or footman to aid me, but with all the young men at war, Father would have to do.

Father arrived, wearing his dressing robe. “I thought you might like a bath. Make you feel like a human again? Mrs. Burns has located an old metal basin, and Betsy showed me how to arrange the chair so we won’t get your cast wet.”

“Nothing sounds better.”

“But first, Betsy’s going to give you a haircut.”

“She knows how to cut hair now?”

“She’s taken care of a lot of soldiers in the last few years. Cutting their hair is something they often ask for. Makes them feel more like themselves.”

I understood that sentiment exactly. If only I could feel like myself simply by having my hair cut.

I sat in the middle of my room on a straight-backed chair draped in an old bedsheet Betsy had commandeered to protect my shirt. She stood behind me, scissors in hand, studying my overgrown hair with exaggerated seriousness.

“Goodness, you look like a hobo with this hair. Something must be done.”

I smirked, leaning back slightly. “Just don’t snip my ear.”

Her laugh was sharp but warm. “If you stay still, nothing of the sort will happen to you.”

Her hands were gentle as she combed and trimmed uneven ends with efficient snips. Stray locks fell to the floor in soft, golden-brown heaps. “My head feels lighter already,” I said.

“Much better.” She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “I told you to trust me.”

I reached up to run a hand through the shorter strands. “I have to admit, you’ve done as well as any barbershop I’ve gone to. Thanks.”

She rolled her eyes, placing the scissors onto the dresser. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve had to learn a lot of things the last few years. You want me to shave you?”

“Shave? With a blade?”

She laughed. “Ye of little faith. I didn’t cut your ear, now, did I?”

“Yes, fine. A shave would be welcomed.”

She retrieved a small bowl, a brush, and my razor from the washstand. Her movements were confident and practiced. How many men she must have helped over the last few years. “I’m proud of you, Bets. Working so hard. Learning so much.”

“It’s nothing, really. Anyway, it makes me feel useful, and right now, that gives me comfort.” She dipped the brush into warm water, swirled it over the shaving soap, and began to lather it in her palm until a rich, creamy foam appeared.

“You’d be surprised how many of my patients need a proper shave and how it can change their outlook. We all just want to feel normal again.” She tilted my head back gently, dabbing warm lather across my jaw and cheeks. The soap carried a faint scent of sandalwood, earthy and clean. I hummed with pleasure. “Feels good.”

She picked up the razor and leaned closer, her hand steady as she began to shave. The blade moved with practiced precision, gliding over my skin in smooth, careful strokes.

“All the boys must be madly in love with you,” I said after a moment.

“One or two. Mostly, though, they’re just grateful for someone touching them and caring about them. Some are so young, too. It breaks my heart.” She rinsed the blade in the basin and turned my head slightly to reach another angle.

“What about your amnesia patient?”

Her face lit up as a mischievous smile played on her lips. “Charlie’s still with us. The hospital’s given him a job, helping with the patients. He’s especially useful with the large men, moving them and such.” She explained that he was handy helping them with heavy lifting or particularly restless and confused patients who sometimes managed to hurt the nurses. “They don’t mean to, of course. Regardless, Charlie’s very popular with the staff, even though none of us know who he really is.”

When she said his name, her tone had become husky and a little dreamy. I’d never heard her have that particular inflection when she spoke of anyone else. “Have you fallen for him?” I asked.

“He’s ridiculously handsome and charming. But he has no idea who he is.”

“Can you love someone who doesn’t know who they are?” I asked philosophically.

“I don’t know.”

When she finished, she wiped my face clean with a damp cloth, inspecting her work critically before stepping back. “Much better, don’t you think?”

I reached up, feeling the smoothness of my jaw, the faint scent of sandalwood lingering. “I seem unscathed.”

A bitterness harshened her pretty features. “Hardly. None of us is unscathed. Not after these last few years.”

“I’m sorry, Bets.”

“About what?”

“George. I know you loved him like a brother.”

Her eyes glistened. “I did. Still do. Always will.”

I asked my sister the same thing I’d asked Mother. “How’s Mireille?”

Betsy hesitated before answering. “She’s tough, that’s what. Gets up and out of bed to go the office even though she’s wrecked from grief. This war has tested us, shown us who we are. It’s clear to me who she is, who George was, and who you are. All three of you are my heroes.”

“And you, Bets.”

She gave me a sad smile and kissed my newly shaved cheek. “Father’s going to help you take a bath before dinner.”

“Will do.” She turned to hand me my crutches. “And thanks.”

“Always.”

I sat on a stool in the steamy bathroom. My father, sleeves rolled up, tied a knot at the top of the plastic bag covering my cast.

“That should hold,” Father said, giving the makeshift barrier a final tug. “Let’s get you in.”

With Father’s help, I sat on the edge of the tub, carefully maneuvering my injured leg over the side. My cast rested on a folded towel on a chair just outside the tub, propped at an angle that kept it elevated and out of harm’s way.

“Comfortable?” Father asked.

“As comfortable as I can be.” I leaned back cautiously against the porcelain, embarrassed and feeling like a child instead of a grown man.

Father grabbed the pitcher from the counter, filling it with warm water from the tub. “Let’s start with your hair.”

The water cascaded gently over my head as he poured, careful to avoid any splashes. He worked a lather of soap into my hair as if he did this every day. “You’ve got a good head of hair.”

“For now. I half expect it to fall out after…” I didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need.

Once my hair was clean, Father shifted to my shoulders and arms, using a sponge to work the soap across my skin. The warmth of the water and his gentle touch nearly brought me to tears.

“I’m sorry you have to do this,” I said.

“Don’t be. Do you know how many men wish they had their boy back and had the privilege of helping them?” Father’s eyes filled, and he looked away for a second or two. Once he’d composed himself, he returned to the task at hand. “Lean forward a little.”

I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of soap and water. Such a simple pleasure.

“You won’t remember this—you were only a baby—but I used to give you baths every night.”

“Really? Not the nanny or Mother?”

“Only if I couldn’t make it home in time. I missed you so while I was at work and couldn’t wait to get home to see you. First thing after I got home in the evenings, I’d change out of my suit and then get you into this old tin basin—the same one my mother had bathed me in. You’d splash around and laugh while I scrubbed the day’s play off of you. Sometimes, I sang silly songs.” Father smiled, clearly lost in the memory. “Do you know, you were the biggest surprise of my life? Not your presence, but how it changed me. I’d had no idea how infatuated I would be with my baby boy. From the moment you were born, I was mad about you. I cherish every memory. Not just when you were a baby, but all your ages.”

“Yeah?” It was all I could manage.

“When I came back from the Great War, your mother was pregnant with you. You were born a few months after I got home.”

“You never talked about your time in the war.”

“I tried to put it behind me, which was impossible. Regardless of what a man wants to forget, some things are forever etched into his consciousness. In hindsight, I can see clearly that it would have been better to talk to your mother about what I’d seen. What I’d done. But I was under the false assumption that trying to forget my experiences and never speak of them would allow me to heal. It’s not that way at all. The opposite, in fact. The darkness clawed at me. Kept me apart from your mother. Then you came, and I held you for the first time—you were so tiny—and I knew I had to get myself together. You needed me.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying with all my might not to cry. “How did you do it?”

“I focused on you and your mother. Then our Betsy came, and I was as devoted to her as I’d been to you. Time moved along, as it does. We think distance and years will fix us, but that’s not really how it works. Instead, it’s loving those right in front of you as fiercely as you can, despite what you’ve lost. Love is the only way through the darkness.”

“I loved her so.” Tears spilled onto my already damp cheeks. “Diana was remarkable. And now I’ve lost her and the baby and George, and I don’t know how to put myself back together.”

He cupped my chin and kissed my forehead, as he had when I was a boy. “I wish I could do it for you, but I can’t. I can only love you and remind you that I’m here for you, and so is everyone else in this house. Lean on us. We’ll all get through this together.”

If only he were right. However, nothing was going to get me through this pain, this grief. I’d had a moment in the sun. Now, darkness had obliterated any light. Not even the love of my family could penetrate it.