Page 18 of When Stars Dream at Midnight (The Midnight Stars Saga #3)

18

MIREILLE

A fter Peter’s return home, the harsh weather of midwinter hung around like a stubborn, unwanted guest despite the lengthening days. Regardless, we all continued on with our routines, doing our best to keep our spirits up. Our fields remained blanketed in snow. Trees stood bare, their branches like spindly limbs against a cloudy sky.

The weather seemed a metaphor for our household. We all seemed to be waiting for something. We just didn’t know what it was.

Mrs. Westbrook told me that while we were all at work, Peter spent most of his days in the library. He read everything he could get his hands on, losing himself in pages of classic novels and history books. Each day, he looked a little better. Color returned to his cheeks. Mrs. Burns’s good cooking gave him back some of the weight he’d lost, so that he no longer looked as ragged and thin. His eyes, though, remained dim and guarded. I missed the intelligence and humor that had once made his blue eyes sparkle, despite his reserved nature.

By the time March rolled into April, Greenwich began to stir with the first hints of spring. Packed snow melted into muddy rivulets that carved through the fields, with only an occasional mound still left from where the snowplows had cleared driveways and roads. Crocuses and snowdrops pushed through the damp earth along the garden paths, their delicate blooms a sign that new life would come again. Our trees wore a faint haze of green as their buds began to swell. Clusters of daffodils grew in sunny patches near the edge of the woods.

On Saturday, Mrs. Westbrook asked if I would like to go out to the cemetery with her to put flowers on George’s mother’s grave. “It’s her birthday today.”

“Yes, I’ll be happy to go with you.”

“The doctor’s coming to remove Peter’s cast later this afternoon,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “But we’ll be back before then.”

We agreed to leave within the hour.

Mrs. Westbrook carried a bouquet of hyacinths for Bernie, cradling them in one arm. We meandered past neatly kept graves, the morning air smelling of grass and damp earth.

“Here they are,” Mrs. Westbrook said, stopping in front of a tombstone.

We stood for a moment, gazing at the simple stone marker. Bernice (Bernie) Winchester, Beloved Wife and Mother, 1900-1936.

Next to her, George’s father’s stone matched hers in style and size. Robert Winchester, Husband and Father, 1898-1936.

Mrs. Westbrook knelt to place the flowers at the base of the marker. “Bernie loved hyacinths. She said their fragrance made her think of spring, of renewal. We used to walk the woods together, and she was forever stopping to smell them.”

I crouched beside her, my eyes tracing the engraved letters on the stone. “Tell me about her. How did you first meet?”

Mrs. Westbrook’s gloved fingers brushed over the edge of the stone. “Like you and Betsy. At school. We instantly loved each other, even though we were opposites. She was outgoing and funny, whereas I was more serious. She made me laugh harder than anyone ever had. If not for her, I’d never have met William. She convinced me to go to a party during the holidays. I’d not wanted to go but did it for her sake.”

“Why did you change your mind about going out?”

“You know, I honestly have no idea. Thankfully, I decided to go and there he was. My William. Bernie met Robert that same night. Isn’t that something?”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and looked out over the rows of graves. “George talked about his parents sometimes. Not often. I had the feeling it still hurt too much.”

Mrs. Westbrook nodded, adjusting her hat. “George took it hard. How could he not? Losing them at the same time and so unexpectedly? It was tragic. Although I’ve been thinking lately that it probably would have killed them both to lose their only child. So maybe, in the end, it was a blessing that they went first.”

“I wish I could ask him what I should do about this family I never knew I had. Should I reach out or stay away? George would have an opinion, don’t you think?”

“What do you think he would say?” Mrs. Westbrook asked.

I thought for a moment, picturing him in my mind, the way his dark eyes would have grown serious as he contemplated. “I think he would have said that family is a precious gift, no matter how they come to you. To have the chance to meet the woman who sacrificed so much to give me a good life should not be passed by.”

“And what would you say to him?”

“I’d say he was bossy and that things aren’t nearly that simple. But inside, I would know he’s right.”

“Losing his parents gave him a perspective other young people might not have,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “We never know how much time we have left with those we love.”

“Yes, he was always the optimist, despite everything he’d lost. I found that quality the most impressive of all.”

“When you’re ready, you’ll know.” Mrs. Westbrook turned toward me and brushed a tuft of my hair away from my face. “And we’ll all be here for you when you feel the call to meet her.”

“It feels like a betrayal to my parents.” There, I said it. “And I’m mad they put me in this situation. One that there is no right answer to.”

“I wish I could offer you comfort or answers. When Bernie and her husband died, I just couldn’t understand it. There was no way to make sense of such a pointless tragedy. Going on with life, raising her son—all of it felt wrong. However, it’s what she’d asked of me, so I did it as best I could. I loved George, not only because Bernie asked me to but because he became as dear to me as my own children. Anyway, how could anyone resist the boy?”

“Certainly not me.” I smiled, thinking of George wooing me senseless. “He told me once that you and Mr. Westbrook anchored him and gave him a safe place to land when he needed it most. You’ve done the same for me.”

“In both situations, it was my honor to take you into my home and love you when your own mothers were no longer here to do so.” She sighed, glancing up at the sky. “Bernie would’ve adored you. How delighted she would have been to see George’s choice for a wife and how much you loved each other. You would have become like a daughter to her. As you are for me.” She knelt, brushing a stray leaf from Bernie’s headstone. “It’s interesting—mothering—how it’s required of us so often to love another’s child when they can’t. I’ve been blessed to raise two precious souls who were not made from my own flesh and bones but are mine just the same. What better calling could one have than that?”

Swallowing against the newly formed lump in my throat, I linked my arm through hers. “Being part of this family has given me a reason to go on. Thank you for taking care of George and me all these years.”

Mrs. Westbrook clicked her tongue. “I haven’t done well lately, providing support or comfort to you. My own grief nearly carried me away.”

“I understand. Truly. Don’t ever be sorry for loving my George and missing him. He deserves to be mourned.”

“When I think about how he spent his last minutes on this earth, I am so proud of him, yet a part of me, the mother part, wishes he had been a little more selfish. Maybe he’d still be here.”

“I’ve thought the same thing many times. But that wasn’t George. He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he hadn’t acted with honor when it mattered most.”

“Yes, you’re right. Of course.”

“But it hurts so much. Knowing he’s gone and won’t ever come back.”

“Yes, it hurts to know we’ll not see that grin of his again.” Mrs. Westbrook looked back at the gravestone. “However, I know from losing Bernie, who was like my sister, that my memories keep her alive. Even though I can’t physically see her, I know she’s there. And it’s the same for George. He’s with us. I feel his presence all around me. In fact, he’s the one who told me to get up out of bed and, fix my hair, and get dressed. He reminded me that the children I still have need me.”

“We do.”

Side by side, we stood in silence, the hyacinths bright against the weathered stone, their scent drifting on the breeze as the morning sunlight filtered through budding trees. And then, right then, I felt George standing next to us. I glanced to my left, expecting to see him there, but instead, I saw only a pretty fox hovering just outside the fence, reddish-orange coat shining in the spring light. His tail, bushy and full, had a white tip. He tilted his head, gold-green eyes peering at me. Black-tipped ears twitched as if I’d spoken to him.

Ah, yes, there you are.

Before I could approach him, he darted away, graceful and light on his feet, leaving no traces of his existence behind.

When Mrs. Westbrook and I arrived back at the estate, we learned the doctor had already come and gone. Peter had been freed from his cast. I found him in the library, standing by the window, a cane in his left hand.

He slowly turned as I clicked across the floor. “Look at you,” I said, smiling. “How does it feel?”

“Other than I feel like a weakling, pretty good.”

“Your strength will return. Did the doctor give you exercises to do?”

He scrubbed a hand over his freshly shaven face. “Yes. He’s left detailed instructions.” He gestured toward a side table, where exercises had been prescribed.

Betsy bounced into the room. “Did you say exercises? I want to see.” She snatched the paper up and read through it, nodding and smiling. “This is excellent. I will do them with you.”

“That’s not necessary.” Peter waved his hand, looking slightly panicked.

“I’m not taking no for an answer.” Betsy glared back at him. “In fact, I say we all do them together.”

“Me?” I asked, sounding about as nervous as Peter. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes. Let’s get started right away.” Betsy waved the paper before handing it to me.

I glanced down at it quickly. “Dear me. This is quite extensive.”

The instructions included ankle pumps, knee bends, and quad sets. Each exercise required ten repetitions in three rounds, focusing on rebuilding strength and flexibility in Peter’s leg. The progression included simple movements like shifting weight from one foot to the other, to partial squats, to eventually walking without his cane. Even horseback riding was listed as therapeutic—gentle, rhythmic movement to strengthen coordination and engage his leg muscles. Notes about stopping at any sign of pain or swelling made me uneasy. What if he pushed too hard, too fast, and lost his footing or overstrained? I couldn’t bear to see him humiliated.

Betsy seemed to have no such qualms.

“We’ll need to change clothes,” Betsy said. “Meet in the stables in fifteen minutes.”

Peter and I exchanged a glance, half amused and half frightened. But we both knew better than to argue with Betsy Westbrook when she was on a mission. We simply nodded and headed upstairs to change.

As instructed, I met Peter and Betsy in the stables. The spring afternoon felt almost warm, under a bright blue sky, and a slight breeze brought scents of grass and cherry blossoms. Sunlight streamed through the barn’s wide-open doors, casting golden beams across the worn wooden floor. Betsy had cleared a patch of space near the stalls, sweeping away straw to make room for Peter’s exercises.

Peter sat on a sturdy, hard-backed chair, his cane propped against a post behind him. He wore gray trousers rolled up slightly to accommodate his still-healing leg and a plain white undershirt that left his arms bare.

Betsy and I were dressed for practicality. She wore high-waisted wool trousers tucked neatly into sturdy lace-up boots and a lightweight knit sweater in soft gray that hugged her athletic frame. A patterned scarf was tied around her head, keeping her hair away from her face. I’d opted for dark cotton slacks that were slightly too long, pooling around the ankles of my scuffed Oxfords, and an old blouse that I no longer wore. Like Betsy, I had fastened a scarf over my hair to keep it out of my face.

“All right, Peter.” Betsy crouched down beside him with her usual air of authority. “Let’s start with ankle pumps. Ten reps, nice and slow. Mireille, we will do ours while standing.”

Peter gave her a look of resignation but didn’t argue. He flexed his foot upward, then pointed it downward, the movement deliberate and controlled. “This isn’t bad.”

“We’re only just getting started,” Betsy said, sounding slightly offended.

From her stall, Marigold snorted as though she approved, her dark eyes fixed on Peter as he completed the set. We moved on to quad sets next, with Betsy tightening her thigh muscles to demonstrate. “Flex your thigh like this and hold for five seconds. Pretend you’re showing off at the beach.”

Peter arched a brow. “I don’t believe that’s something I’ve ever done.”

I mirrored the movement, focusing on the steady rhythm of tightening and releasing. Peter’s brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through the set, a light sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.

“I’m worried I won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” I said as my leg cramped.

“Nah, you’re strong,” Peter said.

“Yes, you love this, Mireille,” Betsy said with a grin, her hands on her hips.

“I do?” I asked, laughing.

“Of course you do. All that dancing when you were young. It’s nearly the same.” Betsy huffed and puffed as she finished her own set of squats.

We progressed to seated leg raises, then standing weight shifts. Betsy and I flanked Peter as he rose to his feet, steadying him with an arm on either side. He leaned heavily on us at first, his jaw tightening as he put weight on his injured leg. Slowly, he shifted from one foot to the other, his movements shaky but determined.

“You’re doing so well,” Betsy said to her brother.

Peter exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing as he found his rhythm. When he finally lowered himself back onto the stool, his breath came in shallow pants, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes. “That shouldn’t be as hard as it is. It’s humbling, to say the least.”

“What can you expect? You had a terrible injury,” Betsy said. “You’ll be back to normal in no time.”

Somehow, I didn’t think any of us would ever return to normal, not after everything we’d been through.

“Are we done yet?” Peter wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “Surely we deserve a cocktail after that?”

Betsy laughed, brushing the straw from her trousers. “Not quite. We have a few more to do.”

We went on to the toe and heel raises. Peter actually groaned through it, but he didn’t complain. I wanted to tell him to stop, as I hated to see him in pain, but his sister was of a different mindset. Betsy, cheeks glowing with health, was in her element, shouting out orders while doing the exercises at the same time. If she’d been a man, I might have lost her too. The military would have been glad for a little dictator disguised in a beautiful blond with legs that never seemed to end.

After we were done, we all traipsed outside to breathe in the fresh spring air. Mrs. Burns had put out a pitcher of water and three glasses. “Thank God,” I mumbled, still panting from the last exercise.

We poured ourselves glasses of water and then sat together on the back patio. It pained me to see that Peter winced as he lowered himself into one of the chairs that looked out to the back gardens.

“When are we going to fit this in during weekdays?” Betsy asked. “Doc says this could take a few months and to stay diligent.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine by myself,” Peter said.

“No, we’ll join you,” I said, surprising myself. “We can leave for work an hour later than we usually do. Right, Bets?”

“I’ll clear it with our head nurse, but I’m sure she’ll agree. She told me last week that she didn’t want to see me showing up so early and leaving so late from now on. I tried to argue with her, but she’s an extremely stubborn person.”

Peter and I looked at each other and laughed. “You don’t say?” Peter asked.

“Very funny.” Betsy rolled her eyes. “I’m not stubborn. Determined would be a better word.”

We sipped our water, looking out at the green grass and budding plants. A hummingbird appeared just feet from where we were sitting, watching us for a moment before buzzing away. I closed my eyes and looked up at the sun, enjoying the feeling of the warmth spreading over my bare skin. When I opened them, I caught Peter and Betsy watching me.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Peter said, his gaze flickering elsewhere.

“Well, not nothing. Not exactly,” Betsy said. “We were talking earlier and wondered if you’d thought any further about meeting Estelle.”

“Oh, that.” I set my glass aside and folded my hands on my lap. “I’m not ready. I don’t know when I will be.”

“Fair enough,” Betsy said.

“We’re here if you need us,” Peter said.

Fighting tears, I looked at one and then the other, filled to the brim with love for both Peter and Betsy. “It brings me a lot of comfort—being here with you. Even though I miss George so much, it takes my breath away at times; I feel better now you’re home, Peter.”

Peter smiled back at me. “I’m glad to be here too. But I’m the same as you. I’ll be fine one minute, and then, out of nowhere, grief just overwhelms me.”

“I love you, dummies,” Betsy said.

“We love you too,” I said softly.

“We surely do,” Peter said.

We sat in silence, comforted by one another’s presence. Life was unpredictable and heartbreaking, but it was also meant to be shared with others. These two people loved me, and I them. If anything, we’d learned to make sure we showed it in case it was the last time we could.

A week later, Peter and I set out for our first ride together since he’d returned home. We’d diligently done our exercises all week, and I could feel the muscles in my own legs growing stronger every day. Despite my complaints, it felt good to move. I’d not realized how much I’d missed dancing. It made me think that in the future, when all this was over, maybe I’d take some of the money George had left me and open a ballet studio here in town. I could teach girls everything I knew.

A gentle breeze tugged at my hair as I guided Marigold through the paddock gate, the soft clop of her hooves muffled by the still-thawing ground.

Peter followed close behind on Apollo. The sight of him back in the saddle made me smile.

“You look good,” I said.

“Feels familiar and strange at the same time.” Peter adjusted his grip on the reins as Apollo shifted beneath him.

“All the more reason to be out here.” I reached out to pat Marigold’s neck. “Anyway, these two never let us down.”

“I missed this guy.”

As if answering, Apollo shook his head and neighed.

“He missed you too. I swear, when I’d visit him, he seemed to be looking at me for answers. Like, where is he? Did you do something to him?”

Peter chuckled. “This old boy’s always had my back.”

We set off at a slow walk, the horses’ movements gentle and steady across the bright green field. All around us, spring had arrived. Fresh green leaves covered the branches of the maples, oaks, and elms. Here and there, flowering dogwoods showed off clusters of white and pink blossoms while magnolias clung to the last of their broad petals, casting a gentle fragrance into the warming air. We passed by the orchard, where apple and pear trees burst with fragrant white and blush-pink blooms, their blossoms buzzing with bees hard at work. Cherry trees, near the end of their blooming season, scattered pale pink petals across the ground, carpeting the earth in delicate confetti.

At the edge of our property, we halted, looking into the thicket of trees. Below, wild violets and patches of moss dotted the damp forest floor. Evergreens, steady and unchanging, rustled in the breeze.

Birdsong played from the trees. Migratory breeds had returned from wherever they’d gone during what had seemed like the longest of winters. Returned, just like Peter.

How was it possible that this part of the world remained free and beautiful while the world war raged on?

Peter glanced at me as we rode, his expression thoughtful. “It’s hard to remember all the ugliness of the world when you see all of this.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

We rode along, quiet, sun on our shoulders for a few minutes.

“Shall we do a quick trot?” Peter asked.

I raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that’s a good idea? You’re still recovering.”

“I’ll never get better if I use that for an excuse.” He grinned, and for a moment, I was transported back in time. Peter was still in there, weighed down with loss and heartbreak, but there just the same.

He nudged Apollo forward. I clicked my tongue, and Marigold moved into a smooth trot, her strides steady and sure. Peter followed, his movements growing more confident as the rhythm of the ride settled into him. The sight of him, upright and strong despite everything he’d endured, made my chest swell with pride and admiration. What a man he was. As steady and reliable as the evergreens.

We slowed near the edge of the woods, letting the horses graze as we caught our breath. Peter leaned forward, stroking Apollo’s neck, his gaze drifting over the fields.

“This felt good.”

I looked at him, the sunlight catching the sharp lines of his profile. “I’m glad.”

He turned to me, his expression unreadable. “What about for you? How are you? Truthfully.”

The question caught me off guard. “I’m…all right. It’s good to have you home. I’m thankful for that.” I paused. “How are you? Truthfully?”

Peter stroked Apollo’s neck. “I’m all right. It’s good to be home. I’m thankful, too.”

“But you’re still hurting.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“You’d let me know if I could do anything, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. Same for you?”

“If there were anything either of us could do to help, we would,” I said. “Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be much. Other than spending time together out here.”

He nodded, looking over his shoulder for a second before turning back to me. “I’ve been thinking about your family—this big secret they kept from you.”

“What about it?”

“I’d go with you, if you want to meet your mother.”

I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. For weeks now, I’d been vacillating, trying to decide which would hurt less—to stay away or go see her.

“What if she doesn’t want to see me?” I asked out loud. “Or what if I disrupt her life? I mean, her children might not know about me. They shouldn’t be hurt. They’re innocent.”

“So are you.”

“How could she have known I was in America and not tried to find me?” I asked.

“My instincts are telling me they wanted to leave it up to you to decide if you wanted to meet her,” Peter said.

“Meeting her feels a little like a betrayal. My mother was my mother and will always be. Now that she’s gone, I’m just supposed to replace her?”

“She told you the truth. Why would she do that if she didn’t want you to find Estelle?”

He was right. Of course, he was. Mama had been very clear that it was up to me to reach out to Estelle.

“I’m scared,” I said. “What if I can’t handle it and I have a breakdown or something? How much can one person take?”

“I’d be with you. Betsy too. We won’t let you fall.”

“How would I do it? Simply show up at her front door?”

“Write to her first? Ask if she’d like to meet. That way, you’ll know one way or the other.”

“You’re right. Then, if she has no interest in seeing me, she can write and tell me that.”

“Good plan. And like I said, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Feeling suddenly shy, I turned my attention back to Marigold, stroking her mane as the horses pawed at the tender grass.