His every instinct screamed at him to run. But it was too late. He could only wait, frozen and hollow, a butterfly staked on a pin, as fate in the shape of Mr. and Mrs. Prewitt opened the cottage gate and with loud cries came running toward him.
Mr. Prewitt reached the gig first. “Master Ned, you’ve come back at last. Welcome home, lad—oh, mustn’t call you that now. Look at how tall and fine you’ve grown.”
Like an automaton, Ned climbed down from the gig and held out a stiff hand. Mr. Prewitt wrung it, saying, “Come inside the house, let me look at you. Such a fine, tall man you’ve become, the image of his grandfather, isn’t he, Martha?” He pressed his lips together. “It’s that good to see you, lad. I never thought—” His voice broke. He pulled out a large handkerchief and blew into it noisily.
Mrs. Prewitt made no attempt to hide her emotions. Her face streaming with tears, she hugged him as if he were still a boy and, accepting no excuses, propelled him into the front parlor, saying, “I didn’t bake my spiced currant biscuits this morning for nothing, my lad—his favorites, they are, Mrs. Galbraith. The minute I heard you were back, I knew you’d come to us.”
She wiped tears away with her apron. “Never a day when he wasn’t in and out of my kitchen, Mrs. Galbraith.Him and our Luke. Like twins, they were, always up to mischief.” She hurried off to the kitchen to make tea.
Ned sat stiffly. He’d hardly ever been in this room. It was for visitors, and he’d never been a visitor in this house. He and Luke... it was always the kitchen, and then away to the forest.
“So it’s all London for you now, is it, Ned, lad? Country living lost its appeal?”
“Edward.” Lily nudged him.
He blinked.
“Mr. Prewitt thinks you’re bored with the country now.”
“No.” His voice sounded rusty. He cleared his throat. “It’s just... I’ve been... busy.” It was the least convincing lie Lily had ever heard.
Mrs. Prewitt entered carrying the tea tray and banished the awkward silence with the pouring of tea and the offering of biscuits. Lily brought out the cheese, and Mrs. Prewitt exclaimed over it with pleasure.
Edward drank his tea and ate a biscuit. Lily and Mrs. Prewitt talked about the ingredients, Mrs. Prewitt assuming Lily would want to bake them for her husband.
He sat there like a stranger, gray-faced and stiff, as if he were the stranger here, not Lily.
The Prewitts related stories of Edward and their boy, Luke, who’d been killed in the war, recalling boyhood adventures, and laughing over the mischief the two boys had gotten up to. “Right terrors, they were,” Mr. Prewitt said proudly.
It was because Edward was here, Lily knew. They’d never mentioned their son before. But it was all for Edward, she saw; their eyes kept flickering back to him with every tale.
Edward sat like a statue, still and grave and stiff and cold.
The tea was finished, the biscuits eaten, and a short silence fell. Lily prepared to take her leave, but Mr. Prewitt reached out suddenly and placed a hand on Edward’s knee. Edward jumped as if stung.
“That letter you wrote us.”
Edward swallowed convulsively and met Mr. Prewitt’s gaze. “Yes?” he croaked.
“It was such a comfort, knowing you were with our boy when he died.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “And to know that he died bravely—a hero, you said—”
“And that he didn’t suffer,” Mrs. Prewitt added.
A quiver passed across Edward’s face. His jaw tightened. He didn’t speak.
Wiping tears away with the corner of her apron, Mrs. Prewitt rose and handed her husband a carved box. “Read it, Prewitt. Mrs. Galbraith should learn the kind of man her husband is.”
Mr. Prewitt unfolded the letter. It was paper thin, worn and faded from many rereadings. As Mr. Prewitt began to read, Lily glanced at her husband. His face was stark and he stared at the floor. A nerve twitched in his jaw, almost the only evidence that he was alive.
The letter described how Luke had been killed, shot through the heart saving a fellow soldier. He died a hero. The whole regiment had mourned him, and when they buried him the buglers had played a tribute as the sun had set over his grave. And Ned had lost the best friend he ever had.
The letter was warm and deeply personal and gave comfort, even as it broke unimaginably painful news. By the time Mr. Prewitt finished, they were all damp-eyed, except for the author of the letter, Lily’s husband, who sat grave and silent, dry-eyed and stiff.
Afterward there was a long silence. Then he stood abruptly. “I have to go.” He stalked from the cottage, leaving Lily to say the good-byes.
“Don’t fret, my dear,” Mrs. Prewitt said comfortably. “Took it hard, he did. Always has. Expects more of himself than is humanly possible.”
Lily nodded. She was starting to see that. “Thank you.”
