Page 65 of The Last Kiss

Ash didn’t quite know what to make of that, but Olive plainly knew her own mind and she was a clear-sighted rational woman. “So any marriage would be a punishment for you. Even if you were fond of your husband?”

“If he wished to exercise his marital rights in the bedroom, certainly.”

They stared at each other, each blinking as if in a sudden bright light.

“Good God,” Olive said.

Ash’s heart began to pound. “You told me you’d rather die than marry.”

“But that was before I knew about you and West…” Her eyes were wide as saucers. “Dear Lord, Ashleigh. What if we doexactlyas our fathers want?”

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

It was Peace Day when Harry got the news. Or, rather, stumbled across it.

He’d been in London almost a month, and today the city was heaving, the streets and parks teeming with crowds eager to catch a glimpse of the victory parade. Harry couldn’t deny it was a spectacle: thousands of marching men from all over the Empire, tanks and horses, even pieces of captured German aircraft paraded on floats. At the front, General Haig himself rode with some other brass hats Harry didn’t recognise.

Although his feelings about the victory parade were mixed, it felt right to mark the signing of the treaty that had ended the bloody business — even if the cost of the parade might have been better spent on the pensions of those maimed in the fighting. Besides, it gave him something to think about beyond his futile search for work and the endless thrum of yearning for Ash.

He found a place to watch the parade near Westminster Bridge. Couldn’t get anywhere near the front of the huge crowd, though; some of the silly buggers must have slept the night on the street to secure the prime positions near the curb. More fool them. Harry had had enough of soldiering for a lifetime and the sight of the khaki uniforms and rifles with bayonets fixed brought back visceral memories he’d sooner forget.

Thank God Ash wasn’t there to see it, not that there was any chance of that. He’d avoid it like the influenza. Harry couldn’t help wondering how the pageant at Hinton was fairing, and whether Ash had been forced to attend. That thought brought a new stab of regret and longing and he pushed it aside with a determined effort, fixing his attention on the spectacle at hand and the cheering crowds watching.

After the parade had passed and the people began to disperse, Harry bought a ham sandwich and ginger beer from a street stall and walked into St. James’ park. He found a spot on the grass under a tree and picked up the discarded copy of yesterday’sTimeshe found there, the front page full of Mr Woodrow Wilson’s campaign to persuade America to join his League of Nations. Harry was no politician, but the idea seemed like a good one to him. It was the twentieth century, after all. People should be able to solve their problems by getting together and talking instead of lobbing shells at each other for years on end. If the war had done nothing else, it had made another such conflict unthinkable. Surely there’d be no appetite for war. Not in his lifetime, anyway.

Chewing a bite of sandwich, Harry turned the page in search of lighter news and froze dead. His eyes, as if magnetised, were drawn to two familiar names:Allen — Dalton.Gut twisting, he read on, knowing what he’d find beneath the headline yet helpless to stop even though his heart sank deeper with every word.

Miss Olive Grace Allen, daughter of Mr and Mrs Frank Allen of Hampshire, and Mr Ashleigh Arthur Dalton, son of Sir Arthur Dalton Bt CBE and Lady Dalton, were married at 10 o’clock yesterday morning at Lymington Register Office. The room was decorated with white roses and the bride wore an ivory silk gown. After the ceremony, a dinner was served to relatives at the bride’s home. Mr and Mrs Dalton left immediately for London where the couple will now reside, and their many friends and relatives wish them every happiness in their new home.

Harry felt sick, the sandwich turning claggy in his mouth. He’d known in his reasoning mind that this was Ash’s future, but he hadn’t thought it would happen so fast. Only twenty-eight days since they’d parted! How had Ash had the stomach for it so soon after — Well. Perhaps he’d had no choice. And Harry couldn’t bring himself to wish Ash as miserable as himself. He hoped he was happy with Miss Allen. They’d been friends, after all. He hoped Ash was happy even if that hope slid deep into his heart and opened all his scarcely scabbed wounds.

Ash was married.

Only now that it was entirely beyond reach did Harry realise that he’d harboured a secret hope of a future reunion — of holding him again, of loving him. But Ash wasn’t the sort of man to betray his vows, no more than Harry was the sort of man to cuckold anyone’s wife. No, all hope was gone and only memories remained.

Sinuses burning, a sudden sting in his eyes, he turned the page and scrubbed a hand over his face. But after a moment’s pause, in which the pain refused to subside, Harry turned the page back and carefully tore the notice out of the newspaper, slipping it into his breast pocket. He’d keep it with his precious letters from Ash. Stupid, probably, to treasure silly mementoes, but he wanted everything he could have of Ash. He wasn’t proud. Perhaps he’d learn pride later, but for now he was a beggar scavenging scraps.

God, he missed him. Ached for him. Longed for a glimpse of his face, to see him smiling and happy. And now Ash was in London, most likely living in the Allen’s house in Mayfair, and Harry could go there. Just to look, just to see him and be sure he was well and —

“Stop it.” He pushed himself to his feet and shoved the rest of his sandwich into his pocket for later. He’d no appetite now. “Leave him be, Harry. Let him go.”

With the parade over and London emptying of its visitors, he’d lost any purpose for the day. But he’d no desire to go home and brood, not under Kitty’s scrutiny. Obviously, he hadn’t told her why he’d left Highcliffe, beyond a disagreement with Sir Arthur, but he’d been unable to hide the blue devils from his sharp-eyed sister and found it best to stay away from her and the girls. Kitty only worried and he had no way to tell her that his fool heart was broken with no hope of repair. So he kept his melancholy self to himself.

Instead of going home, he bent his steps toward Whitehall and the memorial unveiled yesterday. A cenotaph, they called it — Greek for ‘empty tomb’, it said in the papers — a memorial to those whose remains rested elsewhere. Like Jimmy Tilney, lost in the mire of Passchendaele.

It was a half hour walk along the Mall, past stands erected to seat the widows and children watching the parade, and when he reached Whitehall there were still plenty of people milling around. The cenotaph itself had been erected on an island in the centre of the street, a white blocky slab designed to look like stonework, even though it was only made of wood and plaster. A union flag lay draped over its top, as if over a coffin, and carved wreathes painted green and red decorated either side of the monument above the inscription:The Glorious Dead.

Ash would have something to say about that. And there he went again, thinking about Ash.

But what really drew Harry’s eye wasn’t the cenotaph itself, but the mountain of flowers and wreaths piled around its base and reaching far up the monument. Even now, with the parade past, there were people arriving to lay flowers — young widows holding children’s hands, older mothers grieving their sons, men of all ages with heads bowed in prayer or remembrance. That sight, more than anything else he’d seen today, touched Harry’s aching heart and he felt a great swell of sorrow for all those who’d never returned, and for those who’d returned changed forever. What a wretched waste. To him, this silent mourning seemed a more fitting tribute to their sacrifice than any victory parade. Because how could this be called victory? Too much had been lost to call it anything other thanover. And thank God for that.

He spent thruppence on a small posy and joined the queue filing past the cenotaph to lay his flowers with the rest.For Jimmy, he thought as he set the posy down.God rest your soul. And then, on impulse, he took Ash’s wedding notice from theTimesand tucked it into the flowers too. Another loss, a deeper grief.

God grant you happiness, my love.God grant you peace.

Stepping back, he looked up at the faux stonework and the flags catching the rising breeze and yearned for Ash with such violence it cramped his heart enough to stop it beating. Perhaps he made a sound of distress because the woman next to him laid a hand on his arm and squeezed gently, though her own face was drawn and she didn’t look at him but down at the tributes at their feet.

Her grief mixed with his, though she couldn’t know how or who he grieved. But loss was loss, and he covered her cold hand with his for a moment before they parted silently and went their separate ways.

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