A Bitter Truth by Charles Todd Page B

once to Roger that we move the portrait. And he was furious. He said she belonged here, in a tone of voice that told me I didn’t. It was our first quarrel.”
    As she closed the drawing room door, she went on, “He worshipped her, you know. Roger. He took her death so hard that he didn’t speak for months. They feared for his sanity, Gran said. Margaret and Alan were older, they understood death a little better, although that didn’t make hers easier for them.”
    I thought about what it would have been like, watching helplessly as the little girl slowly weakened and died.
    We walked back to the great hall, and Lydia pointed to one of the chairs in front of the fire. “Let’s sit here for a bit, shall we? Before dressing for dinner.”
    What she meant was, she wasn’t ready to face Roger alone in their bedroom.
    We sat down, feeling the draft at our backs as the rain beat against the door and the walls. It sounded like distant drums or even muted gunfire.
    “What am I to do, Bess?” she said at last, staring into the heart of the fire. “I love Roger. In spite of this. How long will this war go on? What if he’s killed—or horribly wounded? What if he’s like George, bitter and hurtful, and I can’t bear to have him touch me?”
    “Yours isn’t the only family asking these questions tonight,” I replied after a moment. “Love isn’t a certainty, Lydia.”
    But she shook her head. “You aren’t married. You don’t know what it’s like to love someone and want to have a part of them for your very own.”
    It occurred to me that one of the reasons Lydia was so insistent on children was that she had lived these past three years with two widowed women. She could already see what the future held if Roger was killed. In India some wives preferred to throw themselves on the funeral pyre and be immolated with their husbands. Sometimes it was true grief—sometimes it was knowing what a bleak empty life lay ahead of them, especially if they were dependent on the charity of a family that didn’t want them. Death was sometimes preferable to living. The British had done their best to outlaw suttee, but it hadn’t been completely abolished.
    I said gently, “Then I’m the wrong person to ask.”
    Sighing, she said, “Well. Roger’s leave will be up soon enough. I have until then to change his mind. Somehow.”
    I looked across at her bruised face. If Juliana died of a mastoid tumor, it was no one’s fault. Unlike some tragic accident where guilt couldn’t be avoided. Why had her death affected her brother so deeply? Was it the shock of loss, unacceptable to a child’s mind? Had Margaret and Alan also been haunted by their little sister’s death? They too were childless.
    “You said you shouldn’t have mentioned Juliana when you quarreled. Did you blame her for your husband’s refusal to have children?”
    “Yes, I told him he was afraid he’d lose a child, the way his family had lost Juliana, and it was time now to let her rest in peace and begin to live in the present.”
    We sat there in silence for a time, and then Lydia reluctantly got to her feet. “It’s nearly time for dinner. I’m glad you came, Bess,” she said. “It was terribly kind of you—”
    She clutched at the back of her chair, suddenly dizzy. But by the time I reached her, it seemed to have passed.
    “Don’t fuss. I’m all right, I assure you.”
    But she wasn’t. I was certain of that now.
    After dinner, I quietly asked Mrs. Ellis if it would be possible to take Lydia to Dr. Tilton’s surgery at this late hour, explaining my concern.
    “I didn’t know,” she said. “About the fall on the stairs. Yes, of course, I’ll drive you myself. I think Roger’s a little tired.”
    He didn’t appear to be tired, but I said nothing. She rose and went to speak to Lydia. “Will you come with me, my dear?”
    Surprised, Lydia said, “Yes, of course,” and followed her mother-in-law out of the room. I went with them, leaving