A Duty to the Dead by Charles Todd Page A

with Arthur and Johnnie.”
    Before she could tell me about the last son, Jonathan walked in. I knew him at once because of his wound. He was a paler version of Arthur, his hair a lighter brown, his eyes a less vibrant shade of blue.
    He had a terrible scar across his face. Shrapnel, at a guess. It was still half covered by bandages, but I could see where the wound began high on his forehead near the hairline, and then the last thin line of it passing down his jaw and back to his chin. His mother made the introductions, and he shook my hand.
    “Where were you wounded?” I asked before I thought. But I was used to talking to bandaged men, and more often than not they wanted it known where they had served.
    “Mons,” he said shortly, and went to kiss his mother’s cheek. She turned to him with a softness that spoke of her love for him, and I glanced away. It was such a private moment, and touching.
    Another man, leaning on his cane, came in at that moment. He was fairer than either of his brothers, with gray-blue eyes.
    Again I was introduced, this time to Timothy, and he said at once, “Mother tells me you knew Arthur?”
    “I was his nurse for some time, yes.”
    He nodded. “We were grateful for your letter afterward. It’s hard to think of him dying so far away. We expect him to walk through the door any day, smiling, calling to one of us.”
    They spoke of Arthur with such warmth, almost as if he were still alive.
    It occurred to me that under different circumstances, I might have been brought here after the war, Arthur’s arm linked with mine as he presented me to his family. What would they have thought of me, then? Not as Florence Nightingale, who had nursed their brother, but as someone who mattered to him? Arthur had asked me to marry him, before he lost his leg. He’d been in high spirits after the doctor moved him from guarded to satisfactory condition, believing he’d heal now. I’d smiled and lightly given my usual response to impetuous proposals. “You must speak to my father first. He outranks you, you see.”
    It hadn’t put him off, as I’d expected. On the contrary, he’d wanted to write to the Colonel directly, but nothing more had been said about that after the amputation.
    Susan appeared with the first course as we were sitting down. As she served us, we talked about people we might know in common, about London, about the sinking of Britannic. I found myself thinking that this was a family like so many others in Britain tonight, trying to pretend that life was going on as it had before, despite the empty chair at the table and the shadow hanging over Jonathan’s future.
    The door opened again, and I thought that the third son must be making his appearance at last, but it was an older man who stepped into the room and nodded to Mrs. Graham. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, a handsome man with thick fair hair that was graying. I realized all at once that this was Robert. I hadn’t seen him clearly in the dark, muffled as he was in scarves, his hat pulled down against the wind.
    There was an air of impatience about him, and his manner was very different from that of the man in the cart.
    Hardly a servant, was my first thought. Yet he’d been sent to fetch me.
    “If you need me, I’ll be in my room,” he said, and was gone.
    Mrs. Graham turned to me. “I don’t know if Arthur told you about Robert. He’s a Douglas, a cousin on my father’s side. He was such a blessing to us when my husband died. There was no one to take my sons in hand, and Robert saw to it that they were given the opportunities my husband would have wished. Robert taught them to ride and to shoot and to be men.”
    Arthur had said nothing at all about him. But I made polite noises, and she turned to another subject, the journey from Somerset.
    I could see that I wouldn’t have an opportunity tonight to speak to Jonathan privately. Tomorrow, I thought, would be best. I had the feeling as the