Gather the Bones by Alison Stuart Page A

the tray up through the house to the library, but pulled back before entering the library door seeing Paul standing by the table, apparently lost in thought. He ran his fingers along the uneven, burnished oak surface and looked at his fingertips as if he expected to see dust–or blood. Her heart skipped a beat. Paul had seen what she had experienced. He must have.
    Shaking his head, he crossed to the fireplace, crouched down and lit a match to the coals. The flame flickered and then died. He swore and turned his head to look at one of the wing chairs saying aloud, “You’ve had your fun. At least let me light this bloody fire.”
    Making a show of rattling the tray in her hands, Helen pushed open the door and walked into the room.
    “Who are you talking to?”
    At the sound of her voice, Paul started and turned awkwardly. Grimacing in pain, he fell back into the wing chair, rubbing his leg. He glanced up at her and the wariness in his eyes dared her not to make some solicitous remark. She’d done some work with the Red Cross in Melbourne in the years after the war and knew the last thing he wanted or needed was her pity.
    “You seem determined to damage that leg again,” she remarked, setting the tea tray down on the table.
    He gave her a wry smile. “It’s just a reminder I’m not unbreakable. If Evelyn and the doctors had their way, I would be tucked up in a bath chair with a rug over my knees.”
    Helen considered that picture. Charlie would have been thirty in July. Paul could only be thirty-two years old and he had overcome what could have been crippling injuries to another man. The Morrows were a stubborn lot, she thought.
    “Where’s Alice this morning?” Paul asked.
    “She’s gone to play with Lily at the vicarage. This weather is foul. I can’t believe how cold it is. People warned me about English summers.” Helen crouched to light the fire, which caught and burned at the first strike of the match.
    She sat down at the table and studied the first page of Paul’s notes for a moment before beginning to type. Paul sat down across from her, pushed his sleeves up and contemplated one of the tablets that lay in several pieces in its box, before he started scribbling notes in a notebook.
    The regular tapping of the typewriter provided a comforting sound in the otherwise quiet room and they worked in companionable silence for an hour until the growl of the engine of the old car broke the peace of the room.
    Paul looked across at Helen. “Evelyn’s home.”
    Helen sat back from the typewriter as Evelyn entered the library, pulling off her gloves.
    “Helen, what on earth are you doing?” she exclaimed with a disapproving glance at the Remington.
    “Helen has volunteered to help me with typing my report,” Paul answered before Helen could speak.
    “Oh? How fortunate that you can manage one of those machines.” Evelyn waved at the typewriter with a look of distaste.
    “How was London?” Helen asked, deflecting her mother-in-law away from what she feared Evelyn saw as another black mark against her.
    “Marvelous,” Evelyn said. “We took in a show and did a little shopping. I found a lovely dress for Alice.”
    “That’s very kind,” Helen said.
    “And your dear sister?” Paul enquired.
    A slight flush stained Evelyn’s cheeks. “Better for my company,” she said. “Now I must get changed. I have letters to write.”
    “Before you go,” Helen said, rising to her feet. “I wondered if you could tell me about Suzanna Morrow?”
    Evelyn stopped with her hand on the door to the stairs and turned. “Suzanna? The scandalous Suzanna?” She indicated the two regency era portraits on the wall. “That’s her portrait and, of course, her husband, Robert Morrow.”
    Even as Helen turned to look at the now familiar likenesses, a cold breath blew lightly on the back of her neck and the whispering started. Her fingers closed on the slender volume hidden in pocket of her cardigan
    “Why was she