Roses by Leila Meacham Page B

complexion became mottled with the heat
     of her intensity. “I’m going to confession every day and light a candle for his safe return as well. I will say fifty Hail
     Marys every night and give a tenth of my salary to the church so that the priest will say a special mass for Percy—and for
     your brother and Ollie DuMont, too, of course.”
    Mary coughed delicately into her handkerchief. Lucy was a Catholic, another strike against her hopes to win Percy. The Warwicks
     were staunch Methodists and Jeremy a thirty-third-degree Mason. Mary doubted whether the family’s well-known tolerance toward
     all creeds, races, and religions stretched to their only son marrying a Catholic.
    “As soon as I finish up here,” Lucy went on, “I’ll make a trip to Belton to find a place to live. Then from there…” She arched
     a brow at Mary. “Perhaps my dear friend will invite me to spend a week or so for the purpose of seeing you-know-who.”
    Mary shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I don’t mean to thwart your plans, Lucy, but I have no idea what Mother is like now,
     and what with Miles leaving, and the harvest to get in…”
    Lucy’s pleased expression became that of a rebellious child. “Harvest isn’t until August.”
    “Which will give me barely enough time as it is to do the thousand and one things that have to be done—and undone, if I know
     Miles.” Inwardly, Mary sighed. Lucy was well aware of her distress over the mismanagement of Somerset. “There simply will
     be no time to entertain you.”
    “Then how am I to see Percy before he leaves?” she demanded. “I certainly wouldn’t expect Mrs. Warwick to invite me. The family
     will be busy getting him ready for war duty and spending as much time with him as possible.”
    Why can’t you have the same consideration for my family?
Mary felt like shouting. It was an example of Lucy’s insensitivity, a basic disregard for the delicacy of a situation, that
     added to the many reasons Percy would never be interested in her.
    “I won’t be a bother to you, Mary, honest.” Lucy’s blue eyes flooded with appeal. “You won’t have to go the itsy-bitsiest
     step out of the way for me.”
    “Because you’ll be busy throwing kisses at Warwick Hall, is that it?” Mary grinned, relenting as always. On reconsideration,
     maybe more contact with Percy would be a good thing. Percy was nothing if not honest. When he saw Lucy’s infatuation (and
     who could miss it?), he’d snip it at its root. He’d never go off to war leaving her to think he returned her affections.
    Feeling better, Mary patted her roommate’s hand. “I’ll probably be glad of your company. Let us know when you’re coming, and
     I’ll have someone meet you at the station.” Reading her friend’s hopeful expression, she added, “No, Lucy, I cannot promise
     it will be Percy.”

Chapter Nine
    S ettled on the train at last, Mary waved good-bye to Lucy waiting on the platform for the milk truck, her face fixed forlornly
     on Mary’s window until the train curved and cut her from view. Mary removed her hat and tiredly expelled her breath. Lucy
     Gentry wore her out.
    She had still not recovered from the shocking scene two nights before when Lucy learned of Percy joining the army. That evening
     when she asked if there had been a letter “from home,” a presumption that never failed to grate, Mary had handed over Miles’s
     letter and waited for the roof to fall in. It might as well have. As anticipated, Lucy wept and railed, screamed and cursed
     at the top of her lungs, sending books flying, clothes scattering, and her little stuffed bear out a window. Mary had never
     witnessed such grief and rage or heard such language. Every girl on the floor had come running, as had the housemother, who
     kept repeating, “I declare!” as they all watched Lucy shadowboxing the demons that possessed her, fighting off any who tried
     to calm her.
    Mary had stayed out of her way, and at long