This Cold Country by Annabel Davis-Goff Page B

nineteen-year-old Nugent slain in battle.
    Daisy spent most of the rather dull sermon thinking about the boy killed in the Crimea, the slaughter of young men, and a generation cut down before they could procreate. An officer, of course; that was to be expected, a product of his class. He would, Daisy imagined, have accepted the privileges of rank as his due. Gold braid, better food, greater privacy, a servant to keep him clean and polished—all that would seem an extension of his public school education. He would have been used to deference and obedience, but in a society with rules adhered to and actions having largely foreseeable consequences. To take responsibility for men, many older than himself, in a disastrously mismanaged campaign in an alien climate and to die there—what had he thought during his last moments? Assuming, of course, he had not died instantaneously. But Daisy, remembering descriptions of hospital tents, dying soldiers, Florence Nightingale, and of wounds cleaned with salt water for want of a better disinfectant, wanted to know whether the young captain had questioned his fate, his country, the values and beliefs of his family and class, as he lay dying.
    Daisy was wearing her uniform as were, on either side of her, Patrick and James. On Lady Nugent’s dark, no-nonsense hat was pinned a small brooch with her absent husband’s regimental crest, and her black coat had a functional and almost official, although not military, cut. Daisy could imagine her wearing it as she performed organizational duties pertaining to the war around the neighborhood.
    The pony and trap that carried them to church had continued to the railway station, where the boy who’d held the reins was to leave Daisy’s suitcase in the care of the stationmaster.
    After the service ended, while the congregation loitered, chatting, in the churchyard and enjoying the mild, sunny day, Daisy thanked Lady Nugent for her hospitality and set out on foot for the railway station. Both young men walked with her. Daisy thought that James was accompanying her because Patrick was there, but she thought Patrick would have come with her had she been alone.
    The stationmaster greeted them deferentially. The train was already in the station. Daisy wondered if he would have held the train had they been late, and she would have asked Patrick, were she alone with him. But Patrick had followed the stationmaster to retrieve her suitcase from the left-luggage room. James was silent while left alone with Daisy, but she didn’t ask him. They had danced together twice the night before but had not had a conversation since James’s late-night visit to her room.
    Patrick returned with Daisy’s suitcase, and she and James followed him along the platform until he found an empty carriage. He stepped up onto the train and hoisted the suitcase onto the luggage rack.
    â€œWindow seat, facing the engine,” he said, leaning out the open window. “With some tasteful views of Torquay.”
    After a moment, he rejoined them on the platform. The stationmaster, holding his green flag and a whistle, glanced at them expectantly and Daisy turned to James and Patrick to say good-bye.
    James, stealing a march on Patrick, took Daisy loosely in his arms.
    â€œBon voyage,” he said, and kissed her lightly on both cheeks.
    Patrick merely took her hand, but he held it for a long moment.
    â€œMay I write to you?” he asked quietly.
    Doors were slamming all down the train; Daisy released his hand and climbed on board. She closed the door behind her and answered him through the window.
    â€œI’d like that,” she said, as the stationmaster blew his whistle and the engine hissed a cloud of steam. In case Patrick had not heard her, she smiled and nodded.
    The train started to move and Daisy went to her seat. By the time she had gained it, the tracks had curved away from the station and both men were out of sight.

Chapter 6
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