and, pound as she might, she could not break through to join them. Alice would corner her and share the gossip from the local farms and the town: who was in, who was out, which war widow had already found a new match, which newly reunited man and wife could not live easily with his wounds or her experiences. It all washed over Emily like a torrent, but left her dry. All she could think about, as Alice babbled on, were the men and women who had fought and died with her, and was just it for this? To serve as titbits to alleviate Alice’s boredom? What was the point? She had lived with death and, having had that presence at her side, this peace and calm seemed trivial and meaningless.
She would watch Mary play with Francis, who was now crawling energetically, getting everywhere he shouldn’t if not watched closely. There was meaning, but it was not for her. She could not subsume herself in those minutiae of life which had once been her entire world of experience. And she frightened Francis: the boy would not go near her unless his mother was close.
Tubal adapted better than she had, and she wondered what secret he knew, or whether it was that he had simply thought less about it, all the while the war lasted. He was busy trying to rebuild his printer’s business, with unexpected help from Mr Northway and his Denland masters. He had been commissioned to produce a book about the war, compiling and collecting stories from both sides. The Denlanders were working to knit the countries together, to draw close the jagged-edged ravine that separated them.
Emily had no faith in it. None.
She could stay in the house until perhaps midday, but by then her patience would be spent. In her man’s attire, she would go riding out across the Wolds, seeking absolution through action. She would carry her pistol with her, perhaps even Grant’s old musket, and she carried both of them loaded. She told herself it was a habit she would grow out of as the peace set in, but inside she knew that she herself perpetuated it. She could not let go.
Coral. She remembered once learning how sea-corals grew; how they built shells upon shells to protect themselves, growth after growth of hard armour, until the creatures that had started the mound suffocated and died deep within, and it was the outer shell only that survived. She was like that. The war had callused her all over, had given her tough armour to wear against its blows both physical and mental . . . and now that she came to take the armour off, she found it hollow and empty.
Every other day, at the very least, her horse took her to Chalcaster, and she would slope into the Mayor-Governor’s office. Whether he had people watching out for her, she did not know, but somehow he was always free to talk with her. She would settle down in his office and converse about the war, about the future, about her doubts and fears. She had nobody else in the world with whom she could speak so freely. He mocked her, to be sure, argued with her, danced words around her, but she needed that – needed the opposition. She was so used to being opposed.
And he would talk, as well. He had a whole life of iniquity and equivocation behind him, and he told her of it frankly, polishing nothing. He told her of the demands the Denlanders were making of him, and of the complaints from the people of Chalcaster. He explained his subtle dealings that kept the town supplied with flour, with beer, with livestock. He told her the latest rumours concerning the King, still at liberty and driving the Denlanders mad as he flew about the country, rallying rebellion. She was fascinated by it all.
To his credit, he never pressed her by raising the subject of his feelings again. He had put them away neatly, as he did with all things. He made gifts, on occasion, but they were practical and not romantic: simple things that were hard to find in the shortages after the war. Sometimes they would walk through Chalcaster in the fine summer weather. She saw the sour looks he gathered as they passed, but she noticed the looks she herself received as well. There was a kind of reverence there. Sometimes men or women, strangers, would approach her, and