It was opened, quickly enough, by a man of middle years, who looked at her dully. ‘One of the women to see you, sir,’ he announced, not letting Emily step an inch out of the rain.
From inside, safely in the dry, the colonel made some noncommittal reply, and Emily was suddenly reminded of Elise’s mad dream of becoming the colonel’s mistress. She wondered how many woman had already tried.
‘Ensign Emily Marshwic, if you please,’ she called out, hoping Tubal’s thoughts on names and good family were accurate ones.
‘Marshwic, is it? Well, let her in, Stapes.’
The doorman stepped aside without a change of expression, and Emily gratefully hurried inside.
There had been a creditworthy attempt to civilize the inside of the colonel’s hut. There were portraits hanging on the walls, a white cloth spread on the central table. A small shelf held a few books that looked like histories, and the candles lighting the place were set in silver candelabra. The colonel himself sat at the table, plates and cutlery cleared off to one side, with a newspaper in front of him that she knew must be days out of date.
‘For the Lord’s sake, Stapes, take the poor girl’s cloak,’ he directed, and Emily gratefully slipped out of the sopping garment.
‘He’s a good fellow, old Stapewood,’ the colonel explained. ‘Not the quickest, mind you. Marshwic, is it? Now there’s a name.’
She gave silent thanks to Tubal for knowing his ground.
‘Fought alongside a Marshwic in the Hellic wars, you know,’ the colonel recalled. ‘Damned good soldier, pardon my language.’
‘That would have been my grandfather or one of his brothers, sir,’ she said, sitting down when Stapewood brought a chair for her.
‘Grandfather, is it?’ The colonel looked a little sad at that. ‘Well, time will move on when you aren’t looking, won’t it. Will you have a little wine, dear girl?’
‘Thank you, sir, I will.’
‘You needn’t bother with the “sir”, dear girl. Old Seb Marshwic’s granddaughter, eh? And here to serve your country. He would have been proud.’
‘Thank you, s— Colonel.’
‘Resnic. Colm Resnic. Sir Colm, technically, but I won’t insist on it, eh?’ He smiled at her warmly. ‘I wasn’t sure about you women turning up. Wasn’t sure you had it in you. Gave a good showing of yourselves, I hear. Struck fear into the heart of the enemy, so they tell me.’
Remembering those bewildering, murderous moments in the swamp, Emily said nothing.
‘Ah, well. Ensign, too. Quality will out, they say. We’ll make a lieutenant of you yet, I dare say – at the very least. Good of you to come by and introduce yourself, dear girl. Especially in this weather. Something foul, isn’t it?’
She nodded. Sitting here a few hundred yards from the swamp in the pounding rain, dead friends and dead enemies on her conscience, it seemed unreal for him to be talking about the weather.
Stapewood brought the wine, just then. The scent of it, rich and heady with home, caught at her throat.
‘Now, then, Miss Marshwic, what can I do for you? Settling in all right, are you?’
Yes, sir, except for the dead friend. ‘Well, sir, I was thinking that I’d like to write a letter home, and I was told to talk to you about it.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Ah, well, only natural. Letters home, yes. Excellent idea. Tell the people at home how the war was won.’
She grimaced. ‘Only, I was told there was . . . a problem?’
‘Ah, yes.’ He gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I understand, dear girl. It’s all been a shock, this place. I don’t blame you. It’s no place for a civilized man – or woman. But the thing is, dear girl, you can hardly just write home and tell everyone what a miserable time you’re having, you see?’
‘Why not, sir?’
‘Well, it’s morale! Morale, you see. I’m sure everyone back home is distressed enough, what with having so many fine women such as yourself go off to war. They don’t want to hear how awful things can get. They want to hear how well we’re doing. They need their spirits kept up.’
‘My family would like to hear the truth, Colonel.’
His smile was maddening, unthinkingly patronizing. ‘You may think so but, really, people just want to be comforted. Honestly, you wouldn’t want to be unduly worried, if you were back home. You wouldn’t want to frighten people.’
I want them to worry, because my situation is worrying. I want them to fear, because my plight is fearful. ‘Colonel, please—’