“Once upon the time there was a soldier,” the little girl began in lisping tones. “He was very big and very strong.”
Margaret smiled at her imagination. “As many soldiers are,” she agreed.
“He went on adventures.” The soldier hopped about the bedspread, scaled a pile of pillows, and seemed to swim through a lake of blankets. “He was very brave and good. One day, he saw a pretty princess.” The little blonde doll came onto the bedspread and perched atop Poppy’s knee. “The princess wanted to go with the soldier on all his adventures, but she wasn’t very big or strong. Every time she tried to go with him, they would have to fight big, scary things. She didn’t want to do that.”
The stuffed bear now joined the adventure. Poppy had to balance him against her arm while she moved the other two, and a whole slew of adventures began popping up one after the other. Margaret could see that the child was getting caught up in her own game, completely distracted from the story she had been telling, but Margaret’s heart was already attuned to what the child had accidentally made so meaningful.
She wasn’t very big or strong. Every time she tried to go with him, they would fight big, scary things. It was exactly how she felt with her own soldier man, as though their love was doomed. It seemed that on every side, difficulties continued to pop up. This most recent conversation crushed her – he had seemed so certain of himself, so unflappable in his purpose.
She helped Poppy wrap up her play and then stood for a moment with the soldier doll in her hands, turning him over and over. “Poppy,” she said quietly. “Do you miss Captain Bateson? Is that why you always play with this doll?”
“I like him,” the child answered innocently. “He calls me Poppy too.”
“Yes, he does,” Margaret said, emotion welling up into a lump in her throat. “He’s a good man, but I’m afraid we won’t be seeing much of him anymore. He’s very busy, and has duties in other places.”
Poppy’s eyes were on the bedspread. She didn’t give any apparent reaction to this news, and Margaret kissed her goodnight and was nearly to the door before the child spoke in a low voice.
“Do you know who my papa is?” she asked.
It was the first time she had ever broached the subject, and Margaret made the choice not to share the information she had recently received. There would be a time, but for now the child was too young and the news too uncertain.
“Your mama never introduced us,” she said carefully.
Poppy bit her lip. “I think my soldier would be a good papa,” she said quietly. “I think he would be kind and good like other papas, and he would never, ever leave me.”
Margaret waited until she was outside in the hall before she allowed herself to weep. The emotion pressing hard against her eyes came out, running in tears down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and felt the burn of the water there and the memory of Nigel. She meant to go back to her bedroom, but instead, she found her feet carrying her downstairs, past the parlour, to her father’s study. There was a light under the door – she could see it flickering – and when she knocked he bade her enter.
She stepped inside, making no effort to brush the tears out of her eyes. Her father looked up from the work spread out on his desk and stopped short at her expression.
“Margaret.” He stood, waving to the chair in front of him. “What has happened?”
She came and sat down in front of him. “I need to talk to you,” she said weakly. “But I’m loathe to. I feel like all we do these days is argue, and I know that what I am about to say is just going to open up another disagreement between us.”
He sat still for a long moment and then stood, walking around her to the fireplace. He had brought the chess set from the other day in and put it on the table by the fire. He lifted the queen and turned it over gently. “Do you remember when I taught you this game?” he asked.
Margaret nodded.
“I remember thinking that you were too young to learn – just about the age of that little girl sleeping upstairs – but you picked