Moonlight Over Paris(33)

“And this was before America joined the war?”

“Long before. I was young and stupid. Propelled by visions of glory. That wore off in no time, of course.”

“If you didn’t have to stay, if you were a volunteer, what kept you there?”

He shrugged. “I was needed. There were never enough of us, not in those early years. We did what we could.”

“Don’t make light of it. You did more than most.”

“I suppose. Did you . . . I mean, did your parents allow you to do anything? You must have been pretty young.”

“I was eighteen that summer, when the war started. I didn’t do much, not at first, but I didn’t like the thought of just sitting at home. So I talked my mother into letting me volunteer at a hospital near our house. It wasn’t much, just visiting the wounded and writing letters for them. That sort of thing.”

“I’m certain it meant a lot to the men you visited.”

“When America joined the war, did you remain a driver?”

“For a while. And then . . .”

She waited for him to continue, holding her breath all the while.

“My brother was killed that summer. Six weeks to the day after he landed in France.”

Whatever she had expected him to say, it hadn’t been that. “I am so very sorry. What was his name?”

“Andrew. He used to tell me, in his letters, that he was proud of me. That’s why he joined up. And when he was killed, I don’t know . . . I guess I felt I needed to take his place. So I signed up. Was assigned to his old unit. That’s when I met Archie.”

“Your back . . .” she began, but let her voice trail away. She simply wasn’t brave enough to ask outright.

“My scars? Sorry about that. I forgot. Should have changed in the hall.”

“Don’t apologize. Never apologize for something like that.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor, and when he began to speak his voice hardly rose above a whisper.

“I was a corporal in the 130th. It was the day before the Armistice. They wanted us to retake the ruins of a village called Marchéville. It was crazy. There was nothing left of it, and we all knew the Germans were about to surrender, but out we went all the same.

“Someone—I’ve no idea if it was us or them—had used mustard gas a day or two earlier, and the ground was muddy. We were on our way back when I slipped. I fell on my back, in a low crater, and it was filled with the gas. The stuff is heavier than air, so it can sit there for days.”

“So that’s why your lungs are sensitive?”

“No,” he said, and he laughed hoarsely. “I was gassed earlier in the war, but that was just chlorine. If I’d got any of the mustard gas in my lungs I’d have been dead inside a week.”

“What happened after you fell?”

“I don’t really remember. I woke up in a clearing station the next day. That’s when they told me the war was over.”

“Were you in hospital for long?”

“Two months or so. Burns weren’t that deep.”

“And now?” she asked, her voice trembling a little. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not really. I didn’t need skin grafts or anything like that. My face and hands weren’t burned, so people don’t stare. It could have been a lot worse.”

“You said you were a corporal. Why not an officer?”

“I could have been, I guess. They did ask me a few times. But I couldn’t stand the thought of it. Left the States to get away from all those buttoned-up idiots I’d known at university. From . . . from all of that.”

He sprang to his feet, walked over to the bookcase, and picked up a bottle of dark-colored liquor. “Sure you don’t want that bourbon?”

“I’m sure, thank you. Where did you go to university?”

He poured himself a measure of spirits and returned to his chair. “Listen to you today. Asking questions like a newspaperman. I went to Princeton.”

“What did you study there?”

“Classics. Then I went to Harvard, to law school.”

“With the view to doing what? Becoming a barrister?”

He tilted the glass in his hand, letting the amber liquid swirl around. “No, not exactly,” he said at last. “I was planning to work for my family business.”

“Why are you here?” she asked softly.

He stared at the spirits in his glass, not once looking up at her. “It’s hard to explain. I guess I could say that I love my family, but they want me to be someone I’m not. I felt terrible about it. I still do, but I just couldn’t become that man. Not even for them. That’s why I left.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, but would you mind if we talked about something else?” he asked, his smile wry. “I could ask you uncomfortable questions about your family.”

“I’ve no secrets there.”

At this he looked up, his expression doubting. “Really? What brought you here? You hardly ever speak of your family, apart from your aunt and one of your sisters. Did they cast you out?”

“Nothing so Gothic as that. I had scarlet fever last year. It was a normal enough case at first, but then I contracted some sort of secondary infection. The doctors told my parents there was no hope. I heard them talking. And I promised myself that if I survived I would change. I would make something of my life.”