Henry Fitzwilliam's War by Don Jacobson

Author:Don Jacobson [Jacobson, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-08-25T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

When Henry cried out, her heart ripped in two. She had been pacing up and down the hall outside of his door. Fourteen steps from the corner room to the landing atop the stairs; then fourteen steps back along the bright floral print papered corridor. His anguish pulled her back to confront Campbell. The doctor’s assurances helped reduce the worry but not the sadness.

I am pulled into his circle of raw youth. I cannot resist it. I can barely control myself when I sit next to him. I quiver like currant jelly. I want to crawl between the sheets to cuddle his body, to urge him to rest. I want to feel his legs entwined with mine. So it has been for over 20 years.

I have never made love to this Childe Harold.[xvii] But, God help me, I would if I dared.

And, now Campbell’s treatment instructions would demand that she walk by his side, holding him and guiding him. His exercise would be healing for him; hers would sear her very soul.



October 11, 1915

Jacques watched as Madame and the soldier once again moved slowly along the sandy beachfront. Each was draped in a duster-like great coat to keep the ever-present flying grit from worrying its way in between buttons and under collars. He smiled at the taller man leaning on the more diminutive woman, although she was taller than the average lady, as she guided him along the bleached duckboards of the boardwalk Monsieur had laid down from the house back toward town.

Hein! How long has it been since I saw them like this? As soon as he got mixed up with that Whitehall crowd—Asquith, Churchill, Grey, Lloyd-George—the fate of the nation stole away the best of his heart. Oh, he never ignored her, but the heat I saw begin in Paris cooled in London. He became such an Anglais. No matter how much I tried to talk to him, he threw up the shutters around his heart…he said to protect her, but we both knew that it was to protect him from the pain of ignoring her as he did his duty.

So much for the proper Anglais “gentleman.” Pfui. We French, we know what to do. We would send away the servants, lock the bookroom door, put a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the bedroom, and make love to our woman. Then in the morning, we would make love again and feast on berries, whipped cream and Menier chocolate. Then café and croissants followed by a leisurely afternoon before the cab to Waterloo to take the train to Southampton for the steamer to Amerique. Then she would long for him to return, not wear herself thin lusting after the boy he was.

But, Jacques knew he could only protect her from the dangers of the world, not of the heart. Madame would have to let the young soldier go. He was not for her…yet. And, Monsieur, when he returned, had better do his best to heal his love.

The duo vanished behind the corner of a dune and was gone.

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