Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Isneak a glance at Henry, his face blank, hiding the panic and fear I know is running through his mind.
We got caught mixing up our real identities and our disguises. It hasn’t even been ten minutes since we got back, and I’ve managed to ruin my reputation by arriving back on British grounds with child, while publicly known to be unmarried.
How are we possibly going to get ourselves out of this fiasco?
Heat and sweat rise along my body as I panic, knowing we can’t simply stand here like fools and ignore the elephant in the room. We either find a solution quickly, or I must allow my name and reputation to be tarnished due to my own oversight.
With a mind completely empty of ideas, I glance at Henry with pleading eyes for help.
Discreetly, he taps his left ring finger onto the side of his pants, reminding me of the gold wedding band he is still wearing.
Quickly, an idea comes to mind—one I hope these young privates will not take with a pinch of salt.
Mustering the acting skills I’ve developed over the last few days, I hope genuine concern is now showing on my face. “Is something the matter?” I ask, purposely placing a protective hand on my bump.
“Apologies, Miss,” the private to my right says. He’s slightly older and taller than the other two. He sways side-to-side nervously, afraid to disobey orders I know came straight from the Major General himself.
“It’s Mrs. now,” I interject sweetly with a smile. “Mrs. Ashford.”
The privates finally take notice of our wedding rings, and I can see the realization settle onto their faces, along with relief.
They no longer need to worry about having to explain to their Major General how his daughter is a harlot who shamefully got herself impregnated out of wedlock.
There is a solution that can easily explain the obvious disconnect.
“Our apologies, Mrs. Ashford,” the taller one says. “We were clearly debriefed with outdated information that caught us slightly off guard.”
Suddenly, he and his partner both stand at attention and bow to us.
“I’m Private Frederick,” the shorter and boyish-looking private says.
“And I’m Private Manheim,” the other says.
“Welcome back home, Mr. and Mrs. Ashford. We will be escorting you both to Hullbeck Barracks, as you know. I imagine you both had a long and tiring journey from Italy. Private Frederick and I will help you with your luggage, and we’ll make our way to the base.
It shouldn’t take more than an hour's drive to get there.”
Private Frederick offers his umbrella to Henry, and we both hover underneath it as rain pours. We follow them to the military green Austin Saloon parked along the curb, its tires all caked with mud from the rain.
Thankfully, it’s a closed Austin Saloon. Otherwise, we would be arriving in Hullbeck soaked and shivering. Henry and I sit snugly in the backseat, our bodies colliding into each other whenever Private Frederick hits a pothole on the street.
“Apologies for the tight fit back there,” Private Manheim says over his shoulder. “This was the only civilian vehicle we had on base that could fit all of us and your luggage.”
We both give him a smile of reassurance, knowing they had no control over it.
“It’s alright,” Henry says, then glances at me with a wide grin. “We won’t be crammed back here for too long.” He shifts his body closer to the car door, giving me room to stretch out my legs.
I mouth a thank you to him.
We soon fall back into silence as I suspect the privates were instructed to keep socialization to a bare minimum. With both privates facing forward, Henry can communicate with me through his pocket-sized notebook tucked away in his jacket. On a fresh, clean page, he writes:
We got lucky. That was too close.
I nod in response, agreeing with him.
We won’t have time to prepare.
He continues writing quickly.
I’ll follow your lead.
I nod in agreement as he slides his notebook back inside his jacket pocket. I don’t want the responsibility to make our decisions, especially when I’m going to be in my father’s territory. I understand why Henry doesn’t want to overstep; we are dealing with my father after all.
As we drive further northwest along the congested major roadway that is the A2, I become a nervous wreck. Even the soothing sounds of rain pattering against the roof of the car do nothing to calm my racing heart and mind.
I knew this day was coming. So why does the thought of seeing my father make my stomach turn upside down as if I could be sick at any moment?
It’s been eight years since I last saw him.
We were having luncheon with him in London, the week before I was being introduced into society.
Grandad was courteous enough to run by my father his plans for me, but our time was cut short.
Upon receiving a telegram from his base, my father couldn’t sprint out of the restaurant fast enough.
After he left, I knew I wouldn’t see him for a very long time, and I was bloody right about that.
I can’t seem to recall what his face looks like, nor can I recall with certainty if his eyes are brown, blue, or green. I don’t know what his favorite color is, what his favorite novel is, or what his favorite dish is.
I don’t know who my father truly is, and I’ve come to accept that I never will, which is what makes me the most uneasy. I do not know how he is going to react to the sudden news of my nuptials and the child I’m supposedly bringing into this world.
It’s not for the reason one may think.
I don’t care what my father may think of me.
I only care that he will keep his word by letting Henry and me stay in Hullbeck.
If this, for whatever reason it may be, causes my father to change his mind, we would have nowhere safe to hide from the dangerous and greedy archaeologist who has been following us.
I may be able to wield the artifact’s powers to protect us, but I’m only one person.
The vision of Henry’s death comes back into my mind, always there when my fear of our safety arises. I may not know my father, but I sure hope he isn’t the kind of man who will turn his back on his daughter—his only child—because the circumstances have changed slightly.
Henry reaches for my hand, breaking my thoughts and attention away from the scenery and onto him. He doesn’t place his hand softly on top of mine, as he’s done in the past.
This time, he encloses our hands, gripping mine with warmth and comfort. He must know this will not be easy for me. Proving how much of an anchor he has become, someone I can rely on for comfort, protection, and even as an accomplice.
I hope he knows I can be an anchor for him.
We smile, then glance back out of our windows, taking in our new surroundings. As much as I need to hear his voice to console me, we need to be cautious about what we say around Private Frederick and Manheim.
We exit the A2 and are now on a narrow dirt road enclosed by luscious, green foliage, wet and sleek from the downpour that has since stopped.
In the distance, a gate with two flagpoles waving the Union Jack and the county flag of Kent—a red flag with a white horse—and a wooden sign reading Hullbeck Barracks, Canterbury, Kent, UK. Est. 1813, hanging above the gate’s threshold.
Four soldiers stand at the guard post, while another six make rounds along the top of the red brick wall guarding the base from the outside world.
Private Frederick stops at the front of the gate and rolls down his window to speak with one of the soldiers at the guard post. The privates first show them their military identification cards and then inform the guard that we are the two guests Major General Fairfax had placed on the visitor list.
Soon, we are confirmed and allowed inside the base.
Once we drive past the threshold, a heavy weight lifts off my shoulders. I turn around to watch the gates close behind us, needing to see it for myself. I let out a sigh of relief—a bit louder than I intended. The days of built-up apprehension and fear chip away.
No threat can get to us now.
Feeling a reassuring hand squeeze mine, I turn to look at Henry, small smiles resting on our faces, acknowledging we finally made it to the finish line.
We no longer need to run and hide behind disguises—no more long journeys traveling across Europe by boats, trains, and cars.
We no longer need to hold our breath every time a stranger comes near.
Our paranoia and fear can remain outside the gates.
The base looks as I’d imagined—cold, grey, bleak, and devoid of the vivacity of life.
It doesn’t help; it is a typical gloomy English day.
The dirt road contains several potholes filled with rainwater.
We are surrounded by a sea of identical grey buildings, with not a single sign in sight.
I know I will easily get lost while navigating around the base.
As Private Frederick drives deeper into the base, we pass dozens of soldiers jogging in soaked white t-shirts and cargo pants, their boots caked in dried mud, skin reddened from the hard rain and cold temperature.
On top of their heads are different types of gas masks, while carrying various items—a heavy knapsack connected to what looks to be a metal rifle, body armor with a coloring unlike metal, or swords fastened to leather buckled around their arms.
I turn in my seat as we drive by, intrigued by what I’m seeing. In the distance, the soldiers stop jogging, in unison, rip off their masks, dispose of the heavy cargo, and plop onto the wet, soggy ground to catch their breath. When I am no longer able to see them, I turn forward again.
What could the military be training these soldiers for?
They all look young, like Private Frederick—some even younger. It breaks my heart to see men younger than myself go headfirst into dangerous missions and battlefields. Conscription Acts are no longer needed; all these men are here of their own volition.