I gave Dad full marks for a mighty shrewd campaign. I wondered if the major had tumbled to Dad’s strategy. Probably not. Dad kept his cards hidden. He’d always made money playing poker even against Turtle. But now I understood why the major had been deluded about my sex. Dad had intended to imply that I was a boy so the major would be easily gulled into the guardian routine.
Wait a moment. Had Dad had a precognition of his death? No, I dismissed that notion as foreign to his character. A cautious soldier always leaves a bolt-hole.
Silly tears came to my eyes, tears of longing and gratitude for this silly, magnificent gesture. I turned my head into my pillow and sobbed bitterly for his loss, for the utter wastefulness of his manner of dying. Merlin shifted his body, nuzzling me with ready sympathy. I buried my head in his silky ruff and he endured my rough embrace and sobs with devoted patience. I finally cried myself into an exhausted sleep.
I drifted back to consciousness in a curious state of mind. I had evidently argued with myself while sleeping and I had the silliest impression I was picking up the argument at a point where I had dropped off to sleep. I was saying to myself, as consciousness increased, that if Dad had never underestimated my intelligence, he had overestimated my physical charms. What guarantee had I that I had any appeal for the major? Now there, I found myself commenting, was the crux of the matter. It was all very well for Dad to slap the white man’s burden on Major Regan Laird but did he intend to leave the seducing to me? And did my father feel I was up to such carryings-on?
For one thing, I was twenty and the major must be fifteen or so years my senior. If not more. He was a damned good-looking man, or would be again, when the surgeons at Walter Reed had a go at him. The good Major Laird might have certain plans in mind that did not include five feet two inches, one hundred and a half pounds of curly-haired imp. Imp was what I had serf-styled myself from the day I had regretfully decided at sixteen that I was stuck down at five feet two inches. The major was a well-built six foot one. The angle of elevation made his height deceptive. It was a pet peeve of mine to see tall men guiding around little girls. It seemed a waste, particularly when I considered some of my lengthy friends forced to wear flats so as not to tower above their dates. Of course, once this fool war got finished up, taller men might reappear on the scene. In the meantime, it was close to indecent for five foot two to run around under the waistband of six foot one. That was approximately eleven inches going to waste, right there and, as we are forever being told, don’t waste manpower. This put me in mind of a very obscene joke I’d overheard. Which put me in a very good frame of mind. Which reminded me of how I had fallen asleep.
My grief over my father had taken a curious shift somewhere during the subconscious moments of the night. Perhaps I had admitted that Dad had forever passed beyond recall. Perhaps I had let go the trappings of grief to take up the banner of just retribution and vengeance. Or perhaps time, in its inevitable way, had moved me past the initial plateau of sorrow. Turtle Bailey’s appearance had completed my acceptance, allowing me the vital catharsis of tears coupled with pleasanter reminders.
My remorse over things omitted and committed in relation to Dad had been painfully keen. The letters I had not found time to write that would have reached him in a moment of desolation. The meals I had skimped those last months together; the evenings I had elected not to spend in his company. All the petty things that rise to plague the mourner were now done with.
It would be ridiculous to chalk up my new spirit to one isolated incident. It seemed plain silly to waste time analyzing the whys and wherefores. Just accept the blessing graciously and get yourself out of bed, I told myself.
I looked at my watch.
“Ten o’clock!” I exclaimed, sitting up. With some astonishment I realized Merlin had left. My exploring hand told me it must have been some time ago for the impression his body had made was cold.
A shutter, its fastening broken or loosened by the continual pounding of the storm winds, swung leisurely ajar. The day was fair with that curious brilliance of reflected snow. Someone had mended the fire again for new logs burned warmly on the grate.
I dragged clean clothes out of my suitcase, loath to leave the warmth of the bed. I managed to dress under the bedclothes, no mean feat. I rued the fact that slacks and pullovers are not exactly siren togs but I could not fancy any man enjoying the embrace of an iced-maiden, however chic in her dress. Presuming, of course, I could entice the major within my skinny arms in the first place.
I stared at my image in the mirror over the dresser. There had been no overnight physical metamorphosis. I sighed. The color in my cheeks was only the product of the nippy air and the freckles stood out like beauty marks. The dark circles under my green eyes had receded by perhaps a quarter of an inch. I brushed my black hair vigorously, hoping it might condescend to fluff out. Instead, the friction in the cold air only made it lie flatter to my skull. I looked more like Jeanne d’Arc than Helen of Troy. I gave up and decided to put my trust in good cooking, hoping that the major was so suitably indoctrinated into infantryitis as to remember that every army moves on its stomach.
“Forward, Joan,” I urged and opened my door with a dramatic flourish.
The major, about to knock, teetered precariously in an effort not to knock on my forehead and to recapture his balance in order not to spill the coffee in his hand.
“And what does Joan have to do with the morning?” he asked, a droll expression in his eyes.
“I have absolutely no idea,” I lied. “How sweet of you!” I took the coffee from him gratefully.
He was dressed in an assortment of heavy clothing, widewale corduroy trousers tucked into infantry boots, a well-worn red blanket-coat, sweater cuffs showing at the wrists which indicated he wore several layers under the jacket, a muffler, and a hunting hat with earflaps turned down. Heavy gloves were stuffed in one pocket.
“Don’t tell me mine is the only fire in the house?” I asked, indicating his outdoor costume. He reached over my shoulder, reminding me again of the difference in our heights, and closed the door to my bedroom.
“No. There are several islands against the sub-zero weather,” he assured me. “But we won’t keep them long if Bailey and I don’t bring home some more wood. I neglected to plan on so many houseguests, to say nothing of that storm, when I last chopped up a woodpile.”
“One of these years we must put in central heating,” I said and suppressed the astonishment I felt at hearing myself so possessively impudent.
He hesitated a brief instant, giving me a measuring look before he smiled politely. “Yes, we must.” There was the briefest lingering on the pronoun.
With what poise I could muster after that gaffe, I glided to the stairs and hurried to the kitchen, hoping the devil was not at my heels.