Author's Note: This story was born of a conversation I had with a friend. It was one of those ‘”careful, or you’ll end up in my novel” things.” When he asked what kind of character he would be, I told him that I saw him as a Roman centurion. He countered with “What about a veteran of Kitchener’s wars?” My response was “Which one?” With the Second Boer War under my belt, I came up with a story idea -- and lost the notes. The good news is that I was able to reconstruct most of it. The better news is that the story is much improved since the original concept. It originally appeared in my anthology, "Around the World in 80 Pages."
Billy Edwards gathered his pensioner’s blouse and dignity about him as he was pitched out of yet another London pub. ‘T ‘weren’t right, he thought. All he’d asked of the landlord was a pint, for which he’d gladly show the Victoria Cross in his pocket.
‘T ‘weren’t right. He’d lost everything as it was, haring off to Kitchener’s South African folly. He’d lost his dignity, standing guard over starving Boertrekkers. And he’d lost his Bessie.
At least, she’d been plain Bessie Allen when he’d left for the war. Now, her father had told him, she was Isabeau.
Bessie had always longed for more than a quiet life as a Kentish farmer’s wife. Billy had hoped to make his fortune and come back for her.
“Bessie, there are diamonds just lyin’ there for the takin’. You wait and see; I’ll do right by you.”
Bessie’s blue eyes were troubled.
“William, I don’t want you to go. I think things will be very different there.”
Billy had kissed her and promised to return. She snipped a lock of his golden hair with her embroidery scissors and vowed never to forget him.
Bessie’d been right, of course. There weren’t any diamonds scattered around for the taking. But there was dysentery. And hunger. And hate the likes of which he’d never seen. There was no valor and honor to write about from the concentration camp at Bloemfontein. But he tried.
After a while, Billy didn’t want to write to Bessie about the horrors he was seeing. The people he guarded were dying of starvation. So, he stopped writing all together.
“Broke her damned heart is what you done,” Bessie’s father huffed at Billy when he’d come home.
Billy took off his spectacles and wiped them on his blouse.
“I told her I’d be back, sir.’ He put the glasses back on and his green eyes were better able to focus.
“After a while she stopped believing that. Took up with some fancy man from London and gone up to the stage.”
Billy swiped a hand through his hair, in which early threads of grey had begun to show during the war.
“Did she leave an address?” Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
“Nah. She moves ‘round a lot, near’s I can tell. Calls herself Isabeau now. Ask around the theatres, boy. She’s dead to me.’
Ask around the theatres, indeed. That had been months ago.
No, sir. She’s gone on to Blackpool. To Manchester. To France. To Brighton. Everyone seemed to know her, but no one could say when she’d be back.
Billy took to drink, and to staying in the meanest of hostelries. His pension was little, but he found many who would stand him a pint in honor of his “bravery” under Kitchener. He’d half a mind to pitch the damned medal into the gutter.
He had no money for a hotel, and it was cold. At least he could sleep in the alleyway, out of the wind. Maybe tomorrow he’d find her.
Or find another drink.
This brand-new century, just three years old, sure as hell made him wish he’d never left Kent. He should have stayed home and married Bessie instead of trying to make a hero of himself.
~~
Isabeau could hardly believe her eyes. Surely that was William Edwards, sleeping in the alley without so much as a cloak to cover him. She’d thought he was dead in South Africa. She must be mistaken.
She drew nearer, her black silk dress barely swishing around her high-heeled boots. These new hobble skirts were hell to walk in, much less kneel, so she squatted as best she could next to the exhausted soldier and touched his cheek with her gloved hand.
“William?” she whispered. She stroked his hair gently. His cheek was stubbled, and his face bore the signs of heavy drink, but it was indeed her William.
He barely stirred.
“William, you need to get up.”
“Bessie,” he muttered.
“Yes, it’s me. Get up, darling.”
She stood up as he woke and struggled to his feet.
“I’ve been looking for you, Bessie ... Isabeau.” He coughed a little.
“I’m here now, William.”
He took in her appearance; the long auburn curls were pinned up under a fashionable hat. Her walking suit was the latest cut and made from heavy moiré voile. A jet pin adorned the throat of her white blouse. These were costly clothes of the sort he could never give her.
“Oh, Bessie. I am so sorry.” He would not weep in front of her. ‘T ‘weren’t right. If he was weak, he wouldn’t have a chance with her.
“My home is nearby, William. Please come in with me, out of the cold.”
“What about your gentleman? Your father said ...”
“Never mind about that,” she interrupted. “Just come with me.”
Billy trailed after her to a nearby house. The outside was modest, in keeping with the quiet side street. Inside, it was beautifully furnished. Isabeau’s portrait, showing her in an elegant blue evening gown, hung over the mantle.
The lady herself unpinned her hat and sat it on a table. Her kid gloves followed suit. Billy noticed that she wore no rings.
“Billy, darling, would you please light the fire?”
For indeed, a fire was laid. It took only a lucifer to add its warmth and light to the room.
She called me Billy, he thought. I always wished she would.
Isabeau removed her jacket; the blouse beneath it was a tailored shirtwaist. Her only ornament was the jet brooch: a locket that contained a snippet of Billy’s hair.
“Give me your coat, Billy; I’ll brush it for you.’
He handed over the fraying blouse, embarrassed at how shabby he was.
“Just keep warm, Billy,” she said. “I’ll be back directly.”
She stepped into the bedroom to get the clothes brush. It was there that she found the Victoria Cross in the pocket of his worn coat. She wanted to weep. How could she have been so foolish?
Well, now was now. She took off the brooch and put it in the pocket that held the medal. Once Billy saw what was in the locket, he would understand.
She ran a hot bath and gathered shaving things. Bertie had left them here; he’d moved on to yet another actress but had kept up the house for her. Surely he wouldn’t care if Billy used his things. He would never know.
When she offered the bath to Billy, he was surprised -- even moreso when she rolled up the sleeves of her costly blouse to wash his back and to shave his face. This was not the modest and proper Bessie he’d left behind. When she leaned over the steaming tub and gave him a lover’s kiss, he found that he didn’t care. He could love Isabeau, just as much as ever.
While Billy dried himself and donned a lush Turkish towel robe embroidered with three ostrich feathers (there was now no mistaking whose mistress she had been), Isabeau unpinned and brushed her hair. She had donned a nightgown and stood in front of the looking glass. Billy came up behind her and gathered a few locks in his hands, kissing her hair and inhaling its perfume.
“Can you still love me, William?” She watched his reflection in the mirror.
“Isabeau, say you’ll be with me always.”
“I promise, William. We’ll never part again.”
She turned and put her arms around him.
“Now, let’s go to bed. I’ll keep you warm.’
She kissed him again and Billy sighed.
~~
The constable found his body in the alleyway the next morning.
“Damme if that ain’t Billy Edwards,” he said to his partner. “Hero of the Boer War, he were.”
“Sad thing, him dyin’ out here like that.”
“Aye. You know he was always lookin’ for Isabeau.”
“Bertie’s mistress? The one as died in Brighton a few months back?”
“Aye. Never had the heart to tell ‘im. Seems she was his sweetheart once. Couldn’t do no good to say she was gone.”
The younger man reached into Billy’s pockets.
“Naught here but a brooch locket and .... blimey. A Victoria Cross.”
“Aye. Told you he was a hero. Pity that when he got home he didn’t have a ghost of a chance.”