The Firebird

Anna paused, and did just that, as she had done from the first days that she had spent under his protection. Gordon’s eyes, grown older now, smiled down at her with an expression that she did not understand. He moved a half-step sideways so that she could see the man who stood behind him, past his shoulder in the corner of the room.

A man with brown hair and no hat, and eyes that would, she knew, have crinkled at their corners had he smiled. He was not smiling now, but stood there looking at her steadily, as though he held his breath and was not sure how she’d receive him.

‘Anna,’ said Gordon, ‘your father is come.’

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Captain Jamieson stumbled a little beneath the full force of her running embrace, but he held to her tightly and did not let go. He was wearing a coat of fine brocaded silk now and not a rough uniform, but the hard sheltering warmth of his chest was the same, just the way she had fought all these years to remember it.

She did not think to correct the vice admiral, to tell him the captain was not her true father, because at this moment, in her mind, he was. He had promised her, all those years past, he would find her. And now he was here.

‘You came.’ She could not seem to stop the tears, and his head lowered more so his cheek rested warm at her temple.

He gathered her closer, as though, like herself, he had long had a hole in his heart of her size and her shape and was feeling it fill now, if slowly.

She said again, hoarsely, ‘You came.’

‘Aye.’ His voice, when he answered, rolled over her like a great comforting wave, so familiar it left her heart aching. ‘I told ye I’d return for ye.’

For a while they stayed silent, as though neither wanted to undo the magic. And then a faint sound in the next room drew Gordon’s attention. A look passed above Anna’s head. Captain Jamieson stroked his hand over her hair, brushed the tear-dampened curls from the side of her face, and more gently still, said, ‘I told ye I’d do something else, I recall, and I’m not one for breaking a promise.’ He tilted her face up and smiled and the years rolled away and she felt eight years old again, holding his hand in the church of the convent at Ypres. ‘Will ye come meet your mother?’

The woman who sat in the vice admiral’s parlour had hair that, although it had lightened, still held the same brightness as that in the curl tied with ribbon that Anna had carried for all these long years. She was lovely and slender with beautiful eyes that could not seem to leave Anna’s face. When the two men had entered the room, bringing Anna between them, the woman had gone very still as though fearing to move, and her mouth had lost form for a moment and trembled, her eyes growing bright.

Now she blinked, very hard, and her smile was a thing of great beauty.

Gordon said, ‘Anna, this is Sophia McClelland. Your mother.’

She ought to have curtseyed, she knew. It was how she’d been taught to greet strangers. But Anna stood speechless, her manners forgotten, her mind whirling helplessly, all of this strange day’s events making ordinary action impossible.

This was Sophia. Her mother.

She formed that thought over, more clearly. Her mother.

Then memories rushed in, all unbidden, small fragments and bits that flew randomly round and made little sense, never connecting: a frill of silver lace, a fire, the softness of grey silk, a breath of cold, a woman’s voice that asked her, gently, ‘Which one is your favourite?’

And it seemed to Anna, then, that it was natural for her to hold her hand out to this woman she had never met, and open it to show the chess piece lying still within it that she’d taken from the general’s chessboard and, until this moment, had forgotten she was holding.

Time slipped backwards for a moment while she watched her mother’s eyes.

Sophia looked at the black king, and in the silence raised one hand and pressed it flat against her heart, as though she wished to hold it in its place. It seemed to Anna that the older woman was about to weep, but then instead she smiled – a smile that wavered only slightly as she said to Anna, quietly, ‘My favourite pieces always were—’

‘The pawns,’ said Anna. ‘I remember.’ And she felt her own eyes fill then, as her voice became a whisper. ‘I remember you.’

It did not matter, then, that she misplaced her steps as she came forward and began to fall, because her mother’s arms were there to catch her, and to hold her, as though they’d been made for that one purpose.

It was several minutes before either woman moved, or let the other go. Their hands stayed linked, though, when at long last Anna took a chair beside her mother’s, for it felt as if they should not now be made to separate when they’d already been so long divided.

Both the men, by this time, had moved off a discreet distance and were sitting now discussing something that appeared to be of some weight, judging by their faces. Anna noticed Captain Jamieson still held his one leg straighter than the other, as if it did not bend easily, remembering its wound. She noticed something else, as well, and faintly smiled.

Her mother, following her gaze across the room towards the captain, asked, ‘What is it?’

‘He still wears the stone,’ said Anna, ‘with the hole in it.’

‘Aye, he has worn that always since I gave it to him,’ said Sophia, ‘before you were even born. I found it on the beach at Slains, the summer we were married, and I gave it to him on the night he did return to France, and …’ Her words trailed into silence as she studied Anna’s face, her own face suddenly incredulous. ‘You do not know.’