A Question of Honor Read Online Free Page A

clearly in his writing.
    “Perhaps she wants to visit her husband’s grave again,” I suggested as we walked on. “Surely most of the people she knew are long since dead as well.”
    “It’s possible.”
    I watched fluffy summer clouds drifting across the pool, almost as real as the ones in the sky above us. Then we walked on in a companionable silence, taking the path through the copse that led toward the high grass of the meadow. The hem of my skirt caught on the dry stalk of a spring wildflower, and Simon bent to set it free.
    “Do you want to go back?” I asked him, curious. “To India, I mean.”
    “I don’t know,” he said again.
    We paused on the bridge over the stream, looking down at the slow-moving water below. The sound of it passing over the stones in the streambed was a soothing murmur. But I could sense the tension in the man beside me.
    I didn’t press. Whatever Simon had left behind in India, he had never spoken to me about it. I wondered sometimes if my mother knew. Simon was devoted to her, and I’d always had a feeling that something had happened to him in India before my father’s regiment had been sent home from that last posting. It would explain why he was in her debt.
    At the time, I’d been considered too young to be included in family secrets, but had Melinda known? Was that why she wished to return to India? For Simon’s sake—as well as her own?
    Changing the subject, I said lightly, “I haven’t had a chance to ask. Are you well enough to return to duty?”
    Neither my mother nor I knew what services my father, the Colonel Sahib, and Simon Brandon performed for the Army. Experienced men, both of them, they would disappear for a day or a week without explanation. It often had to do with training and sometimes went well beyond training. I was certain that Simon had gone behind enemy lines more than once, but I’d said nothing to anyone about that.
    Simon smiled. “I’ve been told I’m sound as a bell.”
    I was glad for his sake, but I was also worried. The war was certain to end before very long—the arrival of the American forces under General Pershing was helping turn the tide at last—but until it did, Simon would be in the thick of things if he could. Perhaps he wouldn’t be as lucky the next time the Germans shot at him. I shivered at the thought.
    We’d left the house for a stroll after our lunch with Mr. Kipling, to give Melinda time alone with her old friend. Among the books in Mr. Kipling’s study were many of his treasures from India, small pieces in ivory or wood or silver, and when we’d left them, they were reminiscing about their experiences out there. A safe subject, when the war was too painful to speak of.
    Simon took out his watch. “We have a quarter of an hour left. Do you want to walk as far as the mill? Or would you prefer to turn back toward the house?”
    “The mill,” I decided, and by the time we’d reached it Simon was himself again, chatting with the miller and inspecting the machinery.

Chapter Two
    B ack in France after my brief leave, I was sorting the wounded just coming into our forward aid station when one of the orderlies pulled at my sleeve.
    “Beg pardon, Sister. We’ve got one over here we can’t understand.”
    I turned to look in the direction he was pointing and said, “That’s a Subedar. An Indian Sergeant. He should be able to speak English. But what’s he doing in this sector? I didn’t think there were any Indian troops in the line here.”
    “That’s just it. There’s no one about who can help us. Can you talk to him, Sister? I think he’s dying. And he’s trying very hard to tell us something.”
    I asked Sister MacLean to take my place and quickly crossed to where the Indian soldier was lying on a stretcher.
    One look confirmed what the orderly had said. He was dying. The bloody froth on his lips told its own story, and his breathing was ragged.
    I’d learned to speak several local languages in India