September 1942, London, England
There was a letter sitting on his desk when he returned from his lunch break. Upon a closer glance, he saw it was from General Ross, an American closely connected with intelligence, and Byron had served with him during the Great War. A simple note on the letter that read: Bridager Walsh, the favor you asked for. A. H. Ross.
He stared at the letter, a sense of dread filling him. He knew exactly what the letter was for.
The letter was brief, though detailed enough to offer a proper explanation. Private Gardenhouse was assigned to the 93rd Infantry Division, which he knew through American intelligence was set to be sent out to the Pacific Theater, not Europe. He could not do what his ex-wife had asked of him.
He didn’t call Stella until it was late at night, and mostly everyone had gone home. He drank three beers and two glasses full of whiskey he kept hidden in his office before he picked up the phone, listening to it ring four times before it was picked up.
“Gardenhouse Residence,” Stella spoke softly into the phone. “Who is this?”
She swallowed, sighing into the phone. “You have news?”
“I heard from the American general. …As you know he’s in the 93rd. It’s not completely decided, and they won’t deploy those boys until they’re completely trained, and you know the Americans will send the white troops first anyway, but… based on training and some classified plans, it is more than likely that the 93rd will be sent to the East and the 92nd will come to Europe. I’m sorry, Stella, I truly wish I could do something.”
She was silent for a while, breathing into the phone, and it became apparent she was trying not to cry. “...It was a long shot, and I shouldn’t have put it on your shoulders. It was a tremendous thing to ask.”
“I’d want to regardless. Carl is a nice boy. He has his father’s ambition and your stubbornness. He’ll get far in life.”
She snorted. “Campbell’s ambition took him a little too far. …Oh, don’t sigh like that, I know what you meant.”
Byron frowned. “If it’s any consolation. It will be some time before he’s deployed. He likely won’t be sent out until next year. Perhaps longer.”
“Do you think we ever could’ve been happy?” Stella muttered bluntly.
“If Lord Thomas Walsh’s grandson had never died. Or if my father and brother hadn’t died. …But I think it would have ended the same regardless. Do you regret eloping?”
“I don’t know. But if we hadn’t, you probably wouldn’t have met your wife, and I doubt I’d have Carl.”
He swallowed. He wouldn’t be saying this sober. “Do you think about it? The child?”
“I did a lot when Campbell died, when I was an alcoholic relying on the charity of my own brother. But now? I don’t think a child deserves to have both of us as parents. It wouldn’t have worked then. It wouldn’t have worked now.”
Byron sighed. “I never told anyone what you told me. Not even to Eleora. But my mind wanders.”
“...How much have you had to drink, Byron?”
“A pint or two. And some whiskey beforehand,” he admitted. “I don’t hold my liquor very well anymore.”
Stella swallowed loudly. “Go to bed, Byron. Enjoy your family. Thank you for looking into Carl for me.” And without another word, she hung up.
Byron sat alone in his office for some time after, staring off at the grey-painted wall, unable to describe how he felt.
