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The Stolen Years
Fiona Hood-Stewart
Spanning three generations and a century of love, loss and longing, The Stolen Years is a stunning tale of secrets and betrayals, of an empire forged from the seeds of revenge…and the legacy that withstood it all.On the battlefields of World War I, twin brothers Gavin and Angus MacLeod are torn apart in one horrific instant that changes their lives forever. Believing his brother dead, a shattered, tormented Angus returns home to Scotland and takes his place as heir to the family title and husband to his brother's fiancée.But Gavin has survived. Believing he was betrayed by his twin, he creates a new identity for himself in America. And as he helms an elite china empire through decades of war and turbulence, peace and prosperity, he nurses a bitter obsession for revenge.Fate and one remarkable woman will unite the brothers' lives in astonishing unforeseen ways. Yet the children of these men will bear the sins of their fathers. And as the twenty-first century dawns, the secrets that have shaped their destinies will finally be revealed.
“Angus,” she gasped in amazement. “Is it really you?” Tears burst forth as she threw her arms around the stiff, motionless figure. Then, leaning back and holding his hands, she realized that his eyes were devoid of expression. “Angus.” She shook him anxiously. “Angus, it’s me, Flo. Say something, please.” She shook him again gently. Then another thought occurred. Gavin. Where was Gavin? She glanced around, as though expecting to see him among the group of men smoking and playing cards. Then she squeezed Angus’s hand once more.
“Angus, you’re all right now. You’re with me.” His eyes flickered and her heart leapt. “Oh, Angus, darling, please. Please come back. Please tell me where Gavin is,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“Dead.” The voice was flat.
She stared at him, then shook her head. “No. It can’t be. No.” She shook her head again, her hands gripping his sleeve savagely. “Not Gavin.” She began shaking, then laughed hysterically. “People like Gavin don’t get killed. They’re immortal.”
“It should have been me,” he whispered.
“A thrilling drama of passion and revenge, brilliantly set against the epic backdrop of the twentieth century.”
—Carla Neggers, bestselling author of The Carriage House
Also available from MIRA Books and
FIONA HOOD-STEWART
THE JOURNEY HOME
The Stolen Years
Fiona Hood-Stewart
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
As always, for my boys,
Sergio and Diego.
For Daddy,
in loving memory.
This book is dedicated to all the men and women
who gave their youth, their hopes and dreams
and all too often their lives in the name of freedom.
May we honor them by preserving their legacy.
F.H.S.
My deep gratification to David d’Albis for his untiring dedication in helping me research this manuscript.
To Jean d’Albis, of Limoges, France, for recounting events as they took place and for the documents he furnished me with.
Many thanks to Laure Kovats, Fran Garfunkel, Frances Lynch, Carter Parsley, Bonnie Skop,
Miranda Stecyk and Donald Maas, my agent, for all the help along the way.
Contents
Part One (#u5b11eecf-2fc4-5a74-9bb3-858e688fbcc4)
Chapter 1 (#uc9597875-f3bf-5a40-b824-f3660d44abae)
Chapter 2 (#ue762e3a5-a0aa-5412-84f9-34c78a8e18ed)
Chapter 3 (#u93fb7808-1fcf-5010-b8d2-4f6d69b435a9)
Chapter 4 (#u6b769620-b854-55bc-abfd-a3c2b074947c)
Chapter 5 (#uaf50b1c7-b764-56ff-ba32-eae87eb5892c)
Chapter 6 (#ubcc32c58-ba60-57d3-ad1a-164999847c8a)
Chapter 7 (#ub76b70cf-7f8c-5837-a55b-29f1ff8fe12f)
Chapter 8 (#u69dbd97e-809c-5f28-8223-48160f73b91f)
Chapter 9 (#u1de3f813-7e88-5194-b87a-5851aa20adf0)
Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part One
1917–1918
Surely, surely there must be somewhere in which the sweet intimacies begun here may be continued, and the hearts broken by this war may be healed.
—Vera Britain
A Testament of Youth
1
Edinburgh, Scotland, 1917
She waited, tiptoeing along the chilly corridor and creeping quietly into the darkened ward, listening intently as the matron’s footsteps faded to a distant whisper on the worn flagged staircase. Except for the occasional muffled groan, the long row of narrow metal beds was quiet, their chipped white paint glittering harshly in the filtered moonlight.
Taking advantage of the matron’s absence, Flora Finlay sat down gingerly in the single uncomfortable wooden chair the ward offered, careful not to crush her starched uniform. After casting a covert glance at the door, she finally opened the letter that had been burning her inner pocket since early that morning. As Angus’s neat, precise letters swam before her, she chided herself for the twinge of disappointment, aware she should be thankful for any news at all. Unfolding the single sheet of flimsy paper, she held it close to the dim aureole of light escaping from under the battered shade of the solitary lamp and smiled. Angus’s writing reminded her of Miss Linton, their old governess, who on more than one occasion had made pointed comparisons between Gavin and Flora’s sloppy calligraphy and Angus’s perfectly formed loops.
Skimming the text rapidly, she jumped hopefully to the end, knowing it was silly but unable to help herself. Why couldn’t Gavin write something, however short, in his own hand, instead of sending vague messages through his twin? But that was Gavin, she realized with a sigh. Seeing him in her mind’s eye, bright-eyed and impulsive, she wondered why she expected him to be any different, when this was the way she loved him.
The letter was dated three weeks earlier and was postmarked from Arras, where the fighting on the western front was at its worst. Terrifying images of the twins, lying buried in the bloodied gut of a shell-torn trench, their features unrecognizable amidst the mass of mangled bodies, flashed through Flora’s mind in eerie succession. But she ousted them and instead concentrated her attention on the letter, knowing the matron could return at any minute.
Today it pours and we’re up to our calves in mud. The only trees that have survived the shelling are two stringy poplars to our right, but the landscape bears all the scars of war. After the last onslaught things have been fairly stalemate, but it is my feeling there is more to come. How they expect us to fight in this pockmarked, muddied mess beats me. There simply isn’t any suitable terrain for the kind of breakthrough we hope for.
But I’m rambling on about the war, when what you really want is news of your beloved Gavin.
We are in a front-line trench now. I know that sounds worse, but you mustn’t worry. Actually, it’s preferable. Gerry’s shells fly over us rather than straight at us—for now, at any rate.
Oh God, Flo! It all seems so bloody futile. We hammer them, they hammer us, and for what? I’m sure the German chaps, huddled in their muddy, lice-infested dugouts across no-man’s-land are asking themselves the same damn questions we are. Wishing they could get on with their lives, instead of being burrowed here like moles, for God knows how much longer, waiting to be wounded or die.
But once again I’ve deviated and I know you must be thoroughly impatient. Gavin is up to his old tricks, hobnobbing with the French, as I told you in my last letter. Now that they know we both speak the language fluently, they’ve selected us for all the liaison missions! Need I tell you whose idea that was? I hate every minute of it, but Gavin loves it. He is utterly fearless, and I have come to the conclusion that he thrives on danger. The other day he went on a reconnaissance mission where he all but got himself killed. I begged him not to go but he listens to no one, and is as determined and headstrong as ever. Unlike me, he is a true officer and leader of men. Even the seasoned soldiers listen to him, which is quite something. You can imagine how ridiculous it makes one feel, giving orders to a man old enough to be our grandfather, who knows much more than we ever will. There’s one old fellow in the unit who fought in South Africa and is probably the best man we have. Doesn’t it make you question a system that appoints young men like Gavin and me as officers, merely because we are gentlemen?
I have asked Gavin to write but he continues to claim he is a poor correspondent. He sends his love, as always, and says how much he misses you. I miss you too, Flora dearest, but I know that won’t make up for his not writing…
He had sent his love. She read quickly through to the end, then let the letter droop. Swallowing her disappointment, Flora reminded herself that to be ungrateful was to tempt fate. Then, folding the page carefully, she prayed that the two men she loved most were still alive. Too often she had witnessed the arrival of these precious letters from the front, seen the relief and joy they raised, only to be dashed hours later when it was learned they were to be the last.
