She never said so, for fear of reprisal, but Cecilia thought of Angela Darmody as a little more than a namby-pamby she-troll. Beneath his rough demeanor, her husband Mr. Darmody was intelligent, even kind. She'd seen him with little Tommy and knew he was a good father. He walked with a slight limp from injuries he sustained in battle. Angela seemed so one-dimensional she may as well have been hollow.
And then came the painting, which haunted her. She could see it – one half untouched of the man's face strikingly handsome and untouched, the other half an obliterated shell – whenever she closed her eyes. Angela had talent, for certain, and Cecilia respected talent. How Angela convinced him to remove the mask, let alone sit for hours on end without it and scrutinized for the sake of art, was beyond her imagination. But upon meeting the painting's subject, Cecilia was decidedly more impressed with the details of his mask than with the painting itself. Its near-perfect symmetry to the intact half of his face…now that was talent, and of a most saintly nature. An artist that did not just look upon and reproduce the horrors of war, but applied their skill to remedy them.
Daniel had written her just before he succumbed to his wounds, stating that the horrors he saw in the hospital rivaled those he saw on the battlefield. In the trenches, death was the last bastion of mercy. There, he watched men die – some expediently, some so grievously tortured they prayed for death. Death was not unwelcome, but expected, and even hallowed, for those who died in battle died with honor. But the wounded left him wondering what God would allow these men to live. Some were wholly incapacitated, reduced to an infantile state. Some were limbless, unable to walk or eat or relieve themselves. But what horrified him most of all was the barrage of shattered, disfigured faces. In the letter to his wife, he proclaimed not only his revulsion, but profound pity that they'd "lost their very identity and all that makes them human in the eyes of others." Cecilia responded "however tragic we perceive their affliction, one carries their personhood not in visage, nor occupation, nor surname, but within the soul." He passed away before her letter was mailed.
And such was her sentiment when she saw the painting. Even through a mere representation, Cecilia marveled at how the man with half a face had a remarkably intact soul. And now, he also had a name.
She was startled by Mr. Darmody's voice and ducked out of sight. Richard Harrow, his shotgun in tow, was not far behind. From where she sat, he still looked like a proud soldier, but in the shadows of the early morning, when only the masked side of his face was visible, he seemed mechanical, like a menacing wind-up toy. She knew who these men were and what they did, but to Cecilia, they were, for all intents and purposes, soldiers. She felt the laws of a nation who sent heroic young men to certain death did not deserve to be obeyed.
She'd been watching for days, perhaps weeks, and she was finally beginning to feel bolder. But at the thought of actually pursuing him, let alone approaching him, her heart pounded as though trying to run for dear life. She reached for her hip-flask and damned her hesitation. She couldn't hide in the shadows forever.
"Cecilia?"
Eddie Kessler's voice jolted her awake, and she determined that her pre-dawn excursions to the beach were taking their toll. She had nodded off at the desk again.
"Yes, Eddie. I'm so sorry."
"Please fetch some refreshments for Mr. Darmody and Mr. Harrow."
He's here. Cecilia almost knocked over the chair as she jumped to her feet. "Right away."
"You mustn't sleep on the job. I do not wish to see Mr. Thompson displeased with you."
"Thank you, Eddie," Cecilia retorted. She all but ran toward the hutch, splashing bourbon onto the tray as she poured. She hastily mopped it up with her apron while the other fumbled for Mr. Harrow's straw.
"Good day, gentlemen," she chirped, carrying her tray.
Mr. Darmody's eyes studied her. "You remembered the straw."
"I did, sir." She beamed. He smiled back, but she hadn't noticed. Her eyes were fixed on Richard. She barely heard his voice over her own heartbeat.
"Miss Dawes."
"Mr. Harrow. Oh, and it's 'Mrs.'"
"Hmm. I didn't know. You were married."
"Widowed, sir. My husband perished in the Marne."
"I'm sorry." He turned the mask towards her, hoping she wouldn't notice his barely-contained smile.
"Thank you." Cecilia's voice trailed off as Eddie led Mr. Darmody into Nucky's office. "Mr. Harrow…if I may…"
"Yes…"
"You were the subject of Mrs. Darmody's painting."
"I am."
She took a deep breath "I found it quite lovely."
"She is. A gifted painter."
"And you are a remarkable subject."
Richard froze, speechless. "Hmmm." was all he could manage. Cecilia hurried back to the kitchen, she felt his eye on her.
"Mrs. Dawes? Do you. Have a moment."
Eddie, who was watching from the hallway, exclaimed, "Her duties can wait. She would be happy to take your company."
"Thank you, Eddie," Cecilia called back, feeling both annoyed and triumphant.
"If you would. Please sit a moment," said Richard softly. She did. "Your husband."
"Yes, sir. He was wounded in the trenches and taken to the hospital. Infection set in, and he died of his wounds."
"Hmm. And yet. You sing."
"Sir, I sing to fill the silence. I refuse to think with self-pity about how we were to start a family, build a home, and the war robbed me of this. When the beauty of song fills the shadows, my mind is distracted from the past."
Richard's shoulders tensed. "That is. Admirable."
"Thank you."
"Hmm." For the first time, Cecilia saw him smile – a gentle, beautiful, if not slightly broken smile.
"What songs. Do you know."
Cecilia's eyes widened a bit, and she could barely disguise the joy in her voice. "Oh, many. A great many. Would you like to hear one?"
"I would."
He gazed intently at her face; she looked away and began, her eyes closed. The melody was familiar, and recalling the first time he heard her sing, he was entranced yet again.
I've heard the prayers of mothers,
Some of them old and gray
I've heard the prayers of others
For those who went away
Oft times a prayer will teach one
The meaning of good bye
I felt the pain of each one,
But this one made me cry
Just a baby's prayer at twilight
When lights are low
Poor baby's years
are filled with tears
Emboldened, Richard stood, walked to where Cecilia was seated, knelt down, and grasped her hand, as he did when they first met. Cecilia stopped, as if he'd stolen the song from her heart.
"It does. Fill the shadows."
