Anne listened, pondering how she had lost her way so completely.
“You come home when you can, Annie. You’re not so far. When you do come home for your visits, Tommy will be here, and he will hold his love for you. There’s no doubt about that. No child ever forgets the smell, and the look, and the touch of his own mum. Don’t you worry about it none, Annie. Tommy will be surrounded by love here, with us, who love him.”
Anne had been terribly conflicted but, in the end, she went to work at Bletchley, returning home whenever she could. Two years later, she couldn’t take it any longer, and she left to be with her son, promising to make up for the time she’d been away.
And then they’d been trapped in an air raid and Tommy was gone. Was it God’s own punishment meted out to her for leaving Tommy?
Anne was jarred from her memories when the flight attendant approached, with a little bow and a half smile.
“We are making our final approach. Is there anything else I can bring you, Ms. Watson?”
She shook her head, the old memories refusing to recede. “No… Thank you.”
“As I said when you boarded, a car will be waiting for you, and all customs and immigration have been cleared, so you can proceed directly to the awaiting car.”
When he returned to the attendant’s station, Anne thought, What happened to Mum and Dad? Did they survive the bombings?
While the jet’s red and white landing lights flooded the area, Anne descended the airstairs to the tarmac, under cloudy skies and a forty-one-degree temperature. She saw a tall, fit man loom out of the foggy mist and approach, wearing a black flat cap and dark rain coat, swinging an umbrella.
He drew up, removed his cap, and offered a head bow. “Miss Watson, I am Reese Patrick, estate manager.”
Anne noticed his Irish accent.
“If you will be so good as to accompany me to the awaiting car, we’ll be off. Pardon me while I get your luggage and load it into the auto.”
Anne hesitated, feeling a chilly mist on her face. He was an imposing man, with short silver hair and stony features, but friendly eyes.
“Has Constance Crowne arranged this?” Anne asked, hesitating.
“Yes, Miss Watson. She has arranged your travel as well as your forthcoming accommodations. Mrs. Crowne will not contact you for a number of days, due to security issues. She will communicate with you when she is certain it is prudent to do so.”
After Reese retrieved her suitcase, she followed him to the black town car, feeling as though she were an actress in a spy picture. She half expected to see Trevor Howard, a British actor she loved, materialize from the misty darkness and tell her she was in grave danger, and that she’d better make a run for it.
Underway, Reese glanced at Anne through the rearview mirror, noticing she sat stiffly, her eyes moving. “Are you quite comfortable, then, Miss Watson?”
“Yes… thank you. How far is it to our destination?”
“About thirty kilometers.”
In thick darkness and a fine rain, Reese Patrick drove the car along a quiet, winding road, through patches of wooly, rolling fog. While they plunged deeper into the strange, obscuring world of 2008 England, Anne gazed out the window, feeling as though the night were alive with nefarious spirits and alert, crouching CIA agents.
Anne’s breath rose, got caught in anxiety, then was released in staccato bursts. God, she’d never been so scared and so lost. Where was she going? What would she do? She couldn’t hide forever. She’d have to find work and begin a new life. She’d have to find ways to adjust and melt into this modern world, and she’d have to find a way to pay Constance back for everything she’d done for her. Constance had literally saved her life and she would never forget it. If it took the rest of her life, Anne would find a way to repay her.
“Courage, Anne,” she said to herself, at a whisper, working to steady her breath, recalling what her Dad used to say during air raids. “Let’s get ahold of ourselves now, have courage, and stop all the mind-racing tittle-tattle. We’ll get through this right enough.”
The car left the main road, turning left, motoring up a long drive toward a large house that emerged in shadowy light.
A great mystery, naked and unguarded, was waiting for her and she would meet it, whatever it was, with dogged courage. That’s how her parents had raised her, and that’s what World War Two had taught her.
CHAPTER 31
England 2008
Constance knew she was being watched. She’d spotted Alex’s reflection in a shop window. Maybe she should have been unnerved and on edge, but there was something about the game that appealed to her sense of adventure; her need for a challenge; her hatred of Alex Fogel, and all men like him. But Constance knew that however her mind calculated and plotted, it couldn’t compete with Alex’s professional mind, which worked with experience and proven instinct.
Constance was staying in London at the five-star luxury hotel, The May Fair, in a one-bedroom suite, complete with a spacious lounge, kitchen, and dining area.
She’d spent her first three days Christmas shopping at upscale shops, mostly for Anne; visiting the National Gallery; and, with Jon Miles, attending a production of Renee Fleming as Violetta in La Traviata at the Royal Opera House.
Jon was also staying at The May Fair in a modest room on a lower floor. He’d spent his time at the hotel gym, taking calls from colleagues in New York, and visiting a friend in Her Majesty’s Diplomatic Service. He lived a short distance away in Mayfair, an upscale district of elegant Georgian townhouses, exclusive hotels, and gourmet restaurants.
Jon had been generously wining and dining his friend, telling him about Anne without divulging her entire, astonishing story. He was seeking a practical method to arrange British citizenship for Anne, given her unique circumstances.
It had been part of Constance’s plan to split her and Jon up, thus stretching Alex Fogel’s spying resources, which had to be modest, at best.
Upon her arrival, she’d called Senator Paxton. Unfortunately, the Senator had not been as accommodating as he’d first let on.
“I don’t get involved with the brass in intelligence if I don’t have to, Constance,” he’d said over the phone. “They don’t trust outsiders, and they don’t like politicians sticking their noses into their business. However, I did put in a call to a contact I have there. I won’t mention his name. He said he’d look into it, which probably means he won’t do a damned thing. My advice to you is that if this agent fellow shows up, bluff him. Tell him to get the hell away or I’ll have his superiors on him so fast it will make his head swim.”
Constance was not encouraged. She’d already done that, and it hadn’t worked.
On Thursday, December 11, Constance lay sprawled on the deep leather couch of her lounge, sipping a glass of champagne, a slow burn of impatience beginning to rise. She had not left her suite that day, and she longed to talk to Anne, but she couldn’t chance it. She didn’t know for sure, but she speculated that Alex could monitor her cell phone calls and, even if he couldn’t, she didn’t feel comfortable calling.
Constance had received a confirmation that Anne had arrived safely at the quaint and lovely mill house in Hampshire and that she had settled in comfortably, although Reese Patrick wrote that she was jittery.
The communication had been prearranged with Mr. Patrick. He’d sent a written confirmation to the Royal Opera House, to a contact there, his sister. Constance had been handed the envelope as she retrieved her tickets at the box office. At least in the short term, that would be the method of communication.
Constance would be returning to the opera that night, with a letter she’d written to Anne, hoping to receive one from Anne in return. It was Constance’s plan to wait Alex out. After all, how long could he stay in London? He couldn’t be forever on vacation. How many personal leave days did he have? Didn’t he have a real job to return to? Didn’t he have to answer to a boss? How long could he hold out? That was the question.
When Jon arrived and entered Constance’s lounge, she handed him a glass of champagne and eagerly awaited his citizenship news.
Jon settled in a chair and Constance returned to the couch.
“What have you got for me? Were you able to learn anything?” Constance asked, her eyes glowing and eager.
An extravagant vase of fresh flowers bloomed between them. Jon rose and slid the arrangement to the left of the glass coffee table, but he didn’t return to the chair. He stood, pondering.
“Well?” Constance asked, impatient. “What did this Alan Welton say?”
“Do you trust me enough to tell me where Anne is and who is looking after her? I’ve asked twice and both times you’ve changed the subject. So, do you trust me or not?”
Constance’s voice was elaborately casual. “It’s not about trust, Jon. I trust you. It’s just that the fewer people who know where she is, the better. Anne is staying at a house where Charles and I once stayed. We had a family reunion there a year or two before his death, and we both loved it. I thought it the perfect hiding place for Anne. I stayed in touch with the estate agent and she was able to recommend a former military man to look after Anne. He is the manager for the estate and also one of the owners. It all worked out rather nicely. Now, what have you learned from your diplomat friend?”
Jon’s gaze wandered. “We already knew that a person has to have lived in the UK for at least three years before filing an application for citizenship.”
“Yes… and? Stop stalling, Jon. What else?”
“Alan said he might be able to shave a year off that, but no more. I tried to argue that the situation was extraordinary. I suggested that, if he knew the entire story, then he, or someone he knew, would probably grant a passport and citizenship ASAP. Well, of course, he wanted to know what was so extraordinary.”
Jon paused, took a nervous sip of the champagne and continued. “As we speculated, he wants to meet Anne.”
Jon looked at Constance soberly. “Alan’s married, but it’s not a happy marriage, and he does see other women. I’m sure he’d fall head-over-heels for Anne.”
Constance rose to her feet and cursed. “He can’t be trusted then. So, that’s that. I wish I knew someone in this country who had some power.”
“I almost told Alan everything, out of desperation.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. All we need is the British Secret Service elbowing in on us, asking questions. We have enough problems.”
Jon sighed. “Look, Constance, Alan said he could manage to get her a legit passport, as long as she’s not a terrorist or some anarchist. I say we let him do it and then have Anne stay out of sight for a couple of years. Then we can apply for her citizenship. As I see it now, it’s the best way.”
Constance shook her head. “I don’t think she’ll last that long. She’ll go stir-crazy and put herself at risk, and Alex Fogel will track her down by then.”
Jon shrugged. “So, what do we do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been looking at this from all angles and it’s stumped me. Believe it or not, I’m thinking of putting myself out there, in British high society, to see if I can meet someone.”
“Meet someone? I’m not following you.”
“I need to meet a powerful man who can help us.”
Jon looked at her, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. What? You don’t think I’m desirable enough to attract a man?”
“Of course you are, but… it sounds a little desperate.”
“And we are desperate. So, desperate times demand desperate measures. How does the expression go? Fortune seldom favors the faint of heart. My husband knew some wealthy people over here who were connected to the political set. I’ll begin by contacting them and then see if I can blunder into some ostentatious party, where I can play the role of the lonely, widowed American.”
Jon studied her, carefully. “Are you really that dedicated to Anne?”
There was a sharp gleam of conviction in her eyes. “You bet I am. And, yes, I know what you’re thinking. You believe that Anne is a substitution for Ashley and I’m over-reacting.” Constance moved close to Jon and looked him directly into the eyes.
“Yes, Jon… I am over-reacting because in my soul, I love Anne. She’s scared and hurting, and if it weren’t for me, she would be completely alone in this world. And Alex Fogel, or someone like him, or worse, would have grabbed her by now, and God only knows what would have happened to her. I took her on and, when I did, I vowed to see this through. I vowed to help her anyway I could, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Their eyes held while the silence lengthened.
“Are you going to ask her to marry you?” Constance asked, bluntly.
Jon turned and walked away, setting his glass down, keeping his back to her. “Anne is not ready for marriage. She’s confused and, I don’t know, up in the air.”
“Then catch her, bring her down to Earth and hold her. Love her. Help her. She will soon say, ‘yes.’ When you’re married, she’ll become an American citizen, and it will throw Alex Fogel off-balance.”
“And where will we get married? Here?”
“Of course here, and the sooner the better.”
Jon faced Constance, his expression conflicted. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and maybe I don’t want to marry Anne. Maybe there’s just too much baggage.”
“Baggage?” Constance asked, insulted. “What an awful and terrible thing to say.”
“You know what I mean. I like Anne, yes. Perhaps I could even fall in love with her, but I’m not ready to toss my life up into the air—my career, my family, and everything I’ve worked for—to go on the run with Anne, a troubled woman who wants to return to her real life in 1944.”
There was a long pause, while Constance processed Jon’s words. “She can’t ever return, Jon, you know that. You must help her realize that, and you must help her forget the past.”
Jon shook his head. “Did you hear me? Did you hear what I just said? I’m not going to have my life choreographed and arranged by you, Constance. You think you have all the answers for everybody. Well, not for me, you don’t. I’m not ready to sprint off to some country estate and declare my undying love for Anne. Face it, Constance. Anne will always long for her own time, and who wouldn’t? She’s a woman of that time, not this, and she’ll never be truly happy here. She’ll always be wanting to go home.”
Constance lifted her head, commandingly, her voice strong, her spirit undeterred. “Fine, Jon. If you feel that way, then you should leave England and return to New York.”
Jon pocketed his hands and gazed toward the ceiling. He breathed out a long sigh. “I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to find Anne a British husband, aren’t you?”
“I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep Anne safe and happy. In many ways, it will be easier if you leave. Anne is so pretty and smart. It won’t take her any time at all to meet and marry a man with status and money. And she’ll become a British citizen right away. All problems solved. Thank you very much, Dr. Jon Miles.”
Jon lowered his frosty stare on her. “God help you, Constance, and God help Anne. She’s going to need it.”
Jon turned on his heels and left the room.
CHAPTER 32
England 2008
Anne couldn’t take it any longer. She felt like a caged animal, trapped in old English style and beauty. Fairview Meadows was a three-story, red brick mill house with a red tile roof, frequented by fly fishermen who came to fish in the nearby River Anton.
There were six reception rooms on the ground floor, along with a kitchen and a large breakfast room with French doors opening onto a lavishly manicured garden, with hedgerows, fountains and birdbaths.
On the second floor were five double bedrooms, four bathrooms and a nursery. Above that were three additional bedrooms, and one was Anne’s room. It had a spectacular view of the garden, a sloping meadow and distant woodla
nds. From another window, Anne could see an old carriage house, a curving river, and a section of a two-lane road that led to a village, two kilometers away.
On Friday, December 12, Anne left the house in a quick, cold wind, searching for Reese Patrick. She found him returning from the carriage house, where the cars were kept. Reese wore a herringbone tweed coat and glossy brown boots.
She drew up to him, breathless, her cheeks red from the wind.
Before she could speak, Reese put two fingers to his tweed flat cap and smiled, showing crooked front teeth.
“Good morning, Miss Watson. Will you be needing anything?”
Her voice was edged and anxious. “Mr. Patrick… Can you drive me into London? What I mean to say is, not for a shopping trip or anything like that, but just as a kind of tour of the city?”
He looked at her, long and serious. “Now, I don’t think that would be the good and right thing to do, Miss Watson. Mrs. Crowne would surely counsel against it.”
“Please, Mr. Patrick. We could do a quick drive through, and I won’t leave the car. I’m sure no one will be the wiser or know I’m there. I must escape this lovely jail and see London again. It’s the reason I came all this way.”
His staring eyes looked beyond her. “Miss Watson, Mrs. Crowne’s instructions to me were to keep you here and to watch over you.”
“And you will, sir. I’ll be seated behind you with nowhere else to go.”
And then she turned her face aside so he couldn’t read it. She intended to burst from the car and stroll through London, exploring and searching for the place where the bomb had blown her into another time and place.
He scratched his head above his left ear. “All right, Miss Watson, but I must tell you, this will be the one and only time I’ll put you at risk and go against Mrs. Crowne’s wishes.”
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