The Rose Code

by Kate Quinn

A sound clattered outside, and Philip’s face lifted from Osla’s neck, his every muscle tensing beneath her. “Just the ack-ack guns,” she murmured, tugging his head back to hers. “Our side. You get used to the sound.” She was drunk on him, every nerve in her body singing. They’d kissed before, but with care, standing on doorsteps where they couldn’t be tempted too far. Not like this, openmouthed and yearning, hands sliding under sleeves and inside collars, the whole surface of her skin aching.

  “You’re so calm about the air raids,” Philip muttered against her lips.

  “Londoners have become terribly blasé about the Blitz.” The travelers caught in the station had settled down to wait it out, unwrapping sandwiches and chatting to their neighbors. “Euston took some hits last year, but she’s still standing.”

  “Thank God you’re buried in Bucks away from the worst of it.” He kissed her jaw, fingertips sliding along her skin inside her neckline—she could feel his grin against her cheek as he touched the hard little lump of his naval insignia, pinned to her brassiere between her breasts. “You kept it.”

  “I nearly had it stolen once.” Osla pushed her face into the hollow of his neck and rested there, tasting the salt of his skin. “I came to the Café de Paris on my night off. The boy I was dancing with, he . . .” She shut her eyes, seeing poor Charlie’s lungs exploded out onto the front of his uniform. “The club was bombed, and a looter tried to get my jewelry. A stranger ran him off, took care of me.” J. P. E. C. Cornwell, whoever he was . . . Osla hadn’t received any response to her letter. “I kept calling him Philip.”

  I’m not Philip, sweetheart. What’s your name?

  Philip was here now, arms tightening around her, one hand rubbing her bare shoulder where her sleeve had slipped down, the other stroking her silk-stockinged calf. Osla couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt the world could be borne simply because someone was holding her. It dizzied her, this mixture of simple comfort and raw desire. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Philip said quietly.

  “You were headed to fight at Cape Matapan.” And I think one of my billet-mates knows something about what orders sent you there.

  “I wasn’t in any danger, Os. We were on them that night like foxes in a henhouse.” His lips touched her hair, his body suddenly still against hers. “I was on the Valiant’s searchlights. I’d flip the midship light and pick out the enemy cruiser until our guns set it ablaze. Then the gunnery officer would shout train left or train right, and as soon as I lit the next one up, she’d be blotted out stem to stern. Two eight-inch-gun Italian cruisers sunk in five minutes. It was as near murder as anything could be in wartime. The cruisers just—burst into tremendous sheets of flame.” He exhaled into her hair. “I dream about them.”

  “I dream about the Café de Paris. I wake up smelling the fire, and for a moment I think I’ve gone mad.”

  “Don’t say that, Os.” He was already tense; now he went rigid. “Not ever.”

  She pulled back, looked at him through the shadows.

  “Bit of a sore point with me.” He made himself shrug. “My—my mother went mad.”

  Alice of Battenberg, from one of the German noble houses. “You’ve hardly ever mentioned her.”

  “She had a breakdown when I was eight or nine. So many doctors—they couldn’t decide if she was neurotic or paranoid schizophrenic or . . .” A long pause; his eyes fixed past Osla’s shoulder. “I wasn’t there when they took her away. They sent the children out for the day. But I heard later how she tried to run. They had to put her in restraints and inject her before they could bundle her into a car and take her to Bellevue in Switzerland.”

  Osla felt him breathing against her, unevenly. “You were so young.”

  “It was the last time our family lived together. She was released eventually but by then my father was in France, my sisters were married, I was in England . . .”

  Osla’s arms tightened around his neck.

  “It’s just what happened,” he said roughly. “She went mad. The family broke up. I just had to get on with it. You do. One does. Besides, she got better. She came out of the asylum, returned to Athens . . . she’s still there. Living quietly.”

  And you’ve still had no real home since she was taken away, Osla thought. “How did she do it? Recover from that?”

  “Iron will? I don’t know.” Philip pulled her closer into his chest. “So—don’t even joke about going mad, Os.”

  “I won’t.” She took his secret like the gift it was, painful and precious. “And before you ask, I won’t tell anyone. Not ever.”

  “I know that. I don’t trust many people, but I know the ones I can.” He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling. “You smell so good. I live on a tin can with a hundred chaps, you have no idea. You smell like—peonies. Earl Grey. Honey . . .”

  They kissed and talked and kissed some more inside the shelter of his greatcoat, long past the all-clear siren. The lights stayed out at their end of the station, even as trains began to rumble through again and passersby resumed their bustle. Osla was dozing in the curve of Philip’s arm when he stirred, pressing his lips to her temple. “Your train’s coming in fifteen minutes, princess. We never even got out of the station, and it’s already time to get you home.”

  “How long before you ship out?” She tried to say it lightly, but fear clutched her stomach. I only just got you back.

  “Months. I need to study for my lieutenant’s exams.” Under the shelter of the greatcoat he helped her hook buttons that had come unbuttoned. Osla smiled as she did up his uniform collar, which had come open under her hands so she could slide her fingers over his chest. What you could do under a greatcoat in dim light during an air raid! If they hadn’t been in a public place, who knew what might have happened . . .

  Philip set her on her feet, looking much less flushed and rumpled as he donned his cap. Some alchemy of royal blood, maybe—the ability to compose oneself for the public eye in a blink. But he’s not just a prince, Osla thought. He’s my Philip. And she grinned as he buttoned his greatcoat rather hastily, because she had a much better idea (bless you, Mab!) about the biological state a man might be in after hours and hours of canoodling against a wall. “Welcome back, sailor,” she said softly.

  “I’m not just back.” He pulled her against him, rested his chin on top of her head. “I’m home.”

  Home, Osla thought. The second of those twin, burning polestars toward which she tried to steer her life: a job worth doing, and a home to come back to.

  Did she finally, finally, have both?

  And for the rest of June all the way to golden autumn, Osla vibrated bright-eyed and joyous between the two—running straight from her grueling hours of translation in Hut 4 to throw herself into Philip’s arms in London, riding between Bletchley and Euston station barely able to see for stars.

  Chapter 27

  * * *

  FROM BLETCHLEY BLETHERINGS, SEPTEMBER 1941

  * * *

  Nothing here surprises us anymore. A gaggle of Wrens singing madrigals by the lake, attacked by the meanest swans in Bucks? Old hat. A group of naval section boys sunbathing nude on the side lawn, shrieking women fleeing the sight of all that pasty skin? Yawn. General Montgomery spotted in the dining room at three in the morning, poking at a plate of corned beef and prunes? Pass the salt, General.

  But frankly, BB fell over in a dead faint at the sight of our latest visitor . . .

  * * *

  Mab was on break from the bombe machines, and a group of codebreakers were playing a makeshift game of rounders on the lawn and arguing. “Cantwell’s not out. He got past the conifer—”

  “No, it was the deciduous—”

  Giles gave Mab a wave. “Come join, my queen. We need long legs on this team of waddlers.”

  The idea of stretching her legs sounded glorious. Hanging her new hat on the nearest tree branch, Mab rolled up her skirt and took a stick, which was all they had for bats. Ten minutes later she bashed the ball a great
whack and sprinted for the tree. “Rounding one—rounding two—!” But then she came to a halt, jaw nearly hitting the grass, because a cluster of dark-suited figures was advancing from the mansion like a small fleet, led by Commander Denniston, who was explaining something to a short bulldog figure . . . a figure Mab recognized.

  Winston Churchill stumped past close enough to reach out and touch, giving the rounders players a nod.

  Giles gaped. “Was that . . .”

  The PM wasn’t at all as Mab had imagined him. Shorter, limping badly, hair wispy above his black pin-striped suit. No sign of his famous hat, his cigar. Mab had always imagined he would be full of noisy bravado and bluster, but he walked along quietly, looking about him with a measured gaze.

  “Is he touring the place?” she whispered. “My God—” She bolted for her hut, sliding past the ministerial party when they detoured for Hut 7. She was in place at her machine’s side, skirt unrolled and hair combed, when the door opened and Churchill was ushered inside. The Wrens came to attention and saluted. Mab saluted with them. She was a civilian but it was the prime minister standing there on the oily floor, looking at the machines she hated so much.

  “Wren Stevens,” Commander Denniston said. “A demonstration, if you please.”

  Stevens stood frozen to the spot.

  “This machine is called Agnus Dei, Prime Minister.” Mab spoke up when it was clear her partner couldn’t summon a word. Crisply, she demonstrated: plugging up the back according to the menu, loading the drums, tweezing apart the fine wires. He fired questions, wanting to know everything—she answered as best she could. Wren Stevens eventually came forward and began responding, too. The PM whistled, impressed by the sheer din when Aggie and her sister machines were set into motion. Waiting for a full stop might have taken hours, so Mab called a halt, explaining what it meant when a bombe machine went quiet.

  As Churchill thanked them, she felt an almost violent urge to nurture. He looked so tired, rings under his eyes, shoulders bowed—wasn’t anyone looking after him while he looked after the whole nation? She wanted to cook the prime minister a good soft-boiled egg and stand over him while he ate every bite; she wanted to tell him to have a long sleep and not worry about how bombe machines worked; she wanted to tell him they would do their jobs, never fear, so he should go home and get some rest before he dropped dead. She had to clasp her hands to stop from doing up his overcoat as he turned to leave.

  Maybe her concern showed in her eyes, because Churchill—the most powerful man in the western world, Adolf Hitler’s chief antagonist—dropped one heavy eyelid in a wink. Mab clapped a hand over her mouth but the splutter of laughter got through. Wren Stevens looked appalled, but the PM gave a nod and said cheerily, “I must head along to congratulate the chaps behind these splendid machines . . .”

  They all looked at each other breathlessly as the door thumped shut. “The machines are already stopped,” someone said. “No one else will be working while he’s here . . .”

  They all raced outside, following discreetly in the wake of the ministerial party. Churchill and his followers disappeared into Hut 8, and Mab saw to her surprise that one of the men left outside was Francis Gray.

  “What are you doing here?” she said low voiced as he came to join her by the tennis court. “I didn’t think you worked at Downing Street.”

  “No, the Foreign Office.” He smiled, coat stirring about his knees. “The call came from Downing Street this morning—they were short a driver, and looking for someone who had already been to BP so they wouldn’t have to use one of the ordinary drivers who hadn’t been vetted at this level. Nobody needed me, so here I am.”

  “I haven’t seen you since dinner at the Savoy,” Mab replied. “When was that, May?”

  “Russia joining the Allies made things rather busy after that.”

  “Hopefully the Yanks will get off their arses and follow Uncle Joe’s example.” She said arses deliberately, hoping for a laugh. Francis Gray had never once laughed that she could remember. But he just gave his usual smile of remote warmth.

  The prime minister toured Huts 8 and 6 in turn, and there was quite a crowd by the time he came out. Mab saw Osla on the other side and was pleased to see even her cosmopolitan friend goggling at the sight of Churchill. Mab expected the PM to head back to his car, but he hesitated, looking around, before climbing up on some building rubble. Mab’s throat caught, and she found herself pressing closer along with everyone else.

  He stood a moment, one hand thrust in his vest pocket. “To look at you, one would not think you held so many secrets,” he said conversationally. “But I know better, and I am proud of you. Here you are, working every day, working so very hard . . . I must thank you all for that.” He stopped, looking down. Mab had heard him speak many times over the radio, had felt his confidence and his sheer force of will, but now he was just a rather short man standing on a heap of debris, clearly speaking around a lump in his throat, and she found tears in her eyes. “You should know how very important your skills are to the war effort,” he went on. “Nothing could be more important, even if so few in Britain know what you are doing.” He gave his sudden ebullient smile, and Mab tingled all the way to her fingertips. “You’re my golden geese, you know. The geese who lay precious golden eggs, but never cackle!”

  A roar went up from the crowd, and Mab realized she was roaring too, banging her hands together in applause. If a flight of German bombers had streaked across the sky to strafe Bletchley Park, every person there would have flung their body over the prime minister. Mab would have been at the front of the rush.

  He gave a final wave, then stumped off in the direction of the mansion, phalanx of officials closing round him. The crowd lingered a moment, everyone talking excitedly before heads of huts began waving their people back to work. Mab realized she’d left her hat hanging on a tree branch in the middle of the rounders game—dashing to get it, she saw Francis waiting in front of the mansion, smoking a Woodbine. “Waiting on the PM?” she called, reaching for her hat.

  “You know what I heard him say to Denniston as they went in?” A smile. “‘I know I told you not to leave a stone unturned recruiting for this place, but I did not mean you to take me quite so seriously.’”

  Mab laughed. “We’re a lot of odd ducks here, no question. Oh, no . . .”

  Francis raised his eyebrows.

  “The brim got crumpled.” Mab held up her new hat—a jet-black, dramatically brimmed take on a man’s fedora, garnet-red silk band round the crown. Mab knew it made her look like a cross between Snow White and the Wicked Queen, and it was probably the last pretty thing she’d be able to buy herself for months. “You have no idea how important hats are to women.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Hats aren’t rationed, at least not yet. I’ve sent most of my clothing coupons for the year to my aunt in Sheffield—she’s looking after my sister, and she doesn’t particularly want to, so I keep her sweet with a few coupons in the post. She’ll get a new coat and I’ll make do till next year, but at least I can still get a new hat.” Mab sauntered toward the nearest ground-floor window, settling the hat over her head. She knew she was babbling—what was it about this man that made her feel the need to fill all the silences? “We ladies pinch and make do when it comes to darning stockings and using bootblack for eyeliner, but at least we can top a worn-out ensemble with a really smashing hat. That’s very good for morale, in wartime.”

  His voice sounded odd. “Is it?”

  “Of course.” Mab surveyed her dim reflection in the window, brim slashing across her forehead. “We can’t do anything about the hours or the shift changes or the airless huts, but we can look smart as we head off to war every day. The Bletchley Park theatrical society is cooking up a song about that for this year’s Christmas revue—I’ve already heard them practicing.” She turned, hands on hips, and sang:

  Sophisticated black is de rigueur,

  And a smart hat a woman’s cri de c
oeur!

  She finished with a flourish, knowing she couldn’t sing. He was silent, cigarette burning between two still fingers, and her smile faded.

  Mr. Gray, I officially give up trying to figure you out. You obviously find my conversation torturous. She checked her watch. “Well, I’ve got to get back—”

  “Marry me.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  He didn’t repeat it. He stood there in the cold breeze, chestnut hair stirring, just looking at her, and there was no shield of distant amusement anymore. The veils had dropped away behind his eyes, Mab thought, revealing something that blazed like a torch.

  She tried a smile. “Are you joking with me?” That seemed quite a bit more likely than getting a marriage proposal from a man she hardly knew.

  “No,” he said, flicking the cigarette away. There was an odd note in his voice, as if he were as confused by the offer as she. “Marry me.” Bemusement in his tone or not, his gaze was steady.

  “I—” How she’d dreamed of this moment, when some gentleman whose boots Geoff Irving and his filthy friends weren’t fit to lick would make her an offer. She’d thought she’d be in command of things, having nurtured her suitor along a steady procession of milestones until he was brought to the precipice and thought it was all his own idea. Francis Gray hadn’t hit any of the milestones. They had gone on three dates, and Mab had done 90 percent of the talking on all three occasions. “Mr. Gray—you’ve caught me by surprise.”

  “It’s ridiculous, really,” he said. “I’m sure there are far younger and more pleasant fellows making you offers. Still, I’m throwing my hat in the ring.”

  “. . . Why?” Mab heard herself ask. “You don’t know me.” But he did, she thought. All the talking she’d done, he’d listened. She was the one who didn’t know him, much as she’d tried.

  He was silent nearly an entire minute, gazing at her as if he could see through her. He started to speak, then fell silent again. He reached out, touched the wing of her eyebrow, touched her cheekbone, touched her lips. “I know you.” He wound a strand of her hair around his fingers and tugged her closer. She could have pulled away, but she let herself sink against him instead. Such a light kiss, to leave her so pinned in place.