by Kate Quinn
“Found him under a bush four houses down,” Mab said. “He didn’t go far—stop snapping at me, you little bugger, I’m on your side.”
Beth pulled her dog into her arms and for the second time that day sobbed all over Mab’s shoulder. The schnauzer was damp and smelly and quivering with cold, harrumphing like a cross old man when she hugged him too hard. Beth didn’t know if she’d ever be able to put him down.
“There’d better be a good reason you girls are making a ruckus,” a disapproving voice sounded. One of the civilian ARP wardens, busybodies all. “Uncovered lights despite blackout regulations . . .”
Mab switched her torch off and Osla caught up and began pouring verbal honey. They got rid of him and turned for home, steering Beth between them. With Boots safe, a hot spark of something diamond-hard had lodged itself in Beth’s throat, and with every step toward her house, it grew bigger.
“Is your mother going to let you—” Osla began, and then stopped.
Beth came through the door, tugged her mother’s jumper off the coatrack, and rubbed Boots dry right there in the entryway. She could see Mrs. Finch’s shoes on the hooked rug but refused to look up. Osla and Mab crowded in behind, making bright noises about how cold it was outside, but the silence under their exclamations stretched like a sheet of ice. Beth didn’t raise her eyes until Boots was dry and had stopped shivering. Then she straightened, meeting her mother’s gaze expressionlessly.
Mrs. Finch heaved a gentle, put-upon sigh. “It can stay one more night, Bethan. If tomorrow you find it somewhere else to—”
Beth didn’t plan it, didn’t think about it, didn’t even know it was happening until she saw her hand flash up and hit her mother across the face.
She’d never hit anyone before in her life. She’d probably hurt her hand more than she’d hurt its target. But Mrs. Finch fell back, fingertips flying to her own cheek in shock, and Beth fell back a step too in horror. I didn’t mean to, she almost said—but she had meant to. I’m sorry, she almost said—but she wasn’t sorry. The diamond spark of rage in her throat was still burning, larger and larger.
She couldn’t think what to say, so all she said was, “How dare you?”
Red-faced, Mrs. Finch reached for her Bible. “‘He that smiteth his father or his mother shall surely—’”
Beth didn’t wait for her to finish Exodus 21:15 or extend the book and tell her to hold it up until her arms burned. “No.”
“What did you say to me?”
Out of sheer habit, Beth almost dropped her eyes and fiddled with the end of her plait. But when her fingers reached for the wispy end of the long braid, which she’d spent her whole life hanging on to like a lifeline rather than meet anyone’s eyes, it wasn’t there. She had a smart shoulder-skimming wave now, and she had a dog and a circle of friends and a job breaking German ciphers.
So Beth said very quietly, “I’m not holding the Bible up for the next half hour while you harangue me. And you are not throwing my dog out.”
“We’ll discuss it tomorrow.” Beth’s father spoke loud enough to make everyone jump. “We’re all overwrought, this news about the Americans—”
But Mrs. Finch rode over him, eyes filled with tears. “Why are you behaving like this, Bethan? Why? You haven’t been the same since that job.”
“Why is this about my job?” Beth had to raise her own voice to be heard. “You threw my dog out! What kind of person would—”
“—you didn’t have to take that job. They don’t need you!”
“Yes, they do.” Beth threw her head back. “There isn’t anyone there who can do what I do.”
“And what is it you do?” Mrs. Finch’s voice rose. “If it’s so important, tell me. Tell me right now.”
Beth refused to get sidetracked down that path. “I won’t apologize for taking the job at BP.” Ever since she’d started working, all she’d done at home was apologize for it. No more.
“Your job is here! You’re my little helper. What am I supposed to do without extra hands at home?”
“I help you every minute I’m home. I’m happy to help. And you still threw my dog out in the damned street—”
“You care more for a dog and a job than your own mother.” Mrs. Finch pressed a hand against her temple. “Your own mother, who isn’t well—”
Mab’s voice sounded behind Beth, amused and contemptuous. “Here comes the headache.”
“Right on schedule,” Osla agreed.
“Don’t you talk back to me, you two tarts,” Mrs. Finch snapped. “Encouraging my Bethan to behave like a common—”
“A common what?” Suddenly Beth’s words were pouring out. “Mother, I work for the war effort. I meet with friends to talk about books. I have the occasional glass of sherry. Why does any of that make me a tart?”
Mrs. Finch poked her Bible at Beth. “‘Do not profane your daughter by making her a harlot—’”
Beth swatted the book out of her hands to the floor. “I’m not doing anything wrong, and you bloody well know it. So why does it bother you?”
“I didn’t give you permission to—”
“I am twenty-five years old!”
“It’s my house, you’ll obey my rules—”
“BP pays me a salary of one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and I give it all to you! I’ve earned the right to—”
Mrs. Finch seized Beth’s arm. For the first time, Beth put her hands to her mother’s shoulders and shoved her back. The skin inside her elbow stung, and she realized how unerringly her mother’s strong fingers always found that spot where the flesh was the most tender. She couldn’t remember the last time her arms hadn’t been bruised blue.
“Please.” Beth’s father stood wringing his hands. “Can we all have a cup of tea and—”
“Where were you when she put my dog out?” Beth rounded on him. The spark of rage had grown to a cloud, billowing up inside her throat, choking her. “Why didn’t you stop her? Or why didn’t you get out of your armchair and take him out yourself when I was working late, so he didn’t make a mess in the first place?”
“Well—” Mr. Finch shifted, uncomfortable. “She said I shouldn’t—”
“It’s your house, too!” Beth cried. “But you never tell her no. Do it, Dad. Tell her I can keep my dog. Tell her to stop badgering me. Tell her to stop.”
Mrs. Finch folded her arms tight, a spot of color burning high in each cheek. “I want that dog gone, and that is final.”
Silence. Boots whined beside Beth’s feet. She could feel Osla and Mab behind her like sentinels. Mr. Finch cleared his throat, opened his mouth. Shut it again.
Mrs. Finch gave a sharp nod, eyes boring into Beth. “What do you have to say now, miss?”
“If the dog goes, so do I,” Beth said, drawing a long breath. “And the next time you get a headache you can wring out your own washcloth, you Sunday school bully.”
This time it was Mrs. Finch’s hand that whipped out. Beth stepped back, and the blow missed. Mr. Finch seized his wife’s arm before she could swing again. “Muriel—Beth—let’s sit down—”
“No.” Beth turned away and fumbled her coat on, numb and shaking. “I’m going.”
“So are we.” Mab brushed past Mrs. Finch, Osla marching straight after her. A moment later Beth heard their footsteps up the creaky stairs, heard the bedroom door open, heard the sound of traveling cases sliding out from under beds. Mrs. Finch turned a mottled red, lips pressing together in a tight line. Beth looked at her another long, dreadful moment, then turned away to fetch her handbag and a lead for Boots. She knew she should go upstairs and gather some things, but she couldn’t make herself retreat even one step further into the house. The dreadful stillness spread and spread.
In no time at all, Mab and Osla clattered back downstairs, carrying not just their own traveling cases but Beth’s, exploding with hastily stuffed slips and blouses. “The road you are walking leads to hell,” Mrs. Finch said, white with fury.
“At least y
ou won’t be there,” said Beth.
The three of them walked out of the house where Beth had lived all her life, Boots trotting at their heels, and shut the door behind them.
Chapter 29
As far as Mab knew, princes married princesses, not Canadian commoners—therefore, Philip of Greece had no business making Osla fall head over heels, and Mab wasn’t prepared to warm to him. Still, she had to admit he was a looker as he picked the three of them up from Euston station in his rakish little Vauxhall, fair hair rumpled. “Hullo, princess,” he greeted Osla, and his grin made even Mab’s impervious pulse flutter. “I hear you and your damsels are in need of rescuing.”
“No daffing about, Philip, we barely escaped with our lives.” Osla leaned over the Vauxhall’s door to kiss him, and though it was a brief kiss, the heat of it made Mab wonder if that midnight talk about the facts of life had come just in time. “Philip, meet Mab Churt and Beth Finch,” Osla continued. “The three of us are temporarily homeless and absolutely knackered.”
Philip hopped out and shook hands. Mab did her best to look like she met princes every day, and Beth spoke for the first time since leaving Bletchley on the train they’d caught by the tips of their fingers. “Do you have anything to drink?”
“Fizz, coming right up.” Philip’s eyes gleamed as he threw their bags in the boot. “So, why the SOS so late at night? I sense a story.”
Osla shrugged. “Beth’s mother flipped her wicket—”
“Bitch,” Mab couldn’t help muttering. “I’m sorry, Beth, but she is.”
“She is,” Beth agreed. She looked pale and wrung out, climbing in the backseat with Boots, but Mab thought something inside Beth had unwound somehow. It had left her shaky but defiant, shoulders squared as never before. Hurrah, Beth, Mab thought with a rush of pride as the Vauxhall shot off into the night. Wherever the BP billeting officer bunked them next, it simply couldn’t be worse than Mrs. Finch. No more nosy questions, no more leathery Woolton pie . . .
“Claridge’s, darling,” Osla was saying to Philip. “My mother’s at Kelburn Castle on a house party, so her suite’s empty . . .”
The hall porter at Claridge’s greeted Osla like a long-lost niece, and Mab and Beth like royalty. “A gentleman waiting inside for you, Miss Churt. A Mr. Gray—”
Mab flew inside. The art deco hotel court with its glittering chandelier and black and white tiles was thronged with women in satin and men in uniform, champagne corks popping as everyone celebrated the Americans’ entering the war. To Mab, that already felt like it had happened a year ago. She craned her head, and there was Francis, standing hands in his pockets, watching the party with that air of distant enjoyment she knew so well. He looked less tanned—evidently he hadn’t seen much sun, these last two months in America—but the smile was the same.
“Francis,” she called, and there was a moment’s awkwardness as they both hovered, visibly wondering whether to embrace or shake hands. They hadn’t worked any of that out yet—they hadn’t worked anything out, really, though they’d been engaged since September. Finally Mab stepped forward and kissed his cheek. He smelled like sandalwood and his hair looked so soft she wanted to run her hands through it, but she didn’t quite dare. “I didn’t think you’d be able to meet me on such short notice.” Mab had managed to ring him from Bletchley station, but what a way to reunite after nearly three months.
“You look well.” His eyes went over her, that look that made her feel naked. “Your family, they’re well too?”
“Yes, Lucy’s back in London with Mum now that the bombings have tailed off.” Francis had met them both, two days before he left for America—Mab’s mother had been flustered by the posh tearoom and Lucy had been wary, not at all convinced that this stranger wasn’t going to take Mab even more away than she already was . . . but Francis had been friendly, unflappable, and he hadn’t raised even the hint of an eyebrow at Mab’s post-tearoom suggestion that Lucy might live with them. With that, Mab had exhaled her last bit of caution. It was all going to be just fine.
Another silence fell.
“I wish we’d been able to write more.” Mab tried not to sound accusatory. Overseas post was spotty, and telephone calls cost a fortune—Francis had sent a telegram when he’d arrived in Washington, but there had only been postcards afterward. It had been difficult not to wonder if he was regretting his offer. If he’d come back wondering what he’d been thinking when he folded that big ruby into her hand . . . “I can’t believe it’s been nearly three months!” she said brightly.
“Two months, one week, and four days,” he said, and the knot of anxiety in Mab’s stomach eased. If a man was counting the days, it wasn’t because he was looking to take his ring back.
“How was Washington?”
“Not much I can tell you, I’m afraid. Busy. Cold. Too many Americans. Your work?”
“Not much I can tell you, I’m afraid. Busy. Hot. Too many machines.”
Another exchange of smiles, a visible sense of wondering if they should join hands or kiss again, or . . . Surely we’ll learn to talk to each other, Mab thought, once we’re married. Once they could do their not talking in a bed. Mab wished they could get on with that side of things now—his tie was rumpled, and something in her was rising, wanting to yank it off . . .
Give away nothing for free, the steely voice in the back of her mind said. The voice that had held her upright when Geoffrey Irving and his friends left her on the side of the street. Give away nothing for free. Even at the eleventh hour.
By this time the others had squirmed through the celebratory crowd. Introductions were made, Osla embellished the story of their departure—“Beth was an absolute brick!”—and Philip went off to order Bollinger and came back with brimming coupes. Beth slugged hers with surprising speed.
“Steady on—” he said as she swallowed the second glass before he’d half refilled it.
“I just told my mother she was a Sunday school bully,” Beth said.
“Drink up.” He refilled her glass before turning to Francis. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Gray. When’s the happy day?”
Francis looked at Mab, one of those quiet glances with something burning behind it. “I’m leaving London again day after tomorrow,” he said. “No time to arrange a proper wedding and honeymoon until I get back. Three more weeks—”
“Or there’s the registry office,” Mab heard herself saying. “What about tomorrow?”
“MR. GIBBS,” OSLA SAID, descending on the hall porter with a ravishing smile. “My friend is getting married tomorrow, and she is going to need a slap-up wedding party. Can you help me?”
“Yes, Miss Kendall,” he replied, not batting an eyelash.
“Good. Bollinger, enough to get all London kippered, and the best wedding breakfast rationing will allow. How many eggs can you get your hands on? Foie gras? What about beluga? Put it on my mother’s bill. I’m also going to need the room number of every guest currently staying in this hotel with a daughter aged . . .” Osla looked back at Mab. “How old is Lucy?”
“Nearly six.” Mab choked, helpless with laughter.
“Between the ages of five and seven,” Osla finished to Gibbs. “Please send notes to all their parents, and beg emergency morning loan of their daughter’s best frock. I will be by at nine sharp tomorrow morning to inspect the selection.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“Don’t let me down, Mr. Gibbs.” Osla pressed a wad of bills into his hand and turned, hands on hips, a general surveying the troops. “Francis, I’m sending you home so your bride can get her beauty sleep. Come back at eleven tomorrow, in your best suit, with rings and whatever bits of paper one needs for a marriage license. Philip, if you can collect Mab’s mother and sister tomorrow morning at nine, and deliver them to Cyclax round the corner, where we’ll get our faces done. Your mother’s address, Mab?”
Mab, giggling, gave it. Mum is going to faint, being chauffeured to my wedding by a prince!
“Ri
ght,” Philip grinned, clearly thinking it the best lark in the world to use up his precious petrol coupons in a mad dash across London for a Shoreditch mother of the bride. Mab’s urge to distrust him melted. “Come on, old man.” The prince clapped Francis on the shoulder. “I’ll drop you home tonight. I might know a chap who can grease the wheels at the registry office . . .”
“Excellent. We convene here at eleven tomorrow, and you slackards will not be late! Say goodbye to your fiancé, Mab, you and I have a closet to raid.” Grabbing the bottle of Bollinger and three glasses, Osla headed for the stairs. Beth followed with Boots, and after a hasty kiss to Francis, Mab floated along behind, still laughing. “My mother’s suite,” Osla said, waving them into the opulent set of rooms, with its massive bed, the bathroom with its huge tub and shining mirrors. “You can borrow it for your wedding, you and Francis—Mr. Gibbs can find Beth and me another bunk.”
“All right,” Mab said immediately. She’d been prepared for a wedding night in Francis’s bachelor digs before he left London and she departed for Bletchley, but my God, did she want a night of luxury if it was on offer. Not just because she’d never stayed in a sumptuous hotel, but because surely it would be easier to get to know a brand-new, all-but-silent husband when you were surrounded by satin sheets and champagne in ice buckets . . . Mab swigged from her coupe, feeling the first surge of wedding nerves. She was a bride. She was getting married tomorrow. To a man she’d only met six times . . .
“Beth, keep the fizz topped.” Osla yanked open her mother’s wardrobe and began flinging dresses around. “Now: a scrummy frock that will pass as a wedding gown . . .”
“Your mother’s going to know if I raid her rack of Hartnells!” Mab yelped.
“She’ll never miss one, and you are not getting married in your blue curtain liner, Scarlett O’Hara.” Osla held up a dress: long sleeved, tight waisted, cream satin pleats cascading from the waist in devastating knife-edge folds. “This one.”