A few minutes later, Lily was striding down Agar Street, aiming herself toward Mayfair. It was a lovely day, all sunshine and soft breezes and the glories of spring, so she decided to forgo the tube and walk home. Actually, she’d go the long way round and call at the school first and see if Ivy was still there. There were no classes today, of course, but her sister had said something about rearranging her classroom before the students returned from their holiday.
A smile pulled at Lily’s lips. Ivy was all the time rearranging the furnishings. Even back when they were both in the nursery, Lily could remember awaking from a nap to find that three-year-old Ivy had pulled her bed over to the window, or half into the closet, or piled every pillow in the house on top of it to make it look “pretty and new.” A habit that had increased with age . . . and perhaps with strength. At least once a month, Ivy would enlist the help of their shared maid in scooting this piece of furniture over there or that other one into the corner or whatever suited her fancy at a given time.
After leaving St. James’s Park, she crossed Piccadilly and aimed toward Hyde Park and the school perched near its westernmost edge. She slipped easily through the familiar wrought-iron gate and climbed the steps as she’d done nearly every day for the last decade. First when she attended the girls’ school, and then to walk home with Ivy when she was a student, and now to walk her home when she was a teacher. The walk along parts of the park to Curzon Street was one they’d always enjoyed taking together. Whenever possible, they still did.
The corridors of the school were empty of all but that silent echo that signaled the absence of life usually filling a place. She knew Ivy loved that unnatural quiet. It had always felt a bit spooky to Lily. But after she’d trotted up the stairs inside, the corridor did magnify the few noises, assuring her Ivy was in her classroom.
Lily leaned into the doorway with a smile. “You know, most teachers enjoy their holiday away from school.” It was still odd sometimes to come and see her baby sister about her work. Teaching—something she never imagined her sister taking on before war changed the landscape of their lives. All grown up.
Ivy looked up with a warm smile that said she was right where she belonged. “What do you think?” She motioned toward the room.
Last week, when Lily had stopped in, the desks and benches—wide enough to fit two students at each, though occasionally three were squeezed in—had been arranged in a circle, with Ivy’s tall chair and blackboard in the middle. Today they were back in neat rows, but angled toward one another in a V, giving them a view not only of Ivy and her board by the window, but also of each other.
Lily tilted her head. “Do you really think it a good idea to give them such a clear view of the window?”
“Given that we’re charting the blooming of the tree and keeping an eye on the newly built nest in that limb, yes. Yes, I do.” Ivy grinned and picked up a slate pencil that must have rolled from someone’s desk when she was moving it. “Only for a week or two, though, or I daresay there will be a lot more of this required.”
Lily followed the motion of Ivy’s hand to the blackboard, where a student had written I will not chatter in class twenty or so times. She chuckled. Chattering had never been her particular problem, but there had been a time or two over the years when she’d had to write I will not daydream during lessons or I will not draw in my copybook on the board. “Diana Oglesby again?”
“Who else?” Ivy shook her head, but amusement lit her eyes.
“Perhaps she needs a ruler to her knuckles.” Lily said it solely because she knew well her little sister could never bring herself to resort to the typical punishments. She’d instead devised a merit and demerit system that seemed to keep the girls in remarkably good order, what with the promise of rewards for those who had accumulated a surplus of merits and some rather interesting punishments for anyone with a deficit, like picking slugs off the school garden’s plants in the mornings before class.
Ivy rolled her eyes. And then they flashed bright, and she motioned Lily to join her at the window. “Come here. They ought to be coming by again any moment.”
“Who? Diana Oglesby?”
“No, Silly Lily.” The window was open to let in the spring air, and Ivy poked her head out, bracing her palms against the sill. “There. I can just see them emerging from that copse of trees.”
Curious now, Lily slid into place beside her sister, her hand reaching by habit for the camera in her pocket. She didn’t know who had caught Ivy’s attention, but if it was so notable, perhaps it called for a snapshot. She squinted into the distance, her brows drawing tight together when she saw Ivy was pointing at two figures far too tall to belong to her eleven-year-old pupils. No, they were clearly men. Men moving at quite a quick pace along the path inside the park.
One of whom had a stride so smooth and graceful that she had a feeling she knew exactly who it was long before she could make out any features. “Is that . . . ?”
“Clarke and the Russian.” Ivy leaned her elbows into the sill and rested her chin in her hands, looking more the schoolgirl than the teacher. “This will be their fourth lap of the mile circuit, if you can believe it. And their pace doesn’t seem to have lagged.”
She wouldn’t have thought Zivon a runner. And yet, perhaps it explained that way he moved—almost without friction, it seemed. Lily quickly adjusted the focus and light settings on her camera and had it in position by the time the men drew near enough. Her fingers trailed the cord, found the push-pin.
Her eyes gauged the world. The way the sunlight streamed down, fresh and bright, dappling shadows on the ground as it played hide-and-seek with the leaves. She waited for the men to lope into a patch of pure sunshine, smiling when she saw they were laughing together over something. Perfect. She pressed the pin, her heart whirring along with the film. The perfect moment. She always knew when she’d found one. Nothing quickened her spirit quite like a well-timed photograph.
And not a moment too soon. The men slowed to a walk now. Clarke motioned toward the park entrance, and Marin seemed to be fishing around in his pocket for something. A watch, she saw a moment later.
“What was their pace?” Lily asked her sister, since she’d apparently known when to expect them by again.
Ivy’s cheeks were that pretty rose color that meant she knew well she’d been paying more attention than a casual acquaintance really needed to do. “If they were running the mile, as I assume, then just over six minutes.” She straightened quickly, all but slamming the window back down. “Come on. If we hurry, we can happen by the entrance as they’re leaving, and they can offer to walk us home.”
6
Lily’s chest went oddly tight. She laughed to cover it up. “Ivy, really. They’re coming for dinner tomorrow.”
“So?”
“So . . .” Her sister was already grabbing her bag and hat and hurrying toward the door. Lily leapt to keep up. “Did it not occur to you that they may not want to walk us home after running four miles? They probably want nothing more than to get home themselves and bathe.”
“Oh, bah.” Ivy shot a grin over her shoulder. “I say we’ll learn a bit more about their mettle if we surprise them in such a moment. And wouldn’t you rather discover now whether they react well to the unexpected, rather than months into courtships?”
“There are no courtships.” But the words were more a mumble than an insistence. Because there no doubt would be a courtship if Ivy made it clear—which she was obviously doing—that she wanted one. Clarke would be an amusingly besotted fool by the end of Easter dinner, if he wasn’t already.
What lit a spark of unease in her chest was that Ivy seemed to think that one courtship meant two courtships.
“Ivy . . .”
“Hurry up, Lil.” Ivy was already dashing down the stairs.
Lily picked up her pace, tugging her kerchief off her head as she went. It was easy for Ivy to run into an impromptu meeting, as she was dressed in a pretty white day dress, her hair arranged
in waves that led to a stylish chignon. Then there was Lily, in a dowdy VAD uniform, hair pinned back for purely utilitarian purposes.
Not that she really cared about impressing the Russian. He may be intriguing, but that didn’t mean she wanted a romance. Certainly not one that was mere happenstance, as his new friend called on her sister.
And why was she even thinking this way? It was ridiculous. She’d only met the man once. Besides, far more likely was that both of the men outside would be taken with Ivy. It was the usual way—and Lily could hardly blame them. She herself might not be bad to look at, but beside her sister’s vivacious charm, Lily might as well be one of their mother’s paintings. Flat, two-dimensional. Interesting for a moment’s glance, but not much beyond it.
Oh, she had no doubt that in a different world, where the men weren’t so outnumbered, she may have been able to find one who preferred a quiet wife. She just wasn’t sure that world still existed. And wasn’t all that upset at the notion.
So she really didn’t mind that Ivy would unquestionably steal the hearts of both their guests. She could think of no more deserving a recipient of affection, and it was only fitting that Ivy have her choice. Her little sister’s happiness was crucial to Lily’s own.
And the beaming smile Ivy gave her over her shoulder as she stepped outside said that she was anticipating plenty of happiness. Lily, camera still in hand, spun the knurled screw and lifted it to snap another quick photo. It probably wouldn’t turn out, given that she had only guessed at the focus, but sometimes those unplanned ones surprised her.
Ivy laughed. “Put that away and come along. They’re leaving the park.”
They were. And they were coming in their direction—no doubt the quickest route to their flats or a tube station—so they’d have to pass them. Lily folded her camera and slid it into her pocket even as she hurried to Ivy’s side and linked their arms together, as much to restrain as to proclaim solidarity. “Remember what Mama always says, Ivy. Don’t appear overeager.”
Ivy’s smile was the perfect complement to her rosy cheeks. “And remember what Daddy says—be yourself and any young man worth his salt will take notice.”
A laugh tickled Lily’s throat. “Well, in your case at least, I can’t argue.”
“And I do believe we’ve been spotted.” Ivy’s pace may have been reasonable, but Lily could feel the energy vibrating through her. It coursed through her arm like electricity and gave Lily a zing too.
They stepped out of the school’s wrought-iron fencing, onto the sidewalk, and turned toward home, which put them facing the two men.
Lieutenant Clarke was grinning, already lifting a hand in greeting. Mr. Marin, rather than looking at them, was glancing down at himself, probably keenly aware of the sweat soaking his shirt and dripping down his face—or at least she would have been. Not that she as the observer found any reason to wrinkle her nose at a man showing evidence of remarkable athleticism.
He looked up, over the rims of his spectacles. A curl of hair had broken free of its pomade and fell across his forehead, and she had a feeling the flush in his cheeks wasn’t solely from exertion.
But he didn’t look at Ivy. He looked at her.
Another zing, though she couldn’t entirely attribute this one to Ivy’s energy. She glanced down, but demureness had never really been one of her virtues. She’d always been too curious. And Zivon Marin made that curiosity spark to life every time she looked at him. Which she did again after only one second of reprieve.
She found him smiling, and it looked a bit bashful. Rather endearing, that.
Clarke murmured something to him, though they were too far away yet for Lily to hear. It made uncertainty flash over Mr. Marin’s face for a moment, though, before his expression cleared back into his usual stillness and he nodded.
“Gracious but he’s handsome. Even when in desperate need of a bath.” Ivy’s whisper was certainly too quiet to go beyond Lily’s ears.
Even so, she felt a bit guilty for her chuckle. At least this time she knew which of the two her sister meant.
They were soon close enough that she had no trouble hearing Clarke’s pleasant hello. He motioned toward the school behind them. “Is this where you teach, Miss Ivy?”
“It is indeed.” Ivy somehow produced the perfect smile without any effort—warm and sweet, encouraging without being too inviting. She turned to view the building too, swinging Lily around and then pulling free of her arm so she could point upward. “That’s my classroom there. The one with the blue curtains.”
Lily wasn’t quite sure how Ivy and Clarke managed it, but a second later, the two of them were side by side looking up at the cheerful window, and Lily had been nudged back. She’d tease Ivy later about shoving her out of the way. Though since she also had no need to hear all about the latest reordering of the room, she didn’t entirely mind stepping back and turning to find Mr. Marin with her gaze.
He’d followed the pointing fingers with his attention for a moment, of course, but now brought his eyes back down to her. He smiled, but there was nothing carefree about it. Nothing glad.
She wasn’t so selfish a creature to think it had anything to do with her. The sort of sorrow that infected that smile had roots far deeper than a two-day acquaintance. Her fingers were already reaching for her camera, but she curled them into her palm instead. “I didn’t realize the two of you were runners.” There, a nice benign conversation topic.
Marin ducked his head. “We did not realize we both are until yesterday. It seems Clarke nearly qualified for your team in the 1912 Olympics, though.”
“Really?” Ivy must have been listening with half an ear as she chattered about her merit and demerit system. She interrupted herself to turn wide, awestruck eyes on Clarke. “How very impressive!”
Lily pressed her lips against a grin. Another something for Ivy to swoon over later, it seemed. For her own part, she kept her attention on the Russian. How odd it was to hear someone say your team and not be part of it themselves. “And do you compete?”
He looked genuinely taken aback by the question. “No. That is not my purpose.” Before she could ask what his purpose was, he extended an arm toward the sidewalk. “May we see you and your sister home, Miss Blackwell?”
That had probably been what Clarke had suggested to him, the thing that had made him so uncertain. But apparently he was no keener to disappoint his new friend than she was her sister. Lily smiled. “You may, of course. But if it’s too much trouble—”
“This is pleasure. Not trouble.” The words sounded certain, and his returning smile had no new notes of regret in it, so she decided to believe him. Though he cast another look down at his clothes. “Forgive my appearance, if you would. And I hesitate to offer an arm. . . .”
She laughed and turned toward home. “There is nothing to forgive, I assure you. How far did you run? Were you on the mile circuit?”
He nodded and fell into step beside her, though he kept generous distance between them. “Five miles today.” Ivy must have missed one. “We are both, it seems, runners of long distances. Though neither of us has been able to train as much in recent times.”
Yes, war had a way of interrupting such things.
“Do you enjoy any sport?” he asked, hesitating a bit, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he ought to ask her.
Lily grinned up at him. “Not like that. But I play croquet.”
Something flickered in his eyes. A smile whispered over the corners of his lips that seemed absent at least a bit of the sorrow. “I am largely unfamiliar with this game, I confess. You . . . hit a ball, I believe? With a hammer?”
“A mallet, through a wicket.” Her own grin was probably a bit mischievous. She and Ivy had played their guests more than once—and often tromped them soundly. “Weather permitting, we always have a little Easter match. We can teach you how to play—and no doubt Mama will regale you at dinner with the story of our game twelve years ago, when an overexuberant Ivy broke a window.”
She’d thought a hint of a story would bring another easy smile. After all, who didn’t laugh at the thought of a nine-year-old smacking a ball through a window? But instead of amusement, that stillness descended over his countenance again. A complete absence of reaction.
What had she said? She shifted just a bit closer, so that he would look down at her. “I’m sorry. Have I opened a matryoshka doll?”
The reference to their earlier conversation at least earned another fleeting smile. “Forgive me. Talk of Easter brought to mind an article I read in the newspaper this morning. It seems the Germans’ new gun hit a church in Paris yesterday, during Good Friday services. Many were killed. Many more wounded.”
She gasped. Her shift at Charing Cross Hospital had begun early this morning, and she hadn’t had a chance to so much as glance at the headlines yet. “That’s horrible!”
“It was a church I visited once, when my family took a European holiday. Our one grand adventure.” His voice was so perfectly even. Modulated. Careful. “We stayed in that neighborhood, you see. We toured the church. Visited a bookshop.” He swallowed hard. “That was the neighborhood where my brother and I were to meet if we were separated during our escape. He could be there, somewhere near that devastation.”
Her stomach knotted up. “Oh no. I can’t even imagine.” She glanced behind them, to where Ivy and Clarke trailed them by at least ten paces, laughing over something or another. She and her sister had never been apart, not really. Not by more than a few miles, a few days at a time. Never had either of them had to wonder if the other was caught in the midst of a tragedy. “Do you think it likely he was nearby?”
He didn’t shrug. Didn’t glance over at her. Just kept walking at the same measured pace, his movements fluid. Kept his eyes straight ahead. Kept his face clear. “If he is alive, he is there, or trying to get there. But I have heard nothing from him for weeks. Not since our train derailed.”
A Portrait of Loyalty (The Codebreakers Book #3) Page 7