“More than ice, I think the men battle waiting the most.”
“Waiting?”
“Once you wave good-bye to England, it’s about calming the nerves. Fumbling with the controls. Checking the oxygen umpteen times. Watching the sky until you finally see land again. And then the climax hits and the bomb bay doors open . . . but even then there’s waiting. If not for all that and those pesky Jerries getting in the way, I’d say this job would be a walk in the park if you have patience to endure it.”
Another lighthearted reply. It seemed if Wyatt possessed any manner of fear at all, he kept it buried beneath the surface.
Not like the other boys.
The younger officers joked and played cards and had pinups of their Betty Grables taped to the Regency Ballroom walls, but they walked around the manor with wide-eyed respect for how close death truly was—especially when chairs that had once been filled went empty at the breakfast tables. But Wyatt didn’t. He seemed to stare fear down like an unflinching foe. He approached flying out on missions as if he were simply going off to an office job, not battling the clouds with Hitler’s best flyers day in and day out.
It didn’t fit.
“The children have become attached to the men already, though I’ve tried my best to keep them out of your hair. I hope they haven’t added to any of the anxiety.”
“Not at all,” he countered easily, his voice a rough whisper. “But you’re keeping them from getting to know officers first in order to shield them from loss after. That’s probably best in the end.”
Amelia shifted in her chair. “I didn’t intend it like that.”
“It’s okay if you did. The RAF officers tell Yanks the truth when we arrive: you never make friends here because the moment you do, the next day they’re gone.”
Her heart sank.
Yes. They are gone.
“I wish it wasn’t true, for everyone’s sake.” Her insides ached over it.
“The business of war doesn’t mince truths though, does it? But we train hard, do our job well, and God willing, everyone comes home to tell the tales.” Wyatt allowed a hint of softness to hold in his features. “And then one day you find you’re sitting in a pub, talking books and bombs with a stranger by a fire, and for better or worse, you’ve set out and done exactly what those RAF officers said not to do.”
He cleared his throat slightly, watching her kindly, since he’d just declared her a friend as the glow of firelight danced across his face. “If that bout of honesty means I’m disinvited to the book club, I understand.”
She swallowed hard, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Not disinvited, no.”
“But not invited either? Maybe just as well. I’m afraid I may have inadvertently made an enemy out of your uncle and found myself banned from your library as a result.”
“My uncle?” How could that be? Darly was the kindest, gentlest soul she knew.
“Afraid so. He ran me out of the library this week. Said a mindless barbarian had no business being anywhere near her ladyship’s books.” Wyatt leaned back with a cocky grin that made sure Amelia saw how he found humor in the interaction despite the fact that Darly had bristled quite badly. “I think he may have used a British expletive or two when he marched away, but I can’t be sure. And do the British call everyone an ‘overgrown Yankee scarecrow’ in passing, or should I take that personally?”
Amelia did laugh then. And the smile bled down to her core.
Darly was only so frustrated by a few as to allow his propriety to slip. It seemed Wyatt Stevens had a unique way about him that clashed in so completely a manner that he’d shot to the top of the old man’s list of vexations.
“It sounds as though we’ve had a simple misunderstanding. I’ll just explain to him that you are free to borrow anything you’d like, and that should prevent any recurrence of the incident.”
“Well, I was bred on an Iowa farm, so he’s not that far off base. But what if I asked you to supply the books from now on?”
Silence washed over her, marking the seconds that ticked by on the clock between them. Darly was wrong; they weren’t her books. They were her husband’s beloved friends. And now if she agreed, she’d be placing them in another man’s hands.
“You want my recommendations?”
He nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Why, of course milady can recommend books!” Thompson interjected, appearing from the kitchen with a tray of steaming soup crocks in his hands. “She is our resident librarian, with her historic collection down at the manor.”
Arthur’s books.
The ones I love and am too afraid to share.
Amelia shot to her feet, cutting him off with a cheerful but hurried, “Oh, you do love a good gab, Thompson! But the time—I’m afraid I must be going. Mrs. Jenkins will be setting for tea, and she’ll be in a state of panic should I not return to help.”
Wyatt stood as she did, his manners more English by the minute. “But you haven’t eaten yet.”
“’Tis true! The captain’s right. Ye can’t leave before I give ye your basket, milady.”
Thompson approached the table, a basket hooked in his elbow. He set the tray on the table, then the basket containing the biscuit tin of soup tied with twine but still releasing steam from the edges. Wax paper–wrapped mini loaves of bread sat on top. And a curious envelope balanced on top of that.
He smiled and crossed his arms over his chest in a happy “so there” stance.
“Thompson—you cannot mean . . . ?” Amelia clutched his shoulders and pressed a kiss to the old man’s cheek before she could stop herself, delight gripping her hard and fast so she couldn’t not respond in kind.
“Arrived today from Westminster.”
“Truly!” Amelia swiped the envelope and read the address of the War Office, then hugged it to her chest. She could only pray it held the good news she’d been waiting on for weeks.
“Let me get this straight. You dole out kisses for . . . mail?” Wyatt’s laugh wasn’t masked. Not in the least. His hazel eyes twinkled as he looked down on her.
“For this kind—it appears I do.”
Wyatt clasped his hands together. “An intelligent officer might make note to remember that.”
Amelia tucked the envelope in the basket and gathered the wax paper parcels of bread safe around it.
“Tell your darling wife I’ll return her basket tomorrow. If Darly’s soup grows cold, he shall not forgive that folly easily.” Amelia grabbed up the basket and bread and excused herself, buttoning the front of her topper in haste as she walked to the door.
“Amelia?” The way Wyatt said her name was too soft, too earnest to ignore.
She turned, nearly undone by the first time she’d heard it from him. “Yes?”
A pause. A look. And then, “I report again tomorrow.”
“So soon? I thought you said you had leave.”
“I’m subbing in with the RAF after one of their pilots fell out with a bout of pneumonia. Only enough time to sleep and eat before briefing, I’m afraid. And stop in here for a hot meal.”
“Oh. I see . . .” Amelia paused, fingertips toying with the coat button at her waist.
She hated this.
Truly. Good men, brave men, flew out and sometimes didn’t come back. It made minutes ticking by on the clock feel urgent when they shouldn’t. And the few moments at a pub table mean more than they ought.
“You can’t say when you’ll return?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. But may I ask a favor while I’m gone?”
“Certainly.” She hoped beyond hope he didn’t ask for anything she couldn’t give.
“I left a stack of books before your uncle, uh, escorted me out of the library. I’ve read them but didn’t have time to browse for any others. Two or three should keep me busy for a short while.”
“You’re certain you trust me to select something you’d like?” She hesitated. “Books are a completely pers
onal kind of journey. On the first page they ask us not only to be willing but to be moved, changed, persuaded, even made new by the time we reach the end. Everyone’s walk through is different. It has to be. What if I choose the wrong sort of journey for you?”
“If that’s how you really feel about books, I more than trust you—at least until my invitation to the book club arrives in the post. I have to find something to fill my time in between flights. And turning pages will keep my fingers warm to stave off the threat of frostbite.”
“Alright then, Wyatt. When you return, your books will be waiting.” Amelia nodded as she slipped the basket over her arm and hurried a good-bye, the bell clanging as she bustled out to her bicycle. She could wait no longer and tore into the envelope while standing with the wheels leaning against her skirt.
Blast.
Nothing but a bread crumb again.
Thompson’s contact at the War Office had sounded promising this time.
They’d stumbled upon relocation lists—names of Berlin Jews who’d been transported to work camps early in the war. It had been a hope. But he reported only that there was no match with names for Luca and Liesel’s parents. Looking for a German couple who’d vanished into the Berlin night in 1938 had once again thrown them back to square one.
Pedaling home, the threat of spray on her buckle shoes was all but forgotten as Amelia wove her way past Framlingham Castle and down the long lane to Parham Hill. She deposited the basket in the kitchen but hid the envelope in her pocket and slipped into the great hall, behind the few officers who were still on leave and children who’d joined them for dinner. She drifted along the back wall, then breezed down the hall to the library, finding how odd it was that officers, children, Darly, and an old English cook gave the remarkable impression of a makeshift family.
In the tucked-away treasure of Arthur’s library, Amelia rushed to the small stack of books on the sideboard. A note had been left on the top, folded upon the front cover of A Tale of Two Cities.
She swiped it up and read the letters penned in sharp, regal strokes:
To the lady librarian of the house,
Dickens—not bad. A little dreary. What do you recommend next? Something with spirit. Please, if you have any pity . . . no Austen.
Back in a few days, ready to read.
—Wyatt
At least this letter had the promise of something good. Maybe one day she’d write one back. Or despite his protests, leave Wyatt a stack of Austen as a tease.
But not this day.
Amelia’s heart was torn because she’d made a friend. And anybody in wartime would tell you that was a very dangerous thing to do—almost as dangerous as hoping for a letter from the War Office or longing after a liquid-satin gown in a town surrounded by roads of mud.
One never fell in love with something when it was far easier to pass by.
Nine
April 21, 1843
Parham Hill Estate
Framlingham, England
A revolver was not the usual utensil one brought to breakfast.
Not unless you were on the American frontier. But this was not a countryside of wide-open land and lawless men. They were in England. Queen Victoria’s England. And there were rules.
A whim of brave insolence against a viscount seemed unlikely to end in Elizabeth’s favor unless she could find just cause by which to accuse him of such a grievous crime. But it would take time to learn the game at play. The players. How in the world he’d elevated himself from street urchin to nobleman in a single decade. And especially the manor and the inner workings of Viscount Huxley’s world. As his fiancée she may have liberties others would not to dig deeper into the mysteries of his private life. And though Elizabeth’s insides recoiled each time she considered breathing air in the same room as he, she had but to remind herself she needn’t go all the way to the altar.
Elizabeth could be clever and strong in the weeks the banns were read and put up a ruse of gentility if she needed to. All to the eventual end of the viscount’s past crimes being brought to light and justice having its day.
The very existence of the revolver in her chamber, however, put all at risk. If it were discovered, her one ally could turn from a companion to a curse in the flap of a hummingbird’s wings. That would not do.
Elizabeth tugged a salon chair over to the wardrobe in her primrose-papered chamber and climbed upon its cushion in stockinged feet. She stood against the beast of mirror and polished wood, inspecting the depths behind the scrolled façade with searching fingertips, and tucked her reticule behind it, into a dust-covered corner the maids’ feather dusters had ignored for ages.
Satisfied it would keep for the moment, Elizabeth composed herself, slipping into satin shoes—one, two. Hands she smoothed against the braids that wound over her ears and tucked into an elegant coil at her nape. With a raised chin, steadying breath, and iron resolve, she ventured downstairs.
Butterflies winged a viscous dance through her insides as Elizabeth followed the sounds of idle chatter floating from the breakfast room. She forced the winged creatures to settle with each step down the open staircase, listening as the sounds of forks clinking against porcelain plates and teacups meeting their saucers grew more pronounced.
She paused in the shadow of the door, left ajar to the great hall. Elizabeth leaned closer to the edge of shadow until the Viscount Huxley came into view.
He presided over court at the end of the table, employing as normal a routine as reading a newspaper and drinking tea. Elizabeth was loath to admit the veneer of his profile was quite noble in the splash of morning sun, with brunette hair in a defiant tip over his brow, an iron jaw, and, she knew, remarkable eyes that so easily could have been beset with warmth and humor had he a character to match.
Ma-ma was close by his elbow, chirping on about something upon which he did not comment. She ran her index finger around the gold-embossed rim of a teacup before the rest of the house party guests, absently, as if the very fiber of her being could recognize what wares of luxury her daughter would now own.
The butler noticed Elizabeth’s presence and hurried to announce her, and she was forced to pivot from engaging in a spy’s deliberation in the doorway to floating into the room with all eyes upon her.
“Elizabeth! Do come in, dear,” Ma-ma crooned, as if they needed an added layer of jam in order to keep the marriage arrangement in its locked position. “You are quite a dove this morning.”
Gentlemen stood with sharp squeaks of chair legs against the hardwood. Viscount Huxley, too, stood—elegant in a riding coat of sleek royal blue, a crisp linen shirt that dared give no thought to a wrinkle, and a deep-crimson cravat tied perfectly round the neck. A gold watch chain winked in the sunlight, showing a glistening trail from waistcoat button to pocket. He watched. And waited. Those eyes revealing nothing as she breezed in, taking center stage in his world.
“Lady Elizabeth.” Viscount Huxley gave an elegant but firm bow.
Elizabeth flitted her glance away as soon as she connected with the steel-gray and gold, fearing the memory of that night in Piccadilly would rise and spur her to confront him with the dull blade of a butter knife then and there, instead of how and when she chose.
“Good morning, Lord Huxley,” she answered, proper and perfect, sweet and demure, but without an ounce of honest welcome.
Elizabeth moved to the sideboard. Took a porcelain plate of blue-and-white design, a rim of gold on it gleaming in the sunlight, and wispy willows dancing an ink-blue circle in the center. She filled it with anything that might prove edible: Fruit. Toast with butter and clotted cream. Rashers fried and crispy at the edges. She moved past the blood pudding and toms, yet with each set of sterling tongs she raised to plate, Elizabeth could feel the inspection grow upon the blush paisley shoulders of her morning dress.
Somehow she knew—his gaze followed her until she settled into a chair a moment later and spread an ivory napkin across her lap.
“Elizabeth,
dear. Viscount Huxley was just engaging me in conversation about his immaculate gardens here at Parham Hill. They are quite extensive. Perhaps we should entertain a walk through them today. The air is quite clean and pleasant here in the country, is it not, Lord Huxley?”
“It is, Lady Davies. Though I regret I do not have time much to enjoy it, as affairs in London keep me occupied.”
“London? Why, Elizabeth so enjoys the sights of the city! I daresay she will find it most enjoyable to accompany you on your future jaunts once you are wed.” Ma-ma paused, as though calculating through the background noise of the less important party guests gathered around the table. “Have you a London home?”
“I do, Lady Davies.”
“And where would that be?”
“St. James’s, Westminster.”
“Oh, how lovely,” she cooed, turning to catch Elizabeth’s eye. “We look forward to becoming acquainted with the rest of the estate grounds here, and in the London season, of course.”
Elizabeth swallowed over the manufactured sweetness in her mother’s voice. She sat straight, back a good ten inches from the chair back, and picked at her food like a dutiful little bird as she listened to her mother spreading syrup over the gentleman’s mounting list of assets.
“You are most welcome to learn whatever you’d like, Lady Davies—you and Lady Elizabeth.”
The viscount met Elizabeth’s glance over the table in nothing more than a plain manner—not detached but still not connected. Yet knowing what she did, she wondered how a man could hide such evil intentions behind so elegant a veneer. Only in such stark eyes, she decided, and looked down at her plate instead of meeting his gaze a breath longer.
The door swung open then, flinging wide as Franz entered the breakfast room. He defused the momentary tension without care that the butler should announce him before he found his way into a room instead of while.
The Painted Castle Page 10