She’d been intending to read the message over again when she had a moment of privacy, but it seemed even that was beyond her control. Her jaw tightened as she relaxed her fingers to expose the tiny canister nestled in her palm, the message from George curled beside it.
Aldridge reached out, ignoring the letter in favour of the canister, and held it between his finger and thumb.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, his tone equal parts curiosity and accusation.
“Don’t worry,” she said sourly. “I haven’t engaged in any illicit arrangements with any other government agencies. It’s left over.”
“From the Great War?” Tierney said, eyeing the tiny capped metal cylinder.
Olive nodded. “My father is a member of the National Union of Racing Pigeons and friends with a great many fanciers across the country and abroad. A member of the Pigeon Service in the Great War gifted him a few spares, and we occasionally put them to use sending messages for fun.”
Aldridge grunted something unintelligible and scooped up the letter.
“Your messages will be in code, won’t they?” Jonathon said, sounding breathless with excitement. “To guard against the Germans reading them?”
“That’s right,” Aldridge agreed. “It’s best to take precautions, even if their chances . . .” Here he trailed off, as if belatedly realising that conveying a lack of trust in the birds probably wasn’t in the best of taste, particularly in their own loft.
At twenty-two, Olive already had a lifetime’s worth of experience defending herself, and her birds, to close-minded individuals, and even though they’d come to her, it seemed this was to be no exception. She smiled thinly and spoke crisply. “It was my mother’s idea to raise pigeons. She was an ambulance driver on the Western Front in France in the Great War and had gone off shift one day, after hours spent transporting men with heartbreaking injuries to the nearest field hospital. A nurse came bustling through with the news that one of the surgeons was operating on a pigeon.” Aldridge’s gaze slid sideways—guiltily, she thought—but hers never wavered. “The bird had come in covered in blood, blind in one eye, with a bullet through the chest, and its leg nearly severed. Wounded as it was, it had flown twenty-five miles to deliver a message that saved almost two hundred soldiers. The surgeons managed to put her well enough to rights, and after that, my mother was simply in awe of them, because how could you not be?”
Tierney’s jaw was suddenly working as if he had a piece of toffee stuck in his teeth, while Jonathon merely stared at her, clearly hoping for more details but savvy enough to know that they could wait.
“I suppose, then, that I should prepare myself to be awestruck,” Aldridge allowed.
“Yes, do that,” she said, her voice steely.
With the hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, Aldridge tucked the confiscated letter and canister into his pocket and gestured to Tierney, who nodded at Olive, rumpled Jonathon’s overgrown locks, and slipped out into the late afternoon sunshine. Olive stared at the man remaining, his eyes once again shadowed and unreadable. She couldn’t imagine what had prompted her to call him Jamie; the name conjured an image of someone friendly and approachable, and he was neither. On second thought, she realised that assessment wasn’t entirely accurate. In between the moments of brusque interrogation and disgruntled exasperation, she’d seen something—the barest glimpse—of the sort of man he might have been if circumstance hadn’t caught hold of him. His eyes looked like there was a bit of wild in them, tamped fiercely down. In another life, they might have been friends.
Whatever expression crossed her face during this silent reverie was enough to have him barking an abrupt goodnight.
Before she could stop herself, Olive called lightly after him, “I do hope you know how to dance.”
His stride faltered on the threshold, but he didn’t turn. Instead, he quickly resumed his determined march out of the loft.
As she watched him go, it struck her that the way things were, friends was not a possibility.
Chapter 6
Friday, 2nd May
Olive was pacing her room, her fingers fidgeting unceasingly as her skirt swirled around her. She’d been smugly self-assured when Aldridge had questioned the lie she’d told her father, but having spent the past hour getting ready for the dance, she was positively fraught with nerves.
Initially, she’d considered her impromptu resourcefulness a stroke of pure retaliatory genius. By introducing him as her date for the Daffodil Dance, she’d put him soundly in his place, while ensuring that he would be forced to endure an uncomfortable evening pretending he was fond of her. Her head had been clouded with triumph in the early moments, but later, the reality had brought her thumping down like a turnip. Thanks to her spiteful dealings, she now had a date for the dance who not only refused to carry on a normal conversation but also seemed, inexplicably, to dislike her. Heaven knew, she’d not given him a justifiable reason for such an attitude—not yet, at any rate.
On the bright side, his presence should stave off any requests that she help serve the punch. And she wouldn’t be stuck going alone. She rubbed at the spot just above her right eye where her pulse was starting to pound its way into a headache.
Memories of a not so long-ago relationship had already begun to shade her expectations for this one. Perhaps that was unfair, but life, she’d learned, rarely was. Captain Aldridge was rather disconcertingly like Liam; both proudly sported a brusque demeanour, dark hair, and hard jaw. She and Liam Barlow had been first-year veterinary students together, and while she’d been eager and effusive, he’d responded with haughty contempt. That had lasted until she’d bested him on exams and earned a coveted spot as a research assistant, working alongside him. At that point, his arrogance had given way to grudging respect and, shortly thereafter, desire. It had been her pleasure to tease him quite mercilessly before finally giving in.
She was her mother’s daughter and, as such, had never subscribed to the idea of separate standards for the sexes, and certainly not to the outmoded notion that her future should hinge on her chastity. So, she had seduced him when she was good and ready and had enjoyed the pleasure of his company for a fleeting few months.
He’d joined up in the early days and bidden her a fond farewell. There hadn’t been a letter in all that time. She much preferred to think he’d got over her—the alternative was too bleak. Now, here she was, feeling distressingly as if she was starting all over again. But this was entirely different and would absolutely not culminate in seduction.
Moving purposefully in front of the mirror, which was in dire need of re-silvering, she stood straighter, smoothing down the full skirt of her favourite dress. It was a couple of years old already, worn to plenty of dances but still stylish, deep aubergine, with a gathered bodice and a sweetheart neckline that set off her mother’s pearls. She needed only a slick of lipstick.
Just after war had been declared, Harriet had gone up to London to get some early Christmas shopping done ahead of the rationing. At the time, cosmetics companies had been focused on patriotism and not yet constrained by shortages. She had bought Olive three lovely tubes of red lipstick in a shade called Auxiliary Red and had murmured in her ear as she’d opened them, “Warpaint.” Olive had used the lipstick sparingly since then, saving those tubes for the days when she’d don a uniform and proudly do her bit. She thought of Jameson Aldridge, of his dark eyes banked with secrets and judgment, and of his fleeting half smile, and she decided that tonight she could use a bit of that confidence-inspiring red. For luck, forbearance, and self-restraint. Certainly not because he reminded her of a man she’d once fancied herself in love with.
She traced the colour over her lips, then stepped back and capped the tube with a click before checking that her dark curls were still pinned in place. The little clock on her bedside table confirmed what she already knew: it was time to go down. Her father had left with Harriet and Jonathon a bit ago; her stepmother liked to arrive early
and take her time getting seated, not wanting her illness to detract attention from what she termed “more important things.” “I confess,” she’d said coyly earlier that afternoon, another cigarette trapped between two elegant fingers, “I’m very anxious to meet your young man.”
Olive had answered without thinking. “I’m not feeling the slightest bit possessive, so it’s likely nothing will come of it.”
Harriet frowned in confusion. “If you can’t even muster the enthusiasm for the dance, why ever did you agree to go with him?”
Caught out, Olive hurried to shore up the deception, struck by how all-encompassing an arrangement with Captain Aldridge was likely to be. “He’s fine,” she started. “Definitely handsome, but entirely too serious. We’ve too much of that already.” She looked across the room to see Jonathon watching her, his face carefully impassive. Needing a moment alone with her thoughts, she went to the kitchen then and sat distracted over a cup of weak tea as Mrs Battlesby bustled around her, alternating snippets of gossip, nonsensical murmurings, and bits of well-meant advice. Not a single word had sunk in.
Rousing herself from those errant thoughts, she dropped her gaze to the blurred photograph on her dresser. Her mother’s dark hair and round face were familiar, but the skirted uniform, too-large overcoat, and driving goggles perched atop her head seemed to belong to another person entirely. A person who existed a long time ago, in another war, whose legacy she still hoped to live up to.
“You mustn’t ever take no for an answer,” her mother had instructed after Olive had been turned away at the gatehouse of Stratton Park School for Boys. “Meet adversity head-on.” She’d raised an eyebrow then and looked pointedly at her daughter. “And, my dear, you’ll find that adversity is almost always a man. Charm, convince, or outsmart him. Otherwise . . .” She’d shrugged. “He’ll get his way instead of you.” So, she’d trooped back to Brickendonbury, found her illicit way onto the grounds, and bearded the headmaster in his den. A week later, she had become the first—and only—girl to be enrolled at Stratton Park. The smug smile this accomplishment had brought to her mother’s lips was icing on the cake. But that advice was no longer cut and dried, and adversity was once again breathing down her neck. Well, not literally—not yet.
Turning away, Olive twitched the blackout curtain aside to peer through the window, and her eyes lingered on the crescent moon hanging in the night sky, seemingly festooned with cobweb clouds. Below, the countryside was under a blanket of velvet darkness, still and quiet. As she watched, a pale shaft of light took shape along the lane, shifting and wavering as a hulking shadow crawled along behind it. The beam swung round, darting in through the gate, spreading shuttered light over the gravel.
Her heart bucked in strong, nervous beats as she slid her feet into heels, grabbed her cardigan, and hurried down the stairs, hoping she could slip out before Kíli sensed an intruder, abandoned his spot on the study’s Axminster carpet, and tore through the house, barking out dire warnings.
She was past the cherry tree before he’d even climbed out of the car. “Ready,” she called, her eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness as she hurried toward the passenger door. He didn’t answer, and she stopped still, hovering uncertainly, as his silhouette skirted the bumper, rounding the car. It could have been anyone approaching in the dark, even a German soldier. She was pondering whether the heel of her shoe would make an effective weapon when he finally spoke.
“I see that.” The low burr in his voice sent gooseflesh furring over her arms, and she shivered. Captain Aldridge reached around her to open the passenger door, and with a deep breath, she slid into the car.
Neither of them spoke until they were backing out of the drive.
“Why are you in such a tearing hurry?” he asked, the heat of his arm, propped on the seat back behind her, lifting the hairs on her neck.
She shrugged. “It’s not a date. It’s a ruse, and we’re both in on it, so why waste time?” She looked over at him, but other than the line of his profile, the dark gave nothing away.
“I assume that means you’ve decided?”
Olive didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. In truth, she’d thought of little else since the previous afternoon. She’d had a great deal to consider and wanted to be sure that she took all of it into appropriate account.
The offer extended by Captain Aldridge had, in effect, fractured her life into slivers of individual importance, and she’d been trying to fit them back together into some semblance of a whole. She was determined that their pigeons should contribute to the war effort—it was surely what her mother would have wanted. And if Aldridge was to be believed, his offer was their only chance for both service and survival. It would also be an opportunity for her father to make an impact in this war, in an admittedly roundabout way, but she couldn’t discount the importance of that. As desperate as she’d been to step outside the cocoon of this village, to make her mark, and do her bit, making the decision to leave had been heart-wrenchingly difficult. Convincing her father to let her go would likely prove to be even more so. The loss of her mother had devastated him, and now he was similarly helpless against Harriet’s deteriorating condition. Losing her, even for a time, would be a tremendous burden on his heart and mind.
But if she agreed to stay on as pigeoneer, she would be abandoning her carefully considered plans. Having imagined herself an indispensable member of a crack team, doing critical tasks in the face of impending danger, Olive considered training pigeons at home little different than knitting jumpers or raising funds for the Red Cross. The worst that could happen would be a good tongue-lashing from Captain Aldridge, and she had no qualms about her ability to handle that particular consequence. She wanted to be involved, not kept in the dark by a man who put little stock in her abilities. Rather than living up to her mother’s legacy, and proving she was just as competent as a man, she’d be resigning herself to being thoroughly underutilised and unappreciated.
And then there was the inherent deception. She would be expected to carry on with her life, such as it was, while engaged in a top-secret agreement with a government organisation. Her pigeons would be doing the war work, and she’d be left to arrange the cover-up. Her life would be one great fraud, built on lies of all sorts and necessarily lonesome.
With the subtle shifting of the clouds, it seemed as if the moon had been blotted out with a great drop of ink, and the aptness struck her mightily.
Her brain had been a teeter-totter of uncertainty until she’d realised there was really no decision to make. Someone had been confident enough in her abilities to request her assistance. To offer it would wreak havoc on every aspect of her life, and yet how could she refuse? This was for Britain, for soldiers and airmen—for all of them. Training pigeons was such a little thing, a small part of what she was truly capable, but getting her birds into the hands of the men keeping secrets inside Station XVII could be pivotal to the war effort. This, evidently, was her bit. There was only one acceptable answer.
“I’ll do it,” she told him, a bittersweet smile curving her lips, as the car crept silently into the darkened village. The barely discernible silhouette of the hall emerged on their left, its charming windows shrouded into obscurity with blackout cloth.
“You don’t sound particularly pleased,” he said, killing the engine.
What did he expect? In a matter of hours, she had lost her Watson to the RAF and had, rather ironically, been demoted to keeper of the Irregulars. She had every cause to feel the way she did. “Perceptive of you.” That was all he’d get from her on the topic. She deserved a few secrets of her own.
“I suppose your attitude is your own business as long as you get the job done. Speaking of which, a couple of Baker Street agents from Station Fifteen are flying out tonight. We try to schedule the drops during a full moon to give them a fighting chance at finding their way, but this time they’ll have to make do. I’ve got the go-ahead to send a pigeon along as a trial run.”
She w
hipped around and tried to focus on a face that was little more than a murky shape looming beside her. “Tonight?” she demanded in a hissed whisper. She’d had no time to prepare for this.
“Four hours from now,” he confirmed. “Is there a problem?” His clipped tone gave her the answer. He wouldn’t be sympathetic to any she might present.
“I suppose I’m not allowed to go along for the drop-off?”
“No.”
“Naturally.”
“Luckily, you’re my date to the dance, so we’ll get our fill of each other long before that.”
“More than,” she agreed with a forced smile and a sprightly tone as they climbed out of the car. “Is it always going to be like this? No details, no notice?”
“Yes and no. You’ll still be in the dark, but you’ll have a bit more warning.”
“Yes, sir,” she said before stalking stiffly away from him, toward the dance music filtering out into the night. She was painfully aware of a tightness clutching her chest and recognised it as helpless fury. She was to be kept ignorant of relevant details that would otherwise direct the selection and preparation of birds for the long-distance journeys they would undertake amid potentially gruelling conditions.
An idea began to take shape, glowing like a firefly in her mind. Captain Aldridge might be adamant about keeping her in the dark, but he’d hinted that his commanding officer was rather more open-minded. She felt certain she could do her job more effectively if she knew a bit about the intended operations. Brickendonbury was a sprawling estate and had, until recently, been the home of Stratton Park, a preparatory school for boys. Not so long ago, she’d been welcome in those halls—a student herself. Perhaps it was time to meet the latest inhabitants.
Her words drifted to him on a whisper. “You said you weren’t the officer in charge. Who is?”
He was silent a long moment, but as they neared the doors of the hall, he murmured, “What are you up to?”
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 10