“Laid up with a headache, I’m afraid. If she weren’t truly suffering, I would never have agreed to fill in,” she said, leaning forward to take up a pair of tongs, which she used to push the plate of thumbprint biscuits farther down the table. “Thankfully, she’d already made the punch.” A thirsty young couple dashed up at that very moment. As Olive looked on, Violet shrugged languidly off the sill, slopped some punch into two cups, and sent them on their way with a disinterested smile.
“You’re Violet Darling.” Olive caught herself. “Sorry, Hammond. Welcome home. I understand you’ve made rather a success of yourself as an author.”
Miss Violet started at the question, and her lips parted in what looked like shock, but she quickly recovered. “Two out of three,” she said, her lips quirked at the corners, “and never both at the same time.” As Olive was working this out, she added, “In the interest of privacy, as well as professional integrity, I use a nom de plume.”
Olive waited, unconsciously leaning closer as curiosity got the better of her. When nothing more was offered, she tentatively inquired, “And do you ever reveal it?”
A smug little smile had settled on Miss Violet’s lips, while her cigarette, propped on bended elbow, hovered inches away, hazing the air with curls of silver-white smoke.
“If it isn’t the viper in the nest!” Olive started at the strident tones and shocking words and turned to see Miss Husselbee glaring daggers at Violet Darling. She was rather relieved not to have merited a notice. “You may have fooled the rest of them,” the Sergeant Major continued, her nostrils flared indignantly, “but I have found you out.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean, Miss Husselbee. Although Rose did mention you were in fine form yesterday, spouting wild accusations. Presumably, this is more of the same?” Olive now noticed pencil-thin lines creasing the pale skin around Miss Violet’s eyes and mouth, as if Miss Husselbee had cracked into her façade.
“Do not trust a thing this woman tells you,” Miss Husselbee instructed Olive, her fruity tones sounding even more austere than usual. “She is not at all what she seems.” Her lips puckered tightly, but with another look at Olive, she demanded, “Why are you brandishing that serving knife, Miss Bright?”
Miss Violet answered for her. “She’s got cold feet with regard to that cake, and rightly so, in my opinion.”
Miss Husselbee stared down at the unbroken circle of cake, then up at each of them in turn.
“It’s made of Spam,” Miss Violet said, distaste lacing her voice, “and some malicious soul has ‘iced’ it with potatoes.”
“You need a bit of backbone, young lady,” Miss Husselbee said, defying her own warning about trusting Miss Violet. Shooing Olive out of the way, she snatched up the knife. She cut herself a healthy slice, took up her fork as if it were a spear, and proceeded to eat with gusto. Miss Violet watched with raised eyebrows, and Olive, her lips pressed tightly together, was unable to look away.
When all that remained were crumbs, Miss Husselbee dabbed the corners of her lips with a napkin. “Well done indeed and quite what Woolly had in mind.”
Olive narrowly avoided rolling her eyes. Only Verity Husselbee would refer to the Minister of Food, Lord Woolton, by such a name without irony.
“Who did you say was responsible for this delicious creation?”
“I didn’t,” Miss Violet replied almost languorously, “because I haven’t any idea. It was sitting there, pretty as you please, when I showed up to man the punchbowl. I’m hardly to blame if its dubious origins have made it utterly unapproachable.” She eyed Miss Husselbee askance, adding dryly, “Until now, that is.”
Miss Husselbee harrumphed, then set down her plate and fork with a clatter. A feline glitter stole into her eyes. “I daresay your notion of blame is very different from that of the rest of us, but no matter. I will see to it personally that you’re held accountable for your transgressions.” The words crashed down like the knell of doom. At least that was Olive’s impression. Miss Violet seemed to take them in stride. With a final warning glare at Violet Darling, Miss Husselbee stalked away, barrelling through the dancers, sending various couples spinning off in other directions.
Olive stared blankly after her.
“I’d forgotten her dramatics,” Miss Violet said, then drew contentedly on her cigarette as she watched the Sergeant Major’s progress through the room. She glanced at Olive, her lips forming a twisted sort of smile, as she tapped her ash onto the abandoned cake plate. “I can remember catching a beautiful orange butterfly and pinning it to a strip of wood bark to keep in my room. You’d have thought I’d shot one of her precious hounds. She lectured me quite tediously on destructive tendencies, God’s creatures, and frivolousness, of all things.” A sharp laugh escaped her. “I still have that butterfly, although I’ve since had it mounted and put under glass. And I took my own revenge—that beastly woman met a gruesome end in my first published novel. There were many detailed drafts, as I was quite determined that she should suffer, and the whole process was deliciously cathartic.” She smiled then and looked quite normal despite her rather sinister admissions. “I see I shall have to take care now that I’m back under her watchful eye.”
Her laissez-faire attitude was mind-boggling. If it had been Olive accused, she would have chased after the woman, demanding specifics. “You really have no idea what she’s talking about?”
Miss Violet shrugged. “She could have stumbled over any number of little indiscretions in my past, but I hardly see why they’d be of interest now. Besides, I’ve done nothing I regret.” Her eyes looked distant for a moment but quickly refocused. “No doubt this is simply a new tactic to try to weasel me under her thumb. Her efforts didn’t work all those years ago. They won’t work now,” she added grimly.
Olive felt a hand at her elbow as Miss Violet’s eyes sparked suddenly with new interest. She turned to see Captain Aldridge staring down at her, exasperation plain in his eyes. “I thought you were getting punch,” he said tightly.
“I was. I am,” she gabbled, fighting the flicker of irritation that threatened to pull her brows into a frown and urged her to shake her arm free of his grasp.
Miss Violet filled a pair of cups and shot Olive a knowing look. “You better go, darling. He looks better than anything you’ll find on this table.”
There was no stopping Olive’s blush as they accepted their cups of punch and nodded their thanks. Aldridge took her elbow and manoeuvred her away from the table, obviously seeking a private word.
“What took you so long?” he demanded, heat sparking in his eyes, as he cornered her near the kitchen.
“What does it matter? You had a reprieve from the dancing, which you quite obviously were not enjoying.”
“You’re right. Being alternately interrogated by your stepmother and lectured by your father was infinitely preferable. At one point, I was almost coerced into playing the role of Mr Darcy in the village play,” he retorted.
Olive grinned at his sour tone, liking him more for it, and made a mental note to grill Harriet later for any details she might have gleaned. “It wouldn’t have stretched your abilities too significantly,” she said wryly.
He gave her a crushing look, which she ignored, sipping her punch and bobbing her head in time to the music as skirts flared like pinwheels of colour on the dance floor. Her gaze was caught by Winifred Danes, making her determined way toward Harriet, no doubt hoping for a hint at the play’s cast list, which her stepmother intended to post on the village noticeboard the following day. Olive winced; in the absence of willing men, several of the roles had been assigned to women. Miss Danes would be playing George Wickham.
When she spoke, it was without turning her head. “I admit, this cover story cannot possibly justify your future visits to the dovecote. Looking at the pair of us, no one would believe we have romance on our minds.”
There was a muttered curse as he set his still full punch cup down on a nearby table.
&nbs
p; Hers was abruptly wrenched away and deposited beside it. Gripping her now empty hand in his, he began to weave through the crush of bodies, and she could do nothing but follow along. Aldridge pushed open an outside door and, after tugging her through, let it fall closed behind them. The darkness felt smothering after the light, bright hall, and as he drew her around the building and under the shadow of a towering silver birch tree, she worked herself into quite a mood.
“If you’re looking for some privacy to deliver another lecture, we can go back inside. It’s plenty noisy.”
“I’m not, but now you mention it, the idea isn’t without merit.”
Olive crossed her arms over her chest, fed up with the whole evening and irritated that he’d managed to ruin the dance for her. “Carry on, then. It’s clear I’m going to have to get used to these little chats.”
He stepped closer, looming over her in the dark; it was unnerving having him so close, being unable to see his face. Then again, having him close was unnerving enough. “I dragged you out here because when a man is smitten with a girl, he tends to be rather desperate to get her alone.”
His voice dragged a shiver over her skin, and she blinked in the darkness, momentarily disoriented. “Right,” she croaked, her good sense returning with a mortifying swoop. Clearing her throat, she stared down to where her heels were sinking slowly into the dirt. “We’ll just stand out here for a bit and fool them all.”
“Do you have a better idea?” he demanded, his tone mildly exasperated.
Her fingers tingled where she gripped her upper arms, shivering in the cool night air, and for an awful moment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She shrugged. “You could tell me about your scar.”
He was silent for too long, and Olive wondered if she’d pushed him too far. But then, that lilting voice swam out of the dark. “Why do you need to know?”
She sighed. “I just want something.” Dropping her arms, she took a step and promptly tripped over a tree root. It was impossible to see anything, but somehow, he found her arm, catching it before she tumbled to the ground. Despite his hand, she felt suddenly, desperately, as if she was flailing, but she shook free. Her voice rising, she said, “If I’m not to be allowed to join the ATS, not to be allowed to work in a battery, aim the guns, and shoot down the bloody Germans, not to be allowed to talk to anyone, I’d like to feel a bit of camaraderie with the person who may as well be holding me hostage!”
“Olive—” His voice was no louder than a murmur, so he wasn’t to blame when another voice called sharply from the road.
“Who’s back there?”
Aldridge reacted instantly, nudging her backwards until she was propped neatly against the smooth bark of the tree trunk. When he shushed her, ever so quietly, she could barely discern his voice from the shiver of breeze through the leaves above her. Olive’s stomach clenched with worry and guilt. She was too outspoken, too impatient, too loud. She was going to be furious with herself if she’d undermined their tenuous connection.
Footsteps rustled in the grass, and Aldridge propped his hand at her waist, his eyes staring fiercely into hers. Memories of dark corners and roaming hands swept through her. Once he’d found her willing, Liam had taken advantage of every opportunity to get her alone—those sharp-edged moments a fervid reprieve from their days of intense focus and studious behaviour. She took a shallow, gasping breath and braced herself for a kiss—one more layer to the ruse—as he leaned into her. But it was his hand that closed over her mouth. Her heart stumbled in shock, and her pulse pounded a raucous rhythm at her throat. His palm was rough and hot on her cheeks, and her trapped breath a humid reminder that he didn’t trust her.
When the torch flashed on, it showed only as a halo around his head. His eyes hadn’t shifted their focus, and even in shadow, she was close enough to read the warning there. A harassed grunt drifted toward them from somewhere behind him, and the beam swung away, plunging them back into near darkness. “You’d best be gettin’ along now,” came the voice, sounding rather far off.
Neither of them moved, and as the light faded, Olive fought to steady her breathing. He waited until the night resumed its symphony—the tentative chirp of crickets, the silky sound of long grass swaying in the breeze, the low hoot of a faraway owl—before he dropped his hands and shifted the weight of his body away from her.
“Well, that’s settled, then.” Olive’s words came out in a harsh whisper as she disengaged herself from the tree. She smoothed out her skirt, unable to meet his eyes. Her palms felt uncomfortably clammy.
“Settles what?” Aldridge seemed intent on scanning the darkness for other lurkers.
“Assuming one of us was recognised, news of our passionate tryst will shortly be spread throughout the village.”
“Shall we go in now?”
“No,” she said, crossing her arms emphatically and refusing to move. “I want to know about the scar.”
She was being childish, she knew, but she felt utterly shortchanged. George was gone, someone had brought a Spam cake to the dance, Aldridge refused to give a bloody inch, and a kiss had been snatched almost directly from her lips. Not that she’d wanted or expected one—Aldridge was entirely too crusty and condescending to inspire such a desire, to say nothing of the fact that a kiss would have been entirely inappropriate. But she’d been frazzled, worried, and utterly gobsmacked in the past two days. Having his lips slam down on hers for one long moment would have been incredibly freeing. At the very least, it would have given him a taste of her frustration, most of which could be laid squarely at his feet. But the moment had passed—his lips would have likely proven as intractable as his will in any event—so it would have to be the scar.
“We talked about this,” he said, warning in his voice. His silhouette was subtly limned by the barest hint of moonlight; his face, dark. She could imagine his eyes and mouth any way she wished, instead of frowning with disapproval.
“Did we, though? I think not,” she said sweetly. “I think I asked and you refused. That appears to be my lot in this war, at least for the foreseeable future. But tonight, right now, I’m putting my foot down.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re very like your father, Miss Bright.”
“A compliment, Captain Aldridge? You shock me,” she said tartly.
“Fine,” he said, moving closer, crowding her back into the shadows of their birch tree. “But don’t think you can make a habit of this sort of ultimatum. Pigeons or no pigeons, I’ll cut you loose, and the lot of you can fend for yourself.”
She waited, silent, her eyes drifting to the vacant sky, where little wisps of clouds veiled the stars.
“Fifteen October, London was at the mercy of the Blitz. I was working late and got word that Finchley Road had been hit. My sister shared a flat at the end of it with three other girls. They all worked in one of the canteens.” Olive’s heart clutched guiltily, and she suddenly, desperately hoped the story had a happy ending. “A great many buildings had been hit, and I was praying they’d made it to the Anderson shelter. Turns out they had.” He paused a moment, and Olive suddenly didn’t want him to say any more, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop him. “Ironically, their building was unscathed, but the shelter had taken a direct hit, and all four of them were gone.”
Olive sucked in a silent breath, staring wide-eyed at the looming shadow of him. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll have to tell you the rest, or else you won’t be satisfied.”
Tears welled in her eyes, guilt shamed her, but she didn’t speak. She’d pushed him too far, and he’d never stop now.
“I sat down on the curb, even though the sirens were still screaming, and the Luftwaffe was still tearing up the sky. I couldn’t move. And then a parachute bomb drifted down a few roads over, and it was as if the world exploded. I was blown backwards, scraped the side of my face on a broken garden wall. That bomb must have killed at least fifty people, and I came away with a scrape on the jaw. It’ll never be
worth talking about.”
She reached up to swipe at the wetness on her cheeks. “I don’t know what to say, except that I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“Turnabout is fair play,” he replied, his voice betraying not a hint of the grief he must still be feeling. “I know quite a lot about you, Miss Bright. If we’re to be partners of a sort, you deserve to know something about me.” He must have realised she’d have another question ready on her tongue, because he was quick to add, “And now you do,” officially shutting down any further confidences. At least for now.
She nodded, not willing to push her luck, and blinked back the moisture in her eyes.
“Shall we go back to the dance, before your reputation is in tatters?”
“Yes, let’s. And no more resting on your laurels. I’d like to dance. And I’m not leaving without a proper slice of cake.” She wondered if anyone else had been brave enough to taste the Spam cake—or been tricked into it by Violet Darling.
Tuesday, 22 April 1941
Peregrine Hall, Pipley
Hertfordshire
I’m sure I need not say that I do not condone black-market activities as a general rule. If the government and Lord Woolton have decided that certain items should be rationed for the good of the country, then far be it from me to question their intentions.
I also do not condone exceptions for particular individuals—we should all be held to the same standard, if for no other reason than to instill a sense of camaraderie. But when that noble intention is undermined by individual isolation, brought on by a progressively debilitating disease, then an exception should, and must, be made. Whereas the rest of the members of the Pipley WI would willingly walk or cycle to meetings and other village functions, H.B. is bereft of that option. I’m very much afraid she’ll shortly need to rely on crutches or, worse, a wheelchair. I truly hope it doesn’t come to that. And I will defend R.B.—and G.F., as well—to the authorities myself if either should be brought up on charges of using unauthorised petrol coupons for her benefit. I hope I speak for the entire village when I say that we stand ready to do whatever is necessary to assist with each new challenge on this long and difficult road. Even if it makes criminals of us all.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 12