by Sarah Sundin
The Wren rested her hip against the table, one arm draped along the edge, her eyes hooded like some model in a magazine. If Wyatt didn’t know better, he’d swear that woman was Second Officer Fairfax’s twin. “And how are you?”
“Better now that I’ve seen you. I never dreamed you’d grow up to be such a lovely woman.”
So they’d known each other a while. Wyatt drew up behind the pack of officers by the door but didn’t see a way in.
“Is that so?” Second Officer Fairfax drawled. “I never dreamed you’d grow up to be such a shameless flatterer.”
Eaton gave a wry chuckle. “I believe in giving credit where credit is due.”
He had the confidence and charm women liked. So did Adler. Oralee preferred it, and from the way the Wren leaned closer to Eaton, she preferred it too.
In the clump of brass in front of him, Geier said something, and the admirals chuckled.
A familiar tangle formed in Wyatt’s stomach, and he fought to loosen it. That road only led to destruction.
3
Kensington, London
Friday, January 21, 1944
“They have plenty of Weetabix this week. Would your grandmother like some?” Dorothy plucked two boxes of the cereal biscuits from the grocery shelf.
“Yes, thank you.” Johanna Katin looked up with large brown eyes. “Thank you so much.”
Dorothy clucked her tongue at her friend. “You mustn’t thank me every single week. Papa and I are the only two people in Britain who don’t consume all our rations. I’m happy to share, especially with your grandmother in poor health.”
“Tha—” Johanna gave her darling slow smile and picked up a jar of mustard. “Ah, Senf. We haven’t had any in weeks.”
An elderly lady gasped and glared at Johanna.
Dorothy took her friend’s arm and guided her to the next aisle. “How rude.”
“I am used to it.” Johanna settled the mustard in her basket, her black curls tumbling over her downcast face.
Heat simmered in Dorothy’s chest. Johanna had been persecuted in Germany because she was Jewish, but her German accent drew suspicion in London. How terribly unfair.
“Let’s see what other goodies we can find.” She kept her voice cheery.
When Johanna had started working as a secretary at Fairfax & Sons in 1941, mutual grief had drawn Dorothy and Johanna to each other.
In 1935, Johanna’s parents had sent her to London to live with her grandmother, but not one other Katin had joined them. Johanna hadn’t heard a word in years and feared the worst, for good reason. The reports coming out of Nazi territory were horrific.
A grocer approached the counter with a tray.
“Eggs!” Dorothy was first in line. “I’ll take two, please. And two for my friend. Do you have your book, Johanna?”
“Yes.” She dug in her handbag.
Dorothy tucked the treasures into her basket. “Eggs are excellent for your grandmother’s constitution, and Papa shall have poached eggs two mornings in a row.”
“How is he?”
“The same.” Dorothy trailed a finger down an empty shelf. “He’s still losing weight, and he only went to the office twice this week. I can’t imagine how the company is faring in his absence.”
“Not well.”
“Pardon?” Dorothy spun to her friend. “Not well? In what way?”
Johanna glanced away, her lips twisting. “It is only a rumor. Some say we are losing money although business is good. Very good.”
“Oh dear.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. If Papa’s business failed, it would kill him.
“Do not worry.” Johanna squeezed Dorothy’s forearm. “Mr. Montague is a good man.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“Now, tell me, how is your Lawrence?”
“Hush. He isn’t mine. But yes, he’s as divine as I remember. And I know precisely what he likes in a woman.”
“Because you spied on him, yes?”
“Eavesdropping, not spying. He likes a woman who is composed, urbane, droll—and that is the woman I’ve become.”
Johanna didn’t laugh, but her eyes . . .
Dorothy huffed. “All right, but I’m more like that than before, and when I’m with Lawrence I become that woman completely.” It was the most glorious feeling.
“You did say you enjoyed playacting in school.” Her voice lilted.
“I did, and I was rather good at it, I do say. My Desdemona brought the audience to tears.” She flung back her head in a fake swoon, her wrist to her forehead.
“Composed . . . ?”
Dorothy laughed. “Oh, you.”
After they paid the grocer and he stamped the ration books, they went out to the darkened street and said good-bye.
Dorothy shone her torch on the pavement, practicing her debonair ways. A long pace, chin high, eyelids low. The new Dorothy Fairfax thought carefully, spoke slowly, and was never excitable or impulsive.
She turned the corner, and a gentleman approached on the wrong side of the pavement. Dorothy dodged, caught her heel on a flagstone, and lost her balance.
“Careful.” The man grabbed her arm.
Dorothy caught her breath. Thank goodness she hadn’t fallen and broken the eggs.
“Sorry, miss. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” An American voice, like a cowboy in one of those Western films from Hollywood. A somewhat familiar voice.
She angled the torch toward his chest. He wore an American naval officer’s uniform with two gold sleeve stripes for a lieutenant.
“Miss Fairfax? Second Officer Fairfax, I mean.”
That shy officer with the soft gray-blue eyes and the startling scar across his cheek. “Lieutenant Paxton? What are you doing in Kensington?”
“Supposed to meet my buddies at a restaurant. They said I’d see it as soon as I stepped off the subway—I mean, the Underground. But I didn’t. Reckon I’m lost.”
“Did they say Kensington, South Kensington, or West Kensington?”
Silence, then a low chuckle. “Shucks. This is what happens when you set a country mouse loose in the city. Guess I’ll head back to quarters. But wait—you’ve got your hands full. Let me help you.”
If Papa didn’t want Lawrence in the house, he certainly wouldn’t want a stranger. But she could take the basket at the door. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“You’re welcome.” He took the basket, leaving her with the torch. “I’m surprised they put you ladies up out here.”
“Oh, I’m not billeted in the Wrennery. I live at home.”
“Thought I spoke English, but I reckon I’m wrong. Wrennery—that’s cute.” Another chuckle. The Americans were always smiling and laughing.
Dorothy turned onto her street. “Is this your first time in London?”
“Yes, ma’am. Before 1941, I’d never left Texas. I’ve wanted to see London since the first time I read Dickens.”
She sifted through the accent for the words. “There are many wonderful things to see, but I’m afraid most of the museum exhibits were moved to the country during the Blitz.”
Lieutenant Paxton gazed at a gaping hole where homes had once stood. “Can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
“We muddled through.” She didn’t miss the whine of the air raid siren, the roar of engines overhead, the searchlights slicing the night, the whistling bombs, the explosions, the shaking earth, the fires, the smoke.
The screams.
The ash-lined craters where mothers had once sipped tea.
Up with the chin. “We were glad when it ended. They send occasional nuisance raids, but they’ve learned their lesson.”
Dorothy climbed the steps to her house and opened the door. She didn’t call for Papa as usual but took the basket from Lieutenant Paxton. “Thank you for your help.”
Something furry brushed past her ankle. “Charlie!”
“Well, hello there.” Lieutenant Paxton stepped into the foyer and squatted. Charlie leaped at him, his
little pink tongue darting and licking.
“Charlie, your manners. I do apologize. He’s usually standoffish with visitors.”
“I don’t mind, ma’am.” He ruffled Charlie’s black fur. “Charlie’s your name?”
“Bonnie Prince Charlie is his full name. He was my mother’s dog. She loved Scotland and everything Scottish.”
Lieutenant Paxton looked up, his square face quizzical and solemn.
Dorothy shouldn’t have used the past tense. “She was killed in the Blitz.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The compassion in his expression was deep and knowing, as with Johanna.
Tightness spread in her jaw, but she refused to let it quiver.
He stood, cradling the wiggling dog in his arms, and glanced to the table where her father displayed portraits of her brothers in uniform, but not of Dorothy in uniform. “Your brothers?” The hesitation in his voice said he already knew.
“Arthur was on the HMS Glorious when the Germans sank her, and Gilbert was on the Hood.”
Lieutenant Paxton’s shoulders slumped. Over a thousand sailors and officers had perished on each ship.
“I thought I heard voices.”
Dorothy spun around. Papa stood at the top of the stairs outside his study, wearing a cardigan jumper and a frown. Oh bother. “Hallo, Papa. May I introduce Lieutenant Paxton? I met him at headquarters. He helped me with my parcels. Lieutenant, this is my father, Reginald Fairfax.”
“How do you do, Mr. Fairfax?” Lieutenant Paxton tucked Charlie under one arm and shook hands with Papa after he made his way down the stairs.
“A Yankee.”
No one would give Papa an award for hospitality. “Papa.”
But Lieutenant Paxton chuckled. “Most of us Texans don’t take kindly to being called Yankees. We prefer to be called rebels.”
“As far as I’m concerned, all Americans are rebels.”
“Yes, sir. We are. To make it worse, we’re proud of it.”
Dorothy held her breath.
Papa’s frown shifted and reformed into something unfamiliar. Almost . . . a smile? “Honesty is a fine trait in a man. You’ll be joining us for dinner, Lieutenant, will you not?”
She stifled a gasp.
“Thank you, sir.” Lieutenant Paxton shot her an alarmed look. “But I just ran into your daughter, helped her, don’t mean to impose.”
“Nonsense. Dorothy, inform Mrs. Bromley—”
“I couldn’t, sir.” The lieutenant settled Charlie onto the floor. “I know rationing is tight and—”
“Balderdash. The Ministry of Food has too much power, but they cannot forbid me to entertain a guest. Dorothy?”
The alarm hadn’t faded from the American’s face, but Papa had insisted. She offered a polite smile. “Please stay.”
“All—all right, then. Thank you, ma’am. Thank you, sir.”
Papa gestured to the drawing room, and Lieutenant Paxton followed.
Dorothy marched to the kitchen with her groceries. Papa couldn’t invite a family friend to dine, but he invited a stranger?
And how on earth would she and Mrs. Bromley expand the dinner to feed one more mouth?
She groaned and thrust open the kitchen door. This was not how she wanted to spend her evening.
4
Mrs. Bromley set a plate in front of Wyatt with a bigger portion of pie than on the family plates. He didn’t dare protest. Better to consume more than his fair share than to insult a man’s ability to provide. He smiled up at the white-haired lady. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
She nodded and retreated to the kitchen.
Dim lamplight shone off the polished tabletop and china, and Wyatt studied his plate. Looked kind of like potpie.
“Lord Woolton pie, Lieutenant,” Second Officer Fairfax said. “Lord Woolton was Churchill’s first Minister of Food. The Savoy Hotel introduced the recipe and named it after him. None of the ingredients are rationed.”
“Great.” He forked some into his mouth. Potatoes, carrots, bland gravy. Could use some green chiles, but better than most of the food he’d had in England. “Very good.”
Charlie bumped Wyatt’s ankle. Maybe he’d sneak the little guy a bite. How many turnips had he dropped to Scruffy as a boy?
“How is your pie, Papa?” She pronounced her father’s name with the emphasis on the second syllable—puh-PAW. Sounded classy with her British accent.
Mr. Fairfax glanced at his untouched plate, then took a bite.
Wyatt searched his brain for conversational topics—not his strength. “So what do you do, Mr. Fairfax?”
“Do?”
“He’s asking about your business,” Second Officer Fairfax said. “The carrots are nice and firm, the way you like them.”
He took another bite without looking at his daughter. “What I do is run Fairfax & Sons. The company coordinates railway shipping for small manufacturers. We have offices in London and Edinburgh.”
“Swell.” Right up his alley. “I majored in business at the University of Texas.”
Mr. Fairfax’s eyes were the same blue as his daughter’s but lacked their brightness. “Business at university? How unusual.”
“It’s practical. Accounting is what I like best. Working figures.”
“It is rather practical.” His face had a thin, sallow look, and he only seemed to eat when his daughter prompted him. Indeed, the redhead eyed her dad’s plate with concern.
Maybe he could help. “Mighty good crust. Real hearty.”
“Yes, it is. Mrs. Bromley has a nice hand with pastry.” Mr. Fairfax took another bite.
Wyatt dropped the young lady a conspiratorial wink.
Her eyes widened, then one corner of her mouth flicked up. Mr. Fairfax never seemed to look at her, but if Wyatt had such a pretty, lively face in his home, he’d never stop looking.
“Why business, Lieutenant? Your family?” Interest sparked in his host’s eyes.
Wyatt’s neck stiffened, but the truth would come out eventually. “If we’re going to talk about my life, y’all had better call me Wyatt.”
They stared at him. Then the daughter cleared her throat. “White? Is that a nickname?”
He laughed. “Texas drawl. My name’s Wy-att. And yours?”
She hesitated. “Dorothy.”
“Dorothy. That’s a fine name.” He sampled his pie and smiled at Mr. Fairfax. “And this is fine gravy.”
It worked. His host took a bite.
Time to wade into the swamp of his life. “I studied business because I’m the oldest son, and my dad expected me to take his place someday. He runs a trucking company, ships freight all over Texas. Similar to your company in many ways, I reckon.”
“The oldest. Do you have other brothers?” Strange he didn’t ask about sisters.
“Yes, sir. Two brothers, no sisters.” His stomach constricted around his meal.
“Are your brothers Navy men as well?”
One more bite. He’d probably get kicked out soon. “I doubt it, sir. Adler will be needed in the business with me gone. It’s vital to the war effort, so he should be exempt from the draft. And Clay should be studying medicine, so they won’t draft him either.”
“Should be?” Dorothy asked. “You don’t know what your brothers are doing?”
“No, ma’am.” His gaze fell away. “I haven’t been home since ’41, haven’t been in contact.”
“Why . . . why not?”
He forced himself to look at her, at her father. “It isn’t a pretty story. Adler’s fiancée died in a fall. It was an accident, but he blamed me and tried to kill me.”
“Oh my goodness.” Dorothy’s face went white.
“I fled for my life.” Wyatt’s fingers coiled around his silverware. “First I drove home to tell my parents what happened. They agreed I should leave town for a few days, but after they left to fetch the doctor, I realized I didn’t have any cash. I panicked. Clay had just withdrawn his college money from the savings and loan to dep
osit in a bank in Austin, and I stole it, all two thousand dollars. Worst thing I’ve ever done.”
The silence accused him and his stomach shriveled, but he couldn’t stop now. “I meant to pay him back as soon as I got settled in Charleston, but I let a friend talk me into starting a business. Thought I could double Clay’s money in no time, but I didn’t. We lost everything. That’s when I joined the Navy.”
The Fairfaxes stared at their plates, faces drawn.
“I save every penny I can. I’ve paid off our creditors, and I’ll have Clay’s money by summertime. But that doesn’t erase what I did. I was wrong. I’m the Prodigal Son who squandered everything. Worse—I didn’t squander my money but my brother’s. That’s why I can’t go home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
Mr. Fairfax didn’t look up, but Dorothy did, her eyes watery with undeserved compassion.
Even though Wyatt hadn’t eaten half his dinner, it was time to leave. “Well, Mr. Fairfax, when you said honesty was a fine trait, I doubt this is what you had in mind.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Wyatt folded his napkin and set it on the table. “Thank you for your hospitality. Please give my compliments to Mrs. Brom—”
“I didn’t ask you to leave.” Mr. Fairfax’s watery gaze mimicked his daughter’s. “When I said I admired honesty, son, I meant it.”
A feminine gasp—from the statement or from the word son?
Wyatt swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir, but it’s best—”
“It’s best for you to finish your dinner.” Mr. Fairfax sliced into his pie. “It takes courage for a man to admit his mistakes. It takes courage, humility, and honesty, and I admire those traits.”
He deserved praise even less than compassion, but Mama always said turning down a compliment insulted the giver. “Thank you, sir.” His voice sounded too throaty, and he coughed to clear it.
“You’ve lost a lot,” Dorothy said in a tiny voice, her expression reaching, questioning.
The weight of mutual pain squeezed his chest. “The Lord pulled me through, holds me up every single day.”
Dorothy jerked up her head and frowned at the ceiling. “Oh no.”
Maybe he ought to leave after all.
Then a sound entered his ears, a low moan, climbing in pitch and intensity. “Is that—is that an air raid siren?”