by Sarah Sundin
Wyatt shook his head. If he’d told even a bit of his history, the offer never would have been made. “You don’t understand, sir. I failed in business. After college, a buddy and I started a company. It failed within six months. We lost every penny.”
Mr. Montague’s eyes hooded. “What was the cause of the failure?”
Good, now the offer would be rescinded. “My friend had an idea for a toy, a clever idea. I was concerned because a crucial part was made of rubber, and there was talk of shortages. That was the summer of ’41. Milt had a good supply, but then the government confiscated it for defense, and then came Pearl Harbor. Rubber was the first thing rationed. We went belly-up.”
His host chewed in silence for a minute.
Wyatt gave Dorothy a shrug, but her gaze was warmer than he deserved.
Mr. Montague dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Did your business fail due to your accounting?”
“No, sir. I did everything I could, but we still went bankrupt. When it comes down to it, I made a foolhardy investment.”
Mr. Montague leaned back and folded his hands on his trim belly. “Lieutenant, I don’t want an investor. I want an accountant with fresh eyes. I am willing to give you a chance. In fact, I’m as close to begging as an Englishman dares.”
Wyatt set down his fork, his stomach squirming. “Sir, I’m not comfortable going behind Mr. Fairfax’s back. He—”
“Please, Wyatt.” Dorothy rested her hand on his forearm, her eyebrows twisted. “If we lose the business or if there’s a scandal, Papa—I don’t know if he’d survive.”
Everything inside him went as mushy as the potatoes. Did she already know she was his weakness? How could he let anything happen to Mr. Fairfax? If Dorothy lost him, she might lose her last shred of faith.
Silver clinked on china as Mr. Montague sliced his mutton. “No one is in the office on Sundays. Each week we could spend an hour or two on the books after church and before lunch. I do reserve the right to my Sunday afternoon nap.”
Wyatt couldn’t tear his gaze from those pleading blue eyes, and a plan aligned. “You said you don’t want to go to church alone. How about I go with you, then we go to the office?”
“I . . .” How could those eyes possibly get any wider?
His plan solidified. “You also said your father wants to see me. We could have lunch with him afterward.”
Her hand retreated to her lap. “I don’t know.”
“That’s the deal.” A surge of confidence and victory. He could spend time with Dorothy as a friend and protect her by protecting what she loved most. This was his best opportunity to win her affection. Besides, it was the right thing to do.
Mr. Montague cleared his throat. “It seems a most reasonable deal, Dorothy.”
She glanced at Wyatt, wary yet weakening.
He unfurled a grin. “All or nothing at all.”
Dorothy straightened and lifted her chin. “All right, then. You Americans are a stubborn lot.”
He winked at her. “Where do you think we learned it?”
Color rose in her cheeks, and she turned to Mr. Montague. “What time shall we meet you on Sunday?”
“Ten o’clock at the back entrance.”
Even mutton tasted good now. He had a weekly date with Dorothy Fairfax.
16
London
Sunday, March 12, 1944
So much in the sanctuary had changed—the boarded-up windows where stained glass had once glinted, the swag of canvas covering a bombed-out gap in the ancient stone walls, and the solid presence of an American officer beside her.
Yet so much remained unchanged. Reverend Bernard Young’s face shone as if there were no war, no death, no destruction. And his words from the tenth chapter of the Gospel of St. John, familiar words she’d once found inspiring.
“‘I am the door,’” the rector quoted Christ. “‘By me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.’” Pasture—Dorothy had once found peaceful rest in her faith.
“‘I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.’” She’d once felt the overflowing joy of abundant life.
“‘I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.’” She’d once felt safe and protected in the Lord’s care.
Now the harsh truth of life jerked at her. She was no longer naïve. But if she knew better, why didn’t she feel better? She’d lost that sense of peace and joy and safety.
Wyatt nodded and murmured beside her, his Bible open on his lap. At least he didn’t dance in the aisle and cry “hallelujah” as some did in American cinema.
The rector’s round face glowed, and his arms stretched wide as if to embrace the entire congregation. “Hear the comforting words of our Lord: ‘My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me: And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand. My Father, which gave them me, is greater than all; and no man is able to pluck them out of my Father’s hand.’”
A panicky feeling fluttered inside her, but fleeing the sanctuary would be more conspicuous than arriving after so many years’ absence.
Thank goodness the rector began praying. It would soon be over and she could escape in a dignified manner.
“Our closing hymn . . . number 54.”
Wyatt opened the hymnal and held it for Dorothy.
Savior, like a shepherd lead us, much we need Thy tender care;
In Thy pleasant pastures feed us, for our use Thy folds prepare.
Blessed Jesus, Blessed Jesus, Thou hast bought us, Thine we are;
Blessed Jesus, Blessed Jesus, Thou hast bought us, Thine we are.
We are Thine, do Thou befriend us, be the Guardian of our way;
Keep Thy flock, from sin defend us, seek us when we go astray.
Blessed Jesus, Blessed Jesus, hear, O hear us when we pray;
Blessed Jesus, Blessed Jesus, hear, O hear us when we pray.
Thou hast promised to receive us, poor and sinful tho’ we be;
Thou hast mercy to relieve us, grace to cleanse and pow’r to free.
Blessed Jesus, Blessed Jesus, early let us turn to Thee;
Blessed Jesus, Blessed Jesus, early let us turn to Thee.
After the rector pronounced the benediction, Wyatt gestured for Dorothy to lead the way down the aisle. “That was a right nice sermon.”
Thank goodness she was good at playacting. She steadied her voice. “Yes, it was.”
A few people greeted her in the aisle with some surprise, some inquiries after her father, and some praise for her service—not as beastly as she’d imagined.
The rector beamed at everyone from his post by the door. Despite fewer hairs on his head, he didn’t look any older than the last time she’d seen him. Yet she knew him to be Papa’s age. He brightened even more when Dorothy approached, and he gripped her hand with both of his. “Oh, my Dorothy. It does my heart good to see you.”
No mention of her absence, but the intensity of his grip said it hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Thank you, Mr. Young. I’m glad to see you too.”
How could he have so much light in those eyes? Eyes that shifted to the man beside her.
“May I introduce Lt. Wyatt Paxton of the United States Navy?”
The rector freed one hand to grip Wyatt’s. “I do hope your stay in London has been pleasant.”
“Very much so, sir.” Wyatt shook the man’s hand. “I really enjoyed your sermon today. In dark times like these, it’s comforting to know we’re safe in Jesus’s hands. The Nazis may pluck away this earthly life, but no one can touch our souls.”
“So true, young man. Dorothy has chosen well.”
She choked back a gasp.
Wyatt simply chuckled. “Sorry for the confusion, sir. She’s dating someone else.”
His gaze bounced between the two of them. Then he gazed heavenward and shrugged. “Young people.”
; Dorothy smiled, relieved that rumors might be prevented.
The rector squeezed her fingers. “Go in peace, and may the Lord’s hand be upon you.”
The squeezing spread to her chest, and she could only nod her good-bye. She trotted down the steps, her heart slamming around in its tight confines. The last thing she wanted was the Lord’s hand upon her.
Wyatt caught up to her on the pavement. “How do we get to Fairfax & Sons?”
“Bus.” The word snagged in her throat.
He glanced up to the dreary gray sky. “Speaking of Eaton, did you go out this weekend?”
“No.” She pulled in a breath to compose herself. “Although he did ask.” For the second week in a row, she’d been compelled to refuse.
“I don’t understand.”
Dorothy crossed the road. “Did you hear what happened to Helen Woolford?”
“Who?” He made a face. “Sorry. I’m no good with names.”
“She’s a Wren in intelligence. She stepped out with Lawrence, so First Officer Bliss-Baldwin transferred her.” At the bus stop, Dorothy pulled herself tall.
Wyatt’s eyebrows rose. “He’s dating other women?”
Dorothy’s cheeks burned. “It isn’t against the law. He hasn’t settled down yet.”
“Sure. But still . . .” He glanced down the street, but the wrong way. “Why ask a girl out unless you really like her? And if you really like her, why go out with others?”
He made it sound so simple. If only it could be so.
Wyatt turned back with a frown. “So this Wren broke a rule by dating him?”
“No.” Dorothy scanned for the bus in the proper direction. “But Bliss—she stepped out with Lawrence too, and she wants him to herself.”
Wyatt whistled, another strange American habit. “Never knew there was so much intrigue at Norfolk House.”
Dorothy winced from the unpleasantness of being trapped in a love polygon. “Do you see my quandary? If Bliss finds out I care for Lawrence—if we’re seen together—she could transfer me as well.”
“You can’t leave your dad.” His voice softened. “I’m sure Eaton understands.”
Where was that bus? Dorothy fiddled with her handbag strap. “He thinks I’m being rather cautious. He likes my sense of daring, but oh dear. I can’t.”
Wyatt was mercifully quiet for a long moment. “If he cares about you, he’ll listen to your concerns. He’d want to protect you, and he’d never do anything to endanger you.”
There was such simplicity and security in his words, his voice, his expression. Appealing, and yet . . . how could Lawrence come to care about her unless she stepped out with him? Unless he saw she’d become the woman he wanted?
The rumble of a motor caught her attention. A red double-deck bus lumbered toward them, and Dorothy opened her handbag for her coins.
Why had she agreed to Lawrence’s plan to curry Blissy’s favor? If he hadn’t turned the woman’s head his way, Dorothy might be able to see him freely. But then her commanding officer might never have let up her annoying campaign for her girls to tour the Empire.
“Um . . . ?” Wyatt stared at copper and silver coins in his hand.
“Here.” Dorothy picked out the correct change for him, then boarded the bus. She handed the driver her coins, and the woman gave her a ticket. Then Dorothy climbed the steep spiral stairs to the second deck.
Wyatt followed. “I don’t know how much good I’ll do with those books if I can’t figure out your money.”
“It’s quite simple.” She sat on the wooden seat. “Twelve pence in a shilling, two shillings in a half crown, twenty shillings in a pound.”
“Not as simple as the decimal system. Hundred cents in a dollar.”
“Yet another rebellion against tradition.”
A smile rose on the rebel’s face as he joined her on the bench.
The bus trundled down the road.
“I’m surprised you like the upper level,” Wyatt said. “You said you were afraid of flying. I assumed that meant you were afraid of heights.”
Dorothy searched her memories. Oh yes. When they were dancing. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“It struck me. I’d pegged you as the fearless daredevil, climbing statues and seawalls.”
She relished the sway of the bus and the downward view on the street, just the right amount of excitement. “My fearlessness has limits.”
“Glad to hear. There’s fearless, then there’s foolhardy.”
She smiled. “True.”
He nudged her with his elbow. “But hey, you overcame one fear today. You went to church and survived.”
“Shocking, since the hand of the Lord is upon me.” She mimicked the rector’s tones, but with a sarcastic edge.
“What do you mean?”
Down below, an older couple picked through the rubble of their home, while ARP wardens assisted. “The hand of the Lord only slaps me around. I prefer to stay out of slapping range.”
Wyatt chuckled.
Stunned, she faced him.
Crinkles fanned out around his eyes. “Don’t you know he’s everywhere? You can’t get out of his reach, and that’s good. You heard the preacher—if you belong to Jesus, nothing can pluck you from his hand.”
Her throat tightened. “Then my mother and brothers must not have belonged to him.”
One shoulder rose. “That doesn’t mean you’ll never die. Of course not. We all die, but we’re never away from God’s care. Wait . . . yes. Psalm 139.” He opened his Bible.
Dorothy squirmed. Hadn’t she had enough Scripture for the day?
“Wow. This is perfect.” Wyatt grinned and handed her the Bible. “Read this out loud. I want you to see it and hear it for yourself. Start at verse 5, but it’s all good, of course.”
She hesitated, then obeyed in a low voice. “‘Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it. Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.’”
“Do you see? Isn’t it incredible?” Wyatt’s voice shook with excitement. “No matter what—when life feels as light as the morning or as dark as the depths of the sea, he’s there. His hand leads us and holds us.”
The words prickled and poked and rearranged things inside her, a most unsettling feeling, but it didn’t unsettle Wyatt. It energized him. “You never—you never turned away.”
He shifted on the bus seat. “Didn’t want to. He was all I had. In a few short hours, I’d lost everything—my family, my home, my self-respect. All I had was stolen money and the Lord.”
He’d even lost the money. But not his faith. “How? How did you not lose faith?”
“I clung to it.” He took back his Bible and caressed the black leather. “Like the Prodigal, I looked at myself and hated what I saw. I’d never really thought of myself as a sinner. Sure, I’d sinned, but sinners—those were the other fellows. But then I knew I was a sinner and always had been. I needed Jesus. I clung to him, and I’ve never let go.”
On the street corner below, a lady sold flowers in every hue. Some clung to hope, and Dorothy—she’d flung it away.
“Even now.” Wyatt’s voice deepened, and he cleared his throat.
“Hmm?”
He faced forward, and his Adam’s apple slid from the knot of his tie to his strong chin and back again. “I don’t know what the next few months hold. The war, my family. My letter—it’s got to be in Texas by now. I don’t know if I’ll be welcomed home or rejected forever. But I do know the Lord will get me through.”
“I—I’m glad.”
Then he faced her, his eyes earnest yet filled with that baffling light. “Don’t you see? He doesn’t make the hard things i
n life go away, but he gets you through if you lean on him.”
“If you lean on him . . . ,” she whispered. “And I leaned away.”
“You don’t have to anymore. And when you lean, the Lord won’t give way.” Speaking of leaning, Wyatt pressed his shoulder to hers. “He’s a solid rock.”
So was Wyatt’s shoulder. Solid and warm and strong.
The familiar sign of Fairfax & Sons rescued her. “Here’s our stop.” She sprang to her feet and practically pushed Wyatt into the aisle. “Come along, Lieutenant. At the double.”
“Careful now.” He let her lead the way. “We move a mite slower in Texas.”
She trotted down the stairs. “Perhaps you learn a mite slower too. Repeat after me, ‘Twelve pence in a shilling, two shillings in a half crown, twenty shillings in a pound.’”
Wyatt didn’t repeat after her, but he stepped off the bus with a long, slow stride and a long, slow smile.
For some reason, the only thing she could think about was a long, slow kiss.
She turned on her heel and marched to the back entrance. She simply had to stop making deals.
17
Western Naval Task Force Headquarters
19 Grosvenor Square, London
Monday, March 13, 1944
The yeoman took the handwritten pages from Wyatt. “It’ll be about fifteen minutes, sir.”
He wasn’t scheduled to meet with Commander Marino for half an hour. “Very well. I’ll wait.”
The yeoman retreated into the office. In the background, typewriters filled the air with clicks and clacks.
Wyatt leaned back against the counter. If only he had his book. He was reading David Copperfield again. Not only was it fun to read Dickens in London, but he was studying Uriah Heep, the villain who defrauded his employer.
Perhaps he could gain insight into the embezzler at Fairfax & Sons. Yesterday, he’d spent two hours going over the books with Mr. Montague. A fiasco. How could he find an embezzler when he couldn’t even count bus change?