by Rue Allyn
Another blast. Much closer. The roof tiles on the houses just opposite the Tube station cascaded like dominoes into the street. They seemed to fall onto the pavement in silence. Their sound could not compete with the deafening bombs.
Katie gripped her belly and gave a moan. She looked at poor, terrified Joan and tried to yell, “Go!” but she wasn’t sure if she’d managed to utter a sound.
Joan took one last, guilty look at Katie and ran down the steps into the shelter.
The building across the road began to crumble away before Katie’s eyes. The bricks came tumbling down — again effortlessly, silently — as the whole front wall peeled away and toppled to the ground.
“Now and at the hour of our death … ” she said softly, but she couldn’t hear the words.
Then Katie felt a man’s arm around her, and she was lifted up and carried down the steps at the same moment a river of bricks rolled toward the entrance to the underground station. Katie buried her face against the gray cloth of his RAF jacket and refused to admit that she was lucky to be alive. She didn’t feel lucky at all.
He carried her down to the shelter, where the crowd quickly surrounded Katie, some from concern, others for the distraction. It wasn’t every day a girl went into labor in the middle of an air raid.
A woman leaned forward and spoke to Katie. “What a time to choose, luv!”
“I didn’t choose. It was Hitler,” Katie said.
No pain relief, no bed, no hot water, and no doctor. Not a good way to bring a little person into the world, and Katie desperately wished she could have done better. Even if the child should never have been born, it deserved far better than this.
“Where shall I put her?” the man in the RAF uniform asked.
“Over here,” a woman called out, “I’ve had six of me own. I’ll do what I can for her.”
As the man laid her down gently on a blanket, Katie looked up and saw his face for the first time. A hero’s face, lean and young. Concerned blue eyes, gazing down at her. He wore the peaked gray cap of an officer. Leagues above me, she thought, and yet he stopped to help. Her fingers touched the wings emblem on his jacket.
“You’re a pilot?”
“Yes,” he said, with a devastating smile. “Fighters,” he added, with a note of pride. She was still cradled in his arms when the next contraction came. She moaned and gave herself up to the pain. When it passed, she realized how tightly she gripped his hand.
He gazed down at her, eyes full of compassion. “Brave girl,” he said, in a voice that spoke of public schools and old money.
Katie sighed. She didn’t feel brave.
“I’m afraid I have to leave you now,” he said, apologetically. “I’m on a forty-eight hour pass, and I reckon I’m up to about forty-nine already!”
The woman next to Katie laughed. “You ain’t going nowhere tonight, handsome. Not now. The way out’s blocked. They’ll have to dig us out in the morning.”
The young pilot looked up. “I’d like to stay, but duty calls.” He looked down at Katie one last time and squeezed her hand. “Good luck,” he said, instead of goodbye.
He moved to the edge of the platform, and in one athletic leap, vaulted down onto the tracks to the astonishment and disapproval of about two hundred Londoners. He ran across the railway line and leaped up onto the other side. There he ran up the steps, two at a time, and disappeared in the direction of the exit.
The woman shrugged and turned back to Katie.
“Where you from, luv?”
“County Clare.”
“Should’ve stayed there. Much more peaceful.”
Katie’s face contorted, and someone wiped her brow with a damp rag — another woman with a kinder face. “Nearly over now. Soon be done.”
“Too soon,” Katie said, fretting about the outcome. If only she hadn’t run when the siren sounded. If only she’d been more careful. Months ago, she should have been more careful. Or he should. Tom, back in Ireland. She should have known better. She swore she’d never look at a man again, not like that — it only led to pain and heartache like this. She gave a long, desperate howl.
“Hush, luv. Can’t be helped.”
Chapter One
March 1941
The trained steamed in to the station, and Katie alighted at the tiny platform in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. She was thankful to have left London. It made it easier to forget.
The train pulled out of the station, and once the hiss, steam and smoke had subsided, it was very quiet. Katie was entirely alone for a few minutes, until an enormous woman in a dark blue uniform appeared from the back of the tiny ticket office.
The woman stuck out a hand for Katie to shake. “Marjory Mallory,” she said in a hearty voice, “of the WRVS.”
Here was a flagship for the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service if ever there was one, thought Katie, and smiled. “Katie Rafferty, of nowhere in particular.”
“I’ll take you up to his lordship’s house,” Mrs. Mallory said, sounding important and authoritative. “We must walk, to save petrol and be patriotic.”
At first, they walked along in silence. Katie was glad that Mrs. Mallory didn’t require her to talk, as she preferred the quiet rhythm of their footsteps on the country lane. Every step was taking her further away from London, and that was all that mattered. For now.
It was cold, Katie’s suitcase was heavy, and there was no sign of a house up ahead, only a deep-cut lane shadowed by trees. It was wet underfoot and her shoes weren’t keeping the water out. Katie wasn’t sure it was patriotic to wear out such a lot of shoe leather, but she was in no position to argue — she was relying on Mrs. Mallory to find her a safe place to spend the rest of the war. Safe and warm, would be lovely, but Katie knew that posh houses weren’t very cozy, generally speaking, so she wasn’t getting her hopes up.
It had sounded like a good offer, when she got the letter. She was to look after four children, evacuees from London, in a lovely old house owned by a lord, no less. It would be easy work, the letter assured her, and it was situated in the depths of the countryside in Hertfordshire, so it would be much safer than being in a big city that might be bombed at any moment.
“You like children?” Mrs. Mallory asked, gently. Breaking the silence.
Katie nodded. She loved children, and being the oldest of a rowdy family of ten this was a love born of experience, not just a notion.
The older woman took that as her cue to tell Katie more about her new place, and how lucky she was to have found it. But the more Mrs. Mallory told her, the more worried Katie became. She went pale when she heard that the children wouldn’t be arriving until Friday.
“He doesn’t live alone, does he?” Katie said in alarm.
“He has a housekeeper, dear, but she doesn’t live in.”
“But … I’m living in, and I’m to stay there, tonight, with him?” As soon as the words were out, Katie knew that she’d sounded like a silly Irish girl, afraid to spend the night under the same roof as a man she didn’t know and wasn’t sure if she could trust.
“Michael is a gentleman,” Mrs. Mallory said, in her deep, plummy voice. She gave a short, sad sigh. “He was such a nice boy — before the war.”
Katie stopped for a moment, setting the suitcase down. The handle was cutting into her hand, hurting her. “Sorry,” she murmured apologetically.
“Let me,” Mrs. Mallory insisted. “You’ve been struggling with that for nearly a mile. I’ll take it the rest of the way.” She grabbed the case in her strong right hand and set off at a fast clip.
Katie tried to protest. Mrs. Mallory was definitely a member of what some people called “the better sort.” It didn’t seem right for her to be carrying the suitcase. Katie would rather have carried it until her fingers bled than endure the embarrassment of seeming like a girl who didn’t know her place. Still, Mrs. Mallory insisted.
“Not far now. No need to be a martyr!”
Katie smiled weakly. Sometimes, when
the tanks roll in, you just had to stand back and watch.
“There are one or two things you’ve got to understand about Michael, my dear.” Mrs. Mallory paused, as if she didn’t know how to broach the next bit. “You see, poor Michael — I refuse to call him Lord Farrenden; I’ve known him since he was a little boy and he’s only twenty-six now. Anyway, Michael was flying sorties and participating in dogfights — he was a wonderful pilot, by all accounts — when his plane caught fire and … ”
“Oh, ma’am, is he terribly disfigured?” Katie was getting more and more frightened, imagining the worst. Her new employer was a man living alone, which was bad enough. Now, in her mind’s eye, he was some kind of gargoyle, a fearsome sight, ranting incoherently and roaming the corridors of his posh house. On the lookout for young Irish girls, no doubt.
Mrs. Mallory actually laughed at that. “No! He bailed out. He was injured, though, and he won’t fly again. He’s bitter. War does that to people. I’m old enough to have seen it all before, but that would have been before you were born. I should think you’re a bit too young to understand.”
At nineteen, Katie certainly didn’t feel young after everything that had happened to her during the last year, but she bit her tongue. Older people always thought they knew it all already. Or else they must have forgotten all the pain involved in being young, or they wouldn’t hate young people so much for something that they couldn’t do anything about. That was Katie’s theory, anyway.
“He can’t go on rattling around in his empty house mourning the dead,” said Mrs. Mallory, “when we’ve got a trainload of youngsters to find places for by Friday. Everyone else in the village has been approached. Michael can’t pull rank and refuse to help when he has so much and the rest of us have so little. I went in there and had a stern talk with him last week. He only agreed to it when I said I’d find him a girl to help out. He’s only got Mrs. Jessop, now. She comes in to do a bit of cooking and cleaning for him, but she’s nearly seventy if she’s a day. You’ll need to pitch in with the work.”
Katie nodded. She didn’t mind hard work at all, as long as there was a warm kitchen, regular meals and a safe place to sleep at night.
“How do you get on with boys, Katie?”
“I … I beg your pardon?” Katie knew she had begun to blush.
“Boys. Farrenden Manor seemed the ideal place to send boys. So I’m afraid you’re getting a small horde of them. I thought they could run about on the lawn or work off their energy in the woods. There’s good fishing in that river, as long as they’ve got some supervision, or swimming in the lake if the war isn’t over by next summer.”
“That sort of boys, ma’am. No problem at all,” Katie said.
“Excellent. Excellent,” Mrs. Mallory said. “But don’t take any nonsense from them, dear. I’ve had the village hall full of these kids before, and some of them were right little devils. I had to find billets for them all, so I know exactly what to expect. This lot are Londoners, too, so you’ll have to keep a close eye on them.”
Katie nodded.
Finally and suddenly, the house, grand and imposing, stood in the clearing in front of the two travelers. It was breathtaking, a lovely place made of pale gray stone. It was an elegant building with tall windows. Three stories high, with a huge double door, approached by an imposing set of stone steps.
“Oh, but it’s beautiful!” Katie said, indulging in a good long look. “Imagine me, working in a place like that! It’s like a pale gray version of the White House, Mrs. Mallory. Not that I’ve ever seen the White House, of course, only in picture books and the like. But isn’t it grand!”
“All of a sudden you sound so very Irish, my dear,” Mrs. Mallory said, but her face creased into a smile, so Katie knew she didn’t mean it unkindly.
Still, Katie was quite alarmed when the indomitable Mrs. Mallory started marching up the stone steps leading to the great front door.
“I’d feel a lot more comfortable if we went around the back, Mrs. Mallory,” Katie said, and tugged at the older woman’s sleeve. “I’m the hired help.”
“Yes, dear, but I am not, and in all the years I have known the Farrenden family, I have never yet felt so much in awe of them that I couldn’t use the front door.”
She rang the bell.
There was no sign of life from inside the house. Mrs. Mallory frowned.
“I do hope Lizzie Jessop hasn’t gone home. There’s no butler now, more’s the pity. A door like this deserves a butler, doesn’t it?”
“His lordship wouldn’t come to the door himself?” Katie asked in an anxious murmur.
“Not bloody likely,” the older woman said, “but he’ll want to have a look at you, no doubt.”
Katie gulped and glanced down at the scuffed toes of her soaking wet shoes. Instinctively, her hand moved to touch the place where her jacket was missing a button. She fought the urge to tidy her hair in case someone opened the door while she was in the middle of combing it. She knew her auburn curls would be in total disarray. Her heart stuttered when Mrs. Mallory rang the bell for the third time, and it seemed to stop altogether when a stern old woman with gray hair opened the door.
She wore her hair nineteen-thirties style, in a low bun on the nape of her neck. She was a bit of a hatchet-faced thing, and she wore a floral pinafore over her winter skirt and blouse. Mrs. Mallory addressed her as Lizzie, though she seemed far too starchy for a name like that, and Katie got the feeling that “Mrs. Jessop” — murmured in a submissive, deferential tone — would be the very least that was expected from her.
The housekeeper turned and studied Katie, giving her one of those up and down appraisals that people sometimes got at difficult job interviews, though Katie had been given to understand that the job was hers if she wanted it.
The housekeeper didn’t seem entirely happy with Katie, but she kept her criticisms to herself. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said instead.
She crossed the great square hall with its checkered tiles, and Katie and Mrs. Mallory followed respectfully in her wake.
The old lady knocked at the door of his lordship’s study.
“Come!” he called.
He had a commanding voice, Katie thought, a posh bloke’s voice. The housekeeper went in and crossed the room, but Mrs. Mallory didn’t follow her, so Katie stayed where she was. Peering through the ajar door, Katie was curious to catch a glimpse of her new employer. He was seated at his desk near the fireplace, with his back to her. His hair was fair, and shone gold in the firelight. He looked up to speak to his housekeeper and in profile he had an aristocratic face, with a long Roman nose — the kind that went with the commanding voice — though he looked a little more boyish than she had expected. He wore a gray civilian jacket, very nicely tailored. He was rather slim, from what she could see, and there was no sign at all of an injury or a war wound.
“About bloody time,” she heard him say, “the train must have drawn in at the station over an hour ago.”
Katie tensed. There was something familiar about his voice.
The housekeeper was apologetic. “They walked, your lordship.”
“They should have been met, Jessop. Why didn’t you organize that?”
“I didn’t think it my place, sir, to make that decision … ”
“Not your place! Have you no common sense, woman!”
He’s dreadful, thought Katie. For a man with quite a pleasing appearance, he had the most horribly arrogant and high-handed manner with his housekeeper. He was obviously in the wrong, too. He should have issued proper instructions if he wanted things done a certain way. If his long-time, faithful servant had to put up with that kind of tongue-lashing, what chance was there for her? Katie knew she’d never please him in a thousand years. Mrs. Jessop beckoned them forward, and Katie took a last look at Mrs. Mallory for solidarity before entering the dragon’s lair.
“Try to smile, dear,” Mrs. Mallory whispered, “I promised him I’d find him someone pretty!”
• • •
Michael maneuvered his wheelchair with expert skill. He backed it up about half a yard and then spun it around to face his visitors. He jerked his head up to look at them. He hated having to look up at people all the time. It was demeaning for a man who had stood at six foot two, last time he was able to stand. It was as if they were very important and he was kneeling at their feet.
“Michael, dear! You look awful,” Mrs. Mallory said.
Michael knew he’d become thinner and paler since the accident, but he had checked his reflection in the mirror just fifteen minutes ago and thought he still had the face of a handsome young flier.
“Thank you so much,” he said in a sour tone, as Mrs. Mallory plonked the suitcase down beside his chair and leaned forward to give him an unwelcome kiss.
“No roses in your cheeks,” she said, pinching them with her fingers as if she could improve them, while Michael shrank back in his chair in disgust.
“Marjory — ”
“And you always look so cross!”
Michael rolled his eyes in annoyance. Mrs. Mallory always treated him as if he was a small boy. She started asking him some rubbish about the house, but he didn’t hear the details because he was too busy staring at the girl. She looked frightened out of her wits. She was very pale, with wide, dark eyes that did nothing to hide her fear. Mrs. Mallory obviously hadn’t warned her about the bloody wheelchair, because she was staring at it as if it might burst into flames, or start careening toward her like Boadicea’s chariot. He gave a little snort of amusement. His hands stayed firmly on the wheels to keep it in place. Some things, at least, were completely under his control.
“Miss Rafferty?”
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr … my lord … ship,” she said uncertainly.
That amused him a little, too. “Have you come all the way from Ireland, today?” he asked. He didn’t care if he sounded laconic. Lords were allowed to be laconic.
She looked at her feet, and a strand of curly auburn hair fell in front of her face. “No, sir. From London, sir.”