by Kim Izzo
“You know I can hear the three of you.” Isabel’s eyes never wavered from her task but her lips curled up in a smile. She was pleased to be passing muster so early in her job.
“I’m surprised you ladies can hear a bloody thing over that racket,” said Curtis as he placed a fresh pile of handwritten transcripts beside Isabel.
“That’s a bit rough, Curtis,” Violet chastised gleefully. “She’s only just been here a month. You’ll have her fingertips bleeding by the end of her shift.”
Curtis watched Isabel tapping like a mad thing and nodded approvingly. “We all have our bit to do for the war effort. Carry on.”
The girls groaned as he walked away. Isabel continued unabated.
“Stop showing off, Isabel,” Joan said, and took up at the desk next to her, feeding a piece of paper into her typewriter. “I can’t keep up.”
“I’m sure you possess skills that I do not,” Isabel offered.
“Sure she does,” Violet teased. “Just last week she gave the First Lord a letter to her beau instead of the official letter from the War Office.”
The girls burst out laughing. “Churchill was no doubt thrilled to have such expressions of love and devotion from one of his employees.”
“Could have happened to anyone,” Joan defended herself. “He’s a scary sort. I became all thumbs and mixed up the letters.”
“He does generate a heap of correspondence,” Dorothy admitted.
“Is he really such a terrifying person?” Isabel asked, at last stopping her typing. The sudden hush that fell upon the room was disconcerting. Rotter and the other men looked up as though something was the matter.
“Keep typing, Isabel,” Joan whispered. “We don’t want the gents to know we gossip.”
Isabel launched back into her work and waited for the girls to answer.
“He’s a gentleman,” Dorothy explained. “But he’s firm. Serious.”
“And a bloody bore,” Violet shot back.
“His house is just beside this building,” Joan added.
Isabel wasn’t sure that it was right of them to discuss the First Lord in such a manner. It smacked of impropriety let alone insubordination. Besides, after all she’d been through she wouldn’t let a man, even one with such a title, ever intimidate her again. Before Isabel had finished the typing the transcript Captain Hall entered Room 40.
He wasn’t a tall man, and he was mostly bald, but what hair remained stuck out in tufts from beneath his cap and darted in all directions. He had a stern but handsome face with a cleft chin and a long nose that formed a sharp point at its tip. He had a tic whereby he blinked all day long and for that he acquired the nickname Blinker. When he spoke everyone listened and not only because he was the Director of Intelligence; he was also charismatic and charming. Yet you got the feeling that if you proved inadequate or made a grievous error he’d never let you forget it. The men seemed to have a blind devotion to him.
It was his custom to head straight to Denniston and Commander Hope to go over the day’s transcripts and discuss the contents. Only this time he made a beeline for the typing pool. The girls stopped their work and waited to learn why they should be so honoured.
“Ladies, I need one of you to pick up a letter from the First Lord’s secretary,” he ordered.
“Speak of the devil,” Violet whispered.
Perhaps Isabel should have hesitated a moment, just for appearances. Instead she stood up and chirped, “Let me, sir.”
He seemed surprised by her eagerness. The girls stifled their giggles. “Thank you, Miss Nelson, you are to bring it straight to me. It’s of vital importance,” he stated. Then he walked over to the men and became immediately immersed in conversation.
“You’re a keen one,” Joan said.
“I just want to prove myself,” Isabel said, feeling self-conscious.
“Go on, Isabel,” Dorothy said encouragingly. “Don’t mind Joan. She’s upset she’s missing out on the chance to pass another love note to Churchill.”
Joan ripped the paper out of her typewriter, screwed it up into a ball and threw it at Dorothy.
I’m here for a letter for Captain Hall,” Isabel said to the secretary, an older, round woman who barely looked up from her desk.
“I haven’t got it,” she said, then peered over her eyeglasses and gave Isabel a thorough going over. “You’ll have to go into his office and get it.”
Isabel’s eyes widened. “In there?”
“Well, his office isn’t outside on the Horse Guards Parade now, is it?”
Isabel shook her head and, smoothing her hair, marched through the doors behind the secretary’s station. She found the First Lord at his desk riffling through a mass of paper. He barely looked up when she entered. He held out the letter and spoke three words. “Here it is.”
Even though she’d been told enough times that the First Lord was no giant, he was smaller than she expected and he looked younger than his forty years. He came from money, that much was a fact. His suit was a stitch above the usual expensive custom-tailored suits that all the government officials who shopped on Jermyn Street wore. There was something finer about his, the fabric and fit, the colour of the shirt, the pocket square; the whole ensemble was as fashionable as the finest ladies who took tea at the Dorchester. What had Norton called him? A dandy? She couldn’t imagine being married to a man who dressed better than a woman.
He was still holding the letter, only now he was staring at her, waiting. She took a deep breath. There comes a time in every ambitious young lady’s life when she is bold enough to engage with her superiors as an equal. This was such a moment for Isabel. She lurched forward, practically snatching the letter from him. Then she stood at attention in front of his desk as though awaiting further instruction. After a few moments it became clear to both parties that unless more words were exchanged she wasn’t moving. If he was annoyed it didn’t show.
“Was there something else, Miss . . . ?”
“Nelson, sir,” Isabel said. “Isabel Nelson. No relation to Horatio, sir.”
He appeared taken aback by this revelation. “Neither am I,” he said at last, and scrutinized her further. She sensed disapproval. Perhaps she should have lied or at least hinted there might be a familial tie to the war hero.
“I work in Room 40,” she explained unnecessarily.
His expression softened and a hint of a smile creased his cheek. “Yes, I would assume so, given I requested someone from Room 40 pick up the letter and deliver it to Captain Hall.”
She could feel the heat of humiliation rising through her. My face is red. I probably look as though I’ve had a glass too many of claret. He must think me a simpleton.
“Of course, sir. I wanted you to know that I’m committed to the war effort and the top secret work that we do.” She hoped such a display of patriotism would save the moment.
“Yes, well, glad to hear it.” Churchill returned to his papers.
Her moment had ended with a whimper. “Will there be anything else?”
“No,” he said, slightly amused by the blushing secretary. “Thank you.”
Once she was safely in the hall and marching back to Room 40 she began to feel unwell. Her nerves were acting up. All she had wanted was to have a proper conversation with the man. To show how much she’d learned and could be counted on and, more important, to prove she wasn’t afraid of him. Was there anything wrong in that? Yet now that she had met him, she had to admit that the girls had been right to say that Churchill was scary. He was frightful without even trying. Mr. Chambers had never frightened her (which proved her downfall). Neither did the other men she worked alongside. The way Churchill had stared at her. It was as though he could see right into her and know what she was all about.
She was so consumed by such thoughts she was nearly back at Room 40 when she remembered the letter in her hand. She knew it was classified and that her task was to hand it to the captain. Isabel didn’t know what possessed her but she fou
nd herself slipping into an alcove and removing the letter from its unsealed envelope. It was dated today and addressed to Walter Runciman. Isabel hadn’t heard the name before, but according to the address he was the president of the Board of Trade. It was wrong to glance at it, let alone read it. Yet there it was, open in her hands. I signed the Secrets Act, didn’t I? Isabel skimmed it quickly. It was about the ongoing British naval blockade and the German submarine threat in retaliation and how it would affect trade. Much of the letter was dreadfully dull. But a particular passage sent a chill through her. She immediately regretted reading the letter. Panicking, she had begun to fold it up when Henry appeared out of nowhere.
“Isabel, I called your name twice,” he said with a smile. “What’s got you so captivated?”
Isabel shoved the letter behind her back. “I didn’t hear you. What is it?”
“I saw you hiding in this nook,” he said. “Reading. Is it a letter from a beau?”
“Not at all. I felt a bit faint,” she lied. He looked worried. “I’m perfectly fine now. I must get back to work.”
As she stepped forward the envelope slipped from her hand. Henry picked it up for her. Damn his gentlemanliness. She froze. Henry wasn’t daft. He’d see the name of the sender marked clear as day.
“What are you doing with this?” he asked.
“Delivering it to Captain Hall. The First Lord gave it to me himself.”
He shook the envelope. “Just the envelope, then? What happened to the letter?” She remained silent, hoping he’d leave her alone. “Isabel?”
“The envelope wasn’t sealed.”
Henry’s face was stricken. He grabbed her elbow and led her down the hall away from Room 40. They reached the Admiralty Board Room. Henry looked inside. It was empty. She followed reluctantly and shut the door, clutching the doorknob in an attempt to prevent anyone from coming in.
“I hope Churchill’s letter wasn’t what I saw you reading in the blasted hall,” Henry said. “You could get the sack for it.”
Isabel stood her ground. She’d been sacked before. “I don’t know why I did it. I suppose being around all you men and your top secret messages, it seems like second nature now.” She held out the letter. “Part of it is rather disturbing.”
Henry shoved his hands in the air. “I can’t,” he said firmly.
“Fine, I’ll read it to you,” she said, and cleared her throat. “It is most important to attract neutral shipping to our shores in the hope especially of embroiling the United States with Germany . . .” She paused to assess his reaction. The stern look had been replaced with an intense expression that she assumed was alarm. She continued. “For our part we want the traffic—the more the better; and if some of it gets into trouble, better still.” She saw that Henry was gnawing on his lower lip. “I’m guessing that you also find it troubling.”
Henry raised an eyebrow at her. “We need to get back to the office now.”
To her dismay he was headed for the door. “But Henry! Does this mean what I think? Does Churchill want the Germans to target a neutral ship just to get the Americans to join the war?”
Henry stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He turned to face Isabel.
“I’m sure whatever he means isn’t your business. You need to deliver that letter to Captain Hall and let’s both pretend this never happened.”
Isabel was crestfallen. “If you really think that’s best. But are you sure we shouldn’t ask one of the others—”
“Absolutely not!” Henry snapped. Seeing her flinch he took a deep breath to calm down. “War is a complex machine. Who are we to make sense of it? That’s for Churchill and the others to do.”
“But our work is about uncovering secrets,” she insisted.
“My job is to decipher code, yours is to organize it. We are absolutely forbidden from analyzing the messages or passing them along to anyone but the very few who have clearance. And we are certainly forbidden from reading correspondence from our superiors and questioning their motives. Do I make myself clear?”
Isabel knew he was right, of course. “You won’t tell on me, then?”
“I should,” he warned. “But I won’t. Only because you’re fairly new and a woman. Just for heaven’s sake don’t snoop on anyone ever again unless they’re the enemy.”
FEBRUARY 24
Edward Thorpe-Tracey, Somerset, England
Rathfon Hall sat in the valley like a sleeping giant. Formidable yet tired. The oldest part of the house had the year 1632 etched above its door as if to remind residents and visitors alike that it would outlive them all. The newer parts of the house were completed in 1740 and 1813 respectively. There had been a fire at one point and nearly the entire 1813 wing had been destroyed. The rumour was arson. An irate farmer angry over taxes, or a mistress gone mad with unrequited passion, depending on who was telling the story. By the time the Thorpe-Traceys got hold of the estate in 1836 it had fallen into disrepair. The first Lord Northbrook had seen to it that the whole of the house and its lands were brought up to modern standards. An ambition that each successive Lord Northbrook had taken upon himself to continue, including the current one—until his debtors had caught up with him.
Now it was up to Edward to ensure the legacy continued in spite of his father’s poor management. Because of this, his father had allowed Edward free rein to take over the estate in the hopes it could be saved from financial ruin. Edward accepted the responsibility, knowing what it meant: that his life’s work would be bringing Rathfon Hall into the twentieth century and making it thrive, and to do so he could not marry for love. Indeed he had settled on Brooke Sinclair for her fortune and for Rathfon Hall’s future. The work on the estate would wait until after the war. Though he suspected that his soon-to-be wife, with all her money, would initiate a slew of innovations immediately after the wedding—even while he was on the Western Front and even without his direct input. Electricity, telephones, each room with its own toilet and bath. Brooke had made it very clear—in her sweetest American voice—that she desired, nay, expected, all the conveniences of New York to be in working order at Rathfon Hall. “Whatever makes you happy,” he had responded good-naturedly. Having witnessed his parents’ countless arguments during his twenty-eight years he knew for a fact that it was wisest—not to mention peace-inducing—to allow one’s wife the luxury of final decisions in matters of the house.
His mother, Lady Northbrook, however, did not herself enjoy the reputation of peacemaker. When informed of these ideas she had seen fit to hire a local man to draw up plans for the additional bathrooms. “I will be the judge of what an English bath will look like,” she had said. “The way Americans throw their money around they probably bathe in solid-gold tubs!”
Edward had smiled at his mother at the time. They were alone with tea and cake by the fire. A couple of days a week they managed to steal some time together to discuss matters freely. Lady Northbrook was a graceful woman, but had a hard edge that stood her in good stead in times like these: her eldest son to be married off for financial gain and then sent to fight in a war; an invalid daughter with no hope of marrying; and a husband with a gambling problem that had nearly cost them Rathfon Hall.
“Careful, Mother. You don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with your daughter-in-law,” Edward reminded her. “She was your first choice after all.”
“She presented well,” his mother responded. “At least in the beginning.”
“And her oil and gold money certainly helped in those early presentations,” Edward pointed out wryly.
“But once that garish ring was placed on her finger she became so . . .” She paused, searching for the perfect word to sum up all the disappointment that was sure to come with her future daughter-in-law. “American.”
Edward couldn’t help but laugh. His mother would not let go of the fact that Brooke had rejected his grandmother’s delicate diamond-and-sapphire ring—it wasn’t overly large but was a treasured and elegant family heirloom—for
a modern emerald-and-diamond square-cut affair that was designed and set in New York. And in the end, the local man never got the chance to bring the bathrooms to light for he was called up the next week and sent to France, leaving the future of Rathfon Hall’s lavatories in jeopardy.
“What will become of us once it’s your time to fight and Brooke is left to her own devices, and worse, to her own taste,” Lady Northbrook fretted.
“I think you can be confident that she wants to please you as well,” Edward said reassuringly, though in truth he wondered whether, once the wedding was over, he wouldn’t find more peace at the front than in his ancestral home.
“Very well. I mustn’t fuss so. Brooke will grow on me eventually. I only hope she grows on you.”
Edward hoped the same thing but he had his doubts. Brooke was unlike any woman he’d ever met before. For one thing she was more regal than her American counterparts, and talked less too. She also understood what he and his family did not—finance.
Her father had apparently insisted that both his daughters understand how to manage their incomes and how to invest. Brooke wasn’t afraid of money, wasn’t afraid to talk about it, spend it or make it yield to her wishes. During her visit she had shocked many people with such forthrightness. Edward had secretly cheered her on one occasion when she boldly suggested to a financially weakened baron—who minutes before had openly criticized Edward’s father for mismanaging Rathfon Hall—that he could double his income if he converted a portion of his country estate into suites for members of the paying public. The baron nearly crushed the brandy snifter he was holding in his hand.
Yet there was a coolness to her that didn’t exactly inspire Edward to write poetry, and that depressed him. For he was a romantic, albeit a reluctant one.
“I’m proud of you for making this decision,” Lady Northbrook said, her words bringing him back to earth, and tea. “I know it’s what I wanted. What your father needed. But it wasn’t easy for you. To sacrifice yourself in this way.”
She was smiling at him. He sensed pity. He hated it. “The war is a sacrifice,” he said. “Marrying Brooke is my duty. But you’re right in thinking my life’s ambitions did not involve a marriage of convenience. I had thought more of world travel, exploring South America perhaps, learning to fly an aeroplane, even entering politics.”