by Julia Kelly
“But this isn’t where you live?” Louise asked. It was more than twelve hours since Paul had appeared on the steps of her billet. Her flipped schedule of night shifts meant that her head felt as though it was full of cotton wool because she hadn’t slept since midmorning the day before.
“No,” said Paul, turning the large brass key in the lock of a terrace house in Kensington where he’d told her his friend kept a flat on the ground floor.
“What happened to your bedsit?” she asked, remembering so clearly the way he’d described the little flat to her.
“My landlady wrote to tell me the building across the street was hit by a bomb. It broke all the windows in my flat, and she hasn’t been able to find a glazer to fix them. The demand’s too high with all of the bomb sites across the city.” He pushed open the door and flicked on the hall light. “Just through here.”
Louise pulled at the hem of her uniform’s tunic and looked around. It was a nice enough hallway with carved crown molding and a neat set of stairs up to the flat above, but it wasn’t Paul’s place, and that was disappointing.
She’d been hesitant at dinner about coming back with him. He’d told her she looked as though she was falling asleep in her soup, and suggested they turn in for the night.
She could’ve insisted that he take her back to her billet, and he would’ve, but instead she’d let him walk her to the Piccadilly line and board the train that took them to Earl’s Court. They were going to be married in two days. Maintaining any modesty now seemed ridiculous. She’d decided, as their feet scraped against the pavement out of the station, that she was going to absolve herself of any guilt she might feel about exploring an intimacy with this man before they were married.
He unlocked a door with a brass “1” nailed to it and stepped back to let her inside. It was chillier in the sitting room than outside, if that was even possible, and Louise wrapped her arms around herself as she looked about. Despite the cold, it was a comfortable room with a pair of green tufted sofas facing one another in front of an elaborate iron fireplace and a few paintings covering the walls. She’d just moved toward one of a seaside that reminded her of home, when Paul’s hand fell on her waist.
“Where are you going?” He drew his hand up her back, his fingers dancing over her uniform as though it were of the silkiest satin. “I’ve been waiting all day for us to be alone.”
She turned to him, her hands resting softly on his chest. The scent of him, spiced bay rum, wrapped around her as she breathed in deep. But even as she lifted her chin, something held her back.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, resting his forehead against hers.
She toyed with one of the brass buttons on his uniform. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“You can trust me, darling.”
Her eyes must have betrayed her, because when their gazes met, he cradled her to him.
“I’ve done this all wrong, haven’t I? You want a big wedding in your parish church with all of your nearest and dearest.”
She knew he didn’t mean it, but when he teased like this, she couldn’t help but feel entirely provincial.
“No, it’s not that,” she said quickly. “We just haven’t known each other for very long.”
He tucked a knuckle under her chin and gently raised it. “I knew the moment I met you, Louise, that you would be mine.”
“I did too,” she said automatically.
“Then you know that this is right.”
“I . . .”
“You’re not sure,” he said, sadness breaking his voice.
Guilt churned in her stomach as he made as though to walk away. She caught his hand as he’d done to her, and he stilled.
“I’m sorry, Paul. It’s just that it’s been difficult without you and now it’s confusing with you standing right here where I can actually touch you. It almost seems unreal.”
She could see the touch of a smile warm his profile. “I know, darling. I know that you sacrificed everything in Haybourne because of me. It’s only natural to have moments of doubt.”
She wanted to tell him that it hadn’t just been for him that she’d joined the ATS. She’d done it for herself too, but the words felt impossibly thick on her tongue.
In the end, he saved her from having to explain, because he kissed her. Only this kiss wasn’t like the ones before. This one was hard, as he crushed his lips against hers and raked his hands through her hair. He bent her back so that he could kiss the side of her neck, his other hand darting up to cup her breast. A frisson of heat shot through her, desire and surprise and hesitation all at once.
“I want you. You must know that,” he said, breathing heavily as he kissed down to the top of her uniform’s shirt.
Here in this perfectly respectable flat he had become something altogether less respectable. Gone was the polish of a well-heeled childhood spent in a mansion flat, a public school education, and reading at Cambridge. Now he was just a man overcome by a woman. She was that woman.
The seductive knowledge of her own power surged up in her. Sliding her hand up his shoulder to his neck, she guided him back up to meet her, slipping her tongue between his lips.
He groaned, “Louise . . . I can’t wait any longer.”
Careful not to break his gaze, she lifted her hands to the buckle of her tunic and undid the wide belt. His eyes fixed on her fingers as she swiftly unbuttoned the heavy garment and let it slide off her shoulders. Then she picked up his hand in hers and said with more surety than she felt, “I’m ready, Paul.”
With one more swift kiss, he pulled her into the darkened bedroom.
17
CARA
Cara hit save on her work laptop, laced her fingers together, and stretched her arms high over her head. The last of the items from the Old Vicarage were catalogued in Wilson’s inventory and up on the auction sites Jock favored.
Already a few pieces had sold, with others going to private clients Jock kept apprised of his stock. Just two days ago, an American woman on holiday had bought a Tiffany lamp they’d found in one of Lenora Robinson’s guest bedrooms. The woman had been delighted with the maze-like shop, all enthusiasm and praise for the rambling rooms jammed full of furniture, paintings, china, and objets d’art. Cara had chatted with her as she took the woman’s details to ship the lamp back to her home in Iowa, and when the woman left, Cara had the comforting feeling that another of Lenora Robinson’s things had been placed into good hands for this next part of its life.
The experience had prompted her to pick up the phone and call one of Jock’s associates working out of London. Her parents had had some good pieces that were in storage, but either because they clashed with her own style or because of the close quarters of her cottage, Cara didn’t want to keep them. She and the dealer had arranged a time to meet in early November, and when she’d hung up, she’d felt somehow buoyed. There was still loads to do, but this would be a start.
Cara began to weave her way from the office off the storeroom to the kitchenette at the back of the shop to fill the electric kettle and celebrate with a little tea break, but before she could get there the door jangled. She stilled for a moment, waiting to see if Jock would intercept the person or whether she’d be needed. The low rumble of a male voice followed by another drifted back to her. She was off the hook.
She was just pulling down a Burleigh teapot with a cracked lid Jock had rescued from an estate sale years ago when her boss appeared in the door. “Miss Hargraves, you have a visitor.”
He stepped back, revealing Liam.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, surprise and pleasure pinking her cheeks. She’d spent half of the past four days telling herself that Liam had just been tired when he’d turned down her invitation to dinner and the other half chiding herself for worrying that he was done with her. But now he was standing in her shop—well, Jock’s shop, but still.
“I have news,” he said. “About the diary.”
Cara slanted a look at Jock
, who stood back, his arms over his chest, observing them as though he were a spectator at a chess match.
“And you came here to tell me?” she asked.
“As soon as I found out. I tried you on your phone but I couldn’t reach you and it didn’t seem fair me knowing something before you. Do you remember that Cornish historian I told you I’d reached out to?” he asked.
“The one who was going to figure out where Bakeford’s was.”
He nodded. “It’s in Haybourne. Or at least it was.”
“Where?” she asked with a frown.
“Haybourne is a tiny village on the Cornish coastline,” said Jock, earning stares from both of them. “I used to spend my summers in Newquay when I was a boy.”
“I’d never heard of it before, so I looked it up on a map. It’s just down the road from Saint Mawgan,” said Liam.
“Where she had her first dance with Paul,” Cara said.
“Exactly.”
The kettle clicked off its boil, and she set about pouring the hot water over the leaves and pulling down three mugs. Liam was staying for tea.
“We’ve been trying to track down the author of that diary I found at the Old Vicarage,” she said by way of explanation for Jock. “If we know where she’s from, we can track her down.”
“I see,” said Jock.
“There are the initials on the back of the photograph. ‘L.K.,’ ” she said, thinking through everything they knew. “Do any of the women in the mixed batteries come from Haybourne and have those initials?”
Liam pulled a paper out of the back pocket of his jeans. “One step ahead of you.”
He handed the paper to her, and she opened it, fingers trembling. It was a printout of what looked like some kind of dossier. At the top was the name “Louise Keene” along with a date of birth, service number, battalion assignment, and date of demobilization.
After weeks of reading and wondering who their mysterious diarist was, it seemed almost surreal to finally have a name. To know what to call her.
“Louise Keene. You’re sure?” she asked.
“I had my friend at the National Archives cross-check everything. There was only one ATS member assigned to Ack-Ack Command from Haybourne. A Louise Keene.”
“It looks as though you’ve solved your mystery,” said Jock.
Liam and Cara shared a look. “Far from it,” she said. “I still want to know what happened to Louise Keene and Paul, the pilot.”
“What else was with the diary?” asked Jock. “I know you found it in a tin.”
“Here.” Liam pulled his phone from his pocket. “I took photographs of everything.”
Jock perched his reading glasses on his nose and bent a little to peer at the phone’s screen.
“The ticket is from a cinema in Cornwall where Paul and Louise went on one of their first dates,” said Cara.
“The monogrammed handkerchief must be his,” said Liam.
“What about the compass?” Jock asked.
“He told her that it had belonged to his uncle who died in the Royal Flying Corps during World War One. It was one of the things recovered with his body,” she said.
Jock squinted up at her and then looked down at the phone again. “No.”
“No?” she asked.
“I’d need to see it in person to be positive, but I’m certain that’s a British-made army-issue escape compass. From World War Two,” said her boss.
“How can you be sure?” she asked, her pulse ticking up another notch. Why would Paul have lied about something like that?
“When I was first starting out, I had a client come in with dozens of these. His father had been a collector,” said Jock.
“What exactly is an escape compass?” Liam asked.
“The RAF and the army issued them to pilots and soldiers who went on dangerous missions across enemy lines. They were often hidden in the backs of buttons so that a serviceman could use one to escape if he was captured, but this looks as though it’s just one of the tiny compasses that could’ve been tucked away anywhere,” said Jock.
“And you’re certain it’s not a World War One–era?” Liam asked.
Jock straightened and removed his glasses. “As Miss Hargraves will tell you, I never encourage guessing about the origins or provenance of an antique, but I’d be willing to bet my Montblanc on it.”
Liam raised a brow, and Cara nodded. Jock carried that pen everywhere, taking it out and polishing it from time to time.
“Now, Miss Hargraves, am I given to understand that you are finished with the Robinson inventory?” Jock asked.
“I’ve only just finished it. How did you know?”
“I’m not so ancient that I cannot use a computer. I was looking at our inventory when Mr. McGown arrived. And given the completion of the inventory and your recent discovery, I should think you’d like the rest of the afternoon off.”
“Really?” she asked in surprise.
“Do I ever jest?” Jock asked severely, but she could see the glint of amusement in her employer’s eye.
“Never,” she said gravely.
“Then I suggest you both decamp before I change my mind.”
“Thank you,” she said, grinning at Liam. They had a diary investigation to continue.
“Fancy a cup of tea?” Cara called to Liam as they climbed out of their cars in their respective driveways, rain pelting them. The skies had opened the moment they’d both pulled away from Wilson’s and showed no signs of letting up.
His grin widened. “Always. Is there any chance you have biscuits?”
“I’m English, aren’t I?”
He laughed and the pair of them sprinted through the driving rain to her front door. In the entryway, she shucked off her jacket and shook out her hair from the braid she’d tied it in to keep off the worst of the wet. When he saw her unzip her boots, he did the same and padded behind her to the kitchen.
“Can I do anything to help?” he asked, as she started pulling the tea things down.
“You could light the fire in the front room. I’m trying not to turn on the central heating until it gets really cold, and I like an excuse for a fire.”
He shuffled off while she put the water on and pulled out a package of biscuits. She was just arranging them on a plate when he called out, “Do you have matches?”
She opened the cabinet to her left and plucked the little Waitrose Essentials box off the shelf. He shuffled on his knees to meet her halfway across the kitchen, their fingers brushing when she handed the matches over. Her heart leaped in her throat, and Liam’s gaze flew up to hers. For a moment, they remained frozen, the tips of their fingers touching.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
“Of course.”
A little dazed, she watched him retreat again before shaking her head and fixing tea.
She carried the plate of biscuits into the front room to drop them off while the tea steeped, stopping only to retrieve the biscuit tin from her nightstand.
She eased open the heavy oak door with her shoulder, balancing the tin in one hand and the biscuits in the other. Flames crackled, catching on dry paper, and the wood burner’s vent squeaked as Liam adjusted it. She set the plate down, folded herself onto the sofa, and popped the top off the tin to pull out the photograph of the woman on the Embankment. No, not “the woman.” Louise.
The sofa dipped a little as Liam took the other end, leaning over the gap between them. “That’s our girl,” he said with a nod to the photograph of Louise. “Someone must’ve taken it when she was stationed at Woolwich. Her service record says she was there from August 1941 to February 1942 when she and her unit were moved up to Glasgow to defend the shipyards. Then they were sent to Brighton and finally to Germany.”
“When was she demobbed?” she asked.
“In 1945, after VE Day.”
“Like Gran,” Cara mused. “But the diary ends in 1942. There’s almost three years of war that are unaccounted for. And what happened to her afte
rward. Is there a record of that?”
He shook his head. “That’s where the military records end. A lot of women went home after the war.”
“Paul proposed to her. She could’ve ended up with his family, although the last page of the diary makes it seem unlikely.”
“Have you peeked at the ending?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not since I first found it. You?”
“Just the last couple entries. They’re pretty thin. Also, there are gaps in time.” He paused. “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Louise Keene doesn’t come up in any local registers in Haybourne after the war, but there is another Keene. Katherine. She’s registered as the mother to a child born in Haybourne in 1944 with the married name of Mathers.”
“Katherine like Kate?” she asked with a frown.
“What if Kate wasn’t Louise’s friend but her cousin?” he asked.
Pieces began clicking into place like one big jigsaw puzzle. “And that was why Kate was so willing to help Louise sneak around with Paul. And why Louise went to her when she rowed with her mother.”
“And also why Kate’s mother would’ve insisted it was Louise who went with Kate to the Valentine’s dance in Saint Mawgan in the first place,” he said.
“Liam, this is amazing,” she said.
He held up a hand. “I’m not finished yet.” He unlocked his phone and flipped it over to show her a picture of an older woman with the words “Laurel Mathers, Executive Director” written in bold under it. “That’s Katherine Mathers’s daughter, who runs a small arts outreach organization in Cornwall. And her email address is listed on the site.”
“Her email . . .”
“If you reach out, she may be able to fill in some of the gaps about what happened to Louise.”
“Do you think I should?” she asked.
“I think you have to. You need to see this story through to the end,” said Liam. “Just like you want to with Iris.”
“Liam, in the car on Sunday, I’m sorry if I overstepped.”