Begun by Time

by Morgan O'Neill

  She shivered and hugged herself. She had come alone, traveling for hours to get to crowded central London, while her friends and family listened snug in their homes to the radio broadcast of the wedding at Westminster Abbey.

  Alone. Surrounded by thousands of people, yet utterly alone. Jonathan, almost two years gone. As yet no one had any answers. She still felt a deep, aching need to know what happened to him, if he were dead—God forbid—or alive and simply gone off to find a new life. The horrible idea of his betrayal had crept into her mind of late, and it plagued her.

  But he wouldn’t have done that. He couldn’t. Oh Lord, if only I knew.

  Tears welled. She reached for the handkerchief in her coat pocket and dabbed her eyes.

  “There, there, dearie. I’ve been weeping for joy myself this day,” a woman said.

  Catherine turned and stared at a pair of glistening eyes, warm and kind.

  “I envy them,” Catherine said, relieved to divulge what filled her heart. She hoped the stranger would understand her need to speak the truth, something she couldn’t do at home. The advice of late had been blunt and unending, yet not given with cruel intent: she needed to get on with her life.

  The woman’s gaze sparked with understanding, and she nodded. “I envy them, too,” she admitted.

  With sudden insight, Catherine folded her in a hug. How many of those surrounding her had lost loved ones in the war? Hundreds, perhaps thousands.

  “There they are!”

  Triumphant shouts filled the air, and the crowd surged forward. Catherine lost her grip on the woman, and they were forced apart. Propelled by the people surrounding her, Catherine felt her feet momentarily lift from the pavement as she was pushed toward the palace gates. Anxious, yet excited, she laughed and let herself be carried along.

  Catherine heard the joyous tumult of the crowd grow to a thunderous roar. She joined in. “Hurrah, hurrah!”

  On the balcony, the princess stood with her groom, smiling and waving: Elizabeth, beautiful in her wedding gown of ivory silk satin; Philip, resplendent in his dark naval uniform.

  The crowd’s momentum slowed, a gap opened beside her, and Catherine suddenly found herself off-balance and tumbling.

  A strong hand gripped her arm, then pulled her around.

  “Oomph!” She ended up crushed against a man’s chest.

  “Do forgive me, miss, but—”

  He had an elegant voice, deep and wonderfully posh. She stared into a pair of cornflower-blue eyes, his dark blond hair peeking from beneath his bowler hat. His winter coat was unbuttoned, revealing a dark gray pinstriped suit and red silk tie; he was certainly dressed for success.

  “Kiss! Kiss! Give us a kiss!”

  What in the world…? She started and saw him do the same. Turning, she realized the crowd nearby had begun chanting to the bride and groom, who had been joined on the palace balcony by the rest of the royal family: King George and Queen Elizabeth, Princess Margaret, and old Queen Mary.

  “Miss?” he asked. “Your name, please? May I have your name?”

  “Kiss! Kiss!”

  She looked back. He had lovely teeth and a nice smile. She grinned. “Catherine Hastings.”

  “And I am Arthur Bertrand Howard, at your service.”

  “Give us a kiss!”

  His gaze went to her lips, and she felt herself blush. He noticed that, the sparkle in his eyes leaving no doubt.

  “We ought not let them down. Don’t you agree?”

  Caught in the moment, she nodded and felt only wonder as he pulled her close. His lips touched hers, soft at first, and then firm, the kiss deepening with every moment. The mad whirl around her slipped away, until she could hear nothing but the roar in her ears, the stirring of her blood.

  He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. “Do you suppose they kissed, too?” he asked, giving a quick nod toward the palace.

  “Nah,” the man next to them called out. He tipped his cap and turned to face the palace once more.

  “You do realize it is not considered proper etiquette to kiss a perfect stranger, don’t you?” Arthur asked her, tongue-in-cheek.

  Again, Catherine caught that delightful twinkle in his gaze.

  “Might I make my apologies by taking you to supper, Miss Hastings?”

  “Well, I’d expect nothing less, Mr. Howard.”

  He laughed, deep and unrestrained.

  Her spirits lifted, transformed. She wondered at the ease she felt with Arthur Bertrand Howard, the rightness of the moment, and the reemergence of hope. Utterly breathless, she prayed it would last.

  …

  London hadn’t seen such celebrations since VE Day. Revelers in conga lines danced through the streets, the crowds just starting their celebratory pub crawls. By now, the princess and prince had boarded the train at Waterloo Station to begin their honeymoon, but the party they left behind would go on all night.

  Catherine and Arthur considered themselves lucky to have found the quaint half-timbered pub in an ancient, gas-lit alleyway in Crown Passage, just off Pall Mall. Arthur gave the pub landlord a quid, and he showed them to a cozy side room, the “snug,” where they had their own table. Almost immediately, a crowd surged into the pub, the noise of their boisterous singing causing the landlord to shut the glass doors that separated the two rooms.

  Arthur settled Catherine into her chair and then sat across from her. They studied their menus and ordered. With rationing still on, the meal was simple fare: steamed mussels in broth for him; for her, a serving of corned beef pie, made from tinned meat and onions, with a topper of mashed potatoes.

  When Arthur ordered a Pimm’s No. 1 Cup on ice, Catherine smiled. Her gaze took him in, his elegant demeanor and accoutrements marking him as the epitome of a Pimm’s man. When asked what she wanted to drink, she asked for Pimm’s and lemonade, Arthur nodding his approval.

  To their delight, the barman came around again and asked if they might like French champagne instead of Pimm’s. He explained he’d hidden it in his storeroom for years and wished to share it with his customers in honor of the wedding of their crown princess.

  Catherine liked her first taste. The bubbles were fun, tickling her nose. “I’ve never had this before,” she told Arthur. “It’s quite delicious.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “My first taste was on VE Day. I shall never forget that moment.”

  “Nor I.” The memory of Jonnie’s proposal surged to the fore, but she pushed it back, refusing to spoil the moment. “Where were you?”

  “Here in London. And you?”

  “In London. I saw Churchill at Piccadilly, actually. And when I got home, Dad gave me a nip of his vintage port.”

  “Very nice.” He touched his glass to hers, and they drank. “Churchill brought some of his Pol Roger champagne to us early that morning, but he never offered his favorite brandy or cigars. I have no idea if he likes port.” He winked.

  She gaped. “You know him? You worked with him?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Nothing so lofty. I caught a glimpse of the old man a time or two.”

  She enjoyed their easy conversation. Obviously intelligent, even genteel, Arthur possessed a great sense of humor and an utter lack of snobbery. While they ate, he told her of his early childhood in Devonshire, in the town of Exeter. His father had been gassed in the First World War, which harmed his lungs and caused his early death. When Arthur was nine, his mother tragically died in an automobile accident, and he was raised afterward by an aunt and uncle in Cambridge. He went to university and law school there in the 1930s, graduating second in his class. He was now a solicitor at a top legal firm in London and confided with some pleasure he’d just received a promotion.

  “I do believe I can hear a faint trace of your Devon accent, especially when you drop the occasional T,” Catherine said. “It’s quite lovely, actually, if a bit ancient-sounding to my ears.”

  He laughed. “Uncle Herbert and Aunt Eleanor would be appalled to hear you say t
hat. They thought I talked like a pirate lad and did their best to drum it out of me. Insufferable pair.” He winked. “Arrrr, lass, would ye please pass me the bu’er… I mean butter.”

  “Jolly good,” she said, grinning.

  “More like Jolly Roger.” He grinned back. “My playmates in Cambridge called me that as a boy. I actually grew rather fond of it, much to my aunt and uncle’s dismay.”

  She laughed, sensing he loved them very much.

  When she pressed him further about Winston Churchill, he said, “I met him perhaps a dozen times at Baker Street and once down in the War Rooms. Impressive man. I was but a low-ranking naval officer assigned to the SEO, one of the blokes who worked the smoke and mirrors so the Jerries would not guess our plans.”

  At that point, he stopped talking and concentrated on his food.

  Catherine had the good sense not to ask him anything more, since it was clear he did not wish to divulge. Nevertheless, she wondered how high his rank had been with British Intelligence and the so-called Baker Street Irregulars. Everyone knew the agency provided spies with gadgets and gear to infiltrate Nazi territory, or used tricks of camouflage to hide potential homeland targets, even entire military bases.

  “Tell me, what do you do, Catherine?”

  Other than mourn? She hesitated, took another sip of her drink, and merely said, “I help my dad. He’s a dentist, and I work the front desk. I still live with my parents.” To her embarrassment, she finished with a hiccup, and her eyes opened wide.

  He grinned, his gaze going to the champagne glass in her hand. “Shall we have a bit more to eat?”

  He raised his hand, about to signal the barman, but she motioned him down and then touched his sleeve.

  “No, I do believe I’ve had enough food—and champagne.”

  “I agree, but if I might be so bold… I have not had enough of your company. Not nearly enough.” His hand covered hers.

  His touch was warm, sensual. She felt a ripple of pleasure and blushed.

  “May I see you home, Catherine?”

  She gathered herself and looked into his eyes, sensing his hope. “Yes, that would be lovely. Perhaps you might come in for a cup of tea?”

  He nodded and gently squeezed her hand. “Jolly good. I should very much like to meet your parents.”

  …

  Arthur Howard assisted Catherine out of the vehicle and then paid the cabbie. Her home was quaint, a two-story brick, the street one of Stratford’s lucky few that hadn’t suffered bombing in 1945.

  “Do come in, Arthur,” Catherine said as she unlocked the front door. A dog barked inside. “I hope you like terriers.”

  “Yes, I do. My aunt has a Westie,” Arthur said.

  “I’ve got a Cairn. Just hold out your hand so Duffy can sniff you.”

  “Right. Wouldn’t want him taking my hand off.”

  Catherine laughed and went inside. A wheaten Cairn terrier greeted Arthur. The dog jumped on his legs, tail wagging. When Arthur bent down to pet him, Duffy turned tail and scampered off.

  “Ah, Mr. McDuff probably wants to play ball,” Catherine said. “You’ll do the honors when he returns, won’t you?”

  She glanced at Arthur, her emerald-green eyes captivating, the auburn curls peeking from beneath her hat perfect against her ivory complexion. Her gaze went soft, her eyes shining with light, the mark of a sweet soul. Catherine Hastings was a beautiful girl with film-star looks. He wondered about her history and why she wasn’t married. Was she widowed during the war? He hadn’t asked her at the pub, not wanting to seem presumptuous. Patience was one of his strong suits, and he guessed he’d find out soon enough.

  Her mother came fussing out of the kitchen, a tea towel in hand. “Where have you been, darling? We were worried––” She stopped short and gave Arthur the once-over.

  He hid his smile.

  “Mummy, may I introduce Arthur Howard? He was kind enough to see me home.” Catherine faced him. “Arthur, this is my mother, Lily Hastings.”

  She was an older version of Catherine, a handsome woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties. The only significant difference was in the color of her eyes, which were chocolate brown.

  He doffed his hat. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Dear me. Please call me Lily. And thank you for taking care of our girl.”

  “What’s this? Is Cathy home?” a man called out from somewhere in the back of the house. As he came into view, Duffy followed on his heels. In contrast to the small, shaggy dog, Catherine’s father was bald and long-legged. Arthur decided to try again to pet Duffy, but he bounded off, a bundle of energy. Everyone laughed.

  The ladies took Arthur’s hat, coat, and gloves. Introductions were made, and George Hastings pumped Arthur’s hand in greeting. Arthur noted the man’s bright green eyes, a perfect match to Catherine’s. He glanced at her and wondered if their children would have the same trait.

  The thought gave him pause, and then he was filled with a delightful sense of anticipation.

  …

  Catherine listened to the easy conversation her father and Arthur shared about football and the merits of various teams. She smiled at Arthur’s enthusiasm, every bit as strong as her father’s.

  George served port without being asked, and she caught the look of delight in Arthur’s gaze.

  While she and her mum shared a pot of chamomile tea, the men sipped their port and chatted. Arthur took two cigars from his breast pocket and offered one to George. As the men smoked, the sweet, rich scent of good tobacco filled the air. Arthur explained the fragrant Romeo y Julieta brand had been Churchill’s favorite during the war.

  “It isn’t now?” Catherine asked him.

  “No, the Cuban manufacturer created a new cigar for him and named it after the old man himself. He’s said to love them. I’ve never had one, however. Too pricy.” He looked over at George. “Besides, these are rather good.”

  “I should say so,” her father agreed as he happily puffed.

  Catherine knew the evening had come to a close when her dad did his best to stifle a yawn.

  Arthur took his cue and got to his feet. “Thank you for your hospitality, George and Lily. If you’ll be so kind as to point me in the direction of the nearest Underground station?”

  Catherine rose. “The tube’s just down the road on Leyton High Street. I’ll take you there.”

  “It’s far too late for you to walk home by yourself,” her father said. “I’ll accompany you.”

  Disappointed she would not have some more time alone with Arthur, Catherine felt at a disadvantage. She couldn’t argue with her dad about this, not with Arthur here. Resigned, she got their coats.

  Outside, the air was thick with what her mum called the pea soup fog. The threesome made their way to the station, her father monopolizing the conversation about a planned family holiday in Eastbourne.

  Catherine felt a palpable frustration as she caught Arthur’s stare and read his mind. No good-bye kiss would be in the offing on this doubly special day. Who could have foreseen her meeting such a wonderful man?

  When they reached the Leyton tube station, Arthur turned to George. “Mr. Hastings, may I call on your daughter again?”

  Her father nodded. Catherine could tell by his smile he was impressed with Arthur’s manners, something he felt many young men lacked these days.

  “It has been delightful, Catherine,” Arthur said. “Perhaps I might ring you up tomorrow?”

  She blushed and nodded. “I’d like that.”

  With that, he tipped his hat to them and left. Catherine watched him walk toward the station building, and just before he reached the door, he turned and waved.

  She waved back and then he was gone, on his way to catch his train. Her heart leapt at the thought of seeing him again. She missed him already.

  Her father leaned in. “I like him, Cathy. He’s a good man. Promise me something, eh?”

  Her gaze was still drawn to the place where she’d la
st seen Arthur. “What’s that, Dad?”

  “Promise that when next you meet, you’ll tell him about Jonnie. He mustn’t be left in the dark.”

  Catherine slowly turned to stare at her father, mouth open. Jonnie. She couldn’t recall having thought about him for hours.

  She cast a glance back toward the train station and pondered what it might mean.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Catherine walked Mr. McDuff. The breeze was chill, the horizon a mass of dark clouds, the harbinger of rain. True to his Scottish heritage, Duffy seemed to like the cold; he had a kick in his step as he headed for the park. Silly dog, she thought fondly, remembering how she’d found him out in the garden the day before, happily sitting in the mist. It took a bit of coaxing to get him to come inside.

  Catherine’s attention was suddenly drawn to a man in a bowler hat as he exited from a butcher’s shop. It made her smile when she realized she was keenly cognizant of men in bowlers. And you’re a silly goose, she told herself. When he got closer, she could tell he was of her father’s generation. He carried a string bag filled with packages wrapped in brown paper.

  Upon reaching her side, he bent down to pet Duffy, who immediately sniffed the bag.

  “Ah, what a fine fellow!” the man said as he felt around in his coat pocket. “I always have a treat or two for the neighbor’s dog. Might I give him one?”

  Catherine nodded. “He’d like that.”

  The man removed a small sausage from his pocket and held it forth to Duffy.

  “Duffy, take it nice,” Catherine admonished.

  McDuff gave her a look that said “of course,” but then snatched the sausage from the man’s hand with only a bit less enthusiasm than usual.

  “Well, thank goodness I still have my fingers!” the man said with a laugh. He tipped his hat to them both.

  “Thank you.” Catherine watched him stroll away. From this angle she could almost imagine that he was, indeed, Arthur Howard. She smiled, feeling a bit giddy. Their first date had already claimed a wonderful place in her heart, and she counted the moments until they could be together again.

  But then she remembered her dad’s admonition to tell Arthur about Jonnie, something that had gnawed at her for days.