Begun by Time

by Morgan O'Neill

Yet there was something more serious, almost palpable, the sense they had a sacred bond between them.

  Her mind played back to late in the night, after they lay together a second time. They’d discussed the date for their wedding.

  “I want a small wedding,” she told him. “I’ve never been one to lust after pomp and ceremony. The simpler the better, just our family and a few close friends.”

  “Whatever you wish, love,” he replied. “How about a month from now? That way I can make arrangements for my aunt and uncle to travel from Cambridge, and your Aunt Vivi should be able to attend as well.”

  “My birthday is on the tenth of January,” she said.

  “Then we can plan around that, perhaps a week or so afterward.”

  “No, I’d actually like to be married on my birthday,” she said. “Call me batty…”

  He smiled. “Then the tenth it is,” he declared. He went on to say he sincerely doubted he’d ever forget their anniversary, coinciding as it would with her birthday.

  That brought laughter and the joy of sharing, their bonding complete. Arthur had changed her world with his touch, and also with his patience and determination to see her through the storm and into the light.

  Memories clouded her thoughts. Oh, Jonnie, Jonnie. Tears came to her eyes, but they were neither as mournful as before, nor part of any deep obsession. His loss had been replaced with a sense of the inevitable, as if the new path in her life was meant to be. She felt the change in her spirit was permanent, the depth of her grief replaced by bittersweet remembrance.

  Jonnie, you’d understand, wouldn’t you? I think you would approve of Arthur and wish us a happy life.

  Smiling through her tears, she turned her attention back to the present and Arthur Howard. As she considered his flat, she sensed his bright future in the legal field and his success so far, for he was already acquiring some of the finer things in life.

  His bachelor flat was tastefully decorated with good furnishings. Even his bathroom had elegant accoutrements. Her gaze fixed on a pricy razor and shaving brush set on his sink, which was discreetly stamped Taylor of Old Bond Street. Posh. Her gaze roamed to his silk dressing robe, which hung on a hook on the door, then to a shelf containing an assortment of bottles and jars of shaving cream and men’s cologne, also from Taylor’s, along with some vials of vitamins and aspirin.

  But something is missing. She smiled to herself, realizing it was a woman’s touch.

  She imagined her things sharing the shelf with his: her cold cream, lipstick, and mascara, and perhaps some perfume as well. Future gifts from him? Certainly, she thought, imagining crystal bottles of Shalimar, Tabu, and two Chanel fragrances: No. 5 and No. 22.

  Shaking her head, she realized she wouldn’t want her costly perfume teetering on the shelf. Instead, she would need a mirrored dressing table for their bedroom. She’d display her perfume on a Waterford tray along with bits of jewelry.

  “Yes, Arthur will give me presents,” she whispered to the air. “He’ll surely buy me presents, he’s such a dear.”

  Returning to the task at hand, she wrung out the sheets as best she could, then went off in search of his laundry bag. She found it in the hall closet. To make matters even better, the bag was stamped with the establishment’s address. No need to bother Arthur with such a nuisance, no need to explain.

  Her stomach suddenly growled. Famished, she went to the kitchen and made tea and toast, ate with relish, and then tidied up, taking extra time to straighten the things on his kitchen worktop. This made her feel satisfied and rather domestic. Her future role as Arthur’s wife would suit her just fine.

  “Mrs. Arthur Bertrand Howard.” Catherine smiled, quite liking the sound of that.

  After finding a bottle of milk bath, a brand new toothbrush, and some clean towels in the linen cabinet, she drew herself a bath. While the water ran, she brushed her teeth using Arthur’s toothpaste. It was S.R. brand, one she’d never tried before. Rather good, she thought. I shall make it my own as well. That decided, she sank into the bathtub. The water was perfect, her body welcoming its soothing warmth.

  She took hold of the soap and sniffed it—a sandalwood scent. Lovely, she thought, as she made plans to add some bars of the luscious Yardley English Lavender.

  Give and take. Back and forth. Sharing and compromise. They would surely work things out. Love always found a way.

  With a contented sigh, she whispered again, “Mrs. Howard…Mrs. Arthur Howard.”

  …

  Before leaving Arthur’s flat, Catherine telephoned his office. His secretary, Mrs. Philips, took the call, Arthur being engaged with a client. The woman relayed the message that Arthur would be free at four and would be pleased to meet Catherine at the gates of Buckingham Palace around quarter past the hour.

  Joy! That meant he planned something special!

  After dropping off Arthur’s laundry and then catching the tube, Catherine arrived in Stratford a little before noon. She was determined to make her stay at home short and sweet, only long enough to change her clothes and freshen her makeup.

  Catherine entered her house, greeted the ever-exuberant Duffy, and then found her parents in the kitchen having lunch. She reassured them all was well and that she was fine, having gotten a very good night’s sleep at her friend’s flat in London. When asked about Arthur, she told them she was meeting him for supper. She felt relief in that everything she said had a modicum of truth behind it, since Arthur was her friend and she’d had a very good night’s sleep and she was meeting him for supper. She crossed her fingers behind her back and went upstairs to dress for the evening ahead.

  When she finally came back down, she put on her red coat and then went searching for her parents, ready to say good-bye. She found them in the lounge. Her dad was in his favorite chair, reading his newspaper. Her mum sat on the sofa, knitting and listening to the radio. Duffy was on the floor, stretched out and intent, ears perked up, presumably listening to the radio, too. She bent and ruffled the fur of her darling, silly dog.

  “Catherine, is there something you’re not telling us?” her mother asked. “Is that Shalimar I smell?”

  She smiled. “Yes, from Aunt Vivi, remember? I decided to wear it because I think Arthur is taking me someplace special tonight.”

  “Is that so?” Her dad glanced up from his paper. “Do tell him it is proper to ask the father beforehand.”

  “Dad!” Catherine said, grinning as she headed for the door. “Please don’t wait up for me,” she called out to them. “I’ve no idea when I’ll get home tonight.”

  “If your date ends at a late hour, Cathy, you have my permission to stay in London at your friend’s flat again. And please do invite your…Arthur here for supper tomorrow, for our chat.”

  Catherine turned. Her father’s gaze was steady, his brow clear. She knew he knew. She could tell he understood and was glad she’d made peace with her past and now embraced the future.

  She raced back to him and hugged him. “Thank you, Dad,” she said as she glanced at her mother, who smiled and nodded.

  All was well. She raced upstairs and packed a small suitcase with some necessities, things she planned to leave at Arthur’s flat. Smiling, she came downstairs to say good-bye to her parents, promising again she would bring Arthur back for the family supper tomorrow evening.

  How wonderful she felt! With a jaunty step, she walked to the Underground Station on Leyton High Street. Despite her parents’ understanding, she felt determined to honor them and her upbringing as a young woman of good family. Given the morals of the time, and despite their decision to look the other way, she vowed this would be the last night she would spend with Arthur before their wedding.

  But she guessed they would discreetly make love many times over the next few weeks, the back and forth between his flat and her home well worth the effort.

  Poor dear, he’s going to be exhausted, she merrily thought as she boarded the train.

  …

  Hours l
ater, Catherine walked along the Mall, feeling as if she were seeing London with new eyes. It still bore the scars of the Blitz, with rubble-strewn lots and damaged buildings on nearly every street. But like her, the city’s healing had started, the very worst over. There was a post-war construction boom, the new replacing the old. 1948 was just around the corner, and the future seemed bright.

  She’d already picked up Arthur’s laundry and gone back to his flat. His bed was now neatly made, his other things put away, and her suitcase stowed in a closet.

  With Buckingham Palace in her sights, she enjoyed the sunny weather, quite unusual for December, with a brisk breeze that caused the last, scattered autumn leaves to whirl about on the pavement. She felt beautiful in her red coat, her hair loose upon her shoulders, the silk stockings on her legs a pair she’d recently bought at Marks & Spencer.

  Beneath her coat, she wore an elegant black suit with golden embroidery by Jacque Griffe. Her Aunt Vivi had gifted her the couture outfit last year, on the occasion of Catherine’s twenty-first birthday, and it was the first time she’d worn it. Black pumps completed the outfit, little bows gracing the tops. Definitely posh trappings for a girl from Stratford, but then, Arthur Howard was rather posh himself, even if he’d once been a wee pirate lad from Devonshire.

  Chuckling to herself, she caught sight of a tall man in a dark suit and bowler hat, a handsome man—all hers. Her heart went pitter-patter.

  She laughed at her own giddiness just as he spotted her and waved. How handsome he looked, how debonair! Not Cary Grant, no. But certainly a mingling of David Niven and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.

  Oh, I am the luckiest girl in the world!

  She raced into his arms, and they kissed with passion, the heat generated by his touch a promise of all the moments to come.

  Arthur held Catherine tight against him and whispered into her hair, “This seemed the perfect place to meet.”

  She nodded. “I shall never forget that moment in November.”

  “Nor I.” He drew back and looked into her eyes. “What is that perfume you’re wearing? You smell wonderful.”

  “A gift from my aunt, who spoils me rotten,” she said. “It’s her favorite—and now mine, too. She bought it for me when last she visited. It’s called Shalimar.”

  “Well, it was made for your skin, darling.” He kissed her again. “Catherine, I shall devote my life to spoiling you as well. That is, if you would do me the honor…?”

  A small crowd had gathered at the palace gates, and there was a scattering of applause as he removed his hat and went down on one knee. He took the heart-shaped box from his breast pocket, the one he’d offered her before, and opened it, holding forth the beautiful diamond engagement ring.

  Her eyes welled up as he asked, “Catherine Ellen Hastings, will you marry me?”

  She nodded again, this time to rousing cheers. “Yes,” she replied. “I love you so very much.”

  Grinning, Arthur rose and swept her into his arms. After he kissed her, her gaze strayed to the palace, where a dark-haired woman stood alone in an upper-story window, one hand resting against the glass pane as she stared down at them.

  Could it be…? Catherine wondered. An instant later, the figure backed away and was gone. Was that Elizabeth?

  She guessed she would never know the truth, but she hoped it was true. It seemed so right, as if everything had come full circle in elegant simplicity.

  Like a wedding ring.

  …

  They had Rob Roy cocktails at the American Bar in the Savoy and then were seated for supper at the hotel’s River Restaurant, their table at a window overlooking the Thames.

  Catherine delighted in her diamond ring, and Arthur laughed as she flashed it toward the maître d’, waiters, busboys, and nearby customers. After two servings of Oysters Rockefeller, they passed on supper and shared a bottle of Winston Churchill’s famous Pol Roger champagne instead. Arthur said it was high time he tasted it, and besides, the occasion warranted the expense. Catherine found it quite delicious, while Arthur gave her a wink and quipped that Moët & Chandon would continue to be his preferred beverage. They laughed at his jest, remembering their simple childhoods in Exeter and Stratford, so far from the trappings of high society.

  The cab ride back to his flat was filled with sensual expectation. He’d held her hand the entire ride, his touch unleashing an intense heat each time his fingers made the slightest move. Occasionally, he would lift her hand and feather-kiss the inside of her wrist, giving her delicious shivers of desire. By the time they arrived at his doorstep, Catherine’s body throbbed with yearning.

  He kissed her upon reaching the front door. “Darling,” he whispered. “I have something I must discuss with you.”

  She drew back and frowned, suddenly aware of how serious he looked.

  “What is it, Arthur? Is something wrong?”

  “No, love. There’s nothing wrong—far from it—but we do need to talk.” He opened the door, took her by the hand, and led her to the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

  She felt a sense of calm as she gazed into his loving eyes. She could tell he wanted to take care of her. That was what this was about.

  He sat beside her and kissed her on the tip of her nose. “You are so beautiful,” he began, then hesitated, clearly at odds about what to say. “You see… We were quite, er, distracted last night. It’s my fault. I did not protect you. Do you understand what I mean?”

  Condoms, he’s talking about condoms! Catherine thought. Poppy had whispered a few details of married life to her. Catherine’s own mum had been silent about such things, having retained a Victorian sensibility on the subject of birth control.

  “I understand what you mean,” she said.

  “We shall be married soon, but if I… If last night… Well, let me say I should very much like a baby.”

  She blushed.

  He kissed her lips. “If it didn’t happen last night, then the timing shall be wholly up to you. We’ll try when you are ready to become a mother.”

  She nodded. “I think I should like to wait at least a year,” she said. “My friend Poppy says it’s quite nice to be a couple at first, to enjoy life together without babies.”

  “Yes, she has a point. Whilst a child would be a joy, it will be wonderful to have you all to myself.”

  He rose and held out his hand to her. She took it and stood, melting before his passionate gaze.

  With a kiss, he swept her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom.

  …

  Arthur sat with Catherine in his kitchen, eating scrambled eggs and toast at midnight. She looked adorable, her hair mussed up, an impish grin on her face as she wolfed down her food.

  I love her, he thought. I don’t want to ruin her mood. How in bloody hell am I going to broach the subject of Brandon again?

  He knew he must inform her about James Findley and his ghost theory. With everything that had happened in the past few days, with all the wonderful distractions, he hadn’t discussed anything about his meeting with Findley, and she’d not asked about it, either.

  Well, pluck up your courage, old chap, he told himself. There’s no time like the present.

  “Catherine,” he said.

  She looked up, smiling.

  “As you know, I met with a man who had information about Jonnie.”

  Her face fell. “Yes.” She hesitated, then said in a small voice, “I quite pushed it out of my mind. Please, tell me what happened.”

  He reached for her hand. “Are you certain, love? We could talk about this some other time.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s all right. I want to know.”

  He kissed her hand, then told her everything Findley had revealed to him that night at Ely Court. At the end, he said, “If you don’t mind, I would like to continue investigating this.”

  “I don’t mind.” She sighed. “I keep remembering Jonnie’s father, Nigel Brandon, and how grief-stricken he was after the vanishing. He died nev
er knowing what happened to his son. And I believe it was the not knowing that truly broke his heart.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Arthur, do you believe Jonnie is dead?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “How can anyone possibly know without proof?” He rose and came around to her, then bent down and kissed her brow. She stood and nestled into his arms.

  He whispered into her hair, “Who’s to say what Tom Lloyd and James Findley saw? There’s no real evidence as to exactly what happened to Jonathan, and no body, yet I do believe something untoward occurred, else he would have stayed with you. I can’t believe he abandoned you. How could anyone willingly leave you?”

  She hugged him. “Thank you, Arthur. I’ve no idea what happened to Jonnie, but I know he didn’t walk away from me, or his father. It would be so unlike him. It’s just not possible he could be so cruel. He was a good man.”

  He held her close until she drew back and looked into his eyes. “Arthur, what would I have done, had you not found me?”

  “It’s the same for me, darling,” he answered. “I can’t imagine life without you. That day at the palace gates… I fell for you instantly. I was yours from the moment I saw you.”

  “Yes, dear heart,” she softly said. “And you are the love of my life.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  10 January 1948, St. Bride’s Church, Fleet Street, London

  The weeks had flown by, the publication of the wedding banns done, the Christmas season come and gone. Ah, the new year was well begun!

  Catherine stood before the altar in the chapel of the crypt in St. Bride’s Church, about to take her vows in an evening ceremony. The church had suffered extensive damage during the Blitz, but this lower level was intact. The whitewashed, candlelit walls glowed with an aura of romance.

  She wore an elegant suit of ivory satin and Chantilly lace, a matching hat with a delicate face veil perfectly complementing her outfit. She held a wedding bouquet of white roses, the scent delicate and mingling with the powdery fragrance of her Shalimar.

  Arthur stood at her side, handsome in a new dark gray suit, his eyes shining with happiness.