by Lisa Bingham
Pressing her face against the cool glass, she pushed back her want and her grief. She only roused when Charlie pulled into a parking place near the train station. With each mile closer to Washington D.C., the weather had grown more sullen. Thunderclouds loomed overhead, lightning flashing in the distance. The first few drops landed with a splat on the window.
Charlie glanced at his watch again. “My train’s due to leave in the next few minutes.”
She nodded, avoiding his eyes. “What about the car?”
“Take it back to Glory Bee as soon as you can. Then gather your things and get a hotel room for the night. I don’t want your father to know where to find you. Take the guns with you. You might need them. If not, sell them.”
Fat raindrops exploded onto the windshield and the hood of the sedan. His fingers flexed and gripped the wheel as if he debated what to say next.
“RueAnn, I—”
“You’ll miss your train,” she interrupted quickly. Before he could say anything more, she opened her door and stepped outside, hurrying through the vaulted entrance.
Charlie followed more slowly, taking a suitcase and a hat from the trunk and placing the weapons in their place. RueAnn waited near the passageway that would lead them to the platforms, watching as he checked to see where to find his train. Then, he removed a set of documents from his bag and stuffed them into his jacket pocket, before arranging for a porter to take his luggage.
Finally, he was moving toward her.
Although she’d known him for only hours, his loose-limbed stride was as familiar to her as breathing. While his attention was distracted by the crowds, she hungrily took in the waves of his hair, the angular planes of his face. She wanted to imprint everything about him into her memory, every word he’d ever said, every caress, every kiss. But the seconds were rushing by so quickly, she could only absorb the images in stuttering frames, like an out of sync movie.
“Platform six,” he said when he joined her.
His hand was broad and firm in the hollow of her back as he led her outside. The train lay panting and ready, most of the passengers having taken their places.
“I’ve only got a minute or two,” Charlie began, then stopped, as if searching for a way to express the inexpressible.
Lightning flashed again. Thunder rumbled like the over-laden luggage trolleys being pushed into the station. When the noise passed, it was RueAnn who spoke.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, unable to meet Charlie’s eyes. She gripped her pocketbook with both hands, numbly wishing she’d had a comb to neaten her hair. As it was, she felt bedraggled and plain.
“For what?”
He restlessly shifted his weight from foot to foot. Even in his rumpled suit, he looked the epitome of an English gentleman—polished shoes, cuffed trousers, and a carefully knotted tie. Where her hair had begun to frizz, he’d managed to comb his away from his face in a severe style that showed the path of the tines like furrows in a field. He held a hat in his hands and she longed to see him, just once, with the Fedora set at a jaunty angle.
RueAnn glanced up from her deathlike grip on her purse to his bright red tie then back again.
“I didn’t mean to get you involved in my troubles.”
He shrugged. “What’s done is done. We’ll figure out how to resolve this, one way or another.”
She nodded, waiting for him to tell her where to proceed from here. For all her avowals of independence and freedom, she was discovering that she didn’t have much experience in making her own decisions. For years, her father had done that for her. And now…
Now was she so willing to surrender her will to another man, albeit her husband for a day?
“All aboard!” the conductor yelled as he began his trip up the platform.
RueAnn panicked. What was she supposed to do? Pretend this marriage had never happened? Or wait for him to send for her, to make a go of their unorthodox union? Away from here.
Charlie tipped her head up with his finger. His eyes studied her with such intensity that she had to steel herself to keep from cringing. She was afraid of what he’d find if he looked too closely.
More than anything, she wished she knew his true feelings. Since he’d offered to marry her, he’d become so guarded and…careful. Did he resent her? Or did he feel a portion of the longing she experienced whenever he was near? He had stamped his possession on her body if not her mind and she longed to be in his arms again. Just one more time. To make the world go away.
She feared he must have read her thoughts because he cupped her cheek. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “I’ve got to go. I can’t miss my connections or there’ll be bloody hell to pay.”
Was she right in thinking that his words held a tinge of regret?
“I know.”
“If we had more time, we could sort out this damned mess.”
She trembled. “I know.”
“Last call!” the porter shouted.
Charlie leaned down and brushed her lips with his own, the merest of pressures. But with it came an echo of passion.
He felt it too. She knew he felt it, because he kissed her again, deeply, hungrily. Then, tearing free, he took a step toward the sleeper car. Paused.
Turning to face her, he reached into his jacket and withdrew his wallet. Behind him, the train shuddered and hissed.
“Look, I’ve got a few American dollars left.” He glanced at the wheels as they jerked then began to inch forward.
He held out the money, but she childishly hid her hands behind her back. If he paid her, it would feel too much like…
He grasped her hand and opened her fist, pressing the money there. “I want you to take it. Get a place of your own where your father can’t find you. You can get my address from Glory Bee or my solicitor. Write and let me know where you’ve gone. Then we’ll work out what to do next.”
“No, I…”
The train was moving now, inching its way down the platform. Charlie bent to kiss her, hauling her body against his, soft curves to hard planes. Then he broke away, walking backward. “You’re my wife now. It’s my right to make a few demands, you know.”
She bristled, and he must have noticed because he grinned to let her know he was teasing. It was a smile that involved his whole body, making him radiate with life and energy—as if the world was one big punch line. Then, without another word, he turned, running to snag one of the handrails and swinging himself aboard the moving cars.
RueAnn stood there, cold, shivering, trying to brand the memory of that smile into the very core of her brain until the red rear light disappeared into the pounding rain.
• • •
London, England
Susan stood at the door to the garden while, around her, all hint of life was sucked from the air surrounding London. First to go were the backyard noises—the rasp of push mowers, children’s laughter, boisterous voices. Next, the lumbering sounds of busses and the lighter squeaks and squeals of cars.
Until it seemed that the entire country held its breath.
Toward the front of the house, Susan heard her father fiddling with the dial on the wireless, Matthew’s low admonishments, and Sara’s subdued chatter.
Sara.
She’d never come to the Primrose Dance Hall two nights earlier. She’d spent the evening at Bernard Biddiwell’s, helping to settle his mother down after the news from Poland had her nearly in hysterics. Sara had come home tired and cross, so much so that she hadn’t even bothered to ask Susan how things had gone. Her only comment about their arrangement came the following day when Paul had left to spend the last few days of his holiday with his brother. After being given a passionate kiss at the gate, Sara had sidled up next to Susan to whisper, “Well you obviously had fun at the fancy dress.”
Soon, even Sara’s demands for details had faded beneath the rumors of war. Bernard Biddiwell had made it clear that if a declaration came, he would be joining the navy. Paul and Matthew had been discussing the
merits of the RAF—ad nauseum, in Sara’s opinion. In no time, Sara had grown morose and fractious as she wondered how many of her male friends would answer the call of duty.
So Susan had been left alone in her misery, stewing over the need to tell Paul the truth about her feelings for him, and fearing what his reaction might be if she did.
She’d played him like a fool.
But surely he would be able to see that her feelings for him were genuine.
At long last, the crackle of static eased to the familiar tones of the BBC. Susan knew she should join the family around the wireless—just as nearly every other person in Britain would be doing. But she couldn’t bring herself to move. Not yet.
Closing her eye, she leaned her head back against the jamb, one foot in the house, the other on the stoop as she sought even a breath of air to ease her misery. A lump rose in her throat as, from the front parlor, she heard Chamberlain’s familiar nasally tones.
“…I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at ten, Downing Street.
This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven a.m. that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.
I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany…”
Sobs rose in her throat, thick and strong. Not just for her and for a relationship that would never be, but for the funny, brilliant, and charming men who would soon be taken from their midst, one by one, to face unspeakable horrors.
Chamberlain’s voice receded, becoming otherworldly.
“…Up to the very last it would have been quite possible to have arranged a peaceful and honorable settlement between Germany and Poland, but Hitler would not have it…”
Susan bit her lip, refusing to cry, refusing to think of anything beyond this moment. With Chamberlain’s words, the world had suddenly lurched sideways, and those things she had always assumed would be permanent—a safe home, the lives of her rollicking family, perhaps even marriage and a family of her own—had become more tenuous. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of wallowing in her own desires. She had to think of the greater good.
Which meant that even her fantasies of contacting Paul, of trying to explain what she’d done, could no longer be indulged. She was alone again, forced back into her role as the family touchstone. The sensible one. The practical one. And Susan could clearly see the path ahead of her. Her father would grow even more absentminded as the pressures of the factory intruded upon him. Her mother, bless her heart, would worry herself to distraction. Sara would become engrossed in her endless charity drives. Matthew, at twenty-three, would join the RAF, while Phillip, who was sixteen, would wait anxiously for two more birthdays to come so that he could be in the Expeditionary Forces. The younger children, Michael, who was ten, and Margaret who was barely five, would probably be sent away to the country or to live with Uncle Joseph in Canada.
God willing, being split apart for a time would be the worst that would happen to their family.
A tear slid down her cheek. Then another. Another. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that the war wouldn’t bring hardship and loss. Standing there, rooted in the doorway, Susan sensed that she was poised in the tenuous “now.” From this moment on, her life would be forever divided into “before” and “after.”
Suddenly, she couldn’t absorb the sights, the scents, the sounds of the last few moments of innocence fast enough. Even as she fought to memorize the dappled pattern of sunlight weaving through the foliage of her mother’s flower garden, Chamberlain’s final salvo was shot over the airwaves.
“…Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against—brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression, and persecution—and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.”
Quickly swiping the moisture from her cheeks, Susan forced herself to turn her back on the garden and walk into the house where the frightening new slant of her life awaited.
Sweetheart,
I still remember the first time I went up in a plane. My grandparents lived in Cornwall then, and every summer, we would go to visit them during the Harvest Festival. Besides the annual showings of farm animals, vegetables, and flowers, there would be a carnival provided by the local Ladies’ Aid Society.
Somehow, when I was twelve, the women in charge convinced Nathan Biggs, the famous World War I flying ace to be in attendance. In the afternoon, just after the Queen of the Harvest Ball was announced, he offered a thirty-minute air show.
I’d always been one of those lads who would hang around near the aerodromes, watching the pilots taking off and landing, but this was flying like I had never seen before—loops and barrel rolls and dives. He’d be a mere speck in the blue sky one minute, then he’d be diving and swooping over the crowd mere yards from the ground! I remember one particular maneuver where he seemed to go straight up, then hang suspended for a moment before cartwheeling and spinning all the way down until I was sure he would plummet into the grass. But at the last minute, he altered his course, zipping over my head like a mosquito.
When I discovered that he would be offering rides, a pound per person, I begged my parents to let me go. Naturally, after what they’d seen, they refused. I think they were under the impression that Nathan would continue his dangerous antics with his eager volunteers.
I was so desperate to fly that I began to cry, not quite the thing to do when one is twelve and in public. Still, my parents refused.
I can’t remember ever being so disappointed. I was sure that life would end there and then and the rest of my years would be spent pining bitterly over lost opportunities. But then, my grandmother—who had to be in her nineties at the time—opened up her reticule and withdrew two pound coins. One for me, and one for her.
My parents were aghast, but my grandmother—who was not the sort of person to be trifled with—took my hand and marched us up to the front of the queue. She was the first to take her ride, needing the assistance of several hearty males to even get her into her seat. I waited impatiently, hopping from foot to foot as the plane roared down the field, circled the fairgrounds three times, then landed.
I had rarely seen my grandmother with anything other than a stern expression on her face, and I’d never seen her rumpled. But when she was lifted out of the plane again, her hair was wild and her features had taken on a look of complete and utter joy and I knew that I was in for a treat.
Then, it was my turn. I was quickly strapped into place, and holding my breath, I squeezed my eyes shut as we went barreling down the pasture, hopping and bumping so fiercely over the gopher tracks, I feared we would never gain enough speed. Then, I felt curiously heavy, and opening my eyes, I saw the ground drop away. In an instant, I felt as weightless as a feather in the wind as we climbed higher and higher, looping around the festivities, once…twice…three times, before landing again in a series of gentle bounces.
My own face must have been a mirror of my grandmother’s as my disapproving parents led us both away to the pig exhibition. But there was a moment when Nanna leaned down, whispering to me, “Now we know what it’s like to be an angel, Paulie. When I die, I’m going to be an angel.”
Nanna’s thoughts had turned to the divine, but as I glanced over my shoulder to see the next ride being given, my goals were far more practical.
“I’m going to be a pilot,” I swore to myself.
P.
Chapter Five
London, England
August, 1940
Long shadows were beginning to fall by the time RueAnn gathered her luggage and made her way out of Victoria Station to the queue of taxis waiting at the curb.
Something had been taken from her. Stolen. And after being ignored for nearly a year, she intended to get it back.
She clenched her jaw as sh
e made her way through the tide of passengers surging outside. The station teemed with people—men and women in uniform, plump housewives with packages, and harried businessman sporting battered briefcases. But she moved around them as if they were mere flotsam. After coming so far, waiting so long, she had no desire to waste another minute.
The air was heavy with heat and humidity, and inwardly, RueAnn felt as dark and oppressive as the weather. Charlie hadn’t come to meet her train—not that she’d expected him. The plans for her journey had been made at the last minute and her telegram had been brief. She’d known all along that the likelihood of his getting leave from the Expeditionary Forces were slim at best—she wasn’t even sure if he was still in England. He could have been shipped out since she’d last heard from him. Nevertheless, a part of her had hoped that this confrontation would be over as soon as possible.
“Where to, Miss?”
She handed the cabbie a card with the address, then the suitcase she’d bought in New York. The luggage had been a splurge she really couldn’t afford. But knowing Charlie lived in London with his mother Edna, she hadn’t wanted to appear like a pauper.
“Is that all, Miss?” the squat little man asked after stowing her things.
“Yes, thank you.”
He held the rear door open and she slid inside, grateful for even the hard bench seat of the taxi.
She was dead tired from her journey, first by ship, then by rail. After an hour in line at customs and jostling through the late afternoon crowds trying to make their connections, her feet ached and her temples throbbed. More than anything, she wanted to slip into a hot bath, then between cool sheets, and sleep for a week.
But first, she wanted what belonged to her. Only then would she be able to decide how to handle Charlie.
Her husband.
No. She couldn’t think about that now. She was tired of reliving the events leading up to their unconventional marriage. She was weary of wondering if Charlie had been stationed in England or beyond, if he would welcome her arrival or pretend that they’d never even met, let alone married.