Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  He shook his head, humbled by the lengths she’d gone to in order to keep him safe. A stranger. “Why would you…do this for me?”

  She considered her answer for several long minutes, her gaze so fierce, so penetrating, he feared she could plumb his very soul. Then she said simply, “How could I not?”

  Standing, she took the napkin and the tray. “Your revolver is under that sack of potatoes in the corner. It is still loaded, so take care when you move it.”

  As much as Charlie willed himself to jump from the bed, don his clothes and leave this place, he couldn’t move. Exhaustion pulled at him, making his body feel heavy as lead.

  “You will rest now,” she said in the doorway. “I have to go to work. Keep quiet, keep still. Then tonight, when I return, I will bring you more food. Until then, it is imperative that no one discover you are here.”

  “Wait!”

  She turned, startled.

  “Your name. What do I call you?”

  She hesitated for several beat of silence, then said, “They call me Elizabeth.”

  Before he could comment on the strange phrasing of her reply, she closed the door.

  • • •

  London, England

  A noise from the back garden had Susan rushing toward the window, but as she pulled aside the curtain, it was to discover that the sound was nothing more than a loose roof tile which had fallen to the ground.

  She needed Phillip to get the ladder from the garden shed and check the rest of tiles. But Phillip was the primary reason why she spent her time pacing from window to window. As if things weren’t bad enough at the Blunt household, her sixteen-year-old brother had not returned home for nearly two days and she was worried sick.

  She was going to skin him alive when he came home! It didn’t matter that he’d pinned a note to the memo board saying he would be participating in Home Guard training for the weekend and not to worry.

  Worry? Susan had passed mere worry after the first evening. Since then, her emotions had simmered and boiled until now she fairly fulminated with fury and panic and dread.

  Less than a week had passed since she’d been put in charge of the Blunt household and things were quickly disintegrating from bad to worse. Sara had received word that her job at the Green Line would be “suspended until further notice” due to the bombardment, bills were beginning to arrive in the morning post, and Susan’s hours with the Ironworks had become intermittent while the factory was being relocated and new staff hired to replace so many of the men who’d had been injured or killed in that first fateful raid. But Susan couldn’t contend with any of these concerns until she’d assured herself that Phillip was safe.

  A fresh wave of anger washed over her. Phillip wasn’t even old enough to join the Home Guard. Why hadn’t someone sent him summarily home?

  The tinny ring of the front doorbell had her rushing the length of the house. It must be Phillip. He was always forgetting his key.

  Flinging the door wide, she opened her mouth to chastise her brother for his selfishness. But the world abruptly froze in its frame like a jammed motion picture projector. The blue of the sky, the crisp shapes of the leaves on the trees, the faint scents of smoke and marigolds burned themselves into her memory along with the tall, gangly figure of a telegraph delivery messenger.

  Susan’s heart stalled in her chest before slowly wallowing back into motion, pumping sluggishly, moving blood to her numbed extremities with such excruciating slowness, she feared she would never be able to move. The girl’s mouth formed words. Words that Susan couldn’t process. Then the woman’s hand extended as she held out a flimsy envelope.

  From somewhere at the corner of her vision, Susan saw a shape move toward her. A woman’s figure, slipping through the gap in the privet hedge. She floated like an apparition, climbing the steps, taking the proffered letter before slipping an arm around Susan’s waist, taking her weight when Susan would have crumpled to the ground.

  Then, as the messenger backed away, her expression sad, so sad, as if she’d seen such sights too many times before and had been tainted with the bleakness of the news she delivered, she turned and made her way back to the street to continue her grim errands.

  “Let’s go inside, Susan.”

  Susan heard the words. Heard them, but couldn’t bring herself to obey them.

  But it seemed her body could move without conscious commands, because the arm at her waist was holding her, helping her, moving her back into the sitting room, drawing her down upon the settee.

  Beside her, RueAnn waited, the envelope held loosely, like a wounded bird in her palm.

  “Read it,” Susan whispered through lips that were numb.

  Beside her, RueAnn grew infinitely still. Her arm still wound tightly around Susan’s waist, the warmth of her body warring against the chill that had settled into Susan’s bones. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, she moved away enough to take the envelope in both hands and slit it open, unfolding it to reveal the cryptic message within.

  Susan tried to focus on the typed lines, but her vision became jumbled, swimming with sudden tears. From a distance of a thousand miles and a thousand years, she heard RueAnn slowly pronounce,

  “We regret to inform you that the S.S. City of Benares was torpedoed September 17, 1940 at 2205 hours. Millicent Blunt, age 50, and Michael Blunt, age 10, are confirmed among the casualties. Margaret Blunt, age 5, is missing and presumed dead.”

  A chill settled so deeply into her bones, Susan felt as if she were suspended in a block of ice. At some point, she must have taken the telegram, must have insisted she wanted to be alone. Because RueAnn melted away. Sun became shadow.

  When Phillip charged into the house blithely calling, “Hullo, Susan!” she must have responded, must have hidden the telegram away in the pocket of her dress. Later, the air raid sirens began. But for the first time Susan didn’t care if she hurried to safety. Woodenly, she made her way to the staircase, climbing up, up, like an old woman, until she reached her room. There, she sank onto the bed and stared at the dusky shadows painting their way across the rug. Until finally, a finger of darkness reached the bedpost, seeming to point at the spot where she’d looped her pocketbook.

  Her hand trembled as she reached out to unhook the strap. Releasing the catch, she reached into the inner pocket, now bulging with Paul’s letters.

  In her mind’s eye, she could see him clearly—the dark lock of hair flopped onto his forehead, brown, brown eyes like melted chocolate, the cleft of his chin that begged for the touch of her finger.

  Sitting up, she crushed the envelopes to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to breathe around the lump of pain lodged in her chest. Then, unable to bear the ache another moment, she ripped open the first letter, holding the delicate sheaves of paper up to the light. And when she began to read, it wasn’t the words that slipped through her brain, but the deep bass of his voice.

  Sweetheart…

  My Dear Wife,

  I don’t know if I will ever see you again. Nor do I know when or if these letters will ever be delivered. For now, I fold them up and place them in my pocket next to yours. Some might think me foolish to even hope to one day mail them when I am caught behind enemy lines, but I need to write to you. I need to believe that someday they will be placed in your hands, and you will know how I have been longing for you since that long ago morning when I said goodbye to you in the rain.

  I owe you an apology. I’m sure I’ve hurt you deeply, and I have absolutely no excuse for my behavior.

  I took your letters. I took them and I read them. It began innocently enough. When you dropped your purse that day at the theater, you neglected to pick them up, so I stuffed them in my pocket, then forgot about them. I could have returned them to you later that day—or even at the railway station. But I must admit, by that time, I was so enamored with you that I kept them.

  Maybe, I thought that by reading them I would know you better. But I never could have anticipated how much
you would reveal. And it shames me to admit, that in reading your innermost secrets, I have learned more about your thoughts and dreams than I could have divined in a lifetime. All through deceit.

  I realize now that I was a total cad. I thought only of myself. Even in marrying you, I was being selfish. After holding you, loving you, I wanted to be a hero in your eyes.

  I never should have left you standing there in the rain. I should have stayed with you until things could be sorted out between us. But, like a coward, I returned to England and tried to forget you. Yes, I went through the motions. I sent travel papers and my grandmother’s ring. There was so much more I could have done, but I extended the bare minimum in emotion and time, because I was hoping that you would refuse my offers and continue on without me.

  But now, that is my greatest fear, that you will abandon me. I know that the letters were private—written to a man whom I pray isn’t my rival. But it was through your writing that I grew to love you more than I would have ever thought possible. Everything I do is in the hopes of returning to you, of begging your forgiveness, and praying that you will allow me to start fresh.

  I want to court you, RueAnn Boggs Tolliver. I want to prove that I’m a man worthy of your love. I want to live with you by my side for years and years to come with our children and our grandchildren.

  If it weren’t for this war, this bloody war, I would be there now. I can only pray that you will wait for me. Because no matter what happens, I am yours forever.

  Charlie

  Chapter Twelve

  Rouen, France

  The noises came again. The scraping of footfalls on the stoop, the jiggling of the doorknob.

  Charlie braced himself against the wall, pressing himself into the shadows. His thumb drew back the hammer of his revolver and his finger curled around the trigger.

  Three times that day, someone had approached the front door, knocked, jiggled the door handle, then left. At first, Charlie had been able to ignore the noises, lying quietly in the dark, his heart pounding so loudly he could scarcely breathe. By the third time, he was on edge, determined not to be caught like a rabbit in a cage.

  Retrieving his revolver from beneath the potato sack, he’d made his way up the stairs to the kitchen, step by agonizing step. Then, he’d collapsed on a chair, grateful that Elizabeth had seen fit to draw all the blinds because he didn’t think he could have managed the task himself.

  When he’d heard footfalls again, he’d stood, flattening himself against the wall.

  This time there was no knock, no gentle probing. Instead, the lock grated. Metal against metal. Then the door eased open mere inches at a time. He stood still, his heart thrashing against his ribs as a shape slid inside and closed the door again.

  For several long seconds, the shape stood still in the darkness. As if sensing his presence, he felt, rather than saw a face turn toward him. Although there was very little light, he recognized enough of the familiar contours to lower the revolver and step forward.

  “There’s no one here but me,” he said lowly.

  Elizabeth’s breath escaped in a rush. “Merde. I thought I told you to stay in bed,” she said as she made her way to the table. The rasp of a match brought a flare of light which she touched to the wick of a lantern. Then, blowing out the flame, she began to unpack vegetables from her market sack.

  “Someone knocked on the door earlier. It startled me.” He was leaning heavily against the wall, panting. “I didn’t know if the same person had returned.”

  Elizabeth frowned, then offered, “It was probably Madame Deneuve. She often comes over to borrow something. She’s a widow, nearly ninety, and starved for company. I’ve had to dodge her over the past few days.”

  Charlie’s lips twitched. “Then I shall do my best to dodge her as well.”

  “Once you’re safely stowed in the cellar, I’ll invite her over for coffee.” She grimaced. “Or what passes for coffee these days. It will help to allay her suspicions, if she has any.”

  She turned to prod at the embers in the stove, adding a few precious lumps of coal. Charlie feared the added light would reveal the way his legs trembled with the effort to keep him upright. Now that the threat had passed, his revolver hung next to his thigh, feeling unbelievably heavy.

  “Get back to bed before you fall down, mon ami.”

  He shook his head and limped toward the table instead. Slowly, gingerly, he lowered himself into one of the chairs and set the pistol on the polished wood.

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “Work.”

  She took a pan from the stove and filled it halfway with water from an old fashioned pump. Then, using a stiff brush, she scrubbed the meager collection of potatoes from the counter as well as the carrots and turnips she’d collected from the market.

  “You’re late.”

  She shrugged. “I stopped by the market. The selection was rather poor today. Mostly root vegetables. But I’ve got a precious onion left from my last trip into town and a tiny bit of chicken, so the two of us won’t starve at least.”

  Elizabeth began to calmly chop the vegetables and then scoop them into a pot. Lifting her head, she pointed to her bag with the knife she’d taken from a drawer. “There’s bread in the rucksack there. You can get yourself a piece. ”

  He shook his head, watching as she attacked her chore with stubborn zeal.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “It will be a few hours before the soup is ready.”

  “I’ll wait,” he repeated.

  She worked in silence for several long minutes.

  “Where do you work?” he asked after her jitters seemed to have eased.

  Elizabeth clearly debated telling him the truth, she finally said, “I found a position as a charwoman at a German troop hospital.”

  “Ahh.” He considered that information for a moment. “That explains how you knew my…disguise wasn’t quite complete.”

  “One of my duties is to disrobe soldiers before surgery. I knew immediately that there was something wrong. Your shoes were brown, more a civilian style than military issue. A German’s boots are black.”

  He shook his head. “Such a small detail.”

  “But one that would have given you away eventually, n’est-ce pas?”

  His thumb tapped idly against wood grown velvety from years of scrubbing. “It probably wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t found me and brought me here. I was all but dead even then.”

  She paused, met his gaze, then looked away. “Oui. I believe you are right.”

  “So, why would you help me?”

  She scooped the vegetables into the pot and set it on the stove. Carefully, she added salt, pepper, a careful ration of dried spices. Then, when she could avoid the question no longer, she took the seat across from him.

  “You asked my name,” she said, avoiding an immediate answer. “May I ask yours?”

  “Charles. But most people call me Charlie.”

  “Well…Charlie…I have my own reasons for hating the Germans.” She traced a knot in the wood with her fingernail. “I was in Warsaw when the war began. My…fiancé…managed to get us out of the city, away from the German onslaught. He met up with an old friend who was a pilot. But there was only one seat in the plane—an old bi-plane from the Great War—and therefore only room enough for one person to squeeze in with the pilot.” She shrugged. “So I was taken away, while Aleksy was left behind.”

  Her eyes grew sad. “Unfortunately, things did not go as planned. Rather than making my way to a safety, I once again found myself behind German lines. So I…hide in plain sight, you might say. Right beneath the Germans’ noses.”

  “Until I made your position more vulnerable than ever.”

  “C’est ça.”

  He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m able.”

  “D’accord. But not just yet. I have not gone to so much trouble only to have it wasted, mon ami.”

  She s
tood again, making herself busy and he took that as a sign that she wasn’t comfortable saying anything more. He didn’t press. He knew that he’d endangered her with his presence—more than he would probably ever know. So he sat in silence, watching her bustle around the room, gathering ingredients that soon became a dough that she kneaded with fierce determination. Then, taking out a rolling pin, she made a flat piece that she cut into strips and dumped into the broth.

  Dumplings. She was making dumplings.

  Charlie’s stomach rumbled noisily in response, but it was the domestic simplicity of the scene that lulled him, offering a peace to his spirit that he hadn’t known he craved.

  By the time the soup was ready and they’d eaten, Charlie’s shoulder and hip had begun to ache again with untold fury. Without needing to be told, Elizabeth came to his side, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and helped him stand.

  “I don’t think it would be wise to try the steep steps to the cellar. Use the bed for tonight. Then, tomorrow, I will help you go back downstairs.”

  Charlie would have argued if he could have summoned the energy. She’d done enough for him, more than he could ever repay. He didn’t wish to put her out any more than necessary.

  But as he stumbled forward, he knew he’d already taxed his newfound strength too much. Pain radiated from his wounds with such ferocity, he feared he would collapse before he could even make it to the little closet-like area that served as a bedroom.

  He sank onto the sheets, allowing her to lift his legs up and cover him with the blankets.

  “Sleep now,” she whispered, patting his shoulder.

  Before she could move away, he grasped her wrist.

  “Thank you.”

  His eyelids were heavy and he succumbed to their weight. He felt, rather than heard her as she slipped out of his grasp and stepped from the room.

  More than anything, he wanted to disappear into a haze of sleep, but the pain thrummed so potently through his veins that he moved restlessly, trying to find a more comfortable position.