Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  And as her mind slipped away into this hazy netherworld, she seemed to grow resentful of me. Perhaps she knew that I’d been the one to uncover my father’s sordid secrets. Or perhaps, she found it the only way to handle the crushing humiliation she must have felt to have her own worst torments privy to her children.

  I only know that at times when I would least expect it, I would turn to find her gaze on me, laced with such bitterness that I would be forced to look away. Then, my mother would return to her fervent supplications to St. Jude, Curly Top and the Golden Gate Bridge, until it became apparent that religion had become an escape for reality to my mother and a vengeful threat for those whom my father believed committed evil of any kind.

  And he was forever finding fault with me.

  RueAnn

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saint Sebastian, France

  Charlie crouched low behind an outcropping of rocks, blowing on his hands to warm them as Elizabeth and her companion slid into position beside him.

  “You’re sure this is the place?” Elizabeth’s Resistance contact asked, his voice a murmur. Charlie had been told to refer to him by his code name Olivier.

  Elizabeth nodded. “The papers in Hauptman’s office listed the old abbey as the final transport point for the men on your list.”

  “And what is your theory?” the man asked Charlie.

  Charlie met his gaze, taking in the pale silver color of his eyes, the hair which had long since turned gray. But he sensed that Olivier wasn’t nearly as old as he let on. Probably early fifties, short, compact, with the sagging jowls of a bulldog. With his rough peasant clothing and gnarled hands, he was so ordinary, so unremarkable, that he could easily remain unnoticed in a crowd.

  “The men on your list are believed to be part of a secret propulsion project.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Rockets. In essence, a bomb that can fly itself.”

  Olivier looked skeptical, but didn’t comment. Unbuckling his rucksack, he removed a pair of binoculars and studied the area below. “It looks quiet.”

  “It’s early yet,” Elizabeth said, looking up at a sky still pink at the edges. Thick gray clouds hung low on the hills. A skiff of snow had fallen during the night, making the ground hard and crisp—each blade sheathed in a sweater of ice.

  “I don’t see any movement. Usually, the Germans display their guards quite openly.”

  “May I?” Charlie held out his hand for the binoculars. Lifting them to his eyes, he adjusted the focus. Just as Olivier had said, the old abbey looked abandoned. The outer walls were crumbling, the windows were dark—some of them cracked and broken. And with the weather as cold as it had been this past week…

  Cold.

  Ice.

  Charlie adjusted the slant of the binoculars, then hissed, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.

  “Look at the grass.”

  He handed the binoculars back to Olivier, knowing what he would see. As the first rays of sunlight slanted over the frozen sod, it illuminated a path of footsteps in the frost, prints that crossed over and over themselves as if a single person had made a circular route around the perimeter.

  “Ahh,” Olivier breathed in satisfaction. “It would seem that it isn’t the abbey they are using but…” He grinned like a cat having just snapped up the canary. “Over there. The outbuildings further to the west.”

  Charlie retrieved the binoculars and looked where he’d been told. The old stone buildings at the edge of the forest were all but obscured by the trees, but there was no disguising that the walls around this section of the old monastery had been reinforced with razor wire. He could just make out a transport truck carefully shrouded in camouflage netting—and he would hazard a guess that it wasn’t the only one.

  “What were those buildings used for originally?”

  He gave Olivier the field glasses and the other man quickly stashed them back into his rucksack. When he met Charlie’s gaze again, there was a gleam of satisfaction in his silver eyes.

  “The monks were famous for their wines—elderberry, blackberry, currant. If I remember correctly, those outbuildings were their workshops…” his grin widened “…while underneath, there were a series of buried tunnels where they stored their bottles.”

  For the first time since becoming trapped in Rouen, Charlie felt a small kernel of satisfaction unfurling in his breast.

  “The perfect place to conduct secret research,” Elizabeth murmured.

  “D’accord. It’s doubtful the Allies would have spotted it from the air, and even if they did, the tunnels would be protected during a bomb blast.”

  “So what do we do?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Make a quick sketch of what you see.”

  She nodded, taking a stub of a pencil from her own rucksack and quickly drawing what she could see on a scrap of paper from an old composition notebook. Then she shoved everything back in her bag.

  When she was finished, Olivier nodded toward the road. “We head back to Rouen—” he gestured toward Charlie—” before this one attracts too much attention. The papers I gave him will not pass inspection if he’s approached and knows no French. I’ll send some men to watch the Abbey. We need to know more before we can proceed: when deliveries are made, guards refreshed, supplies delivered. Then and only then can we add more details to your map and begin to plan.”

  “Plan?” Charlie asked. “You have something in mind?”

  “Absolument. It won’t be easy, but I think that we would do well to blow the Germans to kingdom come before they can advance too far in their research, n’est-ce pas?” He squinted down at the valley below. Then he looked at Charlie. “Do you think your friends in London could donate some materials toward that end?”

  Charlie thought of the crystal radio set that had been dismantled and hidden under a floorboard in Elizabeth’s house. He grinned. “Once I make contact, they should be able to drop supplies within forty-eight hours.”

  “Then we’d best hurry before Hauptman realizes his office has been breached.”

  Charlie nodded, regarding the innocent looking ruins of the monastery. They were all playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse—Charlie, Olivier, Hauptman, and Elizabeth.

  It only remained to be seen who would emerge the cat…

  And who would be the mouse.

  • • •

  Lincolnshire, England

  On her second day in Nocton, Susan left the Two Horseman in plenty of time to walk to the hospital. The chill breeze and long trek would give her time to compose herself and collect her thoughts—because her emotions had been running high since her first encounter with Paul. She’d alternated between crying inconsolably from the sheer hurt of being sent away, to castigating herself for her foolishness. This charade had continued far too long. Somehow, she had to find a way to end it. But first, she had to see if, by coming as herself, Paul might allow her to stay a little longer.

  As she made her way down the lane to the hospital, she felt as if a flock of swallows fluttered in the pit of her stomach. She was more nervous today than she had ever been. Not just because of Paul’s abrupt send-off the day before, but because today there was no artifice to hide behind. She had come as herself—her hair simply combed, a favorite crepe dress, and serviceable shoes.

  As she made her way up the worn steps, she noted that, this time, she garnered very little attention. She could have been another villager coming about her business rather than someone’s sweetheart.

  A clock from somewhere in the main sitting room began its tinny chimes as she stepped up to the ornate table in the front hall. The same woman guarded her recipe box of information as if she were a leprechaun hoarding a pot of gold.

  “Paul Overdone, please.”

  She supposed she could have gone straight up to his ward, but after yesterday, Susan didn’t want to inadvertently stumble in upon Paul if he was in the middle of his treatment.

  The woman rifled through her index cards. “It�
�s his rest time in the sunroom.” She pointed to a corridor near the stairs. “Take that hallway there, turn left at the far end, third door on your right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Susan’s heels rapped against the black and white tiles as she made her way through the foyer. As she followed the woman’s directions deeper into the building, she noted that the furnishings on the main floor were nicer than upstairs, the paint work a little smarter. Perhaps the previous owners had run out of money and had simply kept up the façade of grandeur in the rooms that would be visited most.

  As she turned down the last jog, light spilled into the hall several yards away, and she suspected she had found the sunroom without even needing to count the doorways. She hesitated, feeling an uncontrollable urge to pull the compact from her pocketbook and check her appearance, even though she knew she would find the same face that always stared back at her. And yet…for the first time, such thoughts didn’t disappoint her.

  Her steps were slow, measured, as she made her way to the sunroom. At the threshold, her gaze took in the faceted jewel of a room that bowed out into the garden in panels of glass. There were potted plants and trees—some of them gasping for a little attention—interspersed with a myriad assortment of chairs brought in from other areas of the house. Men in hospital pajamas and various uniforms hunkered around card tables, a puzzle, a dart board, or simply sat basking in the winter sun made warmer by the walls of glass and a dogged set of radiators.

  She scanned the assortment of men, no longer startled by the seriousness of their apparent injuries and bandages. This time, she saw faces as she searched for one that was familiar to her.

  And then she saw him.

  Paul sat in a wheel chair a little apart from the others. He was staring out at the cold December day, but she sensed he didn’t really see his surroundings. Instead, his gaze was hard. Unblinking.

  She moved toward him, resisting the urge to smooth a hand over her hair. There was a metal bench opposite where he sat and she paused just as she reached it. Nevertheless, he didn’t look up.

  The room was incredibly warm, so she shrugged out of her coat, laying it over the arm of the bench and placing her purse beside it. Then she sat down, right in Paul’s line of sight.

  He blinked, focused on her, then looked away.

  “How are you?” she asked softly.

  There were several beats of silence, then, “Did Sara tell you to come here?”

  Susan shook her head. “No. I came of my own volition. As soon as I heard you were hurt.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why not? A friend of mine is in the hospital. Where else should I be?”

  “Home with your mother.”

  Susan paused only a moment. “My mother is dead. She, Matthew, and Margaret were killed when the S.S. City of Benares was torpedoed. My father was killed during the Germans’ first raid over London. My brother Matthew is believed missing or possibly dead.” She met his look head-on. “So you see, keeping in touch with a friend is very important to me.”

  Paul held her gaze for long moments, before finally breaking the contact. “I’m sorry to hear about your family.” The words were low. Ashamed.

  He lapsed into silence and Susan didn’t press for conversation. For the moment, she was content to be here, content at not having been sent away.

  “Did your sister tell you how beastly I was to her?”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond, so she said instead, “Does it matter?”

  For the first time, she saw a glint of humor. “That you talked to her? Or that I was beastly?”

  “Either.”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t suppose it does.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want her coming back.”

  Susan swallowed, whispering, “Why?”

  His gaze returned to a spot somewhere outside. “Because I don’t want her to see me this way.”

  “Alive?”

  His mouth twisted. “Disfigured.”

  She glanced down at her lap, her fingers twisting together. “Do you think that matters to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your sister is…beautiful.”

  Where she, Susan, obviously was not.

  “I don’t think you’re being entirely fair,” she said, unable to help herself.

  “Life, as you may have noticed, is never fair.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  He grimaced, realizing that he wasn’t the only one to have suffered the vagaries of fate.

  “Tell her I’m fine. Tell her…I’ve survived. But tell her I don’t ever want to see her again.” He closed his eyes, hissing in pain.

  Susan waited until the spasm had passed.

  When he opened his lashes again, he looked surprised that she was still there.

  “You can go now.”

  “As you wish.”

  She stood, collecting her coat and pocketbook. “Is there anything you would like me to bring tomorrow?”

  Paul shook his head. “You’ve done your duty. Go back to London.”

  “You’ve never been a duty, Paul,” she said. Before she could stop herself, she reached out a hand, touching the top of his head, ruffling his hair, reveling in the way the dark strands flowed through her fingers like silk. Bending, she pressed a light kiss to his bandaged forehead.

  “Fine then, if you have no requests, I’ll begin by bringing you something to read.”

  Then, before he could say anything to the contrary, she walked away, her fingers still echoing with the caress of his hair.

  • • •

  London, England

  With Christmas swiftly approaching, RueAnn began to make plans. Despite the restrictions and shortages, she wanted to host a celebration for her little “family.” So drawing Edna aside one night, she confessed her intentions.

  Edna immediately brightened, turning to her recipe books to decide on the dishes for their feast. If they were careful with the ration coupons, they should be able to come up with something special.

  Having delegated the responsibility of the meal, RueAnn turned her mind to the gifts. Although most of their funds were spent on keeping the house running, with a little creativity, she was sure that she and Edna could offer a small present to each of their friends and boarders.

  For Susan and Sara, she planned on crocheting lacy edgings onto delicate silk handkerchiefs which could be draped over belts or used to adorn the pockets of their Sunday dresses.

  Tonight, the raids were closer, the noise more fierce. The Anderson was nearly empty, for once. The sirens had gone off before the engineers had returned, and RueAnn prayed they were safe. Mr. Peabody was out of town on business and Susan was still in Lincolnshire. Phillip had gone to stay with a friend in the Tube. So there was only Edna to keep her company, and she’d fallen asleep.

  Slapping her arms to keep warm, RueAnn added another lump of coal to the little potbellied stove that the engineers had vented to the outside about the same time they’d made a more permanent door. But even with the space completely enclosed, the night was bitter and the wind buffeted the corrugated tin.

  RueAnn paused to check her stitches on the handkerchief she was making, then swore softly under her breath. She’d missed a few chains nearly an inch back—probably when the reverberation of a bomb had caused her to flinch. Now she would have to unravel nearly a half-hour’s progress.

  “Bother,” she murmured to herself, pulling on the cord. Since she’d wanted the lace to be particularly fine, she’d been using a spool of silk thread she’d unearthed in the bottom of Edna’s sewing basket. If there was any left over after her project she would add some lace to Edna’s—

  A sudden wave of heat and noise threw RueAnn from her chair onto the floor. Her crocheting materials flung from her hands as she was pushed down onto the cold earth by an explosion of such magnitude that her ears popped and the air was driven from her bod
y. For seconds, hours, she fought to remain conscious, all sound becoming muted, her gasps for air rasping in her ears until finally, she was able to breathe again—hot, hot air with the stink of fuel and gunpowder and melting rubber.

  She was trembling so badly that she had to drag herself to her knees, the icy, hard earth biting into her skin beneath her nightdress and robe. Gripping the rails of the wooden bunk, she managed to brace herself so that she could check on Edna.

  “Are you all right?”

  Edna nodded, wide-eyed and pale, the blankets dragged up to her chin, her silken boudoir cap askew on her head.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yesh…yesh…”

  Pushing herself to her feet, RueAnn stumbled to the door, pushing, pushing, then pushing again until she finally managed to scrape it open far enough to peer outside.

  Adrenaline surged through her system, her heart jolted, pounding from the vicinity of her throat as she feared that the yard had scored a direct hit—and at first it seemed so. The garden was awash with a blazing light that shimmered and jumped. But as she staggered out into the snow, she realized that the blast had occurred further down the block. Huge flames enveloped the house on the corner. Beyond that was the black hole of a crater which had swallowed the mangled metal remains of a bus. Debris had been thrown in all directions—masonry, bits of timber, and the minutiae of life, books, clothing, torn curtains, and rubber tires.

  And all of it, all of it was on fire.

  A mountain of splintered beams had fallen near the spot where the hedge butted up against the communal wall, and RueAnn watched in horror as the flames began spreading from the beams to the hedge, licking against the barren foliage. Sputtering, popping, the conflagration leaped to life with the fresh fuel.

  Dodging back into the Anderson, RueAnn panted, “Give me your blanket. Quickly! The house is in danger of catching fire!”

  Edna pushed the woolen covering toward her and scrambled from the bunk, grasping her cane.

  Running toward the hedge, RueAnn began batting at the blaze, praying that she could stop it before it reached the house. If the wood siding or decorative trim caught fire, she would never be able to put the flames out.