He held out a hand. “I’m Drake Elton. Have you a name?”
She blinked. It was a question stupid enough that it should have made her itchy. But he’d smiled at her Antarctica quip, so she’d keep playing along. “No, my parents forgot to give me one. It’s a great tragedy. I’ve been answering to ‘you, girl’ all my life.” She extended her hand too, but not with a limp wrist, as women usually did. She held it out to shake.
He breathed a laugh and shook her hand. “All right, You Girl. I’ll simply astound you with my powers of deduction.” He made a show of concentration—pursed lips, narrowed eyes, and fingers pressed to his temples. “Given that lovely hint of an accent, I would guess Wallonia or Brussels.”
Apparently Drake Elton wasn’t a complete idiot. A corner of her mouth pulled up. “And, actually. Not or.”
“Two homes, or did you move?”
She tilted her head to the side. A clever question. The answer would tell him quite a bit about her family’s station. “Two.”
Elton leaned against the wall, exaggerated concentration fading into an easy smile. “Which one did you prefer?”
Not the question she would have expected, exactly. But an easy one to answer. “The one in Louvain.”
Being not-an-idiot, he would be familiar with the name Louvain—the place that had become synonymous with the German army’s brutality. The place that was now more pile of rubble than actual town.
But his face didn’t settle into lines of horror. Acknowledgment flickered through his eyes, and his smile lost a single degree of its ease, but he held it in place. “What do you miss most about it?”
She drew up straighter. Occasionally people asked her about her former home—what it had been like, how they escaped the destruction, whether the German occupation had been as cruel as the papers reported. But no one had ever asked her that, and she didn’t have a ready answer—a strange state, for her.
Memories crowded, shouting to be recalled above the others.
The pastries from the bakery down the street. The library at Papa’s university. The old schoolroom where tutor after tutor had fled in exasperation when she’d insisted—and proven—that she knew just as much already as they did. The mountain of books and newspapers and articles they’d lost in the fire when the soldiers invaded.
Strange. Just a few minutes ago, she was thinking of how she didn’t want to go back. Now, in her mind, she had done just that. And her lips curved up. “The tree in our back garden. There was a bench under it—the best place in the world to read.”
His smile brightened again, went warm, invited her to say more.
Maybe she would have, had voices not been echoing down the corridor. But the last thing she wanted was the secretaries to see her talking with a smiling young man and mistake it for something inane, like flirtation. She’d be drilled by them for weeks. So she nodded and stepped away. “If you’ll excuse me. It seems everyone is arriving for the day.”
He pushed off the wall. “Aren’t you going to tell me your name before you go?”
Perhaps her smile was a bit impish. And perhaps she took a bit too much joy from saying, “No.” Perhaps she would if he actually ever asked her for it. . . . “But you’re a clever man. You’ll work it out.”
If she’d been too impish, he apparently didn’t mind. His laugh followed her down the corridor.
It took her only a moment to dart back into Room 40 and gather her things. By the time she exited again, though, the lift had opened and spilled out a veritable sea of codebreakers and secretaries, all chattering.
Margot aimed for the stairs, jogging down them with more of a bounce than she usually had after her once-weekly night shift. The energy would fade soon, but with a bit of luck she could ride it through the walk home.
Maman was just gliding through the doors, her beautiful face lighting in a smile upon spotting her. “Bonjour, ma petite.”
Margot smiled. She returned the greeting in French, let her mother enclose her in a quick embrace, and then pulled her chin out of Maman’s hand when she tried to examine her face far too closely.
“You have shadows under your eyes,” Maman said, still in French.
Margot shook her head. “I’m tired,” she answered in English. “But I am well. Do you need me to run any errands this afternoon?”
Maman shook her head too, but it looked far different than Margot’s mechanical motion would have. All smooth elegance and grace, her every movement. Even dressed in a simple cotton blouse and grey wool skirt, Sophie De Wilde looked exactly like what she was—a gentlewoman, the beauty of her day, a lady to make heads turn wherever she went. One of refinement and elegance that war shortages and a menial job couldn’t hide.
“I left a meal on the table for you. Eat it before you go to bed, ma puce.”
Margot pressed her lips against another smile. Her mother still seemed to think that she’d let herself starve if she didn’t issue that command. As if Margot were not the one to prepare half the meals—sparse as they were. “I will.” She leaned over to kiss her mother’s satiny cheek. “Have a good day. I’ll see what’s to be found in the shops this afternoon.”
Maman gave her a pointed look. “We both know you will be right back here by two o’clock. But we are dining at your brother’s tonight, do not forget. We must leave at a decent hour.”
“Oui, Maman.” Her bed calling all the louder from down here, she stepped away. “I’ll see you later.”
“Rest well.”
Margot slid her hand into her pocket to reassure herself that her key was still there and set off for their flat. A meal, some sleep, a chilly bath. Then she’d be back here, where she belonged.
2
Drake Elton stared down the hallway, half a grin on his face, long after he’d been left alone by the nameless girl with the impossibly dark eyes. It was the eyes that had done it—that had made the questions surge to life in his mind.
Who was she? What was her name? And the more important one—what thoughts raced through her mind to make those dark eyes so deep?
Questions were old friends. Questions kept him alive. And in this particular case, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find the answers.
Of course, even if he didn’t manage it on this visit, it wouldn’t mean bullets whizzing at his head or cuffs threatening to encircle his wrists. But the questions were no less interesting for being a bit less urgent. He leaned a shoulder into the doorjamb and called those dark eyes to mind again.
She had a wit to match the eyes, the type he most preferred. Antarctican, indeed. His lips refused to lose their grin. Though her accent was so faint it was scarcely there, discernible only in a few vowels, he’d recognized the French Belgian in her. She’d probably been young when she came to England. Maybe at the start of the war, when the rest of the refugees flooded the country? Probably, given that she was from Louvain. If so, then she must be around Dot’s age, or a little younger even. To look at her, he hadn’t been able to peg that. Her skin was smooth, but those eyes . . .
She must be trusted implicitly to work here, that much he knew. And Hall had called her my dear—an endearment that some men might apply willy-nilly to any female they knew, but not DID. DID never did anything willy-nilly.
At the same moment, he heard the lift ding and Hall’s door open and shut quietly. Drake pushed off from the wall and turned toward his superior. If the interview was over already . . . But when he turned to look, Hall’s expression seemed pleasant enough. No scowl, no exasperation.
Please, Father in heaven, let Dot find favor here. Drake’s fingers tightened around the hat he held.
Admiral Hall inclined his head, indicating something beyond Drake. He half turned even as female voices flooded the hall. Two women, both in their late forties or early fifties, were exiting the lift, laughing. The one on the left had dark hair, dark eyes—though not so dark—and a face of utter elegance.
The other he recognized as Lady Ebba Hambro. The woman who, if all went
well, would soon be the one to demand his sister get up every day and get out of the house. Come here. Do something.
Not that Dot didn’t do plenty—but nothing that would put food on her table while Drake was gone.
If Father were still alive, he would hate that it had come to this. That the shipping business once so prosperous now rested at the bottom of the Atlantic, victim to U-boats. That his daughter had to work to survive.
But it could be good for her. Would be. He’d have to cling to that.
The women paid him no particular mind. The pretty one just slid through the same doorway You Girl had first emerged from, and Lady Hambro charged right past him, her sights set on Hall. “Is Miss Elton here already?”
Hall nodded and indicated his office. He said something to the lady—too quiet for Drake’s ears to pick up—and motioned her in.
Then he met Drake’s gaze and jerked his head to the side.
Yes, sir. He followed the admiral into another room, still night-dim but for the light coming through the windows. Once Drake had shut the door behind him, his shoulders relaxed a degree. “I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you on the promotion, sir.”
Hall waved that off. “You leave again for Spain tomorrow?”
He had to force his fingers to remain loose and easy around the brim of his hat. He nodded. He ought to have left a week ago, but their aunt had been all aflutter about evacuating London, and he’d had to see to Dot. She’d refused to go with Aunt Millie. The war had already forced her from her haven once, she’d said. She’d not leave a second home for it. Which meant she had to find a way to support herself if she stayed. “Thank you for the extra time, sir.”
“You earned it. Besides, you would be distracted in the field if you were worrying after your sister.”
“I won’t be now, I assure you.” Assuming Dot got the position here. Please, God. Please. Everything else they’d tried had been a bust. “She’s a good worker. Trustworthy. I know she comes off as awkward, but with Lady Hambro’s discipline giving her incentive—”
“Easy, Elton.” Hall’s lips settled into a smile that matched his instruction. “Your sister will be given a chance. What she does with it, of course, is up to her.”
Thank you, Lord! Drake’s shoulders sagged. “You have no idea how grateful I am.”
“Of course I do. Now.” He reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out a folded paper. “Our sources indicate that the huns will be trying to get their hands on some of the Spanish wolfram.”
“Wolfram.” Drake’s brows furrowed. “That’s a metal used in armoring, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. And as a neutral country, Spain shouldn’t be selling its wolfram to anyone—Germany or England. But of course, that won’t stop the Central Powers from trying to purchase it.” Hall’s eyes flashed. “And if by chance we can catch them taking it and intercept it . . . well then, we’re within our rights to confiscate it for our own use.”
Clever. Drake nodded. “If it’s to be found in Bilbao, I’ll find it.”
With a nod, Hall held out the paper he’d withdrawn. “Thoroton’s reports on your work have all been glowing.”
Drake tucked it into his own pocket. It would have what information he needed before meeting up with the head of operations in the Mediterranean, Charles Thoroton, but it would be sparse. Most of the information on the subject would be sent to Thoroton in code, and he’d see each agent had just what was needed, no more.
“Thank you, sir. I’m only glad my mother’s family connections can be helpful.” He’d been a bit surprised when he’d been ordered off the Royal Oak within a month of enlisting, but Thoroton, also known as Charles the Bold, had quickly explained himself. They needed men on the ground in Spain, gathering information, and Drake was a prime candidate. After attending university in Bilbao, he knew each alley and warehouse . . . and all the officials, thanks to his abuelo’s connections. It had been a simple matter of pretending to have changed his focus in university and enrolled in more classes. “I won’t let you down, Admiral.”
With a few rapid blinks, Hall chuckled and turned toward the door again. “You haven’t yet.” He paused with his hand on the door. “If your sister fits well in this position, then perhaps you can tell her in a few months that you are one of my agents. In the meantime, Lieutenant, it is best you simply claim that you’re being sent back to your ship.”
“Not a problem, sir.” He would, in fact, stop on his way out of the city at one of the little closets of a room that Hall rented and exchange his naval uniform for his usual civilian clothes. Drake knew that Hall would continue to route any letters Dot wrote to him on to Spain via Thoroton. And any letter he wrote back would similarly be put in with the rest of the navy’s post so it would work its way to her through the expected channels.
Frankly, he couldn’t imagine ever telling Dot what he really did. She was anxious enough at the thought of his being in the navy. Even prior to that, she’d been worried by all the time he spent at their grandfather’s in Spain. If she realized that their half-Spanish heritage had made him a prime recruit for the Admiralty’s intelligence-gathering operations, she may never be able to breathe normally again.
As his superior exited the room, Drake took one more moment to be grateful. For now, at least, Dot would have a bit of income to support her and a position that would make her feel a part of something. There may even be new colleagues who, with a bit of luck, might become friends.
Maybe he’d return to England next time and find her actually willing to step outside her flat without his having to use a crowbar to accomplish it.
With that happy thought buoying him, Drake slipped out of the room too and found a corner in which he could wait for his sister without being in the way of the men now filing in. Most wore the “Wavy Navy” uniform of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserves. The pattern of interlocking rings on their sleeves put one in mind of waves, hence the nickname.
But Drake knew very well these weren’t navy men. They were professors and German experts and bankers and businessmen—anyone with a knack for finding patterns and turning them into words. These were the men making sense of all the German telegrams that were being intercepted. The decrypts from this signal intelligence—SIGINT—were passed not only up the chain of command to Jellicoe, the First Sea Lord, but also along to Thoroton in Spain. And the information Drake and his fellow agents found in the field—human intelligence, or HUMINT—was, in return, sent back here for Hall to use in conjunction with the SIGINT.
It was quite a system they’d built. Drake couldn’t begin to fathom all that went into keeping it running smoothly, but this building gave him a peek. All these chambers with their signs proclaiming them off-limits. The basement below that he knew was filled to overflowing with incoming signals, dark rooms, and storage. Hundreds of people coming and going, men who had left their normal positions to help their country.
A number of women were coming in, too, in pairs or sets. Their heads more often than not were bent together, laughter on their lips.
But he didn’t see her again. All of these women had the look of typical English lasses. Not like the dark-eyed girl at all.
He ought to have asked Hall who she was. Then he could have answered her challenge within minutes. Perhaps even found her again and greeted her by name before he left.
Ah well. It hardly mattered. He’d be leaving again tomorrow and would spend this evening with his sister, so he didn’t have time to get to know her better anyway.
Still. He had a feeling those dark eyes wouldn’t leave his memory any time soon.
DID’s office door opened again at last, and Lady Hambro led the way out. She was, praise God, smiling. And even clasping Dot’s hand in her own. “That’s no matter at all, Miss Elton,” she was saying as they stepped into the bustle of the hall. “Many of our secretaries don’t know the first thing about typing when they begin. But I’ll turn you into an expert in no time. As long as you show up in the m
orning and determine to give your best while you’re here, we’ll get on well.”
Poor Dot. Her smile wavered even as she nodded. “Thank you, my lady. I’ll . . . I’ll not disappoint you.”
“Good.” With a brisk motion, Lady Hambro patted Dot’s arm and then released her. “I’ll let you enjoy your day with your brother. Just come in tomorrow at eight-thirty. That room there.” The lady indicated one along the corridor. “Ignore the sign and let yourself in. I’ll be waiting, and we’ll begin your training.”
Dot nodded. “I’ll be there.” She clamped her lips shut, but Drake knew well what had nearly slipped out. I promise. The assurance she always felt she had to tack on whenever she was telling him she’d do something like this.
Worry nibbled away at his relief. What if she couldn’t do it? He knew she’d manage it tomorrow . . . but the next day, and the next, and the next? What if instead of getting easier, it got harder?
Lady Hambro vanished into the room she’d pointed out, and for a moment, Dot just stood there, adrift in the sea of Wavy Navy men streaming by. He could see her struggling for control—her chest heaved with a few breaths, first uneven and then too even as she counted them in and out. In and out. Then, finally, she lifted her chin and looked around for him.
Drake waited until she spotted him before stepping forward. He wanted to help, to rush in to protect or shield as he’d always done when they were children. But he couldn’t do that now. It wouldn’t help her, ultimately. She had to learn to get along on her own.
Blast, but he wished Nelson hadn’t gotten himself killed at the Marne. Wished he hadn’t joined up at all. He should have just stayed at home, married Dot like they’d planned. Then his sister would have had a reason to remain in the house, matters to attend there. And Drake wouldn’t have to worry about her each and every day while he was off in Spain.
She gave him a smile that very nearly covered the panic as she wove her way through the crowded hall toward him. “It went well! I begin tomorrow.”
The Number of Love Page 2