Thoughts of Mama led to a few of Father. Then to Dot . . . and from there it was an easy slide to Margot De Wilde.
But he shook away the image of her dark eyes and climbed back up to the trapdoor in the roof. Out, onto the top of the carriage, into the wind. He lowered himself to a seat on the edge. Waited. Watched the side of the tracks for the signal Charles the Bold had promised would be there. A blue flag, he’d said. That was when he had to uncouple the carriages.
He spotted it a minute later, in the distance. And spotted something else in the same glance—a man, climbing up onto the first of the freight carriages.
“Blast!” Not wasting time on any other words, he shimmied down the ladder, praying with everything in him that Jaeger—because it had to be Jaeger—hadn’t spotted him.
Knowing very well he had.
Come on, Elton. Don’t think about it, just do it. He had a few minutes before the bloke could possibly get to him. A few minutes to do what needed done. He wasn’t in any danger, not yet.
But he couldn’t uncouple the carriages too early. If he did that, they’d coast to a halt here on this track, and he’d have a major problem on his hands. He had to do it the moment this carriage reached the blue flag—that would leave just enough time and distance for the main part of the train to continue on its track, for this carriage to slow. Not all the way, but enough to allow for another of Thoroton’s men to switch the track before Drake reached it. But it needed enough momentum left to then coast to a halt along the siding, where British agents could unload the tainted sugar. Timing was crucial.
But better a bit early and risk drifting to a halt too soon than miss his mark and get there too late—or not at all. And if he had to engage Jaeger, it could well be not at all.
His hand moved of its own volition to check his holster—his sidearm still rested snug and secure inside it. If it came to it, he’d do what needed to be done. But it made his chest go tight. He’d never had to kill a man, and he didn’t much fancy changing that. He’d never even fired the gun outside of training. Doing so now, when facing a single enemy, seemed somehow different from being in the heat of battle, comrades on either side and the opposite army swarming.
Seemed different by far from the service he was usually called upon to do.
Maybe his opposite number wasn’t very nimble. Or was afraid of heights. Maybe he’d slip, or decide to go the safer route and climb down and up each carriage’s end instead of jumping from one to the next.
Drake leaned over to check the approach of the blue flag. Estimated that at the train’s rate, it would take another thirty seconds to reach it.
Please, Lord.
He reached for the coupler. He’d already read about how to work them, and yesterday he’d even snuck into the railyard to get some practice. He’d take no undue chances with this going wrong.
Fifteen seconds. Ten.
Please, Lord. He glanced up but saw no angry German charging at him.
Now! He unhooked the air lines in one move, tugged upon the pin until it slid out of place in the next, then held his breath as the blue flag zipped by.
For a moment, nothing happened. The two carriages were still moving at the same clip as the rest of the train, and the coupler just stayed there where it was.
Then inertia beautifully began to work. First a narrow gap appeared between the two couplers, then an inch. Three. A foot. A yard.
He stood again, using his handhold on the ladder to leverage himself up. He couldn’t risk climbing yet. That would put him in view of Jaeger.
A shout sounded. He couldn’t make out any words, given the wind and the screeching of the wheels on the tracks, but it was likely the German, noticing the growing gap between the main train and the carriage with his sugar. Six feet now. More. When it was wide enough that a man wouldn’t be able to leap across the distance, the calculus on what he should do changed.
The range of a pistol was significantly longer than what a man could jump, and Drake was a sitting target here at the front of the train.
He drew his own sidearm from its holster and climbed. He’d only gone up three rungs when that voice rang out again. And this time he recognized the word.
“Elton!”
Blast. The German knew who he was, by name. Drake looked over his shoulder, just able to see Jaeger’s head and shoulders. Still clinging to the ladder with his left hand, he held out his right and squeezed the trigger. The shot went wild, as Drake had intended, but it had the desired effect as Jaeger dropped to the deck.
It wouldn’t keep him down long, but he only needed a few moments. He climbed up the last few rungs, blindly fired another shot to keep his opposite number down, and scrambled onto the roof of the carriage.
He was only a second from safety, ready to swing down into the carriage, when fire pierced his abdomen. Like an echo of the pain, his ears registered the sound of a pistol. The angry Spanish shout. “I will find you! You will pay for this!”
Then he pitched into the black of the carriage. Partly on purpose, partly as the train jerked onto the switched track, partly because his legs gave out.
Barrels roughly caught his fall. He managed to roll off them onto a marginally more welcoming sack of something. But then he could only lie there and try to breathe. Try not to let the dizziness and agony steal his mind.
He wasn’t finished yet. He had to see this through. Had to . . . something. Open the door? No. Maybe.
Gritting his teeth, he pressed a hand to his back, sought out the place screaming the loudest. Then moved his hand, wet and sticky now, to his abdomen. Another wet spot that would no doubt be red with his life.
Through and through—he’d thank the Lord for that when he had the power. If his organs were intact enough that he’d live to do it.
For now he . . . he must . . . he should . . .
He slid to the still-rocking floor. Puddled there, leaning against the sack, as the carriage slowed and stopped.
Voices shouted from outside. Something . . . familiar. Clanging at the middle of the carriage, where the door would be. Light. Blinding and white. His gun was still clutched in his right hand, though he doubted he had the strength to lift it were it the enemy who came in instead of a friend. He couldn’t even lift his head. But it wasn’t pain so much as heaviness now. That was another something for which he should thank the Lord. When he could.
Or when he saw Him. One or the other.
A familiar English face appeared before him. A familiar English phrase slipped from its lips, one that summed up the situation rather well, but for which Drake would have gotten his ears boxed had he ever said it in either his mother’s or grandfather’s house.
A hand clapped onto his shoulder. “Hang on, old boy. We’ll get you out of here. Don’t give up on me now.”
He tried to speak. Only air wheezed out. But it didn’t matter. Thoroton was here. Drake had done his job. Now he could let his eyes slide closed.
9
Margot slid into the chair at her desk, ignoring the stares from the secretaries. From Culbreth and de Grey and Adcock. Ignoring the gaping emptiness of the desk by the door, ignoring the realization that soon it would have to be filled by some other secretary. Ignoring the ache that persisted in her throat and the general discomfort of her stomach.
“Margot. Sweetheart.” Lady Hambro perched on the edge of Margot’s desk and rested a hand on her shoulder.
She almost shrugged her off, but then she heard Maman in her ear. Don’t be rude, Margot. She’s trying to give you comfort. She forced herself to meet the woman’s eyes.
Lady Hambro had been there yesterday at the wake. They all had, every member of Room 40. Paying their respects. Clasping her hand, thumping Lukas on the back. Whispering words that meant nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The fingers around her shoulder squeezed. “You shouldn’t be here, dear. You’re ill. I know very well DID told you to take a week off.”
Margot blinked and let her gaze drift away from Ebb
a Hambro’s misty eyes and trembling lips. “I’m on the mend. And I have nowhere else to be, my lady.”
At home in 3E, Lukas was always there, trying to persuade her to come to his house. He said words like just for tonight and until you are better, but she well knew once he got her there it would be just for a week, just for a month, and then finally we might as well let the flat go.
She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t give up the flat.
But she couldn’t just stay there all the time either. She couldn’t just let this cold run its course. Dot had insisted on staying with her, leaving only to go to work. She’d been tireless, attentive, a perfect friend. A true sister.
But her hands had been shaking that morning, and Margot had caught her looking up the street toward her own flat. If she didn’t go home soon, she’d . . . Well, Margot didn’t know what exactly would happen. But she knew it wouldn’t be good.
So she’d stirred the last of her honey into a cup of tea, told her throat it would be better by midday, and dressed for work. She’d resolutely not looked at that closed door to the little cupboard of a room. She would have to open it eventually. Go through the lifeless possessions trapped inside. Decide what to keep, what to get rid of, what to do with the room.
But not today.
Lady Hambro sighed. “You are not alone, Margot. You have your brother and his family. Why not spend a few days with them? Reminisce together, laugh together, cry together. It would do you good.”
Margot’s answer was to pick up her pencil and a fresh sheet of paper. She had no pneumatically delivered tube of papers before her, but she scratched a few numbers onto the page anyway. Lady Hambro wouldn’t know that they were nonsense—nothing but a theorem that had proven unworkable.
In her mind’s eye, she saw the look Maman would give her for ignoring someone trying to help.
Margot didn’t need help. She didn’t need to reminisce. Or to cry. And the idea of laughing—that didn’t even deserve a mental response, much less a vocal one. She just needed to be. And she could do that best here.
Lady Hambro sighed again and straightened, removing her hand from Margot’s shoulder after a matronly pat. “All right. If this is what you need to do, then so be it. But do look after your health, Margot dear. You’ll do no one any good if you collapse in a fever—and we certainly don’t want the rest of Room 40 coming down with it again.”
“I’m on the mend,” she said again. Even added what she hoped looked like a smile. Faintly. Perhaps. If the lady had a good imagination. “No fever, I promise you.” Not like That Day. The seventh of November.
Eleventh month. Seventh day.
Eighteen.
Margot bit down until her jaw hurt and stared at the useless paper in front of her. No more Eighteen. Do you hear me, God? She didn’t even know who it was, but the very fact that the Lord had wanted her to pray for him instead of her own mother . . . Why hadn’t He whispered in her ear about Maman? Why hadn’t the numbers insisted she go home earlier? Do something? Help somehow? Why had she come down with that mind-muddling fever on that day of all days?
No. No. NO.
She’d say it over and again until that stupid Eighteen just stopped, once and for all.
Lady Hambro moved away. Margot waited for her to leave the room, go off to oversee the secretaries stationed elsewhere in the hub, no doubt—or else to tattle to the admiral on her—before she got up and went to fetch a tube full of papers to be decoded. While she was up, she grabbed a copy of today’s key as well and then settled at her desk.
Usually her pencil flew. Today it trudged. The numbers that generally pranced and skipped through her mind were playing hide-and-seek. But she didn’t need to be at her best. She just needed to be here. Because it wasn’t there.
The morning sprawled on, stretching and stretching toward lunchtime. When she’d have to face the fact that Maman wouldn’t appear at her side, prodding her to leave her desk and join the other girls. Come, Margot. It will do you good. When she’d have to watch the other secretaries giggle their way down the hall. It was fine out today—they’d spill out the doors, or perhaps even climb up to the roof.
“Margot.”
Had it been Lady Hambro’s voice, she would have ignored it. Had it been Dot’s, she would have held up a hand, asking for a moment to finish the sentence she was decoding. But it was the admiral’s.
She put down her pencil and looked up.
Hall crooked a finger.
A bit surprised at how much energy it took just to stand up, Margot followed him out into the corridor and then down it, to his office. He sat, not behind his desk but on its edge. And he looked at her.
If he meant to measure her, she’d make sure his ruler had an accurate reading. She edged her spine straight, her chin up, and willed her eyes to project only ability. A dozen defenses sprang to her tongue, but she wouldn’t volunteer them. She’d wait for him to admonish her first, so that she knew which of her reasons would best convince him to let her stay.
“You have become good friends with Dorothea Elton, have you not?”
That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. Not sure what his angle was, her brain scrambled. But she could offer only the truth. “I have, yes.”
“I thought so. I must ask a favor of you.”
Redirection, perhaps? A ploy to get her to pay attention to something else, anything else? Margot lifted her brows.
Hall let out a slow breath. “I have just received word that her brother has been critically injured. He’ll be arriving at Charing Cross Hospital in a few days.”
Margot’s spine sagged. Drake Elton, of the broken nose and insightful questions, injured? It shouldn’t hit her that hard after a whole five minutes in his company, but it did. He did so easily what she struggled to do at all—connect with people, quickly and correctly. It should have insulated him, somehow, against such things.
And then there was Dot. Poor Dot!
Her stomach soured a little more than it had already been. Poor Dot and stupid Margot—assuming this was about her. It wasn’t, and she was a selfish wretch to have assumed it would be. She cleared the regret from her throat. “What can I do?”
“I realize that in times of war, bad news often trips over itself—that in the grand scheme, it is not surprising that her brother would have suffered such an injury while she is trying to be there for you and your family. But I am also aware that Miss Elton’s emotions are . . . fragile.”
Margot bristled on her friend’s behalf. “They most certainly are not.”
Hall’s lips turned up. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, my dear. I only say it to indicate that I wish to be mindful of her state and not spring this on her in a way that will injure her.”
Her chin edged back up from where it had sagged. “I am not questioning your motivations, DID. Just your assumption.”
The turning of his lips grew to an outright grin. “So you would have had me let the telegram go straight to her, in the hand of a stranger, rather than one of us delivering the news in a way to soften the blow, is that it?”
“Zero.”
The admiral blinked at her. “Pardon?”
“The number of times you’ve let anyone in Room 40 receive difficult news from the War Office by the hand of a stranger.” A week ago, she would have given him a cheeky smile. Today she could only manage the quirk of a brow. “Of course I’m not saying to treat her with less care than anyone else. But she needn’t be handled with kid gloves. She isn’t an egg.”
Obviously still amused, Hall spread his hands. “Her brother said—”
“Then her brother’s an idiot.” She hadn’t thought he was. Had in fact been sure he wasn’t. But everyone was an idiot about something, and apparently Lieutenant Elton’s something was his sister.
The admiral laughed outright at that. “You ought to visit him in hospital and tell him so, my dear. Might get his dander up enough to rally him.” He stood up again and tugged the hem of his uniform jacket back int
o place. “At any rate, I wanted to let you know what news I will be giving your friend during her lunch break, so that you might support her—to whatever extent she may require, be it much or little. I trust you don’t object to that?”
Rather than answer straightaway, she let the actual news sink in, dig down. Let her brows sink with it. Drake Elton, injured and on his way to Charing Cross. “How bad is he? Will he live?”
His rapid blinks told her nothing, nor did his face. “That, I think, depends on the strength of his will and the grace of the Almighty. He took a gunshot to the abdomen.”
Margot winced. “Eighty-seven percent.”
Hall lifted his brows.
“The mortality rate of gunshot wounds to the abdomen.” She wasn’t sure where she’d read or heard the number—probably a newspaper or magazine that someone had left lying about.
“A statistic I pray you will keep to yourself.”
She’d physically bite her tongue, if necessary. “Any mitigating circumstances?”
“It went through and through—that’s all I know. I daresay your percentages would depend on whether any vital organs were struck, but I haven’t that information just yet.”
Margot shifted to the side to clear his path to the door. “You’ll tell her now?”
After a glance to the clock that verified it was nearly the time the secretaries broke to eat, he nodded.
Margot followed him out his office door, realizing only when they were in the corridor that he’d said absolutely nothing about her presence here today, in direct violation of his order to take a week off. Perhaps he was just glad to have her on hand now, to be there for Dot.
Or perhaps he understood that this was home and the people here were family, every bit as much as Lukas and Willa and Zurie.
They found Dot still at her desk, just reaching down to gather the lunch she’d packed at Margot’s flat that morning. Upon looking up and spotting them, her face went blank. Not panicked, not worried, nothing to show an impending falling-to-pieces as Hall had feared. Just the emptiness of careful control.
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