“Why?”
“Because he believes the world is going mad.”
“Isn’t it?”
Grandmum sighed. “I don’t think this war will be any worse than the last one. Nothing could be worse than that.”
Sylvie knew from experience what Susan referred to. She’d certainly heard enough about the Great War from her parents and her grandparents to understand why her grandmother would think this way. As with anything, her desire to know more, her urge to do research, had driven her until she understood the facts and not just emotions. She’d been born amidst the end of the war when the Spanish Flu had cut a swath through the world and added to global misery. Research was the only way she could experience what people had suffered. She could only hope against hope this war would end soon.
“There’s always something worse, Grandmum.”
“It does not matter, Sylvie. Your grandfather still has values and ideals he holds highly. He thinks that your…well, he’s still upset his son left this farm and moved to the United States with your mother.”
She’d heard this grievance more times than she could count. She’d hoped maybe a few year’s distance would blunt her grandparents’ wrath on the subject. No such luck.
“So you see,” her Grandmum continued, “your grandfather does not see your independent nature as a good thing the way you do. Be prepared.”
“He hates it that I’m here as a war correspondent.”
Susan’s imperious look didn’t alter. “Something like that. And I cannot say I disagree with him about your…position. It isn’t the proper thing for a gently bred lady.”
“The fact Grandfather is a baronet holds no merit in the United States. No one cares.”
“We care, even if your parents don’t.”
She returned Grandmum’s intense gaze. “You’ve never been to the United States. You don’t know what women can or can’t do there.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Hmmm.”
“Are you two arguing already?” A deep, gruff male voice asked from nearby.
Grandfather strolled from the kitchen area, his mouth a disapproving line. His burnished bronze eyes, which people told her she’d inherited, held little warmth. He’d grown more stooped since she’d last seen him, his thin hair now totally gray. Unlike Grandmum’s fairly youthful countenance, Grandfather’s lined face was pale.
“Well?” he asked. “Our meal is getting cold while you two dally about.”
Grandmum rolled her eyes. “Is that all you have to say to your grandchild after she’s come all this way?”
“She came all this way to write insignificant reports to try and convince the Americans to save our hind ends. That’s not likely to happen now, is it?”
“Hello, Grandfather. Very nice to see you again too.” Deciding she wouldn’t let his often disagreeable personality bother her, she walked up to him for an awkward hug.
“Let’s eat,” he said as he released her.
As she followed them into the large dining room, she noted her grandparents looked thinner than her last trip to the United Kingdom. She had to remind herself they were pushing eighty. Of course they wouldn’t be as spry or look as young as they had even a few years ago. Besides, the war had whittled away at thousands of people’s health. It wasn’t as if food was plentiful.
A young maid brought in their meals as they sat around the large rectangular dining table resplendent with silver and china. She ignored the cucumber sandwiches in favor of stew, but eventually ate some of everything with enthusiasm to appease her hollow stomach.
“How long do you have with us?” Grandmum asked as she sipped water.
“A week.”
“Only a week?” Grandfather’s tone turned harsher, if that was possible. “That’s a little short isn’t it?”
Sylvie chewed tough meat and swallowed hard. “The paper expects me by next Monday.”
“You didn’t say where you plan to secure lodging,” Grandmum said.
“I have a room at the Savoy.”
“By God.” Grandfather sat forward a bit, grizzled brows drawing together. “The Savoy. Isn’t that a bit high and mighty? Are you paying for it?”
“No.” Sylvie granted him a delighted smile. “I’m lucky the paper has the money for it.”
Grandfather sighed but didn’t say another word on it. A short while later, after Sylvie had choked down bland-tasting custard for dessert, Grandmum put her spoon on her custard plate and dabbed her mouth with a napkin.
“Barton said you saw Alec Kent when you arrived,” Grandmum said.
Sylvie braced herself for she didn’t know what, but with her grandparents, she always felt slightly off-kilter. “Yes. Almost had a head-on collision with his Bentley.”
Grandfather grunted and shoved aside his custard dish. “I cannot believe his parents sent him over here.”
“Is it a bad idea?” Sylvie asked.
“I don’t think we should go,” Grandfather said.
Grandmum said, “That family has quite a cheek expecting us to just forgive and forget.”
Sylvie’s eyebrows popped open and her mouth did as well—she wondered if she looked like a fool in a pantomime. “Forgive and forget what?”
She thought she knew the answer, but since she’d become a newspaper reporter, she’d learned to be more objective.
Grandmum dabbed her mouth again. “They have this grand idea that if we eat dinner together, perhaps all will be the way it was before the…accident. It’s preposterous, of course. After all, they were the ones who had a hysterical fit after Alec—”
“Please, Grandmum.” Sylvie winced as memories rolled over her in a wave. “I was there, remember?”
“Then you know it was Alec’s fault,” Grandfather said.
Sylvie had known, deep in her gut, someone would bring the accident up, but hadn’t thought it would be quite so soon. Despite all her grandparents’ good points, they were highly predictable. They stayed angry at the same thing for centuries and never forgave anyone a transgression. Not even her, she suspected. They wouldn’t see another perspective and wouldn’t allow her to say what she knew to be true. That she’d caused the accident. She’d been the one at fault. Her eyes stung, but she stifled her fluctuating emotions.
“I take it this means we aren’t going to Alec’s parents’ home for socializing,” Sylvie said.
“No,” Grandfather’s voice snapped. “What good would it do?”
“Maybe things could be the way they were before if you gave it a chance,” Sylvie said.
“Now who has a lot of cheek?” Grandfather asked. “You’ve got rather sure of yourself since we last saw you. Working in a newspaper do that to you?”
“Probably.”
Again he sighed. “I suppose we can discuss it. Your grandmother and I will think about it. Now, can we talk about something else?”
“Such as the garden or if you’ve been to Scotland this year?” Sylvie asked.
“No trips this year,” Grandfather said. “Perhaps next year after the war is over.”
Sylvie’s energy level slumped. “I don’t think it will be over that fast.”
Grandfather lifted his teacup and smiled. “But of course it will. After you report back to America all the bloody things the Jerries are doing to us, perhaps the Americans will finally help us.”
Sylvie didn’t know what to say.
“Harold, is that type of language necessary?” Grandmum asked.
Grandfather’s eyes showed no remorse. “Reality is hard to face, but there is no doubt that if we do not get some assistance along the way, this country is going to fall. God help us all.”
Sylvie could imagine England falling if the Luftwaffe continued to engage and overpower Britain’s Spitfires again and again.
“Grandfather, maybe I can singlehandedly bring the entire United States Armed Forces into the fold. I’ve been told I’m that good a writer.”
She didn’t expect amusement, but hi
s right eyebrow lifted slightly. He shifted back in his chair. “There’s some work to be done.” He sighed. “Many new things happening around here, and most of them not good. For example if those Land Girls had stayed, I wouldn’t be breaking my back every day.”
Sylvie perked up. “You had Land Girls here? Why did the maids leave then if they could have worked the farm here?”
Grandmother’s teacup clacked into the saucer. “I suppose they thought things would be more intriguing elsewhere.” Grandmother sighed. “So many of the boys can’t work the farms anymore.”
Sylvie’s excitement at the idea of interviewing the Land Girls was quashed when she thought of Alec and the thought she would run into him if she went to his home. While she’d yearned to know everything in his life over the years, she’d heard little to supply her craving for information.
“Alec can’t join the war effort,” Sylvie said on a whim. “I mean, with his eye…”
“That young man wouldn’t make a good soldier in any case, eye or no eye. He tried to sign up months ago and the Army wouldn’t have him,” Grandfather said with thinly veiled contempt in his voice.
Sylvie’s heart ached for Alec. “He looks fit enough. Surely there’s something he can do for the war effort.”
Grandmum took a delicate sip of tea. “I’ve no doubt he wants to do his bit. But what else can a cripple do? No one will take him on.”
“He’s not crippled, Grandmum. He’s just blind in one eye.”
Her grandmother’s normally stoic expression eased. “I don’t think he realizes that.”
Sylvie understood then; her mastery of the subtle was something that made it easy for her to sniff out a good story. “He always refused to back down from a fight.”
“Enough, my darling.” Grandmum reached over and patted Sylvie’s right hand. “You have far more important things to concern yourself with than Alec Kent.”
Chapter 2
A knocking on his bedroom door woke Alec. He blinked away sleep and noticed shadows pushing across the floor. Night was rapidly approaching. Brilliant. Now he’d be awake all night, his insomnia driving him as he burned electricity while others slept. Memories turned instantly to seeing Sylvie. Beautiful, challenging, annoying Sylvie. The bane of his existence.
More knocking came, as did his mother’s pretty, deceptively gentle voice. “Alec?”
“Come in.” He sat up and swung his feet off the bed. An ache spread through his body as he stood and stretched. Normally after waking up he’d do some pushups and other exercises, but with his mother here, he’d have to do that later.
She opened the door and came in quickly. She flipped the light switch, and that’s when he realized he hadn’t pulled the blackout curtains. He rushed to the two large windows across the room and snatched the drapes closed.
His mother gasped. “My dear, it is so important that as soon as the sun goes down—”
“It was dark in here.”
“Still…”
He drew in a deep breath and came toward his mother. “I know. I’m sorry. I was asleep.”
She wore a pale blue dress, the apron at her waist deceptive. She did some cooking, but Cook Helen had been making most of the family meals for close to twenty years.
An exceptionally tall woman, she met his father’s gaze head on when they stood together, and her lithe body and thin features gave her graceful, gazelle-like movement. Anna Holcomb Kent, or Kenty, as Alec’s father sometimes affectionately called her, had soft blue eyes and an abundance of long blonde hair she always tucked away in a neat bun. Where Alec looked like his father both in large size, hair color, and eyes, his older brother Jacob resembled his mother.
“There’s some horrible news on the wireless,” she said.
His heart gave a thump. “What’s happened?”
“The Germans have bombed London.” Her voice cracked as fear crossed her features. “Oh, Alec, it’s started.”
He’d known it would happen sooner or later. A day that had started out bizarre when he’d almost run head-on into Sylvie’s taxi promised to end on a worse note.
Alec gathered his mother against his chest. “Mum, I know it’s scary, but we’re safe here.”
She drew back quickly and brushed at his sweater as if he’d accumulated dust. “Thank you for trying to make me feel better, but you know that isn’t true. Stray bombs have fallen across England before.” Her eyes grew even more worried. “There is no safe place.”
He didn’t want to confirm her misgivings out loud, to give into her worries. “Father has the shelter set up in the cellar. Maybe you should go down there for tonight.”
She nodded. “Forgive me for being such a worrier, but I remember the last war all too well.”
He kissed her forehead. “It’ll be all right, Mum.”
“You shouldn’t go to London next week. It isn’t certain you will succeed. You could put off traveling until it’s safer.”
“No, I can’t. The German’s aren’t going to follow my schedule. They’ll bomb the city if and when they please. If I want the job, I have to show up. I cannot sit here on the farm helping out any longer. It will drive me mad.” As he said it, he felt guilty. Of course he could stay here, but working with his father would be the end of him if he did.
She sniffed, and he knew her wide-eyed innocence meant she wanted to manipulate him and would keep trying until she believed she’d succeeded.
“Alec Robert Kent. You can’t leave your family to do this. You can’t leave me alone.”
“You’re fine here with father. He has a home office, so he doesn’t have to leave you here alone most of the time.”
She heaved an exasperated sigh and headed for the door. “You always were a stubborn child.”
He smiled as he followed her and closed his bedroom door. “I blame you and Father. I learned it from you both.”
“Humph.”
Down in the den, his father sat near the wireless, listening for reports on the damage in London. The room smelled like pipe smoke, though his father wasn’t using the pipe now. Alec watched his father with curiosity. The man didn’t even look up, his bespeckled face a study in concentration. Edward Kent had recently retired from his solicitor’s office in Huntingdon and assisted people on a case-by-case basis when it suited him from his home office. Tall and thin, his carved features had wrinkles and signs of wear. Alec knew someday he’d look similar, when age and time caught him.
“What’s happening now, Father?” Alec asked.
Father gestured with one hand. “Shhh.”
Used to his father’s brisk manner, Alec didn’t take offense. Well, he didn’t take any more offense than usual.
The reports coming from London cut to the quick. The Germans were still on attack over the city, and the thought of such devastation to a beautiful city like London carved a new hole in Alec. He itched to leave for London and help.
Father shifted to his feet and smoothed his hands over his cardigan. “Those damn Huns are at it again.”
“Agreed. People will need help.” Alec rubbed his stubbled chin.
Father finally looked at him, disapproval clear in his expression. “You are quite intent on reaching London, aren’t you? I hope you’re not disappointed by the whole thing when you get there.”
Here we go. “Why would I be disappointed?”
“What if the auxiliary won’t take you on? What then?” Father asked.
Alec refused to think of the possibility. “They will.”
Father pushed his glasses higher on his nose and gave Alec an imperious look. “With a bum eye?”
A burn started in Alec’s stomach, and he took a deep breath to halt his temper. “With a bum eye.”
A soft touch on his shoulder brought his attention to his mother. She stood next to him, her eyes soft with sympathy. “Alec, you haven’t eaten. Come and have a meal.”
Alec hesitated, his desire to argue rising higher by the moment. He wanted Father to understand. Why couldn�
��t he understand?
“Go ahead and eat,” Father said. “You will need your strength for next week.”
Shaking his head, Alec left and followed his mother to the dining room. He couldn’t reason with the old man. No, that ability disappeared long ago.
Once he had a plate of cheese, bread, and some leftover meat in front of him, Alec found he had little appetite. Tension strung him tight, and he’d always lost the desire to eat when that happened. He chewed bread anyway, knowing that he couldn’t stay healthy without eating properly. He didn’t want to provide the Auxiliary Fire Service any more reason than they already had to turn him down. His father came in a moment later and helped himself to a plate. He settled across the table from Alec.
“You never said if the Hunnicuts accepted our invitation,” his mother said.
“They weren’t home, but I left word with Barton.”
“That old curmudgeon. I am surprised he allowed you in the door,” Father said.
Amused, Alec popped a piece of cheese into his mouth and chewed thoroughly. “It isn’t me he dislikes. It’s you.”
“Well…” His father blustered, face marked with anger. “He’s been contaminated. No doubt Hunnicut and his wife told him falsehoods about me.”
Alec didn’t know what to say that he hadn’t a hundred times before. “Of course Hunnicut doesn’t like you. And you know why.”
His father made a noise in his throat.
Mum sat next to Father and said, “Now Edward, you know what Alec says is true. You can hardly expect Sylvie’s parents to agree with what you said, can you?”
“I suppose not.” Father shifted back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “It does not mean it isn’t true.”
Alec felt a familiar burning inside—it wasn’t caused by an illness or something he’d eaten, but by a desire to tell his father to bugger off. He’d called his father names when he was fifteen, and the consequences had been as bad as losing the ability to see from one eye.
One London Night Page 2