“You did kiss me, and then when I kissed you back, you didn’t stop me. At least not right away.”
“You’re right, I didn’t. But I should have.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
I had asked myself this same question at least a hundred times since that day. Had replayed it over in my mind, trying to pinpoint the moment or the thought, which caused me to fling myself at him. Was it the way he had looked at me in that moment? So determined to keep me safe. Was it the way he came after me? As though he was fearful of not ever seeing me again? Was it when he told me he would get his revenge? Leaving me fearful of never seeing him again?
So many questions as to why I had kissed him, and yet, I could answer none of them. I didn’t know why I had done what I did. All I knew was that I had wanted to do it.
And part of me wanted to do it again right now.
“I . . . I can’t. I can’t do this, not in this moment. I should be getting inside. Eleanor must be wondering where I am.”
William grabbed my arm as I tried to skirt around him. “Amelia, wait. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t.”
“But I did upset you.”
“No, you didn’t do that either. It’s just been hard, that’s all. Leaving home, hearing about the bombs and not knowing how my family is. The bombs at school and losing Elijah.” I paused, inhaling a deep breath as I folded my arms across my chest. “And now you’re going off to war. What am I supposed to do if you don’t come home?”
“I think a better question is what are you going to do when I do come home?”
“I’ve already made promises I worry I can’t keep. I don’t think I should make any more.”
“Will you make me one, though? It’s simple and isn’t hard. Just write to me or respond when I write to you.”
I chewed on my lip and nodded. “I think I can do that.”
He snorted a laugh and cocked one eyebrow. “Promise?”
His coyness made me smile and I nodded again, dropping my gaze to the wooden boards of the deck. As I looked back up at him, he leaned in. I sucked in a breath, closing my eyes as I expected to feel his lips upon mine.
Instead of kissing me, though, he kissed my check then pressed his forehead into mine. “I’ll be home as soon as this war is over.” He kissed my other cheek then trotted off down the stairs and through the gate onto the street. With a wave, he vanished—another soldier walking away from someone he didn’t want to walk away from.
The trouble of it, was figuring out if I didn’t want him to walk away either.
I closed my eyes, picturing the last time I saw Henry and how he had given me a similar goodbye before I got on the boat. Guilt twisted in my stomach at the thought of kissing William. I hadn’t wanted to think about it, not because I didn’t want to think of the kiss, but because I didn’t want to think of my betrayal.
I shoved off the railing and growled at myself as I crossed the porch and went inside the house, slamming the door behind me. Yet another aspect of my life felt suddenly flipped over like a table as the contents on top of it went flying.
“Amelia? Is that you?” Eleanor came out of the kitchen into the foyer, wiping her hands with a dishtowel. “How was your day?”
“All right I guess.”
“Just all right?”
I waved my hand at her as I headed for the stairs to go to my bedroom. “I don’t wish to talk about it.”
I scaled the steps two by two until I reached the top and made my way to my bedroom.
Eleanor followed me, closing the door behind her. She heaved a deep sigh.“Mr. Hughes telephoned me this afternoon, just before you got home.”
“Let me guess, he’s concerned about me.” I kicked off my shoes before going over to the bed, spinning around, and flopping down on the blankets and pillows.
“He is. As we all are.”
“I don’t know why everyone is. My marks are fine . . . during a war I might add. How they can think we even wish to think about science and literature and arithmetic at a time like this . . .” I buried my face in my hands. “It’s just too much right now.”
She moved around the bed, sitting on the end. She patted my leg. “I know it is, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry Elijah died. I’m sorry you were forced from your home and I’m sorry you’ve had to live here with us.”
“I’m not,” I whispered. “You and Robert have been wonderful. Yes, I miss my family more than anything, but I couldn’t have gotten through this without you two.”
“Thank you for such kind words. I know we aren’t your parents, and we would never try to replace them. However, we want you to know we are here for anything you need.”
“I know.”
She reached out, laying her hand on mine, a slight sparkle to her eyesas she smiled. “I saw that Mr. Bryant came by this afternoon.”
“He’s got his orders and is leaving in the morning.”
“I think that boy is quite smitten with you.”
“Well, it’s a feeling he will have to get over.”
“And why is that?”
“Because there is someone else. Or was someone else. I don’t know.” I buried my face in my hands a second time, but only for a moment before I ran my fingers through my hair, brushing it away from my face. My eyes burned from all the crying I had done in the last few days and my head pounded. “His name is Henry and he’s in Guernsey. I don’t know if he’s alive or . . . not. I don’t know when, or if, I will ever see him again. I miss him and I miss my mum and dad, and my sister.”
Eleanor reached for my hand again. “I’m sure he’s alive. I’m sure they all are.”
“But you’re not. You’re only saying such to make me feel better, which I’m grateful for, and yet, I know I can’t believe you, not fully. The more I think of my home the more anxious I feel, and I hate it. I hate it so much that I force myself not to think of it and not to think of them. The more I do that, the more life here feels normal. Like I’ve always been here and was never there, and it scares me.”
I sat up and moved off the bed, making my way over to the window.
“Were you thinking of going to university when you finished school? Before the war happened, I mean.”
My brow furrowed with her question and the change of topic distracted me a little from the storm brewing in my chest. I turned to face her. “I had thought of it a few times. I had hoped to become a journalist.”
“So, if you wanted to go to university and study to become a journalist then you would have left Guernsey anyway.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Guernsey might be your home in the sense of that is where you grew up and where your family lives. However, that doesn’t mean it’s your home in the sense that you will live there for the rest of your life.”
“But I didn’t leave just to study. And the fact that I can’t write to them or that they can’t write to me.”
“No, I know it’s different and not as easy as I just made it out to be.” She paused, clicking her tongue. “I only meant to show you that, war or not, you would have left Guernsey anyway. So do not hold any concern for leaving now. You may worry about them and their safety because of the war and because of the Germans, but don’t worry about the fact that you don’t live there and it doesn’t feel like home.”
While a part of me understood the point she was trying to make, there was still another part of me overwhelmed with guilt about it.
“Did you see yourself marrying Henry?” she asked, arching one eyebrow.
“I don’t know. I thought I did, but we have only courted a short time. I think it was just the foolish thoughts of a girl spending time with a boy she had wanted to spend time with for awhile.”
“But how would you have gone to university if you and he were together? Or perhaps worked in London at a newspaper? Would he have come with you?”
“I doubt it. His family owns the local grocery store in St.
Peter’s Port. He has planned all his life to take it over when his Grandfather passes on. His parents died several years ago.”
“Then perhaps you two weren’t meant to be together.”
Her logic fought against mine. Or perhaps it fought against my sense of daydream and wonder. Those pesky times when I happily skipped down the path of love, marriage, and children, ignoring the fact that those paths didn’t connect or even travel in the same direction as the dream of writing for a newspaper or magazine. Far too often people miss their dreams and callings because the chances present themselves as work—hard work that people don’t want to put effort in. It’s only those who roll up their sleeves and dig in that reap the spoils.
“I suppose I never thought of it like that,” I whispered.
“Something for you to consider before dinner. Is all your schoolwork done?”
I nodded.
“Well, then, we’ll see you downstairs in a bit.”
“Eleanor?”
“Yes?”
“I need to ask you and Robert about something at dinner.”
FOURTEEN
Amelia - September 1940
Mum always said life was about choices. The choice of who we are friends with as children. The choice of who we marry as an adult. The choice of what we wish to become, whether a farmer, doctor, or builder, or even just staying home with our children, raising them as best as we can. She often talked about the choices she’d made and how there weren’t very many she had regretted over the years—marrying my dad and living the life they did were never any of them. Neither was having children or raising them in Guernsey.
There was one, however, she wished she could change.
And yet, even with her regret, she still was grateful she hadn’t made it. “It could have changed every other choice I faced if I had,” she used to say.
I wondered how many others in life felt the same way. How many men and women all over the world had choices they regretted? Probably all of them, when really thought about it. I know I had some—getting on the boat to leave Guernsey was one of them. However, along with those choices came others that could undo some of the regret. Or perhaps turn it into another choice they held dear to their hearts.
Could a wrong choice lead to a right choice?
Could a wrong choice lead you to the fate you were destined to live?
As I lay in bed, waiting for dinner, I grabbed Elijah’s coin off the nightstand and flipped it over and over in my fingers. I thought of the little boy who had sat on the train, kicking his feet as they hung above the floor while he talked of his parents and of the gift they’d given him. He wanted so badly to give it back when he returned. But now that would never happen.
He wouldn’t give it back. He wouldn’t see eighteen or live to a ripe old age. He wouldn’t get married or have children. He wouldn’t go to college or work a job that brought him pride or happiness. All those wasted choices he would never be allowed to make.
Of course, at just six years old, he had yet to think of the future like me, or at least of the years that I, at seventeen, thought about. Surely, he didn’t think of marriage or children or university. I suppose he could have, but it was doubtful at best.
I had wanted to become a journalist for a long time. Since the days I’d sat at the breakfast table with my dad, watching him read the newspaper. Over eggs and bacon, I had asked him if I could see it, and within seconds; I became immersed in the words printed on the pages. Real life stories unfolded in the lines in a dance between writer and reader. After that, reading the news every morning had become a daily activity we enjoyed sharing.
It was our time together.
And I missed it every day.
Of course, now the world was different. Or at least Britain was different. At war with Germany, the once great plans people had for themselves and their lives, suddenly felt wrong to think about. Their dreams cut short. Their hopes dashed.
Or I suppose they were for a little while.
Until the war was over.
I rolled over onto my side, setting the coin back on the nightstand. The silver glinted in the small light on the table as I thought of Claire and Isabella’s plans. While a small part of me fought against the allure of the idea, there was another part of me that felt intrigued by it. Perhaps even a little envious of their chance to flee Derbyshire and seek a new adventure for themselves.
“Amelia! Dinner is ready,” Eleanor called from downstairs.
I sat up and shoved off the bed, making my way out of the bedroom and down into the dining room. The smell of bread toasting wafted through the air.
“How was your day?” Robert asked, sitting down at the table.
I shrugged. “All right, I suppose.”
He grabbed his napkin, flicking it open as Eleanor entered the room with a couple of plates in her hand. “Now, I know we have had this a couple of days this week, but the rations have just been harder and harder to stretch.” She set down the plates on the table, the slices of toast with tomatoes and cheese slid from one side of the dish to the other.
“It’s all right, dear.” Robert patted her arm as she stood near him. “We understand.”
“I just don’t know what we will do if they reduce the rations any more. I’ve read stories from France and how they are starving. I can’t imagine how awful it must be for all of them.” She sat next to her husband, licking the crumbs of food stuck to her thumb.
“I heard young women are volunteering for the WLA again, like they did during the Great War.” Robert turned the plate and grabbed his fork.
“That should help.”
“Claire and Isabella told me this afternoon they are joining the WLA,” I said, grabbing a slice of toast. I took a bite, chewing then swallowing while the Davenports stared at me.
Eleanor cleared her throat. “Well, that’s nice of them to volunteer.” Her tone changed from the light, airy volume with a hint of concern to a deeper sound, as though she didn’t mean the words she said.
“They asked me if I wanted to join them.” I don’t know why I told Robert and Eleanor about them asking me. For as soon as I did, I regretted it. Not because I thought it a horrible idea, but because of the looks on the Davenports’ faces. Their stares hardened and their eyes widened.
“That’s ridiculous,” Eleanor said. “You can’t possibly join them.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t. We won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?” I arched an eyebrow as I set down the slice of toast and wiped the crumbs from my hands.
“No, we won’t.” She glanced at her husband, narrowing her eyes as she cleared her throat again.
He gaped at her for a moment as he chewed his own bite, then swallowed hard, acting as though he wasn’t actually ready to swallow it, but had to because of gentlemanly manners.
“Oh, well, it’s not really that we won’t allow it, Amelia,” he said. “But it’s more that we don’t know if you would need to have permission from Mrs. Pembroke or if we have the freedom to allow you to go. You are our ward, after all.”
“Well, yes, I know. But what if we wrote to Mrs. Pembroke and—”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Eleanor interrupted. “And I don’t think you ought to leave school and forego your studies. You wanted to go to university, remember? To study journalism?”
“Yes, I do. I only thought that everyone seems to be doing their part to help with the war and while I wish to continue my education, I also wish to do my part and help when and where I can.”
“It’s just out of the question.” She shoved her chair from the table and stood, grabbing another slice of toast from the plate. “I think I should lie down. I’m not feeling very well. Sleep well, Amelia. I will see you in the morning before school.” Without waiting for me to respond, she stormed from the room. Her heels clicked along the tile floor of the foyer and up each of the stairs.
Robert and I sat in silence for a few
moments, and I stared at my toast, wondering if I should finish eating or excuse myself, too. I wasn’t hungry. What did it even matter? While I didn’t really know what their reaction would be to the idea, I still hadn’t expected the one they gave me. Or at least not the one Eleanor gave me.
“Don’t be too mad at her,” Robert finally said. “She just worries about you. Losing Elijah was hard on her.”
“It was hard on all of us.”
“Yes, it was. But it was hard on her because she could never have children of her own, and I suppose in a way, she has it in her mind that while you aren’t hers, you kind of are. Or at least she worries about you as though you are.”
“I understand.”
“We tried to adopt, you know? A baby boy, about seven years ago. The mum was a young girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen herself. She had gotten into trouble and told the agency she didn’t wish to raise the child.”
“So, what happened to her and the boy?”
“She changed her mind. We didn’t know she could do that, but she did. Or I suppose I should say her parents changed their minds. Of course, they were utterly ashamed of her, but they hid it well and told everyone the child was their own, and her sibling.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He was with us for a couple of weeks after he was born, and when he left . . . well, Eleanor went through a rather dark period.”
“I can imagine she did. It sounds like such a heartbreaking, horrible thing to have happened to her, and to you.”
“Yes, it was.” He exhaled a deep breath, clicking his tongue. “Which, I believe, is why she wishes for you to stay.”
“But I’m not your daughter.”
“I know you aren’t, and deep down, she knows you aren’t. But she ignores that little voice inside her head that says otherwise.”
“Even if I was, I’m seventeen.”
He smiled. “I know, and months away from not having to have anything to do with us or Mrs. Pembroke.”
“So, I can go if I like? Or do I have to wait?”
He clicked his tongue as he stared at his empty plate. His eyes danced around the dish as though he studied the pattern painted on the china. He leaned forward in his chair, lifting his arms to rest his elbows on the table. He clasped his hands together, pressing them against his lips.
Yours: An Emotional and Gripping WWII Family Saga (The Promises Between Us Trilogy Book 1) Page 14