Yours: An Emotional and Gripping WWII Family Saga (The Promises Between Us Trilogy Book 1)

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Yours: An Emotional and Gripping WWII Family Saga (The Promises Between Us Trilogy Book 1) Page 24

by Angela Christina Archer


  “Did he say why his soldier lied?”

  Henry shook his head. “He didn’t know.”

  I reached in, grabbing one of the books on the top before I opened up the cover and lifted the pages to my nose to inhale their scent. I’d always loved the smell of books, but this one smelled even sweeter. They were part of my biggest dream, and I had once believed them lost to the wind.

  “Thank you for getting them.”

  “Merry Christmas.” Henry shrugged as he stuck one hand in his pocket.

  I rose to my feet and set the book back down in the box before I made my way over to him. “I mean it. You do not know how much those boxes mean to me.”

  “I’m sorry you went all those months thinking they were gone.”

  “It’s okay. They are here now. That’s all that matters.”

  “I have another surprise for you too. But I couldn’t bring that one into the house.”

  “So, it’s outside?”

  “Kind of. I’ll show you tomorrow.” His voice was barely a whisper, and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand. I moved even closer to him, giving him a hug. The touch of his hand wrapped around my waist caused butterflies in my stomach and as I pulled away, our eyes locked. He leaned into me and I leaned into him, our lips found one another. Slow at first, the heat between us built, and he dropped his cane, letting it fall to the floor as he tightened both arms around me. It was a kiss that felt like a thousand all at the same time, and I never wanted it to stop.

  Bookstore was still a dream.

  However, I had found my one and only forever.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Evelyn - December 1940

  We both woke early the next morning and Henry held the door for me as I climbed into the lorry. The cold winter air nipped at any bare skin it could find and I tucked my coat under my legs, tightening it around my hips for warmth. My breath clouded my face and frost clung to the windshield, blurring a little of our view.

  “So, where are we going?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.” He gave me a wink and shut the door before I could ask again. He hobbled round the front and climbed inside next to me, giving me another wink as he flipped the key.

  “Are you not even going to give me a hint?”

  “Nope. I wouldn’t dream of that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s meant to be a surprise. Would you really want me to ruin it?”

  Although part of me wished to say yes, I couldn’t. While Amelia was never one for surprises, I loved them. There was something about not knowing that always seemed to spur excitement in me. Of course, I suppose surprises did that in everyone, but it was always different for me. I dwelled in the little dance between the surpriser and the surprisee, and how they would either tease with hints or—like Henry—give me nothing to go on whatsoever.

  “No. I suppose I don’t want you to ruin it.”

  He laughed.

  The lorry bounced down the road, through the meadows and fields, and all the way into St. Peter’s Port. About once every mile, I would catch Henry glancing at me. His smile beamed, and he did this shoulder shake to show his excitement, but he never said a word.

  I couldn’t help but laugh every time he did it.

  Once in town, he parked the lorry outside of the grocery store and motioned me to get out. By the time my feet hit the ground, he had already exited the cab and hobbled over to the door, grabbing it and holding it open.

  “You’re getting quite good on that,” I nodded toward the cane.

  “What can I say? I’ve had a lot of practice with it.” He stretched out his hand, taking mine. He gave another smile and led me down the street.

  “You’ll have to forgive that it’s not prefect,” he said.

  “What’s not perfect?”

  “Your sign.”

  With his words, he stopped next to the vacant looking little shop I sort of rented from Ian. A handmade sign of three boards nailed together rested near the door with the letters ‘Evelyn’s Bookstore’ painted on it in gold letters.

  “I didn’t know what you had wanted to call your bookshop, but I still have some gold paint left if you want to change the name and make a new one. We can just use the back of this one.”

  “No, no. It’s perfect. Even if I had another name, I wouldn’t want to change it. Not anymore.” With my hands cradling my cheeks, I glanced at him then back to the sign. “But I’m confused on what I’m supposed to do with it?”

  “Why hang it up, of course.” He pointed toward the door and then waved his hand around the building as he glanced up at the roof.

  “What do you mean, hang it up?”

  “Hang it up so you can open your store.”

  “But . . . but the Germans.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Hauptmann Heinrich. As long as you allow them to go through your inventory whenever they wish and you don’t keep any of the banned authors or titles in the store, they won’t keep you from opening and selling to customers who wish to buy. You might find the soldiers in here buying books. Though, I don’t know if that’s the reputation you wish to have.” A slight chuckle left his lips.

  “But who other than soldiers is going to buy books during the occupation? And how am I going to get more inventory than what I have?”

  “Well, maybe the residents will sell the collections they have. I know people who are going to get desperate for money since they refuse to work for the Germans. Perhaps we can order some from France or Germany. They don’t wish to stop us from doing business. We just have to adhere to German law.”

  “But will I actually make an income?”

  He shrugged. “The rent isn’t costing you anything, and you’ve already paid for the books you have. Might as well sell what you can and take that money to buy more. It will build over time.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and yanked a set of keys from the depths. He held them out for me. “Do you wish to do the honors?”

  My heart pounded as I took the key and slid it into the lock. It clicked, and I opened the door. We both walked into the darkness and Henry flipped on the light. While I had brought in a few shelves, several more I hadn’t set up stared back at me, too. The books from the other five boxes were already stacked on a few shelves in alphabetical order.

  “You already put them out,” I said, turning toward him.

  “Yeah, I thought it would make the surprise look even nicer. Show you what the place could look like.”

  “Oh, I already know what it could look like.” I spun around, spreading my arms as I circled around a few times. “Is it really happening? Am I really opening it?”

  “I don’t know why you didn’t do it.”

  “I guess I thought it . . . foolish to do with the bombing and then the occupation.” I inched my way toward him, and wrapped my arms around his neck, staring into his eyes. “Thank you.”

  He kissed me and then pressed his forehead into mind. “You’re welcome.”

  I pulled away from him slightly and glanced around, biting my lip for a moment. “So, now what do we do?”

  He gave me another kiss. “Now, we open up your bookshop.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Amelia - December 1940

  “What I wouldn’t give for a week off to sit around a fire, drinking tea, perhaps reading a book, and just staring at the Christmas tree.” Ethel leaned against the pigpen railing after dumping the buckets of slop in the trough. “Instead, what am I doing? Feeding pigs. Stinky, snorty pigs who love to lie around the mud and muck.”

  “It could be worse. You could live with the pigs in their mucky pigpen.” I laughed.

  “As opposed to standing in it right now? Just look at my willies.” She pointed toward her boots. “I know they have been dirty before, but this. It’s all the snow. It’s making the mud worse. I swear I almost lost one of my boots going through the cow pen. The thing got so stuck I feared it would rip off.”

  I dumped the last of the slop buckets in the other trou
gh and turned toward her. “Oh, come on, all this complaining. You know darn well you would rather be here than in some flat in the city all alone.”

  “And who says I would be alone?”

  “With Cornell off to war, you would be.”

  “I could have my parents over or a couple of girlfriends.”

  I made my way over to her, nudging her shoulder with mine. “Well, one of those girlfriends better be me.”

  “You’re at the top of the list.”

  We both laughed and as our sounds died down, I smiled. “It is a nice thought, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Living in the city. In the hustle and bustle of the trolleys and buses and men and women walking in all directions while they go to their jobs, eat lunches with business associates, and then head home in the evening to their flats that overlook Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace, or Westminster.”

  “You really do like to dream, don’t you?” She pushed off the fence rail and skirted around me, unlatching the gate to let us both out. “What should we do next?”

  “The stalls need mucking out and the horses need fresh hay and water.”

  “As much as I hate to say it, I miss planting season. I would much rather work in the gardens than deal with the animals. Don’t get me wrong, I love the animals. But I love plants more.”

  “It will be here before you know it, along with the heat, so before you get too hopeful for spring and summer be careful what you wish for.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  As we walked toward the barn, movement caught my attention out of the corner of my eye, and I turned as a uniformed postman walked up the drive toward the farmhouse. He looked to be from the army, and not our usual postmaster, with a heavy wool coat, the collar tugged high against his neck, and a hat set low on his head to help protect his ears from the cold.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  Ethel skidded to a stop behind me and sucked in a breath. “He’s . . . he’s with the Royal Navy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, and as she opened them they welled with tears. “It means he has a letter for Annie or me.”

  “A letter? What kind of letter?”

  “A letter saying that our husband is missing or dead.”

  “Surely, not.” I laughed, only half believing her. “Surely, they would not just send a strange young man with a letter to tell you.”

  She nodded slightly, her head barely moving, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Her body went rigid and her breaths quickened. “That’s what they do.”

  The man noticed us standing and watching him, and he stopped for a moment before waving. I waved back, then grabbed Ethel’s hand, tugging her along with me.

  “I don’t want to go,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps he’s lost and just needs directions.”

  We made our way over to him. Ethel stayed behind me, dragging her feet in hesitation.

  “May I help you?” I asked him.

  He tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Ma’am. I’m here to deliver this to a Mrs . . .” He glanced down at the telegram envelope. Ethel squeezed my hand. “A Mrs. Tillman.”

  Ethel cried out and dropped to her knees behind me. I spun, grabbing her shoulders to help her back up to her feet. I wrapped my arms around her as she wailed and glanced at the man. “Is it all right if I take it?”

  He nodded, handing me the envelope. He tipped his hat once more, and pain hinted through his frown. “My sincerest apologies, Ma’am.”

  With his words, Ethel sobbed even harder. Her knees gave out from under her and she collapsed to the ground once more. I bent down, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. “I don’t know what to say.” I squeezed her tight and the envelope in my hand wrinkled in my clutches.

  I glanced all around the farmyard, praying someone had heard Ethel scream. Only the animals moved around us. Oblivious to what had happened, the chickens still pecked at the ground and the pigs still munched on the slop in the troughs.

  “Bea!” I shouted. “Bea!”

  I called her name several more times before the door to the farmhouse opened and she dashed outside, wiping her hands with a towel.

  “What on earth happened?” She bent down, grabbing Ethel by the shoulders and helped me stand her up. “Did she get hurt?”

  I shook my head. “She got a letter from . . . from . . .”

  Luckily, Bea caught on and I didn’t have to finish my sentence. “Oh, dear.” She sucked in a breath and hugged Ethel in a tight embrace. “Come on, Ethel, let’s get you inside. No sense in freezing. I’ll put on a pot of tea and we’ll get you warmed up by a fire.”

  “I don’t want a fire. I want Cornell!”

  “I know you do, dear.” Bea took Ethel from my arms and helped her inside, patting her back.

  As we entered the kitchen, Claire and Isabella, who were still eating their lunch, jumped up from the table. They blinked at the scene, but said nothing as Bea waved her hand in their faces, a signal to remain silent. They, along with me, watched Bea help Ethel up the stairs, and it wasn’t until they were out of earshot, did any of us speak.

  “What the bloody hell happened?” Isabella asked.

  I held up the telegram. “Ethel’s husband is missing or dead.”

  “She didn’t open it?”

  “No. She just started sobbing and collapsed to the ground.” I tossed the envelope onto the table and the three of us stared at it. We heard Ethel still screaming upstairs and our eyes darted from the table to the ceiling, then back to the table. I bit my lip.

  “I can’t imagine what she’s going through,” Claire said.

  “I know. It must be awful.” I grabbed a chair, scooting it out before I plopped down on it.

  “I hate to say it—”

  “Then don’t, Isabella,” Claire warned.

  “Hate to say what?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s the risk when you marry a soldier. There are going to be so many war widows when the war is over. Ethel isn’t the first and she certainly won’t be the last.” Isabella sat back in her own seat, grabbing her fork to shove in the last few bites of her meal.

  “That’s a really harsh thing to say,” I said.

  “It’s the truth. Sometimes the truth is harsh. It’s not my fault.”

  “It doesn’t have to be your fault, but you could still show a little more compassion.”

  “She was always nicer to you than me. But I still feel bad for her.” Isabella shrugged, then pointed toward another stack of envelopes. “William wrote you again. I didn’t know you gave him the address here.” She winked.

  “Well, I didn’t want the Davenports having to worry about forwarding them to me. I thought it would be easier.”

  “You don’t seem excited,” Claire said, returning to her seat across from me.

  I glanced from William’s letter to the telegram. Would his name be on one of those someday? He was a soldier, and he was going off to war when he finished his training. As much as I didn’t want to think about him getting killed in action, I couldn’t deny the chance it could happen. And where would I be? Crying in the middle of a driveway, my knees covered in mud, until Bea came and dragged me upstairs with fake promises everything will be all right on her lips.

  No. I couldn’t do it.

  I glanced up at the ceiling, still able to hear Ethel sob.

  I just couldn’t.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Amelia - December 1940

  “Time to get up.” Claire opened the curtains to the bedroom.

  “I don’t know why you do that.” Isabella rolled over, tugging her pillow down over her head. “The sun isn’t even up yet so there is no sunlight.”

  “But there will be soon.” Claire skirted around Isabella’s bed and grabbed the blanket, ripping it off to expose Isabella’s not so wintery pajamas. Isabella screamed as she clawed for her blanket.

  “You will pay for that,” she threate
ned.

  “Stop screaming.” I rolled over, yanking my own blanket up over my head. The little time we got to sleep, I didn’t want to spend it listening to them.

  “Breakfast is in ten minutes, and Bea expects us down there, so do not fall back asleep.” Claire trotted out of the room and down the hallway. Her heels pounded the wood.

  “I hate her,” Isabella said from under her pillow as all of feathers and cotton muffled her voice.

  “She’s not wrong. It is time to wake up.”

  “I still hate her.”

  I rolled over again, sitting up as the blanket fell to my waist. I stretched as the cold air whispered against my skin under my pajamas. Thicker than the ones I brought for the spring and summer; they still allowed the cold to give me the chills.

  “Why is it so damn cold in here?” she asked.

  “Because paying for oil is expensive.”

  I rose to my feet, grabbing my brown breeches before I slipped one leg into them and then the other, hoisting them up over my rump and around my waist. Next was my blouse, and I shoved both arms in the sleeves before buttoning it up and tucking the ends into my dungarees and slipped the button through the hole and fastened the buckle on my belt. I looped my tie over my head and down onto my neck, wiggling the knot tight up to my throat. Rubbing my arms for warmth, I lastly fetched the jumper off the bed frame and slipped it over my head. Its green hue darkened in the lack of light in the room.

  I sat back down on the bed, grabbing my socks before gathering them in my hand and slipping them over my feet and up my calf, wiggling them over the breeches.

  “You better get up,” I said to Isabella as I stuck my feet in my wellies and bent over to tug them up my leg. “You definitely don’t want Bea coming up here to get you.”

  “Let her.”

  I moved over to the door, clutching the side as I turned slightly back toward Isabella’s bed. “You know you don’t mean that.”

 

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