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To Ann Braithwaite
Always a good friend
CHAPTER
ONE
I SHOULD HAVE heard the creaking of the floorboards outside the old silver pantry, but I was too busy pretending to be a Romanian prince disguised as the school’s gardener. My friends, some of the other girls in the fifth form, were choking with laughter at my accent, so they didn’t hear the approach either.
I struck a dramatic pose and said my last line to the prince’s true love, whose part I had also played. “We will go to my castle and grow turnips together happily ever after.”
Bowing, I waited for the laughs. None came. Instead, looks of horror spread across my friends’ faces. I turned to see the heavy door opening with a groan.
Miss Climpson, the overlord of Winterbourne Academy, stood in the doorway. I braced myself for the wrath about to fall upon us, sentencing us to the perpetual writing of lines for our offense, but instead she just said, “Thomasina, I need to see you in my office. The rest of you girls, go to bed.”
Dorothy, her eyes wide, gave me a look that meant either Run for your life! or I’ll cry at your funeral. Pretending not to notice, I raised my chin and walked out of the pantry, not wanting the others to think I was a spineless ninny.
But as I followed Miss Climpson down the long central hall of the academy, I became a spineless ninny. My feet dragged more and more as we approached her office. Her door, the portal of despair, was open. Miss Climpson’s dark lair with the grim portraits struck terror in the hearts of all the students at the school and I was no exception, though at sixteen I shouldn’t have been scared of one tiny old woman who barely came up to my shoulder.
I knew she was going to lecture me about being a poor role model. She’d done it many times before, and it always started the same way: Now, Thomasina, the girls follow your lead; therefore, you should be a good leader. You should want to make your parents proud of you, even if your marks are not as good as they should be. Many more “shoulds” would follow, and I would be sufficiently contrite, until the next time.
“Come in and sit down,” she said. Her voice was warm and gentle, a tone we usually heard only when Miss Climpson spoke to parents. At those times, her grandmotherly charm was as sudden and shocking to us girls as a gramophone turned on in a quiet room.
I felt chilled as soon as I walked in. Miss Climpson never had a fire lit, even on the most frigid of days. Girls said it was so cold that dust motes froze in midair. With the shortage of housemaids since the Great War had begun, I could imagine dust accumulating until it would eventually look as if a snowfall had struck the office.
War with Germany was giving the former housemaids a choice to have far more exciting lives as nurses and ambulance drivers. If I were a housemaid with a choice between being stuck at Winterbourne cleaning under Miss Climpson’s thumb or dodging shells while speeding around in an ambulance, I would have chosen ambulance driving too. The danger would have been worth it in return for doing something to help the war effort.
The headmistress had a strange expression on her face, one I couldn’t place. It took me a moment to realize the woman was at a loss for words. When Miss Climpson motioned for me to come farther into the room, I saw it. A telegram envelope lay in the center of the desk, the pale yellow of the paper stark against the almost black wood.
I felt sick. It hadn’t occurred to me that it would be a telegram. My brother, Crispin, had been missing for months now, and I’d mostly stopped expecting he’d be found, except when I’d pass too close to the old looking glass in the dark corner of the hall. Then time would stop in the wavy light, my heart would skip, and I could almost see Crispin making faces back at me. He loved practicing his silly voices in looking glasses before reading aloud to us. In one of his letters at the beginning of the war, he’d written that he read to his men from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to keep their spirits up. I supposed that Crispin playing the Mad Hatter in a dugout made as much sense as anything else in the war.
I made myself move to the desk and reach for the telegram, but then drew back my hand. What if it wasn’t Crispin? What if it was my father? It wasn’t as if each family could make one sacrifice and then be safe from having to make any more. If something had happened to my father, would such news come by telegram, or would someone in the Foreign Office come in person? Winterbourne didn’t have a telephone.
I felt a buzzing in my head and then the desk in front of me shrank as if it were moving far away, growing smaller and smaller. I wondered why the room had grown so hot and begun swaying back and forth like a cabin on a ship.
“Thomasina!” The headmistress took my arm, leading me over to a chair and practically pushing me down into it. “Put your head in your lap so you don’t faint.” I did as I was told, feeling Miss Climpson’s hand on my hair. It reminded me of my mother comforting me when I was a child, and that gave me the strength to sit up as soon as the buzzing stopped. The desk was back to its normal size, the telegram still there.
“Take all the time you need, dear. It may not be as bad as you fear.”
I wanted to believe her, but it still took all my willpower to pick it up and open it.
2 April 1918
Thomasina,
Your old father has a request. A friend has written that your cousin is ill. She needs you to come home to Hallington right away. Have your things sent as well. Get help from Mrs. Brommers if you need it. She will be glad to give it. To communicate with me, wire the Foreign Office if the situation worsens. Best you don’t tell your cousin you are coming. We’re at Thornhill but don’t know for how long. Once home, let us know of your safe arrival. Give my best to Julius. Remember, two are often better than one.
Father
I tried to clear my mind of the fear the sight of the telegram had given me so I could concentrate, but I was confused. This telegram was far longer than most, and it read like a joke. First of all, even though I had a cousin, Eugenia, she didn’t live with us. She lived in Scotland. It was also impossible to imagine Eugenia ill. The woman walked miles a day on her “nature rambles,” her storklike figure a common sight for everyone for miles around her home. She never took to her bed for any reason.
Second, I didn’t know a Mrs. Brommers, nor had I ever heard of a place called Thornhill. And who was the “we”? My mother was in America helping my uncle, whose wife was ill. My sister, Margaret, was in London.
Third, my father would never refer to himself as an “old father.” People often commented on how Reese Tretheway still looked much as he had in the days he was a valued secret agent for the British government, tracking spies across Europe.
And last, the only Julius I had ever heard of was Julius Caesar, because my father had read all his writings and subjected us to many of the man’s sayings. There were so many of them, I thought the man must have spent half his time sitting about thinking up pithy quotes to outlast him.
“Is it bad ne
ws, dear?” Miss Climpson asked gently.
I handed the telegram to her.
“I’m sorry your cousin is ill,” the headmistress said after she read it. “This is most irregular, but I suppose we should follow Lord Tretheway’s instructions. I’ll make arrangements to get you home as soon as possible.”
I was barely listening, still thinking about the strangeness of the telegram. A memory of my father’s voice tugged at me. He was sitting beside my bed, trying to get me to look at him. I was facing the wall, angry that he was insisting I stay in my room to recover from scarlet fever. It’s like a game, he coaxed. All spies must know ciphers and codes. Don’t you want to learn some? You’re a clever girl. Perhaps someday you can be a code breaker in the Foreign Office—the first girl ever to have such an important job.
A thrill of excitement ran through me. The telegram was strange because it was a cipher, and I knew just how to decipher it. I needed to get to my room to read it in private.
“Yes, I have to go home,” I said to Miss Climpson. “Right away.”
CHAPTER
TWO
SINCE JULIUS CAESAR was long dead, I couldn’t give him my father’s best, but I knew that wasn’t what my father had meant. The name was a clue. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t remembered right away. My father, trying to impress upon me that ancient history was worth studying, had taught me that Julius Caesar was one of the first people to use a secret code. Later, when my father was abroad, he would mention Julius in his letters so I’d know they contained a cipher. The key to deciphering this message lay in the telegram’s last sentence, just as it had in his letters: Two are often better than one. That meant I needed to take the second word of each sentence and read the result.
I wasn’t going to explain it all to Miss Climpson, though. She’d think I’d come down with a case of brain fever. “May I go pack?” I asked. “I’d like to take a train in the morning.”
“Of course, dear.” Miss Climpson hesitated, as if she was going to say something else.
But I wanted to get out of there before she could ask questions. “Thank you, Miss Climpson.” I darted out of the office, knowing she wouldn’t dash after me. Miss Climpson didn’t dash.
Dorothy was waiting for me when I got back to our room. “What is it?” she cried, grabbing my hands. “You look strange. You’re so pale. Are you ill? What did she say? Tell me!”
“I need a pencil.” I pulled away and rummaged around in the clutter on my desk, knocking some books to the floor. My hands felt shaky. “I got a telegram from my father that has a secret message in it. I need to write it out.” I knew I was talking too fast, but I couldn’t help it.
Dorothy clapped her hands and then practically danced over to her own desk. “This is so exciting! You’re so lucky to have a father who was a spy!” She took a pencil from her own desk. “Sit at my desk. Yours doesn’t have any room to write on it.”
I sat down and opened the telegram, underlining as I read it again. Your OLD father has a request. A FRIEND has written that your cousin is ill. She NEEDS you to come home to Hallington right away. Have YOUR things sent as well. Get HELP from Mrs. Brommers if you need it. She WILL be glad to give it. To COMMUNICATE with me, wire the Foreign Office if the situation worsens. Best YOU don’t tell your cousin you are coming. We’re AT Thornhill but don’t know for how long. Once HOME, let us know of your safe arrival. Give my best to Julius. Remember, two are often better than one.
Dorothy was hovering over me. “What is the message? Let me see or read it out loud.”
I took a deep breath so I could calm down. “It says ‘Old friend needs your help will communicate you at home.’” I read it again, trying to make sense of it.
“An actual mysterious message!” Dorothy squealed. “I can’t believe it!”
Dorothy’s excitement made my own suddenly change to apprehension. This wasn’t a game. My father was a very serious man even in normal times. Something had to be very wrong for him to contact me with a cipher telegram when he had the whole Foreign Office at his disposal. “I can’t think of any of his old friends I could help. I can’t do anything special.”
Dorothy snapped her fingers. “It could be because of your languages! An old friend needs something translated. You are better at languages than anyone here at school, and you know all those ones most people here don’t speak.”
I did have an odd knack for languages, just like my father, but that couldn’t be the reason behind the telegram. “I doubt it. My father could translate everything I could. The country is full of people who know all sorts of languages.”
Folding the telegram, I got up and looked around the room. I had to concentrate. One step at a time. First, I had to get home. “I need to pack. I don’t know when I’m coming back. I don’t know what to take.”
Dorothy picked my geometry textbook up off the floor. “You should take your schoolbooks. You can keep up with some of the work at home.”
I shuddered. “No, you know I won’t open them.” Unlike Dorothy, I was fairly hopeless at most school subjects, mainly because I couldn’t get myself to study. I’d be even less likely to at home, with the garden calling to me. Besides languages, gardening was my only other talent. Mr. Applewhite, the gardener at Hallington, acknowledged that I could coax any flower to bloom, though no one but the two of us seemed to think it was much of an accomplishment. But whatever was behind my father’s telegram, it wouldn’t involve gardening.
By the time I’d finished packing it was very late, but morning still took forever to arrive. Either the bed had gotten lumpier or I really was coming down with brain fever. I spent most of the night running through all our acquaintances in my head, trying to think of old friends I could help. None came to mind.
Dorothy had begged Miss Climpson to accompany us to the railway station and Miss Climpson had agreed, surprising us both. Once we were there, Miss Climpson bustled about. “We’ll attempt to find you a compartment without soldiers in it,” she said as we scanned the carriages for an empty seat. The train was so packed with men in uniform, I doubted that would be possible. I just wanted to sit somewhere, anywhere, so I could be on my way.
Dorothy linked her arm through mine and whispered in my ear, “Maybe you’ll be lucky and get stuck in a compartment full of very handsome soldiers.”
“I don’t usually have that kind of luck,” I whispered back. “I’ll be stuck with some gossipy ladies or a family with a fretful baby.” Even if there were handsome soldiers, I wouldn’t know what to say to them. Since the war, I’d mostly been at home or at school, not going anywhere where one might stumble upon a handsome man. The only one I actually knew was my brother’s friend Andrew, my first crush, whom I had followed around for so many years that it had become something of a family joke.
“Here’s a spot!” Miss Climpson called as an entire family exited a compartment. She gestured for me to get in. “Now, if soldiers join you and they become impertinent, you know what to do—get up and ask the conductor to find you a different seat.”
“Yes, Miss Climpson,” I said, not intending to do any such thing. Sadly, I couldn’t imagine any soldier would even notice me in my unsophisticated school uniform and coat, with my hair in a plait and my shoes so sensible and ugly they would make any girl want to weep. My sister, Margaret, always said it was a pity my hair was neither straight nor curly, just wavy, and the color neither here nor there, just brown to match my eyes. I hadn’t inherited my siblings’ striking looks of black hair and blue eyes. When I was a little girl, Margaret had teased that I was a changeling baby brought by the autumn fairies in a basket full of oak leaves and acorns.
“You’ll write, won’t you?” pleaded Dorothy “It will just be beastly here without you. Here, I was saving these, but I want you to have them.” She pushed a packet of pear drops into my hand. “I know they aren’t your favorite, but they are better than nothing.” She gave a sniffle and wiped a tear from her cheek. I knew she loved pear drops, and her gift was v
ery sweet, I thought.
“Dorothy, you are being much too dramatic,” Miss Climpson scolded. “It’s not like Thomasina is being sent off to the Far East. Lincolnshire is not the ends of the Earth.” The train’s whistle blew and the headmistress added, “We should get back to school. Do you have everything, Thomasina?”
“I’ll be fine, Miss Climpson. Thank you for coming to the station.” I hugged Dorothy. “You have to write too. No excuses.”
“I will.” The whistle blew again.
“Come along, Dorothy. Goodbye, Thomasina. Safe journey.”
I settled in, happy that I still had the compartment to myself so I could have one of Dorothy’s pear drops. Miss Climpson always lectured that ladies didn’t eat in train compartments, which I interpreted to mean that they didn’t eat in front of strangers. Someday I’d travel by train as a regular person, not caring whether anyone thought I was a “proper lady” or not, and then I could eat as much as I wanted in front of everyone.
I quickly popped a pear drop into my mouth, knowing the compartment wouldn’t be empty for long. Ever since the war had started, the trains were always full, and the smell of soldiers’ uniforms lingered everywhere, a mix of damp wool, boot polish, and cigarette smoke. Every soldier smoked, and the air in the trains and stations was thick with it.
I supposed I’d be tempted to take up smoking too, if I had to face the trenches. In Crispin’s last letters before he disappeared, he had written of the nightmare of mud and stink and death. It was a letter addressed to my father, one that Father wouldn’t let me read, though I had gone into his study when he was out riding and read it anyway. The despair in the words bled from the page until I dropped the paper back on the desk, feeling a chill in my fingers. If I hadn’t recognized the handwriting, I wouldn’t have believed Crispin had written it.
All Is Fair Page 1