Brave Hearts

by Carolyn Hart

  “You’re wrong, Catharine. We’ve worlds of things to say to each other.”

  Yes, her heart agreed, but her mind knew this was madness.

  “Jack,” and she made her voice reasonable and patient, “I know I’ve given you a wrong impression. I can’t blame you for misjudging me, but you must understand, I’m married. I’m not free; I can’t see you again.”

  “Why can’t you see me?” he pressed.

  When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Don’t you have friends, Catharine?”

  “Of course, I have friends.”

  “You were at the Savoy that first night with men other than your husband.”

  The difference was that she wanted him, and she hadn’t cared at all for those nice young RAF officers, but she couldn’t tell him that, could she?

  There was a chuckle at the other end, and Catharine’s face flamed. She didn’t need to tell him.

  “Aren’t you presuming about my intentions?” he asked delightedly.

  She had presumed about both his intentions and her response—and he knew it very well indeed. She had revealed herself terribly. She laughed, too. The two of them stood by telephones and laughed, and Catharine felt young and happy for the first time in years.

  “You’re very obnoxious, you know,” she said finally.

  “Obnoxious and persistent. Now, when am I going to see you again?”

  She heard herself saying, “I don’t know. My schedule is very busy this week.”

  “What about right now?”

  “No, I have a guest coming for late tea, and I’m going to a concert tonight.”

  “Tomorrow then.”

  “All right,” she said abruptly. “Tomorrow.”

  They agreed to meet at the Park Square entrance to Regent’s Park at three. Catharine replaced the receiver. She felt as if she’d cut a link to something strong and vital, but she could feel the softness in her face. Tomorrow. Thursday. She would see him then.

  But slowly, happiness faded, replaced by a gnawing realism. If she met him, wouldn’t it make it that much harder, ultimately, to say good-bye? What would happen to them? He had laughed and she had shared his laughter, but didn’t she know in her heart exactly what he wanted—and she, too?

  Jack wouldn’t settle for friendship. She didn’t need to be told that. If she met him, didn’t she know in her heart, especially in her heart, where that road would lead?

  Of course, she did.

  Catharine walked slowly across the drawing room to stand by the back windows and look out at the neat garden, given over now that it was wartime to tomato plants, rows of lettuces and radishes, and a few stalks of corn.

  If she met Jack tomorrow, there would be other tomorrows.

  The front door chimes rang softly.

  Catharine closed her eyes briefly and when they opened, her face was set in a pleasant smile. She turned to greet the young woman brought by Fontaine to the drawing room.

  “Miss Redmond, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

  Catharine walked across the room, her hand extended. “Priscilla, I’m so glad you could come.”

  She’d met Priscilla in War Relief work. Priscilla was unmarried, a devoted daughter to an invalid and widowed mother. She took what free time she had and devoted it to raising funds for those widowed and orphaned by the war. Her rather dowdy gray skirt and high-necked silk blouse reflected both modest circumstances and gentility.

  Priscilla smiled shyly. Juggling a notebook and a sheaf of papers, she reached out to take Catharine’s hand. Her pale cheeks carried an unaccustomed flush of excitement.

  “I’m going to be able to go to America for the Society, Catharine. Mother’s going to stay with my oldest brother and his wife in Surrey. Oh, I am so looking forward to going.” She walked with Catharine toward the fire. “And I certainly appreciate your willingness to help me with introductions. This will be my first time in the New World.”

  “I’m delighted to be of help,” Catharine said warmly. She led the way to two Empire chairs near the fireplace. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Very much.”

  Catharine nodded to Fontaine. She and Priscilla chatted stiffly until the tea came. Catharine poured the tea into delicate Spode cups and offered sugar and cream.

  “Where in the world did you come up with Darjeeling tea now?” Priscilla asked.

  “Somehow Fontaine has a store of it. I hesitate to ask how it was acquired.”

  They both laughed.

  They bent over Priscilla’s papers and she eagerly described the tour she was planning in America to raise money for the War Relief Fund.

  “The first stop will be in New York City, of course. I’m very excited.”

  Catharine nodded. “I’ll send a letter to my brother, Ted. He’s a lawyer there. I know he and Betty will help set up some meetings.”

  Priscilla listed the other stops, ending in Washington, D.C. She looked up shyly at Catharine. “Some of the board members think I might raise as much as ten thousand pounds.”

  “Oh, yes, I should think so,” Catharine agreed. “Perhaps even more. Americans are absolutely shocked at the bombings, and they are so eager to help the people who have been bombed out, especially the children. I understand people hang onto Ed Murrow’s every word.”

  “That’s so generous,” Priscilla said softly. “Do you know, if we—if England—make it through the war, we are going to owe so much to Americans, and to people like you, who have given so much of their time and money, too.” She paused and looked at Catharine inquiringly. “It’s so wonderful of you to care so much for children when you have no children of your own. You don’t have children, do you?”

  Catharine sat very still, her face absolutely empty. She could see Charles’s face so clearly. He was standing in his crib, his small hands tight on the bar, his head thrown back, and he was laughing. He was the master of his kingdom. And then he would lift his arms to her. She would pick him up and feel his warmth and solidness and the soft, sweet tickle of his breath against her cheek. He had wispy blond hair and the darkest, deepest blue eyes, laughing eyes. Charles had laughed so often.

  The pain, the familiar, aching, hideous pain, swept through her.

  Catharine bent forward to pour Priscilla another cup of tea. Catharine’s black hair fell forward, hiding her face. “No,” she said numbly, “I don’t have any children.” Was it a lie? But she didn’t have Charles. Not anymore. “Won’t you have another cup of tea?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” Priscilla said cheerfully. “But, really, I do think it’s marvelous of Americans such as you who have no children to be so concerned about the survival of other people’s children. I don’t know what the War Relief Society would do . . . I say, watch that—”

  Catharine stared at Priscilla’s cup, full to the brim, overflowing. “Oh, yes. Sorry. I was thinking of something else. Tell me, when do you leave for the States?”

  “Soon, I hope, but they don’t tell you very far in advance. It depends upon when a convoy is scheduled and, of course, if I’m lucky enough to get a spot, but the government does realize how important the Society’s work is.”

  “I know your trip will be a success,” Catharine said. She didn’t, of course, mention the danger of an Atlantic crossing and the marauding German wolf packs. Some things, so many things, one didn’t mention now. “I have a friend in Philadelphia who . . .”

  The sirens began to shrill, the familiar, sickening up-and-down wail.

  “. . . will be sure to help you.” Catharine told Priscilla about Sophie Connors; Catharine was pleased that her voice didn’t change or waver.

  Priscilla answered just as evenly.

  As they talked, Catharine looked curiously at her guest. What did Priscilla really think and feel behind those mild, myopic eyes? She was so perfectly of her class and time; earnest, sincere, well-bred. Where was the human being behind that even, controlled voice? Was she afraid?

  The heavy, broken drone of the bombers was so loud now
that Priscilla raised her voice to be heard; yet neither of them mentioned the attacking planes.

  Catharine pictured a bomb striking, the swirl of dust and the rattle of falling masonry. Somewhere in London people were dying, people who had expected to live this day.

  Catharine’s throat felt dry as dust. Where was Jack now? Was he safe? Oh, God, she hated the terror that ached inside her, and she realized that for the first time since Charles’s death, she’d permitted herself to care for someone, to be vulnerable to the pain, once again, of loss.

  Catharine felt the familiar weakening wash of fear. As always she wondered if she were the only one so terribly, horribly afraid? Priscilla sat there so primly, balancing her full cup of tea on her lap, talking, on and on.

  Then both Catharine and Priscilla looked up. The sound of the bombs was changing. Instead of the faraway crumps, they heard a high, shrill whistle. The whistle deepened.

  Priscilla’s voice trailed away.

  Noise throbbed around them, a rumbling, violent roaring like a runaway express train.

  Catharine stared at Priscilla and saw her own fear reflected in Priscilla’s pale blue eyes.

  “Do you hear?” Priscilla cried. “The bombs are coming nearer and nearer. We’re in a bombing run. My brother’s told me about them.”

  Catharine knew she was right. She and Priscilla waited helplessly hundreds of feet below as the bombers hurtled along their predetermined path, raining down death.

  Priscilla bolted to her feet; her teacup crashed to the carpet, and tea splattered out. Catharine watched the small patch of spreading wetness with absorbed eyes as the clamor of the exploding bombs obliterated all thought.

  “We have to take cover,” Priscilla shouted.

  Catharine never went to the cellar during raids. She hated the idea of the narrow stairs that twisted down into the dark, damp, musty cellar. It was a double cellar. The staff always took shelter in the back cellar during raids. Fontaine had arranged several chairs and a lamp in the front cellar for Catharine and Spencer, but she had never gone down. Now she was a hostess and Priscilla was her guest. Automatically, she stood. “We can go down to the cellar.” She didn’t know if Priscilla could hear or understand her words, but she was following Catharine across the drawing room.

  Priscilla pressed close behind her as Catharine opened the cellar door, flipped the light switch, and started down the steep steps, bending a little to avoid the low pitched ceiling. They were almost to the bottom of the stairs when an enormous explosion rocked the house. The walls shook; the cellar light went out.

  Catharine reached behind her and clasped Priscilla’s hand.

  “There are some chairs just past the steps,” she shouted.

  They felt their way. Priscilla sat in the first chair. Catharine let go of her hand and took another step or two.

  “There’s a flashlight. I’ll see if I can find it,” but she was listening to the numbing roar of the bombers.

  “They’re just above us,” Priscilla cried. With a catch in her voice, she said tightly . . . “Oh, God, I’m going to die—and I’ve never loved a man.”

  The words hung in the dusty, dark air. Catharine felt an instant of intimacy that would forever wipe away her picture of Priscilla as a prim, reserved stranger. The words echoed and reechoed in Catharine’s mind. Catharine felt a surge of pity. She was reaching out to catch Priscilla’s hand again when the cellar burst with noise. Pressure moved against Catharine. She felt herself lifted and flung. Dust, smoke, and an acrid smell of gunpowder choked her. The walls toppled in, and she heard a faint, choked-off scream from Priscilla.

  “They’re giving us bloody hell tonight,” the ARP warden said wearily. “God, I think it’s the worst yet.” The phone rang, and he looked at it helplessly. “I don’t have any more men to send out.” The phone rang again, and he picked it up. He listened and began to make notes. “I’ll send a rescue unit as soon as possible, but it may be a while. Give me the address again.” He scribbled the numbers. “Seamore Place?”

  Jack’s heart began to thud. Catharine’s house was on Seamore Place.

  “Warden, what’s that address?”

  The warden looked at him absently. He’d forgotten Jack was there. “Seamore Place. A direct hit midblock. They think some people are trapped . . .” His words trailed away; Jack had turned and was already at the door.

  Jack ran down the darkened street. Catharine’s house was four blocks from the warden’s post. He’d chosen to come to this post tonight because it was close to Catharine, and it didn’t make any difference which post he covered when the raids began. He always got a story, at one post or another. Tonight, he’d come to be close to Catharine, that was all, but now . . .

  The heavy thud of his footsteps echoed in the empty street. Everyone had taken shelter. Between bangs of AA guns, Jack heard the tinkle of shell casings striking the pavement, the clatter of incendiaries on the rooftops and the streets, and the heavy, uneven drone of the bombers. But he kept on running, skirting an enormous crater in one street, seeking another path when rubble, the spilled-out walls of a church, blocked his way.

  A gas fire burned and hissed as he approached the corner of Seamore Place. Heat pushed against Jack as he forced himself on, sweat streaming down his back and legs despite the chill of early spring. He rounded the corner and stumbled to a halt. An agony of horror knotted the breath in his chest.

  Fire danced high into the sky from the blazing house at the corner. As Jack watched, the house slowly dissolved, the walls sliding inward and thousands of sparks crisping up into the air. Smoke spiraled lazily up. Firemen struggled with heavy hoses to save the house next door.

  Jack blinked his eyes against the stinging soot and smoke, straining to see down the block. Where Catharine’s house had stood was a gaping emptiness against the darkening sky, a crumpled, tumbled heap.

  Jack stumbled over the fire hoses.

  “Hey, mate, get back. It’s dangerous here.”

  Jack ignored the shout and dodged around the fire truck, his eyes clinging to that open space where no open space should be. He ran desperately toward the emptiness. “Catharine!” He shouted it against the roar of the hoses, the rumble of the fire, the clatter of incendiaries, and the drone of the bombers.

  “Catharine!”

  The stench of cordite burned her nose and throat. Catharine struggled to breathe. It was utterly dark. She realized with surprise that she wasn’t injured, although her head ached from the concussion, and she would be bruised and sore. When she tried to move, she discovered she was lying in a pocket of rubble. She had some inches of leeway, but her shoulder touched an immovable beam. She lifted her hands, felt the rough wood. Panic flared. She turned, twisted, shoved, then sank back, her heart thudding. She was buried beneath the ruins of the house, and the oak beam which trapped her also protected her from the crushing weight of the debris.

  Faintly, she heard faraway thumps in the dark, cold, and quiet space. She knew the raid went on, but that was all she heard.

  “Priscilla?” She heard her voice, thin and high. “Priscilla?”

  No answer.

  Nothing.

  Only a tiny crackle as pieces of mortar sifted down through the wreckage.

  She and Priscilla had just reached the floor of the cellar when the bomb hit. What had happened to Fontaine and his wife and the two maids?

  “Fontaine?” She tried to shout. Her call sounded loud in her own ears, terribly loud against the awful silence.

  No one answered.

  No one moved.

  “Priscilla?” she cried again, but without hope.

  Catharine lay in the terrible silence and thought of her life—and of love.

  Reggie. She had wanted so badly to love Reggie. He’d taken his two-seater up one sunny Friday morning, turned the nose down, and kept his hands steady on the controls until the plane crashed into a Surrey hillside.

  “Reggie . . .”

  She could picture him clearly, h
is smiling light blue eyes and sandy hair and that dark blond mustache that made him look so carefree; but he wasn’t carefree at all. The love she’d offered hadn’t been enough to help him fight the demons in his mind, the guilt and horror that he tried to wash away with whisky. He’d chosen death because he felt he wasn’t worthy of love. She understood that now. It didn’t ease the pain. She struggled with her own guilt. If she hadn’t followed him to England, if she hadn’t been seventeen and so certain of herself and the future, a sunny, happy future . . . But she had been seventeen and certain. Now she was thirty-two, and she would never be certain of anything again.

  She and Spencer had almost been happy. But she didn’t love him, and he didn’t love her. In the utter loneliness of this quiet, dark pocket, she couldn’t escape the truth. They had come close to happiness with Charles. Those were the bright days, the laughter-filled days. Spencer had been so very proud of his son. He’d taken so many pictures of Charles’s first birthday party.

  Catharine had teased him. “I believe you’re going to use up all the film in Paris. For heaven’s sake, Spencer, there will be other birthdays.”

  But there hadn’t been any more birthdays for Charles.

  The pictures were upstairs in her sitting room in the roll-top desk . . . oh, the war mustn’t destroy their pictures of Charles . . .

  The happy days. They’d walked in the Bois de Boulogne and taken picnic lunches and, for the only time in her marriage, she and Spencer had come together with pleasure and almost with passion. But in the icy, numb days after Charles’s death, she and Spencer had moved apart; they’d never come together again. The tie between Catharine and Spencer died when Charles died.

  She knew that Spencer didn’t blame her for Charles’s death. It was more that their grief snuffed out any spark of love, and it had never rekindled.

  Catharine lay in the darkness and thought of Jack. It was odd how words could turn your mind. Priscilla’s high, cultivated voice crying out, “Oh, God, I’m going to die—and I’ve never loved a man.” And neither, thought Catharine, have I.