The Way to London

by Alix Rickloff

  “Didn’t you?” Even in the darkness, Lucy sensed the raised eyebrow, the searching look.

  “Crikey!” Bill stared around him at the square of elegant town houses fronting the tidy landscaped park. “This is a spiffing place.”

  “Isn’t it? I was never so happy as when I could hand off the keys to the family’s country estate to my son’s wife and be shot of the whole dismal place. It was like living in a museum. My little house here in town is much more comfortable, convenient, and just enough for Pidge and myself to manage on our own.”

  If only Aunt Cynthia held such modern views, but Lucy was almost positive the only way they’d get the old girl to leave Nanreath Hall was in a pine box.

  “Come along. Pidge will be wondering what’s happened to us.”

  She’d not even touched the knob before it was opened by a middle-aged gentleman in a robe and slippers. “Welcome home, milady.”

  Despite his dignified demeanor, relief suffused his thin ferrety features. Lucy would have bet he’d been pacing the floor and twitching back the front curtain for the past half hour.

  Lady Turnbull shrugged her coat off onto the manservant. “Of course I’m home, Pidge. Did you think I’d drive into the Thames or fall into a bomb crater?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind, milady.” He bowed them through to the drawing room, where he had a drinks tray and a platter of sandwiches waiting.

  Lucy wasn’t sure which she wanted to dive into first.

  She grabbed a sandwich.

  “Bloater paste, Pidge?” Lady Turnbull inspected the plate with relish. “You do know the secret ways into a woman’s heart.” She finished her sandwich in two bites and took another.

  Lucy returned hers uneaten to the tray. Perhaps a drink instead.

  Pidge seemed to read her mind. He stood at her elbow, gin and juice in hand.

  “I could kiss you square on the mouth,” Lucy gushed.

  By only the mere flicker of an eyelash did he acknowledge her enthusiasm. “I’m pleased to be of service, Miss Stanhope” was his ambiguous response.

  “Ah, sweet nectar of the gods.” She gulped it down, then waited for the usual warm buzzy feeling that haloed the world in a happy glow.

  And waited.

  Nothing. Tonight, she merely felt nauseated and scraped raw, nerves skittering, thoughts tumbling and turning like rats on a wheel. For probably the first time ever, she waved off a refill and settled for a glass of water.

  “Pidge has prepared you both rooms. Should Jerry make another appearance tonight, there’s an Anderson shelter in the back garden. I’ve been using it as a wine cellar since the Blitz ended, but in a pinch . . . eh?”

  Had Michael found a shelter during the raid? No doubt he had, and spent the entire time thanking his good fortune at finally being rid of her. She’d been horrid to him since she’d first laid eyes on him all those long months ago. She’d used him, insulted him, bullied him, and taken him for granted. No wonder he’d finally grown disgusted and left her to fend for herself. That’s what he’d done. That’s what he must have done. She refused to let her mind wander to any other scenarios.

  Instead, she focused on Bill, yawning and rubbing at his eyes as he washed down bloater paste sandwiches with a mug of cocoa. Dust caked his grubby clothes and turned his hair a grimy gray. There was a scratch on his cheek and another on his shin. He’d lost a shoe somewhere along the way and his left sock was soaking wet. He was an absolute mess.

  Her throat closed around a sob; her stomach swirled alarmingly. Blinking away tears, she crushed him in the biggest, tightest bear hug.

  “’Ere now, Lucy. What are you on about? You’re squishing me.”

  “I’m doing what I should have done when I first found you in that horrid closet.” She pulled away just long enough to meet his eyes, which were a bit alarmed but otherwise alive with happiness. “And if you ever do such a thing again, William Smedley, I shall take a switch to you myself. Do you hear?”

  “Aye, Lucy. I hear.”

  It was her turn to be squished.

  When it rained, it poured. And tonight’s storm was relentless.

  No sooner had Bill been settled in bed and Lady Turnbull retired to her boudoir than the doorbell sounded like a crash of cymbals, followed swiftly by Aunt Cynthia, rather the worse for wear and blinking owlishly.

  Lucy recognized that air of weary, rumpled confusion. It was the look of someone who’d wrestled with the vagaries of British public transport and lost. Her aunt’s usual stern hairstyle bore evidence of lost hairpins and long hours on windy platforms. Her Dior suit, while still complete with pearls, hat, and matching bag, showed signs of stray train cinders and perhaps a brush with someone’s hairy dog. And her cosmetics-counter sheen had long since worn away to reveal a splotchy exhaustion.

  Taking a page from Bill’s vocabulary, Lucy breathed a defeated, “Crikey.”

  Pidge, obviously sensing the coming fireworks, stayed only long enough to suggest that he divest Lady Boxley of her coat (she accepted) and offer her a cup of tea (she declined) before abandoning Lucy completely.

  Coward.

  In what Lucy could only assume novelists meant when they spoke of “high dudgeon,” Aunt Cynthia huffed and puffed like a braking locomotive. Her whole body trembled with a barely suppressed inner turmoil until Lucy was afraid the top of her head might explode. “Lucille Miranda Stanhope, what have you to say for yourself?”

  No “darling,” “dear,” or “sweetheart.” Not an endearment in sight.

  Lucy stood to attention, a strange twisting in her chest and a betraying lump in her throat. “It’s wonderful to see you?” She flung her arms around her aunt, feeling the sharp bones of her frame as she inhaled the mingled scents of lilacs and peppermints.

  Extricating herself from this surprising reaction, her aunt gawked as if she’d swallowed her tongue.

  Frankly, Lucy did too. She’d no idea until her arms had locked round her aunt’s middle that she’d been about to throw herself at her. Clearly, she’d taken a harder knock on the head than she’d realized at the time.

  They both stepped back amid a clearing of throats and an awkward glance at their shoes as if the reason for this emotional outburst might be written there.

  Aunt Cynthia recovered first. “I am at my wits’ end, young lady. You have stolen, lied, trespassed, and committed fraud. Worse, you’ve dragged an innocent child into your escapades.”

  “I wouldn’t say Bill was entirely innocent.”

  “Don’t interrupt. I was worried sick with no idea where you’d gone. Do you know the amount of trouble you’ve caused with your childish foolishness? I’ve spent countless days chasing you from pillar to post. I’ve called in every favor and squandered valuable time and resources in keeping your heedless, thoughtless actions from becoming common fodder for the masses”—she paused, suddenly aware of Lucy’s rather unconventional ensemble—“is that my dress you’re wearing?”

  “It might be. Do you like it?” Damp, dusty, and sporting a few torn seams, her refashioned ensemble had survived the night almost intact.

  “You stole clothes from my wardrobe and turned them into a . . . into a . . .” Lady Boxley studied her with magnifying-glass precision. “I suppose that collar is quite striking.”

  Lucy, who had been bracing herself for a crushing blow, was momentarily flummoxed. “Thank you, I think.”

  Lady Boxley glared, and Lucy resumed her pose of abject contrition. “Where was I? Oh yes. You betrayed my trust, trampled my goodwill, and . . . and . . .”—her hard gaze became assessing once more—“the way the skirt hangs just along the hip there reminds me a bit of Copeland.”

  Lucy didn’t understand the direction this conversation was headed but she decided it was in her best interest not to argue. “Jo Copeland?”

  “You know of her? Well, I suppose you are Amelia’s daughter. She had an eye for fashion, though I believe she limited herself to purchasing it rather than designing it. You,
on the other hand, seem to have more than fluff for brains. Must come from your father.” She continued to eye Lucy’s outfit as if in the audience at a Parisian fashion parade.

  “Are you going to sign me up?” Lucy asked.

  “Sign you up?”

  “With the WVS or the MTC or the WLA. I’m sure there are any number of acronyms that would take me.”

  “No,” her aunt replied thoughtfully. “I think I have a better outlet for your rather unique talents. Madame Evrard lives near Truro. She’s retired now, but in her day she was quite sought after among the très chic Parisian women. I might be able to induce her into taking on an apprentice . . . if that apprentice was serious about pursuing such a career.”

  Lucy hadn’t time to digest this remarkable pronouncement before Aunt Cynthia cocked her head, still with a rather fearsome glare, and added, “If I were you, I’d have chosen a rather more autumn shade to bring out the green in your eyes.”

  Her aunt knew what color Lucy’s eyes were? Would this nonstop series of shocks never end?

  “I have a lovely Vionnet. It never worked well with my coloring, but it would suit you perfectly. It just needs a bit of updating to return it to the first stare of fashion. Actually, I believe there’s a whole trunk of old clothes in the attic. I’ve never had the heart to hand them over to the WI for their clothing drives, but you might find them inspirational.”

  By now, Lucy felt as if she’d taken one too many blows to the head—or drunk one too many of Pidge’s gins. Surely this conversation wasn’t happening. “I thought you were angry.”

  Lady Boxley’s considering frown deepened to one of white-lipped displeasure. “I am beyond angry. I’m positively furious.”

  “Then . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “Then why are you being kind to me?”

  Her aunt’s expression went rigid as marble. “I’m not being ‘kind,’ as you so eloquently put it. I am simply mentioning the existence of a trunk in the attic. If you take that as an endorsement of your antics, you are much mistaken.”

  “But Madame Evrard?”

  “Don’t fawn at my feet quite yet. When you meet her, you may find that I could not have contrived a more suitable punishment. Compared to Madame, Sister Murphy is meek as a newborn lamb.”

  That gave Lucy a moment’s pause, but only a moment. “Still, I’m surprised you went to all the bother of traveling up here. My mother would have simply sent her solicitor to deal with the situation.”

  “My solicitor is suffering from a horrid case of influenza and was unable to make the journey.” Lady Boxley stiffened in noble umbrage. “And I do not slough off my responsibilities on others.”

  Lucy’s feeling of optimism burst. “Oh, of course.”

  “Nor, it would seem, if Lady Turnbull’s rather incomprehensible explanations are accurate, do you.” Aunt Cynthia didn’t smile, but there was a softer glow to her usual burning orbs, a smoothing of her furrowed brow, perhaps even a touch of relaxation in those firm downturned lips. “Perhaps you and I are more alike than I thought.”

  At one time not so long ago that comparison would have sent a shiver up Lucy’s spine.

  Not tonight.

  Before the warmth in her chest could expand, Lady Boxley added in a quelling tone, “A horrifying thought for both of us, I imagine.”

  Lucy sat at an upper attic window, staring out on the square. No lights burned in the room behind her, so she felt no fear of a warden’s reprimand. Beyond the watery glass, the storm had moved to the east, leaving a veil of cloud that hung low along rooftops and curled around chimney pots like smoke. A setting moon left the square across the street a tidy patchwork of shadow upon shifting shadow.

  Lucy knew she should be asleep. It would be dawn very soon according to the alarm clock on her side table—already she could hear birds calling from the park’s trimmed boxwoods—but as soon as her head hit the pillow, her mind spun in a blur of questions, her eyes locked on the ceiling as if answers might be written among the cracks in the plaster above her bed. The park was no more helpful at sorting out her confusion, but at least the view was more interesting.

  She could focus on the scratch of trees against the sky instead of those she’d lost or driven away—Yoon Hai. Lady Amelia. Mason Oliver. Michael.

  She could concentrate on the slippery movement of the shadows instead of those she’d found—Bill. Mrs. McKeegan. Lady Turnbull. Aunt Cynthia.

  She could listen to the sounds of the city waking up rather than the voice in her head that told her she’d made a complete hash of her entire life since the morning she’d awakened in her airy bedroom on Orchard Road to her mother’s scandalized harangue.

  Before her on the window seat lay two calling cards. She found herself shuffling them with the same dexterity Bill had once shown with a marked deck.

  Mason Oliver’s, gilded and embossed, carrying the scent of aftershave and cigar smoke within the heavy-edged stock.

  Lady Turnbull’s simple script and plain stock, at odds with her elevated position and exclusive address.

  Back and forth she shuffled them, one over the other, round and round, shadows lengthening as the dawn approached. Counting pluses and minuses as Bill might have noted aces and queens. Knowing a choice must be made but afraid to make the wrong one.

  And thus making no choice.

  Back and forth.

  Over and under.

  America. England.

  Leave. Stay.

  What dream would she follow?

  Which risk would be greater?

  A soft knock on the door broke her from the whirl of her thoughts. “Can I come in, Lucy?”

  It was Bill, enveloped in a striped linen nightshirt that trailed to his bare toes, the sleeves draping loose over his gawky wrists.

  “Of course.” She made room for him. “You can’t sleep either?”

  He climbed up beside her in the embrasure, folding himself in the curve of her body, her chin resting on the top of his head. He smelled of soap and faintly of lavender-scented sheets. Neither spoke, each of them lost in their own thoughts as they stared out on the silence of the park. The shadows lengthened like fingers, then disappeared as the moon sank below the far side of the square.

  “I miss Rufus, Lucy.”

  “Of course you do, but he’s flying with all the other birds in heaven.”

  “Do you suppose he’s looking down on us right now?”

  “I expect he’s too busy eating a feast of worms and seeds until he’s fit to burst and singing his lungs out in some big chestnut tree. A heavenly chorus of siskins.”

  Bill gave a soft sigh. “That sounds nice.” He seemed to draw closer to her, his breathing slow and even, until she thought he must have fallen asleep. Perfect. Now she was trapped, her right foot was falling asleep, and she had an itch she couldn’t reach without waking him up.

  She tried tipping her head back against the window and closing her eyes.

  Just as she thought she might finally drop off, Bill’s voice pulled her back.

  “Do you love Michael?”

  A slide of cold infected her, any thoughts of sleep erased. “What do you know about that?”

  “Well, do you?”

  “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

  “He’s keen on you. And he’s not a rotter. You said it yourself.”

  “Yes, of course . . .”

  “So why don’t you marry him?”

  “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Usually because both people have to be in love—or at least think they’re in love—to be married. It’s not like picking out a dress in a shop.”

  The excitement. The infatuation. Then one brought it home, tried it on, and hated it. All right, perhaps it was like picking out a dress in a shop.

  “But I saw you kiss him. You thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t.”

  “Then you also saw that he most definitely didn’t
kiss me back.”

  “That’s not the way it looked to me.”

  “Yes, well, it was a mistake.”

  “Maybe, but I still think Michael and you are nice together. He makes me laugh and he’s jolly fun. And he knows how to fix an engine and make a paper airplane that really flies and even how to fish with a bit of cheese.”

  “All fine qualities in a husband.” She paused, adding under her breath, “I’m sure he and Arabella Nash will be very happy.”

  She put Michael McKeegan firmly out of her mind. He was a swell guy who’d helped her out of a jam, but he was nothing like her usual sort of man at all. Neither suavely urbane nor flush with ready cash, and definitely not always up for a good time.

  And maybe . . . just maybe . . . that was the point.

  Over and under.

  Back and forth.

  The cards moved in and out like the shrinking shadows in the park.

  Chapter 26

  If someone had told Lucy only a week ago that she would find herself having breakfast between Lady Boxley—chatelaine of a great estate, caretaker of an earldom, and arbiter of all things proper—and con man, card sharp, and spiv-in-the-making Bill Smedley, she’d have laughed in their face.

  Had they also told her that Aunt Cynthia would be taking lessons in sleight of hand from the little swindler, she’d have assumed the world as she knew it had been turned on its head.

  “See? It’s all making folks look where you want them to ’stead of where you don’t.”

  “Ha! There’s the queen.”

  “Right again, mum.”

  “What a nifty trick.”

  The two sat, heads together, the great social divide naught but a plate of kippered herring and a pot of tea wide.

  Lady Turnbull sat at the head of the table in a lace-trimmed gold silk robe, rings winking as she nibbled the edge of a piece of toast. “I can’t believe no one reported Bill missing for all those days.”

  Aunt Cynthia glanced up from her dealing. “I’ve spoken to Loretta Stanley. According to her, those horrid Sayres people kept his disappearance quiet so as not to lose the weekly stipend they were receiving for his care.”