A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection

by Dianna Crawford

  “Maybe God means for you to know a man like him—like a gift from heaven.” She sat beside Margaret and lightly squeezed her shoulders. “For all the hardships and sorrow, I don’t ever regret loving my Patrick.” She muffled a sob. “And now I’ll have two wonderful pieces of him to cherish forever.”

  Margaret choked back her own emotion. Sweet Beryl, she always saw past the storm to the rainbow. “I don’t think I can be like you. Right now the only thing consuming me is my desire for victory, but if I can avoid some of the costs I must.”

  Much later, long after the sirens ceased and the other women lay sleeping, Margaret lay on her bed and sorted through her turbulent thoughts. A reserved lieutenant occupied her mind—those incredible brown eyes and a sprinkling of tan-colored freckles. Finally Margaret turned to the only solace she knew, that of prayer.

  Oh, God, I believe I acted rightfully in refusing to see Andrew again, but now I wonder if I’m being selfish. I can’t get involved. Please don’t ask me to give my heart to a man and then have him killed in this horrid war. I’m so frightened with all that goes on around me. Leave me in my shell, God. It’s safer here.

  The following day, Margaret transported several pilots to the hangars. She understood they were to be briefed on a special mission, and her orders were to wait until a commanding officer dismissed her. After awhile, she grew bored and exited the lorry to stretch her legs. Keeping her distance from the mechanics, she studied the planes waiting for takeoff: Spitfires with narrow noses and straight lines, known for their speed in fighting, and Hurricanes, the workhorse fighters. All stood ready, fueled up, and armed for their mission.

  How many young pilots would come back? She wanted to believe the RAF could crush the Luftwaffe, but from her point of view, Britain’s success looked bleak. Hitler’s military had cast terror into the hearts of all of Europe. She’d never whisper a hint of her fears to anyone. Yet sometimes she wondered if the newspapers stretched the truth about the British successes. Not that she’d ever doubt Churchill—“Winny” some called him. He kept up their morale with his hopeful speeches and spurred them on to continue one more day. Even so, the year 1940 had been a rough year for the men and women who fought for Britain.

  She offered a prayer for the pilots’ safety and turned back to her lorry. Climbing onto the seat, she saw a piece of paper. Curious, Margaret picked it up and found a sketch of a rose, perfect in petal and formation. At the bottom, a note had been carefully penned.

  For Margaret:

  Never has a rose in England looked so fair. I wish I could have given you a real, brilliant red beauty, but none could compare to you—a royal flower amidst the ashes of London.

  Lieutenant Andrew Stuart

  Chapter 3

  “Centuries ago words were written to be a call and a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Justice: ‘Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valour, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar.

  As the Will of God is in Heaven, even so let it be.’ ”

  WINSTON CHURCHILL

  Andrew didn’t know why he’d sketched the rose and left such a ridiculous note for Margaret in the lorry, but he had. He didn’t want to consider what she might think of him after he’d followed his foolish impulse. Hadn’t he resigned himself to steering away from relationships until after the war? Of course, his action could merely be his pride reacting to her refusal to see him again. Or could this be something else? He recalled her clear eyes, sparkling with laughter, and the honesty in her voice.

  Margaret, have you already pushed me from your thoughts?

  Andrew realized he’d lost his common sense. After spending less than an hour and a half with the lady, he thought she might be the one God intended for him. What happened to his plans for friendship, a chum to share idle hours?

  Lord, help me with this. Am I reaching out to Margaret instead of clinging to You? I’m wondering if I should be bothering You at all with my turmoil.

  Andrew pushed aside the burdensome thoughts of the lovely Corporal Walker and considered his flight pattern for the day. He pulled his jacket around him in the frosty morning air and watched the ground crew load ammunition into the fighter’s wing guns. This had to be done with expertise or the guns could fail during battle. Glancing about, he felt intense pride in being a part of the RAF. The foresight in camouflaging fighters and bombers from German planes was one of the reasons why the RAF still ruled the skies over England. Other European countries who had fallen in a matter of days had lined their aircraft along the runways. Those planes had been perfect targets for airborne Germans.

  Climbing into the cockpit of his Spitfire, Andrew pulled the hatch closed. The frigid air chilled him to the bone. Last winter while he flew for France, the weather had grown so cold he thought he’d never be warm again. He didn’t look forward to another season like it.

  With a heavy sigh, he glanced upward. The sky tinged a bit cloudy, but it did not hold the black, curling smoke of combat. Too many times he’d heard the burst of gunfire finding their mark in aircraft and heard the screams of falling planes. A smart man wouldn’t want to take on these assignments, but he had neither the intelligence nor the will to be anything but bold and stubbornly courageous. He followed orders and his gut instincts, praying all the while for God to lead him in the right direction.

  Some hailed Britain’s pilots as heroes, but he laughed at those titles. The RAF did what it deemed necessary because it had no choice. In his estimation, the real heroes were the mechanics who bore the brunt of German fire to repair and patch the bullet-riddled planes. He certainly didn’t want their job.

  Margaret pondered Andrew’s rose and poetic words for three days before summoning the courage to approach him about it. She’d written a proper note thanking him, but it seemed too proper and impersonal in light of his tender gift. She placed the picture under her pillow and studied it in her spare moments, putting his written words to memory and tracing the flower with her finger as though watching him draw it.

  Through Beryl, who packed parachutes at the hangars, she learned Andrew’s schedule. One evening she lingered outside the men’s dining hall in hopes he sat inside. She’d planned a brief encounter, one to express her appreciation and not in any way commit her to seeing him again. But in the confines of her heart, another flower budded in a garden of secret dreams.

  Margaret stood several feet back from the entrance of the dining hall, not wanting to attract attention from the other men. The pilots filed out, some laughing, some talking. The unmistakable lively voice of Corporal Harris swelled above the others and caught her attention. Beside him stood Andrew. Even the talkative corporal said nothing as Andrew sauntered toward her.

  “Good evening,” she managed through a ragged breath. She swept her tongue across dry lips and braved forward. “I wondered …” She studied her shoes to avoid the stares of the other men until they passed by. Glancing up into his face, she offered a faint smile. “I wondered if you would have a moment to speak with me.”

  “I do.” Andrew jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. “We could take a walk.”

  “An excellent idea.” A nip of icy air caught her hair and whipped it back from her face. She’d taken great pains to arrange it, but for naught.

  “Winter is wanting to overtake us,” he said.

  “I agree.” She wrapped her arms around herself, more from the undeniable emotions Andrew’s presence gave her than the cold.

  He pointed to an area shielded by buildings. “We can venture in that direction. It’ll block the wind.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Suddenly her carefully formulated speech escaped her.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” Andrew said.

  She nodded. “The rose and your note were beautiful, and I wanted to tell you so in person.”

  “I got your post thanking me.”

  “But it didn’t express my gratitude suitably.
I was deeply touched.”

  He shrugged. “I’m pleased.”

  Silence overtook them, and she searched her mind for one of the million things she wished she could discuss with him.

  “Have you eaten?” he said.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t have much of an appetite.”

  “In better days, I’d have offered to take you to a fine restaurant.”

  “In better days, I’d have accepted.”

  He laughed then sobered. “Is that the problem, Margaret? Are you living in memories of pre-war England instead of reality, or do you truly not enjoy my company?”

  His question stopped her colder than the November temperatures. “I did enjoy our walk and your company. I’m not certain I can explain my reluctance to see you … It’s rather personal … Certain things need to be kept private, even sacred during war times.”

  “Some things are always sacred in God’s eyes, no matter what is going on around us.”

  “Even if the time is not right?” Why did she feel like crying? Betrayed by her own fragile feelings, Margaret could not bring herself to look into his face.

  “God’s timing is always perfect.”

  She glanced at the building behind them, stone and hard. Sometimes she wondered if her heart had become the same. “Andrew,” she began softly. “Do you know what happens when you plant flowers in the wrong season?”

  He nodded sadly.

  “They die for lack of nurturing,” she finished.

  “But not if they are sheltered within a greenhouse. The flowers still flourish, because the gardener tends to them.”

  “Do you believe this gardener decides which flowers will grow?” she whispered.

  “No. I believe the flowers choose to live or die according to the riches of the gardener’s care.”

  Margaret forced herself to look at him. “I’m afraid, Andrew.” No longer could she conceal her tears.

  He brushed away the wetness on her cheek. “I, as well. Remember, we Brits are known for not turning our backs on adversity and being prepared for hard times. Can’t we begin as friends, Margaret, for isn’t that how it should be?”

  “All right,” she said. “I can be your friend.”

  As the weeks poured into December, Andrew found every spare minute to spend with Margaret. He longed for her laughter and wit. She made him laugh with a single phrase, and she appeared to enjoy his company. At least she no longer refused to see him.

  “Good news,” Corporal James Harris announced one evening. “I see a new band will be entertaining the troops next week. Oh, it will be a jolly good time, don’t you think?”

  Andrew’s mind raced. Margaret loved music. Perhaps she’d want to attend the event with him. “Are you sure about the band?”

  “Quite,” James said, his mirth ringing through the roof of the barracks. He patted Andrew on the back. “Old boy, I see the light of love in your eyes. Have you fallen for the pretty corporal already?”

  Andrew furrowed his brow. “It’s only been four weeks, much too soon to be proper.”

  “Whoever said love had to follow socially acceptable timetables?”

  “She’s a friend, and that’s all for the time being,” Andrew said more gruffly than he intended. “We’re a country at war.”

  “No need to get upset about it,” James said, “just making conversation.”

  Immediately Andrew regretted his rash words. “I’m sorry, old chap. Margaret is special, and I don’t want to make light of her.”

  “Of course. All of us are a bit ill tempered these days. So would you like for me to get more information about the band? It’s better than most of those they’ve had in the past.”

  “I surely would, and I’ll ask Margaret about it as well.”

  James turned to go, but Andrew stopped him.

  “Thanks for being understanding. With our missions increasing into Germany, my mind is torn between the war and Margaret.”

  “God is with us.” James looked as stalwart as Andrew had ever seen him. “With all my talking and joking, I have faith we will prevail, and I believe God wants us to enjoy the friendships of those who bring us joy.”

  “Well said, James.” Andrew took a deep breath and reached for his fur-lined jacket. “How about a cup of tea and a game of Ping-Pong? I’m in the mood to beat you.”

  “If you do, it will be a first in a long time.”

  Andrew knew James’s observations about Margaret were true. He had fallen hard for her, something he hadn’t planned to do. The logical side of him said his feelings escalated because of the loneliness and uncertainty of his job, but his heart told him otherwise. Every minute he spent with her seemed more splendid than the last. He appreciated what he saw and how she related to other women.

  Andrew’s thoughts returned to the day before, when he and Margaret had returned from a lively game of darts at the Naffi. Beryl, Margaret’s dear friend, met them along the way. Andrew hadn’t thought Beryl looked ill, but obviously Margaret did.

  “Are you all right?” Margaret had said to the woman.

  “Oh, I’m very well, just out for a stroll,” Beryl said hastily, her gaze darting about.

  “You need your rest.” Margaret’s face tilted and concern edged her words. “Don’t overdo yourself.”

  “I won’t,” Beryl said with a smile. “A bit of fresh air will do me good.” She glanced at Andrew. “It’s good to see you, Andrew. Are you keeping Margaret out of mischief?”

  He grinned. “I certainly try. You should have joined us. Corporal Harris asked about you, wanted to know if we all could do something together.”

  Beryl braced herself against the wind. “I think not, but kindly thank him for the invitation.” Turning her attention to Margaret, she added, “I’ll be going now. Cheerio.”

  Andrew watched her plod toward the dining hall. “Is her health not good?” Andrew said once Beryl disappeared. “I mean, she looks fit, and her cheeks are rosy.”

  “She’s as well as can be expected,” Margaret said. “Beryl hasn’t been a widow long, and often his absence grieves her. Plus she has a young son living with family in Ireland. I’m afraid she doesn’t take good care of herself, and with the winter …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Don’t neglect her,” Andrew said. “I know I take up a lot of your time, but friends are important. Should I apologize for suggesting she keep company with James?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. I’ve told her what honorable men you are. She knows you mean the best.” Margaret smiled appreciatively, while her gaze swept back to Beryl.

  He saw a tear trickle from Margaret’s eye, and once more he felt convinced of her tender heart. “Is there something else troubling you?”

  Instantly her violet pools flashed into his. Did he see panic?

  “Nothing I can tell you,” she said. “I need to go inside where it’s warm.”

  Andrew started to hurry after her but stopped. He understood Margaret enough to realize when she needed to work through things on her own. He wished she’d confide in him instead of running, but maybe he was the problem.

  Chapter 4

  “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”

  WINSTON CHURCHILL

  A few days later, Margaret waited for Beryl to return from the nurse’s station. Her friend had reached her sixth month and couldn’t hide the rounding stomach any longer. Besides needing medical attention, Beryl needed to take care of her position with the WAAF and obtain a proper discharge.

  A few days earlier, when Andrew stated Beryl looked fit and noted the color in her cheeks, Margaret feared he suspected the pregnancy. She’d heard the other women talking among themselves and whispering their suspicions. They felt sorry for Beryl—a new widow with two children to raise alone, but she needed to declare her condition.

  One of the women approached Margaret. Jenny had
lived in the slums of East London before the war. A smile played on her lips, and she carried a piece of paper.

  “How can I help you, Jenny?” Margaret motioned for the tall redhead to sit beside her. “You look more radiant than usual.”

  “My children are so happy.” She sighed. “They tell me they love the country and want me to join them.” She handled Margaret the letter. “Read for yourself.”

  Margaret took the note but sensed Jenny needed to voice more of her feelings.

  “I know I’m lucky to know where they are and even hear from them, but my heart aches for ’em. My dear boy says he ain’t never took so many baths, and he’s gotten bigger since eatin’ regular. My thirteen-year-old daughter says she can milk a cow and make good stew.” Jenny clasped her hands together. “I couldn’t offer them none of those things before, and look what they have now.”

  “Then it’s God’s provision.” Margaret patted Jenny’s hand. “He’s taking care of them like we ask in our prayers. Isn’t our God wonderful?”

  Jenny nodded and a tear slipped from her eye. “Up until this very minute I doubted if a God really existed, but I see a miracle in my children. Matthew wants to always live in the country—doesn’t want our tiny flat anymore.” She toyed with a button on her shirt. “Of course the rats plagued us, and most likely it’s blown to bits.”

  Jenny’s story drew the attention of several others. The letter proved to be a blessing not only for Jenny but also for many women who pondered over the plight of their children.

  Margaret pulled a handkerchief from her trouser pocket and wiped Jenny’s cheeks. “See, the Germans did you a favor, and they didn’t have the sense to know it. Got your children out of a bad situation and into a home where they’re well-taken care of.”

  Suddenly one of the women began to laugh, and soon the others joined.