“Up ahead is home.” Andrew pointed to a huge manor rising in a clearing behind ancient stone walls.
“Oh, Andrew, it’s beautiful. I had no idea it would be so grand.” She stopped her bicycle to view the rugged estate.
“I want to show it all to you.” He shielded his eyes from the sun. “Have I gone daft, or do I hear children?”
She lifted her chin and turned in the direction of the merry sound. “I hear them. How many are your parents keeping?”
“A dozen, I believe, in addition to my nephew.”
Over the ridge, an army of small children filed in a haphazard line. They clung to shirttails and hems of dresses while marching like miniature soldiers. Their little voices echoed like fairy-tale magic.
“Oh, Andrew. It’s been so long since I’ve seen or heard little ones. I want to hug them all.” She peered at the group hiking down a grassy knoll. “I believe there’s closer to fourteen than twelve.”
“My word,” Andrew breathed. “There’s my dad and Mr. Hardy, the gardener.”
Abandoning his bicycle, Andrew called out to a white-haired gentleman taking up the rear of the procession. “Father!” Andrew waved and raced toward them. He didn’t care if he looked like a child himself, for at that moment the war lay far behind.
Margaret studied each child seated around the long wooden table. She recalled Jenny commenting about her son’s letter—how he loved the country and never wanted to leave. She envied Jenny’s children and the precious hope of Britain’s future.
Mr. and Mrs. Stuart had trained the children well, especially since most of them had come from poverty-stricken areas. Andrew’s mother had told her in private the sad condition of some of them: lice infested, dirty, underfed, and without manners. Even with the rationing, Mr. and Mrs. Stuart had provided for them all. Their bright eyes held the glow of promise.
“I simply mother them and enjoy every minute of it,” Andrew’s mother had said, her ample cheeks swelling with pride.
Andrew looked more vibrant than Margaret had ever seen him. He laughed more, and she appreciated the gentle way he dealt with the children. She felt at peace with herself in a way she couldn’t remember since before the war, maybe not even then.
“Would you like a bit more stew?” Mrs. Stuart said, interrupting Margaret’s contemplations. The older woman brushed back sandy-colored hair, the same shade as Andrew’s.
“No, thank you, ma’am. I’m simply admiring all of these precious children.”
“Oh, they can be a handful,” Mr. Stuart said, lifting his knife to emphasize his words. His voice rose above the cherub voices. “Not so loud, children. Our guests will think we’re not proper.” He feigned a stern look at the brood, in particular one little girl who had not ceased laughing.
A boy about eight years old asked if there would be sweets tonight.
“Possibly,” Mrs. Stuart said with a smile. “When everyone has eaten their stew, I might find a treat. In fact, I believe Mrs. Hardy made gooseberry tarts today sweetened with honey.”
The children cheered, and those who had not finished their stew and bread hastened to clean their bowls.
After dinner Margaret helped Mrs. Stuart and some of the older children wash and dry the dishes. Once the wet towels were draped over the sink, the older woman announced bath night.
“How do you manage to bathe them all?” Margaret mentally calculated how long the task would take.
“Mr. Stuart and I split them up—girls and boys. Then he heats one tub and I the other. It doesn’t really amount to a long time, and the older children help the younger ones undress and dress.”
Andrew marched into the kitchen carrying his nephew on his shoulder. “Tonight it will go twice as fast, for we intend to help. Right, Margaret?”
She grinned and laughed at another toddler tugging on his trouser leg. What a lovely day. A part of her wanted it to go on forever—or maybe she wanted to live in this make-believe world with Andrew forever. Margaret forced her feelings for him from her mind. The memory of her brother’s death and Beryl’s circumstances still shadowed her heart. Perhaps when Germany ceased to plague the world, they could talk of a life together.
The following morning, after breakfast had been eaten and the kitchen scrubbed spotless, Margaret and Andrew offered to entertain the children until lunch. Normally his parents and Mr. Hardy took over those duties while Mrs. Hardy busied herself in preparing the day’s food.
“We will go exploring,” Andrew announced to the children. “Who knows what we might find?”
The children’s voices mounted as each tried to tell Uncle Andrew their most prized find. A short while later they proceeded in single file across the hillsides, grasping shirt and dress tails, just as Margaret and Andrew had observed the previous day.
“Why is it you have the little girls after you?” Margaret called to Andrew while they hiked along a brook’s edge.
“I have no idea, but the boys appear to like you best,” he said and lifted a wee girl to his shoulders.
“True. I must be prettier,” she said, feeling the sweet weight of two little boys pulling on her arms.
He swung a grin over his shoulder, mesmerizing her with his tender glance. “This afternoon I’d like to show you the garden. Perhaps just after tea?”
“Wonderful.” She visualized a lovely array of spring color. Everything about Stuart Manor filled her senses with beauty and delight.
Andrew and Margaret enjoyed tea in delicate demitasse cups, poured from a family heirloom pitcher and served on a silver tray. They added a precious lump of sugar and ate cucumber sandwiches and biscuits. She tucked away every memory to open like a treasured book when the days ahead sought to overwhelm her.
“Close your eyes and let me lead you,” Andrew coaxed, once they’d left the manor. “I want this to be a surprise.”
“I might peek,” she said with a giggle.
“Ah, fair lady, then must I blindfold you?”
“Probably so.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a clean, white handkerchief. She nodded approval before obediently turning for him to secure it over her eyes.
Andrew couldn’t resist and lightly kissed her neck. He detected a shiver. “Cold, are you?” he said.
“Not exactly.” A smile played on her lips. “How far are we going?”
“Miles, my lady. Just hold tightly to my hand.”
On they walked, beyond the back of the manor and dark yew hedges to a place where dreams were made. He drank in the earthy smells and watched the light splay through the tree limbs. Never had he truly appreciated the garden’s beauty and Mr. Hardy’s labor until today.
“Here we are,” he said, stopping several feet in front of a winding brook beside a small, stone cottage. Andrew removed the handkerchief from Margaret’s eyes, watching every movement on her face.
She held her breath and tears fell from her eyes. “It’s my picture, my Christmas picture.” She studied each delicate spring flower, fern, and grass. She stepped across a rock path to the bubbling brook, then bent to examine a patch of daffodils and red tulips. As though in her own world, she noted each blooming array of primrose, crocus, and white narcissus. A light laugh sprang from her lips as she gingerly scooped up a cherry blossom petal that had fallen among the grasses.
As if a symphony played in the background of rustling water, Margaret slowly stood and approached the cottage.
“The roses.” She closed her eyes. “I can only imagine all this paradise when they’re in full bloom.”
Andrew’s heart raced at the sight of his beloved Margaret posed at the threshold of the small structure.
“In summer the scent of the roses mixed with honeysuckle will take your breath away,” he said, choosing to join her.
She touched the moss-covered wall. “And the beauty of them, just as in my picture.”
“Nearly as lovely as you.”
She blushed, and her gaze followed a vine trailing up the side to
the roof. “Thank you,” she said, so quietly that her voice blended with the gentle sounds of nature. “This is a sacred place. Surely Eden could not have been more colorful and alive.” She whirled to face him. “Oh, Andrew, God is here. I can feel Him.”
“That’s why I’ve chosen this place to tell you how I feel.” His heart pounded and his mouth felt dry, but he dare not lose courage now. Lifting her chin with his finger, he gazed into those beloved pools, more radiant than the blossoms from spring and summer combined. “I love you, Margaret. I want us always to be together. Marry me and let me take care of you.”
Her face paled, and she stepped back. “Marry you … while the war rages around us?” Her gaze darted like a trapped animal.
Andrew’s heart plummeted. “This war will not last forever.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t possibly marry you. What if I lose you like my brother? Or how Beryl lost Patrick? Forgive me, Andrew, but what you ask is impossible. Perhaps after the war …” Her voice trailed off, and in its wake her sobs broke the spell of the garden.
Brushing past him, Margaret rushed toward the house beyond him and the call of the garden.
Chapter 6
“This is a war of the Unknown Warriors; but let all strive without failing in faith or in duty.”
WINSTON CHURCHILL
Margaret raced from the garden toward the Stuart manor, her tears falling uncontrollably. She needed to leave this place and get back to London where she belonged. There in the real world, she had duties and responsibilities that mattered. Andrew had tricked her into coming to Northamptonshire. He knew she’d never agree to marriage while on base. By taking her to the country, he’d played on her sentiments. How selfish of him to ask her to wed when pilots faced death every moment they were in the air. Andrew had taken her affections for him and used them to his advantage.
“Margaret!”
She hurried faster.
“Margaret!”
Anger laced every syllable.
Before she could consider a reply, he grabbed her arm and forced her to face him.
“You’re a coward?” Blood pumped its power through his face and neck. “Life doesn’t give any guarantees, Corporal Walker. What will your excuse be after the war? I might get sick? I might get hit by a trolley? I might choke on a poached egg? England’s weather doesn’t suit you?”
“You have no right to talk to me that way.” She shook loose his hold and took a step back. Their fury split the picturesque countryside. What happened to her quiet lieutenant? “You don’t understand.”
He raked his fingers through his hair and expelled a heavy sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet. “Oh, I understand perfectly. Do you think you have the market on heartache? Look at the thousands of children living without their parents. Think of the parents who have no idea of their children’s living conditions. What about Beryl and Patrick? Do you think they stopped loving because Hitler decided to wage war?”
“Leave me alone,” she said through her tears.
“First tell me you don’t love me.” He intensified his demand with a piercing stare.
“You don’t deserve an answer. You brought me here under false pretenses, thinking the country and its garden would twist my mind and heart into seeing things your way.”
“Since when is the love God gives a man and a woman something to be reckoned with like a formidable enemy?”
She balled her fists, more angry than she could remember. “He instructs us to be discerning,” she spurted through a ragged breath.
Andrew lifted his chin. “It is you who cannot perceive what is clearly before you. How sad. You cannot make a commitment, and you’re using anything you can clutch as an excuse.” He paused, then stiffened. “Tell me you want me out of your life.” His voice softened. “Tell me now, and I won’t ever bother you again. I give you my word.”
A lump settled in her throat. Her lips quivered and she swallowed hard. She turned and raced back toward the house.
“Go ahead, run,” he called after her. “I won’t come after you. You’ve made your choice.”
Sunday morning, Andrew rode the train back to London alone. Margaret had gathered up her things on Saturday afternoon and left the house before he’d walked off his anger and talked to God.
He’d been prepared to apologize for losing his temper, and when he found out she’d left his parents’ home, he wanted to go after her. But he held on to his pride. He recognized it, and still he could not humble himself to make amends with her. She’d tested him once too often. Margaret would have to come to him.
As he buried himself in the RAF—flying at a moment’s notice and often several times during the day or night—Andrew attempted to cast aside his love for her. He avoided the places they’d ventured together, believing he could tuck her memory into a remote corner of his heart. A few times she’d driven the lorry transporting the pilots to the hangars, but he refused to look her way.
Bitterness erupted when he least expected it like a land mine, damaging his relationships with other flyers. He apologized and the others said they understood, but it didn’t stop the guilt.
A month later, Andrew settled his plane into formation with other Spitfires above the waters of the English Channel. Radar had indicated German fighters en route to Britain’s shores, and the fighters churned their engines to meet them. The RAF planes flew twenty thousand feet above the clouds, making them invisible until the right moment to swoop down behind the unsuspecting German Messerschmitts.
Andrew waited until he knew the enemy swarmed beneath them before ordering the fighters to separate, turn, and dive for the attack. Sadly outnumbered, the RAF utilized their offensive position to fire the enemy from the skies.
The surprise attack left black swirls of smoke and the decimated end of many German planes. Andrew saw two of his friends’ planes burst into flames, but one pilot parachuted out. The other man now rested in God’s hands.
Angry at the loss of his friend’s life, Andrew flew down through the middle of six German fighters and pumped bullets from every angle. He knew he took too many chances lately, and although he’d earned the title of a relentless fighter, he understood his daring came from his wounded heart.
One enemy aircraft met his demise and two others took on heavy damage. He quickly lifted his plane above the clouds to strike again.
Within seconds, he detected three enemy fighters rapidly moving in from his rear.
“You think you have me?” he shouted. “We’ll see who wins this round.”
The hair on his neck bristled when a fighter zoomed in faster than Andrew anticipated. He pulled his Spitfire up, narrowly missing an onslaught of bullets. Beads of sweat trickled down the side of his face despite the winter temperatures.
“Lord, I need Your help,” he said.
Through the white veil concealing him, Andrew spotted a Messerschmitt looming behind. Andrew lifted the plane higher and quickly swung to the right. He aimed his wing guns, fired, and watched the enemy aircraft disappear in an explosion. Another fighter appeared just ahead. Andrew ascended on the plane and sent it spiraling downward.
He no sooner recovered than the third German fighter trailed after him. Andrew used the same maneuver, except this time he swung to the left. The enemy stayed on him as though sensing Andrew’s moves. Again he lifted his Spitfire and repeated a wide turn to the left.
The Messerschmitt followed, now within firing range. Enemy bullets ripped into Andrew’s fighter.
Lord, this German is smarter than I am. I need You to direct me.
Following his instincts, Andrew sank below the Messerschmitt and prayed for guidance. He glanced at the amount of fuel remaining and assessed the damage done to his plane. He wondered if the right wing guns would work at all. Taking a deep breath, he moved from under the enemy and twisted to the right, but not before taking a bad hit to the side.
Pressing on, he finally secured a rear position and pumped all he had int
o the German fighter. The aircraft exploded, but the Spitfire would never make it back to base.
Thank You, Lord. Please be with the other pilots as well.
Andrew parachuted out and saw his landing would be on English soil and not the water. He breathed a prayer of thanks, for he had no inclination to drop into the icy waters of the Channel or set up a rescue boat as a target for airborne Germans. He cringed when his fighter plane crashed into the coastal terrain long before his feet found safety. He rather fancied that little fighter, but like Margaret, all had been lost.
On May tenth, Andrew picked up his Bible and read through Isaiah forty. He had long ago put the verses of twenty-nine through thirty-one to memory and often prayed through them in flight. This morning the Scripture held a different meaning. He closed his eyes and allowed the words to flow through his body and soul.
“He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might He increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall. But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
Andrew felt as though a knife had thrust through his heart and twisted. “… the young men shall utterly fall.” His pride was destroying him. For weeks he’d been depleted of strength, not the strength required to fly his Spitfire but his ability to hold on to the Lord. His broken heart had stopped him from forgiving Margaret and apologizing for losing his temper. The time had come to stop asking God why she’d refused him and accept he might never know until he saw God face-to-face. For now, God had allowed this upheaval in his life, and He did know best.
Forgive me, Father, for my hard heart. I will find Margaret today and apologize. Thank You for caring enough to point out my sin and for providing a way for me to seek forgiveness. You know my love for her, and now I see my love must be unconditional, like Yours.
Andrew closed his Bible. He did not have to fly until tonight. He’d make amends with Margaret and not go another day with the shame tormenting his soul.
A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection Page 11