On Wings of Fire

by Frances Patton Statham

  Massive stone buildings greeted Alpharetta in all directions, as well as arched gateways into the parks, wrought iron with speared spikes of gold now dulled, old brick with scaffolding indicating repairs underway, side by side with the dry rot of unpainted wood—and great empty spaces where façades had once stood—the old and the new—uneasy bedfellows in a land that had borne the brunt of nightly bombing, and had somehow survived.

  They drove along the Strand, with the driver pointing out Nelson’s Column and the four lions at the base of the fountain in Trafalgar Square—and once again, empty spaces near the Cathedral.

  Farther away, along the greens of Hyde Park, Alpharetta watched snatches of cricket and baseball games, with onlookers everywhere—some with their own chairs, others perched under the trees or sitting on stone steps. As far as she could see, there were American uniforms, with a sprinkling of other nationalities. As one group of soldiers passed by and waved, Alpharetta asked, “Is London always this crowded with Americans?”

  The driver nodded. “Especially on weekends. But they’ll disappear soon,” he predicted, “just like the children when the blitz began—overnight; without a word.”

  His prediction sobered Alpharetta. She shivered from the cold and the driver, turning back to look, asked, “Would you like to stop for a hot cuppa?”

  “That would be nice,” she admitted. “It’s frightfully cold.”

  The absence of children was apparent in Picadilly where a Punch and Judy show was in progress. An organ grinder’s grizzled monkey passed his tin cup in the square for ha’pennies among the grownups, while the hawkers had cleverly changed their childish wares to souvenirs that no soldier could resist. The campaign medals on their uniforms were at variance with their carefree behavior. With oddly youthful, amnesiac faces, the soldiers were determined to experience a lifetime in one weekend, with the past forgotten, with no certainty for tomorrow, only the promise of the immediate hour.

  Climbing down from the hack, Alpharetta suddenly made up her mind. She had been a spectator from the slow-moving vehicle long enough. She wanted a hot cuppa, as the driver had called it, and then to walk briskly in the streets, to become a part of the crowd. And so she said good-bye to the driver and began to walk toward Marble Arch and into Lyons Corner House.

  “I say, what enormous luck to see you again.”

  Alpharetta looked around. At her left elbow stood a smiling Paddy, the Irish soldier from the train. And besides him were his two British companions, Rhodes and Matthews. Feeling alone in a city filled with people, Alpharetta returned his smile.

  “Paddy! What happened to you on the train? When I woke up, you had turned into an air officer.”

  “A clear case of the frog and the prince, my dear Watson,” Rhodes, the more profane of the companions, answered before Paddy had a chance to explain.

  “Actually, the conductor moved us.”

  Remembering her feelings when she’d discovered the change, she said, “Why didn’t you wake me? I would have moved, too. The rest of the trip was quite boring.”

  “You were sleeping like a baby, you were. And the conductor took pity on you.”

  Paddy, with his eyes searching for a companion, quickly said, “Are you alone?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Then take pity on three boys far from home, ma’am . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” Alpharetta said, interrupting him with a laugh. “I’m the stranger here.”

  “Then all the more reason for you to have us as guides, so you won’t get lost. Where to, ma’am?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Why do you keep calling me ma’am? I thought that title was reserved for the Queen.”

  “But you’re the queen of our---”

  She held up her hand. “Don’t finish it, Rhodes. I don’t think I can take it this early in the day. I’m going across the street for something hot to drink.”

  “Paddy, get out and stop the traffic while I spread my coat for the lady.”

  A military car slammed on its brakes as Alpharetta stepped from the curbing almost in its path. One of the soldiers pulled her back to safety. Then the three enlisted men saluted the high-ranking officer as the car started up again.

  Inside the Packard, Dow Pomeroy scowled as he recognized the red-headed woman from the train. She had lost no time in finding her friends again.

  “Watch the traffic, luv,” Paddy cautioned a visibly shaken Alpharetta.

  I will,” she replied, “as soon as I get used to Englishmen driving on the wrong side of the street.”

  Her voice contained a slight petulance to hide her embarrassment, for she had recognized the vice-marshal as well.

  They sat in the café, the four of them. It was a pleasant diversion for Alpharetta to be surrounded by the soldiers. But she didn’t linger after the hot liquid had revived her and brought warmth to her hands and feet.

  “You’re making a terrible mistake,” a disappointed Matthews admonished as Alpha-retta left them.

  “You’d have a lot more fun with us,” Rhodes insisted.

  “I know,” she admitted sympathetically, and then was gone.

  By the time she reached her quarters, the flat was vastly different. Scattered clothes and suitcases provided evidence of the arrival of the five with whom she was to share the flat for the weekend. But the flat, empty of people, resembled a cocoon from which the moth had hastily flown.

  Alpharetta dressed far in advance of her appointment. In the mirror she stared at the new outfit she’d bought, not at Selfridge’s, but at the small export shop around the corner that catered to foreigners.

  Beautifully woven green wool and silk, the ensemble had been far too expensive, even with its two skirts—one, street length; the other, long, suitable for evenings in drafty, unheated English houses. Completing the ensemble were a blouse, a coat, and a stole of Highlander tartan that could be worn around the neck or about the waist. Alpharetta carefully draped the stole over her blouse and pinned it in place with the small brooch of green glass and rhinestones, a gift from Anna Clare, who had dug it out of an old trunk at the foot of her bed.

  Alpharetta reached for the matching green coat and stopped. She looked again at the image in the mirror and what she saw troubled her.

  She continued to stare, adjusting the stole, trying it differently, removing the pin and then attaching it in another position closer to her neck.

  But the trouble was not in the ensemble itself. It was beautiful, as it should be at the price. Her eyes left the mirror and looked toward her discarded uniform, draped over a nearby chair. Slowly, the real reason for her dissatisfaction dawned on her. For once again she had used Ben Mark’s standards to judge. He didn’t care to see women dressed in uniform—either British or American. So, she had been a spendthrift, paying much more than she could afford for a mere piece of cloth to win Ben Mark’s approval.

  She began to remove the expensive outfit. In viewing her uniform as Ben Mark would see it, she was denying the many hours of hard work that had won her the right to wear it and its silver wings.

  Had she not already learned a bitter lesson from her fear of what Ben Mark might say about the woman who’d posed as her mother? If they were to have a future together, then there was no need to hide what she was, or had been. With her decision, Alpharetta found a quiet inner peace and serenity.

  Marsh Wexford sat uneasily in the atrium of the Ritz and gazed over the palms to the door whose patched glass gave a distorted view of the street. His knees were at the same level as the table top beside him.

  Tall, handsome by any nationality standards, the paratroop officer was unaware of the murmurs of approval at the other tables filling with young women in a ritual as old as the watering hole at eventide, when societies of both jungle and civilization came together, species of like kind.

  In a hotel known for its elegance, even in wartime, the casual bystander would see no outward manifestation of Marsh’s uneasiness. For he was accustomed to the Paris s
alon of the Vicomtesse d’Arcy, the family friend with whom he had stayed twice in his life. Of course, he remembered almost nothing of the first time. He had been only two years old—a small waif rescued from the battlefield of World War I. But the second time he’d been an eighteen-year-old student at the Sorbonne. For over a year, he’d remained with the vicomtesse, until his adoptive father died and he had returned to Atlanta.

  No, it was not the elegance of his surroundings that made him uneasy, but the coming together of his stepsister Belline and Alpharetta Beaumont, both in love with the same man, his cousin, Ben Mark St. John. Despite the broken engagement, Marsh knew Alpharetta loved Ben Mark as much as ever.

  Alpharetta’s serenity lasted only until she reached the entrance to the Ritz. And then it left her entirely. What would she say to Ben Mark, after so long?

  She gazed down at the uniform and for one brief moment regretted changing her mind. But no. She was proud of the uniform and what it represented. Why then, was her pulse racing so uncontrollably, echoing its dismay into her ears? She took a deep breath and slowly walked into the hotel.

  Outwardly she was calm, aloof, her nervousness apparent only in the slight circular motion of her thumb against the forefinger of her right hand, as if she were manipulating the worry stone used by the ancients.

  Marsh, watching the door, recognized her. He rose from the table and went to meet her. Truly glad to see him, Alpharetta smiled and held out her hands to him. As envious female eyes at a nearby table watched, Marsh took both hands, drew her to him, and kissed her.

  “It’s good to see you, Alpharetta.”

  “Am I . . . the first one here, Marsh?”

  “Yes. I suppose Ben Mark and Belline will both be late, as usual. You remember how they both were.”

  “Yes.”

  Glad of a chance to talk with Marsh first, Alpharetta forgot her nervousness as they shared experiences and he questioned her about her flying. Her eyes took fire as she described the past few weeks, the challenge of the transatlantic flight. But as the time passed, Marsh realized how vulnerable she was. Every moment or so, she glanced toward the entrance and then returned her attention to him. He should have written her, to warn her. Suddenly, he leaned toward her.

  “Alpharetta, don’t be too disappointed, if—”

  “Hello, you two,” Belline said, sweeping toward the table whose pink cloth cascaded to the floor. “Sorry I’m late. We had a rehearsal for the show this afternoon.”

  Belline still wore an exotic makeup, and the deep pink wool dress, by no means government issue. brought out the high-lights of her red hair as she cast off the more subdued brown coat she’d worn.

  “Ben Mark should be here in a few minutes,” she informed them. “He said he’d come straight from Grosvenor House.”

  “How are you, Belline?” Alpharetta asked.

  “Better every day—in every way.” She laughed. “At least that’s what we’re supposed to believe.” A guilty flush began to spread over Belline’s face, for she remembered the episode at Brookwood Station months before, when she had hurried Ben Mark out of the depot when Alpharetta was still in the rest room.

  “How long have you been in England, Belline?” Alpharetta inquired politely.

  “About four months. I was in Cairo before that.”

  Captain Ben Mark St. John, sauntering into the Ritz from the side entrance, saw Marsh’s reflection in the mirror beyond the palms. And seated with him was Belline. He started toward them when he became aware of a third person at the same table—a woman in uniform with the same red hair as Belline, the same slender figure.

  He stopped. Anger grew and became a palpable thing, a lump in his throat that refused to be dislodged. Alpharetta! Eight whole months and no letter, not a single word from his former fiancée. Yet suddenly, here she was, in London, with no prior warning from anyone. Not Marsh. Not even Belline.

  He had been set up. His eyes, cold, calculating, assessed Alpharetta from his vantage point behind the palms. He took in her uniform, the silver wings on her breast. And at that moment, he was sorry that he had ever taught her to fly.

  An angry Ben Mark backed away and headed for the bar instead. He needed more time to get himself together before facing Alpharetta.

  Marsh, deciding not to wait any longer before ordering, signaled the waiter who was hovering nearby.

  “We’ll go ahead and order now. The other member of our party seems to be delayed.”

  “As you wish, Lieutenant.”

  Despite the wartime austerity, the tea table was still creditable, the absent delicacies of earlier days made up for by ingenious substitutions and the elegance of the service—silver teapots, fine porcelain cups with gold trim, lovely old pink linen napkins to match the tablecloths.

  After the second drink, Ben Mark felt fortified enough to face his former fiancée. With a slight flush to his cheeks, he started toward the other room, as Belline excused herself.

  “Coming to look for me?” Ben Mark asked as he and Belline met outside the bar.

  “I had an idea you might be in the bar.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me—that Alpharetta was going to be with you?” he demanded.

  “So you’ve seen her.”

  “Only through the palms.”

  “And you couldn’t face her without getting drunk first?”

  “I only had two drinks.” He grabbed her wrist and whispered. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “Please, Ben Mark. Don’t make a scene. Let’s go back into the lounge, where we can talk.”

  When they were seated, Belline began, “I know how awkward it is for you to see Alpharetta and Marsh together. But you assured him that it was all over between you two. Marsh really believed what you told him. So it’s not as if he’s taking her away from you, Ben Mark.”

  “You mean, they’ve been seeing each other?”

  “Not much chance for that, until this weekend. But I know they’ve been writing to each other. Please, Ben Mark, don’t spoil things for Marsh. He wants all of us to be friends.”

  A bitter twist to his mouth marred Ben Mark’s dark good looks. “It’s not fair. Alpharetta always brought out the best in me.”

  Belline laughed. “But you have me now. And I understand you much better than Alpharetta ever did. Come on, Ben Mark. Perk up. I’ll help you get through this afternoon.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes. And you can help matters along by calling me darling.”

  Ben Mark laughed for the first time in the conversation. “The same old Belline. Still jealous of Alpharetta.”

  “Now, why do you say that? Alpharetta doesn’t have you anymore.”

  “And you think you do?”

  “For this weekend, anyway. Shall we go?”

  Arm in arm they walked toward the room where Marsh and Alpharetta waited, surrounded by mirrored images of uniforms and silver teapots, incongruous symbols of war and peace.

  Chapter 12

  “Ben Mark!” Alpharetta’s face turned pale as she said his name.

  “Hello, Alpharetta. Hello, Marsh.” Ben Mark quickly shifted his attention to his cousin, politely standing, and reached out to shake hands while Belline slid into her seat again.

  Flanked by the two men in American uniforms—one man, blond, the other, dark, resembling the men in wartime posters in every American city—the two women sat, similar to looks, yet vastly different in personality.

  “So, what brings you to England, Alpharetta?” Ben Mark asked casually as he pulled out the chair opposite her.

  Her voice was almost inaudible as she replied, “I ferried a fighter plane from Montreal yesterday.”

  Their eyes met for an instant before Belline cut in. “What will you have, Ben Mark? A cup of tea? A rhubarb pastry? Waiter, could we have another pot of water?”

  “Nothing for me, thanks. I can only stay a few minutes.” Ben Mark looked around the room, as people still wrapped in their coats as they sipped tea and engaged in
conversation, their low-toned, well-bred behavior denying the discomfort of the unheated room. “God, it’s cold in this place,” he complained. “You’d think they’d come up with something to heat the building.”

  “Rumor has it that there’s a war going on out there,” Marsh chided gently.

  At his dark scowl, Alpharetta quickly inquired, “Have you flown many combat missions, Ben Mark?”

  “Oh, I’ve shot down a few Jerries, plowed up a few fields in Holland. But right now we’re practicing our dive-bombing at the Wash, getting ready for something big.”

  “What plane are you flying these days?” Marsh asked.

  “The Jug.” He laughed. “At least that’s what we all call it. A P-47 to you.” Ben Mark glanced at his watch. “Look, this is great, seeing you again, but I’ve got to run.” Looking at Belline, he added, “Are you coming, darling?”

  A crestfallen Alpharetta sat, saying nothing as Belline smiled and answered, “Of course.”

  Marsh, attempting to salvage the fiasco of the meeting between Alpharetta and Ben Mark, said, “I’ve booked a table for dinner tonight—for four.”

  “Some other time, Marsh.” With an immobile, impersonal face, Ben Mark mouthed, “It really was great to see you, Alpharetta. Let Belline know the next time you’re coming over, and if we’re still in England, maybe we can all get together.”

  “It . . . it was good to see you again, Ben Mark.”

  When Belline and Ben Mark departed, Alpharetta stared down at the cup in her hands and fought back the tears.

  Marsh, furious with Ben Mark’s behavior, as well as his sister’s, reached over and placed a larger hand on Alpharetta’s to comfort her. His gesture, recorded in the mirror, was not lost on Ben Mark as he took one last glace at his former fiancée.

  “You did well, cousin. I was proud of you,” Belline whispered.

  “One of my better performances,” Ben Mark acknowledged in a bitter voice as the two left the hotel.

  “I didn’t know—that he and Belline…” Alpharetta stopped and swallowed. Her voice could not be relied upon to finish the sentence.