A saddened Alpharetta, feeling obsolete, made up her mind. She was tired of looking at aerial photographs and trying to identify the rocket-launching sites amid the camouflage of trees. Because of Ben Mark, she wanted to start flying again—to ferry planes across the channel to the fighting zones.
Finishing her morning tea at the breakfast table, Birdie set down her cup and with a pensive sigh looked at Alpharetta seated across the table.
“I suppose I should use today to straighten the files,” Birdie commented. “And then start answering the intelligence questionnaire that Ultra is so fond of. What are you planning to do this morning, luv?”
“Make a request for transfer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Birdie, I want to start flying again—this time ferrying planes across the channel.”
“Sir Dow won’t like that. Won’t like that at all,” Birdie cautioned.
“There’s not much he can do about it, Birdie. I’m only on temporary assignment to him. And my special mission was completed a long time ago.”
“But he relies on you, Alpharetta. You’re the best aerial spotter around.”
“I still haven’t been successful in finding the rocket-launching sites, though. Sometimes, when I look at all the still photographs, I get a feeling that it’s a floating crap game—the same kind our gardener, Eddie, and his brother were involved in, moving the game to a different place each Saturday night to keep from being caught by the police.”
“That’s impossible. We all know that. It’s just that the Germans have camouflaged the sites so well. Why don’t you give it another try this morning, Alpharetta—with those photographs Reggie took several days ago?”
“I still won’t find anything unusual, Birdie. I’ve looked them over time and again.”
But with nothing else to do, Alpharetta sat at a corner table with the photographs, as the sound of the typewriter clicking away at the other end of the office indicated that Birdie had become absorbed in her own work.
Alpharetta had gotten little sleep the night before. She was numb with grief over Ben Mark’s death—just as she had been when she received the telegram about Conyer and Duluth. Only later would the actual horrible truth hit her. But until then, she knew she must keep her mind busy.
Inch by inch, Alpharetta moved the magnifying glass over the photographs and searched for some small deviation from the ones taken the week before.
She kept going back to the same picture time after time, re-examining it, moving the glass up and down to try to make some sense of the strange, cylindrical device half hidden by the trees surrounding it.
The position of the cylinder was horizontal, not vertical, and on it was the barest suggestion of a wheel she hadn’t noticed before. Alpharetta became excited at the idea of a wheel. And the remark about the floating crap game, spoken facetiously, suddenly made sense.
If it were true. No, it was too heavy, too cumbersome. But what if the rocket launchers were actually mobile? Couldn’t that be the reason no one had been able to destroy them? The planes had bombarded the same sites again and again, but still the V-2 rockets kept coming over London. An impatient, excited Alpharetta stood up, carried the reconnaissance photograph to the window, and, holding it up to the light, examined it again under the magnifying glass.
“Birdie,” she called out, interrupting the woman at her typing—something she had never done before.
Birdie finished typing the sentence and then looked up from her desk. “Yes? What is it, Alpharetta?”
“I think I’ve found it.”
“What? The launching ramp?”
“It’s not actually a concrete ramp, Birdie. It’s a huge mobile unit on wheels. Can’t you see? We’ve been looking for the wrong thing. That’s why we haven’t been able to make any progress. The Germans move it from place to place—hiding it in the woods. Come and take a look. You can see a portion of wheel, if you look closely.”
Birdie left the desk and walked to the window where Alpharetta stood.
“You see? The barest suggestion of a wheel? It must be movable, Birdie. It has to be.”
Not nearly so excited as Alpharetta, Birdie inquired, “But how could they fire such huge rockets from the ground like that? Wouldn’t they stay close to the ground instead of going into a trajectory high enough to reach England?”
Deflated as she considered Birdie’s point, Alpharetta suddenly smiled. “No, Birdie. The wheel in the picture could be hydraulic, used to position the rocket vertically—after it’s loaded.”
Though still not convinced, Birdie was pleased to see Alpharetta so excited. Perhaps with this new development, she might forget the idea of leaving Sir Dow’s staff.
Birdie went back to her desk, while Alpharetta walked to the file cabinet. Now, with a new direction to pursue, Alpharetta pulled out the other reconnaissance photographs, spread them on the floor, and began to look for the launching unit in a vertical position. If she found it in two different positions that fact would be convincing evidence to present to Dow upon his return.
A quarter of an hour later, Alpharetta found it—the same type cylinder, as vertical as the trees around it.
Her unconscious sound of pleasure completely disrupted Birdie’s train of thought. “You found what you were looking for?”
“Oh, did I disturb you again, Birdie?” she inquired, unable to disguise her pleased expression.
“That’s all right, luv. It’s time to take a break anyway.” She rose from the desk and walked toward the table where Alpharetta had sorted out the three telling photographs from the rest. “You found something, did you?”
“Yes. More than enough evidence to convince Sir Dow.”
“I’m so glad, Alpharetta.”
Gathering up the other photographs, the younger woman asked, “Do you want to see, Birdie?”
The woman shook her head. “I won’t be able to tell anything about them. I haven’t the knack for it.”
“Then I’ll lock them in the files again,” Alpharetta said, “and I think I’ll go for a walk. My eyes are tired.”
“You do that, luv. And I’ll just get on with my typing.”
While Alpharetta contemplated what Dow might say about her discovery, the air vice-marshal had his mind on other things.
Sitting up front in the staff car with Eckerd, Dow had been silent for the last hour. His father would be surprised to see him, unless Meg had alerted him of his sudden trip.
All along the way to Harrington Hall, Dow silently rehearsed what he would say to Meg. With his eyes on the road, Eckerd knew his commander was wrestling with a vexing problem.
Eckerd always enjoyed driving into Yorkshire, the place where he was born. There was something about the moors that he loved. And when his father had moved to Leeds, Eckerd remembered how desolate and lonely he felt, bound by dirty streets and sooty buildings, when he had known the freedom and fresh, clean air of the moors.
Still wrestling with words that stubbornly eluded him, Dow was only vaguely aware of his surroundings as they passed through the cathedral city of York and began the approach to the little town of Pocklington.
“We’re almost there, Sir Dow,” Eckerd said, smiling. It was a habit of the past four years, to awaken Sir Dow at the place where the sign had once stood.
But Dow was not asleep this time. In fact, he had slept little for the past twenty-four hours—ever since he had followed Alpharetta onto the downs, after her devastating telephone call.
Ben Mark St. John was dead. If Alpharetta had ever thought to get him back, that dream was now dead with the man.
The familiar landscape appeared and Dow, looking along the stretch of vista which the threshing machine had deprived of its corn crop, grimaced. Like some poor sheep shorn of its wool, the vista was now bare stubble.
At that moment, the land army girls, dressed in fatigues, passed by and waved. They had just come from the fields and the lorry was loaded with fodder for the animals for winte
r.
The long summer days had given way to fall, with a chill in the air, a sudden rush of wind whipping over the fields and moors. And the trees, buffeted by the wind, were losing their leaves in the prelude to winter, revealing the nests built in their forks.
Animals had the right idea, an instinct for survival, building nests and scurrying to bury their acorns. They were much smarter than the men who sat and planned for the next battles, which were even more destructive than the wintry blasts.
Dow shook his head, as if to clear it for other thoughts. He himself was far better at planning complicated air maneuvers and intelligence missions than a simple confrontation, that however dignified in the execution, still remained an unpleasant task.
He was not looking forward to meeting with Meg, or the repercussions to follow in his own house. But his feeling of protection for Alpharetta overrode everything else.
As the car drove into the courtyard of Harrington Hall, Dow said, “Eckerd, I’ll not be long. Stretch your legs, and then be ready to leave again in twenty minutes.”
Lady Margaret, with a dark shawl over her shoulders to keep warm, left the school housed in a massive old hall a mile away from her own residence, and climbed into the governess cart pulled by Nicky, the piebald pony.
It was quite a comedown, the lady of the manor relegated to the governess cart to go back and forth to the school where refugee children from the London streets had been relocated.
For some of the children, the school was a way of life, their activities in the crowded streets of a crowded city long forgotten, just as making do was a way of life for Margaret, whose Rolls-Royce, lacking petro, now stood in the carriage house and was brought out only on rare occasions.
There was no need for her to guess why Dow was making a special trip to see her. Ever since he had brought the red-haired woman on his staff to Harrington Hall and placed her in the green room, Meg had suspected that their engagement might be in trouble.
If the war had not come when it did….But what was the use of living in the past? The war had come, taking Gerald from her. Solid, steadfast Gerald, not nearly so exciting as his younger brother, Dow. Meg was more comfortable with Gerald, as she was even now with Dow’s ADC, Freddie Mallory. But she never felt completely at ease when she was with Dow, despite his attempts to make her so.
For a fleeting moment, Meg allowed herself to think Dow’s visit might be for another reason, but then she remembered Chatelaine Day when Sir Edward had given her the betrothal necklace. Dow had not even noticed, for his eyes had been for the other woman. He must love her very much. And because of that, she knew what she must do.
Meg had just enough time to wash her face and comb through her hair before Dow arrived. Farnsworth, the butler, opened the door, as Meg walked down the stairs.
“Dow,” she called from the foot of the stairs. “How good to see you again.”
She came forward to meet him, offering her cheek for him to kiss. Far more calmly than she thought possible, she said, “I was just going for a walk. Would you like to join me, instead of sitting in the drawing room? We haven’t made a fire yet.”
Slightly startled, Dow replied. “Why, yes. A walk would be very pleasant.” He took his hat from Farnsworth and placed it under one arm, while he offered the other to Meg.
Within a few minutes, they were in the garden, far from the inquisitive ears of Lara, the maid. Meg wanted no one to overhear their conversation.
“I read the tragic news in the paper this morning,” Meg prompted the silent Dow.
“Yes. It looks as if the war will last another winter.”
“It must be awfully disappointing to Monty, even though he said the invasion was ninety percent successful.”
Dow stared at Meg. “It was a failure, Meg. A blasted failure,” His voice was harsher than he intended. “I’m sorry, Meg, for sounding like that.”
“You have every right to do so, Dow. I know what a strain you’ve been under, with the rockets—everyone blaming everyone else, the Prime Minister, on down, for not stopping them.”
Spotting the bench in the far corner of the garden, Dow said, “Let’s sit down for a while, Meg. I came to discuss something other than the war, but I’m finding it extremely difficult to come up with the words.”
For an instant, Meg’s emotions gave her away. Then she steeled her trembling lips, and her soft brown eyes revealed nothing as she turned to Dow and smiled.
“Dow, don’t look so distressed,” she assured him. “I already know what you’re going to say. And it’s all right. Really it is.”
He gazed at her with a questioning look.
“You want me to release you from our engagement.”
Dow’s eyes held no joy, merely pain. When he did not deny it, she continued. “From the first time you brought her to Harrington Hall, I somehow knew you were falling in love with Alpharetta Beaumont.”
“But I . . .” He ceased abruptly and stared at the astute Meg, with her ability to see into his heart. “I didn’t want it to be this way, Meg.”
“I know. But war does strange things to relationships.” Seeing how miserable he looked, Meg insisted. “It’s better this way, you know, for I could never marry a man who loved someone else. That happened to my mother and she never got over it.” Meg’s voice became less audible. “I suppose you’ll be marrying her soon?”
“I haven’t spoken to her yet.”
A bittersweet smile formed on Meg’s lips. Of course he would not have said anything to Alpharetta. His code of honor would preclude that, while he was engaged to someone else.
Staring into the distance toward Harrington Hall, Dow said, “The hardest part will be to tell my father—and Lord Cranston. They’ll both be extremely disappointed.”
“It won’t be the end of the world for them, Dow. Just so long as they can continue playing cribbage together. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather be the one to break off the engagement—just for appearances.”
“Of course, Meg. I’ll say nothing about it. And you may paint me into a black knave and throw arrows at me, if you like.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Dow.” Meg stood up. As if the embarrassing conversation had never taken place, Meg reminded him, “You and Sir Edward are expected for dinner tonight.”
“Won’t that be awkward—in the circumstances?”
“I should think we would always be friends, Dow, even after you marry Alpharetta. And Father and I would expect you for dinner, as we have in the past. That won’t change.”
A new respect for Lady Margaret Cranston went with Dow as he returned to Harrington Hall. Also traveling with him was the uneasy burden he had deliberately chosen—to protect Alpharetta from scandal, as she bore another man’s child.
Watching him climb into the waiting car, Meg realized she had not told Dow that her friend, Macris, had written her about the wedding in the ancient abbey on the downs with Ben Mark St. John as the groom and someone other than Alpharetta as the bride. From that information, she had known that Dow’s request for freedom would soon follow.
Chapter 38
In the small hours of Sunday evening, long after everyone else had gone to bed, Alpharetta sat by the fire in the parlor and gazed at the dying embers as she contemplated the last few months on Sir Dow’s staff.
Already the request for transfer was on his desk. As soon as the paper work went through, she would be on her way. The only question was where? She no longer wanted to stay in England. But she couldn’t return to the WASPs, since the U.S. Air Corps had phased out that program. Perhaps she would apply to the WAACs as Mary Lou Brandon had done.
All evening she had waited for the sound of Dow’s car. It was imperative to show him the aerial photographs at the earliest possible moment, to have him confirm her suspicions about the rocket-launching devices. If they proved to be true, then her time had not been wasted. And it would be an appropriate memorial to Ben Mark, if her discovery should keep other people from dying.
>
Lulled by the peace and silence of the room bathed in a pale candescence, Alpharetta closed her eyes and laid her head on the cushion by the hearth. Not intending to go to sleep, she nevertheless drifted into a light slumber before Dow’s car turned into the drive.
At the gate, Dow said, “Just let me out here, Eckerd, and you can put the car up. I’ll walk the rest of the way to the house.”
“What about your luggage, Sir Dow?”
“Bring it to the house at breakfast time. That will be soon enough.”
And so it was that Alpharetta, sleeping by the hearth, did not hear the car and was not aware of Dow’s footsteps as he deliberately tiptoed into the silent house.
Halfway up the stairs to his bedroom, Dow changed his mind and retraced his steps down the hallway to his office. Carefully checking that the blackout draperies were drawn despite the relaxation of the defense regulation, he turned on the light.
Dow sat down at his desk to go over his mail and any messages that Birdie had left for him.
He was immediately depressed as he recognized Meg’s handwriting on the first letter. Turning to the metal file tray at his right, he took out the papers to examine instead, glancing quickly through the sheaf for any that needed his immediate attention. Alpharetta’s request for transfer was sandwiched between the completed questionnaire and the staff report Birdie had left for him to sign.
He sat with the transfer papers in his hands. They were no longer relevant, for Alpharetta would be going nowhere else except Harrington Hall. Setting them aside, he signed the other papers and reports, and then began a report of his own, using the typewriter, while he waited for sleepiness to send him looking for his bed. He should never have allowed himself the luxury of a nap in the staff car on the way back. Now there was no telling when he would get to sleep.
The clacking of the typewriter permeated Alpharetta’s slumber. Like one waking up from a bad dream, she lifted her head and looked around her. The fire was out; she was cold and uncomfortable.
On Wings of Fire Page 31