by Jane Peart
She realized she didn’t really know how to go about seeking him. But as she stood there, something stirred within her. The simple words sprang into her mind spontaneously: Show me how to open that door. I want you to come in.
What seemed to come in was some kind of inner voice: “When you know who you are, I will show you what to do.” Niki stiffened, glanced around. Had someone spoken? What followed was a kind of peace, an assurance that her spontaneous prayer had been heard and an answer had come.
That was it. A few minutes later Luc joined her, saying they had better scout up a taxi to get to the station so she didn’t miss her train. Everything snapped back to the present. The experience was over, yet something lingered in Niki that she was determined not to lose.
Mad confusion reigned at the huge train station. Throngs of travelers, scores of uniformed men of all services and ranks, were shoulder-to-shoulder with civilians, among them women and children seeing their loved ones off. Luc, holding Niki tightly by the arm, shoved their way through to where she would have to board. Shortness of time turned their parting to a hasty good-bye.
On the station platform, Luc gave her a bear hug and steered her into one of the already crowded compartments crammed with service men and women. “Thanks, Luc, for a wonderful time!” Niki shouted over the noise. Suddenly her throat felt choked. When would they see each other again? The reality of the war suddenly struck her. But Luc’s voice was firm, optimistic, as he yelled back, “Maybe we’ll see each other at Birchfields next. In the meantime, take care. And Happy New Year!” That’s right, Niki thought, it is a new year Nineteen forty-three. What would it bring? Peace?
Bumping back to WRENS headquarters on the crowded, hot, smoky, stuffy train, the magic time in London with Luc seemed like a dream.
For the most part they had been cheerful. They hadn’t talked of anything serious; they had laughed a lot. Now Niki wondered if maybe they should have talked of more important things—how they felt about each other, about home, about Tante and Uncle Kip, about poor, shackled France and what was happening to England.
By the time she reached her destination, it was after mid-night. There had been many stops, scheduled and unscheduled, along the way. Once the train had been stopped, the passengers evacuated, because of an air-raid alarm. The attack hadn’t come, but they’d had to wait, huddled in a small airless shelter until the all clear was sounded. Back on the train, they had racketed down the tracks. To her amazement Niki fell asleep and awoke with a jerk when the train came to a screeching stop.
Plodding upstairs to her quarters, she found her roommates asleep. As she stumbled her way along in the dark, her arrival evoked sleepy grumbles. Trying not to trip over the rug, Niki made her way through the pile of dumped belongings that the last one in had dropped in the middle of the room, before falling exhausted into her own bunk.
1943
chapter
16
NIKI FOUND THAT although she was getting better at her job as a teleprinter operator, she felt restless, longed for more interesting work.
When she was off duty, she haunted bookstores, both new and secondhand, searching for French-language books, grammar and phrase books mostly, but then for works of fiction. More and more she was thinking in French. That, she knew, was a good sign. It meant she was becoming more familiar with it.
Weeks went by, the situation in Europe worsened, and Niki began to chafe under the routine she now considered dull and prosaic, given the possibility of what she might be allowed to do.
Then one weekend, feeling particularly restless and frustrated, she asked for a weekend pass and to her surprise got it. She decided to go down to Birchfields. With its rolling hills, trees, and quiet lake where swans floated gracefully, it seemed the only place left with the serene beauty of prewar England.
Garnet was always happy to see her, and Bryanne welcomed an extra pair of hands for the evening of hostessing the men who flocked over to enjoy Garnet’s openhearted hospitality. Niki availed herself of the chance of a leisurely bath, rather guiltily dumping quantities of scented bath salts into the deliciously warm water. Months of the regulation five-minute showers had made her appreciative of such a rare luxury.
Relaxed and refreshed, Niki came downstairs Friday evening, hearing the sound of dance music, and saw couples already circling the polished floors of the drawing room and hallway, where rugs had been rolled up for dancing. Men in every conceivable kind of uniform stood watching the dancers, waiting to cut in, for there were always more of them than available female partners.
It was then that Niki saw him. He was standing in the archway, talking to a fellow officer. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Even as she was trying to recall just why, he turned and looked at her. A smile of recognition broke across his face, and he half raised his hand in greeting. In another minute he was striding toward her. As he got closer, she saw he was above medium height, well-built, wearing a British uniform whose insignia she did not recognize. He wasn’t handsome—his nose was too prominent in his lean, high-cheekboned face, the chin too square—but his smile lit up his very blue eyes, which were regarding her with interest and humor.
When he reached her, he said, “I had a feeling we’d meet again”—using the words of the popular song, he sang the rest—” ‘don’t know where, don’t know when …"’ He grinned. “Did you?”
His voice, with its slight Scottish burr, clicked in her memory. Where or when had they met?
Before it came to her, he spoke again. “WRENS headquarters in December. I’m Fraser Montrose, and you are—Gilbert, isn’t it?”
“Gilbreaux.” Niki automatically gave it the softer French pronunciation.
“We danced and then you had a phone call.” His smile turned into a teasing grin. “And you never came back.”
“I’m sorry. That was very rude of me. I should have explained.”
“Not necessary. Luckily, we have another chance to get acquainted. Could we find some place to sit down and talk?”
Just then, over Fraser’s shoulder Niki saw Bryanne beckoning her, signaling she needed her at the refreshment table.
“Excuse me, I’m supposed to be helping here tonight.”
“I didn’t realize. I thought you were here on R and R.” He looked puzzled. “Are you a local girl?”
“Not exactly—” Niki hesitated.
Fraser gave her a curious look.
“Listen, I’ll go do my chore, and then I’ll bring us some punch and we can talk, OK?”
“Promise not to disappear again?”
“I promise,” Niki said, laughing, and hurried away.
Twenty minutes later, after she had refilled the punch bowl and got dozens more cookies from the kitchen, arranged them on a tray, and placed them on the long refreshment table, she looked around for Fraser. He was sitting in one of the alcoved window seats in the drawing room. Carrying two cups of punch, she went to join him. When she handed him one, Fraser said, “You know, you’re a bit of a mystery, and I love mystery novels, crossword puzzles, so I’ve ferreted a little out about you. But you’ll have to fill in the blanks.”
Niki wasn’t ready to pour out her whole life story to a stranger, even an attractive one. So she countered, “Well, you’re almost as much a mystery to me. Tell me about you.”
“Not much to tell. I’m twenty-four, was at the University of Edinburgh, not quite sure what I planned to do, when the war came about. So I joined up and now I’m in special training. Can’t be specific about what kind. But since you’re in the service, you can understand that. That’s about it. Nothing mysterious about me.”
“Of course, I knew you were a Scot by your accent …”
“And you have an accent yourself,” Fraser said. “I can’t figure out whether it’s American or—Canadian, maybe?”
Niki rolled her eyes. “Hardly!”
“It’s not Australian. I bunk with some Aussies, and I can tell it’s not that.”
“Have you
heard of Virginia?”
“Of course. I have relatives there. In fact, my father was an American from Virginia.” He frowned. “From a little town you’ve probably never heard of, Mayfield.”
“Heard of it? I live there!”
“Gilbreaux? That doesn’t sound American to me,” Fraser said slowly.
“It isn’t. It’s French. My real parents were French. But my adopted parents are American, and their name is Montrose.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. They simply stared at each other. Then they both started talking at once. In a jumble of words, interrupting each other with questions, they sorted out the puzzle. Fraser was Jonathan Montrose’s son by his second marriage, to Phoebe McPherson.
“So we’re related!” Fraser said. Then he sounded disappointed. “I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry.”
Niki had to laugh. “Well, not really. However, Virginians go to unbelievable lengths to claim kinship. I’m not actually a Montrose, so we’re not even what they call ‘kissin’ cousins.’”
Fraser drew his face into a comical one. “Now, I know I’m disappointed about that.”
Niki laughed. “You’re really funny. I thought all Scotsmen were dour.”
“That’s as much a misconception as the idea that all Southern women live on plantations and are pampered belles.”
“I guess we both have a lot to learn about each other.”
“That will be a great deal of fun.” Fraser smiled. “By the way, I meant to introduce myself to Mrs. Devlin when I first came tonight. Then I saw you and got sidetracked. My mum wrote to her that if I were stationed anywhere near Birchfields, I would come by, pay my respects. Would you like to take me to her?”
“She may have already gone upstairs. She usually only stays for about the first half hour of the evening. She’s very old, you know,” Niki said, glancing around the crowded room for a glimpse of Garnet. “But of course you’ll come again, and she will insist you make Birchfields your home away from home. Now she is a true Southern lady and was, I’m told, a true belle in her day.”
“Then, another time,” Fraser said. He tipped his head to one side, saying, “Listen …” The song “Where or When” was playing. “I don’t think we ever finished our dance. Shall we?”
They moved onto the dance floor and danced surprisingly well together. When the music ended, Niki said, “I’m sorry, I have to go. As one of the hostesses, I’m supposed to circulate, make sure every guy who wants to gets a chance to dance.”
Fraser had no choice. He watched her walk away, thinking what a pretty and delightful young woman she was. What a coincidence the two meetings with her had been.
Maybe it was even more of a coincidence than either realized.
Saturday evening Fraser was at Birchfields again, eager to get to know Niki better. She was undoubtedly the most intriguing young woman he had ever met. He walked through the French doors into the drawing room, which had now been turned into a sort of cabaret, with small tables all around the edge of a dance space that had been cleared, stripped of carpeting, and waxed. He stood on the threshold for a minute or two, his glance searching the room.
He saw her before she saw him. He started across the room, but before he reached her, an American had whirled her out onto the floor.
Impatiently Fraser waited until the piece was over, then in a few quick strides reached Niki’s side.
“I believe the next one is mine,” he said confidently to the airman. “Sorry, buddy.”
“Hello,” Niki said, smiling up at him.
At least she looked happy to see him.
If she also looked a little dazed, it was because as Niki had seen Fraser approach, something startling had happened. As distinctly as if she had heard them spoken, these words came into Niki’s mind: Someday he will tell me he loves me. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before, and as Fraser tapped the other soldier’s arm and smiled at her, it seemed even more strange.
This is crazy, she thought. My imagination is working overtime. This rangy Scot with the reddish blond hair wasn’t even her type. Too American-looking, actually. Her romantic fantasies ran more to the dark-eyed, Gallic kind, like Paul Duval.
The strains of “The Last Time I Saw Paris” began, and Fraser took Niki into his arms.
As the evening wore on and they enjoyed dance after dance together, Niki found herself strongly attracted to Fraser. Those strange predictive words floated back to her: Someday he will tell me he loves me.
But not yet. Not for a long while….
At last the band began playing its last number, and Fraser asked, “Will you still be here on Sunday? Could we do something together?”
Sunday morning when Niki came out of church with Aunt Garnet and Bryanne, Fraser was waiting for her. Flustered, she introduced them. Both Garnet and Bryanne were taken aback. “My stars, what a surprise!” exclaimed the old lady.
Bryanne expressed her surprise as well. “The last time I saw you, you were just a gangly kid!”
“You should have let me know you were stationed so close,” Garnet said.
“Actually, mum didn’t know. Mail moves slowly in wartime and I just got my orders.” Fraser had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m afraid I’m not much good at letter writing.”
Garnet wagged a playful finger at him. “You should be ashamed. Don’t you know how anxious she must be about you?” Her smile softened her words. “I think I’ll write her myself and tell her how delighted I am to have met you.”
After an exchange of recent happenings, information, Garnet insisted that Fraser come back to Birchfields with them for “a family reunion of sorts.”
Back at the house, they sat down to a luncheon of poached salmon, new potatoes, and lemon pudding. Garnet looked at Fraser affectionately as she told him how dear his father, Jonathan, had been to her.
“After my sister-in-law, Rose, died, I took care of Jonathan until he was nearly six years old and went to live with his Meredith relatives in Massachusetts.” Garnet wiped her eyes. “That was one of the saddest days of my life, to part with the little boy that I’d come to think of as mine.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Devlin. That’s most kind.”
“Mrs. Devlin, nonsense! Aunt Garnet,” she corrected him. “And you are to make yourself completely at home here, you understand?”
Fraser looked at Niki on the other side of the table and grinned. She met his gaze, then lowered her eyes demurely. She remembered her hesitation in telling him who she was, explaining their strange relationship. Now the cat was out of the bag, so to speak. Perhaps now Fraser would be here at Birchfields with or without her encouragement. Not that she minded…. She lifted her eyes and glanced over at him. He was still looking at her. She felt her cheeks get warm.
Bryanne, her own whirlwind romance still so sweetly fresh in her mind, spotted a potential one almost at once. She lent them Steven’s Bentley and her petrol ration card and told them to go off for the day.
It was one of those days that would become a cherished memory, Niki thought even as they drove away from Birchfields. The sky was an unclouded blue, and everything seemed incredibly beautiful. The winding country lanes, the rolling hills where black-faced sheep grazed contentedly. It seemed so peaceful. How was it possible that only a short distance from where the little car took the curves, men were killing each other? Niki thrust that thought fiercely back. Not today. Today she would enjoy the moment.
Fraser glanced over at her and smiled. He had taken off his cap, and his thick hair blew wildly. She smiled back. In fact, she found she couldn’t do anything but smile.
After a while they came to a village. Fraser slowed down and asked her if she wanted to stop for tea. He swerved and parked, and across the street they saw a sign: “Buttercup Tea Shop.” Niki smothered a giggle. It was one of those places she made fun of as being “so tea-cozy British.” She had always described them with her wickedly derisive humor as “those places where elderly women gather
to gossip and discuss the latest diet while ordering fluffy desserts.” Today, however, its quaint atmosphere seemed just right, delightful in fact. All her humorous comments faded into oblivion as they came inside the charming interior and Fraser found a table for them in a corner.
“Alone at last.” He grinned. “Now I intend to find out all about you.”
Niki looked at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “But I’ve told you everything there is to know.”
“Not by a long shot. Why do you use the name Gilbreaux?” he asked. “Why not Montrose? Didn’t your adopted mother’s husband adopt you, too?”
“It’s rather a long story …,” she hedged.
“We’ve got all afternoon and I’d really like to hear. Don’t you know, Niki, that everything about you interests me?”
The question was left hanging between them, because the waitress came to take their order. When she left, Fraser leaned forward again. “So now, carry on. You are hiding behind the name Gilbreaux because you’re some kind of Mata Hari, a spy, perhaps?”