Digging into his sack, he withdrew a stuffed teddy bear. “Does this belong to you? I found it this morning.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Then tears filled my eyes.
“He was dusty,” the boy continued, “but I cleaned him up. I was going to take him home, but if he belongs to you . . .”
I took hold of the bear and stared at his fuzzy face. “Yes, he belongs to me. He was a very special gift. Thank you.”
Jackson dug into his pocket for a shilling and handed it to the boy. “Here, you deserve a reward for that. Not all boys would be so honest.”
The boy’s eyes lit up like fireworks. “Thank you, sir!” He swung around and dashed off.
Jackson and I returned to the Bentley, our feet crunching over broken glass as we walked. He helped me into the car, then placed my sea chest in the boot. Soon we were off, leaving Craven Street behind and making our way out of the bomb-ravaged city.
“I despise that man,” Lady Grantchester whispered as she looked out the window at homes and businesses in ruins.
“What man?” I asked.
“Hitler.”
“I share that sentiment,” I replied.
I would hate him forever for what he took from me.
No one spoke again until we reached Surrey and were able to recover somewhat from the horrors of what we had left behind in London.
“I know it’s not pleasant,” Lady Grantchester said gently to me, “but we should discuss funeral arrangements. Lord Grantchester and I wish for Theodore to be buried in the mausoleum on our estate, with our ancestors.”
I thought, perhaps, that she expected me to resist because of Theodore’s estrangement from his family. There was a look in her eyes that seemed almost fearful.
“That sounds fine,” I said. “He should be with the family.”
She let out a light breath. “Very good, then. We’ll make all the arrangements, but there is something else we should discuss.” She paused. “Arrangements for your sister.”
“My sister?” I was so grief stricken, I hadn’t given a thought to how or where Vivian should be buried, which raised all sorts of concerns about our switched identities.
“While I’m sure that you’ll be with us for many years to come,” Lady Grantchester said, “you were Theodore’s wife and the mother of his child, so I believe he would have wanted your final resting place to be at his side.”
Oh God . . .
“That’s a long way off,” I replied. “At least I hope it will be.”
“Of course. But it touches on the issue of your sister. Since it’s my understanding that you have no more immediate family, would you like for her to be buried at Grantchester Hall as well? That way you could visit her in her final resting place.”
It was no secret that Vivian felt no attachment to these people. She’d never even visited the earl’s country house. But she had loved Theodore with all her heart, and I knew that she would have wanted to be buried close to him, wherever that was.
At least this was one small mercy, if Lady Grantchester was serious about this. Vivian would be close to Theodore, where she belonged.
I bowed my head, amazed by this kind offering. And I admired Lady Grantchester for thinking of it—for acknowledging my pain and wanting to provide me with some comfort by having my sister buried close by.
At the same time, I hated myself for lying to her about who I was, because it wasn’t her grandchild that I carried. This baby didn’t belong to her beloved son. It was another man’s offspring.
I began to weep softly, both ashamed of myself and frightened for the future, because one day, I would have no choice but to reveal the truth to this woman and break her heart. I dreaded it already and felt consumed by self-doubt. Perhaps I should come clean right now and retain some shred of honor.
But no . . .
I couldn’t. I’d made my choice when I had put Vivian’s wedding ring on my finger. And I would have liked to tell myself that it was a noble act on my part—that I was fulfilling my sister’s dying wishes when she begged me not to get caught. But at the heart of it, there was nothing noble about my actions at all. My only goal was to survive. I was thinking of myself and my unborn child, and I was willing to do anything for safety and protection until the time came when I could be with Ludwig again.
Just the thought of him filled me with longing. What I wouldn’t give to be held in his arms while he comforted me over the loss of my twin. Then I would tell him the happy news that I was carrying his child, and he would kiss my tears away. What a beautiful dream it was.
I wasn’t proud of myself, but in that moment, I accepted my new reality. I would have to use these people and take advantage of their grief. I would become Vivian and remain with them until it was safe to be reunited with Ludwig. And when that blessed day came—God willing, when the war was over and peace treaties were signed—I would find a way to disappear somehow.
I prayed silently that it would all be over before my baby was even born.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
1943
Three years passed, and my prayers were not answered. The war dragged on, and Britain continued to suffer heavy raids from the German Luftwaffe. On the night I gave birth to my son, the weather had been clear with a full moon—they called it a bomber’s moon—and Liverpool and Birkenhead were ravaged. The docks and ship works were destroyed, along with three hospitals and a number of historic landmarks. Hundreds of civilians were reported dead and thousands left homeless.
I was safe that night, however, in the quiet countryside in Surrey, in the sprawling ancestral home of my aristocratic in-laws, the Earl and Countess of Grantchester, who wept tears of joy when they held my baby boy in their arms for the first time.
I wept as well, more violently than I’d ever wept in my life. But my tears were not joyful. As I lay there, exhausted from my labor and delivery, watching my so-called in-laws hold their new grandchild, I experienced a disorienting mixture of sorrow, fear, and shame. I was glad to have my baby, but all I saw was a chilling, dark future for Edward and me, as I attempted to untangle myself from this dreadful web of lies. I missed Vivian more than ever that night.
But the next morning, after a sound sleep with my beloved newborn in my arms, I felt rested. I managed to rise from bed and carry Edward to the window, where shiny droplets of dew glistened like silver on the back lawn. The vast, unfathomable pink sky was an absolute masterpiece of color, and birds sang in the treetops.
I stood there in a state of wonder with my son in my arms, and the profound love I felt for him seemed to eclipse all the darkness in the world. In those precious moments, while I kissed the top of his head and spoke softly to him, my soul felt happy again, for the first time since I had lost Vivian.
And so, I lived the early years of the war as a new mother, infatuated with my darling baby boy, which was my only respite from the emptiness I felt as a twin who had lost her other half.
Through it all, it wasn’t difficult to be Vivian. I was both of us, and in a way, it kept her alive inside of me. I could continue to be an “us.” And because nothing else could compare to the intimate relationship she and I shared, my only hope was Ludwig. It intensified my longing for him.
As for the war, we were fortunate at Grantchester Hall not to be touched by German bombs, but we were touched by the conflict in other ways. Many of the male servants and men in the village received their call-up papers—including Jackson, which was a painful goodbye. He left us in January 1941. Occasionally, we received letters from him, but the censors blacked out any details about where he was stationed or what his duties were. A few of our female servants left to work in factories to produce weapons.
Life had its challenges. Food, petrol, and clothes continued to be rationed, and every evening the BBC broadcasts delivered disconcerting news bulletins on the wireless, where we gathered to listen after dinner. Catherine (she was no longer Lady Grantchester to me—in our shared grief, she and I had found a
true comfort in each other) always listened anxiously for information about the navy, and it was especially trying for her in the spring of ’41, when more than four hundred British and Allied ships were sunk in the Atlantic, mostly by U-boats. Not long afterward, the government stopped reporting on shipping losses to prevent the Germans from learning from their successes. Catherine was distraught, because she worried about Henry and never knew where he was. He never wrote letters, but George always consoled her with “No news is good news.”
In an effort to keep busy and do our part, Catherine and I set up a depot in the long gallery of the house and invited women from the village to help us produce surgical dressings for various first aid posts around the country. But mostly, there was a feeling of stagnation while we waited for something to happen—either a full-scale invasion of Britain by the Germans or for the Allies to join us in the war and invade Europe.
That day finally came in December 1941 with the bombing of Pearl Harbor. By 1943, thousands of US troops had arrived in Britain, and the large field just south of Grantchester Hall was commandeered as an airfield base, which became home to almost two thousand GIs.
British and American pilots soon began round-the-clock bombing raids of Germany and occupied Europe. They dropped supplies by parachute to various resistance armies.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that airfield I often looked at from my bedroom window was about to change my life—in ways I could never have imagined, not even in my wildest dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
April 1944
It all began with a song.
Not long after the air base was up and running, someone from the American Red Cross—the official provider of recreational activities for the American servicemen in Britain—paid a call to Lady Grantchester. He pulled up the long gravel drive in a green army Jeep, and after he climbed the front steps and knocked at the door, he was shown into the drawing room for tea.
“The reason I’m here,” the man said as he reached for a scone and bit into it without bothering with jam or clotted cream, “is because we are looking for a singer for Saturday night dances at the base.”
“A singer?” Catherine replied.
The man gulped down some tea. “Yes, and one of the musicians we’ve just hired mentioned that your daughter-in-law used to sing at the Savoy. They say she was very good.”
“Well, yes,” Catherine said, holding her delicate teacup and saucer in her hands, “but that was quite some time ago, before she married my son. I’m not sure if she would be interested. She’s a mother now, you know.”
“Of course, I understand,” he replied. “But we all have to do our part for the war effort. Keeping up morale is a high priority these days.”
He didn’t need to explain that an Allied invasion of Europe was imminent, and it was weighing heavily on everyone’s minds, especially the servicemen’s.
“Is your daughter-in-law here this afternoon?” he asked.
“Yes, she is.”
“May I speak with her?”
Catherine, who had very early on elected to forget that I was the product of a wine merchant and a French cabaret singer, reluctantly rang the bell.
The very next day, I began rehearsals with the band, which took place in the ballroom at Grantchester Hall. What a delight it was—to use my voice and sing again and forget about the war for a few hours each afternoon.
When Saturday finally arrived, I rode my bicycle to the airfield at dusk with my evening gown, a hairbrush, and a tube of lipstick tucked into a bag in my front basket. I had to stop and give my name to the guard, who checked his clipboard and invited me to pass through the barricade. Then I coasted onto the gravel parking lot outside the mess hall—which had been converted into a dance hall for the night—and skidded to a halt. I walked my bicycle around the back of the building and went inside, where the musicians were already set up on the stage.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I said to the bandleader as I scurried to the ladies’ room to change into my dress, slip on my heels, and freshen up.
By the time I emerged, the band was playing our opening number—a jazzy instrumental rendition of “Tea for Two,” and the doors opened to a busload of young women who had been picked up and delivered from the town of Guildford.
I paused off to the side and gazed up at the mirror ball suspended from the ceiling. Spotlights in the four corners of the hall flickered on, and suddenly, tiny circles of light floated all around, like magic. It was lovely to imagine that for the next three hours, the war wouldn’t be able to touch us.
I had everyone up on the floor swing dancing to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” when the bandleader decided it was time for a short break, so we finished the set with “La Vie en Rose,” which I sang in French.
A few minutes later, I ventured outside for some fresh air and found a patch of grass overlooking the aerodrome, away from the scores of giggling local girls who were flirting shamelessly with the Yanks.
Tipping my head back, I stood alone and gazed up at the stars. As always, my thoughts drifted to Ludwig as I wondered if he might be looking up at the same stars tonight, somewhere in Europe, thinking of me. Was he even still alive? I had no idea. All I possessed—all that kept me going—was my unwavering belief that he was out there somewhere, very much alive, fighting a war he didn’t believe in, longing for me in the same way I longed for him.
Digging deep for a memory of his touch, I closed my eyes. Ludwig. We have a son. His name is Edward, and he has your beautiful blue eyes.
“What a night.”
Startled by the interruption, I glanced to my left and found myself standing beside an American pilot. He, too, was looking up at the stars. I knew he was American because of his accent, but oddly, he wore a British RAF uniform. I recognized the wings above the pocket on his left breast—the renowned badge of the Royal Air Force.
Tall and dark haired, he had a strong, handsome profile, and I wondered why he wasn’t back inside the dance hall, charming some of the local girls.
“It’s lovely,” I politely replied. “I wish the rest of the world could be as peaceful as this.”
“We’re lucky. At least for the moment.”
It was a sobering reminder that many of these brave young men would soon be crossing the English Channel and sacrificing their lives to put an end to Hitler’s oppression.
A cool breeze made me shiver. I rubbed at my upper arms and wished I’d wrapped myself in a shawl before coming out.
Without a word, the American unbuttoned his jacket, unclasped the belt, and shrugged out of it. “You look cold. Put this on.”
Deciding it would be impolite to refuse, I thanked him and relished the warmth from his body still trapped inside the sleeves.
“You have a nice voice,” he said. “You’re very talented.”
“Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.” I looked up at the stars again.
“I especially liked that last tune you sang. What was it called?”
“‘La Vie en Rose.’”
“‘La Vie en Rose . . .’” He sounded wistful as the American flag billowed behind us on a soft breeze. “Yes, that’s right. Your French is excellent. Do you actually speak French, or is that just how you learned the song?”
“No, I’ve spoken the language since . . . forever, I suppose.”
“Did you learn it at school?”
“My mother was French,” I explained. “I spent half my childhood in Bordeaux.”
“You don’t say. Bordeaux. Isn’t that where they make all the wine?”
I chuckled. “Not all of it, but yes, there are many excellent wineries in the region.”
We were quiet for a moment, listening to the sound of the crickets chirping. Then the American turned to me and stuck out his hand. “Lieutenant Jack Cooper. Connecticut, USA.”
I slid my hand into his. “It’s nice to meet you, Lieutenant. I’m Vivian Gibbons.”
“I know who you are,” he replied,
grinning at me with a pair of striking brown eyes that were friendly and playful.
“Do you indeed?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you know me? Something tells me it’s not just because of my name on the posters for the dance tonight.”
“No, it’s not.” He turned to gaze across the landing strip, saying nothing more about it, content to simply let the matter drop.
I laughed. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
He considered it for a moment, then gave me a look. “They have a name for you on the base. They call you the Unattainable. ‘There goes the Unattainable,’ they say, whenever you’re spotted cycling into town.”
Perplexed, I frowned at him. “What do they mean by that?”
“Just that you’re the most beautiful woman in Surrey, but you live in that big castle on the hill, and you keep to yourself.”
I shook my head at him. “You Americans. I suppose you expect all the women in England to flirt with you, day in and day out.”
“I don’t expect that.”
“I’m a widow, you know,” I told him, feeling defensive all of a sudden. “I lost my husband in the Blitz. That’s why I keep to myself. I still mourn for him.”
It wasn’t true. Outside of my sister, I mourned for another man entirely. The only man I could ever love. The only one I wanted.
“I’m sorry about that.” Jack’s gaze roamed over my face, then settled on my eyes.
I felt exposed suddenly, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t want this man—or anyone else—to know who I truly was or what I was thinking. Thoughts of Ludwig were secret.
“I should go back inside.” I removed his jacket and handed it back to him. “It was nice talking to you.”
I started to walk away, but he spoke up. “Wait, Vivian. I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot. Don’t go inside just yet. Will you dance with me?”
I stopped and faced him. “Dance with you? Here?”
“Yes. I can’t stay for the next set because I have to fly out in about an hour.” He held out a hand. “Just for one minute? Until the end of this song?”
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