“Huh. Well.” Felix smirks. “Apparently, your snooping didn’t uncover the right Lady Helen Dashwood letter.”
“I wasn’t snooping!” Katie cries. “Erin let me in!”
Felix chuckles and Katie’s glad to discover he doesn’t hate her entirely. “The letter I’m thinking of was written in—” he taps his chin “—the summer of 1944. Were you to read it, you’d find it full of accolades for Peter.”
“What a grand idea!” Katie says with what she hopes is a winsome smile. “I’d be happy to see for myself.”
Felix snorts and shakes his head. “If you come in early next week—when we are open—Erin or I might let you have a peek.” He pauses to check the time on his phone. “While I’ve enjoyed our conversation, I’m due at a wedding tonight, so I must go. Again, sorry for the mix-up, mate,” he says to the still-dumbfounded Simon. “No hard feelings, yeah?”
“It’s fine,” Simon says, dismissively.
“Simon. Katharine.” Felix bobs his head at each of them. “Enjoy your night.”
“Thanks, Felix! I’ll stop by on Monday!” Katie shouts to his retreating back.
Felix laughs but doesn’t turn around. “Of course you will,” he says. “I’d expect nothing less.”
* * *
23 June 1944
Dear Hellbags,
How are you getting on at West Wycombe, now that the National Trust is your landlord? You are welcome to return to Blomfield Road, at any time. I miss you greatly.
Evelyn asked me to be godmother to his new baby. Can’t you just?! With so many kids, they’ve probably run through all the religious maniacs they know. He’s finished the first draft of his new book (damn him!) and is now “editing his magnum opus madly,” as he puts it.
Well, onto the big news. Prod has reappeared! After three years gone, he walked into the shop one day, looking bronzed and tough and well, his arms laden with cheeses and brandy and ham. When I first laid eyes upon him, I nearly fainted dead. Seeing him was something like a miracle.
We are getting along famously, if you can believe it, though you can imagine there has been some wonderful toll-gating. He is toll-gating round the place & is completely blissful & he’s been made a colonel if you can stand it. You must admit it’s a scream.
More later.
Love from
Nancy
June 1944
The Dorchester
“How did Dickie get his hands on all this food?” Nancy said. “Is he playing in the black market? I haven’t seen a spread like this in years.”
Nancy, Jim, and Evelyn were at the Dorchester for Dickie Girouard’s wedding reception. They’d feasted on chicken mousse and tongue, with chocolate and cocktails to follow. Everyone was in spectacularly high spirits despite the bombings and ordinary wartime fatigue. The mood was so good it was almost disconcerting.
“Do you ever get the feeling,” Jim said, “that some folks think this war will only harm other people, and the rest of us can dance and dine, more or less untouched?”
“Oh, ducky, that is not a feeling,” Nancy said, and sipped her cider. “It’s straight fact. Emerald Cunard swears that no one is ever killed in air raids. It’s just noise and propaganda.”
“Some folks in the East End might disagree,” Jim noted.
“It’s so sad. We were all in this together for a week or two and then—poof!—it’s back to the usual way of things. There are extravagant weddings.” Nancy swept a hand. “And people like Debo swanning around in diamonds and fur coats, impersonating exiled Russian grand duchesses. Lilliput asked me to write an article on slimming. During rations! It’s utterly daft!”
“You do need the money,” Jim said.
“Yes, but I declined,” Nancy said. “Slenderizing? At this point in the war? I wouldn’t dare. Peter and I had a good laugh about it, though.”
“Anytime you can get a laugh out of Prod is a win, I suppose.”
Nancy nodded and her eyes wandered the room until they found Evelyn, who was at the moment engaged in a verbal altercation, with each man shouting, “You, sir, are no gentleman,” at escalating volumes.
Evelyn was making the most of his final days of leave with his book at the publisher’s, and Nancy loathed him for his success. She’d nearly beaten the ogre, or tied him, at least, and her own book was so close to finished she could cry. What good was it now that Peter had returned, and she’d recommitted to the life of Nancy Rodd? Sure, she could dream of a more glittering life in France, of streets that weren’t bombed, and people who took the right things seriously. But, at the end of the day, the dowdy women and schoolboyish men in this room represented Nancy’s kind of crowd, her stock and trade. It wasn’t all bad, of course. Nancy was alive, and working, and Peter was managing to be a decent spouse, when he was around, and not helping with the upcoming Allied invasion of France.
“Speaking of Peter,” Jim said, and Nancy shook her head, having nearly forgotten where she was. “Is he still coming and going, talking of battles to come? No wonder you’ve been so gaga over him lately. The breaks must render him tolerable.”
“Huh,” Nancy said. “I never thought of it like that. And, yes, he swears troops are penned up behind barbed wire, waiting for the signal to charge. It all feels very imminent. I haven’t seen him since last Wednesday.”
“Lord Rothermere says the operation should be a walkover,” Jim said. “He thinks the Germans are on their last leg.”
“Never count out the Germans,” Nancy warned.
When it came time to leave, they found Evelyn passed out in the cloakroom and decided to let him sleep it off. Jim walked Nancy as far as the Marble Arch, and she hoofed it the rest of the way alone, feeling sullen and melancholy on this cool spring night.
At Blomfield Road, Nancy opened the door and stepped into the brutal quiet. She called out, but the house only echoed in response. Gladys was likely working at her First Aid post and Milly no doubt slumbering somewhere.
As Nancy hung her coat, the telephone rang. She sighed and debated whether to answer. It was probably Debo, with a minor problem, or Hellbags, with a major complaint. Alas, any human was better than no human at all, and so she picked up. “The Rodds,” she said with a yawn.
“Algiers wants you,” the operator said. “Will you please hold the line?”
“Algiers!” Nancy said. “Yes! I’ll hold!”
Algiers? It couldn’t be. Her legs were now jam.
“Allô—allô,” the Colonel said. “Non-cee? Tu es là?”
“It’s me,” Nancy said in a whisper. “I am here. Colonel! I’m a flooded wreck. I haven’t heard your voice in a year!”
“I’ve missed you terribly! I do not have much time, but I needed to speak to you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Only that I am miserable without you,” he said. “And anxious for a story. Hurry! Alors, racontez! I am ready.”
* * *
A year! To hear the Colonel’s low timbre after a year! It was a miracle, nothing short.
Nancy guessed the reason behind the call’s timing because word was out: sometime in the next forty-eight hours, the Allies would land on a beach in France, and an all-out assault would commence. That Prod missed his customary weekend appearance gave credence to the rumors, and though Nancy was not the least religious, she’d been praying up a storm.
At half seven Sunday morning, Nancy was collecting eggs in the garden, with Milly basking in the sun nearby. For a minute, Nancy forgot about the problems of the world and pictured herself a child, gathering eggs with her sisters to sell in town. When Milly leapt to her paws, yipping frantically, Nancy nearly keeled over in shock. She’d grown so accustomed to the silence.
“Good Lord!” she said, and crouched beside the dog. “What did you see? Oh, Milly, you’re trembling! What is it?” Hand raised to shield her face from th
e sun, Nancy looked up to discover an interloper in the form of a tiny French bulldog held by a stout, mustachioed Frenchman.
“Colonel!” Nancy said, and sprang from the ground. The Colonel released the puppy, and she propelled herself into his arms. “First a call and now a visit?” Nancy said, sobbing into his shirt. “You’re going to spoil me beyond repair.” She pulled back and gazed into his coarse, craggy face. Though there were certainly handsomer men, there wasn’t one Nancy found more attractive. “What are you doing in London?” she asked as the puppy scrambled about their feet. “I thought all the important people were supposed to be in France.”
“Soon, darling, soon,” the Colonel said. “I’ve come for talks with Eisenhower and Churchill. I am de Gaulle’s new Directeur de Cabinet, haven’t you heard?”
“It’s about time!” Nancy said. “That old sourpuss will surely benefit from your endless reserves of charm. Tell me you’re staying for a while.”
“Merely a few hours,” the Colonel said. “I don’t even have time for this, but I had to see your beautiful face. I had to make sure you’re still waiting for me, and for Paris.”
“Where is your faith? Of course I’ve been waiting!” Nancy said, as if she hadn’t days ago resigned herself to a long, dull life with Prod. Suddenly, she was stunned, almost paralyzed by her own betrayal, and not until that moment did Nancy understand how thoroughly she’d given up. “How could you ask that question?” she said to the Colonel. “Where would I go?”
“Je ne sais pas. That Peter is a slippery fellow.” The Colonel held out an arm. “I have an hour. Maybe only half. Would you care to join me upstairs?”
Grinning, Nancy slipped her arm through his and up to the bedroom they went, with Milly and her new companion nipping at their heels.
* * *
Nancy lay against the Colonel’s chest, his wiry hairs chafing her shoulder in that familiar, long-missed way. She glanced outside toward the crab apple branch pattering against the window. In the time the Colonel was away, she’d watched the tree go from bright white blossoms to golden brilliance, before bearing its shiny, scarlet fruit. The fruit dropped, leaving the branches bare until its pink buds sprang anew. Now the tree was nearly done flowering again, and the Colonel was back, if only for an hour.
“What are you thinking about, my darling?” he said, dragging a finger along her arm.
“I was thinking about Voltaire.”
“Mon dieu!” he said, and Nancy felt his merriment against her cheek. “This is not very romantic. I must have done a very poor job.”
“You were top-notch, as always, and Voltaire can be very romantic. I was thinking of that line: je me suis mis à être un peu gai, parce qu’on m’a dit que cela est bon pour la santé.”
I have begun to be somewhat merry because I have been told that that is good for one’s health.
“It’s as though you’ve come to remind me,” Nancy said. “That it’s possible to be happy, instead of merely plodding along. And Voltaire was correct. It is good for my health, which is important, what with my notoriously weak constitution.”
The Colonel gave her a squeeze. “And what’s good for my health is you.”
“But you’re about to leave again!” Nancy said. “Bad health all around. I really make myself sick waiting to hear from you, especially because you don’t write nearly as often as you should. The last time you went three whole weeks!”
“Did you think I was dead?”
“It’s not in my nature to think that way,” Nancy said. “But had you been killed, it would’ve finished me off.”
“Ah, so you would’ve died, too? How nice.”
She slapped him playfully and the Colonel chortled and sat up.
“I must go,” he said, and kissed her atop the head. “You are very beautiful, even when your hair is so unkempt.”
“What do you expect? You caught me gardening! And we just made love. Several times, in fact!”
The Colonel laughed again as he wiggled into his pants. “Also, my darling, on the subject of health, you really are too thin.”
“My weak constitution strikes again! What do you see in me?”
“It is quite strange. Nevertheless, there must be something.” He leaned down for another kiss. “It won’t be much longer, my silkworm. Despite your inability to believe my solemn vows, we will be together in Paris, very soon.”
“Can you blame me?” Nancy said, pulling the blanket taut over her very small breasts. “You’re not the easiest man to trust.”
The Colonel gripped his chest and staggered backward, as if shot in the heart. “Mon chérie!” he cried. “How can you say such things? I am a faithful man!”
Nancy gave him a dubious look. “You weren’t faithful to your deceased fiancée, Gabrielle,” Nancy said. “Never mind her, each time your name comes up, I’m absolutely demolished by an avalanche of women. When we met, you told me that affairs last five years with you. If that’s true, you’re two hundred years old by my calculation!”
“Five years or five days,” he said. “It’s really all the same.”
“I should count myself lucky, then.”
“Ah, Non-cee.” The Colonel kissed her one last time. “The difference is, I love you ten times more than the rest.”
Saturday Evening
Curzon Street
Simon doesn’t seem to care about Peter Rodd, either way. Katie cannot fathom it.
“You’re not curious?” she says as they walk away from the shop. “Like, not at all?”
“Not even a little,” he says.
“I don’t get it.” Katie shakes her head. “I would love to be related to Nancy Mitford.”
“Related by marriage, which isn’t the same.”
“Still, though. His sister married Simon Elwes. You could be related to Peter Rodd and Westley from The Princess Bride.”
“Sure, sure,” Simon says, bobbing his head. “It’d be extremely useful to have a genealogical link to a C-list actor from an overrated movie. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?”
“Shut your mouth!” Katie says, and bats him with the back of her hand. “I’m sad you have such bad taste in films.”
They cross a street. It’s just after five o’clock and already dark, and they don’t seem to be going anywhere, other than in the general direction of Hyde Park.
“You’re not even tempted to find out?” Katie presses.
“You really cannot let this go,” Simon says. “First of all, it seems highly unlikely. If my mum had any inkling, she would’ve mentioned it. She would’ve been trying to shake down the bookshop, not me. Second, even if there is a genetic link, what does that get me? Peter Rodd was a wanker.”
Katie laughs. “True,” she says. “But maybe you should take a DNA test, just to see.”
Simon shudders. “I will not be taking one of those tests,” he says. “Not now, not ever. I’m surprised you’d suggest it. Don’t you find them disturbing?”
Katie gives him a sideways glance. “I wouldn’t have taken you for one of those tin-foil-hat types,” she says. “The government does not want your DNA. They’re not going to clone you. I mean, they should. You’d be a good candidate. But that’s not what’s happening.”
“Oh, I don’t mind being cloned,” Simon says. “It’s more the idea of genetic testing for entertainment, and posting on the internet. It has... I don’t know...a very white nationalist vibe.” Simon looks at her. “Don’t you find paying a hundred quid to break down one’s blood into percentages is a tad...‘one-drop rule’?”
“I guess,” Katie mumbles, and makes a note not to admit she bought kits for her entire family last Christmas, as well as her dog.
They pass the Saudi Arabian Embassy. The large, white building was formerly Crewe House, where Nancy kept fire watch. Katie peers through the wrought iron fence, trying to get a gl
impse of something, she doesn’t know what. A guard glowers and she throws on a smile. He is not amused.
“You just want me to be related,” Simon says, “because it’d make my family all the more compelling to write about.”
“Okay, smart-ass. I am not writing about your family. And I only care because I’m a gossip,” she says. “Peter Rodd is just about the least compelling thing about Nancy Mitford.”
“Hear, hear,” Simon says, and they round a corner.
Katie stutters in her step. Her mouth drops open and she points in the manner of a three-year-old gesturing at a clown. In the distance are two roller coasters and a jumble of lights.
“What is that?” she says, and clutches Simon’s arm.
He squints. “What? Oh. Winter Wonderland. Bills itself as Europe’s Largest Christmas Event, but it’s just your basic carnival with holiday markets and rides.”
Katie grabs his sleeve and drags him toward the Blue Gate.
“Don’t tell me this sounds fun to you,” Simon says.
“Of course it does! Which is why we’re going!”
“I’m going to have to download an app, aren’t I?”
“Yes, and get to it,” she snaps. “Chop-chop.”
“Fine,” Simon says and, by the time he opens his phone, a security guard is rifling through Katie’s purse. After everything checks out, he waves them through.
“This is amazing,” Katie says, overcome by the noise, the flashing lights, the winter wonderland of it all. “Oh my God. Is that a skating rink?” She whips around to face Simon. “Let’s do it!”
“Absolutely not. I’m not looking to freeze my arse off, or break any limbs.”
“Fine,” Katie mutters. She glances back at the ice. “I used to take my nieces when they were younger. I miss it. Or maybe I miss them being little.”
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