He pulled her even closer, so he could feel the curves of her body against his. “I love you in whatever role you play. Whatever uniform you want to wear. Whoever you want to be. I will love you.”
That was a promise she would hold on to later that day as she faced Section Leader Robbins in her office, fidgeting with her cap after her watch.
“I was wondering when you’d come to see me,” Robbins said, motioning to the chair in front of her desk.
Scarlett took it, adjusting her skirts as she sat.
“Honestly, I’m surprised you lasted this long.” Robbins gave her an understanding smile. “I thought you’d be here a month ago.”
“You knew?” Scarlett’s hands flew to her belly.
Robbins lifted an eyebrow. “You threw up for two months straight. I knew. I just thought it best to let you come to this conclusion on your own, and selfishly, I wanted to keep you. You’re one of my best girls. That being said, I was only giving you two more weeks before I said something myself.” She opened a desk drawer and pulled out some papers. “I have your discharge papers ready. You just need to take them up to headquarters.”
“I don’t want to be discharged,” Scarlett admitted quietly. “I want to do my job.”
Robbins studied her carefully and sighed. “And I wish you could.”
“There is nothing I can do?” Her heart lurched, feeling as though she was being cleaved in two.
“You can be a wonderful mother, Scarlett. Britain needs more babies.” She slid the papers across the desktop. “You’ll be sorely missed.”
“Thank you.” Scarlett squared her shoulders, then took her discharge papers.
Just like that, it was over.
There was a steady, dull hum in her ears as she turned in her discharge papers. It didn’t fade until she stood in front of that same oval mirror in her bedroom, staring at a reflection that was no longer rightfully hers.
She took off her hat first and placed it on the dresser. The shoes came next. Then the stockings.
She raised her hands to the belt of her jacket twice before she managed to get it undone.
This uniform had given her freedom she never would have experienced without it. She never would have stood up to her parents without the confidence she’d earned over the long days and nights of watches. She never would have seen her worth as more than a pretty showpiece.
She never would have met Jameson.
Her fingers trembled at the first button. Once she took it off, that was it. There were no more watches. No more briefings. No more smiling as she walked down the street, proud that she was doing her part. They weren’t just clothes—they were the physical manifestation of the woman she’d become, the sisterhood she belonged to.
She heard a shuffle behind her and lifted her eyes in the mirror to see Jameson standing exactly where he’d been that morning, leaning in the doorway, but instead of his pressed uniform, he still wore his flying suit.
…
His hands clenched with the need to hold her, but he kept his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t say anything as he watched her struggle with the buttons of her jacket. His chest ached at the pain, the loss in her eyes as she finally got them undone. She must have told her section leader today. She wasn’t just getting undressed; she was being unmade.
As much as he wanted to cross the room and ease her, this was something she had to do for herself, by herself. Besides, he was already responsible for taking so much from her that he couldn’t bear to be a part of this, too.
Tears filled her eyes as she slid free of the jacket, folding it carefully before placing it on the dresser. Next came the tie, then the shirt, and finally she stepped out of the skirt. Her hands were steady as she placed it on the pile, standing in nothing but the civilian underwear she’d always insisted on.
She swallowed, then lifted her chin. “And that’s…that.”
“I’m so sorry.” His words came out like they’d been scraped over broken bottles.
She walked to him, all lush curves and sad eyes, but when their gazes met, hers was steady. “I’m not.”
“You’re not?” He palmed her cheek, needing to touch her.
“I’m not sorry about anything that’s led me to you.”
He carried her to their bed and showed her with his body exactly how lucky he felt to have found her.
…
One month later, Scarlett marveled at the freedom the simple wrap dress afforded her as she and Jameson shopped in a small London store that specialized in children’s clothes.
There were some parts of civilian life—such as not melting in her uniform in the August heat—that more than agreed with her.
“I wish we’d done this two months ago,” Jameson muttered as they took in the scant racks of infant garments.
“It will be okay,” she assured him. “He won’t need much to start out with.”
“She.” Jameson grinned, then bent to kiss her temple.
As of June, clothing was now rationed, which meant she was going to need to get creative in a few months—and do a lot more wash. Blankets, gowns, and nappies—they had a lot to acquire before November.
“He,” she argued with a shake of her head. “Let’s get these to start with.” She handed Jameson two gowns that would work for both a girl or a boy.
“Okay.”
Her face puckered slightly as she stared at the small selection of nappies.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’ve never put on a nappy before—a diaper,” she clarified for him. “I know I need pins, but I don’t have anyone I can ask.” She still hadn’t spoken to her parents, and it wasn’t like her mother had done the child-rearing herself, anyway.
“You can always hire a nappy service,” a young clerk with a quick smile suggested from the end of the aisle. “They’re becoming quite popular.”
Jameson nodded in consideration. “It would leave us with less laundry, and probably ease a little of your we’re-never-going-to-be-able-to-buy-enough stress.”
Scarlett rolled her eyes. “We can talk about it after dinner. I’m starving.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a smile and took their items to the counter.
Of all the things to talk about while he had a precious forty-eight hours of leave, nappies were not on her list.
A few moments later, they were out on the bustling street, walking hand in hand. The bombings had ceased…for now, but the evidence was everywhere she looked.
“Anywhere you want to eat?” Jameson asked, adjusting his hat with one hand.
Scarlett swore she saw at least three women swoon from the sight, not that she blamed them. Her husband was incredible from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “Not particularly. Though I wouldn’t mind going back to the hotel and having you for dinner.” She kept her face as straight as she could manage.
He stopped in the middle of the pavement, forcing the crowd to flow around them. “I’ll get a taxi right now.” His smile was pure hedonism.
“Scarlett?”
Scarlett froze at the sound of her mother’s voice, her grip tightening on Jameson’s hand as she turned slowly to face her.
She wasn’t alone. Scarlett’s father stood at her side, looking as shocked as Scarlett felt for all of a heartbeat before he managed to school his features into the stone she knew so well.
“Jameson, these are my parents, Nigel and Margaret, but I’m sure they’d rather you call them Baron and Lady Wright.” Finally, she had a real use for all the comportment lessons she’d been forced into.
…
“Sir.” Jameson stepped forward, offering his hand to Nigel but losing Scarlett’s in the process. So this was the infamous father his wife and her sister had such mixed feelings about. He was dressed in a neatly pressed suit, his pepper and silver hair
slicked back with minimal fuss.
Her father looked at Jameson’s hand, then brought his gaze back up. “You’re the Yank.”
“I’m American, yes.” Jameson bristled but managed a smile as he lowered his hand, taking Scarlett’s again. He couldn’t imagine having this kind of rift with his own parents, and if he could ease the tension, he would. It’s the least his mother would expect from him. “Ma’am, your daughters speak very highly of you.”
Scarlett squeezed his fingers at his lie.
Margaret had the same dark hair and piercing blue eyes as her daughters. In fact, the resemblance was so close that he couldn’t shake the feeling he was getting a glimpse at what Scarlett would look like in thirty years. Scarlett wouldn’t have that cold, firm set to her mouth, though. His wife was far too warm for that.
“You’re…going to have a child,” her mother said quietly, her eyes round as they locked on Scarlett’s stomach.
The irrational impulse to stand in front of his wife was instant.
“We are,” Scarlett said, her voice firm and chin high. He’d always been in awe of her self-control, but this was an all-time high. “I understand you convinced Constance to throw her life away?” She asked the question with the same tone she’d used to request he pass the milk this morning.
Jameson blinked, realizing he’d entered an entirely different arena of warfare where he wasn’t the expert—his wife was.
“Constance’s choices are her own,” Margaret said just as politely.
“Is it a boy?” Nigel asked, staring at Scarlett with a spark of something in his eyes that looked a little too close to desperation for Jameson’s comfort.
“I could hardly know, as I am still pregnant.” Scarlett tilted her head. “And if he is, that is none of your business.”
This was the strangest family he’d ever encountered…and somehow he was a part of it.
Scarlett turned her attention back to her mother. “Constance’s choices are her own, but you took advantage of her broken heart. You and I both know what he’ll do to her. You willingly sent a lamb to the slaughter, and I will do everything in my power to convince her not to go through with it.”
As shots across the bow went, that one was a direct hit.
“As far as I’m concerned, you made the choice for her when you refused him,” her mother replied unemotionally.
And that one was an entire bombing raid.
Scarlett’s sharp intake of breath was enough for him to know her mother’s words had found their mark.
“It was nice to meet you both, but we’re going to go now,” Jameson said, tipping his hat.
“If that’s a boy, he can be my heir,” Nigel blurted.
Every muscle in Jameson’s body tensed, preparing for the fight. “If our baby is a boy, he’s our son,” he said.
“He’s not your anything,” Scarlett said to her father through gritted teeth, her hand rising protectively over their child.
“If Constance doesn’t marry Wadsworth—as you are hell-bent on stopping it,” her father mused with a scheming gleam in his eyes, “and you have the only heir, the line is clear. If she does marry him, and they have children, that’s a different matter.”
“Unbelievable.” Scarlett shook her head. “I’ll sign over my claim right now. Here, in the middle of the street. I don’t want it.”
Nigel’s gaze flickered between Scarlett and him, then narrowed on Scarlett. “What are you going to do when your Yank gets himself killed?”
Scarlett’s spine stiffened.
Jameson couldn’t argue against the possibility. The life expectancy of a pilot wasn’t years, or even months. The odds weren’t exactly in his favor, especially at the rate the 71st was flying missions. Since getting issued Spitfires a few weeks ago, they were one of the top squadrons for enemy kills.
He was one battle away from making ace…or crashing.
“You’ll have a baby to support on a widow’s stipend, since I’m assuming you no longer wear the uniform or have income of your own.”
“She’ll be fine,” Jameson interjected. Changing his will already made sure Scarlett would inherit what land was his if he didn’t make it home, but he wasn’t telling her parents that.
“When that happens, you’ll come home.” Her father ignored Jameson entirely. “Think about it. You have no real skill. Can you honestly say you’d go to the factories? What would you do with your child?”
“Nigel,” Margaret chastised softly.
“You’ll come home. And not for you—you’d rather starve than give us the pleasure. But for your child?”
The color ran from Scarlett’s face.
“We’re leaving. Now.” Jameson turned his back on her parents, cutting directly in front of them instead of letting Scarlett’s hand go.
“She doesn’t even have a country!” Nigel called after them.
“She’ll be American soon enough!” Jameson said over his shoulder as they walked away.
Scarlett held her head high as Jameson stepped into the street, hailing a taxi. A black car pulled to the curb, and Jameson opened the door, ushering Scarlett in first. Rage raced through his veins, hot and thick.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“The U.S. Embassy,” Jameson replied.
“What?” Scarlett twisted in her seat as the cab lurched forward into traffic.
“You have to get a visa. You can’t stay here. Our baby can’t stay here.” He shook his head. “You told me they were cold and monstrous, but that was…” His jaw flexed. “I don’t have the words to describe what happened back there.”
“So you’re taking me to the embassy.” She lifted a brow.
“Yes!”
“Love, we don’t have our marriage records or any of my personal identification. They’re not just going to give me a visa because you say so,” she said, calmly stroking his hand.
“Shit!”
The driver glanced back at them but continued on.
“I know they’re…upsetting. But they don’t have any power over me anymore—over us. Jameson, look at me.”
“If something happens to me, I need to know that you can get to Colorado.” Just the thought of her going back to her family sent another hot pulse of anger through him. “We’re not poor—at least not in land—and I’ve already changed my will. If I die, you have options, but going back to those two isn’t one of them.”
“I know.” She nodded slowly. “I won’t. Nothing will happen to you—”
“You don’t know that.”
“—but if it does, I’ll never go back there. I promise.”
His eyes searched hers. “Promise me we’ll start the visa process.”
“I’m not leaving you!”
“Promise. Me. If nothing else, you’d have it if I die.” He wasn’t giving on this one, wasn’t being the sensible, sensitive husband. She had to belong somewhere if he went down.
“Okay. Fine. We’ll start the process. But we can’t do anything about it today. We have to get an appointment—”
He kissed her hard and quick, not giving a shit that they were in public or potentially scandalizing the cab driver.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his forehead against hers.
“Can we go back to the hotel now?”
He gave the driver the destination change with a grin that didn’t fade as they made their way to the hotel. It didn’t even fade as they climbed the wide staircase up to their room or as he unlocked their door.
Even if he didn’t survive this war, she would—their child would.
…
“What is that?” Scarlett asked, gesturing to a large box on the desk as they walked into the room. She was completely, utterly drained, not only from walking miles while they shopped but from the encounter with her parents on the street.
“I bought you a present while you were sleeping this morning and arranged to have it delivered. Go on.” He motioned her toward the box.
“A present?” She put the bag with the baby clothes on their bed, then looked over her shoulder at him with skepticism. “What are you about?”
“Just open it.” He shut the door, then came up beside her, half sitting on the desk to face her.
“It’s not my birthday.” She tugged one flap open.
“No, but it’s the start of a new era for you.”
She opened the next flap, and again, peering down into the wide box as it opened.
Then she gasped, her chest constricting at what she found.
“Jameson,” she whispered.
“Do you like it?” he asked with a grin.
She ran her fingers lightly over the cool metal casing. “It’s…” Amazing. Wonderful. Thoughtful. Too much.
“I thought maybe you could write down some of those stories you’re always thinking up inside that beautiful brain of yours.”
A joyful laugh burst from her throat, and she flung herself into his arms, holding him tight. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
He’d bought her a typewriter.
Chapter Twenty-One
Georgia
Jameson,
I miss you. How long has it been since we’ve written letters? Months? Even living in the same house, your flight schedule and my watches have us missing each other by minutes. It’s the sweetest form of torture, sleeping next to your pillow, my head filled with your scent, knowing you’re flying in the skies above me. I pray that you’re safe, that you’re reading this while I’m already at work, smiling as you fall asleep next to my pillow with my scent, wishing you were holding me. Sleep well, my love, and maybe I’ll make it home this afternoon before you’re due on the flight line. I love you.
Scarlett
“You’re sure?” Helen asked, her tone efficient as always. Gran’s agent had always left minimal room for nonsense, which was why Gran had chosen her after the first had passed away twenty years into her career.
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