“I am not.”
“Who would ever want to look up at a nun floating down? What an unholy image.”
“Now lodged in my mind.”
“Unfortunately forever.”
“I read one that said German paratroopers land with their hands above their heads, so you should immediately shoot them because it means they have a grenade in each hand. This ignores the fact that any paratrooper, regardless of nationality, has his hands above his head to control the guide lines.”
“The world has gone mad.”
“They also killed all the snakes and poisonous creatures in the London Zoo and have marksmen stationed there to shoot lions and tigers if a bomb drops and frees them.”
“Die Brücke,” Caitrin said. “I was thinking that German is such a harsh, unlovely language, all hard Cs and Ks. Not a wonderful wobbly W or a slippery S anywhere to be found. It sounds as though it was created by a horde of drunken clog dancers in an empty chapel. I don’t like the Germans much.”
“Yes, we finally agree on something.”
“What about agreeing on our background story?”
“The line of least resistance,” he said and sighed. “What if you tell the story, and I’ll nod my head like a good, henpecked hubby?”
“You talked me into it.”
“Just please don’t get too creative.” He gestured to the post office. “I should call in before we go any farther.”
She watched him cross the road and enter the telephone box. In the square the captain had the men marching, or at least moving mostly the same way in two ragged ranks. She was contemplating requisitioning Hector’s last undefended slice of bacon when he left the box, dodged between the miniature army ranks, and dropped into his chair.
“Don’t you dare,” he said, slapping her hand and rescuing his bacon from her predatory fingers.
“Thought never crossed my mind. I was just rearranging it for artistic effect. Any news?”
“No, apart from the bombing is getting worse. Walter Thompson is going out of his mind because, while everyone else runs for the bomb shelter, Churchill insists on going up to the roof to watch the attack. Usually with a glass of brandy and a cigar, and without his helmet and gas mask.”
“Death or Glory Churchill. Does he know Mafeking has been relieved?”
“Thompson said he tried being slow to unlock the half-dozen doors to get to the roof until Churchill threatened to shoot him if he didn’t hurry up.”
“And knowing Winston, he probably would.”
“We’re still on schedule. Six days to get to Greenock.” Hector glanced at his watch. “Shall we go and visit the Madison-Hardynges?”
Caitrin sighed, took the wedding and engagement rings from her pocket, and slipped them onto her finger. “Oh dear, it’s back to being married again. Poor Emily will be just so crushed to know you’re taken.”
10
Emily Madison-Hardynge was not all crushed at Hector being taken. Not even the slightest bit dented, because she was not at Walvert Frome Hall. “Em’s gone off to London,” her father, Sir Rupert Madison-Hardynge, said as he tore out another rose bush. A broad-shouldered man with prodigious eyebrows, large hands, and a ruddy complexion, Rupert wore Wellington boots, corduroys, and an ancient cardigan as he laid waste to the garden. Helping him was his wife, Penelope, a lady but in no way fragile.
“What is she doing in London?” Hector asked.
“She is down there doing her bit for the boys.”
“I’m sure she is.” Caitrin whispered an aside to Hector, her face a mask of innocence. Hector shot her an admonishing glance that had little effect.
“Driving an ambulance, she says. All I can say is God protect the pedestrians if she is.” Rupert tore out another rose bush and threw it onto a growing pile. “Penelope’s been such a rock. The rose garden is hers. It’s taken years to cultivate and only a day to destroy.”
“I do so hate to see it go, but it is the best soil for a Victory vegetable garden,” Penelope said. “So we can do our bit like everyone else.”
“With well over a thousand acres of farmland and seven hundred of woodlands and orchards, you’d think we’d be productive enough, but Penelope insists otherwise.”
“To do our every little bit helps, and it’s a worthy sacrifice,” Penelope said as she brushed Rupert’s arm. It was a simple yet affectionate gesture, and Caitrin noticed it. “And this garden, no matter how modest it might be, will be my own contribution.”
Rupert straightened and dusted his hands clean. “That is enough wanton destruction for now. Let’s go inside.”
Walvert Frome Hall was not what Caitrin expected. There was no elegant exterior, no grand staircase inside or acres of dark wood paneling. Not even a suit of armor or paintings of ancient ancestors. The white, timber-framed building was constructed of wattle and plaster with a red brick chimney and a moss-studded tile roof. It resembled a large farmhouse rather than a stately home. Even the great hall with its white plaster walls, exposed timbers, and modest minstrel gallery seemed almost intimate. There were few true right angles anywhere, and the sofas and chairs had endured long lives.
“Drink?” Rupert said, pouring whisky without waiting for anyone to reply. He handed around the glasses, and they sat before the fireplace. “So you’re married. When did that happen?”
Rupert and Penelope may well have been Caitrin’s class enemies, but she found them appealing. Neither had airs and graces, and she especially enjoyed Rupert being so direct. She let Hector answer.
“Just a few weeks ago, actually,” Hector said. “At the registry office. Seemed it was the right thing to do in the circumstances.”
“Circumstances? Not pregnant, are you?” Rupert asked. “Not you, Hector, you great lummox, her.”
“No, I’m not,” Caitrin replied. She liked Rupert; he reminded her of her father. “But it’s not for lack of trying, though.”
Rupert laughed, Penelope smiled, and Hector blushed as he hid behind his glass. Caitrin studied Rupert and noticed something. Unless she was misjudging him, he did not believe a word Hector said, and he knew they were not married. On the drive to the estate she and Hector had discussed ways to discover if the Madison-Hardynges were members of Die Brücke, but Rupert was obviously a canny fox and she doubted they could trap him easily.
“Tell me, how are things going in London?” Rupert asked.
