Ashton Park (24 page)

“There was an air battle,” he began. “A rather vicious one. Kipp’s squadron was involved. Young Ben of course is a pilot in that squadron. He was shot down and remains in serious condition at the hospital in Amiens. I have requested that special prayers be said at St. Mark’s tonight. We should leave for the church in the next quarter hour.”

Lady Elizabeth took Victoria into her arms and kissed the top of her head. “The praying will help. The praying will give you strength.”

Victoria’s eyes were closed. “Could we…ask Lady Grace and Aunt Holly to join us?”

“Of course. Aunt Holly would be ready to come with us at the drop of a hat. But Lady Grace?”

“I am quite capable of getting in and out of a coach on short notice, thank you, Elizabeth.” Lady Grace leaned on a cane in the library doorway. “It’s Ben Whitecross, isn’t it?”

“Yes, mother,” replied Sir William. “He’s been wounded in combat.”

“We prayed for him just yesterday, Holly and Victoria and I. We must be off to St. Mark’s at once. The prayer service will make a difference. Come along. Have Todd Turpin bring the coach around.”

Surprised by his mother’s outburst, where for months and years she had spoken only in short sentences and monosyllables, Sir William nevertheless held his place at the fireplace and did not move. “You never leave the house, Mother.”

“There has never been a good reason for leaving it up till now.”

“I must fill in a few details first. Kipp sent me several cables. Ben was not with them when the Germans attacked. The Hun had Kipp’s squadron by the throat. Ben arrived on the scene after repairs were made to his aircraft and immediately launched himself at the enemy. He shot down four or five of the Germans before they turned on him. He crashed in a field. Kipp landed and picked him up and flew him back to their aerodrome.”

Lady Elizabeth stroked her daughter’s hair as Victoria clung tightly to her mother. “That was a brave thing for our son to do.”

Sir William remained by the fire, hands behind his back, and looked at his wife. “Ben shot down the plane that had our boy in his sights. He saved Kipp’s life.”

There was a soft knocking on her bedroom door but Victoria would not get up from her seat by the window. Tears moving across her face, she stared out at the trees and the moonlight. The knocking came again.

I told you about the wager. I shouldn’t have but I couldn’t resist. You put your life at risk to win my hand, didn’t you? How could mother and father ever say no to the man who saved their son’s life? But now you may lose yours, so in the end we have won nothing. I will never forgive myself for prompting you to do something heroic. I knew you would respond to what I wrote. I wanted you to respond. Now you’re wounded…and perhaps, by now, dead.

The knocking stopped.

Why were they bothering her? She had gone to the prayer service with them. People had been lovely and gracious and kind. But what good were loveliness and graciousness and kindness when a person was in jagged pieces inside? The vicar had read from the Bible and then sunk to his knees to pray. All lovely. But she herself was dark.

There was a sliding sound. Paper on wood. A telegram was being slipped under the door, still in its envelope and unopened. Heavy footsteps walked away. Her father. She wiped at her eyes with her fingers to clear them. She gazed at the telegram a few moments and finally decided to walk over and pick it up. It was from Kipp.

BEN HAS THE STRENGTH TO TALK FROM TIME TO TIME. HE WANTS YOU TO KNOW HE IS GOING TO FIGHT THROUGH AND THAT HE’LL MAKE IT. HE SAYS HE WOULD HAVE DONE WHAT HE DID REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU WROTE. HE WOULD NOT HAVE LET HIS SQUADRON DIE. HE LOVES YOU.

Victoria sat down on the floor with the telegram in her hand. She began to cry again so that her body shuddered with huge waves of emotion: pain, relief, hope. She did not get up, finally stretching out on the carpet and falling asleep, her face streaked, the cable still in her grasp.

The sun seemed the reddest Libby had ever seen. How much she had colored it with her own feelings she did not know. The Sopwith Camels were lined up black against the dawn light. An engine sputtered. Then another. Soon the early morning shook with thunder.

“I have to go,” he said.

A hand rested lightly on her shoulder and was gone.

“Please put it back,” Libby asked him.

“I didn’t want to presume too much.”

“You didn’t. Please put it back a moment.”

Michael’s large hand returned to her shoulder. She lifted her own hand to rest on his, glancing up. The sun was bright yellow now and had turned his brown eyes to gold. But it was about her eyes that he spoke.

“I’ve never seen such blue. Not in the sky. Not in the sea. Not in the rivers and streams of any mountain range I ever knew.”

She smiled. “You promised not to do anything rash, Yank. These blue eyes want to see you again.”

“And I want to see them. Believe me. But now that I’ve been restored to active duty I have to fly at least one more time. I have to.”

“I know that. Go with God, Michael.”

He kissed the top of her head, pressing his lips into her perfectly combed and gathered red and gold hair. He walked over to his plane, looked it over, shook the mechanic’s hand, and climbed into the cockpit. Tightening his leather helmet, tugging his goggles over his eyes, adjusting the white silk scarf around his throat, he gave the thumbs-up. The engine roared and he turned his plane into the wind, following the others in his squadron as their Sopwiths rumbled over the grass and took off into the clear sky and clouds of early morning.

It was Sunday, November 10, 1918.

MY DEAR ELIZABETH

KAISER WILHELM HAS ABDICATED. WE EXPECT AN ARMISTICE TO BE SIGNED ENDING THE WAR. PERHAPS AS EARLY AS TOMORROW THE 11TH. PRAY THE BOYS STAY OUT OF HARM’S WAY. PRAISE THE LORD. GOD SAVE THE KING.

WILLIAM

Libby expected to see Michael and his squadron safely back by ten in the morning. It was two in the afternoon. She had requested a transfer from Paris to be closer to him at the hospital in Nancy. But she stayed on at the airfield’s dressing station and waited, calming her nerves by feeding and cleaning the few patients they had, most of whom suffered from nothing more serious than mild forms of dysentery. An aide found her there.

“We just got word!” he told her. “Of course we know they had to set down somewhere. They would have been out of fuel hours ago. They landed at an RAF aerodrome well north of here. They had a run-in with a
Jasta,
a German squadron, but don’t worry, there weren’t any casualties.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Libby felt exhaustion and relief at the same time and wanted to sit down. “Are they coming back?”

She had scarcely asked when they both heard the drone at the same time. Running outside they saw aircraft approaching from the north and east. Libby began to count them as they came in to land.

“Missing three,” said an officer on one side of her.

The aide frowned. “There weren’t any missing when they left the RAF aerodrome, sir.”

“No. Something happened between here and there.”

Libby looked at him.

“Not necessarily a dogfight, Miss Danforth,” he went on quickly. “Engine failure. Controls damaged by the action this morning. Could be any of a hundred things. They’ve probably put down somewhere else.”

Libby fought a coldness that moved through her stomach and chest into her head. “Three of them?”

Not now, Lord. Not when I’m getting to know Michael. When we’re becoming friends…and more. Not today.

But she knew before she was told that Michael was not with the squadron. She could sense that he had not landed.

“They didn’t crash,” the squadron leader told her. “We went through a lot of dirty, thick wet clouds and they disappeared. If they got disoriented they’ll just put down somewhere else. Don’t worry, Miss Danforth. Mike flew well this morning in the dogfight. And he was flying straight as an arrow the last I saw him. He’ll be fine.”

“Were there—any enemy aircraft nearby?”

The squadron leader looked at her for a moment. Then he made up his mind. “A ways off. But they were there.”

“Who?”

“Do you know the German squadrons? Zeltner’s
Jasta
? Black and yellow. But don’t fret. Word is there will be peace in a few days. The Kaiser has abdicated. Germany’s in an uproar. Zeltner’s pilots want to get home in one piece too. I doubt they’ll start a fight.”

“You had a fight this morning.”

He nodded. “Yeah. We did. This morning.”

She stood watching the sky with him and the others in the squadron a few minutes more, but no other planes appeared. Eventually the pilots went to get something to eat and the squadron leader headed off to file his report. Libby walked back to the dressing station. She had promised several men she would clean their hair, cut their nails, and shave their beards.

As she began with a young American from Seattle, her mind argued it didn’t matter whether Michael Woodhaven was alive or dead, they were just friends, and she was going back to England when the war was over no matter what happened to him. But her heart used different words and a different language—they had gone past friendship and were touching on something else, something greater, and it
did
matter to her whether he was alive or dead. But she’d no sooner feel this in her blood than her mind would speak up again and convince her that any romantic ideas she had were a flight of fancy—Ashton Park and Britain were her future, not Michael Woodhaven and America. Dead? She might shed a few tears. Alive? She’d give him a quick hug and a pat on the back and finish shaving her American fliers. Michael Woodhaven could never be a big part of her life.

“There! That’s them! I swear it’s Mike and Quincy and Wyatt!”

The shout made her drop her razor and spin around. She could see men running onto the field. At the same time she heard a growl of plane engines. She knocked over the basin of hot water she was using, fell over a chair, and bolted out of the hut, leaving the young pilot with one side of his face clean-shaven and the other sporting a five-day beard and white lather.

One. Two. Three. They dropped lower and lower until the first one touched down. Men were still running, heading toward the first Sopwith Camel as it rolled over the grass. She told herself to stay put and wait until all of them were down and they’d come to a stop. Spinning props were dangerous. What did it matter if she saw him on the landing strip or here at the dressing station or over in the mess hall? What difference did five or ten minutes make?