Brave Hearts (3 page)

“He must have been the fool,” Jack interposed.

Catharine shook her head, her eyes dark. “We spent every minute together that summer, and I thought it was all settled. Then, without a word to me, he went back to England.”

She looked up at Jack and wondered what he thought. Could he picture the girl she had been? An eager, confident, happy girl, so different from the woman of today. At seventeen, she was so sure—and willing to plunge ahead no matter what convention might dictate.

Catharine looked back across the water. “I went to England.” A simple sentence, but what boldness it had required. She marveled now at that act. She had been so decisive, so certain. Oh, God, so very certain.

Catharine slowly shook her head. “He was too gentle to fend me off, though I began to realize there were times when he drank too much. He drank when he remembered the planes he'd shot down. Once he told me, ‘I could see his face. Catharine, he was just a kid. Just a kid.' And his voice broke. Reggie tried to send me home. He said he could go for a while and then it was too hard and he had to drink and that wasn't right for a girl like me.” Catharine watched the pelicans gather for their feeding. “But I was so sure. I wouldn't let him go.”

Jack offered her a cigarette. He lit it and one for himself. “What happened, Catharine?”

“The day before the wedding, he took his biplane up—and flew it straight down into the ground.”

Jack blew out a thin stream of blue smoke, and, once again, he wanted to take her in his arms.

“You poor damn kid.”

“I went to Paris, art school. I learned how to paint still lifes, and that's what my life was, a still life. A few years later, I went to a party at the American embassy. I met Spencer.”

He looked at her sharply. Her voice was even and uninflected, neither happy nor sad.

“Spencer was very nice to me.” She grimaced a little. “That sounds terribly prim, doesn't it? But he was gentle and caring, and he wanted so much to marry me. Finally, I thought, why not? I married him, but you're right, I didn't love him. I didn't want to love him. I didn't want ever again to love anyone.”

She hadn't been fair to Spencer. Had she ever been fair to him? But there had been happy days, many of them, and if she saw his faults, she saw his strengths, too: devotion to duty, good heartedness. If Charles had lived, they might have found in him an anchor for their lives.

But Charles had not lived.

She stared hopelessly at Jack.

“The first time I saw you,” Jack said gently, “I could see the pulse fluttering in your throat. I wanted to hold you in my arms and tell you it was all right.”

He reached out, but she stepped back, her composure broken.

“I'm sorry,” she said, choking back tears, “I shouldn't have come today. I shouldn't have come.” And she turned and ran blindly down the path.

“I have to see you.”

His voice was so strong over the telephone, it was almost like having him stand beside her. Catharine remembered with incredible precision the way his thick black hair curled behind his ears and the piercing brightness of his blue eyes.

She clutched the phone, tried to answer, couldn't. Her throat felt tight and choked.

“I'll come over there.”

“No,” she managed. She took a deep breath. “Jack, we've nothing to say to each other.” Oh, she knew that wasn't true, but this was dangerous and foolish and would lead only to heartbreak. She would break this off before it could grow.

“You're wrong, Catharine. We've worlds of things to say to each other.”

Yes, her heart agreed, but her mind knew this was madness.

“Jack,” and she made her voice reasonable and patient, “I know I've given you a wrong impression. I can't blame you for misjudging me, but you must understand, I'm married. I'm not free; I can't see you again.”

“Why can't you see me?” he pressed.

When she didn't answer, he continued, “Don't you have friends, Catharine?”

“Of course, I have friends.”

“You were at the Savoy that first night with men other than your husband.”

The difference was that she wanted him, and she hadn't cared at all for those nice young RAF officers, but she couldn't tell him that, could she?

There was a chuckle at the other end, and Catharine's face flamed. She didn't need to tell him.

“Aren't you presuming about my intentions?” he asked delightedly.

She had presumed about both his intentions and her response—and he knew it very well indeed. She had revealed herself terribly. She laughed, too. The two of them stood by telephones and laughed, and Catharine felt young and happy for the first time in years.

“You're very obnoxious, you know,” she said finally.

“Obnoxious and persistent. Now, when am I going to see you again?”

She heard herself saying, “I don't know. My schedule is very busy this week.”

“What about right now?”

“No, I have a guest coming for late tea, and I'm going to a concert tonight.”

“Tomorrow then.”

“All right,” she said abruptly. “Tomorrow.”

They agreed to meet at the Park Square entrance to Regent's Park at three. Catharine replaced the receiver. She felt as if she'd cut a link to something strong and vital, but she could feel the softness in her face. Tomorrow. Thursday. She would see him then.

But slowly, happiness faded, replaced by a gnawing realism. If she met him, wouldn't it make it that much harder, ultimately, to say good-bye? What would happen to them? He had laughed and she had shared his laughter, but didn't she know in her heart exactly what he wanted—and she, too?

Jack wouldn't settle for friendship. She didn't need to be told that. If she met him, didn't she know in her heart, especially in her heart, where that road would lead?

Of course, she did.

Catharine walked slowly across the drawing room to stand by the back windows and look out at the neat garden, given over now that it was wartime to tomato plants, rows of lettuces and radishes, and a few stalks of corn.

If she met Jack tomorrow, there would be other tomorrows.

The front door chimes rang softly.

Catharine closed her eyes briefly and when they opened, her face was set in a pleasant smile. She turned to greet the young woman brought by Fontaine to the drawing room.

“Miss Redmond, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

Catharine walked across the room, her hand extended. “Priscilla, I'm so glad you could come.”

She'd met Priscilla in War Relief work. Priscilla was unmarried, a devoted daughter to an invalid and widowed mother. She took what free time she had and devoted it to raising funds for those widowed and orphaned by the war. Her rather dowdy gray skirt and high-necked silk blouse reflected both modest circumstances and gentility.

Priscilla smiled shyly. Juggling a notebook and a sheaf of papers, she reached out to take Catharine's hand. Her pale cheeks carried an unaccustomed flush of excitement.

“I'm going to be able to go to America for the Society, Catharine. Mother's going to stay with my oldest brother and his wife in Surrey. Oh, I am so looking forward to going.” She walked with Catharine toward the fire. “And I certainly appreciate your willingness to help me with introductions. This will be my first time in the New World.”

“I'm delighted to be of help,” Catharine said warmly. She led the way to two Empire chairs near the fireplace. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Very much.”

Catharine nodded to Fontaine. She and Priscilla chatted stiffly until the tea came. Catharine poured the tea into delicate Spode cups and offered sugar and cream.

“Where in the world did you come up with Darjeeling tea now?” Priscilla asked.

“Somehow Fontaine has a store of it. I hesitate to ask how it was acquired.”

They both laughed.

They bent over Priscilla's papers and she eagerly described the tour she was planning in America to raise money for the War Relief Fund.

“The first stop will be in New York City, of course. I'm very excited.”

Catharine nodded. “I'll send a letter to my brother, Ted. He's a lawyer there. I know he and Betty will help set up some meetings.”

Priscilla listed the other stops, ending in Washington, D.C. She looked up shyly at Catharine. “Some of the board members think I might raise as much as ten thousand pounds.”

“Oh, yes, I should think so,” Catharine agreed. “Perhaps even more. Americans are absolutely shocked at the bombings, and they are so eager to help the people who have been bombed out, especially the children. I understand people hang onto Ed Murrow's every word.”

“That's so generous,” Priscilla said softly. “Do you know, if we—if England—make it through the war, we are going to owe so much to Americans, and to people like you, who have given so much of their time and money, too.” She paused and looked at Catharine inquiringly. “It's so wonderful of you to care so much for children when you have no children of your own. You don't have children, do you?”

Catharine sat very still, her face absolutely empty. She could see Charles's face so clearly. He was standing in his crib, his small hands tight on the bar, his head thrown back, and he was laughing. He was the master of his kingdom. And then he would lift his arms to her. She would pick him up and feel his warmth and solidness and the soft, sweet tickle of his breath against her cheek. He had wispy blond hair and the darkest, deepest blue eyes, laughing eyes. Charles had laughed so often.

The pain, the familiar, aching, hideous pain, swept through her.

Catharine bent forward to pour Priscilla another cup of tea. Catharine's black hair fell forward, hiding her face. “No,” she said numbly, “I don't have any children.” Was it a lie? But she didn't have Charles. Not anymore. “Won't you have another cup of tea?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Priscilla said cheerfully. “But, really, I do think it's marvelous of Americans such as you who have no children to be so concerned about the survival of other people's children. I don't know what the War Relief Society would do . . . I say, watch that—”

Catharine stared at Priscilla's cup, full to the brim, overflowing. “Oh, yes. Sorry. I was thinking of something else. Tell me, when do you leave for the States?”

“Soon, I hope, but they don't tell you very far in advance. It depends upon when a convoy is scheduled and, of course, if I'm lucky enough to get a spot, but the government does realize how important the Society's work is.”

“I know your trip will be a success,” Catharine said. She didn't, of course, mention the danger of an Atlantic crossing and the marauding German wolf packs. Some things, so many things, one didn't mention now. “I have a friend in Philadelphia who . . .”

The sirens began to shrill, the familiar, sickening up-and-down wail.

“. . . will be sure to help you.” Catharine told Priscilla about Sophie Connors; Catharine was pleased that her voice didn't change or waver.

Priscilla answered just as evenly.

As they talked, Catharine looked curiously at her guest. What did Priscilla really think and feel behind those mild, myopic eyes? She was so perfectly of her class and time; earnest, sincere, well-bred. Where was the human being behind that even, controlled voice? Was she afraid?

The heavy, broken drone of the bombers was so loud now that Priscilla raised her voice to be heard; yet neither of them mentioned the attacking planes.

Catharine pictured a bomb striking, the swirl of dust and the rattle of falling masonry. Somewhere in London people were dying, people who had expected to live this day.

Catharine's throat felt dry as dust. Where was Jack now? Was he safe? Oh, God, she hated the terror that ached inside her, and she realized that for the first time since Charles's death, she'd permitted herself to care for someone, to be vulnerable to the pain, once again, of loss.

Catharine felt the familiar weakening wash of fear. As always she wondered if she were the only one so terribly, horribly afraid? Priscilla sat there so primly, balancing her full cup of tea on her lap, talking, on and on.

Then both Catharine and Priscilla looked up. The sound of the bombs was changing. Instead of the faraway crumps, they heard a high, shrill whistle. The whistle deepened.

Priscilla's voice trailed away.

Noise throbbed around them, a rumbling, violent roaring like a runaway express train.

Catharine stared at Priscilla and saw her own fear reflected in Priscilla's pale blue eyes.

“Do you hear?” Priscilla cried. “The bombs are coming nearer and nearer. We're in a bombing run. My brother's told me about them.”

Catharine knew she was right. She and Priscilla waited helplessly hundreds of feet below as the bombers hurtled along their predetermined path, raining down death.

Priscilla bolted to her feet; her teacup crashed to the carpet, and tea splattered out. Catharine watched the small patch of spreading wetness with absorbed eyes as the clamor of the exploding bombs obliterated all thought.

“We have to take cover,” Priscilla shouted.

Catharine never went to the cellar during raids. She hated the idea of the narrow stairs that twisted down into the dark, damp, musty cellar. It was a double cellar. The staff always took shelter in the back cellar during raids. Fontaine had arranged several chairs and a lamp in the front cellar for Catharine and Spencer, but she had never gone down. Now she was a hostess and Priscilla was her guest. Automatically, she stood. “We can go down to the cellar.” She didn't know if Priscilla could hear or understand her words, but she was following Catharine across the drawing room.

Priscilla pressed close behind her as Catharine opened the cellar door, flipped the light switch, and started down the steep steps, bending a little to avoid the low pitched ceiling. They were almost to the bottom of the stairs when an enormous explosion rocked the house. The walls shook; the cellar light went out.

Catharine reached behind her and clasped Priscilla's hand.

“There are some chairs just past the steps,” she shouted.

They felt their way. Priscilla sat in the first chair. Catharine let go of her hand and took another step or two.

“There's a flashlight. I'll see if I can find it,” but she was listening to the numbing roar of the bombers.

“They're just above us,” Priscilla cried. With a catch in her voice, she said tightly . . . “Oh, God, I'm going to die—and I've never loved a man.”

The words hung in the dusty, dark air. Catharine felt an instant of intimacy that would forever wipe away her picture of Priscilla as a prim, reserved stranger. The words echoed and reechoed in Catharine's mind. Catharine felt a surge of pity. She was reaching out to catch Priscilla's hand again when the cellar burst with noise. Pressure moved against Catharine. She felt herself lifted and flung. Dust, smoke, and an acrid smell of gunpowder choked her. The walls toppled in, and she heard a faint, choked-off scream from Priscilla.