Regret Not a Moment (42 page)

“That’s just the point. I thought of names like Penelope or Rowena, but they seemed… not very lively, I suppose.”

Devon laughed. “I have to agree with you.”

“Then there are the shorter names, like Anne or Mary. They’re even more boring!”

“I can’t argue with that either, but how did you arrive at Francesca? It’s not the name of an old girlfriend, is it?” she asked with mock suspicion.

“The very idea!” Roland exclaimed with a hearty laugh. “Well, it’s ridiculous, I suppose, and not at all as tradition dictates, but I once read a book in which the heroine’s name was Francesca. It just stuck in my mind.”

“How long ago did you read this book?”

“Years ago. At school.”

“And you’ve been counting on naming your daughter that all these years?”

“Well, I once considered giving the name to a particularly lovely hound, but then I decided not to squander it.”

“Thank heavens, because I don’t think I would like to name my daughter after your particularly lovely hound.”

“Precisely!” Roland said, raising his arm clownishly so that his right index finger was extended in an exclamation point just above his shoulder.

Devon laughed at the pose, then said, “I suppose that since the name hasn’t been taken by one of your animals…”

Roland sprang to his feet. “Capital! Then you agree!”

“I think it’s a lovely name, and I agree,” Devon said, amused by her husband’s glee.

“Francesca, I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time,” Roland said, tenderly taking his daughter from Devon’s arms, “and I intend to make you as happy as you’ve made me.”

It was a moment that Devon would hold close to her heart until the end of her life.

TERRIBLE foreboding gripped Devon when, on March 31, 1944, she learned that the British Bomber Command had sent 795 aircraft to bomb Nuremberg, Germany—and lost 94 of them. She knew that Roland, acting as fighter escort to the bombardiers, must surely have participated in the mission.

For two days she was almost unable to eat. The circles that appeared under her eyes were so dark that they looked like bruises. Her clear skin erupted with tiny pimples, something that had never happened before.

Then, two days later, euphoria. She received a wire from Roland reassuring her that he was fine. She blessed him for this communication.

Somehow, after those two hellish days, she felt that the worst was over, and indeed, there was some truth to that. The Allies were gaining air superiority over Germany.

Finally, there came a day in April when Roland was convinced that he could bring his wife and daughter to England without fear that they would be killed by a German bomb. He was certain that Hitler’s air force would soon be defeated. In any event, the Germans were kept so busy defending their own cities that their attacks against London had abated.

Although Roland did not write these things to Devon for security reasons, he knew she would understand the significance of his news that she could finally go to Abersham. His London town house in Belgravia was out of the question until the war was over.

Devon was elated when she received Roland’s letter.

“Grace.” She had telephoned her sister immediately. “Francesca and I are going to England!”

The idea of seeing her husband again, of being in his home surrounded by his personal belongings, was almost too exciting for her to bear. It would make her feel closer to him even when he was away, she realized, if she could live in the place in which he grew up.

Roland had arranged for her to fly on a military aircraft to a small airfield near his home, thus avoiding London entirely. It was to be a circuitous and time-consuming trip with several plane changes, but it was the only way to avoid areas that Roland feared might not be entirely safe from the Germans. Not only would the trip be time-consuming, but also Devon had to wait until there were spaces available on an airplane for her, Alice, and Francesca. Precedence was given first to active military, then to soldiers returning home.

And so she waited and hoped each day for a phone call or visit from the RAF telling her it was time to go. Her valises were packed. All she had to do was be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Each morning she dressed herself and Francesca for travel. Each morning Alice packed a soft leather bag with diapers and other necessities for the voyage. And at the end of each day, Devon was disappointed to find that there had been no room for them.

Once, only once, she had telephoned British headquarters to inquire about the possibility of a space for her little group. She had been rebuffed with exquisite politeness.

“I know the wait is tedious, Lady Abersham, and we are sorry for the delay, but so many of our personnel are being transferred to the European theater just now. We will find a place for you soon, I hope.”

“Of course,” said Devon, ashamed that she should be so impatient about a personal matter when the military desperately needed the space. “I won’t trouble you again.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am. Please feel free to check with us again, but rest assured that we have not forgotten you.”

Devon awakened to the cry of the street vendor in front of her villa. He came each morning bearing fresh fruits and vegetables. Exotic, luscious ripe fruits that tasted sweeter than the richest dessert. Devon made it a point to savor a mango each morning with her breakfast, for she knew they would be impossible to obtain in England.

There were many things about Cairo she would miss, she thought as she stretched in the fine Egyptian cotton sheets. She enjoyed her premature nostalgia for Cairo because it meant she would soon be reunited with Roland. She found herself reveling in Cairo’s attractions more than ever because each occasion might be her last in the bustling city. And, paradoxically, that filled her with happy anticipation of the new chapter in her life.

As had become the norm in the past three weeks, she arose to find a summer-weight wool traveling dress laid out for her to wear. Spring had officially come to England the month before, but Devon knew it was likely to be chilly and damp there.

She rang for her breakfast, then sat on the flowered sofa of the villa she and Roland had rented to await her sister’s daily phone call. Grace and Devon, as close as ever, spoke on the telephone each morning at approximately nine o’clock, whether or not they intended to see each other later in the day.

Alice entered the room with a tray of steaming coffee, croissants, blackberry preserves, and, of course, a mango.

“Do you think today will be the day?” Devon asked, her face radiant at the thought.

“If it isn’t soon, the war will be over before we even get there,” Alice joked.

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful!” Devon sighed.

Alice smiled and proceeded into the bathroom to draw Devon’s bath. Devon, delighting in the sunny, lazy morning, dreamily ate her breakfast as she read the two-week-old
Washington Post
sent over by Grace.

When she was finished, she bathed and dressed. She had to unpack her makeup case in order to apply her cosmetics, then repack it in case she should be called to the airfield.

She was on her way to check on Francesca when she was intercepted in the cool marble hallway by the butler, a distinguished Arab who inexplicably spoke nearly perfect English although he had never gone to school.

“Milady, there is a British officer here to see you.”

Devon’s face came alive with excitement. “It’s time!” she exclaimed aloud. “Where is he now?”

“In the foyer, milady.”

“Show him into the conservatory, please,” Devon said breathlessly. “Or, never mind, I’ll do it myself,” she said, sweeping past the servant in her impatience.

As she approached the visitor from the stairway above, she was surprised to see that he wore the insignia of a colonel. She had expected an officer of lesser rank to escort her. As the man turned, she recognized a friend of Roland’s.

The smile she offered him was like a resplendent bouquet of roses. “I’m completely ready, Harry!” she cried gaily as she descended the stairs. “I only need to tell Alice to fetch Francesca and we’re on our way.”

The gray-haired colonel stared at her in seeming astonishment, but said nothing. Then, recovering himself, he stepped toward Devon, hand outstretched. “How good to see you again, Devon,” he said in a serious tone. Harry was always serious, Devon thought with an inward laugh. A sweet, kind, and highly intelligent man, but so serious, she reflected as she chattered away about inconsequential things.

“Wonderful to see you! Let me show you into the conservatory. I’ll call for some tea and order our things brought down.”

Devon sped down the hallway of the villa, the colonel in her wake, until they came to a sunny room filled with tropical plants. One wall was entirely open to a courtyard, in the tradition of the Middle East.

“Well, what’s our schedule.7 When do we leave?” Devon asked, once she was seated.

The colonel took a deep breath. He did not return Devon’s smile. Gravely, he began. “Devon… I… I’m afraid I have something rather difficult to tell you…” he said, then stopped himself. There was a moment of heavy silence. A moment during which comprehension suddenly dawned on Devon. Harry watched her face shift from blissful happiness to horrified understanding, then a mask went down—an unbreachable mask that bore no resemblance to the delightful woman he knew. The roses in her cheeks turned to chalk. Her sparkling eyes turned dull with shock.

Harry watched helplessly as Devon sagged in her seat. She looked as though she were in physical pain. He struggled fruitlessly for words. He had to explain what had happened. How Roland’s plane had been downed by enemy fire over Germany. But Devon’s expression stopped him cold. She looked on the verge of breaking. And the look on her face was so rife with agony that he dared not utter a word.

“Don’t say anything!” she commanded harshly, staring down at her hands. She felt as though her heart was being torn from her breast. At all costs, she had to prevent him from saying the words. If he didn’t say the words then it wouldn’t be real. Not yet. Not until she could bear it. She knew she would scream if he voiced any platitudes; break down and never stop crying if he offered any sympathy. She would shatter, totally shatter. All there was to say she could read in his eyes. In his stricken expression. Roland wasn’t a prisoner, he wasn’t injured, he wasn’t missing in action. He was dead. There was no doubt, no missing body, no hope at all. He was simply dead. It was that final.

I just don’t have the capacity for any more pain, she thought. I can’t stand one more thing. Not this. Oh, God! Not this!

Devon started, very methodically, to tear the nail of her index finger. She worked at it a few seconds with a concentration that the colonel found difficult to watch. Finally, it hung on by just a sliver. Devon tore at the sliver until the little shred of nail was severed. But she had severed it too low, and she began to bleed on her white wool traveling dress.

“Oh, look what I’ve done,” she said, watching the blood seep into the fine cloth, “look what I’ve done…”

Harry moved to an ottoman at her feet and took her feverishly working hands in his. “Devon, I…”

“Don’t.” Her voice was rough, completely unlike the graceful contralto he knew. “Don’t tell me he died bravely. Don’t tell me he’s a hero. I know all that already.”

Harry obeyed her, only nodding to acknowledge the truth of her words. It was, of course, just as she had guessed.

It seemed as though hours elapsed before either one of them spoke, though it was only a few moments. Finally, Harry had to continue. “We are fortunate in that we were able to recover the… that he’ll have a decent burial. But you need to go to Abersham. You need to be there now.”

Devon looked up at the colonel. “Now?” she cried, deeply bitter at the irony. “After all the waiting, I’ll only be able to see my husband now?”

Harry bowed his head. He focused on the spot that the blood from Devon’s wound had left on her skirt. “I’m sorry… so sorry,” he said, shaking his head. He could not bear to lift his head and meet her eyes, so he continued to stare at the spot of blood. And when tears joined the blood, still he continued to stare.

“You… you must go,” he finally murmured, “this afternoon.”

Devon released her hands from his and buried her face in them. Her wound was drying, but a bit of blood smeared onto her face. She looked like a wounded creature, Harry thought. And indeed she was.

“Finally,” she said bitterly, “the day has come for me to go to England.”

“Devon,” Harry asked, looking up at her in bewilderment, “don’t you want to know more? About how it—”

“Later, Harry,” she said wearily, “when I have the strength. I can’t bear it right now.”

Harry stood up and awkwardly fumbled with his cap. “Your strength will come back, Devon,” he replied. He knew this was so. His military service had schooled him to distinguish the strong from the weak.

His instinct was confirmed by Devon’s next gesture. She rose on visibly unsteady legs and forlornly started to leave the room; then, suddenly remembering him and the fact that he was a visitor in her home, she straightened, turned back to him, and said, “Thank you for bringing me this news yourself.”

The colonel looked at her, his face mirroring the pain on Devon’s. “I’ll be back for you at three o’clock, then,” he said gently.

“I’ll be ready,” Devon said. She looked like a soldier facing battle; afraid, but even more afraid to admit it.

DEVON arrived in Abersham with just enough time to prepare for the funeral the following day. She knew she had no claim to the estate, so instead she found a nearby inn where she could lodge in case she was not invited to Abersham by Roland’s family. The decision was a wise one, for when she telephoned the estate, she was told by a servant that Roland’s sister was unable to come to the telephone. Devon politely left a message, but was relieved when the call was not returned. She could not bear to face introductions with Roland’s family on the eve of his burial.

Insulated by grief, she nonetheless noticed the coolness of Roland’s friends and family toward her at the funeral. In fact, aside from a cursory handshake, she was not acknowledged at all by Roland’s sister. His brother-in-law—hers too, she supposed—issued a halfhearted invitation for Devon to join them at Abersham following the funeral, but Devon sensed she was unwelcome at the gathering, and lacking the strength to grapple with a houseful of cold strangers, she instead went directly from the graveside to the train station. From there, she traveled to London, where Roland’s heirs were scheduled to meet the following afternoon for the reading of his will.