Secrets of a Charmed Life (21 page)

Emmy reached up with one hand to touch Mac’s face and he leaned into her palm.

“If London weren’t a battleground, I’d be attempting to convince you to stay here with me,” he whispered, kissing Emmy’s wrist where it met his jaw.

He rose from his chair. “I’ve got to get back. We’ve a broadcast in less than an hour. But I’ll see you tomorrow, Isabel.”

Mac smiled at Emmy from the door, then turned and left.

As she listened to his footfalls on the corridor outside her room, she reasoned that it was okay for Mac to be attracted to her and for her to be attracted to him.

Because she wasn’t foolish, immature Emmy who had abandoned her sister.

She was Isabel.

And Isabel had done nothing wrong.

EMMY
didn’t know how many hoops Mac had to jump through to borrow someone’s car and drive her to Gloucestershire when she was released from the hospital two days later. When Emmy asked him how he managed it—and the cost of the petrol—he waved away her questions and told her he had a friend who owed him a favor.

The handful of women with whom Emmy had served at the WVS and who came to visit her at the hospital seemed genuinely sad to hear that Emmy was leaving London; at least as sad as they could be to say good-bye to someone who had volunteered with them for only two months. The war made every relationship seem temporary. Someone else would surely show up to take her place.

Mac offered to drive Emmy past the burned ruin of Primrose on their way out but she declined. She wanted
to remember it as it had been, when it was a lovely shop on a bustling street back when the war was just a rumor, and even after the first bombs fell, when it was a dark and shadowed haven for a young woman who had nowhere to go. For the last eight weeks, Emmy had fought to stay in London so that she could find Julia, but on the day she left, she could not get away soon enough. As they drove out of the tattered city, gray from November clouds and never-ending smoke and ash, Mac assured Emmy that he would stay on the lookout for her half sister. He would continue to ask about her among his colleagues covering the many sides of the war. He had the connections Emmy did not have and none of the transgressions that she did. He was the perfect person to look for Julia.

He also asked Emmy whether it would be all right if he stayed in contact with her after he returned to London. She could tell Mac was growing fond of her—fond of Isabel the Crusader. Emmy did not hope for a minute that his affections would amount to anything lasting; he was an American stationed abroad. But she liked how he made her feel. She was taken with the notion that Mac preferred her over other women he knew—older, more experienced women. Emmy would enjoy his attentions as long as she had them. She told him she would like that very much.

The hospital had deemed Emmy well enough to be discharged as they needed her bed for the wounded, but cautioned her that she still required bed rest for a week or two. She began to get sleepy as the car rumbled out of the city, and when she began to nod off around High Wycombe, Mac told her not to fight it. He had a map. He’d get her safely to Stow.

So she slept.

An hour or so later, Mac shook her gently awake. They had arrived at Stow and he needed to know how to get to Thistle House from the village. Emmy told him which direction to head for and soon they were traveling down Maugersbury Road, the same narrow lane on which she and Julia had started their escape in the dark two months before. It seemed like such a long time ago. And then in no time at all they were pulling up to Thistle House. Smoke swirled from the chimney in delicate tendrils and soft lights glimmered in the front room windows.

“You can just let me off,” Emmy said to Mac, unable to take her eyes from the cozy beauty of the house, its timeless perfection and stoic presence.

“What was that?”

Emmy turned to him. “You can just let me off.” She needed to speak to Charlotte alone.

Mac laughed lightly. “Not a chance.” He put the car in park and set the brake.

“Please, Mac. We, I mean, my aunt and I didn’t . . . We didn’t part on the best of terms. And I didn’t ring her up to tell her I was coming.”

He turned the car off. “Well, then I am definitely not just leaving you off. What if she says no, you can’t stay?”

Emmy looked back at the house. She saw a face at the window. Charlotte’s. “She won’t say no.”

Mac reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Give me a second with her, please? Just wait here a bit. Will you?”

He frowned. “Well, if you think that’s necessary.”

“I do,” Emmy said hurriedly, withdrawing her hand from under his. “Just give me a moment so that I can tell
her why I am here. And what—what has happened. She probably doesn’t know.”

The red door opened and Charlotte appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

Emmy opened the car door and the biting chill of the outside air prickled her. “I’ll be right back.”

She stepped out of the car, purposely keeping her back to the house as she maneuvered out. She closed the door, kept her head down, and walked up the stone pathway to the front door. Emmy was wearing Mum’s second-best dress, Eloise Crofton’s blue wool coat, and a knitted hat Mac had bought for her to keep her head warm. From a distance and with her gaze fixed on her heeled shoes, Emmy knew she did not look like the fifteen-and-a-half-year-old who had run away from this house just weeks before.

When Emmy was only a few feet from the door, she raised her head to look at Charlotte and their eyes met.

“Emmeline!”

Emmy’s name came out of Charlotte’s mouth like a breath, like a prayer. She bolted forward and drew Emmy into her arms. Weak from illness and so ready to be held by someone who cared for her, Emmy nearly collapsed into her tight embrace.

“Are you all right?” Charlotte said, and Emmy smelled pie crust and cinnamon and nutmeg in the woman’s gray braid.

Before Emmy could answer, she pulled away and looked past Emmy, to the waiting car. Emmy saw in Charlotte’s shimmering irises what her eyes sought.

Julia.

A blade seemed to slice into Emmy’s chest. “It’s just me, Charlotte,” she whispered.

With her arms still on Emmy’s shoulders, Charlotte
looked hard into her eyes. “Is Julia . . . Has she . . . ?” But Charlotte could not finish her question.

Emmy shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know where she is.” The familiar nausea at saying these words swept over Emmy and she faltered. Charlotte caught Emmy as spots began to dance in front of her.

“Emmeline, are you ill?”

She nodded.

Charlotte’s firm arms were around her again in an instant. “Who is that in the car?”

“A friend, the only friend I have, actually. He brought me here. His name is Mac. He’s an American.” Emmy leaned into her.

“Let’s get you inside.” Charlotte turned toward the car and motioned for Mac to follow them.

Emmy heard the car door open.

She let her head fall on Charlotte’s chest. “Charlotte?” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“He thinks my name is Isabel.”

*   *   *

MAC
stayed less than an hour; long enough to have tea, which Emmy knew Charlotte would offer him, and to make sure Emmy had a place to stay. She had only minutes to explain to Charlotte why he believed her name was Isabel Crofton. She was thankful that, upon her introducing Mac to Charlotte, he’d asked to use the privy—it had been a long drive—and Emmy used those precious few minutes to tell Charlotte why she had taken on the name of someone a few years older. So that she would be free to look for Julia. Julia was missing, and had been since the night before Mum died. Charlotte asked Emmy who Mac was and it seemed she
feared he had taken advantage of Emmy, or worse, that Emmy had become what Mum was: a woman who traded favors to get what she needed. As they heard the toilet being flushed, Emmy assured her that Mac was a good man who had been nothing but kind to her. She hadn’t slept with him and he hadn’t asked her to.

For the next forty minutes Charlotte attempted to make polite conversation with this stranger who had driven Emmy the eighty-plus miles to Thistle House. Her impatience to ask Emmy questions that needed to wait until Mac was gone made for a stilted performance on her part, however. And Rose, who seemed annoyed that Emmy had returned, sat in a chair by the window and frowned at Emmy the entire time they drank their tea. The tension in the room was palpable, but since Emmy had told Mac that she and her aunt had parted on less than amicable terms, the woman’s unease around the pale Isabel Crofton surely seemed perfectly apropos to Mac, as did Rose’s icy silence.

While they sipped from their cups, Charlotte learned how Mac had found Emmy delirious with fever on the floor of the bridal shop just a few hours before the entire block was set ablaze by incendiaries. And Emmy could see that Charlotte was flummoxed when Mac said he had been impressed with Isabel’s relentless volunteer efforts to find and care for the orphaned children of London, especially her missing half sister, Julia, whom he promised to keep an eye out for. The wordless question in Charlotte’s eyes was obvious.
So
Isabel is the one with a half sister named Julia?

When their cups were empty, Charlotte did not offer to make a second pot. Mac took the cue and rose from his chair, saying he had best be on the road.

Emmy had started to get up from the sofa, too, but Mac insisted she stay put, which seemed to surprise and impress Charlotte. When she went to get his hat and coat from the hall tree, Mac walked over to the sofa and leaned over Emmy.

“You sure you’re going to be all right with these people?” he whispered as his lips brushed her forehead.

“I will. Charlotte and I just need to talk about . . . some things,” Emmy whispered back.

He pressed a few pound notes into Emmy’s hand. “Train fare if you need to hightail it out of here,” he said.

Emmy started to laugh and the sound struck her as the most foreign thing in the world. She hadn’t laughed in what seemed like forever. She stopped abruptly.

“It’s okay to laugh again, Isabel,” Mac said, touching her chin with his fingers as he stood.

At that moment Charlotte returned with his coat and a slightly alarmed expression on her face. “Thank you so much for bringing ah, Isabel, to me. May I pay you for your petrol?” she said, handing him his things.

“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Havelock,” he said as he put on his coat. “You have a charming home here. And a lovely niece. I hope I may have the opportunity to visit again?”

“Oh. Um. Thank you. Thank you very much. Friends are always welcome at Thistle House,” Charlotte said, struggling just a bit to sound completely convincing.

Mac put on his hat and tipped it to Emmy in farewell.

“Thank you, Mac. Safe journey. And do be careful back in London.” It suddenly occurred to Emmy that Mac was returning to what was the closest thing to the front lines of battle that she had ever known. She instantly worried for him and for his safety.

Charlotte had turned away to walk toward the
entry. Mac winked at Emmy. “I’ll be seeing you,” he murmured. And then he was gone.

*   *   *

AFTER
Mac left, Emmy found she dreaded the thought of recounting every terrible thing she had done and every horror she had witnessed in the weeks she’d been away. As Charlotte made her way back to the sitting room after seeing Mac to the door, Emmy resolved to answer with as little detail as possible the questions that were sure to come.

“What happened to your sister, Emmeline?” Charlotte asked as she sat down next to Emmy. “The authorities told me Julia wasn’t sheltering with your mother in the basement of that hotel.”

Emmy shook her head. “She was alone in the flat where I left her. It was only supposed to be for a little while. I thought Mum would find her there. But Mum didn’t come home from work that afternoon. And I tried to get back to the flat when the bombing started, Charlotte. I tried. God knows I tried! I couldn’t! After Mum died, I looked for Julia everywhere I could. I walked past the bodies and the blood and the mess every day, looking for her.”

The ache of loss that had dulled while Emmy lay in the hospital now regained its vigor, and she clutched her chest.

“Why did you leave here like you did? Why?” Charlotte’s eyes were full of tears.

Emmy closed her eyes against the sting of her confession. “I had an appointment with a designer who wanted to see my bridal sketches. Julia was going to tell you that I was sneaking away if I didn’t take her with me. I swear to you I never intended to bring her. If I could go back in time and do it all differently, I would do it, Charlotte! I never intended to bring her with me.”

As fresh tears streaked down her face, Emmy waited expectantly for the chastisement that was due her. She wanted to be berated for having been so foolish, so selfish, so shortsighted. She wanted Charlotte to raise her hand and slap her senseless, even though Emmy knew Charlotte had probably never slapped anyone before. Emmy wanted her to at least walk away in utter disgust. But Charlotte did not do any of these things. Instead, she wrapped Emmy’s still-feverish body in hers and held her while they both wept. Emmy thought she had been done with tears. In London, they were useless. Here at Thistle House, it was as if the walls themselves wanted to weep with her. Emmy felt ugly and small in Charlotte’s arms, and cheated of the reprimand she was owed.

“Someone will find her, Emmeline. I am sure of it,” Charlotte said, and while Emmy desperately wanted that to be true, she bristled at the use of the name she no longer used.

“Please. Please don’t call me that,” Emmy said, unable to say the name herself.

Charlotte pulled back and blinked, her eyelashes silvery with tears. “Pardon?”

“Don’t call me that. Please? Can you please call me Isabel?”