Tracie Peterson (33 page)

England—December 1944

“And this must be Clara Campbell,” a rather refined Englishwoman said as she extended her hand in welcome. The woman was impeccably dressed in a navy wool crepe suit.

“Miss Campbell, this is Mrs. Sylvia Clarke. She has agreed to sponsor our girls,” Anna Nelson, supervisor of some twenty Red Cross volunteers announced. “As soon as we were able to secure the nearby hotel for your billet, Sylvia volunteered to open her home to our Red Cross ladies.”

Clara Campbell, a twenty-three-year-old American Red Cross worker, couldn’t get over how elegant Englishwomen sounded. Their accents suggested years of breeding and refinement, touching on a dignity that made Clara envious. Her own Washington state inflections seemed almost guttural in comparison.

“How do you do, ma’am,” Clara said, reaching out to shake the older woman’s hand.

“You are certainly a welcome addition to our little town,” Mrs. Clarke said, smiling. “The Red Cross has done much to boost morale and keep the fighting men from feeling completely deprived of female companionship.”

Clara smiled. “We do what we can.”

Clara’s superior, Anna Nelson, nodded. “Sometimes all it takes to make someone feel more at ease is a little conversation about home. We provide the soldiers with doughnuts and coffee and some music from the States, and then for good measure we throw in a couple of our young ladies. It helps to remind them of what they’re fighting for.”

The white-haired Mrs. Clarke nodded. “I’m afraid this war has been going on for so long now that many of our boys are struggling to remember that as well.” She smiled at Clara. “I’m very glad the
government agreed to billet you nearby. Lodging is at a premium, what with so many servicemen and military needs. If you don’t mind my asking, what brought you into the service of the Red Cross, Miss Campbell?”

Clara glanced momentarily at her superior. Mrs. Nelson could sometimes act rather strangely when it came to her girls volunteering information. She believed there to be a spy behind every tree and reminded her girls constantly, “Loose lips sink ships.” When the woman nodded at Clara, giving her approval, Clara relaxed a bit. Apparently Mrs. Clarke was no threat to the welfare of their men in uniform.

“I’ll leave you two to chat,” Anna said before slipping across the room to speak to one of Clara’s co-workers.

“I signed on for the Red Cross after my fiancé shipped out with the army. He was a doctor back home and we fell in love and planned to marry. But the war came along.” Clara tried not to dwell on what might have been. She had been blessed beyond measure since arriving in England. Her co-workers were remarkable women who had become instant friends. But best of all, Clara had been overjoyed to learn that her fiancé, Captain Michael Shepherd, had recently been moved to a base nearby.

“My fiancé is stationed not far from here. We are able to see each other on occasion, which has been a blessing.”

“I can well imagine,” Mrs. Clarke replied. “Love should never have to be interrupted by anything or anyone—certainly not by war. Although it has been often quoted that absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Clara decided immediately that she liked the older woman. Her eyes were a brilliant blue and they seemed to almost twinkle with delight as she related her best wishes to each of the girls. Sylvia Clarke maintained a gentleness of spirit, which seemed to dominate the woman’s entire demeanor, and it was this that endeared her to Clara.

“It’s very kind of you to offer such hospitality to us,” Clara said, glancing around the room at the holiday decorations. Mrs. Clarke was apparently quite wealthy, in spite of the war, and while Clara would never have accused the woman of flaunting her life-style, she appreciated the lovely atmosphere Sylvia Clarke had arranged for the war-weary visitors.

“My home seems very empty without family here to share it,” Sylvia said softly. “My son is in India, and rarely does that allow for visits home. I’m glad for the company. As I told your Miss Nelson, I want all of you to consider this your home away from home. Feel free to come over and play the piano, read books from the library, or simply come to tea.”

Sylvia’s attention was immediately drawn to the clock as the chimes sounded from the hall. “In fact,” she said, looking to her companions, “tea is served. Won’t you join me?”

Clara took a seat on a rose-colored sofa. She sat sandwiched between two of her good friends, Madeline Cooper and Darlene Keller. Both women were comrades in uniform and helped Clara, along with others, to keep the area staffed with Red Cross workers.

Clara marveled as tea was served, and the partylike atmosphere washed away all notions of a world at war. Except evidenced by the gray winter uniforms of the young women who’d been invited to tea, no other reminders of the war were allowed. Even the food—tiny cakes, delicate sandwiches, and some of the most delicious tea Clara had ever tasted—bore no reminder that England had long been rationed for even the most basic staple.

Sylvia Clarke gave no indication of where the food had come from, and no one present at the party would have dared to ask. Clara was simply grateful for the marvelous flavors and spicy aromas.

The gathering had been arranged to boost morale among the girls and to alleviate any feelings of desperation by these young women in uniform. For many days, and sometimes weeks on end, the girls were lucky to see or talk to another woman, save their own ranks. They were never so lucky as to sit in such glorious surroundings and enjoy tea and cake—at least, not without someone else sponsoring the event. Now, with Christmas coming rapidly upon them, Clara relished the charm of the manor house.

Trimmed in red and gold, Sylvia Clarke’s home reminded Clara of a more peaceful time. Holly and ivy trimmed the mantel, along with gold candlestick holders and long, tapered red candles. The massive stone fireplace conjured up visions of Yule logs and nightly gatherings to sing Christmas carols and drink eggnog. At least, that was how Clara imagined it.

Back home in Longview, Clara had been in charge of decorating
Snyder’s Department Store window. Her uncle Bob owned the store and let Clara come down to help her aunt Reba with the bookkeeping. Mainly it was to keep Clara from seeking employment elsewhere, because neither her mother nor father wanted their daughter working a job. Clara, however, was eager to make money. She wanted to have a nest egg set aside, especially after having lived through the hard, lean times of the depression. She’d seen her mother scrimp and do without on more occasions than Clara could count. It was this that drove her to accumulate as much money as possible. That way, when Mr. Right figured out that she was Miss Right, Clara would be ready.

One of the pleasures of the job, however, came in a rather unique side job that her uncle had given over to her when he’d found himself too busy to see to the task. Decorating Synder’s store window had been a seasonal event, and the folks of Longview had rather come to expect and anticipate it just as they did the holidays. With each holiday and change of season, Synder’s window was covered up, redesigned, and then unveiled. It was quite an event. When Uncle Bob couldn’t see to the details because Aunt Reba had taken ill and required surgery in Seattle, Clara had been called upon to use her artistic eye to turn the empty window into something magical. After the success of that first window, Bob had been content to turn the entire matter over to Clara. He’d never received half as many compliments on his own creations and figured maybe it needed a woman’s touch.

It was there, while Clara was putting in a display for June brides, that Michael had surprised her and asked her to marry him. Her Mr. Right had finally made up his mind about her. She had immediately said yes, amidst the lace and candles. And why not? She had known Michael since they were children. Even if he was seven years her senior, Clara had always thought she would marry the ambitious but good-humored Michael Shepherd. Michael, of course, hadn’t even noticed Clara until many years later at a church social. Clara remembered when the six-foot-two, very serious-looking Michael had returned from college and interning in a Seattle hospital to join his parents at church. At twenty-five, he had been even more handsome than Clara had remembered. She had stared at him hard and long as he passed through the supper line, and since she was all of eighteen, Clara figured she had more reason than ever to look.

Michael had caught her staring and had given her a grin that shot straight through her heart and out her back. She held his gaze, afraid that if she looked away, he might disappear or she might very well bolt and run. But neither thing happened. Instead, when Michael reached the place where she was helping to serve apple salad, he asked Clara to join him for the meal.

“He probably just wants to see if you can get him a date with your sister Natalie,” one of Clara’s friends had suggested. The thought that Michael might be interested in her older sister certainly put a damper on things, but Clara put the idea aside and could hardly contain herself as she finished serving apple salad to what seemed a never-ending line of congregational members. Finally the people were served and Clara was free to be seated.

Shaking so hard she could barely hold on to her plate, Clara had joined Michael at a far table. She could only pray that he wasn’t interested in Natalie, but rather had asked for her company in order to be with her—to know her better—maybe even fall in love with her as she had already done with him so very long ago.

“Clara, I don’t believe you’ve heard a word anyone has said,” Anna Nelson stated rather sharply.

“I am sorry. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” Clara offered apologetically.

“It’s really quite all right,” Sylvia said, waving off Mrs. Nelson’s concerns. “I’m amazed at the stamina displayed by you and your co-workers. I’ve been quite impressed with the long hours the girls keep, standing ready to serve no matter the hour. It’s a wonder they aren’t all fast asleep by the fire, even if it is only four o’clock.”

Clara smiled. “I considered it,” she admitted mischievously. Anna frowned, but Sylvia actually chuckled. Clara continued, “You have such a lovely house, Mrs. Clarke. The Christmas decorations cause me to long for home.”

“And where is home?” Sylvia questioned.

“Longview, Washington. It’s a quiet little community in the northwest corner of our country. We’re situated on the Columbia River just north of Oregon.”

“I see. So is England very different from your homeland?” Sylvia asked.

“Actually, no,” Clara replied. “There are many similarities. We
have a great deal of rain and many cloudy days, and we also have a lush green landscape. We have parks and greenbelts that remind me very much of some of the English countryside. However, we also have many trees—firs and such that are harvested for lumber. Logging is big business in our neck of the woods.”

Madeline and Darlene chimed in to tell of their homes in the States, while Clara noticed a photograph on the fireplace mantel. A regally gowned bride and groom peered out most seriously from a silver frame. The photograph only served to remind Clara of her latest preoccupation. Her eyes greedily took in the sight of the wedding gown before transferring her gaze to the tiny Mrs. Clarke. No, even if her gown still existed in good condition, the woman was much too small.

Clara nibbled at an egg salad sandwich, not even remembering to enjoy the rare luxury. For all that she had, the one thing Clara wanted most in the world was a wedding gown. A white gown with lace and bows and a veil and satin shoes. And she wanted those things most desperately. Michael had been privy to some inside scuttlebutt, and rumor had it that a surprise German offensive had the high command worried. The results might very well mean Michael would ship out for a more dangerous position in the war. Field doctors were dying alongside soldiers, and desperate times were calling for desperate measures.

Desperate. What a perfect word,
Clara thought. It summed up the feelings in her heart—feelings that extended down to her toes and up to the top of her head. She had felt that desperation the day Michael had shipped out and she felt it now.

What if they put him on the front lines? What if he were injured or killed? She loved him so much that it hurt to even be separated for a few days. What would it be like to have him separated from her for months or years or a lifetime?

She chided herself for such gloomy thoughts.
If I continue thinking this way, I will only cry
, she told herself. Quickly, she bit into a cream-filled sponge cake. The confectionery was surprisingly bland, but there was just a hint of almond that made the entire matter completely acceptable. Clara forced her mind on the food. Michael would be fine, she told herself. After all, hadn’t God brought them together here in England?

Michael had called it remarkable, but Clara had called it a miracle. She thought back to that day at the church when she’d feared Michael’s affections might be intended for Natalie. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Michael had wanted to talk to her for no other reason than to get to know her better. They had talked all through dinner and then walked back to Clara’s house to talk long into the evening. Finally Clara’s mother had come out to shoo Michael home, but not before he had asked Clara to have dinner with him the next day.

Their courtship had been tender and sweet. Michael was a thoughtful man who, in spite of his busy schedule at the local hospital, always managed to find time to send Clara little notes or gifts. By autumn, both Michael and Clara knew they were in love.

But Pearl Harbor had upset their plans. Michael went off to train with the army and do residency in an army hospital, and Clara had stayed home trying to decide what to do. She had, at one time, considered college, but the war was making everyone do some reconsidering. She both hated and loved Michael’s sense of duty. He felt that even though his experience was limited, he could offer his doctoring skills to the war. Clara couldn’t help but support his decision. To suggest he do otherwise would change everything Clara loved about Michael.