by Alex Flinn
It was Phillip. He was flailing about like a frightened child.
“What’s wrong, my darling? Is there a bombing?” I listened for a second, for the telltale sound of air raid sirens in the distance, but all was silent except my husband, whose breath came in great gulps.
“No! Please! I have to save them!”
He must have been having a nightmare. I put my hands on his shoulders and shook him awake. “Phillip! Phillip, wake up!”
“What?”
“It’s only a dream. My darling, it’s only a dream.” The words my darling sprang so naturally to my lips. I realized I had been thinking of him this way since the party when we met. That he was so frightened only made me think it more.
“Oh no,” he said when he finally realized what I was saying. “I’m so sorry. Some nights . . . it seems so real, like I’m there again. The water was on fire, the bombs dropping. We were covered in oil that might go up in flames, and I heard the shrieks around me, men dying, too many of them, and so many more below who never had a chance.”
I held him close. He was sweating. “There, there,” I said.
“They all wanted help. I tried to help them, but I couldn’t. There were so many, and . . . so many. I couldn’t help them all. I couldn’t do anything.”
“Of course you couldn’t. Of course you couldn’t.”
“I wanted to.” He was sobbing now.
“It’s all right.” I stroked his hair.
“You don’t understand,” he said.
“I don’t. I know, I don’t.” I held him and rocked him from side to side. “But I know you’re a good man. You did all you could.”
“Did I?” he asked.
“I know you did.”
I held him and kissed him until he fell asleep in my arms. When I woke in the morning, he wasn’t there.
“Phillip?” I called. There was no answer. I looked around for him. When I walked over to the dresser, I saw he had left me a note. It said, “My darling, I had to go to work. Please make yourself comfortable in our home. The servants will help you find anything you need. I am especially proud of the music room and library. Love, Phillip.”
Servants?
At that moment, there was a knock on the door.
“Madam?” a voice said.
Madam? I was madam. Yesterday, I had been miss, if anything, but of course, I was generally just Grace.
“Come in,” I called.
The door opened, and a woman about my mother’s age was standing there. She wore a black uniform, and she curtsied. “Madam, I am Mary. Would you like me to bring up a tray, or do you wish to come to the dining room for breakfast?”
I realized I wanted to look around at what my husband had called “our home.”
“Oh, I’ll come down.”
But then, having said that, I didn’t know how to behave. We had never had servants before. Could I come to breakfast in my bathrobe, as I might have at my parents’ house? Or did I need to get dressed? And what should I wear?
“Shall I lay out something for you to wear, madam?” Mary was asking. “Or do you wish to have breakfast in your robe?”
I knew I was making a decision for the rest of my life. And yet I wanted a few moments alone, so I said, “Oh, I can get dressed, thank you. If you can bring me my suitcase.”
Where was Phillip? Why had he gone so early?
I dressed in a sensible skirt and jumper and left the bedroom. The sight that greeted me was shocking to my eyes.
I stood at the end of a hallway with gleaming marble floors. It led to an elegant living room with a grand piano. A music room! Oh, Esther would love that! I looked inside and saw a phonograph with stacks of records. The Andrews Sisters were on top. I flipped through them. Next was “You and I” and “He Wears a Pair of Silver Wings.” All the songs from the night we’d met. To the side, I saw another room with a tall door of shining dark wood. I opened it.
It was the library. On shelves of walnut that reached to the ceiling, there were hundreds, maybe thousands of books, almost like the lending library in town, except that here, every book I saw was something of interest to me.
On a table near the door was, Mam’zelle Guillotine, by Baroness Orczy, the latest of the Scarlet Pimpernel series. I picked it up, curled up on the sofa, and immediately became engrossed in the tale of Gabrielle, a girl near my own age whose father was to be hanged for a crime he didn’t commit. Every little minute or so, I looked around the room. So many books! I could read all of them. I couldn’t wait for Phillip to come home to discuss them. And maybe he would play the piano, and I would sing.
Phillip! I had found him without even trying. I had fallen asleep not in some stranger’s arms, but in Phillip’s. A day I’d thought would be a nightmare had become a dream.
Nightmare. Poor, dear man, to be so tormented. It must be because of what he’d suffered in the war. But now I would be there to comfort him, as his wife. I’d gone from being a girl to being a wife in minutes.
I didn’t even know what wives did, what they were expected to do. I knew what my mother did; she took care of the children. Someday, I would have children, little boys and girls with piercing blue eyes like their father’s. But, for now, I had little to do but read and listen to so many records!
I went back to Gabrielle’s story until Mary came to the library door to tell me that breakfast was ready.
I considered bringing the book with me, but I didn’t know if that would be rude, so I left it there and walked across the elegant room to the breakfast nook, where Mary was serving eggs and toast on fine china with sprays of roses on it.
“Thank you,” I said. “This is lovely.” I could not believe I had servants! I was a mistress! At seventeen! Should I offer to clear the table?
“Did you sleep well, madam?”
“Oh yes,” I said, pushing back thoughts of being awakened. “You can call me Grace, though.”
“Perhaps I can call you Mrs. Harding.”
“Okay.” I wanted to ask her about Phillip, my husband, but I couldn’t think of a way to bring up the subject without it seeming awkward. Did she know we barely knew each other?
“Mr. Harding—your husband, that is—is a lovely man,” she said, offering me tea.
“Oh, thank you. Yes, he is. Isn’t he?”
“He works so hard, though. I barely see him anymore. He’s only home at night.”
“Oh.” I wondered if she’d seen his face. Silly! Of course she had. “Have you known him long?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. His whole life. I was employed by his father when he was growing up. He was such a sweet boy, always offering to help me around the house or bringing home an injured baby bird. And he’s a kind man. He even gave my dear son Albert money to continue his schooling.”
“That’s lovely.” I wanted to ask her what he looked like, but that would seem odd. I would see him soon enough, in any case. Still, I looked around to see if there were any photographs. There were, but all of other people, including a woman who must have been his mother. There was one of a family. I walked over to it. I recognized the man in it. Mr. Harding, Phillip’s father.
“Ah, you want to see what Phillip was like as a lad,” Mary said.
“Yes. Is that him?” He was a handsome boy who resembled his father.
“Yes, and his sister.” She picked up the plates and went to the kitchen.
I wanted to call her back, ask more questions. But, of course, it would be awkward.
After breakfast, I met the other servants, a manservant named Bryson and the cook, an Irish lady named Maeve. Then I fairly ran around the house, examining artwork on the walls, fine moldings on high ceilings! I had gone from nothing to such affluence! In the study, I threw myself onto a thick rug and just rolled on it! Then I ran to the music room and played all the records. I tried to play the piano. I remembered Minuet in G, and it sounded so elegant on the beautiful grand. Finally, I went back to the library and read my book, stopping only when Mary brought i
n tea. I wanted to finish reading so I could tell Phillip about it. At five, I went to my bedroom and changed into my second-best dress, after the one I’d worn for the wedding. I wanted to look beautiful for my husband. I would finally see his face!
But, alas, the sun set and he was not home. It was winter, after all, and the sun set so early. When he finally came home, I fairly flew to the door, wanting to see him. But the light was dim, and he was merely a tall, elegant shadow, a shadow that took me in his arms and kissed me.
“I’m sorry I’m so late, my darling.”
“Can we not turn on the lights?” I asked. “There are curtains over the windows.”
“I know.” His voice sounded nervous in the darkness. “I . . . I can’t. It’s part of the curse that I cannot show myself to you.”
“Oh.” He had not told me.
“I was afraid to tell you. And now I know you must be frightened, believing me to be hideous.”
“Oh. No.” Was he?
And suddenly I remembered Phillip, Phillip in the darkness, in my arms, Phillip the hero. I didn’t care. I didn’t care what he looked like. “It’s all right,” I said. “Come. Maeve made dinner. It’s on the table.”
Over dinner, in the pitch-darkness, I told him, “I finished Mam’zelle Guillotine. Thank you for leaving it out for me.”
I could almost see the outline of his smile, I thought. “You liked it then?”
“Yes. I loved it.”
He laughed. “Tell me about it. What did you think of Gabrielle?”
“Oh, she was fascinating. To go from being an innocent young girl to a master executioner! I loved it!” It was so wonderful to have someone to talk to. At home, Mum was sullen and silent. My sisters spoke mostly to one another, and Father only wanted to talk about the war, the war all the time. I knew it was important, but sometimes, I wanted to forget.
After dinner, we went to the music room, and in the darkness, Phillip played the piano, and I sang. I asked him if he knew “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square,” and he happily obliged. I sang along.
“I wish I could hear that nightingale,” I said when it was over.
“I heard it,” he said. “You sing like one.” He pulled me toward him in the darkness and kissed me. I kissed him back.
“I love . . . your piano playing,” I said.
“After the curse is over, I’ll teach you to play. In the light.”
I nodded eagerly, and I kissed him again. With my hand, I felt a roughness on his cheek. What was it? Phillip flinched, but he did not try to move my hand away. I touched the rest of his face, and it was smooth.
Finally, we retired to the bedroom.
Phillip slept through the night.
4
It went like that for the first week. My life by day was beautiful and tranquil, and at night, it was romantic and exciting. Phillip brought me flowers or presents, including records of every song I wanted. Most nights, Phillip slept peacefully in my arms, but sometimes, he was awakened by nightmares and told tales of men screaming, of holding on to a piece of the bombed-out ship for dear life. “A man was pleading with me. I helped him onto a beam from the ship, but I couldn’t hold him. My arms . . . they felt like they were being ripped off. I saw him sink below the water! I could do nothing. Nothing.”
“How awful,” I said, remembering how helpful Mary had said Phillip was.
“It was. And all night, as we waited to be rescued, people were singing ‘There Will Always Be an England’ and ‘Beer Barrel Polka’ over and over, as more people gave up and drowned. I wish I never had to hear those two songs again.”
“Why does no one know about this, the tragedy?” I asked him.
“They told us not to tell anyone. Not the press, no one. They threatened us with court martial if we told. If people knew of such a disaster, it would make them lose hope.”
I thought about those long nights sitting in our homes, the continued threat of bombings, rationing, and gloom. It was worth it because we were going to win. We were going to defeat the evil Axis powers. To know that thousands had been killed in one night would make people lose hope.
But what if hope was lost? What if England were to lose?
“But this way,” I said, “it seems like it never happened, like it was all a nightmare.”
“A nightmare that just keeps happening,” he said, and I could hear his voice shaking.
“Oh, my poor love,” I said, taking him in my arms.
When I touched his face, I felt the roughness of the skin on one cheek. I had felt it before. I knew he had injuries. I didn’t care. I was falling more and more in love with him.
After a week of this, I asked him, “Would it be all right if I visited my mother and my sisters? I’m so lonely during the day.”
“Of course, my love. Or bring them over here so they can see where we live.”
I loved that idea, showing off my beautiful flat to Esther and Ethel, who had always been so great compared to me, because there were two of them, and they were older. They’d be so impressed now! Perhaps they would even want to stay over. So on Tuesday, I had them over for tea. Although we were rationing, we brought out the jam, and Mary even made a cake for my family. We set out the good china, and the silver was polished until it sparkled. Phillip brought roses, and the house smelled like Regent’s Park. I wondered what had happened to his plan of us visiting there.
When my family came in, they gasped. All of them, collectively.
“You look . . . lovely.” I saw Ethel’s eyes fix upon my pearls, an elegant double strand that had been Phillip’s mother’s. She seized them. “Are those real?”
“I think so,” I said. They were.
“You can tell by running your teeth over them,” Ethel said, tugging at them.
“Maybe later,” I said.
“And your dress.” Esther touched the green wool of the dress I had bought the day before, and I saw her noticing the emerald earrings Phillip left on the nightstand that very morning. “So lovely. I never have nice things anymore.”
“At least we won’t have to sit in the dark anymore,” Ethel said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. I led them to the dining room, where again I saw their eyes fixing upon the elegant wallpaper, the expensive sconces. Even Mum ran her hands across the back of a chair.
“We’re moving to the country to stay with Aunt Lydia,” Mum said. “You could come with us.”
“Oh no,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to leave, to leave Phillip.”
“But you’ve only known him a week,” Esther said. “You had to marry him, not stay with him.”
“I do have to stay, because . . .” I thought of the nights spent in Phillip’s arms. “I love him. He’s so kind, and so intelligent. We stay up late and listen to music, and talk of . . . our dreams. Phillip plays the piano.”
“He plays the piano?” Esther asked.
“Beautifully. He says he’ll teach me too. I’ve never been so happy.”
Ethel looked down. “And what does he look like?” she asked. “He must be very handsome.”
“I suppose he is,” I said.
“What do you mean, you suppose?” Esther asked.
“Well, I don’t exactly . . . I haven’t seen him.” I looked around, wishing Mary would come in with the tea. “Let me go see what’s taking the tea.” I stood and started out of the room.
Ethel grabbed my arm. “What do you mean, you haven’t seen him?”
“It’s only been a week since we’ve been married. He’s only been here at night.”
“So late at night?” Esther asked.
“He works so hard. He has an important job, and he’s away from dawn to dusk. But we have the most wonderful talks and—”
“He’s a monster!” Ethel said. “That’s the only possible explanation.”
Esther was nodding, but she said, “I don’t know about a monster, Ethel. He could just—”
“A monster!” Ethel repeated. “Why else would h
e need to force someone to marry him, then hide himself?”
“He didn’t force me,” I protested. “I met him at the party. I fell in love with him then. I would have married him anyway.”
“Nonsense,” Ethel said. “He was wearing a mask then too. If anything, that confirms it.”
“It was a fancy-dress party,” I said, though I knew they were right. I had thought of it myself.
“Here we go, madam!” Mary was coming in with the tea things.
“Oh, this all looks lovely, Mary,” I said, willing my sisters to be still, to change the subject. “Thank you so much for preparing this special, special treat!”
“Of course. I would do anything for Phillip’s wife.” She nodded rather curtly at Ethel and Esther, so I knew she’d heard. “And her family.”
I wanted to beg Mary to tell them Phillip was handsome, to tell me that. But it would have looked like a betrayal of Phillip. I couldn’t ask.
“Biscuit, Mum?” I passed them to her as Mary poured the tea.
For five blessed minutes, they were silent.
As soon as Mary left, they were back to the same subject.
“You have to leave him,” Ethel said.
“She can’t leave him,” Mum said.
“Well, find out what he looks like, then? Use a candle. Assure that he isn’t a . . . freak.”
“He isn’t a freak,” I said. “He’s wonderful. He’s a war hero.”
“Yes,” Ethel said. “He was injured in the war. How do you know he even has all his parts—his eyes, his nose, his—?”
“I’ve been close enough to know he has a nose. Even in the dark. I’ve . . . touched him.”
“Have you kissed him?” Esther asked. “Or . . . more?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
“You know . . . nothing,” Ethel said. “If there can be magic, there can be monsters. Perhaps he’s been able to deceive you . . . in the dark. But what of in the light?”
I looked at Esther, always the nicer of my sisters. She was nodding too. “I fear you must find out,” she said.
We ate our tea and toast in silence. All the joy of seeing them was gone. I didn’t even show them the music room before they left, though I had so wanted Esther to see the beautiful piano.
