And wouldn’t Kit be amazed, wouldn’t he be delighted at what they had made together? A small, beautiful girl-child to raise and love. Oh, how Daisy had loved to picture the way Kit’s face would look, his expression of wonder when she introduced him to his daughter! That vision sustained her through all the long months of war and exile.
Her mind was wandering again, Daisy realized. She couldn’t quite seem to keep herself in the present. She kept slipping back, and back. That kind couple who were here a moment ago, where had they gone? What was her name again?
This was important, Daisy knew. So terribly important. Why couldn’t she remember?
Babs. That was it. Babs Langford. Of course.
Kit’s wife.
Daisy closed her eyes. There was a time when she had hated this woman, who had stolen Kit’s heart from her. A time, before that, when she had sat at the Little Bar on the rue Cambon side, day after day that autumn of 1945, while Frank refilled her glass. Waiting and waiting. Hope dribbling away as the nights wore on, and still her heart would leap every time a man walked in. That was the worst of it! The stupid hope, the surge of wild, terrible joy that fizzled into despair, a despair that burrowed deeper and hurt more each time the man was not Kit. The way she hadn’t lost faith entirely, how some small part of her kept on believing against all evidence that Kit had actually meant what he said on that last night in the bookshop, their last night in Paris. That she was the only woman in the world for him. That he would love her always.
But always had turned out to be not such a long time, after all. Oh well. Bit by bit, from newspapers and from her few remaining Resistance friends, Daisy had discreetly put together the puzzle. Daisy’s swan had found another swan to mate with. And this particular swan, this Babs of his, she had nursed him back to health! He had known her since childhood! It was right and fitting that he should have married her, after all. That Daisy’s memory should be relegated to the status of a fond souvenir of wartime Paris. A brief, hot flame that belonged to a certain time and place. Probably they would not have suited, after all. Probably this relentless passion would have died into indifference amid the drudgery of ordinary life, in which toast was burned and tires went flat, in which milk was carelessly left to sour on the kitchen table and children brought home some terrible germ from school that left everyone vomiting for a week.
So Daisy had told herself as she traveled through the rubbled landscape of Europe into Poland and stood before the ruins of the castle where Max von Sternburg—her father, the grandfather of her children, who had disappeared into the Paris night to save them all, who had made his life a sacrifice for theirs—had grown up, in the years before all this war, before the Treaty of Versailles had sliced away this territory from Germany. So she had told herself in the cabin of the ocean liner as she steamed to Canada with Grandmère and the children, to start a new life away from all this ruin and heartbreak and sacrifice. And so she had told herself since, as the children grew up, as Daisy found a job as a translator and a teacher of English to the schoolchildren of Quebec, as eventually she took a discreet lover or two.
And time went on and on, the years passed, and the anguish began to fade to a dull sting, so that one day Daisy stared at the sky that sheltered them both, sheltered them all, and realized she only cared that Kit was happy, after all. Dear God in Heaven, if you’re still listening to my prayers, let this woman take good care of him. Let Babs Langford give him all the love he so desperately craved, her darling Kit who had never quite been the apple of his parents’ eyes, who had made Daisy his world as she had made him hers. Babs Langford. She’d seemed like a lovely girl, a shy, pretty woman, an English rose. No doubt she had taken wonderful care of Kit. They had probably been so happy together.
Except . . . that handsome fellow with her, who was not Kit . . .
Except . . . a pair of swans . . . Kit’s ring . . .
Maman!
Daisy opened her eyes. Madeleine was squeezing her hand, and Daisy was just too tired to say Ouch. It didn’t hurt, anyway, not really. Nothing hurt anymore.
The swans. The ring.
Kit loved her.
Babs had told her this, hadn’t she? Babs had showed her the ring and said that Kit had loved her after all. He hadn’t come to the Ritz after the war because he hadn’t known Daisy was there.
Now he was dead.
Maman! Please!
Daisy looked at Madeleine and smiled. Poor Madeleine, who clung to her hand, who didn’t want Daisy to go, who grieved so deeply and felt the tragedies of life like scores on her soul. Daisy wanted to tell her that it was all right, that life took these turns, that darkness came and went but that everything worked out in the end. She wanted to tell Madeleine that she was happy to go. She was ready. Just one thing. One more thing she needed. One more thing she was waiting for.
Maman!
This time, the voice was not Madeleine’s. This voice came from the other side of the bed, beyond Olivier, from the doorway. A head of fluffy golden-brown hair, a pair of straight, dark eyebrows. Blue eyes like the English sky after the rain.
Daisy whispered, Christine!
“Oh, Maman! I’m so sorry. The flight was cancelled, and then I got lost in the hospital, went down the wrong corridor . . .”
The words flowed on. Her chatty baby, her bright Christine, words and images bursting from her seams. She was just finishing up her final year at McGill, studying art and English; she couldn’t decide which she liked more. Her father’s daughter. There was so much of Kit inside her. Sometimes, to Daisy, it had seemed like Kit was there in the room whenever Christine was near.
Daisy’s lips moved. The words didn’t seem to come out anymore, but she said them anyway.
I love you.
“I love you, too, Maman.” Christine smoothed her hair on the pillow. A tear dripped from her eye onto Daisy’s ear. “I love you so much.”
A scent drifted past, the smell of pipe tobacco.
Daisy closed her eyes and slept.
Chapter Thirty-One
Babs
Langford Hall
Devonshire, England
July 1964
I opened my eyes as the train pulled into the station. I hadn’t slept at all on the two long train rides from Paris to Ashprington, hearing Precious’s voice every time I closed my eyes. I began imagining that if I looked in the seat next to mine, I’d find her there, or Drew, waiting for me to do something. I just wasn’t sure what that might be.
I stepped off the train with my new valise—Precious had insisted I take one of hers so that my new clothes wouldn’t revolt—and looked down the platform for Diana, who’d promised to fetch me and bring me back to Langford Hall. I spotted her petite elegant form walking quickly down the platform toward me—my smile and greeting dying on my lips as she walked right past me.
“Diana?”
She spun around looking everywhere but at me.
“Diana!” I said again and this time her eyes settled on me, briefly widening in recognition.
“Babs! Good heavens—is it really you?”
After getting over the initial shock of my own sister not recognizing me, I smiled. “Yes, Diana, it really is. Still the same Babs beneath all the new clothes, though, I can assure you.”
She raised an eyebrow at that, as if not quite believing me. It reminded me of something Precious had said, about how when I wore the right clothes I held my chin differently, as if I were a woman to be reckoned with. Diana had always known that. It had just taken me a little longer to figure it out.
“Well, you look absolutely amazing. I can’t wait to show you off. Maybe I’ll have a sort of debut party for you and invite all of our friends. The women will be green with envy.”
“Thank you, Diana, but I assure you that won’t be necessary. I really just want to enjoy being home again.” Which was true, but I could no longer imagine myself slipping back into my old life, the Babs I’d been before Paris.
After my valise was st
ored in the boot of her roadster and we were speeding down the road, I asked, “How is everything in Ashprington?” although when she started answering I realized that I wasn’t all that interested in knowing.
“The gymkhana is next week, but I’ve already done all the organizing so you won’t have to worry about any of that. Just come and hand out ribbons, if you will. And there’s been quite an uproar at the WI about whether or not we should allow men into our ranks. It’s a good thing you’re back so you can settle all the ruffled feathers.”
She continued to speak as my mind wandered. I kept seeing Drew’s grin and thinking about how we’d both come to France to shake up our lives. I hoped he’d succeeded. Perhaps not in the way he’d hoped, but at least partially. My heart still ached when I thought of him, which seemed to be all the time. Your big, generous heart. It’s what I love most about you. I tried not to think about that, or Drew, at all. But that was like telling the tide to stay out, or the sun not to rise. All foolishness, really.
I became aware of Diana waiting for me to say something. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”
“I was asking you if you’d decided what to do with Langford Hall. The Dower House is lovely, and it’s quite silly for you to ramble around the hall all by yourself with the children gone. Not to mention the expense of upkeep. I don’t know how you manage, Babs, I really don’t.”
“I don’t either,” I said without thinking, startling us both.
“Well, that’s a start, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” I smiled to myself, feeling as if I’d just moved forward somehow, even if it had been just a few steps.
I felt her watching me and turned to meet her gaze. “What is it?”
“It’s you, Babs. You’re different. In a good way.”
She returned to watching the road, but I kept looking at her, recalling what Daisy had said to me when I went to her suite at the Ritz to read to her. “Do you think I’m strong?”
“Oh, Babs. You’re one of the strongest people I know. Have I never told you that? You have survived so much, things that would have crippled lesser men, yet here you are, stronger than ever. You’re like an oak tree in a storm, never bending, and creating shelter for everyone else. I have to admit to being quite envious.”
I stared at her for a long moment, waiting for her to tell me she’d been joking. When she didn’t, I turned my attention to the road ahead, wondering why she’d never thought to tell me before now, and then realizing that before Paris, I would never have believed her. I watched the familiar landscape slip by, each mile bringing me closer to home. I am a formidable woman, I thought. And I suddenly knew exactly what I needed to do.
A clock chimed somewhere in the house, startling me awake. I’d made the mistake of lying down, just for a moment, on the window seat where Kit and I had once watched the sunsets. Now it was two hours later, and I still had so much to do.
I stood, then straightened my skirt—one of the new ones I’d purchased in Paris—and headed for the stairs. I moved slowly as if this were the last time I’d have Langford Hall all to myself. I ran my hand down the curved bannister, pausing to admire the acanthus plasterwork that bordered the ceiling and the checkerboard pattern of the floor in the foyer. My finger absently rubbed at the nick in the wood caused by a vigorous game of jousting knights played by my brother Charles and Kit, using fireplace pokers. They were punished severely—whether for playing with actual weapons or for roughhousing indoors, I couldn’t remember. What I did recall was spending many a night imagining Kit in shining armor, fighting for the honor of wearing my ribbon on his sleeve.
I continued my descent, staring at the Langford ancestors on the wall, trying to read the expressions in their frozen gazes. I had taken Precious’s words to heart, the part about reinventing oneself, and had proceeded to do just that. I could now believe I had something to offer the world besides tea and gardening tips. Which I still did, of course. There were some things that would never change. The only difference being that they were things I chose to do.
The house seemed inordinately quiet, creaking uneasily in its new emptiness. Even Mrs. Finch and Walnut had deserted it for the Dower House to get it ready for my full-time occupancy. After my conversation with Diana, I had finally made the decision to deed the house to the National Trust, to allow tour groups inside to see the Georgian splendor of Langford Hall. They would not, however, be traipsing over the antique Exeter carpets or sitting down in the Chippendale chairs in the dining room. Everything would be roped off, the halls covered in plastic tarps, the Chinese silk wallpaper visible beneath clear plexiglass.
It was all awful, really. A house was meant to be lived in. To create new memories. But change was inevitable. For houses and people. It had taken two weeks in Paris to shake me out of my inertia. Two weeks transforming myself under the expert tutelage of a woman whose skill at reinvention was something of which I’d never know the full extent.
And two weeks spent falling in love. It seemed like such a short time to have that sort of deep connection, but there you have it. Kit had been my fairy tale, my knight in shining armor, my love a fantasy as insubstantial as the morning mist that blew across the lake. And I had been the salve for a broken heart, a place to lay his head when seeking comfort. To help him forget the love of his life. His Daisy.
But Drew was solid and real. A man whose heart was as big and giving as he’d claimed mine to be. He was the bridge over the messy lake of my life, and I’d been too blind to see it. I hadn’t watched him leave, so there was that. Which, according to Precious, meant we were bound to find each other again.
Precious had written once, letting me know that Drew’s father had died peacefully in his sleep after hearing that his name had been cleared. I was happy for Drew, that he’d been able to fulfill his father’s last wish. Precious had given me Drew’s address to write, and I did. Just a short note of condolence and my return address. I hadn’t heard back from him, and I told myself that I hadn’t expected to.
I moved to the kitchen, checking the cupboard to make sure the simple pottery dishes had been removed to the Dower House. Only the Limoges and Royal Doulton would remain with Langford Hall, placed on the dining table where only phantoms would dine.
I returned to the foyer and to the Langfords captured in oils on the walls, and felt no censure. It was almost as if they understood what reinvention really was. After all, hadn’t the old admiral changed from seafaring profiteer to country gentleman to begin the legacy of Langfords and Langford Hall? I imagined I could hear soft, polite applause as I ran my finger along the spotless mantel.
It was perhaps the sense of peace I’d received upon my decision to move that had enabled me to finally forgive myself. Daisy—proud, beautiful, strong Daisy—had understood. And forgiven me. It was my duty to honor her by living my new life the way she would have lived her own if she’d been allowed. It was my promise to myself. And to Kit. After giving Robin the gold signet ring, I’d visited Kit in the graveyard and told him everything, needing my conscience to be clear. I imagined him and Daisy finally together, and my heart had felt as full and ripe as summer fruit. As I’d turned to leave, I thought I’d smelled Kit’s pipe tobacco. I’d smiled, then whispered a soft goodbye as I let myself through the gate.
The grandfather clock chimed the hour, reminding me that I still needed to check Kit’s study, to remove any personal items. I found if I kept very busy with all that needed to be done, I’d have no time to think of Drew, or even to dream about him. I was the new Babs—a formidable woman. And formidable women forged their own futures, with or without a man by their side.
I’d only made it two steps when someone banged the large brass knocker on the front door. I frowned, hoping it wasn’t yet another passerby who’d heard that the house was soon to be opened for tours.
I was still frowning when I threw open the door. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not yet—” I stopped speaking. And breathing. And holding my mouth closed.
“Hello, Babs.” Drew stood there with that grin on his face, all broad-shouldered and tanned and white-toothed. “I was just passing through, and thought I’d stop by.”
“Passing through?” I surprised myself with the calmness of my voice. “Through to where—Land’s End? Because nobody passes through Ashprington. Unless they’re lost.”
His smile faded. “Funny you should say that. I’ve been feeling a little lost these last couple of months.”
I held my ground, clutching the door so that it wouldn’t open any further. “I told you in Paris, Drew. This is my home. I can’t move to New York regardless of how I feel about you.”
“Yeah?” His grin was back. “That’s a relief. Because I just transferred to the London office.”
I might have blinked a few times, as if to make sure he wasn’t a mirage, and that I wasn’t dreaming. But Drew was no fairy tale. He was flesh and blood and he was standing on my doorstep with an open invitation in his eyes.
“Oh. Well.” I might have also said his name. It wasn’t Shakespeare, but the words were just as sweet. I stepped back and opened the door wider. He met me on the threshold and we stared stupidly at each other before he opened his arms and swallowed me in his embrace. Our lips met and somewhere, amid the turmoil of the blood rushing in my ears, I imagined I heard the house sigh, a quiet murmur of approval.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked against his lips.
In answer he swung me up in his arms and brought me inside the house, followed swiftly by the sound of the heavy door shutting behind us.
Acknowledgments
“Three authors walked into a bar . . .”
So begins the answer to the most frequently asked question “Team W” receives from readers: namely, how our collaboration got its start. The second question is how we continue to create new books together and still enjoy the process. Three novels; umpteen cups of coffee (and sometimes stronger beverages—did anyone say “Prosecco”?); hundreds of hours spent plotting, writing, and rewriting; book tours; and volumes of emails and texts later, the answer is simple: the Unibrain. This is what happens when three writers share one brain as well as a passion for history and the written word. And it’s magical.
All the Ways We Said Goodbye Page 41
