The Painted Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  “I don’t think Uncle Sam makes requests, ma’am. We go where he tells us, whether it’s to a schoolhouse or not. Though I had hoped we’d see a little more by way of jollies on the base, instead of being confined to a hedgerow with nothin’ to do in the off hours.”

  He tipped his hat back off his brow, looking full face into the rising sun reflected by the manor house windows. “You got a jukebox?”

  “No, we do not have a jukebox.” Amelia stared at him, at the audacity of masculine exuberance. “This is my home. I am a private citizen, and I do not recall giving anyone—let alone the United States government—permission to unload an army on my front lawn. Kindly pack up your wares and travel on to the airfields. They’re just over the rise, down the lane.”

  “Have to talk to the cap about that.” He hooked a thumb, pointing to the line of truck beds stretching out behind them. “Back there.”

  “The captain, you say?”

  He nodded. “Captain Stevens. He’ll know what’s what about it.”

  Darly caught up to Amelia by then, anchoring his walking stick into the mud and dew-soaked leaves. He paused, breathing as one too winded for his own good, and watched the spreading sea of green fatigues. The usual mellow demeanor he carried faded as he glanced back to her, replaced by a curiosity that set wrinkles across his brow.

  “These children are . . .” He pointed. Counting? Good luck. She couldn’t manage it either. “A mite more . . . mature . . . than I’d envisioned.”

  One soldier swatted at a bee buzzing around his face, then received another’s toss of packed duffel as soon as he turned around and went careening into the rock wall like he’d just taken an oversize sack of flour in the gut. The soldiers’ laughter that followed confirmed her judgment of the situation.

  “Mature? They’re swatting at my bees.” She thrust the telegram into Darly’s hand. “And if that’s mature, I’m having tea at Buckingham Palace.”

  Captain Stevens it is, then . . .

  Amelia marched through the mud lining the road, asking after their captain. The men mostly ignored her, except to say, “Back there,” and “Keep goin’,” or to give a whistle or two under their breath because a female was whisking by.

  She filtered through fatigues until she thought the convoy might have no end, then stopped in the underbrush along the old stone fence, watching as they continued unloading stacks of wares on the front steps.

  Fearing the noise was too great, Amelia looked up to the manor.

  Her heart sank; the children were awake.

  Their noses were pressed against the leaded glass on the upper floor as they watched in wonder at the invasion of servicemen at their front door. And after they’d had such a rough night with so little sleep. Further, if the men did not quiet down, they’d quickly have the bees in every hive swarming to a tizzy so they couldn’t harvest on time—and her remaining measure of civility would be gone.

  Her patience was bleeding down to the quick.

  No . . . Please, not now.

  Not when we’ve tried so hard to make this work.

  Amelia crooked her pinkies between her teeth and let out a shrill whistle, just like her papa had taught her to do when she was five years old.

  The bustle froze.

  The men noticed her, alright. Every one of them that time. With eyes staring, brows lifted, and several astonished glances following the sound of the whistle that could wake the dead, all the way down to the petite Englishwoman who’d issued it.

  A powder-blue, Peter Pan–collared shirt under weathered denim coveralls, with ash-blonde locks victory-rolled and tied by a rust paisley kerchief, probably wasn’t the finery they’d been told to expect from the Englishwomen of London. But they were not in London. They’d invaded the East Suffolk countryside, where those who lived and labored did so on a real working farm.

  She ignored their glances—or tried to anyway, shoving away the possibility of their judgments—and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen . . .”

  Gumption, Amelia. Show it now or you’re dead in the water.

  Amelia lifted her chin a shade and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m searching for Captain Stevens.”

  One chap with a comical gleam in his eyes gave a quick point and a half-muffled snicker to a man standing next to him at the top of the truck bed. That man watched her, too, from a frame half a head taller than the rest. His tousled brown hair just tipped over his brow. He was clean shaven, like they all were, but judging by laugh lines peeking out from the corners of his eyes, he was older than the lot by a good five years at least.

  “Right here,” he said, restacking a crate he’d muscled in his arms so he could raise a hand in confirmation. He glanced up to the man at his shoulder before he swung down to the ground. “Lieutenant Barton—take over. And attempt to wipe that smile from your face, if you please.”

  The younger lieutenant with ebony hair and unusually jovial eyes gave a salute and a considerably wider grin. “You got it, Cap.”

  Tall but unassuming, the captain walked toward Amelia, dusting his hands on his uniform trousers as he went. He gave one of those smiles—the kind that wasn’t humorous at all, just a press of the lips to show respect—and stopped before her. Dog tags dangled over the front of his army-issue tee, catching a glint of morning sun. The lightness of his hazel eyes focused down upon her.

  “Hello, miss. I’m Captain Stevens, United States Army. Can I be of help?”

  “It’s Mrs. Woods, Captain, and yes, I believe you can. I’d like to know what you think you’re doing, unloading on my front stoop.”

  He gave a tick of the brow—a little tell that he’d noticed the emphasis on the Mrs.

  “Lieutenant Hale is in the front truck, Mrs. Woods. He should’ve given you the—”

  “Orders? Yes. He did. But a telegram from the United States Army does little to explain what you’re doing here when there is a base and airfield just over there.” She pointed out where the road gave way to a rise, lined in rock-wall fencing all the way to where castle spires touched the clouds. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of ill news, but you’ve stopped about half a kilometer before your destination. Framlingham Castle and your airfield are just over the hill.”

  He tossed a glance to the castle spires rising against the horizon but didn’t move. “Yes, I’m aware of that. I’ve been stationed at the base for some time.”

  “Oh, that’s jolly good news. Then you should know your way there by now. Please do tell your men to keep the noise down as they pack up—we have children who haven’t had more than an hour’s worth of sleep, and sixty beehives on the other side of this wall. Neither will take kindly to further disturbance.”

  “My apologies for the noise. The men are a little . . . loose today.”

  “To be quite honest, very loose. And if I see one more of them swat at my bees, I’m afraid I shall have to start swinging a broom at their heads to get my point across. The bees will not harm anyone unless provoked, but I’m afraid I will.”

  The captain nodded in appreciation of the lighthearted cheek she issued, though a somber bent still managed to overtake his features.

  “And I am sorry for that. I’ll tell them to be aware of the bees. But what I meant was we lost a few yesterday. Two fortresses down. Ranks slimmed a bit. And, well, swatting at bees and not standing at attention kind of helps to . . . keep up with it all.”

  “Oh,” she whispered, raising her palm to cover her mouth. The men indeed went about their tasks with an affable air, as if they hadn’t just had the finality of death claim fighting men in their ranks the day before.

  He raised a hand, as if to soften the edges of his unintended chastening. “No, it’s alright.”

  “I apologize. We didn’t know. Well, we knew something had occurred because of the air-raid sirens in the last two days, just not that it was downed planes exactly. But it’s why we lost sleep ourselves.” She turned to the manor, looking at the shadows of the children lingering in
the upper-floor window seats, as if they’d help her find the right words.

  “Some Jerries managed to sneak in past the control tower. The RAF looked out for us last night though—gave chase back off the water.”

  Thoughts of spending the previous night crammed in the bomb bunkers rushed back to her mind. They were all in this together. Whether they spent the midnight hours in the belly of a B-17 or huddled in an Anderson shelter in the gardens, she couldn’t chastise anyone for finding a way to pass muster through the worst of a Luftwaffe raid.

  “I should have approached this better—forgive me, please.” Amelia braced a hand at her temple. “We’re still a bit frayed at the moment.”

  He nodded, as if he understood. “And I assure you, we didn’t mean to add to that. It’s the RAF boys who fly at night. That leaves daytime duties for the US Army. A round-the-clock operation it seems.”

  “Yes, the telegram gave a one-line explanation of your operations. But I’m afraid I don’t understand what’s happening here, except that it appears you gentlemen think you’re moving in.”

  “We are.”

  “But that’s quite impossible. I have a half dozen children boarding here aged four to fourteen years. From London. Norwich. Suffolk. And two children who have been with us since the summer of 1938. We’ve done everything we can to ensure the war stays over that rise—at your airfield and past the sea—but not here at Parham Hill. And while we’re expecting a half dozen more to arrive from a school that was bombed last week in Lakenheath, we absolutely cannot accommodate officers from two squadrons in the midst of all of this. I’m terribly sorry. I wish I had anything else to offer but that you put up tents in the meadow.”

  “I understand that, and we’d be grateful for it. But . . .” He rubbed a palm to the back of his neck. Even winced a shade, like her argument was valid but only to the point he still had to defy it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Woods. I wish I had something else to offer you. The RAF has sent orders down, and in joint partnership with Lieutenant Colonel Robert McHenry of the United States Army 571st Division, we’re assigned here. For the next six months at least. Maybe longer.”

  “All of you.”

  “That’s right.”

  She glanced at the swarm of fatigues moving about behind them. “Here.”

  The captain nodded. Firmly, though as one still sorry about it. “Yes.”

  “And do you have a superior officer with whom I might speak?”

  “Not one who’d dare countermand a lieutenant colonel’s orders. Though you’re welcome to try. I can put you in contact with his office stateside.”

  Amelia exhaled, her breath hazing to a fog in the last of dawn’s chill.

  The arguments she’d brought were crumbling in her mind one by one. There didn’t seem to be anything left to convince the captain against making Parham Hill their new servicemen’s resort. And when he put it like that, how could their little farm fight the grandiose militaries of two Allied nations?

  She’d lost.

  The captain seemed to pick up on the caving of Amelia’s resolve and took a half step forward. He smoothed his voice to a softer tone. “We won’t be in the way. It’ll just be sleeping, curfewed hours, morning and noon meals—the US Army will supply the rations. Even tables and chairs to set up in the great hall.”

  “Tables and chairs in the great hall . . .”

  Crikey.

  Arthur’s mother would have had ten fits were she not in London. Having children boarders deposited on the front steps of the family manor was one thing. It was the duty of all British citizens to do their part for king and country. But Yanks hooting and hollering and buttering biscuits with their morning coffee instead of sipping Earl Grey in the family’s ancestral hall? Amelia would have a heap of explaining to do in her next letter to the Dowager Countess of Davies.

  The captain paused. “Don’t these big castles have a great hall or some servants’ wing off the kitchen somewhere?”

  “The only servants we have here are ourselves, Captain. But yes. We have a great hall. And in light of all this, I suppose you’re quite welcome to it.”

  “We’ll clean up after ourselves. No mess. No misuse. The men will leisure in USO activities at the base or in town. And it’ll be missions by day, sleep by night. I promise, you won’t even know we’re here. These men are officers, and that means they have the utmost integrity. If the United States Army trusts them to lead other men in formation cruising at thirty thousand feet, then you can trust they’ll do the same with boots planted on the ground.”

  “That junior driver at the front of your convoy is an officer?”

  “Ah.” The captain smiled, tiny laugh lines sneaking out from the corners of his eyes. “That’d be Lieutenant Cebert Byron Hale—C. B. for short. Arkansas boy. He’s young but capable. He may be outranked in age and experience by most everyone on these trucks, but I’d say he can hold his own with the radios. He’s the last man I’d worry about—including me.”

  Amelia felt the hint of a blush warming her cheeks at his self-deprecating defense of young Hale. She didn’t know why—and certainly didn’t want to form a sense of familiarity with any of the men by exchanging backstories. But as their worlds would merge for the next several months, they’d have to coexist. Through bombing raids at night and the harvesting of honey by day.

  It would be another adjustment they’d just have to get used to until the war was over—if it would ever end—and life could get back to normal. Not in every way, but at least enough to help them keep going.

  Amelia pulled Arthur’s cable cardigan tighter around her middle, the dark-ink weave swallowing her petite frame. “Well, I’d best go tell the children what to expect.” She tipped her head in a slight nod and stepped off past him toward the bustle of fatigues growing on the front steps. “And I’ll just ready the great hall so you can move in.”

  “Mrs. Woods?”

  Amelia turned. His hazels were there, holding fast, looking back on her with an unexpected kindness.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “It’s Wyatt. And I promise—you won’t know we’re here.” He gave her a polite nod and tipped an imaginary hat on his head. “Good day, ma’am.” He faded back toward the ranks.

  Won’t know they’re here indeed.

  If the roar of Flying Fortresses overhead and the crash of bombs echoing through the pastures were any indication, Amelia had a feeling everyone would have a wicked-fast adjustment period—including the bees.

  Three

  April 20, 1843

  Parham Hill Estate

  East Suffolk County, England

  Deception played an elegant game.

  To Elizabeth’s mother, Eleanor Meade, the Dowager Countess of Davies, the matrimonial pieces were artfully placed so no one should learn the extent of depravity to which she and her only daughter had fallen. But to Elizabeth, a life reduced to scraping in society’s shadows was less severe a reality than her mother’s view of it.

  In truth, she was not sorry to put distance between them and their crumbling estate.

  An invitation to a spring ball in Mayfair would have been a tricky venture to navigate—even for an earl’s daughter of good standing. But to attend such a one at the reclusive Parham Hill Estate nestled in the Framlingham countryside provided better odds that no one from Yorkshire—or London society, for that matter—would travel so far. That, her mother hoped, would preserve their ruse.

  For Elizabeth, it might offer a chance to finally exhale.

  Rail lines were springing up in the English countryside like ivy ornamenting a garden, yet the price of two train tickets to Cambridge might as well have been to the moon for what they could manage. They’d boarded a mail coach under cover of night, the deep lingering of shadows ensuring they’d not be recognized on their way down the north road. They’d spent the next several days and nearly every quid they possessed traveling to their destination. Another day of wheels cutting through mud, frequent stops for water though a spr
ing rain was driving it down upon them in sheets, and three changes of horses had drawn out the last leg of the journey, now east, to an exhaustive degree.

  The cramped quarters of the mail coach had been exchanged for a roomier coach that afternoon, and though her taffeta ballgown was starched and stiff, and made her feel every bump in the road, Elizabeth preferred it to sitting in a soiled traveling frock as she had for three dreary days in succession.

  Outside the coach window, the final landscape beckoned with orchards primed for a fresh planting season. Rolling hills buffered the horizon in a vibrant Kelly green. Rock-wall fences cut geometric shapes of the landscape in a severe gray. And a long willow-lined road stretched a lazy welcome, transfixing Elizabeth with the unexpected peace of such a view.

  It felt like home—almost.

  Yorkshire was more than ten years behind them now—her childhood estate in its prime barely a blot on her memory. If Elizabeth could only take out a brush and capture the faint lines and play of light that now cut golden patches through budded limbs . . . Or the diamond flutter of ripples across the surface of the lake they’d passed by . . . Even the melodic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves proved a diversion, helping Elizabeth escape the mire of her thoughts—enough that she wished the moment could last forever.

  “We’ve arrived,” Ma-ma announced, as though the looming manor of Parham Hill hadn’t enough of a punctuation on its own.

  Ma-ma patted the coif at her nape, making tidy what had once been rich chocolate brown now tinged with gray. She leaned forward, ignoring the ornate stories of beveled stone and leaded glass in favor of tugging Elizabeth’s skirt into submission. She pressed a palm against a crease, smoothing the length of her gown.

  “Do sit up, Elizabeth. You cause more wrinkles than the bench seat ever could. I cannot hope to save you from them all.” Ma-ma spotted the inevitable sight of a leather-bound sketchbook in Elizabeth’s gloved hand and grimaced. “What is that?”