“He seems to think it’s not.”
“Well, that’d be our elusive Mr. Scott. He’s a steady chap—the best, actually. Couldn’t ask for a better friend. But when it comes down to it, once he gets something in his mind to grip, it’s going to be a wicked-hard fight to get him to open his fist and let go. It was the same after that business in Vienna . . . I keep telling him the art world is fickle and he’d be much better served leaving the past in the past. But he’s going to do what he wants. Living day-to-day and pressing in on the things he values is just his style.”
“He doesn’t strike me as someone overly concerned with style.”
Carter looked up, surveying the high ceilings and painted scenes locked in by gilding at their edges. “Don’t I know it. He’s got a pair of faded trousers and an old tee for every occasion. Calls it some nonsense about living more simply. He won’t listen, poor sod. Just jumps into the deep end with two feet wherever he goes. And here I’ve called him in to do the very thing he should steer away from—nosing about curating paintings for a world that trips him up at every turn.”
“Well, feel free to bring me the contract and I’ll sign. Mr. Scott can decide what to do with all this when he resurfaces. Until then, I’ll keep a keen eye on Victoria.”
Carter agreed with a “Welcome aboard” and an easy smile as he drifted off, charming his way out of the room. And it certainly seemed easy for him. But the friendship with Emory—trusting a rumored art thief with what could be a priceless find? That one would take longer to untangle.
Keira fell into historian mode. She found her tortoise-rim glasses in her carryall and slipped them over her nose, then pulled a protective glove over each palm. She plucked up vintage tools of the trade—a notepad and pen her preference for jotting notes instead of a smart device—and then went to work.
Though she had to set aside the unspoken tension between two men of completely opposite dispositions, in those moments, she saw only Victoria.
Even so, she expected the questions to keep up their assault—and it was her job to find the answers, wherever they might be.
Eight
October 12, 1944
Framlingham
East Suffolk County, England
The heirloom-silk gown teased the women in Framlingham from the window of Bertie’s Buttons & Bows dress shop.
Amelia passed by each time she rode down Church Street on her old bicycle, creaking over every bump of uneven cobblestone, heading to Wickham Market for the weekly shop. The sight of it brought both bliss and anguish in equal measure, though she’d venture back by every Tuesday, riding the long way through town just to peek in the windows and see if it was still there.
And there it would hang.
The liquid-satin gown. Gleaming. And pin-tucked in all the right places, with gentle cinching at the waist and a wrap bodice that created a dangerously elegant V connecting up to structured shoulders. It swept to the floor like a bucket of cream had spilled over the inside of the window box ledge with a fishtail train gathered in a pool on the hardwood below.
The prime minister’s government encouraged Englishwomen to “keep up standards”—solemn faces and scraggy buns tucked under prewar cloches would degrade morale, just as it was considered unfashionable to bop about in frivolous trappings. There was a delicate balance to strike, and so the high-priced beauty hung there day after day. Who could possibly surrender eighteen ration coupons for a length of satin a woman might be able to wear but once?
Practicality was the beast that ruled them all with a war on. Amelia spent her days in denim coveralls, a rotation of serviceable blouses, and the couple of herringbone skirts she mended to keep nice enough to wear in town.
Amelia rode by the shop toward Framlingham Castle, waving at sweet old Florence “Bertie” Bertram in the window, who was busily frilling her display of hats and sundries around her shop’s token centerpiece. One last stop and Amelia could forget the gown for yet another week.
She pulled her bike up to the entrance of the Castle House, leaning it against the stucco wall of the public house before she stepped inside. The old brass bell above the door clanged its usual welcome.
The rich aroma of turtle soup awakened her senses—it was not her favorite, by any means, but if she was able to save a coupon or two for Darly’s love of it, she did. She was greeted by the central bar of polished wood, humble tables with mismatched chairs, Tudor walls that stretched to low ceilings, and a playful fire sputtering in the hearth.
It was sunny but undoubtedly brisk that day, enough that Amelia was drawn in to stand by the warmth of it. Years of rations without replacing silk stockings meant her legs were bare and rightly covered with gooseflesh under the length of her midi skirt.
Thompson poked his head out from behind the bar. “Ho—milady!” The old man waved. “No rain today, eh?”
A blush warmed Amelia’s cheeks.
Milady. Perhaps she was more used to it than she’d realized.
“Good afternoon, Thompson. No more rain, I’m delighted to report. I’m not certain I’d have fancied a ride through the backroads from the castle—all that mud left over from yesterday. I have but one good pair of buckle shoes left, and I’m afraid I’m rather protective of them.”
“Ye’d be clever to mind yer step, milady. The cobbler’s shop has a line down the sidewalk for those wantin’ repairs. Best make it a wide berth when clouds start their gatherin’. But go on wit’ ye then—warm yourself by the fire,” said the fourth-generation innkeeper and cook, with a disposition as warm and wrinkled as the cheer in his face.
“Winds changing do make for good soup weather. And sitting by a fire.” Amelia removed her dove-gray gloves, set down the old biscuit tin she used to transport his famous soup, then slid it across the bar top.
“The usual then?”
“Please. But with a spot of extra pumpernickel. There was a surplus at the butcher’s and that put Mr. Clarke in a rather pleasant mood—enough that I was able to purchase rashers for the children and still keep one coupon back for Darly’s favorite meal. He shall be delirious with this good fortune.”
“It seems old Darly will be in for a treat tonight then—more than turtle and water stews in the back. We have potatoes! We received an extra crate in shipment, and rather than huntin’ out what the mistake be about, they disappeared into the belly of our soup pot. Still had to use the armored heifer though. But bread we’ll toss in at no extra charge as thanks for the autumn blossom honey ye sent over.”
“Well, I don’t think anyone is going to complain about canned milk to thicken a soup, especially when you have bread with honey to accompany it. Do you need more than two crocks? We have extra put by in the cellar.”
“I’d take all if I had my mind.” He smiled. “But no. Keep the extra sweetness for the children. They’ll be wantin’ somethin’ special come the holidays.”
Somehow the fire seemed more pleasant than usual. The dining room was calm as it awaited the flood of villagers who’d fill it come teatime. And on days like this, Thompson was eager to share news of what trickled in from locals. They hadn’t a cinema in town, and since Thompson served as both postmaster and head of the Framlingham night watch, it was best to check in where stories arrived before the newspapers had set to print, and activities of the airfield were sure to be carried from house to house.
Thompson’s sons were long grown and had missed the call of war, but that didn’t mean the old innkeeper hadn’t a keen heart for their village boys fighting it out overseas. Even the Yank flyboys had grown on him for how they frequented his dining establishment. It was in fact what Amelia bargained on in stopping by that afternoon. It had been nearly three days since Wyatt’s crew had been seen after their last mission.
Three days . . . and no news.
“What news from the airfield today?” Amelia asked, hopeful as she eased into a wooden chair by the fire. She crossed her legs and unbuttoned her deep-merlot topper down the front. The fire sizzl
ed its warmth like a blanket wrapped around her.
“A Combat Box of flyers went out in the wee hours. The watch counted them out from the roof of the butcher shop—a sturdy formation of twelve planes. Then we took turns standing out in the bitter cold and waited nigh until the afternoon hours for ’em to come back.”
When his face grew serious, a breath locked in her lungs. She squeezed the gloves in her palms before she knew what she was doing. “And . . . they did?”
He nodded. “A mighty relief. Watched them come in not two hours ago. Counted the big birds one by one and didn’ breathe until both squadrons come through, wit’ Spitfires flying their escort. They all touched down at the airfield safe and sound.”
Amelia let go of half the breath pent up inside along with her white-knuckled grip on the gloves in her hands—the Parham Hill officers were safe for now. That’s what mattered. She just had to pray that when the post did come in, it didn’t include any heartbreaking telegrams from the War Department.
“Well then, it’s jolly good to have had such a large harvest this year. The wax will keep St. Michaels in supply so we can all light candles for the boys at the front. The children pray for them every night. They even remember our dear prime minister—Luca thinks him a rather formidable figure but prays our leader will see an end to this war so he might be reunited with his parents again.”
“That young lad keeps his sister on her toes, eh?”
Amelia’s heart squeezed. “Yes. And the rest of us too.”
It wasn’t likely the townsfolk would inquire about a little scamp bustling about their shops and pubs. The fact that Arthur and Amelia had secretly taken in a pair of German Jewish children as far back as Kindertransport in December ’38 wasn’t something she wished to explain to anyone outside of a trusted few. And the fact that she was hunting down the fate of Luca and Liesel’s parents at the height of misinformation and roadblocks behind enemy lines . . . It was a monumental task that seemed to move at a snail’s pace.
“I am quite certain God hears the prayers of those whose greatest wish is to be with someone they love, so He must hear ours—both for Luca’s family to be reunited and for all the boys to come home safe.”
The bell interrupted with a clear tone, ringing out as the front door opened.
Amelia looked up as the tall form of Captain Stevens breezed in and stole her thoughts away.
Several of the units had been on mission, Wyatt’s among them.
The 390th was flying formation over enemy territory and Amelia knew little else, save that rumor had it Captain Stevens routinely volunteered for the more dangerous missions over the other officers. Yet he stood there in the flesh, clean cut and whole, clad in uniform trousers, button-down shirt, and flight jacket—even with the hint of a smile that said meeting her here was quite unexpected but not unnoticed.
“Captain. You’re back.”
“I am, milady. Just.” Wyatt gazed upon her from across the dining room. He tipped his uniform hat with a thumb and index finger curled on the brim, then seemed to think better and took it off completely, turning it over in his hands. “And Wyatt will do me fine, ma’am.”
“I suppose we did agree to that, didn’t we?” she said on a light laugh that emerged without warning. “Though I’ll remind you I’m not keen on the title ‘milady.’ A few gents get away with that around here, but they’re too set in their ways to change now. We agreed to drop the formality since you’re staying on at Parham Hill for the next months, did we not?”
“Of course—”
“Mrs. Woods.” Then, on an ill-thought whim, she added, “Or Amelia is fine too.”
Thompson intervened, breaking the cordiality between them with a jovial smile and a reach over the bar for a hearty handshake with Wyatt. And wasn’t that always the way of it with pub owners and innkeepers? They seemed to understand the delicate art of what to say and how to say it, knowing when to keep mum about the particulars of others’ business and when to balance it all with the simple act of extending a greeting.
“Captain! Welcome back. Sit down, sir.” He waved a hand out across the empty dining room for Wyatt to join Amelia. “With milady over there. ’Tis not teatime yet but the pot’s boiling. Ye get first of the special this eve.”
Wyatt came over to Amelia’s table and paused for a breath, in the kind of noble hesitation a gentleman exhibited when standing in the presence of a lady in the dining room. “May I?”
“Please.”
He tossed a glance over his shoulder in the direction of Thompson’s clanking and clattering in the kitchen, whispering low, “I’d hate to insult the man, but I’ve never actually prayed for my next meal of K-rations until I was served black pudding and haggis in this dining room. Please say I’ll make it out of here alive, or I’m afraid I’ll have to cut and run right now.”
“I think you’re safe this time,” she whispered. “Turtle soup and bread.”
Apprehension abated, Wyatt scooted up to the pub table, the chair creaking under his weight.
The fire popped in the hearth, toying with the silence of unfamiliarity between them. They’d passed in a great hall full of officers and smiled once or twice a day. They’d discussed matters of the estate as rations came in and orders carried men out on several occasions since the first morning they’d met in the library. But one on one, sitting and looking at each other across the space of a little table and barren dining room? That kind of conversation was new—and terribly stiff, as if the air itself were all thumbs.
“You’ve been to Parham Hill?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Our crew just returned. Gave the men a pass so you might see a few trickle into town tonight.”
A thought struck her. “Did you sleep?”
“I will. Later.” Though he didn’t have half-moons darkening the skin under his eyes, the one-word answer made her guess his sleeping routine was more of catnapping spurts than actual rest.
“You can’t say what it was that kept you away.”
“No.” He smiled. “But to be honest, you wouldn’t want to know. We try not to think about what has to happen in the planes starting with the moment our boots touch back on solid ground through briefing for the next time we go up.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”
“I’d much rather hear about things here—the honey harvest, Darly’s adventures in the fields, or Mrs. Jenkins shooing officers out of her kitchen with a swinging broom. Or what you’re reading to Luca these days. How’s the informal reading club going?”
“Slowly, but turns out it’s enough to keep him distracted from the bombing raids at night. The journal he came to fetch in the library—it’s his own making. A record of every air-raid siren and drill we’ve had. Seems he wants something to take home, a memory of sorts to show his mother how he and Liesel spent their time with us. And a makeshift reading club helps to pass the time between events.”
“Do you take new members?”
She started, registering an unintentional pause. “I don’t know . . . No one’s asked yet.”
“Maybe pose it to him then. See if he’ll accept a third. What are you reading?”
“He wanted to read Robinson Crusoe, but I managed to convince him Treasure Island might be better suited to his age. I had to think his mother might appreciate that.”
“Ah. The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe of York. Quite the literary work for a seven-year-old.”
“It started with finding anything of interest to him—the sea proved to be it. Luca and Liesel had to leave their home. And family. They traveled across the Channel before the war began, and it was the unknown of another shore that captivated him. It was meant to be a distraction at first—just reading aloud to get him simmered down at night so he could sleep. But now that he’s got the bit between his teeth to learn, it’s become our ritual to get through the days too.”
Amelia shook her head, then turned her glance to the window. It was difficult to imagin
e a world thirty thousand feet up where sunshine and blue skies erupted with bomb blasts and planes busting to flaming bits among the clouds. How odd it was for her and the children to have some semblance of a normal life on the ground with all that turmoil exploding above their heads.
“I can see something is bothering you. Bombing raids? It would be alright if it was.”
She turned back to him. “I wouldn’t think to trouble you.”
“By all means—trouble me. That look means something. Can I help?”
No matter how Amelia fought it, curiosity reigned. Arthur had been an RAF pilot. He talked about it once or twice, what it was like steering a metal beast to claw through the sky and losing the few school friends he’d enlisted with. But there hadn’t been time enough to ask more before he’d been killed. And a host of unanswered questions plagued her.
If anyone would give her a straight answer, it might be the captain who seemed prepared, steady, and untouched by the brutal nature of it all.
“What is it like up there?”
Or to crash.
Or to watch planes fall out of the sky right in front of you . . .
If Wyatt wanted to explain what she guessed was fear-inducing about it, he didn’t. Instead he wrinkled his brow as though thinking for a breath and decided on a quick answer that suited him. “It’s very cold.”
Deadly. Cruel. Terrifying. Unforgiving . . . Amelia imagined missions could be described as all of those things. But simply cold?
“Cold?”
“So cold the dash can freeze—and does, on occasion. Have to learn to fly without gauges in the event everything gets iced over. Men come back to the hospital with frostbite on a good day, lose fingers and toes on a bad one.” He flitted a glance down to the gloves she was twisting in her palms. “We wear gloves too.”
“Oh . . . these.” Amelia loosened her nervous grip and untwined her fingertips in her lap. “Well, October fancies itself akin to January these days. I’m just cheered it’s mild enough that the snow is holding off a bit longer. I imagine that’s another obstacle to doing your job when the inside of a B-17 feels like a Frigidaire and the airfield is covered over with a sheet of ice.”
The Painted Castle Page 9
