Eleven
October 22, 1944
Parham Hill Estate
Framlingham, England
The sputter of a plane engine was the cry of Amelia’s nightmares. It grew louder, screaming through the sky until she jolted awake.
An eerie stillness settled over the manor and she lay for several breaths after, just listening. Watching the ceiling from her bed. Willing the jarring noise to fade into the darkness and reveal itself to have been just another terrible dream.
Most nights Amelia slept in tiny spurts of time, drifting in and out, listening to the sky overhead while she tossed and turned, still clothed—just in case they should need to make a run for cover. Waiting up for several crews of the 390th to return that night, she’d stayed up after midnight. When they hadn’t, she’d checked the library and found no stack of books waiting for her.
She’d poked her head into the doorway of the Regency Ballroom as a last resort to calm her nerves. Finding Wyatt’s cot and several others still made, she said a prayer for their safety, left a key in the lock of the kitchen door, and lay down for another harrowing night.
As fire danced and crackled in the hearth in her chamber, Amelia listened.
The whistle ended with a resounding boom out in the fields. There was no mistaking it that time. Bombs were falling somewhere, and being so close to the airfield, the manor could be an inadvertent target.
Then the sirens began their wail.
Not again . . .
Amelia threw off her quilt and swung her trouser-clad legs down to the hardwood. The chamber door crashed open at the same time and she jumped, not remembering for a moment that the manor house was full of officers who would react to the sirens same as she.
“Oh—Wyatt,” she breathed out, hand resting in a palm-slap against her middle. “It’s you.”
He stood in the darkness of the hall, also trouser-clad, unlaced boots open at the ankles and breathing as if fear had gripped him, too, for the seconds it took to run up the stairs to her door.
Praise be she was always prepared and so rightly dressed. He seemed to have picked up on the possibility that she hadn’t been, having diverted his gaze the instant it landed on her through the moonlight.
“Alright in there?”
“I am, thank heaven.” Amelia still fought to catch her breath as she tugged on the work boots she kept, unlaced and readied, at the foot of the bed.
“That one was close.”
“Too close.” Amelia pulled a mustard cardigan over her work shirt, the thick cable weave she’d left hanging over the metal rail of the footboard. “But then they always are. I apologize for being so blunt, but your blasted airfield keeps us on tenterhooks. I’m afraid it’s not always easy to decipher bombs from plane engines, no matter how experienced we are with the burden of air-raid sirens.” She swiped Arthur’s pocket watch and tiny framed picture from the bedside table and tucked both in the front pocket of her work denim.
“It’s not the airfield tonight. Time to go to the gardens.”
“I think I knew that.” She knew it was right, though reluctance plagued her heart. “Let’s fetch the children. They know what to do. We’ve done this midnight march before.”
Amelia slipped into the hall, ready to clear the chambers room by room just as they’d practiced in their drills. But what she didn’t expect was to see blackout curtains drawn back at the end of the hall, spilling enough moonlight to illuminate open chamber doors all the way down the first-floor hall. Fully clothed officers bundled children in their arms and hurried the older ones down the grand staircase in orderly fashion.
“How did you . . . ?”
“We drew up a plan last week, remember? I gave it to you with the list of rations. We made it so we’re ready to go before lights-out. It’s more efficient to involve the officers so every man knows the room he’s assigned and which Anderson is his to get the children to the garden. And if any man is out on mission, or if . . .” He hesitated for a split second over what she suspected was the wretched reality of when flyboys flew but didn’t come back. “He knows which officer steps in and takes over in his stead. So the hall is clear on any night if need be.”
“I’m afraid between the honey harvest, the baling, and everything for the children, I missed that completely. You’ll have to forgive me.”
“I’ll be keen to forgive you, but at a far more opportune moment.”
Wyatt had itchy feet. She could see it in the way he watched as the last officer carried a child down the stairs, then turned back to her as he edged tiny steps that way. He held a hand out to her, palm to ceiling. “Do you need anything else?”
Amelia looked back in her room. “No. I have everything, but—”
“Good. Let’s go.” Wyatt held his hand at the small of her back as he ushered her down the stairs in front of him.
Amelia tossed Wyatt a look that said had it been daylight, she’d have given him the what-for that he dared push in at all. The United States Army officers were guests and that was flat. But as they couldn’t switch on a light without drawing the blackout fabric over the windows and given the pace he’d set to trek through the manor, she doubted Wyatt could have seen a displeased glare anyway.
As long as the children were safe, she could abide in the moment. In the morning . . . well, that was another matter entirely. Wyatt tried to lead them past the library, but she held him back and slipped inside the door. “Please—one moment.”
Amelia ran to the sideboard and grabbed a book from the glass-walled cabinet, leaving its door open in the dark. She whispered a silent prayer for the library’s safekeeping, then followed Wyatt through the adjoining ballroom full of officers’ empty cots, their woolen blankets spilling onto the floor, and maneuvered down an aisle set between mess hall tables in the great hall. They fled to the farmhouse kitchen spanning the back of the manor, where she stopped them at the butcher’s block before they made a run to the gardens.
Tears stung Amelia’s eyes, drawing her back. “You’re certain all the rooms are clear? We can’t leave anyone behind. And Luca—he’s terrified of the bombs. If he hears explosions . . .” Tears threatened to choke out her words. Amelia hesitated, finding them over the quell of emotion. “He’ll be traumatized. They all will. We must check the ground-floor rooms to be certain no children are left.”
“Luca’s already gone to the gardens with C. B. I made certain I’m the last one out. Or, we are.” Though his attention was focused on a distant point out the span of windows at the back of the kitchen, he paused for a split second, entreating her with, “Can you trust me?”
Amelia hadn’t time to think. No time either to conjure an answer, not with sirens screaming like a banshee across the meadow. Another pulse cut the night, an explosion so loud she thought it could shred her soul from the inside out. A loud boom followed a half breath after, bringing such pressure and pain she thought her eardrums might burst.
The upper half of the kitchen’s Dutch door squealed and clanged on its hinge with the explosion. Wyatt yanked Amelia through the door to the butler’s pantry and shoved her under him as they tumbled to the floor. Walls shook as Amelia’s face slammed into the stone floor, sending white-hot pain from her cheekbone up to her temple and ear.
Bucket and broom, stone and sprigs of drying herbs tied up by twine across the ceiling fell with them. Had any canned goods been left on the shelves or bottles of cleaning supplies tucked in high corners, they’d have come crashing down too. Thank goodness honey crocks were lined on shelves in the cellar, or it might have spelled disaster. As it was, there was little to contend with save for a jumbled mess of plaster dust and dried lavender, and baskets of onions and root vegetables that had been tossed down over their tangle of limbs.
The pungent sweetness of cordite hung on the air. Amelia could almost taste the lavender and feel the tinge of heat that blasted through the open door. But then everything screeched to an eerie . . . silence.
“Wait,” Wyatt cau
tioned when Amelia tried to rise from under him.
They lay in the stillness, palms to the cold stone floor. Breathing together. Hearing nothing outside. No cries from the children or the popping of gas lines to signal that secondary fires had roared to life. Just the deafening silence and the thundering of her heart slamming in her chest as Wyatt kept his arms around her.
The blasts had been too close.
They’d only had one other venture so near the manor. It had scared them out of their wits one summer night and shaken their Anderson shelters like they were dice jostled in a cup until dawn. It had knocked out a side of the barn, but praise be, they’d lost only one cow and three hives in the blast.
No one had been hurt then.
Amelia clung to hope they’d come out unscathed this time too.
“Are you alright?” He released her, pulling his arms back from her shoulders.
“I believe so.” Amelia sat up enough to cough through the dust but couldn’t hope to stand, her balance lost by having her bell rung so soundly. She felt the floor moving, the room spinning, and brought her palm up to rest on her brow. “If I can just . . .”
“Don’t move,” he whispered through the dark, taking the hem of her sweater and raising it to her head.
“But the children. They’ll be terribly afraid. I must go to them.” Amelia stared through the door, dust clouding so she could scarcely see anything outside.
“Just hold on. I need to see to their mistress first.” Wyatt examined the side of her head. He brushed her hair back against her shoulder, wiping dust away from her temple.
She leaned into his shoulder, head swimming, trying not to cough through the haze of plaster dust floating on the air. Though he tried to be gentle, the feel of cable weave pressing down on the tender skin of Amelia’s temple caused her to clamp her eyes shut for a moment and wince on a deep breath.
Wyatt sparked a flame from a silver Dunhill and held it up to illuminate the side of her face. The golden glow splashed over his features, concern marking his brow as he studied her. He finally smiled a shade as he ran his index finger along her hairline, then leaned back, holding the light out between them. “It’s not bad. Doesn’t seem to need stitches.”
“So it’s to be one of those ‘looks worse than it is’ nuisances, yes? Grand. Though it certainly fights for attention with the sting, I have to say.”
“We’ll see to that. Keen to stand?”
Amelia nodded and sat up enough to right her feet under her. “I believe I can.”
Wyatt held fast to her hand, palm sure but gentle as he raised them to standing together. He kept a grip on her, looking through the tiny light invading the darkness.
“You look fine—you’re fine,” he breathed out fast, his words spilling out in a nervous jumble like she’d never heard him suffer with before. “The bleeding’s already slowing, but we’ll take you to the base hospital to be sure. I’m sorry, but you’ll need to give the sweater a good washing to get rid of the stains. But you’re going to be fine.”
Fine.
Three times in succession, mind—the captain sounded as rattled as she felt.
Amelia drew in a deep breath, steadying herself against him.
Truth be told, even in the flicker of a single flame that was nearly drowned out by the darkness, she could see the depth of concern in his eyes. Wyatt stared back, breaths no longer racking in and out of his chest. He was settling. The more he looked at her, his eyes drifting back up to the throbbing spot on her temple, he seemed to ease back into the assured officer she’d known from their first meeting.
“How did you know we were the last ones out?”
He found her book on the floor, went to it, and dusted the cover with his forearm. He held it out to her. “Told you—we made assignments. I’m always the last one out. And this time my assignment was you.”
In the midst of catching her bearings in a disordered butler’s pantry and trying to sort out what the flame revealed was at play on Wyatt’s face, the flurry of what had just occurred came flooding back. Amelia took the book, hugged it over her chest, and gripped his elbow so she could borrow his strength and angle around the wares strewn about them.
She’d have made it out the door had Lieutenant Hale not darted inside.
“Cap? You in here?” C. B. shouted, then halted at seeing them emerge together in the flicker of Wyatt’s lighter flame.
Lieutenant Barton trailed him, both filling the door frame.
“We’re here.” Wyatt braced Amelia at the elbow, helping her navigate overturned spindle chairs, shattered porcelain dinner plates littering the floor, and a large splinter of wood that had broken free from the back door. “What was it, Hale?”
“It’s not the children?” Amelia begged before the lieutenant could even answer them.
“They’re all fine, milady. Tucked in the Andersons with the men. They sent me back for you both, Cap. Hear tell the little ones wouldn’t settle until they knew milady was accounted for. And the men were a mite concerned about you too, sir.”
“We’re quite fine, Lieutenant.” Amelia looked past him to where night held fast, its darkness pervading the pastures.
The distance was outlined by a blazing orange glow in the center of the pasture. Wyatt must have seen it too, because he advanced to the empty window frames and surveyed the fiery scene before them. “What is it?”
“Pathfinder wreck, sir. Full bomb load. That was the first blast. Word from the airfield is it was chased in by a Ju 88 that got past the towers. Ended up in the far pasture.”
“How many on board?”
C. B. looked sickened to say it, but he stood tall, added a sharp, “A full crew, sir.”
Amelia shuddered again.
No doubt it was blood and bombs and twisted metal burning with charred wreckage in the back fields. Flames illuminated a span of rock wall that had been knocked out, and a giant willow afire with orange flames licking the starry sky.
Wyatt patted a hand to Amelia’s cheek to draw her attention back.
It caused her to start and stare at him, not because of the warmth of his palm soothing her skin but because he’d never touched her before this night. Not for a handshake. Not in exchanging rations lists or even in passing a platter of food across the table in a packed dining hall.
He’d always kept his distance. But perhaps close calls had the power to change that.
“Go with Lieutenant Hale. He’ll take you to your children, alright?”
“You’re not coming?”
Wyatt shot his gaze to the window.
Time was precious, but lives were infinitely more dear. She had to understand if he felt that. But wasn’t it wanton to run toward the flames without thinking it through, or at least seeking assistance from the airfield?
“Wyatt—a full load . . . If there’s a wreck, that means bombs could explode at any second.”
“If there’s a crew down, then I can’t stand by and watch them die. Just do as I ask, please. Go with Lieutenant Hale so I know you’re out of harm’s way. Watch over the children. I’ll come back for you after, and we’ll go to the hospital together. Get you checked out.”
He brushed his hand over her cheek a last time, and with that, he left her standing in the estate kitchen, coughing from the dust and the surreal smell of burning metal and sweet lavender that invaded the air.
She watched Wyatt run toward the mass of flames.
Disappearing into the night was one thing; it was what flyboys did. They took orders and obeyed, taking up fortresses to defy the enemy. But to watch as Wyatt gave the orders to run toward incredible risk instead of shying away from it—that kind of courage upended any fortifications Amelia had built up around her heart.
She’d told herself Wyatt was just a nice officer.
A fellow reader who appreciated the merits of a fine English library.
But then why had she tucked his notes away in the Bible she kept in her bedside table? Why was it so easy to memorize t
he list of books he’d read? Why had she watched him run out over the fields, squinting through the darkness so she could follow his form until the very last second it finally disappeared into the night?
Amelia played it over in her mind as they neared the rounded, earth-covered roof of the Anderson and the metal doors that opened.
Inside, tiny eyes stared up at her with a mix of relief and terror.
She counted heads inside the shelter. Gripped little hands. Hugged shaking shoulders. Amelia called out names in the dark and confirmed that all were accounted for. And as yet another boom shook the ground beyond the manor, she took Luca in her lap and tried not to think of the danger beyond their garden blooms.
Something shifted in her pocket when he stirred, and only then did she remember the photo and watch she’d tucked there. Amelia removed the frame and ran her fingertips over the shattered front. The glass cracked in a streak across the smiling faces of a honeymooning couple who in the spring of 1938 had no idea how short their happiness would be.
She set it on a metal shelf on the inside wall and opened the precious copy of Peter Pan she’d snatched from the library.
As she read those precious “fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!” words aloud, she remembered the talk with Wyatt at the Castle House. The reality that death chose where and when to land upon the living without mercy forced her heart to whisper over and over, as bomb blasts shook the countryside . . .
Wyatt Stevens is not a friend.
But that, too, was a lie.
Twelve
April 28, 1843
Parham Hill Estate
Framlingham, England
The Painted Castle Page 13
