Olive couldn’t help but compare Miss Rose, rather uncharitably, to her glamorous sister. Not yet ready to broach the topic of Violet Darling, she drifted toward the shelf of mysteries that lined the wall beside the window. Her finger skimmed the neat row of spines before coming to a stop on the perfectly cosmopolitan Murder on the Orient Express. She plucked it from the shelf, feeling rather in the mood for an adventure by train. After quickly settling on a Georgette Heyer novel for Harriet, she approached the checkout desk.
“Success,” she said.
Miss Rose reached for the books, and Olive watched in silence as she stamped out the correct date on the library cards—one for the book and one for the record—before sliding the selections back to her.
Tucking both into her bag, Olive said coyly, “I was at St Margarets station this morning, seeing George Forrester off to flight school.” Peering up at her, Miss Rose schooled her features to exhibit polite interest. “I thought I recognised Miss Violet . . .”
The librarian’s lips curved into a bland smile. “It’s very likely you did,” she said, lacing her fingers in front of her in a move that clearly said, Will there be anything else?
Olive had no idea why Miss Rose was being so close-mouthed on the topic, but she refused to be deterred.
“You must be so pleased to see her after all this time. Did you know she was coming?”
The fingers clenched. “I had a telegram a few days ago.” “Do you suppose she’ll be staying through the end of the war?” Olive pressed.
“I suspect. But Violet is unpredictable. You are probably old enough to remember, but surely you’ve heard the gossip?” There was no rancour in her tone, but her eyebrows lifted in the barest challenge.
Olive let it pass. “Harriet’s never met her, you know,” she said conversationally. “When I mentioned Miss Violet was home again, she thought it might be rather fun for the two of you to be Bennet sisters together.” She smiled encouragingly.
“Let me guess. She was thinking Mary and Lydia?” Her tone was heavy and resigned.
“Elizabeth was mentioned,” Olive allowed.
Miss Rose slipped her glasses from her nose and gazed hopefully at Olive. “Elizabeth is a wonderful part. I’d have to think—” Her eyes shifted distractedly away and then flicked eagerly back again. “Has Mr Darcy been cast yet?” Her fingers fidgeted, smoothing the pages of the book in front of her, which, judging by the diagrams, appeared to be some sort of biology textbook.
Olive blinked, uncertain how to proceed. Clearly, Miss Rose was under the impression that Harriet wanted her and not her sister for the role of Lizzy Bennet. Harriet was going to murder her, but she really didn’t want the responsibility of dashing any hopes today. “I did just put a bug in Dr Ware’s ear,” she confided, not bothering to admit that it had crawled right out the other.
The librarian flushed, her pallor flooding with patchy colour.
Eager to be done with the subject and on with her business, Olive said, “Will Miss Violet be at the dance?”
Miss Rose was too distracted to answer immediately, but as the silence grew, she started out of her reverie. “I beg your pardon.” She shook her head slightly and straightened her spine. “I rather doubt it. When I mentioned it, she was quick to inform me that without canapés, champagne and, most importantly, men, there’s little reason to bother.” It was distinctly odd hearing Miss Rose use the word men in that context. Then again, a casual mention of Dr Ware had sent her into a veritable tizzy.
“Well, that’s a shame. But she’s bound to discover that even a bit of entertainment is better than nothing.” Olive took a step back. “On that note, I’m off to decorate the hall.”
Miss Rose stood and smoothed the familiar tweed skirt. “I’ll go with you.” She pulled a little wooden sign from her top desk drawer, then walked to the door in her sensible shoes, latched it, and propped the sign against the window frame. Olive had been thwarted by that sign often enough to know it read BACK BEFORE LONG.
Together, they walked to the back of the library, through the tidy kitchen, and out into the main hall. Olive couldn’t help but smile as her eyes ranged over the comforting space—it had played host to so many good memories, all of them overlaid with the astringent tang of vinegar and the homey scent of lemon oil that came of clockwork cleanings. Arched metal girders spanned a high ceiling over a polished honeyed wood floor, a floor that bore the varied markings of its storied history. The sage-green wainscoting was the perfect backdrop for all occasions, and the diamond-paned leaded glass windows added just the right amount of sparkle.
At the far end, screens had been positioned to separate the requisitioned space from the area kept in reserve for village use. She could see slivers of darting movement on the other side—volunteers wrapping bandages or packaging up parcels for prisoners of war. On this side, George’s mother, Lady Camilla Forrester, and Miss Winifred Danes were already beginning to move the chairs from their current sewing-circle grouping, to ring the tables at the edge of the room, thereby clearing space for the dance floor.
Of an age, the two women were opposites in almost every respect, and it always amused Olive to see them together. Miss Danes was petite and curvy, her ample hips and bosom cinched to a trim waist as if by a string. Her hair was still a dark chicory brown, her cheeks were round and flushed, and the faint odour of sugar clung to her even now, months after it had gone on the ration. It was rumoured she’d worked as a secretary to an affluent businessman who’d died under suspicious circumstances and left her a sizeable inheritance, but rumours could rarely be trusted. She lived alone in a comfortable cottage and had a brother—a rather greasy individual—who came often to visit. In contrast, Lady Camilla was tall and slim, with long, elegant limbs and striking cheekbones. She walked with a brisk sense of purpose, her corn-silk hair always twisted neatly into a chignon and her clear green eyes snapping with intent. The only daughter of an earl, she’d been a socialite before her marriage; now she was a wife, a mother, and the stalwart president of the Pipley WI. She was efficient, tireless, and skilled at the sort of witchcraft that kept one’s lipstick unsmudged and one’s hair unmussed. Olive gazed enviously at Lady Camilla’s cobalt-blue skirt and crisp white blouse, its pin tucks and mother-of-pearl buttons, and wondered how they might stand up to pigeons, accumulators, pigs, and dirt. Sighing, she splayed her hands over nubby trouser–clad hips for a moment before getting to work.
“The more the merrier,” called Miss Danes. “It’s rather tedious to always be rearranging the chairs.”
Lady Camilla offered a tight, distracted smile and ran a hand along the upsweep of her hair, then fingered one of the marcasite combs tucked neatly at the base of her neck. She’d likely already been subjected to various petty complaints before they’d arrived.
“Has Harriet, by any chance, made the final casting decisions for the play?” Miss Danes went on, switching topics. “I honestly don’t understand what’s taking so long—several of the characters may as well be living right here in Pipley. Margaret would make a lovely Jane Bennet, and Rose is a perfect Mary,” she said pointedly.
Olive winced. Miss Rose had turned slowly from the glass-fronted cupboard that housed the WI’s china set, tablecloths, and paper lanterns to stare blandly at Miss Danes.
“If Harriet is typecasting,” she said sweetly, “I think you can look forward to playing Mrs Bennet, Winifred.” The words were said without obvious malice, merely delivered as unavoidable truth, and all eyes turned assessingly toward Miss Danes, who began chuffing with embarrassment. The tables had been effectively turned, and Olive bit her lip at the efficiency of it all while Miss Rose briskly cleared her throat. “Should I bother with the spring bunting,” she called to the room at large, “or should we simply resign ourselves to Miss Husselbee’s favoured red, white, and blue?”
As if her ears had been burning with the fire of village controversy, the woman in question swept through the outer door, holding a deep rectangular basket,
the inevitable umbrella hung over her forearm. Two other ladies trickled through in her wake: Lillian Crabbleton, an exceedingly shy girl of sixteen, whose mother had probably sent her along, and Mrs Spencer, who always wore a hat with a flower tucked in its brim. Today it was a wilted sweet pea. Having caught the gist of the question, Miss Husselbee was already simmering with righteous indignation.
“Resign is entirely too passive, Miss Darling. We should actively embrace patriotism in all its forms. Britain is, I need not remind you, at war,” she said stoutly, settling the basket on the nearest table in order to put the aforementioned decoration into immediate use and thus quell all further discussion.
“If it isn’t Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Miss Rose murmured, her lips curving in a subtle smile as she laid a stack of pale yellow tablecloths on the closest chair. Olive suspected she hadn’t been meant to overhear, and quickly carried off several of the tablecloths to get to work. Barely a moment later, Miss Rose announced, “I’ve had an idea for a raffle,” her voice stretched beyond its usual library bounds.
The other women glanced at her curiously, while Miss Husselbee frowned slightly, holding the Union Jack bunting against her chest, as if about to belt out, “Rule, Britannia!”
“Whoever donates the largest sum,” Miss Rose continued, focused on her audience, “wins the right to decorate the hall for the next dance in a manner of his or her choosing.” Clearly, Miss Rose was in a mischievous mood, and Olive, for one, was quite enjoying it.
The murmurs had barely begun when they were ruthlessly cut off.
“Fustian,” Miss Husselbee said dismissively. “A village event is not within the purview of a single individual. It should always be a joint effort, intended to buoy friendship and solidarity.” Every other woman in the hall stood still, her eyes flitting and rolling at the irony of that statement. When no one voiced an objection, Miss Husselbee nodded smartly, grasped the back of a chair, and dragged it across the floor with a hideous screech, holding the bunting out before her.
When she’d reached the far side, Miss Danes spoke up. “Put to a vote, I suspect Miss Darling’s idea would garner more support than you might imagine, Verity.” Her rosy cheeks puffed out slightly as she pressed her lips into a tight little moue. She was clearly uncomfortable defending one nemesis against another, and so, quickly busied herself once again with the task of moving chairs.
Gripping the edge of the wainscoting for support, Miss Husselbee climbed onto her chair and gazed down on them all, her particular focus reserved for Miss Danes. “That you would be in support of the removal of such a symbol of patriotism does not come as a particular surprise, Winifred.” She pressed her shoulders back, tipped her chin up haughtily, and looked down her nose. A vein popped out on Miss Danes’s forehead, and her face suddenly bore a marked resemblance to a ripe pink gooseberry.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her voice cracking with embarrassment.
“Don’t you?” was Miss Husselbee’s ready reply.
“I’m quite certain I don’t,” Miss Danes snapped.
Olive was moving from table to table, smoothing the wrinkles from each cloth as vigorously as if her efforts could smooth the tensions from the room. Lady Camilla, who had crossed the hall to collect the rest of the tablecloths, now darted an assessing glance between the two women who suddenly seemed at daggers drawn. For a moment, Olive thought she’d let the quarrel run its course—these squabbles were entirely commonplace—but with a swift intake of breath, she swept selflessly into the fray. “I think perhaps what Miss Darling and Miss Danes are suggesting is that a little variety might boost our spirits and morale quite as efficiently as the patriotic bunting, which,” she hurried to add, “is certainly a favourite of us all.”
“I am as strong a proponent of boosting morale as anyone in this village, but not at the expense of patriotism. Once patriotism is thrust heedlessly aside, treasonous behaviour is wont to slip in, in its place.”
A tittering rose up among the women scattered throughout the hall at the use of a word they all found shocking.
“We are a far cry from treason, Verity,” Lady Camilla said lightly. “The Daffodil Dance is a village tradition in peacetime and in war. We are all simply trying to make the best of things.”
“Not all of us,” Miss Rose murmured cryptically. Olive was quite taken with this new side of the librarian—perhaps having her sister back in the village had brought her out of her shell.
Miss Husselbee’s lips curved into a superior smile. “Miss Danes will likely be bringing a cake for the refreshments table.” Speared with a challenging glance, Miss Danes could only nod in assent. “I would suggest that any of you questioning the potential for treason in this village should have a slice of it.” She harrumphed from her perch on the chair and turned away to begin hanging the bunting.
Every eye, widened in shock and uncertainty, had shifted guiltily toward Miss Danes, whose gooseberry colouring had ripened dramatically. Wincing, Olive snapped a cloth over the table in front of her. Normally, she and Margaret would have been communicating volumes with the gratuitous use of rolling eyes and twitching brows, but her friend hadn’t shown. They’d arranged to meet at the hall and then walk to Margaret’s house for the midday meal and an afternoon of letter writing, so her absence was curious, to say the least. Although, after the conversation she’d recently overheard on the riverbank, it wasn’t at all surprising that her friend had kept away.
But to miss an accusation of treasonous baking!
In all likelihood, it had been prompted by a suspicion that Miss Danes was using more than her ration of sugar or butter, or even chocolate. And perhaps she was—it wasn’t entirely uncommon for villagers to dabble in black-market goods. Her father had boasted quite happily of the extra petrol coupons he’d managed to lay in, in the face of Harriet’s recently reduced mobility. Olive knew the practice shouldn’t be encouraged or condoned, but it seemed rather a tame infraction, all things considered.
They all worked in silence after that, Miss Husselbee charging around the perimeter in solitary determination, dragging her chair behind her, while the rest of the volunteers finished decorating the tables: two long ones positioned near the kitchen to hold refreshments and a bevy of round ones flanking the dance floor. Mrs Spencer had brought four coffee cans crammed full of daffodils, which grew en masse in the woodland beyond her garden, and they tucked generous bouquets into jam jars to set in the centre of each table.
Olive was admiring the hall’s dark, elegant bones, enlivened by sunny shades of yellow beneath the delicate paper lanterns and stalwart swags of patriotism, when she turned to see Miss Husselbee peering into the string bag she’d left hanging on a chair. Rolling her eyes, she walked over, wondering if she dared accuse the old harridan of snooping.
“May I help you?” Olive said sweetly.
“No need,” came the Sergeant Major’s ready reply. “I was curious about your reading habits. And I wanted to make sure you hadn’t snapped up something I’d hoped to get myself.”
And if I had? Would we be facing off at twenty paces?
She didn’t say the words, but they fairly hummed in her ears.
“I’ve read the latest Georgette Heyer, and Christie isn’t my cup of tea,” Miss Husselbee said dismissively. “I’ve had to go a bit farther afield than our little library collection for a certain novel that I’m finding particularly true to life.” Her eyes were trained on Miss Rose, who seemed unaware of the attention. Irritated at being ignored, the Sergeant Major huffed loudly.
The vicar chose that moment to pop his head into the hall, prompting a second huff. Much more, Olive thought, and she’d sound like a steam train.
Leo Truscott had come to the village just after the start of the war and had quickly charmed the lot of them, with one notable exception. Miss Husselbee remained suspicious of him, certain he was trying too hard to be liked. The news, little more than a month ago, of his engagement to Margaret Middleton had further rei
nforced her disapproval. Leo took it in his stride, but Margaret bristled with indignation whenever she was nudged into company with the woman.
As Olive watched, the ladies quickly closed ranks around the handsome vicar. His glance up at the miniature Union Jacks amid a chorus of twittering was a dead giveaway as to their topic of conversation. “You’ve all done a wonderful job transforming the hall for the dance,” he said, his deep, rich voice carrying to all corners of the hall.
“Will we see you at the dance, Leo?” Mrs Spencer asked, her handbag looped over the hand that warmly pressed his.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he answered. “And I confess I’m looking forward to the offerings at the refreshment table as much as the dance itself.” Flashing a grin that looked distinctly devilish, Leo detached himself from the doting group and headed in Olive’s direction. He was about six inches taller than she was, a lofty six feet two, with plenty of muscle to flesh out his bones and hair the colour of wildflower honey. She and Margaret had discussed his attributes at considerable length.
Smiling warmly, he said, “I’m afraid Margaret needs to postpone your afternoon together.” His manner was always eloquent and forthright and tended to make her feel quite virtuous.
Olive frowned. Mags had already skipped out on decorating. Now it was to be the letter writing, too? “Did she say why?” Her forehead crinkled in concern as she bent to smooth an errant wrinkle in the nearest tablecloth.
He shrugged. “She said only that she didn’t feel up to it today and could I carry along her regrets.”
“All right. I suppose I’ll see her at the dance, then. That is, if you’re willing to share her,” she teased.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 6
