Betty giggled. “Ilke! You’re awful!”
“I really can’t put it into words. I miss Ian. I still love him and I always will, but I miss the physical side of things. I can think of worse ways of spending five days. But I really can’t imagine falling in love with him and, even if I did, I wouldn’t dream of telling him.”
“I think you’re both mad,” Lily said, “but I understand. I just hope neither of you end up getting hurt or hurting each other. Imagine what your next family Christmas would be like, all that resentment, heavy sighs, long, dark silences. People would be asking questions, more feelings would be hurt. Just be careful, Ilke.”
“I will. Don’t worry. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt me again, by either leaving me or dying. I can’t let that happen again. I just have to save that part of myself and keep it locked away.”
“As long as he doesn’t notice,” her friend replied.
“Really, Lily, I don’t think it will be like that. I wish I could explain, but it just feels right. I can’t put it any better than that.”
* * * *
Dear Ilke,
It’s been a rough couple of weeks, coming to grips with ‘The Jug’. The RAF chaps have been having a laugh at our expense, saying that, at least if we were attacked by Germans, we could unstrap ourselves from the seat and run around the fuselage dodging their bullets. That’s one of the lighter moments. We’ve been having mock dogfights and have discovered, the hard way, the shortcomings of our new plane. We’ve lost four pilots in the fourth group because the Jug is just not all that nimble below eight thousand feet. It just can’t match the Spitfire when it comes to turns. HQ finally banned mock dogfights below that altitude, thank God. I couldn’t help but envy those guys in the Spitfires. I’m sorry to sound so unpatriotic about an American-made plane, but the Spitfire will always be my first love. I can still remember that day at your house when that plane flew over. I wanted to be that pilot. I wanted that plane and I guess I’m very lucky that I got to fly them for as long as I did. I think I will always pine for them. The Jug is a bugger when taxiing too. It’s difficult to see over the nose. I had to have a member of the ground crew sit on one of the wings and give me hand signals to let me know if I was heading the right way up the runway or not—or even if I was on the runway. That’s another shortcoming. The plane is heavy and we need a long run at take-off. Mind you, it’s heavy for a good reason. It has a larger fuel load, so should go farther than just across the channel for a couple of spats with the krauts, and it’s well armored, so hopefully, none of us will end up like Swiss cheese. Still, yours truly has finally figured it out and found the good things about flying them, such that they are. It’s very fast in the dive, so they reckon, the best thing, in a fight, would be to pounce on them from above, make one quick pass and climb like buggery. That should work pretty well, so my bosses are pleased with my progress and, I’m happy to say, that I will get my leave before we go fully operational with this beast. I will come and collect you on Saturday the twentieth. I should be there for 10.00 and we have the cottage until Wednesday. Don’t worry about food. I’ll take care of that. Just bring yourself.
I hope I can concentrate on my flying in the meantime.
Regards, etc.
Francis
Dearest Ilke,
Congratulations. You are now an aunt! Aislinn had the twins last night. It was all very dramatic. Her waters broke when she was walking back from the village shop. By the time she made it home, she was well on the way to giving birth. Your father had to get in the car and go and fetch the midwife. Luckily, she got here in time to deliver two strapping, very loud babies—one of each. She and Charlie had already decided on names, James and Nancy, and they are adorable little things. They are the image of their mother, black hair and blue eyes, but loud, Ilke—loud like their father. I love them dearly, but I dread to think what they will be like by the time they start talking. Ah, well, at least they’re healthy and Ash is recovering very well, given what an unholy rush it all was. She sends her love and promises to send photographs as soon as your father can figure out how the camera works. Charlie is on the way home to see his babies and, as you can imagine, is absolutely beside himself. I still can’t believe I’m a grandmother. I don’t feel old enough.
I shall write a longer letter later, when things have settled down a bit. Your poor father is walking around in a daze. I think he’s forgotten what it’s like to have babies in the house. I expect he will be spending a great deal of time in the greenhouse and in the garden.
I hope all is well with you. Have you heard from Francis? If you write to him, please send him our love.
Until later, dearest Ilke,
Love,
Mama
Ilona read the letter again, finding it hard to imagine that her sister was now the mother of twins—flighty, lively Ash, of all people. It seemed like only yesterday that the two of them were tearing around the countryside on their ponies and running wild on the lawn. It had been less than four years since they had lived at home and she could not believe how much had happened in that time. She felt far older than her twenty-three years, but then, she had lived more in those last three-and-a-half years than she had the entire time she had been at home. She found herself remembering that miserable, rainy Christmas Eve when Francis had arrived on their doorstep, all sullen, silent and not at all good company. It felt like a lifetime ago, a life that belonged to someone else, and that Francis had been someone else. She felt a sudden twist of longing for him and prayed for time to move on.
Chapter Eighteen
“I can’t believe it’s raining, again.” Ilona finished packing her bag. “All it’s done these past few days is rain.”
“That’s not going to matter much, is it?” Betty grinned.
Ilona blushed. “I suppose not.” She fastened the buttons on her jacket and straightened her hair. “How do I look?”
“Gorgeous, like you always do,” Lily said. “Now go and have fun.”
She picked up her bag and headed to the door. She found the bicycle propped up by the front steps and hung her bag over the handlebar. As she pedaled through the quickening rain, she couldn’t help but remember another bicycle and another place, in another time. She pushed the memory aside. This was different, a cottage in Grantchester, not a little house on the edge of the moors at midsummer. She turned toward the gate and left her bicycle in the rack beside the guard’s hut. The rain filled the silent, gray morning with a constant, whispering patter as it landed on the dead leaves and pavement.
Francis waited by the car, his coat over his head. He smiled when Ilona spotted him and he opened the door for her. He had left the engine running and the car was a warm haven against the damp chill. He climbed in beside her and kissed her.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful.” She tried to restore her hair to some semblance of order. “Why do we almost always get the rain?”
“I don’t know.” Francis pushed a damp lock of her hair away from her face. “But it really doesn’t matter, does it?” He put the car into gear and peered through the small, clear space left by the windscreen wipers. “I’ll tell you, now, I’d much rather be flying a plane than driving this car in the rain. I can see why Harry wasn’t too fussed about lending it to me.”
Ilona sat in silence and let him concentrate on driving. Francis whistled tunelessly while he drove and she wondered whether he did that when he flew, and imagined that it would drive his squadron mates to distraction if he did. It was hard for her to push memories of Ian aside, determined as she was to give Francis her full attention. She gazed out of the rain-splattered window. The flat landscape was drenched beneath a restless, sullen sky that promised even more rain. The enormity of what she was about to do finally sank in. Ian had been the only man she’d ever known intimately. She realized that she really hadn’t thought the matter through at all. A mixture of relief for Francis’ safe return and a desperate desire for physical comfor
t had led to this. She hoped that it would be enough.
Ilona bit her lip and stole a glance at her companion. His hand rested on top of the gear stick and she tried to imagine that hand touching her, trailing across her skin. Longing stirred inside her and she shut her eyes for a moment. It was a beautiful hand, slender and long fingered. Ilona remembered how those fingers had strayed in the crowded darkness of Harry’s car. She curled her hands into the folds of her coat and tried to distract herself with the passing scenery. It would be enough. The fact that she remembered those moments made her realize that she wanted more.
The day was dark and it was only mid-morning. She hoped that the cottage was warm and dry. Francis followed a succession of narrow country lanes, lined with bare and black hedges and dotted with the occasional house, where lights glowed softly out of windows into the mid-winter gloom. It was a good day for not going anywhere and she was relieved when he glanced at the little hand-drawn map and announced that the turn-off was close by.
“It should be around here somewhere,” he muttered. “There should be a little sign saying Poplar Cottage on the left.”
Ilona peered out of the window and spied a gap in the hedge and, beyond that, a row of poplar trees. “I should think it’s just here.” A small, white sign on a gatepost told her that she was right. “This is it.”
“Well spotted, Hawkeye.” He grinned and turned the car onto a rutted, muddy track that trailed along the edge of an open field. The poplars ran along the other side of the track and led the way to the cottage, almost hidden at the bottom of the lane by a circle of more poplars. Their branches reached toward the heavy sky. The cottage was small, white with two tiny dormer windows peeking out of a thatched roof. Ilona noticed a thin plume of smoke rising from the chimney. She stared at the upstairs windows and hid her shaking hands in her pockets.
“Mrs. Callow said she would light the fires for us,” Francis told her, when he pulled the car up in front of the door. “The key should be under the flowerpot on the porch. If you open the door, I’ll fetch everything from the car.”
Ilona climbed out of the car and hurried to the front porch. A single, empty pot rested beside the door and the key was there. She fumbled with the ancient lock and nudged the door open. She stepped into the front room, lit only by the flickering, orange light of the fire. It was not as spartan as Francis had implied. There was a large settee, covered in faded chintz, in front of the fire and armchairs on either side. It seemed very cozy to her.
Francis walked in behind her. “Very nice.” He set their bags down and brought a box in from the porch. “Food,” he said. “We won’t starve. Now, where’s the kitchen?”
Ilona took a deep breath and closed the door. This was it. There was no driving or rain to distract them. No family members would burst into the room and interrupt, there would be no air raid sirens, just Francis and her. She thrust her trembling hands back into her coat pockets and followed him out of the front room into a small hallway. Stairs rose from one end and a door leading to the kitchen marked the other. It was small, with a well-scrubbed linoleum floor, and a huge black range dominated one wall. It was lit and cast off comforting warmth. Francis set the box on the table next to a basket of eggs. “Ah, we’ve been left a note.” He handed it to Ilona and searched for the larder.
She read it aloud. “Dear Captain and Mrs. Robson, welcome to Poplar Cottage. As promised, I’ve lit the fires and there is plenty of firewood in the shed by the back door. You should have more than enough for five days. I’ve left you a dozen eggs and there’s a pint of milk and a bit of butter. If you need any more, just drive up to the farmhouse, which is the next turning off the main road, and I will happily provide some. I hope that you find everything in order and that you have a lovely time while you’re here. It’s a shame about the weather but, perhaps, it will pick up a little in a day or two. Please let me know if there’s anything else that you need. Sincerely, Irma Callow.”
She set the note down and watched her companion empty the box into the larder. “What did you do? Rob a shop?”
He laughed. “That’s the beauty of being with the good old USAAF. We have a very good store on the base now. I told you we wouldn’t starve.”
There was cheese, bread, several packages wrapped in white butcher’s paper, tins of pineapples and peaches, tins of peas and carrots, and she counted four bottles of wine. “Don’t tell me you bought the wine on the base.”
“Nope. Those are from Harry’s friend, the landlord. Four bottles of very old burgundy, courtesy of Harry.” He set them on the countertop, alongside a packet of tea. “I couldn’t get coffee but, since you’re English, I thought you’d prefer tea anyway.” He tucked the box under the table and took her hand. “Now, that’s the domestic stuff over and done with, shall we explore?”
Ilona looked at him. The small things were addressed. She could no longer hide her apprehension behind putting food away or talking about the weather.
“Your hand is shaking,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”
“I’m nervous.” There seemed little point in dancing around the truth. When she walked up the stairs with Francis, she would be leaving Ian behind. She thought she had dealt with her ghosts and with the memories. There was too much about this that was familiar—an old cottage, hiding from the war, seeking refuge from the grind of everyday life and danger. Everything churned inside her and she struggled to speak. She had made a promise to move on with her life and she had to leave Ian behind. He was no longer there to make love to her. Ilona still wasn’t sure whether it was just pure physical need that had brought her to this moment or whether there was something more in Francis that pulled at her like the tide.
“It’s all right, Ilke.” His hand was warm on her face. “It’s okay to feel this way. This isn’t something I intend to take lightly. I won’t rush you. I won’t force you…not if you don’t want to.”
She closed her eyes when he brushed at the tears that clung to her eyelashes. “I do want to,” she told him. “There’s nothing I want more than to walk up those stairs with you.” Her eyes stung and she managed a shaky smile. “I do need you, Francis.”
“Are you sure?”
His concern tugged at her. The die had been cast months before in the middle of a country lane on a summer evening. She took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m sure.”
He took her hand once more. “Thank you, darling. Everything will be all right. I promise you.”
He led her into the hall and up the dark, lopsided staircase. There were only two doors off the landing, one for the bathroom and another led into the bedroom, which was warm and darkened by the beamed ceiling. The bed faced the two small windows, which admitted watery gray light into the room.
“This will do very nicely.” Francis turned to face her.
“Yes, it will.” She trembled when he put his hand under her chin.
He looked at her for a long time and Ilona gazed steadily back. The final shreds of apprehension disappeared and she reached for him.
“Ilke, darling,” he whispered before kissing her. His hands crept to her hips and pulled her toward him.
She put her arms around his neck and gave in, responding with equal fire until he groaned and began to work at the buttons on her jacket, pushing it away with great impatience as she struggled with the buttons on his. He released the knot from her tie and the buttons of her shirt fell away under his fingers. She kissed his throat as he shrugged out of his shirt, letting it drop to the floor. Somehow, they found the bed, leaving the rest of their clothes behind. The last fragile memories of her first, great love were swept away. There was nothing gentle or reverent about the way Francis touched her. His hands left a trail of fire in their wake and he quivered when she touched him. He moved with a certainty that left her breathless, as if he intended to take possession of every inch of her. He drew her toward him until there was no space between them, covering her face with kisses and plunging his hands into her hair. The muscles on h
is back rippled beneath her fingers and he sighed, returning to her lips as if he sought to breathe her breath. There were no whispered endearments, just a wordless collision, full of heat and fury and wildness. She breathed in the scent of his aftershave and, beneath that, the scent of his skin. It brought with it echoes of a summer’s dusk and of a cold, gray afternoon and many more memories besides. There was an inevitability about this moment and, when he finally slipped into her, he released a long steady, sigh. “Ah, God, Ilke.” He buried his face in her neck. “Ilke.”
Ilona gathered him into her, reveling in the warmth and he moved with an artless grace that she did her best to follow, the only music the endless song of the rain and his quickening breaths. He found that deep, elemental part of her and set it free. Only then did she break her silence, crying out when she left the rain and the fire behind, following him into the light that he had made for her. He consumed her. Francis was everywhere around her. She collapsed in his arms and sobbed because she didn’t know what else to do and he fell against her, spent and exhausted. He whispered her name and held onto her. They lay in silence for a while, listening to the relentless rain and the sporadic hiss and crackle of the fire. Ilona let her hands drift to his face and she turned to look at him, feeling weak and lost for words because thank you seemed inadequate.
“Are you all right?” He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his fingers.
She nodded, smiled and kissed him, losing her hands in his tousled hair. “Very much so.”
“See.” He grinned. “I’m not just a pilot.”
“No, you’re certainly much more than that.”
“I never slept a wink last night,” he told her. “Thinking about being here, like this.”
“I feel guilty, because I slept well, but then, I’ve spent the past few weeks doing nothing but thinking about this.” She sighed. “I’m sorry about…earlier.”
A Kestrel Rising Page 17
