Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  A cold prickling began at the base of her spine, spreading through her limbs until even her hands began to tremble. Turning the envelope over, Susan slit it with her nail and withdrew the single sheet of paper.

  I am writing to you on behalf of Lt. Paul Overdone at the bequest of his fellow pilots. On December 1, 1940, Lt. Overdone was badly injured…

  An anguished sob burst from her throat. The paper fell from her nerveless fingers.

  No. Not Paul. Please, not Paul.

  Forcing herself to pick up the letter again, she tried to continue, but her brain was suddenly incapable of assimilating the words.

  …bombing raid…fire…ditched into the Channel…badly burned…hospital…

  She fought to breathe, black spots swirling in front of her eyes.

  …If you could see fit to visit at Nocton Hall…raise his spirits…

  Susan jumped to her feet and hurried upstairs. Taking a suitcase from the hall closet, she filled it with underwear, a few changes of clothing, then her toiletries. She knew she was probably forgetting something, something important, but it wasn’t as if she were going to the moon. There would be shops in Lincolnshire if she needed something badly enough.

  Rushing down the stairs again, she slid her arms into her coat and pinned her hat to her head. Then, scrawling a quick note to Phillip, she prayed that he wouldn’t think she’d gone to Bedlam by taking a hasty trip to see a wounded flyer.

  Carefully locking up the house, she hurried through the gap in the hedge.

  To her relief, when she burst into the kitchen, RueAnn was there alone, stirring a pot of soup that bubbled redolently from the stove.

  “There you are. I was just about to send Richard over to fetch…you…” RueAnn’s gaze fell on the suitcase and a pallor leeched into her skin. “Is something wrong with Sara?”

  Susan shook her head, trying to wave away her concern. “No, I…I…”

  She suddenly burst into tears.

  RueAnn took the suitcase from her nerveless fingers and ushered her toward the chair.

  “What’s happened?”

  “A-A friend of mine…Paul…he’s been…wounded…”

  And then, unbidden, the whole story—from switching places with her sister, to stealing his letters, to discovering he’d been hurt—spilled from his lips in a jumbled mess.

  Her confession was like a purging, filled with self-recrimination and stolen joy, and having suddenly unburdened herself, she shuddered, feeling empty and at a loss.

  RueAnn stood. And for a moment, Susan feared that she was so shocked at Susan’s conduct that the other women meant to leave the room. Rather, she moved to the larder and withdrew a piece of cheese wrapped in a cloth.

  “You’ll need something to eat on the train,” she said as she began to slice dense bread and slivers of cheese. “Do you have time for a bowl of soup before you go?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? I took my sister’s place. I stole her letters. All this time, I’ve been pretending to be her. I can’t go to Paul. I don’t have the right to even talk to him after the way I’ve deceived him.”

  “Did I ever tell you how Charlie and I came to be married?”

  “No.”

  RueAnn leaned back against the counter, her fingers curling around the edge in a white-knuckle grip.

  “I’d known Charlie hardly any time at all before we…” she struggled for words “…became incredibly intimate.” She lifted a shoulder in a self-deprecating shrug. “It was wrong. We didn’t even know each other.” Her eyes focused on some long ago scene. “And yet, when he touched me…I felt…safe.”

  The kitchen pulsed with long moments of silence.

  “Then my father burst into the room where we were staying, threatening me. Charlie.” She bit her lip. “Charlie married me to protect me.”

  She crossed to sit in the chair next to Susan’s. “I both loved and hated Charlie for doing that because, within hours, he was gone again.”

  Susan couldn’t prevent the way her brows rose in surprise.

  “That’s right. I knew Charlie for less than a day.”

  “And yet, you came here when you heard he was missing.”

  RueAnn shook her head. “I found that out when I arrived.”

  “Then…why? Why would you come to England, knowing that we were at war?”

  RueAnn’s laugh was bitter. “If you only knew how many times I’d been asked that very question.” She sobered, taking Susan’s hand.

  “I came, because—inadvertently or by design—Charlie took a packet of letters I’d written. In them, I’d poured out every secret, every sordid, selfish, horrible detail of my existence onto paper. There were things there that I had written for no one’s eyes but my own. I burned with shame and betrayal. This man—a man I’d known only a few hours—didn’t just know my body. If he’d read the letters—and I was sure he had—he knew my soul. I couldn’t live with that. I couldn’t bear to think that he was delving into the festering wounds of my childhood as if he were carelessly enjoying a Penny Dreadful and never once had he even acknowledged doing so.

  “So I came to retrieve the letters and perhaps obtain a divorce. Then I would return to the States.”

  Susan regarded her friend in shock.

  “What I didn’t count on was a war, constant bombardments, and…falling in love.”

  “With Charlie?”

  RueAnn’s gaze was sad. “I still don’t know Charlie. I was so sure that what I felt for him that long ago day was a form of love. But he’s as much a stranger to me now as he was then.”

  “Then…what?”

  “I’ve fallen in love with this,” RueAnn said, waving her arm at the room around her. “I’ve fallen in love with this home, my new family of sorts. I’ve fallen in love with the person I’ve become. You see, I’m in the midst of a war, but I’m not frightened anymore. Because I have a place here and people who need me.

  “But I’m still terrified of one thing: that moment when Charlie returns, fully aware of my secrets. How will it change things between us?” She leaned close to whisper huskily, “The only thing that could be more terrifying…is if he doesn’t return at all.”

  She squeezed Susan’s hand. “Go to Paul. No matter what happens. Because the only thing worse than facing him…is if you don’t and you’re never given that opportunity again.”

  The warmth of RueAnn’s hand sank into Susan’s chilled flesh for a moment longer. Then she stood and finished wrapping up the sandwich she’d made.

  “I’ll take care of Phillip and the house. Don’t worry about anything here.”

  Susan stood, calmer now, more resolved. RueAnn was right. She had to see Paul. She had to take this mess to its conclusion, no matter what that conclusion might be.

  “I’ll call as soon as I’ve seen Paul and know how long I’ll be in Lincolnshire.”

  RueAnn smiled. “We’ll be here.”

  • • •

  As RueAnn placed the last of the supper dishes into the hot water she’d poured into the sink, she rolled her shoulders to ease their ache.

  So much had happened as autumn had given way to winter. Edna was beginning to show marked progress. Her speech grew more distinct and she even managed to stand on her own and take a few steps with the aid of a cane and a supporting arm.

  With the return of a portion of her independence, her mood improved as well. She soon became the hub of the household, seeing that the boarders were comfortable and well-fed. Each weekend, she spent hours poring over her recipe books. With the help of Mr. Peabody’s typewriter, which he loaned to her every Sunday, she planned out the menus and shopping lists, including a few alternate selections should shortages put a crimp in her plans. When RueAnn cooked, she would watch her progress, tapping the counter with her cane if RueAnn forgot an ingredient or Edna felt the dish needed extra spices.

  RueAnn doted on Edna as she would her own mother, and in doing so, she realized that this act of nurturing was a part of her nature
that had been missing since she’d run away from Defiance and everything it represented. She had sworn then that she would have nothing to do with marriage or children or caring for a house. She’d already done her “mothering.” She’d all but raised her younger siblings, and look where that had got her. Except for Astra, they believed her the demon child as much as her father.

  But in coming to England, in confronting her own hasty marriage, RueAnn had inadvertently thrust herself back into the very role she’d sworn she would never play again: that of running a household. But here, where each day felt like a lifetime away from her existence in Defiance, she grew more confident. And in doing so, she admitted that she needed to be needed.

  “Such thoughts will only get you wrinkles.”

  RueAnn started when the deep voice came from behind her. Whirling toward the sound, she almost expected to see Charlie, but it was Richard Carr who leaned casually in the doorway.

  “Still worried about Louise?” he asked softly.

  Unwilling to explain the thrust of her thoughts, she nodded. It had been nearly a week now since the older woman had come to work. RueAnn had sent Phillip to her home to see if she’d fallen ill, but he’d returned ashen, saying the block had been leveled. RueAnn didn’t want to think the worst. She wanted to believe Louise had gone to visit her sister in Surrey, or was lying in a hospital somewhere. But knowing Louise’s dedication to the family, she feared, like so many others, that Louise had become a casualty.

  “D-did you need something?” she asked, her voice tight, her gaze skittering away from Richard’s like drops of water on a hot stove.

  He shook his head. Where Charlie was fair and sandy-haired, Richard was dark—dark hair, dark eyes, his skin ruddy from work in the cold and wind.

  “I came to ask you if you’d come with me to the New Year’s Dance at the Officer’s Club.”

  Of all the things she might have expected him to say, this would have been the last. She gaped at him, dishwater dripping onto the floor.

  “I-I’m married, Mr. Carr. You know that.”

  “It’s just a dance.” He straightened, coming toward her. “I don’t know anyone else, really. And it’s one of those parties I’m expected to attend.” He waved an idle hand to the kitchen. “Besides, if anyone deserves an evening of fun, it’s you.”

  She turned back to her task, rinsed the last of the cups, then reached for a towel. “I don’t think it would be a good idea. Perhaps Susan will be back by then.”

  “But I don’t want to take Susan.” There was a note to his voice, like a ribbon of chocolate that was at once tempting and forbidden. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

  “Mr. Carr—”

  “Richard.”

  “Mr. Carr, I don’t think—”

  He touched her shoulders, turning her. She didn’t realize how close he’d come. She could feel the heat of his body seeping into her own. And, sweet heaven above, she wanted to bask in that warmth. Just as she’d discovered she needed to nurture and belong to something akin to a family, she felt herself weakening under the thought of companionship. More than anything, she wanted to feel like a woman again, however briefly. She longed for the simple clasp of a man’s hand around her own, his arm around her waist.

  Perhaps her father had been right. He’d accused her of being a carnal creature determined to stray from God’s commands. Jacob Boggs would not have been surprised that she would toy with her vows to another man, that she would be tempted by a single night of fun when her husband was missing, perhaps imprisoned, wounded, or worse.

  “Will you come with me?” Richard asked, one of his fingers skimming her cheek.

  She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the sensations that single point of contact awakened.

  “Please?”

  She shouldn’t go. It would be wrong, so wrong.

  But even as her conscience begged her to reconsider, she nodded.

  “Good.” The finger strayed, touching her bottom lip. “The dance is at seven, so I’ll collect you at the bottom of the staircase at six-thirty.”

  Then, he backed from the room, his smile filled with triumph and satisfaction.

  As soon as he’d disappeared, she gripped the counter. Regrets swirled around her. She should run after him and tell him she’d changed her mind. It was the right thing to do.

  But her feet were rooted to the floor and an echo of her father’s voice reverberated in her head. She could picture him so clearly, standing in front of her, a box of writhing snakes held out toward her.

  Mark my words, the devil has you in his grip and you will not escape damnation. You will spend your days living in the fires of hell.

  Lifting her eyes to the smoke-smudged London skyline, her mouth twisted into a rueful grimace. She’d already lived through the fires of hell night after night, day after day.

  So what did it matter if the devil marked her as his own?

  • • •

  Lincolnshire, England

  Susan’s train arrived in Nocton long after dark. Since the specialized burn hospital was located several miles into the country, she found an inn and booked a room, surrendering her ration card so that two meals would be included during her stay. After arranging for the bellboy to take her suitcase upstairs, she followed the gaunt proprietress into the pub.

  “Would you be wantin’ a corner where it’s quieter?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The woman ushered her to a shadowy spot away from the bar and a knot of RAF airman playing darts and drinking pints. One of the men sported an arm in a sling while another struggled to play with his hands and part of his face swathed in bandages.

  “Are you here for Founder’s Day?”

  Susan shook her head, accepting the one page menu. “No. I’m visiting someone. In a hospital nearby.”

  “You must mean Nocton Hall.”

  “Yes. That’s the one.”

  “Family? A sweetheart?”

  Susan hesitated before saying, “A sweetheart.”

  The woman clucked sympathetically. “Never you worry, dearie. They do good work with our boys, they do.” She motioned to the group playing darts. “Those lads are from the hospital. We get quite a few of them in here.” She gestured to the menu. “I’ll give you a minute to look things over, then I’ll come get your order. Would you like a drink in the meantime?”

  Susan hesitated, then asked, “Have you any ginger beer?”

  “I believe we might have a bottle. Let me check.”

  Susan forced herself to glance at the menu as the woman wove her way through the tables. There weren’t many choices, but it had been a long time since she’d eaten the sandwich RueAnn had given her, so all of the dishes looked good.

  “Here you are!” The woman set a large glass of bubbly liquid on the table. “Have you decided what you’d like?”

  “Shepherd’s Pie.”

  “Lovely. I’ll be right out with it. In the meantime, if you need something, ask for Mary.”

  She’d taken a few steps when Susan stopped her.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me how far it is to the hospital?”

  The woman considered her answer for a moment, then said vaguely, “It’s a bit of a walk, I’m afraid.” Her face suddenly brightened. “If you could hold off until mid-morning, the laundry next door makes a delivery to the hospital. The woman in charge is a friend of mine, and I’m sure she’d be happy to give you a lift in exchange for the company.”

  “I don’t want to impose—”

  “No imposition. I’ll ring her up and see what she says.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she moved away, Susan took a sip of ginger beer. In an instant, she was swamped by memories of the fancy dress party, Paul’s arm around her waist as they danced, the passion of his kisses.

  Her gaze slipped to the men playing darts. They were loud and boisterous, egging one another on, but there was no denying that their wounds caused them a great deal of pain.
It was etched in the lines around their eyes, the hitch to their steps, the fumbling movements of their hands.

  Would Paul be equally scarred or worse? She’d heard the stories, the way spilling fuel from a wounded aircraft would pour over the plane, igniting, so that when the canopy opened, a river of fire swept over the pilot. The hands and face were most vulnerable. And if the pilot ditched in the Channel, the cold salt-water could be excruciating until help came.

  “Here you are, dearie,” Mary said, setting a steaming crockery bowl in front of her. “Sally next door says you can drop by the laundry just before noon. Eat hearty so’s you can get a good night’s rest.”

  Susan nodded. But after her most recent train of thought, she wasn’t sure if she could eat it at all.

  • • •

  Just as she’d feared, Susan spent a sleepless night at The Two Horsemen. She alternated between yearning for morning to come so that she could rush to Paul’s side and praying for more time so that she could decide what to do.

  When dawn broke, her panic grew even more palpable. Paul must be gravely injured if she’d been contacted by a nurse to come lift his spirits. So what did that mean? Was he weak? Dying? Was it wise for her to see him at all? Should she have arranged for Sara to come instead?

  No, she thought in horror. She’d written things in her letters to Paul, things so personal and intimate that she couldn’t bear to have Sara read Paul’s replies. No, having Sara take her place would have been so complicated, so embarrassing…

  So incredibly easy?

  Feeling much like a thief plotting his grandest heist, she prepared herself carefully. Rather than simply combing her hair and holding it back with hairpins, she arranged her hair into Victory Curls—huge barrel rolls on either side of her face, and an artful chignon at the back.

  She’d originally planned on wearing her most serviceable serge suit, but she opted instead for a muted floral dress with a frilly organdy collar and cuffs. She carefully applied her make-up, more heavily than she had ever been accustomed to wearing. Finally, cringing at her vanity, she applied leg makeup—and twisting and turning in front of the mirror, drew a “seam” up the back of her calf.

  Then, with her energy suddenly drained, she collapsed onto the edge of the bed.