One London Night

by Denise A. Agnew

  Jealousy spiked for a moment inside Sylvie, and she squashed it. Ridiculous. She’d just come here from America, and years had passed since she’d last seen Alec. She had no claim on him and never would. She shoved aside the pain the thought gave her.

  To say Sylvie was agog at how bold Jillian and Ruby had become was an understatement. At the same time, she couldn’t help smiling. She liked them more now than when she’d known them before.

  “I think, if the terminology is right, you are taking the Micky out of me, aren’t you?” Sylvie asked.

  Jillian and Ruby laughed, and Sylvie’s chuckle followed.

  “Are you trying to avoid answering my questions?” Sylvie asked.

  Ruby waved one grimy hand. “Lord, no. You know us, Miss Hunnicut. Never could manage our sense of humor.”

  Sylvie poised her pencil above her writing pad. “Good. Let’s get started. Why did you both come over here rather than stay at my grandparent’s house?”

  Both women glanced at each other with apprehension.

  Sylvie smiled. “It’s all right. I won’t tell a soul your reasons. It won’t go into the newspaper. It’s my own curiosity.”

  Ruby answered first by clearing her throat and launching into her story. “Well, to be perfectly honest, your grandfather is right difficult to work with. We knew if we stayed at Chestville, we’d be worked to the bone and then some. Here we get time off, good food, better treatment. We’re hoping they might want to keep us on when the war finishes.”

  “Mr. Kent…Edward Kent that is, is downright gruff, but he treats us fairly.” Jillian winced. “We knew that wouldn’t be the case at your grandparent’s house.”

  Sylvie didn’t know what to say. “My grandmother was always kind to you, right?”

  Jillian shrugged. “Depended on the day and the time. As she’s got older, she tends to go along with your grandfather more. She does pretty much whatever he tells her to do.”

  Ruby leaned forward, her voice filled with conspiracy. “He doesn’t much like the fact women are taking over in factories and doing men’s jobs. Like the AFS.”

  Sylvie felt indignation sweeping her up in the tide. “Women aren’t taking over, they’re just participating more.”

  “Tell that to Mr. Hunnicut,” Jillian said.

  She couldn’t find genuine fault with what they’d said. Her grandfather had been pompous forever, at least as far as she could detect. When he purchased the Baronet, many years back, his disposition hadn’t improved, but instead turned more arrogant.

  “I see.” Sylvie decided to switch tactics with the ladies and get down to business. “All right. Let’s talk real life. I want to know everything you can tell me about being a Land Girl.”

  “Everything?” Ruby’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t mean that, Miss Hunnicut.”

  “All right. Maybe not everything. Let’s start off with this. What made you decide to be Land Girls rather than try to join the Red Cross or AFS or help in some other way?”

  Jillian leaned forward. “My parents are dead you know, so I’ve been on my own for years. Going to London sounded frightening. Working the land and doing my bit that way seemed the right thing to do. I don’t have family anywhere else…no one else save my friends in Huntingdon and Ruby.”

  Ruby clapped her friend on the back. “My parents live in Warboys, so I can visit anytime without too much trouble and go home for holidays. Jillian always comes with me. I’ve got ten brothers and sisters, all working my folk’s land. They don’t need me there all the time.” She put a hand to her chest. “But they’re right proud of me.”

  Jillian looked past Sylvie and grinned. “Want the full tour of what we’re doing? We’d love to show you. That is, if Mr. Alec doesn’t mind.”

  Sylvie turned and saw Alec coming down the steps leading into the garden area. Her heart thumped and then picked up speed. The man’s undeniable effect on her made Sylvie want to scream. She didn’t like it, but her body didn’t seem to care. Today he wore rough work pants, gloves clasped in one hand. In the other hand he held a bag that had garden tools sticking out of it. Atop his head, a broad-brimmed hat with a chin strap. He cut quite the rugged figure

  His smile, bright and interested, looked genuine. “If I’ll allow what?”

  “A tour of their work area?” Sylvie asked.

  “Of course. Tour anything you want. When you get done, can you stop back here? I need to ask you something.”

  Sylvie hesitated, and she caught Ruby and Jillian’s dubious looks. Sylvie cleared her throat. “Of course.”

  As she turned and left, she wondered what he could possibly want.

  * * * *

  “Your grandparents agreed to come to dinner Wednesday,” Alec said. “That is amazing.”

  “It is.”

  “Do you think it a good idea?” he asked.

  Sylvie shrugged. “I don’t think telling them to be on their best behavior will do any good, do you?”

  He laughed, face alight with good humor. Right now he looked more like the boy she’d known than a jaded man. His mother’s worry had stained her perception of him, and now she kept searching for alarming signs about his mental condition.

  Sylvie walked along the grounds with Alec, her notebook and pencil stuffed back into her pocketbook. When she’d asked Jillian and Ruby everything she thought she could and took copious notes, she’d left them with a promise to say good-bye before she left for London. She needed to call in this story in as soon as possible, but her walk with Alec seemed almost as important. That irritated her.

  She didn’t want a man to come between her and being a war correspondent. Last thing she needed was the old drudges back home thinking she couldn’t do the job they’d sent her to accomplish. Yet here she was, taking her leisurely time with Alec Kent because she wanted to experience being near him yet another time. Walking with him reminded her of September seventh and how sunny and nice it had been that first day of the London bombing.

  “I hear London got hit again yesterday,” she said.

  His expression turned grave. “They targeted central London, Royal Courts of Justice, Chelsea barracks, Hyde Park, the Strand.”

  “Maybe there won’t be anything left of London when I get there. No reporting to do other than on wreck and ruin.”

  “Perhaps. It’s what you wanted, right?”

  “Not the wreck and ruin, but the chance to report on the war.”

  “Are you afraid to go to London?”

  She pondered the question as they continued their stroll. “I should be, but…I don’t know. It’s a strange feeling. Fear wrapped in excitement. Or excitement wrapped in fear.”

  He laughed. “I can tell you’re a journalist. It’s on your tongue.”

  “People have always said I have a way with words. You told me that once.”

  “I was a damned foolish boy. But I agree you have the talent for it.”

  “Maybe you should read one of my stories first before you think that.”

  Again they walked in silence until he piped up.

  “Got a call from the man in London who is talking with me about the AFS next Monday,” he said.

  “And?”

  “He sounded enthusiastic that I was coming to London. It surprised me if you want to know the truth, Sylvie.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve already told him I’m blind in one eye. He shouldn’t be enthusiastic at all.”

  She tripped on a root, and Alec’s hand shot out to right her. She fell against his side, and his arm looped around her waist. Renewed excitement tingled from every point where they touched. Her body melted with a warmth that made her breath catch. She couldn’t move, braced against his tall, strong body by his muscular arm.

  “All right?” he asked softly, his deep voice and his eyes warming her heart.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  He winked and let her go. “Always thought you were more coordinated than that, Miss Hunnicut.”

  “And
I never knew you were so strong, Mr. Kent.”

  They laughed, and in that moment her heart was lighter than it had been in a long time.

  They walked a bit longer and she said, “Your mother will be receptive to the idea of reconciliation, won’t she?”

  His big shoulders rolled as he shrugged. “Perhaps. Mother is rather browned off. But she is more often than not.”

  She didn’t say that his mother hadn’t seemed angry, but rather altered, a warmer and kinder woman than before. “Why?”

  “She’s certain father will do something to drive you all from the house before we even eat.”

  Sylvie could imagine. “Let us hope not. You’ll be there?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know. You seemed…when I saw you the other day, you didn’t seem…enthused about much of anything.” She glanced up at him.

  “You’re mistaken,” he said crisply. “Will I see you Wednesday night?”

  “Of course.”

  They stopped strolling, and she realized now was the time to leave. “I should go. I have to post this story.”

  He nodded, the motion more a gallant English bow. “I’m sorry if I was sharp just then. People…”

  He faded away, and she couldn’t let it hang there without an answer. “People?”

  He turned full toward her, so close she could feel his warmth and bask in it.

  “Never mind. How are you getting to London Friday?”

  “Taxi and train, and after that the underground.”

  “I’ll drive you to where you need to go.”

  Surprise rippled through her. “Are you sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Her mouth opened and closed.

  “I’ve surprised you, I can see,” he said.

  “Yes.” She looked down and fiddled with the handle of her pocketbook. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. It’ll be awkward.”

  When she glanced up, his face was filled with consternation. He didn’t say anything at first, but then he nodded. “As you wish. See you Wednesday night.”

  As he left, a sinking sensation gripped her stomach.

  Chapter 3

  News Of The Day

  New York Herald Tribune

  The Woman’s Land Army, or Land Girls, work from sunup to sundown in many cases, their lives filled with the toil of providing food for the nation. They are wives, sisters, and mothers. Land Girls are a diverse group. Most already live in the countryside, but quite a few come from London and industrial cities in the north of England. They have replaced many of the men who once worked in agriculture. Land Girls worked the Great War, with as many as 250,000 at the end of 1917. In that war, many farmers were against women working in their fields in nontraditional roles. This was despite the fact over three million men were away fighting. In the here and now, there are still men against women taking traditional male jobs, but this time they have little choice.

  Women simply must help keep the country running, whether that means working in the AFS (Auxiliary Fire Service), driving ambulances, working in munitions factories, or completing grueling work as a Land Girl. They endure hard work for as little as 28 shillings a week, but most seem cheerful and ready to do their bit. Certainly there is nothing glamorous in what they do. They clean up pig muck, pick maggots off sheep, run farm equipment, and milk cows. There are dangers to be had in their work. Many plough fields where Germans have dropped surplus bombs. Many live in homes with no indoor plumbing or electricity. Breakfast sometimes consists of bread fried in farmer’s bacon fat, and if they’re very lucky. the bacon itself. In the summer, they start at five in the morning and may not stop until midnight…

  * * * *

  Wednesday, September 11

  Alec’s apprehension rose when he heard the car roll up to the front door and then the door knocker banging through Kent House that evening. He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. A cocktail hour followed by dinner and a late night to bed. He itched be to somewhere else. London, in fact. He wanted to be in the thick of things. He was damned ready to help, and instead he wasted time.

  Patience. You’ll be there soon enough.

  He’d never been long on patience and knew it qualified as one of his many faults. He walked to the mirror over his dresser and stared into his own eyes. He was used to seeing the slightly clouded one—hell, he was used to the limitations it posed in his life. He’d been damned surprised they’d allowed him a driver’s license.

  He shoved away the doubts and worries and concentrated on getting through the evening.

  He’d shaved and wore his best suit, a charcoal in the latest style, purchased from a men’s shop in London. His passed his fingers through his hair, which needed a cut. His father had told him so more than once, but he ignored him. He liked his hair a bit longer, and looks didn’t concern him one way or the other.

  So why are you dressing for the evening in a suit?

  “You look like a bloody toff.”

  He sighed and shook his head. He didn’t look forward to his parents and the Hunnicuts coming together. Some part of him believed it was easier to keep it the same. Another part found reconciliation appealing. He’d been a bloody fool asking Sylvie to accompany him to London. He’d given her no good reason to want to accompany him.

  “Never mind, Kent. Get on with it.”

  He left his room and headed downstairs. He stopped at the head of the stairs, and everyone in the foyer looked up. Five faces reflected a variety of expectations. His father looked dismayed, his mother sparkling with happiness. Both of them had dressed in their best finery, his mother a picture of a stately woman in an understated green dress. Father wore a suit similar to his.

  The elder Hunnicuts wore fancier clothing. Mr. Hunnicut’s suit looked like it had come from a decade before, and so did Mrs. Hunnicut’s blue velvet dress. Alec’s gaze snagged on Sylvie, and her presence hit him in the gut. As she always had, she took his breath and wouldn’t give it back.

  She’d left her tangle of hair down about her shoulders, and she wore a beautiful gray suit that hugged her curves just enough to give a man hot dreams but not enough to offend the stuffier set. Her dress was cut below the knee, but even though it was modest, it flowed around her knees in a way that teased.

  Her legs caught his attention and held it for way too long. He’d found her alluring in the pants she’d worn when he saw her last—but this dress—this he’d dream about for days. Her gaze caught his and held, and for a second he thought he belonged in one of those romantic movies women swooned over. He was Cary Grant or even John Wayne. She was Greta Garbo or Rita Hayworth.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  Everyone murmured their greetings as he came down the stairs, and his parents led the way into the parlor where Barton and Cook had set up drinks for the social hour. Before long, they sipped red wine Father had kept in the wine cellar for ages. While his parents and the elder Hunnicuts sat on couches and chairs, he stayed on his feet. Something about standing apart made him feel more secure.

  Mr. Hunnicut had settled next to his wife on a couch, while Sylvie stood near the couch. Maybe she felt the same way he did about higher ground.

  “Do sit down,” his mother said.

  “I need to walk around.” Sylvie smiled and strode over to Alec.

  Alec threw her a tentative smile before sipping his red wine. “Sat all day?”

  Sylvie kept her voice elevated so everyone could hear. “Reports to write up.”

  “Tell us more about your career, my dear. I know I’d love to hear about it,” Alec’s mother said from her place next to his father on the other couch in the parlor.

  Holding her glass of wine and looking uncomfortable, Sylvie smiled first at Alec and then at the rest of the room.

  “I don’t know where to start,” she said.

  “Did you have to attend university to be a war correspondent?” Alec’s mother asked.

  “If I hadn’t taken journal
ism courses, I’m not sure they would have hired me.” After taking a sip of wine, Sylvie responded. “I wrote poems and attempted novels when I was younger. I thought I wanted to be a novelist.”

  “That wasn’t practical, of course,” Mrs. Hunnicut said. “Your parents had the good sense to make sure you understood that.”

  Alec felt an instinctive kick in the gut, an eagerness to defend Sylvie’s desires to do what she wanted and when she wanted. He understood being told what to do and how far to go. He choked down the desire to tell her grandmother where to stuff it.

  Sylvie gave her grandmother a dismayed glance. “That’s why I took journalism courses at Bryn Mawr. I found I genuinely liked the courses and my grades were very good. My professors encouraged me.”

  “Humph.”

  Alec’s father made the noise in his throat, and Sylvie’s expression tightened. Alec wanted to tell his father to stick it up his jumper.

  “I’m sorry I will not get to read your work.” Mrs. Hunnicut smiled at her granddaughter. “I did so enjoy what I read before…what your mother sent us.”

  Surprise raced across Sylvie’s features so quickly Alec doubted his eyes. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

  Mr. Hunnicut injected a different view as he crossed his legs and placed his wine glass on the small table next to him. “This war has given women a lot of notions. In my day, a woman had specific duties in the home. Only spinsters went to university, and not even very many of them. What do you think, Edward?”

  Every muscle in Alec’s body tightened and the room seemed to hold its breath. When he glanced at Sylvie, her eyes had gone cool and her mouth was a straight line.

  Alec’s father answered with, “Well, I’m from a different generation, of course. We do have women in far more occupations than when you were younger, Harold.”

  “Women have been reporting wars since the nineteenth century,” Sylvie said, her voice clear. “Margaret Fuller reported for the New York Tribune, covering Italian uprisings in 1848 and the bombardment of Rome by the French Army. There was Cora Taylor-Crane who reported on the Turkish War in 1897. There have been dozens of others. It isn’t as rare as many think.”