On Wings of Fire

by Frances Patton Statham

  “You think she got him?” Minton whispered.

  “I doubt it. I expect the shot merely scared the boar away,” Dow suggested.

  The sergeant, ahead of the other two, called out, “Look at this, sir. Jolly good shooting, wouldn’t you say? Right between the eyes.”

  Alpharetta walked as far as the stone slab of the ruins and, with her knees refusing to support her, sat down. When the men returned, Dow realized Alpharetta’s state of shock and helped her up from her seat and back into the car.

  In the space of one short morning, two men out of the three were hopelessly in love with Alpharetta Beaumont.

  The journey continued and by late afternoon the car turned off the main road and approached a manor house through a smaller, tree-lined avenue winding over rolling hills and meadows where cattle gazed.

  The vista, despite its formal terraces and statuary, no longer contained the gardens and wide expanses of grassy green so common to the country houses of England. Instead, the terraces were planted with grain—deep luscious green corn that rippled in the breeze as the car came to a stop in the courtyard of washed pebbles embedded in stone.

  Alpharetta looked up at the red brick, three-storied façade, the old leaded windows still intact, safe from the London blitz that had shattered even the windows of Buckingham Palace. A spume of smoke curled and wafted into the sky from one of the tall, massive old chimneys atop the gray slate roof, steep-pitched against the late afternoon sun.

  Alpharetta’s suspicions were confirmed by the man seated beside her.

  “This is Harrington Hall, Miss Beaumont.” And as an afterthought, he added, “My father is expecting us.”

  From his brief explanation, she knew they were spending the night in the ancestral home of the Pomeroys.

  The door to the manor house opened and a smiling young woman walked toward the car. “Dow, darling, we’ve been waiting all afternoon for you to arrive.”

  The air vice-marshal, climbing out of the back seat and walking past Eckerd, leaned over and kissed the woman. “Meg, it’s good to see you.”

  Sergeant Eckerd then helped Alpharetta out, and as she appeared and Meg realized someone else was with Dow, she stiffened.

  “Meg, may I present Miss Alpharetta Beaumont, a member of my staff.”

  Without acknowledging Alpharetta, she said, “I didn’t realize you had another woman on your staff, Dow. What happened to Birdie?”

  “She’s still my secretary,” he informed her. “Miss Beaumont, this is my fiancée, Lady Margaret Cranston.”

  Recovering her sense of etiquette, Meg looked at Alpharetta. And although not liking what she saw, she smiled and said, “Welcome to Harrington Hall, Miss Beaumont.”

  “Thank you.”

  Arm in arm, Meg and Dow walked toward the front door, manned by a stooped old butler dressed in black, while Flight Lieutenant Reggie Minton walked beside Alpharetta.

  “We have tea waiting in the family drawing room,” Meg informed Dow. “Father’s here, too.”

  “Welcome home, Master Dow,” the old man said, seeing the air vice-marshal as the same small boy he had fished out of the pond thirty years earlier.

  Dow smiled and nodded, “You’ll see to the bags, Andrew?”

  “At once, sir.”

  “Miss Beaumont is to be put in the green room, Andrew.”

  “The green room?” Meg questioned. “Wouldn’t it be better if she were—”

  “The green room,” Dow said, emphatically. “You’ll show her to the room, Meg?”

  She disguised her lack of enthusiasm. “Come with me, Miss Beaumont.”

  “We’ll expect you down shortly for tea,” Dow said and watched the women disappear along the hall toward the curving stairs. “Reggie, you know your way?” he inquired, turning to the airman.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, I’ll see you in the small drawing room later.”

  Dow left the hall and walked into the downstairs room where a white-haired old man sat beside the fire.

  “Dow, my boy, we’d about given you up,” the booming voice greeted him as the man slowly rose from his chair.

  “Hello, Father. Don’t get up.”

  Seated in the opposite chair and hastily putting out his pipe was the old man’s companion. “Lord Cranston. Good to see you again.”

  “Jolly good to see you’re finally here, Dow. Meg was afraid you’d gotten held up in London, with those blasted bombs coming down everywhere.”

  “What are you talking about, sir”

  Sir Edward, Dow’s father replied, “The rockets. It’s been on the news all day—the bloody secret weapon of the Germans. You didn’t see any of them?”

  The news disheartened Dow. So it had started. “We left early this morning.”

  “And a good thing,” Meg interposed, walking into the room. Then she sighed. “I guess we’ll have more little urchins than ever sent up here. And the school’s so crowded.”

  Dow, excusing himself, washed up and returned to the room a few minutes before Alpharetta and Reggie appeared together. After they were introduced to Sir Edward and Lord Cranston, the tea arrived and Meg began to pour it.

  This was so much more formal than the picnic at the ruins. To Alpharetta, it was as if she had suddenly stepped into one of the English novels that her teacher at Agnes Scott had enjoyed reading aloud, and holding up as the epitome of manners and civilization, with the tea ritual remaining steadfast and unshakable even in the darkest hour.

  She thought of Marsh’s letter from Normandy. “Can you believe it? The British officers actually took tea before leaving the gliders,” he had written of the invasion forces. And yet, sitting in the warmth of the wood-paneled room, with only a dog lying by the fireplace missing in the picture, Alpharetta thought there was something endearing about it—like a salute to civilization before the horror began.

  Sipping her tea and eating the cucumber sandwiches, Alpharetta was lost in her own past. A softness shaded the shimmering green of her eyes, as she remembered the tea parties with Anna Clare, the dressing up in clothes from the old trunk at the foot of the bed, those earlier times when her cousin was confused from the excessive medication administered to her by the nurse, and her only consolation was living in happier times. Alpharetta had enjoyed pretending, too, until reality shattered her dreams. But she’d learned her lesson with Ben Mark. Never again would she pretend to be anything other than what she was, never forget her humble beginnings, or attempt to deny them.

  Glancing toward Alpharetta, Meg was not happy with the jealous stirrings in her mind. They were new to her, caused by the woman with red hair. She sat, saying nothing, yet Meg could tell there was an awareness in the room of her every move.

  “I understand, Miss Beaumont, that you’re an American?” Sir Edward asked, drawing her into the conversation that had been entirely too personal up to that moment.

  “Yes, I’m from the South. Atlanta, Georgia.”

  “And your father? Is he in trade, Miss Beaumont?” Meg inquired.

  The slightly disparaging tone made no impression on Alpharetta. She was merely passing through from one assignment to another. The people in the room had nothing to do with her.

  Quietly and unflinching, she answered. “My father is dead. But while alive, he was in whiskey—legal and illegal.”

  Meg gasped at her answer. Quickly she put her napkin to her mouth.

  But the old earl, seated on the adjoining chesterfield, laughed appreciatively at Alpharetta’s answer. “Like your ambassador to the Court of St. James, eh? I understand he made his fortune in whiskey, too.”

  “But my father was never rich. And the government put a stop to his occupation.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lord Cranston said with a sigh. “The Prohibition—an exercise in futility.” Then addressing his host, he said, “How is your home brew coming along, Edward?”

  “Had to throw out the last two batches,” Sir Edward complained. “Turned to vinegar. Don’t know what
happened.” With a twinkle in his eye, he turned to Alpharetta. “Perhaps you’d like to see my still after you finish your tea, Miss Beaumont?”

  “Really, Father.” Dow admonished, not liking the direction the conversation was taking. “She wouldn’t be interested.”

  “I. . .I would very much like to see your still, Sir Edward.” Alpharetta didn’t look at Dow as she responded to his father.

  “Good. Well, that’s settled then.” Glancing at his son, he chastened, “Seems to me that you’d be glad to have a chance alone with your fiancée, since you might not be seeing each other for a long time. You care to come too, Reggie?”

  “No thank you, sir. I have reports to make out.”

  “Well then, we’ll see you at dinner, if not before.” Sir Edward rose. “Come along, Miss Beaumont.”

  As they left the room, Meg said,, “Oh, Miss Beaumont, in case no one has thought to tell you, we dress for dinner.”

  In the evening twilight, Alpharetta moved about the room assigned to her. Herclothes had been laid out and the hot bathwater drawn by the maid as soon as she’d returned from the stone barn. Sir Edward, allotted so many gallons by the government for home consumption, had derived a great deal of pleasure from showing her the still and discussing its problems. But she was certain that the serious Dow Pomeroy would not be pleased at his father for relating stories of their ancestors, one a smuggler.

  As she put on the long skirt belonging to the green silk and wool ensemble purchased in London, she remembered why she’d bought it, and a momentary sadness touched her. Yet, in the formal atmosphere of Harrington Hall, it was the only part of her wardrobe suitable for dinner.

  In the bedroom, Alpharetta was surrounded by priceless possessions, comfortable family pieces that looked as if they had been there forever, the wood beautifully polished, the green silk moire on the walls and at the windows, slightly faded from the sun, yet still elegant.

  The bed itself was the largest piece of furniture, and as she gazed at it, she wondered at the generations who’d occupied it. The feather mattress seemed so high that she would surely need the footstool to climb up to it when she retired.

  The mirror at the dressing table was ancient, too, with the patinaed gilt frame intricately carved with birds and garlands of flowers. With its mercury backing slightly spotted and worn at the edges, the glass proclaimed that it had reflected many an image over the years.

  Alpharetta sat down before it and began to brush her red hair, coiling it onto the top of her head in a more elegant style than she ordinarily wore. As she did so, her eyes played tricks on her. Alpharetta turned around quickly, but the woman she had seen in the mirror had vanished. Feeling foolish, Alpharetta finished brushing her hair, pinned the green glass ornament to her blouse, tied the scarf about her waist, and left the bedroom, even though it was much too early for dinner. But the reflection in the mirror had unnerved her, as if someone had been in the room, watching her get ready for the evening.

  Dow Pomeroy, far from spending his free time in the afternoon with Meg, had been on the telephone to Middlesex, being briefed by Sir Nelson Mitford concerning the rockets, and in conference with his ADC, Freddie Mallory. Birdie, his secretary, was already at Lochendall with his batman, arranging for the arrival of their commanding officer the next day. Then Dow closeted himself with Reggie for an hour and a half in the upstairs library.

  With nothing else that he could do until he arrived on the northern coast, a restless and worried Dow Pomeroy dressed for dinner and prayed to get through the evening without severely alarming his father or the others over the serious threat of the German rockets.

  As Alpharetta wandered the length of the long corridor and gazed at the family portraits, Dow Pomeroy said from behind her, “So you found the rogues gallery.”

  Not taking her eyes from the paintings, Alpharetta inquired with a lilt to her voice, “Which one was the smuggler?”

  “My father’s been talking again, that I can see—regaling you with all the family skeletons, no doubt. He’s the third one from the left.”

  She moved down the row, acknowledging the one Dow pointed out; stopping before another and still another until she turned abruptly to stare at Dow Pomeroy. Alpharetta’s green eyes searched Dow’s face, impersonally, as an artist, looking for a family resemblance. And then she turned to a particular portrait. The face was nearly the same—sandy-colored hair and mustache, the brow proud and full. But the eyes were different—hooded, enigmatic, not at all like the hazel ones that stared at her with undisguised dislike at that moment.

  Seeing a hurt, vulnerable look, Dow backed away, ashamed of himself. How could he explain to her, when he couldn’t, even to himself, this unreasonable antipathy, even to the way she was wearing her hair?

  “If you will excuse me, I left something in the room.” Alpharetta fled from the gallery and returned to the green room where she remained, staring out the window, until it was time to join the others downstairs.

  Reggie Minton’s eyes lit up when she appeared in the drawing room later. With a drink in his hand, he came to greet her.

  “I say, you look smashing in green. But then, Diana of the Hunt usually wears green, doesn’t she?”

  Meg, overhearing the comment, joined them. “Do you like to fox hunt, too, Miss Beaumont?”

  “No, I hunt only wild boar,” she said.

  Appearing at her side, Dow Pomeroy laughed and added, “But she doesn’t use arrows, Meg. She much prefers a Beretta.”

  His smile was charming, his manner completely changed, as if the previous half hour had never occurred. “What can I get you to drink, Miss Beaumont?”

  “Sherry, please.”

  The formality of the evening became even more oppressive over dinner, with the stone fireplace and twin five-branched candelabra, too tall to see over, divided the six people at the long mahogany table. Sir Edward sat at one end, with Lady Margaret to his right and Reggie Minton at his left. And down at the other end sat Lord Cranston, Alpharetta on his right and Dow to his left, immediately opposite Alpharetta.

  And to make matters worse, the gregarious Lord Cranston was unusually quiet. Finally, toward the end of the meal, the man spoke.

  “Miss Beaumont, I hope you don’t mind an old man’s curiosity, but may I inquire the origin of the brooch you’re wearing?”

  “It was given to me by my cousin. Merely a good-luck piece, worth little.”

  “And your cousin’s name?”

  “St. John. Mrs. Reed St. John.”

  “Her first name,” he insisted.

  “Anna Clare,” she responded, puzzled at his insistence.

  The old man looked as if he had seen a ghost. “Her maiden name was . . .Carleton, perhaps?”

  “Yes. But what—”

  “And she was presented at the Court of St. James in the year—”

  “Lord Cranston. You’re the Lord Cranston she’s spoken of so often.”

  All at once, it came back to Alpharetta—the party in Lord Cranston’s garden; his marrying the heiress from Charleston, instead, because he needed to pay his estate taxes—all the stories that Anna Clare had told her, over and over.

  Lord Cranston let out a triumphant laugh, and the three at the other end of the table stopped their conversation to hear what was happening.

  “Edward,” he roared, pushing the candelabra to the side so he could get a view of his old friend seated at the other end of the table. “You know who this young lady is? She’s a cousin of Anna Clare Carleton, the woman I almost married.”

  He turned to Alpharetta. And in a confidential manner he said, “My dear, the brooch may be a good-luck piece for you—but it’s quite valuable, as all good emeralds and diamonds are. I should know—since I was the one who gave it to your cousin.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Lord Cranston.”

  It didn’t matter that she had few words. Lord Cranston took over, asking her numerous questions that spilled over from the dinner table into the nig
ht, until Meg finally rescued Alpharetta from her father, long past bedtime.

  Dow was unable to sleep. He took a flashlight and walked to the storage room beyond the portrait gallery, where two portraits, transferred from their ornate frames, were waiting to have the damaging mildew removed.

  From the worktable, he picked up one fragile canvas and shone the light on it. Yes, he was not mistaken. The woman assigned to his staff had the same coloring as the woman on the canvas, but the striking resemblance lay in the same elusive, mysterious quality of remoteness, as if she could never be fully possessed—vulnerable, yet complete in herself, demanding nothing, and because of that, producing a fealty of heart, fierce in its desire to protect, to love, and yes, event to possess the very part that was guarded, withheld.

  A doubly troubled Dow silently closed the door and started back to his room. Why had Alpharetta Beaumont suddenly appeared in his life, threatening his carefully laid plans, devised, not by the heart, but by expediency?

  As he made his way back to his room, he silently swore at his superior, Mittie, for placing him in such an untenable position.

  By the next morning, Dow was still troubled, for he realized that Alpharetta was the real enemy to his peace of mind, not only for the previous evening, but for the weeks to come.

  As the staff car was brought into the courtyard, Sir Edward said, “You must come again soon, Miss Beaumont. And we’ll sample our brew to see if it’s any better, now that you’ve pointed out my error.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  “Thank you for such a delightful time, Sir Edward. I loved being here, even if you do have ghosts at Harrington Hall,” she teased.

  Sir Edward laughed. “Well, now, I hope you didn’t sight more than one.”

  “Are you ready, Miss Beaumont?” Dow interrupted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I suggest you get in front with Eckerd, since Minton and I have reports to go over.”

  Alpharetta did as he requested and, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dow walk back to the open door of the hall and say good-bye to Meg and her father.

  Then he returned to the car and the military vehicle left the pebbled courtyard and retraced its way down the avenue past the fields of corn.