“If it weren’t for your gift for talking people out of their donations, Miss Josie,” Vera said, shaking a ball of yarn pulled from the woman’s own reclaimed cardigan, “we’d not have wool enough to make a single knit cap.”
Josie smiled. “Let’s keep collecting yarn and knit goods wherever we can beg them. We’ll meet here again next week, after the Spitfire Fete. Fingers crossed there’s not another air raid!”
It took another hour but Josie finally managed to send the members of the other committees on their way home to the village, and didn’t finish meeting with the Land Girls until nearly midnight.
Francie had hinted at having seen her escaping with Gideon to the wine cellar, but Josie brushed off the comment with a patently ridiculous story about taking inventory and accidentally breaking a bottle, and having to clean up, and—
“Oh, la! I’d let the colonel take my inventory any time.”
Josie hid her blushing guilt by joining in their laughter and a bit of racy girl-talk, until they were all giddy with scrumpy and began dreaming aloud about Errol Flynn and Cary Grant and Clark Gable.
Three romantic stars of the silver screen that couldn’t hold a candle to the man who had just kissed her so deeply. Her brain was still in a tumble over Gideon when she finally dropped into bed, as exhausted by air raids and committee meetings and the endless war work as she was exhilarated by this new peace she had made with him. Still felt his fingers threading through her hair, the warm feel of his mouth on hers.
And then it was morning again. She rose early, bathed quickly, actually primping in front of the mirror before going to breakfast in the dining room, hoping to meet Gideon there, hoping not to meet him. After all, what would they say to each other after a kiss that had been meant to prove to the orb their disinterest in each other when she had felt his unmistakable male hardness against her belly? Had lost herself in his embrace, melted against him when he gathered her into his arms and plundered her mouth, her senses.
What would they speak about when next they saw each other?
Not at lot, as it turned out. There was hardly any time to spare. Their meetings in the library were postponed with cryptic notes from Gideon left on her desk in the afternoon, and always with a promise to meet the following night. But only one of those meetings ever managed to happen.
Not in the library or the wine cellar, but briefly, in the most wildly romantic, impromptu embrace on the backstairs. Gideon catching her up in his arms on his way up, whispering against her ear as he strung his hot kisses along her neck. Releasing her to continue her way down the stairs, only after turning her legs to jelly and leaving her breathless and wanting so much more.
The next few days flew past, with her rushing from one emergency to another, and Gideon as elusive as ever, with deliveries of construction materials arriving nearly every morning and disappearing into the military lorry that afternoon.
The new evacuee children arrived from Bristol, as filthy and disheveled as the first group had been. This time Josie and the household staff made a game out of changing into ‘country clothes’ after a good scrubbing, followed by a hearty meal with the other children, bread with butter and berry jam, then a hike down to the lake with Godby to feed crusts to the mallards. So far, so good.
She was at her desk in the farm office on the morning of the Spitfire Fete, dividing change among the various tills when she looked up to find Gideon smiling at her from the doorway. He was dressed as she’d seen him of late, in khaki work trousers, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the muscles of his forearms bronze and flexed and fine.
“There you are, Josie,” he said, entering the office with a smile that melted her knees. “I’ve stopped in a few times, but you’ve been busy the past few days.”
“You’ve been out late, Gideon.”
He smiled, his eyes bluer than she remembered. “Too late for our meetings in the library, much to my regret.”
She would hear him and the other men come up the stairs well after midnight, heard running bathwater, their low conversations and quiet laughter, and then nothing at all until well after she was gone in the morning. “I take it you’re out there constructing your chain of anti-tank islands between here and Taunton.”
“Official secrets,” he said putting his finger to the side of his nose as he sat on the edge of the desk, close enough to touch. “What have you got there?”
“Tills and ticket rolls for the Spitfire Fete. One each for the game and food stalls, and one for the main donation stall. We’re expecting quite a crowd, from all over the county. You’re coming, of course?” She’d been hinting at it for the past week. Had come right out and told him that he should at least put in an appearance for the sake of the Home Guard.
He studied her for a long while. “Can’t ever be sure what the day will bring, can we?”
“The fete has everything, for everyone! A jumble sale, a fortune teller, a helter skelter ride, a Punch and Judy show, a field full of games, free ice-cream coronets for the kids, a dance band for the adults and a Have-a-Go lane, if you’d care to learn to knit or throw a hand-grenade.”
“Turns out, I already know how to do both.” His gaze was honest and true, a sure sign that he wasn’t jesting.
“Then I might tempt you with the coin-drop. It’s a canvas tarp laid on the ground, with the outline of a full-sized Spitfire drawn on it in red.”
“Why is that?”
“So people can fill it with coins. Gives everyone a chance to contribute to the fund, no matter their circumstance. Come see for yourself, if you can get away.”
“I’ll admit to curiosity about how a village as small as Balesborough goes about raising enough money to purchase an entire Spitfire.”
“Penny by penny, Gideon, just like most worthwhile things. One step at a time.” Though patience had never been Josie’s strong suit. “So you must come and see the village in action; you might even be moved to add a penny or two to the outline yourself. Even better, come to the central donation stall and purchase a Spitfire lapel badge from me.”
“A badge?”
“We’ve created a special brass and enamel pin-badge, oval with the figure of a Spitfire in flight across a field of blue. Will you promise to try to attend?”
“I’ll try, Josie.” His eyes never left hers as he lifted her hand—as sad-looking and work-worn as any farmer’s, and brought it to his lips for a kiss that made her heart flail about in her chest, a blush creep up out of her shirt.
She leaned close, then his lips met hers, hungry and heated, his breath brushing her cheek as he kissed the corners of her mouth.
Not the sort of behavior that would convince the orb of their disinterest. He cupped her chin, deepened his kiss. Her pulse rocketed around inside her chest, striking the breath from her.
“I’ve miss you, Josie,” he said against her ear, then mumbled something she didn’t understand, that brought her back to her senses.
“The orb, Gideon, have you seen it?”
He kissed her nose, then shook his head slowly, his eyes locked with hers. “Not seen a glow anywhere.”
“Neither have I.” A good thing, wasn’t it? Exactly what they had both wanted. “Do you suppose it’s finally given up on us?”
He slipped a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers gentle and warm. “Would you like that, Josie?”
“I–well, of course. It’s for the best, isn’t it?” What a silly twit she was becoming! She smiled at him like a fool, found him smiling back and yanked her hand out of his, went back to counting pennies into the three tills, just as a rap sounded at the open office door.
“Busy?”
Her father, wearing a smart British Army dress uniform, from the last war. “Where did you find that? In the Stirling costume shop?” Or had he been digging about in the attics?
“Thought I’d find you here, Josie Bear!” To make a point of some sort, he gave Gideon a capacious wink, then a salute that whiffed of camphor. “Afternoon, Colonel.�
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“Edward,” Gideon said, standing and returning the salute as her father remained at attention. “Quite impressive, sir.”
“Brought it with me from Stirling House, though I don’t know why. Thought I’d wear it to the fete since I haven’t a proper Home Guard uniform.” He removed his cap and tucked it under his arm. “Fits me damn well after twenty-odd years in mothballs. But egad, Daughter, surely you’re not wearing those dungarees to the fete.”
“Some of us are still working, Father.” Blushing to her toes as both men appraised the rusticated state of her clothes. She spared a glance at the long case clock in the corner. “It’s eleven. I’ve two hours to finish, dress and be ready to open the fete.”
“I’ll let you go then, Josie,” Gideon said, offering only a nod. “Enjoy the fete, Edward.” Her heart sank as he shook hands with her father and left her with only the most enigmatic smile.
“Father, do you remember Aunt Freddy’s Orb of True Love?”
“How can I forget? Damn thing nearly drove your Uncle Anthony crazy before he landed the love of his life.” He canted his head, like Winnie on the scent. “Why? Has it returned? Have you seen it? Has it fixed its cupid’s glow on you and Gideon?”
The man was too sharp by half. “Never mind, Father. Forget I asked.”
“Not likely. I quite like that young man. And you do, too.”
“Father!”
“No time for a heart-to-heart, my dear. I’m off to meet my comrades in arms before the fete. As you very well know, the Home Guard is manning the Have-a-Go at Throwing a Mills Bomb stall. A brilliant idea of yours to use conkers still in their burr jackets instead of live grenades.” He stepped behind her desk and kissed her on the cheek. “See you there, girl. And, pray God, not in those dungarees.”
Grateful to be alone once more, Josie finished the bookwork for the tills, loaded them into the back of Bess and secured them among boxes bristling with Union Jacks on sticks, banners and strings of pennants, along with the estate’s donation of six crates of Nimway Scrumpy and four of Nimway’s Top-Drawer Honey to add to the WI stall.
An hour later, she had managed to bathe, lingering in the bathroom long enough to wash her hair, smooth over her freckles with a bit of foundation powder and soft pink rouge, brighten her lips with a subtly deep red and, for the first time since the war began, brush her lashes with a dash of mascara.
Last evening’s rain shower had threatened to dampen attendance at the fete, but the morning had dawned bright and cloudless, improving by the hour until the early afternoon sun became unseasonably warm enough for Josie to wear one of the dresses Aunt Freddy had brought her from Paris the year before the war.
Cap-sleeved and floral with a sweetheart neckline and matching belt, its skirt draped in swinging gabardine; Josie felt grand and feminine and powerful. She would wear the dress in solidarity with the women of Paris, who were surely suffering untold indignities now that the German forces occupied all of France.
She’d also wear the dress for the two men in her life who had just censured her everyday dungarees, as though she had forgotten how to dress like a lady.
Wear it especially for Gideon, in case he decided to attend the fete. He was a delight to be with and his kiss had sent her to the moon. A journey she longed to take with him again. The orb be damned.
But her mind needed to be occupied elsewhere than Gideon this evening if she was to pull off the fete, as well as her more pressing obligations.
It was nearly one o’clock by the time Josie pulled Bess up to the back of the WI stall in the field behind Balesborough’s village hall. She unloaded Nimway’s honey and cider donations, delivered the flags and banners to the decorations committee and soon the grounds began to flutter with color and excitement. She dropped off the tills to the volunteers covering the three ticket stalls then walked the lanes of food and market vendors, toured the games, watched a test ride on the helter skelter, and double-checked the bandstand schedule.
The fete was spread out across the unused cricket pitch; come February the pitch and the fields around it would be plowed under and planted in sugar beets. But for now the canvas marquees and brightly colored stalls lent a feeling of victory and hope for the war effort.
To guard against becoming a target for bombers, come nightfall, the fete would move into the village hall, where the music would continue and the dancing would begin.
By two o’clock a crowd of nearly a thousand had gathered around the outdoor stage to hear Mayor Wharmsley’s opening speech.
“Our own Balesborough Parish Spitfire already has a propeller and a tail! Now let’s us dig deep into our pockets tonight and buy our lady a proper body to go with them. To that honorable end, I hereby open this Fete to one and all! Victory!”
Josie took her place alongside Mrs. Peak and her teenage daughter at the main information and donations stall, greeting people as they streamed by, flogging the lovely Spitfire badges and rattling the tin donations box, unable to resist watching all the while for Gideon.
The badges were an easy sell, and she had just returned to the front of the stall to pick up a few more when Mrs. Peak patted her hand and nodded behind Josie.
“Look, Miss Josie, there’s the colonel. Isn’t he handsome in his dress uniform?” Mrs. Peak was so very wrong; Gideon Fletcher wasn’t handsome, he was breathtaking.
And he came! Was walking toward Josie through the shifting crowd, the picture of command, his stride measured and heading straight for her.
Looking at her with unmistakably hungry eyes that made her heart leap and her pulse race even before he took her hand. “Good evening, Josie,” he said, just between them. “You look quite beautiful.”
“Out of my dungarees, you mean?” Oh, damn, she didn’t say that aloud did she?
“In your dungarees or out of them, Josie, you take my breath away.” His eyes sparkled blue, his gaze drift downward to the risqué neckline of the dress she’d worn just to entice him.
How the man could continually make her stammer and blush like a faint-hearted schoolgirl was beyond her understanding. Made her wonder if the orb had begun to stalk them again, though they were well away from the grounds of Nimway Hall.
“Yes, well,” she finally managed, thoroughly flummoxed, holding tightly to his arm as she led him through the streaming crowd to the counter of the donations stall, recovering enough to say, “We’re delighted you decided to attend, Colonel. You’ll be an inspiration to the Home Guard when they see you.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, “but I could hardly pass up your invitation. And my staff and the sappers were quite eager. We walked here from the Hall and the lot headed straight for the carnival games with fists full of tickets.”
Mrs. Peak clapped her hands. “Balesborough will be so pleased to see them join in the fun. Your men have been ever so gentlemanly to the village.”
“I’m gratified to hear that, Mrs. Peak, I’ll note it in my daily report.”
Josie gave Gideon’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Colonel Fletcher tells me that he would be delighted to purchase a Spitfire badge. Would you please do the honors?”
“I’d be glad to.” Mrs. Peak peered over the counter. “How many, Colonel?”
“Just one will do, thank you.” He dropped two pound coins into Mrs. Peak’s hand and received the badge from her moon-eyed daughter. “I’ve instructed my officers not to return home tonight without each sporting a badge of their own.”
He turned the badge over, examined the pin, then handed it to Josie. “Will you help me? I’m quite bad at this sort of thing.”
“My pleasure.” Josie managed to keep her fingers from shaking while she pinned the badge to the flap of his left breast pocket, gave it a pat. “There, Colonel, in the traditional place of honor.”
Before she could move her hand, he covered it with his own, gazed down at her. “Can you get away for a stroll sometime later?”
“I’d
love to, Gideon, but I can’t for a while yet.” Too much on her plate, too many obligations. “I’m to manage another stall in a few minutes, and another after that—won’t be free until after seven when the fete moves indoors. Can you stay until then?”
“I’ll do my best, Josie. But if not here at the fete, let’s meet tonight in the library.”
She knew she was grinning madly. “I can’t wait. Oh, and, Gideon, do be sure to walk past the outline of the Spitfire. I expect you’ll be amazed!”
“I’ll do that. Ladies.” He touched his hand over to the brim of his cap, nodded, then strolled off into the crowd, leaving Josie feeling bereft.
“Don’t get much more handsome than that man, Miss Josie.”
“You have me there, Mrs. Peak.” Which made them both giggle like a pair of schoolgirls.
Half an hour later Josie gathered her satchel from behind the donations stall and headed for her next assignment, the very popular Coconut Shy. The elaborate red-and-white striped marquee, was closed on three sides and open for competitors at the front, where they would stand outside the boxed-in area that was enclosed by a low wall on three sides. Inside the stall, a half-dozen large cups had been attached to the top of three-foot tall posts, which were anchored in the grass. Each cup held a coconut.
The crowd seemed a living thing, a magnet for men and boys and even a few girls. Among them, all eight evacuees from Nimway Hall, each more excited than the next. And thankfully, Mrs. Tramble was riding herd.
Lucas was standing at the children’s throw-line inside the box, grinding the ball into his palm as he drew a bead on the coconut directly in front of him. He reared back, threw the ball and his shot hit dead on, knocking the coconut off the cup before arching to the side and nearly hitting the one next to it.
“That’s three for me!” Lucas shouted. The crowd cheered him and Mr. Tully from Lower Farm presented a ecstatic boy with a six-inch model of a Spitfire. The boy turned and saw Josie, ran to her and showed off his winnings then went “burrrrrrring” off making engine noises, the Spitfire held aloft as he negotiated the crowd and disappeared.
The Legend of Nimway Hall_1940_Josie Page 17
