Courageous Bride

by Jane Peart

  “Maybe.

  “Come on, Niki, you’ve got something up your sleeve. I know you too well. What’s going on?”

  “I could be an interpreter, for instance. They’ll need people who can speak and understand French. This summer I barely spoke anything else. It all came back to me easily. I’d even begun to think in French. And that’s the real test. The British will need people like me.”

  Luc’s face became very serious. He knew she was right. People fluent in French would certainly be at a premium. But Niki wasn’t a British subject. He had thought of her as an American. Now he knew differently. Why hadn’t Cara ensured Niki’s citizenship? If she had, they wouldn’t be in this dilemma now. He knew Niki. She had a will of iron. He recalled one time she had sat at the dinner table until nine o’clock staring at a plate of turnips. Kip had insisted she at least try one, and she had refused. Luc smiled in retrospect. If they couldn’t get the child Niki to eat something she didn’t like, how did he expect to get her to come back to the United States once she had made up her mind?

  Whatever the outcome of her military service application and no matter his powers of persuasion, Luc knew Niki was determined not to return to Virginia with him. But still he had to try.

  “We’ve got our return tickets. They’ll be expecting you to be with me,” he said without too much conviction. “What will I tell them? How can I explain I’ve left you here?”

  “I’ll be perfectly fine here with Aunt Garnet until I see if I can get into one of the services,” Niki said confidently. “She would love to have me. She says having young people around keeps her young!”

  Luc rolled his eyes. “Are you sure she meant you? Young people like you are more likely to give adults gray hair.”

  Niki laughed gaily and Luc knew the battle was lost. He also knew he’d have a lot of explaining to do when he got to Montclair.

  The Women’s Royal Naval Service officer regarded Niki with mingled dismay and interest. She certainly wasn’t run-of-the-mill, nor were her answers to the application questionnaire routine. The WRENS officer frowned, looked down at the sheaf of papers in the folder identified as Nicole Gilbreaux’s.

  “I see your education was in the United States, yet you were born in France,” she said.

  “Yes. You see, my real parents were—are—French. I was adopted by Americans. Mr. and Mrs. Kendall Montrose of Mayfield, Virginia.”

  “Ah, well, yes. Did you graduate from high school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have a college diploma?”

  “No. I didn’t—”

  “So what qualifications do you have? Clerical skills?”

  Niki thought of the summer she had worked with Cara-Lyn Maynard in the file room of the Mayfield Messenger; their Uncle Scott’s newspaper. Boring, tedious, dreadful job! She sure didn’t want to be stuck in the same kind of rut here if accepted in the WRENS. She shook her head. “No, not really.”

  The officer frowned. “Can you type?”

  Niki hesitated. She did know how to type. That is, if you could call the hunt-and-peck system she had used on Luc’s old portable for her themes and term papers. If she answered in the affirmative, would she land in some dull, dead-end clerk job? Would she lose the chance for a more interesting assignment if she admitted that she could use a typewriter? It was probably a toss-up.

  The officer’s frown deepened and she tapped her pen impatiently. Niki’s innate honesty won out. “Yes, a little.”

  The officer marked something down, then started to close the folder. Desperate to make an impression before the interview was over, Niki blurted out, “I can speak and understand French.” Seeing a spark lighten the officer’s cold stare, she added, “Fluently.”

  “Indeed. Well, that does put another slant on things.” The officer checked something on Niki’s papers. “However, you must realize that until we have official confirmation of American citizenship or you are able to obtain a statement of your birth as a French national, there may be some delay in being able to place you in any of the women’s services.”

  “Isn’t there some way—”

  “Certain rules have to be met. We understand your willingness to serve, and appreciate that. But”—the officer shrugged and closed the folder—“that’s the way things work. I’m sorry.”

  On the train back to Birchfields, Niki went over and over the interview, trying to think how she could have handled it better. She hadn’t thought her adoption would be such a stumbling block. The newspapers were always saying how great the needs were in all branches of the service. Here she was, eager and anxious to volunteer, and she was blocked at every turn. Her feeling of helplessness returned. She didn’t really belong to anyone, didn’t really belong anywhere. She couldn’t even prove that she had been born. Would she have to go through her whole life an orphan, endlessly seeking her identity?

  Back at Birchfields at teatime, Niki expressed her discouragement to Bryanne and Garnet.

  “It’s wartime and everyone keeps saying how much they need people, especially women, to release men for combat service, yet here I am, more than willing to serve, and I keep getting turned down.”

  Bryanne looked at her sympathetically. “I know it’s hard, Niki, but they do have regulations they have to abide by, I guess.”

  “But it’s ridiculous!” Niki’s lower lip pushed out in a little pout.

  “It’s Cara’s fault,” Garnet said. “She should have seen that you applied for citizenship.”

  Niki rose quickly to her beloved mother’s defense. “Don’t blame Tante, please, Aunt Garnet. She assumed that by adopting me, I automatically became a citizen.”

  “Well, she should have made sure, looked into it….” Garnet always had to have the last word.

  Niki didn’t want to agree with Garnet, who often found fault with everyone. Yet secretly she did resent Cara’s not legally securing her American citizenship. It was typical of her careless ways. Tante would never have let one of her horses go unregistered, Niki thought morosely.

  Garnet glanced at the young woman, saw the melancholy expression, then said to Niki, “Think of it this way, dear child—you are being of enormous help to us, to Bryanne and me, here at Birchfields. And we’re doing a great deal for the war effort.”

  “Providing punch and coffee and dancing?” Niki retorted. “I don’t think that helps much.”

  “You’d be surprised how much it means to the men, young lady,” Garnet retorted, bristling. “To have a little fun, music, distraction, when most of the time their lives are so regimented, so intense…. Just ask any one of them. That is,” she added sharply, “when you’re not feeling so sorry for yourself.”

  Niki looked from Garnet to Bryanne. She saw something in their eyes that made her say contritely, “I’m sorry. I guess that’s how I do come off. I know there are all sorts of ways to serve. I just wanted to—I don’t know, do something more.”

  “More exciting, you mean?” Garnet gave her a knowing look.

  “Yes, I think that’s what I mean.”

  “Have you ever heard the quotation ‘They also serve who only stand and wait’?” Garnet asked. “Change that to ‘laugh, chat, and dance,’ and you’ll fill the bill.”

  Niki smiled, if rather grudgingly.

  “So put on your prettiest dress and your best smile and make some of these lonely fellows who’ll be coming over this weekend forget about the war for a little while.”

  Niki smiled back. “OK, I will.”

  Niki tried hard to take Garnet’s advice. With her usual energy and enthusiasm, she threw herself into war-effort activities. She worked with Birchfields’ head gardener, transforming some of the formal flower beds into vegetable gardens to provide produce for the community food bank. She volunteered for as many jobs as the local Red Cross group could assign. Busy as she was, however, there was still a longing within her to do something more.

  1940

  chapter

  5

  England
<
br />   Summer 1940

  IN THE SUNNY DINING ROOM at Birchfields, Garnet settled herself at the table and picked up the newspaper folded at her plate. She opened it with a sense of dread. Lately the news had been devastating. Dunkirk had been a terrible blow. Under the relentless air attack of the Nazis, the Allied troops had retreated to the coast. Although there were naval ships offshore, they could not help the stranded troops, because they had no way to transport them. It was then the stalwart British had shown what they were made of. As soon as the plight of their soldiers was known, a volunteer fleet made up of every kind of craft available—privately owned dinghies, rowboats, yachts, pleasure boats—rushed to the rescue. It was an impossible task undertaken with the rallying cry that failure was unacceptable. The heroic effort succeeded, much to the astonishment of the world. The unarmed seamen made trip after trip to pick up the exhausted men and take them to the waiting ships. In the end some were taken prisoner by the advancing Germans. However, the gallant endeavor of ordinary people to save their defenders was universally hailed. Garnet felt pride in the valor of her adopted countrymen.

  Today’s headlines were dire, although security kept the newspapers very guarded in their reporting of just how bad the situation was. Would America get involved? As an American, Garnet wondered. The impression she had from her Virginia relatives was that the United States was increasingly isolationist. Having been drawn against their will into the last war—the one that was supposed to end all wars—there were many, like Kitty Cavanaugh, who adamantly opposed involvement.

  Sighing, Garnet turned to the inside page to read “Grace Comfort’s” column. She always read it tongue in cheek. Before it was revealed who Grace Comfort really was, Garnet had always scoffed at the saccharine content, at what she considered its overly sentimental style. But now that her stepniece, Lenora, was married to Victor Ridgeway, the real author, she read it regularly. Whatever her personal opinion of his subject, Garnet had to admit that he did strike a generally optimistic note that many found inspiring. Adjusting her glasses, she began to read. Soon, with a huff of indignation, she got up and walked into the hallway and picked up the phone and called the number of the Ridgeways’ country home.

  In the morning room at King’s Grace, Lenora picked up the phone. “Good morning, Aunt Garnet. How nice of you to phone.”

  “I’m not sure you’ll think so when you know why,” Garnet replied.

  “Why, what is it, Auntie?”

  “I’ve just finished reading Grace’s—I mean Victor’s—column today, and I’m most upset about it.”

  “But why?”

  “I assumed Grace’s—Victor’s—purpose was to lift people’s spirits, to encourage. This is quite the opposite. Very negative. Quoting Edward Grey … listen to this: ‘The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.’ If that isn’t blatant defeatism, I don’t know what is,” Garnet declared.

  There was a pause as she waited for Lenora to respond. “Well, Auntie, Victor is very depressed about the war. He was very much a supporter of the League of Nations after the last one, believed it to be the only hope for the world. If you read further than the first few paragraphs, though, you’ll see he ends up quoting Winston Churchill.”

  “Hmmph.” Garnet was loathe to admit she had not read the whole column.

  “Victor is extremely patriotic, Aunt Garnet,” continued Lenora. “He takes his work very seriously. From the number of letters he gets every day, I think he has the pulse of the nation. His mail is overwhelmingly positive.”

  A bit taken aback by having acted precipitously, an action more indicative of youth than of someone her age, Garnet conceded she would finish reading today’s “Inspirational Moment.”

  Lenora replaced the receiver and turned to her younger sister, Lady Blanding, and lifted her eyebrows.

  “I gather Aunt Garnet is at it again?” Lalage smiled. “Victor’s column, I suppose?”

  “Yes.” Lenora shook her head. “You would think the old dear had enough to do running Birchfields without trying to editorialize Victor’s column, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m surprised she doesn’t send daily communiqués to the War Office.”

  “Well, the poor old thing is probably lonely,” concluded Lenora. “I thought her granddaughter Bryanne was planning to come stay with her. Especially since Bryanne’s husband, Steven, went into the medical corps.”

  “Yes, she is lonely. But of course Niki is there.”

  “But probably not for long. She’s trying desperately to get into one of the services.”

  “She’s too young, isn’t she?”

  “I think it’s not that. She hasn’t got the right papers or something.” Lenora reached for the silver teapot on the tray by her chair and asked, “More tea? No? Well then, suppose we discuss the fund-raising event? Let me get my list.”

  She rose and walked gracefully to the Louis XIV desk, while Lalage looked around the room with pleasure. The morning room at King’s Grace reflected the exquisite taste of its mistress. When Lenora had married the wealthy journalist Victor Ridgeway, he had given her carte blanche to decorate the old country place he had bought and lived in for some years as a bachelor. Its pale ivory woodwork, brocaded draperies, the lemon-and-lime color scheme, was a fitting background for her delicate, blond beauty. There were Chinese rugs, thick and patterned in blue and jade. There were rounded, velvet-covered sofas and club chairs grouped conversationally around the white marbled fireplace.

  The sun rested benignly on the two silver blond heads as they bent over the list. The society columns had often described them as the “beautiful American sisters” when they had both married Englishmen in 1897, the year of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. And though both were now in their fifties, they were still so described.

  As they sipped their Darjeeling tea and nibbled cucumber sandwiches, they got to the business at hand. When they had worked out the details of the fete they were planning to hold at Blanding Court, the ancestral home of Lalage’s husband, they talked of more serious things.

  “Is Neil truly worried about an immediate crisis?” Lenora asked worriedly.

  “Well, you know him—he’s always inclined to take the most cautious view of things. He always felt that the government should have taken stronger steps sooner to combat the aggression of that awful Hitler. But he was one of those voices crying in the wilderness.” Lalage shook her head. “Now, of course, we have Chance to worry about.” She was referring to her twelve-year-old son. “Even though he’s just in the fourth form at his school, he hopes the war lasts long enough for him to go. Imagine. As he is the heir to the family estate, we can all fervently hope it will be over long before that.” She looked over at her sister. “You really ought to be grateful you don’t have any boys, Lenora.”

  “I don’t know about that. Victor would have loved to have a son….”

  “Well, I must be on my way,” Lalage said, rising and gathering her purse, gloves, and hat. “Alair and Cilia are waiting for me to help with the children’s picnic they planned for this afternoon.” Refugee children sent from London to escape the German bombing were now staying at Blanding Court. She kissed her sister good-bye and left.

  Garnet put on her glasses again and finished reading Grace Comfort’s column. “No matter how great the odds, we British heartily support Winston Churchill’s promise: ‘We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.’”

  chapter

  6

  ON A SATURDAY EVENING late in July, Niki got ready for the regular weekend open house at Birchfields. For some reason she felt less eager than ever to spend hours chatting and dancing. In spite of all her volunteer activities, she still couldn’t shake the restlessness she felt to be part of something bigger.

  She put on the dress she had found at one of those obscure Paris boutiques where fabulous fashi
on bargains are possible. It was a silk print scattered with daisies, bluebells, and poppies, the wildflowers of French country fields. It had cap sleeves, a scoop neckline, flared skirt, and set off Niki’s petite figure flatteringly. Her hair had grown to shoulder length, and she tied it back with a scarlet ribbon.

  She was downstairs when the first contingent of servicemen from the airfield began to arrive. Since the Dunkirk disaster there had been some foreigners among them, some who had managed to escape from countries overrun by the Nazis and were now training with British units in England.

  Alair Blanding and Cilia Ridgeway had come over from Blanding Court for the weekend to help with hostessing. The cousins and Niki had become friends over the past few months. Cilla was still at boarding school, but Alair was helping at the village school. The facility had been taxed to overflowing by the sudden influx of refugee children from London. With the relentless nightly bombing raids, many parents had sent their children to the country for safety. Blanding Court had several of the children, with their teachers, billeted in the house. Some mothers of the smaller children had accompanied them and helped at the school.

  Alair had volunteered to take over the kindergarten. As she dearly loved children and her sweet, quiet nature was perfect for such a job, she was busy during the week. She loved coming to Birchfields to assist at the weekend open house. She laughingly said, “It gives me a chance to talk with adults for a change. I spend most of my waking hours with tots under age five, and I’m afraid my vocabulary is shrinking as a result.”

  Both girls were lovely, slender blonds with English-rose complexions, and were immensely popular as dance partners. Niki watched them almost enviously. Obviously enjoying themselves, they both had found their niche and were satisfied that they were doing their part.

  That evening Niki tried to appear cheerful. But inside she was still depressed about her fruitless interview with the WRENS recruiting officer. No matter how Bryanne and Aunt Garnet tried to encourage her, Niki still worried that she would never have enough official clearance to get into any of the services. She felt particularly drawn to the WRENS, the women’s branch of the Royal Navy.