by Jane Peart
“Saint George’s Day, of course!” came all of the voices in unison.
“Who is Saint George, and why does he have a day?”
Cilia looked at him with mock disbelief. “Surely, even in America you’ve heard of Saint George and the dragon, Luc?”
Luc glanced at Alair. “Want to explain?”
“Of course,” she said sympathetically. “It’s an old legend that goes back hundreds of years, but every English school-child knows it. It’s the story of the rescue of the beautiful daughter of the King of Silene in the third century, when she was chosen to be the appeasement of a terrible dragon who was terrorizing the countryside, devouring people. That’s when Saint George came in, the veritable shining knight on a white charger, to save the damsel in distress. April twenty-third is the day he’s remembered and honored, and there are celebrations, fetes, parades, and all sorts of things.”
“I just had another terrific idea!” Cilia exclaimed, almost jumping up. “Luc would make a perfect Saint George, and you, Alair, can be the princess.”
Luc’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Alair. “Done. I’d be happy to rescue Alair any day, to say nothing of April twenty-third.”
The discussion of the staging, the costumes, the scenery, needed for the program continued enthusiastically until yawns and drooping eyelids finally put a stop to the planning. Cilla and the other three girls left to go upstairs. But at the bottom of the stairway Luc and Alair lingered.
“It’s been a wonderful day,” he said. “I hate to think of going back tomorrow.”
“But you will be here for the rehearsals and the fete on the twenty-third?” she said anxiously.
“Yes. If I’m not flying.”
At his words reality struck. As lovely as this weekend was for Alair—meeting Luc, spending time with him, getting to know him—it was all tentative. Plans could not really be made. He had a higher priority than playing the role of Saint George in a children’s pantomime. No matter that she and Luc were young and perhaps on the brink of falling in love—this was wartime, and they could not escape the dark cloud hovering over them.
As luck would have it—or rather, because Luc had offered to trade flights with another pilot in his squadron—Luc was at Blanding Court on April twenty-third. He got there in time to don a paper suit of armor, mount a stick horse, and wield a broom handle spear at a monstrous creature, made of yards of bilious-green-colored paper cut in jagged shapes, with ferocious horns and teeth. Alair was a fairy-tale princess, with a chiffon scarf floating from a cardboard crown, and the children were appropriately terrified as they scampered all over, emitting shouts and yells that ended in hilarious giggles, before the dragon was properly slain and the curtain pulled shut. The fund-raising itself was very successful, and the evening party continued the celebration. Alair changed from her princess costume into an azure dress that deepened her cornflower blue eyes. Luc was waiting for her when she came downstairs.
From the drawing room came the faint sound of the local band tuning up to play for the evening’s dancing. The melody of a familiar and very popular song began softly playing.
“Good evening, Princess,” he greeted her softly.
“Why, if it isn’t Saint George,” she said, smiling.
Luc held out both hands and asked, “Shall we dance?” She went into his arms and they moved slowly to the melody. “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places …,” the vocalist sang plaintively. The words had just that tiny hint of optimism that all the war songs had to have, the hope that some lucky few would come through all this, would be together again. One had to dream, one had to hope, one had to pray, that you and the one you loved would be among them.
Afterward Alair could never remember how long they danced or how often Luc had requested the band to play that number. How many dances, Alair lost count. She had lost awareness of anyone or anything else. She had not even noticed her mother’s frequent glances at her and Luc. She lost track of time until Luc’s arm around her waist tightened and he leaned closer and whispered, “I don’t want this evening to end.”
“I don’t either,” she sighed.
“I wish it could go on and on. I don’t want to go back to the base. I don’t want to leave you.”
Alair did not know what to reply. What she was feeling was new, hard to explain even to herself. Luc drew her closer. “This is our song. I’ll never hear it without thinking of you.” He began to sing in a low voice, “I’ll be seeing you … in everything that’s light and gay, I’ll always think of you that way.”
As she listened to Luc sing the words, Alair knew she would never forget this night as long as she lived. Luc had found a place in her heart that had been unfilled until now, and made it his. It would never belong to anyone else. No matter what happened.
It was getting late, and they would have to say good-bye. In a few more hours Luc would have to return to the base, report to his barracks. In the morning he would get his briefing and assignment.
Lady Blanding was at the door saying good night to the last guests when Luc was ready to leave. He looked at Alair, longing to kiss the soft mouth, to hold her, tell her that he had fallen in love with her, that he believed they were meant for each other. But of course he couldn’t, not with her mother and all these other strangers present. Luc hesitated. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe she didn’t feel the same way he did. He reached out and took her hand. She laced her fingers into his and looked up at him. In that heart-stopping moment he saw in her eyes the possibility that they shared a dream of love.
His letter was delivered to Blanding Court two days later. As she took it out of the envelope, she thought he must have written it as soon as he got back to his barracks. His opening told her she had been right.
My darling Alair;
I hope I can say that, because it’s the way I think of you. However, I must ask myself if I have the right to say “my.” So I’ll start again…. Darling Alair, I’m sitting on the edge of my bunk, writing this by flashlight—or “torch, “ as you Brits would say. My buddies have long since gone to sleep. I find myself wide-awake, yet I seem to be dreaming. Could it have happened? Could all of it really have happened? To meet someone for the first time and feel as though you have known that person all your life somehow. I know all the wise, cautious, sane things people say about wartime romances. But I think there are exceptions. I hope you think so, too. It was almost as though it were not our first meeting. Of course, we had heard about each other most of our lives, through all the family connections, so maybe we each had some foreknowledge that the other existed. However; I believe it was more than that…. Do you know the poem “Fate”?
Two shall be born the whole wide world apart, And speak in different tongues,
And then o’er unknown lands to unknown seas shall cross, Escaping wreck, defying death, And all unconsciously
Shape every working thought and every wandering step,
To this one end—that one day out of darkness,
They may meet, and read life’s meaning in each other’s eyes.
Alair drew in her breath. Her hands holding the letter began to shake. It was the same poem from which the last line had fleetingly come into her mind that first evening. It must be significant. It must mean something more than ordinary coincidence.
She went back to his letter.
I didn’t quote the second stanza, because it is too terrible. If you remember; it was about two people who didn’t meet, although they should have. How often the course of our lives is determined by chance. I believe we are the lucky ones. I thank God for our meeting.
I shall try to wrangle leave for next weekend—that is, if you are free and can see me. You never know here how things will go. But if I can possibly be there, I will come. It would mean everything to me if we could spend some time together.
Yours,
Luc Montrose
chapter
19
WRENS Headquarters
WHEN NIKI R
OUTINELY CHECKED her mailbox and found the manila folder containing orders to report to Colonel Thornton’s London office the next day, she was amazed. In the weeks since her interview, she had resigned herself to the fact that she was not going to be called for any kind of special assignment.
She was both excited and apprehensive. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Yes, but that was before she and Fraser …
Quickly she thrust those thoughts aside. This was wartime. If there was anything she could do to free her beloved France or help in any way the effort to defeat the Nazis, no personal consideration mattered.
If Fraser were ordered to some special duty, he would not hesitate.
Niki ran up the steps to her cabin, two at a time. She would have to catch the next train to London. There was hardly enough time to do anything but pack, make a few phone calls.
Her heart was beating so fast, she could hardly breathe. At last something was happening. A new kind of challenge. As Tante used to say at the start of any new phase in life, “Think of it as a great adventure.”
Colonel Thornton looked up as she was ushered into his office. Niki saluted and he gestured to a chair opposite his desk.
Briefly he told her that her application had been reviewed and in light of her bilingual skills, she was being assigned to a special training unit. She would be issued a travel warrant from London to Scotland, where she would be met at … He wrote the name of the town on a slip of paper, handed it to her, saying tersely, “Top secret. Read it, memorize it, tear it up.”
Niki felt a chill, like a cold finger trailing down the back of her neck. She’d asked for something like this. But after nothing had come of her first interview, she had given up hope that she would ever be called. Colonel Thornton gave her a hard look from under his bushy eyebrows.
“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” he demanded.
“No sir,” she said quickly.
“Good. You understand it is absolutely essential that you discuss this with no one. Not even your closest friend, your family.” He frowned. “Or boyfriend. Do you have a boyfriend?”
The thought of Fraser flashed through her mind, and Niki pushed it away. She couldn’t call him a boyfriend after only four meetings, could she?
“No sir.”
“Good. That’s all, then. The date and time of your train is on this.” Another slip of paper was passed over to her. Then Colonel Thornton stood up, saying, “Good luck.” He saluted her.
Niki got to her feet, saluted, and walked out of the office, the slip of paper that was going to change her life clutched tightly in her hand.
Niki stepped off the train at the bleak Loch Ennis station and was immediately chilled by the cold, damp wind. She felt stiff and achy from the long trip north to Scotland, as well as apprehensive as to what lay ahead.
It had been a tense time. Elly of course had been curious, but all Niki could tell her was that she’d been tapped for some special training. She told the same story to Bryanne when she called Birchfields. She had tried to reach Fraser but had only been able to leave a message. The voice that had answered at his base said only that he wasn’t available and that he would put her message in his box. Niki hated leaving without talking to him. But she couldn’t have told him anything anyway. Maybe it was better not to clutter up her resolve but to be totally committed to whatever this new assignment involved. She knew their attraction for each other was strong and could make her less willing to take on whatever it was.
Niki straightened her jacket, her hat, knowing that her uniform—which had been neatly pressed, her shirt fresh, when she boarded the train yesterday—was now rumpled and looked as though it had been slept in, which it had.
There were six people standing in a group at the other end of the nearly empty platform, one officer, four men in army fatigues, and one woman in the uniform of the army nurse corps. Since there was nobody else about, Niki decided this must be the rest of the team she’d be joining. She shouldered her overarm bag and walked slowly over to them. She smiled and tried to make eye contact, but most of them did not respond. Everyone stood, shoulders hunched, obviously trying to brace themselves against the cutting wind.
The officer, a stern-faced man, approached. “I’m Captain Mullen,” he announced and went down the line, shaking hands, the four men first, then the nurse, and finally Niki. She started to say, “I’m Wren Gilbreaux” when he snapped, “Name not necessary.”
Rebuked, Niki blushed hotly.
“We’ll be boarding the bus now,” the officer barked. “Briefing then.”
As they lined up to get on the gray-brown camouflaged bus, the army nurse whispered, “I guess this is going to be bare knuckles, no Marquess of Queensbury rules.” Niki gave her a grateful smile, glad that someone in this crowd had a sense of humor.
It was a jolting, rough journey until they finally arrived at a bleak stone building. It looked as though it might be the kind of boarding school to which Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre had been sent to, Niki thought with some amusement. But that was about the last amusing thought Niki was to have in several long weeks.
At Loch Ennis their day began at five. A stand-up breakfast of bread, tea or coffee, was followed by a two-mile walk whatever the weather. Scotland at this time of year seemed terminally overcast or raining. After this came an hour’s calisthenics. The midday meal consisted of a nondescript soup, more bread, rice pudding or junket. In the afternoons there where lectures—some on the geography of France, others on how to identify various kinds of German aircraft by learning the parts from fuselage to tail. Niki had never been the least bit interested in mechanics, so she found it hard to remain alert and attentive during these hours. Harder still for a girl like her with no mechanical ability were the radio labs. Here they were given the components of small transmitter radios, told to construct one from the instructions, then take it apart, put it together again. Niki felt hopelessly clumsy at this. Before the day ended, another hour was spent in a saturation course in phonetic French. Of course, this was easier for her. In this she could help Jennifer and Max, the two members of the team with whom she had become friends. It was hard to make real friends during such intense indoctrination. The fact that everyone was so focused on making the grade created an unnatural atmosphere, not one conducive to easy friendship. Evenings were supposed to be more relaxed, but actually most everyone was worn out from the long day of physical and mental effort. People tended to make it a short evening, with few lingering in the huge lounge after dinner.
Some nights Jennifer would knock on Niki’s door and come in for a brief chat. Niki could tell that in spite of how arduous her nurse’s training might have been, Jennifer found this hard going. Niki sensed her nervousness and sympathized. But neither of them allowed themselves to confess their fears or their doubts. It was as if expressing them would make them too real. All they wanted was to qualify for whatever the point of the training was. Rumors were rife, but no one knew exactly what their mission would be. Were they to be couriers, agents, radio operators? All they knew was that they were being closely monitored to determine the category for which they would best be fitted.
The morning after their first rock climbing exercise on the cliffs above the stormy ocean, one of the team was missing. No one asked why. He had had an obvious emotional problem about heights. As they were climbing, linked by a rope, he had frozen, unable to go up or down. Both those above him and those below him were stuck in their positions by his immobility. Eventually he pulled it together and made it to the top. But there he was shaking so visibly that it was impossible for him to hide it from the others. The next morning he didn’t show up. Nothing was explained. But it was clear to the rest that there were no second chances. The experience troubled Niki deeply. She had been scared silly herself but somehow had managed this climb. Still, there were two more climbs ahead, each progressively more difficult.
The morning of the second climb, Niki tried not to think of what had happened to her t
eammate. When they hiked to the bottom of the rock cliff, she did not dare look up to the top. There was nothing to do but clench her jaw, grit her teeth, and begin. Look for the first handhold, grip it, search for a toehold, move steadily upward, keep climbing. “Nice view,” Max quipped from behind her, but Niki only clamped her teeth together harder and reached for the next crevice. Only sheer grit kept her going.
The days passed until they’d been there three weeks—the halfway point. There were still five of them. They knew the final physical trial was coming, a survival test. The morning it was scheduled, Niki woke up with a stomachache. Nerves, she told herself. She managed to swallow some tea, a crust of bread. They were issued a compass, a basic ration pack, a tarpaulin folded into an oilskin envelope. They piled into a van and were driven out to a stretch of moor at least thirty miles from the building. There they were told to report back in twenty-four hours.
Niki knew this was the ultimate physical test. The make-or-break one. If, as the teammates had discussed among themselves, they were to parachute into occupied France, they would be on their own, have to manage on minimum supplies, having been given a map to get to the nearest “safe house.” There, presumably, a member of the French Resistance would help them until they set up the shortwave radio in the designated place. So this was the test to see if they could pass muster. It was a preview of what they’d face on a mission. They’d either pass or be sent away.
Niki was determined. She’d come this far, and she was grimly committed to making it. Captain Mullen had been particularly hard on her and Jennifer. Privately they thought that his discriminatory attitude toward them was because he didn’t think women should be recruited for this kind of duty. He almost expected them to fail. That made Niki doubly resolved.
The weather that morning was beastly. The wind was sharp as a steel knife, penetrating even through their parkas and wool caps. Then it began to rain. The wind increased, driving the icy rain against them as they struggled to find their way back across the desolate stretch of stubbled grassland. Moors provided very little possibility of shelter. When the rain began to come down in sheets, they huddled together next to a large boulder, spreading the tarp over themselves.
