when?”
Chuck took a long drag on her cigarette; her hands were shaking. “No, no idea,” she said. “Could be anywhere …” Her voice broke. “He’s training now. Probably up north, in Scotland maybe. I know he can’t say anything, but—”
Clarabelle patted Chuck on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Chuck. You’ll see. Everything will be all right.”
Maggie, Paige, and Chuck, and then even Annabelle, looked at Clarabelle, then at the pieces of the Anderson shelter, then back to Clarabelle. “I mean,
Nigel
will be fine. More than fine. A hero, in fact.”
Chuck blinked hard. “Bloody hell,” she said finally, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
“Right, then. Back to work, ladies.” Maggie stood up, brushing dirt and leaves off the seat of her trousers. “And do you know what I think our shelter needs? A nice big bottle of gin.”
Across the Atlantic Ocean, in one of Wellesley College’s faculty apartments, Edith Hope couldn’t sleep. It was her age, she told herself; it was hot flashes and night sweats and needing to use the toilet every few hours.
She looked up at the bedroom ceiling, shadows from the maple tree branches outside the window dancing in the silvery light from a waning moon.
Not to mention the fact that her niece was in a country about to be invaded by Germany.
She turned over and flipped the down pillow to the cool side but still couldn’t get comfortable. She threw off the gray-silk duvet, the one her hair was beginning to match.
Guilty conscience, Edith?
she thought.
Maybe. Probably
.
Edith’s last argument with Margaret still rang in her ears and haunted her dreams. She hadn’t wanted to send her to London. But when her mother, Margaret’s grandmother, died, there wasn’t any other option. Edith wouldn’t—couldn’t—go back to London, to that place where time compressed and old hurts would feel just as raw as they had twenty-some-odd years ago. And she was still, after all this time, determined to keep her word.
And yet.
And yet it had been hard on Margaret. Edith sighed. Margaret hadn’t understood. And why should she? She was young and had her life in front of her.
“I’m a college graduate now,” Margaret had snapped any number of times before she’d left. “Don’t you think it’s time to start treating me as an adult?”
An adult?
When Edith looked at her she still saw a newborn, small and mewing like a kitten. She saw an inquisitive toddler, a precocious child, and a determined teenage girl. But a grown woman? Edith tried not to let her lips twitch into a smile. “I’m well aware of your age, Margaret. And if you want me to treat you like a grown-up, you will need to behave like one.… I’m sorry, but there it is.”
And that was the end of the discussion.
Until, of course, Margaret started to make noise about staying in London—poppycock and nonsense about truly living in London, not merely getting a job long enough to sell the house and then returning to Boston, where she belonged.
What’s that girl thinking?
In response, Edith had sent off the letter, revised and rewritten so many times, she knew it by heart.
Wellesley, Massachusetts
Margaret
,
I feel it is my duty to write to tell you how disappointed I am by your decision to stay in England. When I asked you to go, it was simply to oversee the details of the house sale, so that the money would offset the cost of M.I.T. It seemed a perfect opportunity for you to see something of the world before going back to your studies
.
However, now that war is beginning in earnest, I feel that it was the wrong decision; I should never have allowed you to go. Perhaps you’ve been too sheltered all your life, and this first taste of freedom was too intoxicating. But I will warn you that ultimately it will come to naught. Why do you think women such as myself have fought so hard to be educated, to work in academia? Do you realize the sacrifices we made for your generation?
And for you to throw it all
Chuck took a long drag on her cigarette; her hands were shaking. “No, no idea,” she said. “Could be anywhere …” Her voice broke. “He’s training now. Probably up north, in Scotland maybe. I know he can’t say anything, but—”
Clarabelle patted Chuck on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Chuck. You’ll see. Everything will be all right.”
Maggie, Paige, and Chuck, and then even Annabelle, looked at Clarabelle, then at the pieces of the Anderson shelter, then back to Clarabelle. “I mean,
Nigel
will be fine. More than fine. A hero, in fact.”
Chuck blinked hard. “Bloody hell,” she said finally, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
“Right, then. Back to work, ladies.” Maggie stood up, brushing dirt and leaves off the seat of her trousers. “And do you know what I think our shelter needs? A nice big bottle of gin.”
Across the Atlantic Ocean, in one of Wellesley College’s faculty apartments, Edith Hope couldn’t sleep. It was her age, she told herself; it was hot flashes and night sweats and needing to use the toilet every few hours.
She looked up at the bedroom ceiling, shadows from the maple tree branches outside the window dancing in the silvery light from a waning moon.
Not to mention the fact that her niece was in a country about to be invaded by Germany.
She turned over and flipped the down pillow to the cool side but still couldn’t get comfortable. She threw off the gray-silk duvet, the one her hair was beginning to match.
Guilty conscience, Edith?
she thought.
Maybe. Probably
.
Edith’s last argument with Margaret still rang in her ears and haunted her dreams. She hadn’t wanted to send her to London. But when her mother, Margaret’s grandmother, died, there wasn’t any other option. Edith wouldn’t—couldn’t—go back to London, to that place where time compressed and old hurts would feel just as raw as they had twenty-some-odd years ago. And she was still, after all this time, determined to keep her word.
And yet.
And yet it had been hard on Margaret. Edith sighed. Margaret hadn’t understood. And why should she? She was young and had her life in front of her.
“I’m a college graduate now,” Margaret had snapped any number of times before she’d left. “Don’t you think it’s time to start treating me as an adult?”
An adult?
When Edith looked at her she still saw a newborn, small and mewing like a kitten. She saw an inquisitive toddler, a precocious child, and a determined teenage girl. But a grown woman? Edith tried not to let her lips twitch into a smile. “I’m well aware of your age, Margaret. And if you want me to treat you like a grown-up, you will need to behave like one.… I’m sorry, but there it is.”
And that was the end of the discussion.
Until, of course, Margaret started to make noise about staying in London—poppycock and nonsense about truly living in London, not merely getting a job long enough to sell the house and then returning to Boston, where she belonged.
What’s that girl thinking?
In response, Edith had sent off the letter, revised and rewritten so many times, she knew it by heart.
Wellesley, Massachusetts
Margaret
,
I feel it is my duty to write to tell you how disappointed I am by your decision to stay in England. When I asked you to go, it was simply to oversee the details of the house sale, so that the money would offset the cost of M.I.T. It seemed a perfect opportunity for you to see something of the world before going back to your studies
.
However, now that war is beginning in earnest, I feel that it was the wrong decision; I should never have allowed you to go. Perhaps you’ve been too sheltered all your life, and this first taste of freedom was too intoxicating. But I will warn you that ultimately it will come to naught. Why do you think women such as myself have fought so hard to be educated, to work in academia? Do you realize the sacrifices we made for your generation?
And for you to throw it all
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