September 1940
Middle Wallop, England
Jameson had been born to fly the Spitfire. It was agile, responsive, and moved like it was an extension of his body, which was just about the only advantage he had in combat.
Was Great Britain cranking out planes at an unprecedented rate? Yes. But what they needed were pilots with more than twelve hours in the cockpit heading into a dogfight.
The German pilots were more experienced, with more hours, more aces, and more confirmed kills in general. Thank God the Nazi long-range capabilities were shit, or the RAF would have lost the Battle of Britain more than a month ago.
But they were still in it.
Today had been the hardest yet. He’d barely rested between launches, and that had been at airfields that weren’t his own. London was under attack. Hell, the whole island was. It had been for the last week, but today the skies were heavy with smoke and aircraft. The Nazi assault seemed endless. They were pummeled by wave after wave of bombers and their fighter escorts.
Adrenaline sang through his body as he zeroed in on an enemy aircraft somewhere to the southeast of London, coming up on the fighter’s tail nice and close. Closer made it easier to hit his target. It also made it easier to go down with them. The enemy began a steep climb, taking them nearly vertical as Jameson chased him through a heavy layer of clouds. His stomach pitched.
He had a few seconds, no more.
Already his engine sputtered, losing power.
If he went fully inverted, he’d lose the whole thing. Unlike that
Messerschmitt, he didn’t have fuel injection under his hood. The carburetor of his little Spitfire had a very real chance of being his doom.
“Stanton!” Howard shouted through the radio.
“Come on, come on,” Jameson growled as his thumb hovered over the trigger. The instant the fighter appeared in his crosshairs, Jameson fired.
“Yes! Got him!” he shouted as smoke streamed from the Messerschmitt, his own engine gasping its final warning.
He banked hard left, narrowly missing the plummeting fuselage of the enemy fighter. Gasping, he leveled out, then descended through the clouds, letting the engine and his heartbeat steady itself. One more second, and he would have flooded the engine and joined the Messerschmitt as a crater in the English countryside.
Two confirmed kills. Three more, and he’d be an ace.
An aircraft pulled alongside him, and he glanced left to see Howard shaking his head.
“I’m telling Scarlett you did that,” he warned over the radio.
“Don’t you dare,” Jameson snapped, glancing at the photograph he’d wedged in the framework of the altimeter. It was Scarlett, mid-laugh, captured just after the sisters had joined the WAAF. Constance had given it to him after Scarlett refused, saying he knew exactly what she looked like without carrying her picture into battle. Of course he knew what she looked like. That was why he liked looking at her so much.
“Then don’t pull that again,” Howard warned.
Jameson scoffed, knowing they’d have words about it at beer call. Scarlett had enough on her shoulders to worry about without throwing his flying habits into the mix. As long as he came home to her, how he did it was a moot point as far as he was concerned.
Especially since he was due to leave RAF Church Fenton in a few days and had yet to think of a way to bring her with him. The Eagle Squadron, composed of other American pilots serving in the RAF, was actually happening.
He was being transferred.
“Sorbo leader,” the call came over the radio, “this is fighter command. We have forty-five plus on approach at Kinley at angels thirteen. Vector 270.”
“Received,” their wing commander answered. They were headed back into the thick of battle.
…
Two days. That’s how long it had been since Scarlett had word of Jameson. She knew the squadron had refueled elsewhere during what had been the longest two days of her life. The air raids from the fifteenth had worn her to the bone, both in the operations room and in her heart.
She knew of at least two dozen fighters who’d carried their pilots to their graves.
The blitz of bombings yesterday saw much of her day in the air-raid shelter when she was not on watch. All she’d thought about was Jameson. Where was he? Was he safe? Had he been injured…or worse?
Today she was waiting for him, and she wasn’t alone. There were perhaps a dozen women in their little group, all sweethearts of the pilots, all gathered on the stretch of pavement between the parked cars and the two remaining hangars on the airfield. It was approximately the same spot where she and Jameson had been when the now-demolished hangar had been done in a month ago.
The hum of engines filled the air, and her heartbeat skyrocketed. They were here.
She squared her shoulders as the Spitfires landed, wishing she’d worn her uniform instead of her blue-checkered dress. A woman in uniform was required to keep herself together, and at this moment, she felt anything but. Her nerves were simply shot.
It was easily another twenty minutes before the first pilots made their way down the pavement, still wearing their flight suits. A few she recognized, especially the three other Americans who would be leaving
with Jameson in two short days. She should have been prepared for his transfer orders—God knew the RAF was the most mobile force in Britain— but it had still hit her like a blow.
Her stomach clenched as more and more pilots appeared. Then she saw him.
She ran, cutting through the grass to bypass the foot traffic.
He spotted her and stepped clear of the crowd just before she reached him, catching her easily as she threw herself into his arms.
“Scarlett, my Scarlett,” he said into her neck, his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her as her feet dangled far above the ground.
“I love you.” Her arms shook slightly as she held tight, the full measure of her relief coursing through her in a shock wave of emotion.
“God, I love you.” With one arm locked tight around her back, he cupped her face with the other, pulling back enough to lock their gazes.
“I was terrified for you.” The truth spilled from her lips so easily, even after she’d withheld those very words from her sister over the last two days.
“There was no reason to be.” He smiled and pressed a kiss to her lips.
She melted against him, kissing him back despite the very public audience. Today, she couldn’t bring herself to care if the king himself were watching.
He held her carefully but kissed her passionately for a long, hard moment, then eventually, he brushed his mouth over hers and drew back. Much to her delight, he didn’t put her down. He was the only person who managed to make her feel delicate without making her feel small.
“Marry me,” he said, his eyes dancing with happiness. She startled. “I’m sorry?”
“Marry me.” His eyebrows lifted with the corners of his mouth. “I’ve spent the entirety of the last week trying to think of how to keep us together, and that’s how. Marry me, Scarlett.”
Wait, had he just proposed? No matter how much she loved him, it was too soon, too reckless, and entirely too much like a business deal. Her mouth opened and shut a few times, but she couldn’t quite make the words
come out for a few embarrassing seconds. “Put. Me. Down.” There they were.
He held her tighter. “I can’t live without you.”
“You’ve only lived with me for two months.” Her mouth tightened as she lectured her foolish heart to keep quiet.
“I wish I’d lived with you for two months,” he whispered, his voice dropping to that low, growly tone that turned her insides to mush.
“Oh, you know what I mean.” She laced her fingers behind his neck, more than aware that he had yet to do as she’d asked and lower her.
“We could live together for the rest of our lives,” he said softly. “One home. One dining room table…one bed.”
“You can’t seriously be suggesting that we rush into marriage because you’d like to get me into bed.” She arched an eyebrow. Not that she hadn’t thought about Jameson that way. She had. Frequently. Too frequently according to her morals and not frequently enough, according to the ladies she lived with.
His eyes flared with humor. “Well, no, but I love which piece of furniture you focused on. If I just wanted to get you into bed, you’d know it by now.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “I want to marry you because it’s a foregone conclusion. It doesn’t matter if we date another year, Scarlett, we’re going to end up married eventually.”
“Jameson.” Her cheeks flushed, even though she resented how good it felt to hear those words.
“If we do it now, we won’t be separated.”
“It’s not that simple.” Her heart warred with her head. There was something utterly romantic about running off to marry a man you were head over heels in love with and had only known two months. There was also something naive about it.
“It is,” he assured her.
“Says the man who won’t lose his job.” There were about a dozen reasons flitting through her mind about why this was a horrid suggestion, but that one shouted the loudest.
He blinked in sheer confusion, then slowly lowered her to the ground. “What do you mean?”
She took his hand, and they started toward the car. “There’s no place for me at RAF Church Fenton. Believe me, I’ve inquired, and if I marry you”— a small smile lifted her lips—“I can’t guarantee I’d be reposted. We’d still be apart unless I left the WAAF for family reasons.”
His face fell. “The only part I liked about what you just said was ‘if I marry you.’”
“I know.” She had to admit, she liked that, too.
Their situation was damnable. Even if she thought she could do something so reckless, she could never abandon Constance. They’d agreed to see out this war together. But if Constance was willing to seek a transfer
—
“You love your job, don’t you?” he asked, as though admitting defeat. “I do. It’s meaningful.”
“It is,” he agreed. “So what do we do?” he asked, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “In two days, I’m going to be on the other side of England.”
“Then I guess we enjoy what time we have.” Her chest ached, both with how much she loved him and the agony of what was coming.
“I’m not letting you go.” He turned and lifted her into his arms. “I might not be here physically, but that doesn’t mean we’re not together. Understand?”
She nodded. “Then I hope we’re both very good at writing letters.”
…
Of all the places she would have loved to go on leave—such as Church Fenton—spending the weekend at her parents’ London house was last on the list. To be honest, it didn’t even make the list.
The only reason she’d agreed to come at all was because they’d promised to stop feeding nonsense stories to the press, and it was her
mother’s birthday.
The more she came home, the more she realized she wasn’t the same girl who’d left it. Perhaps the dutiful, biddable daughter she’d been at the start of this war had been simply another casualty in the Battle for Britain.
They’d won, and the Germans had halted their all-out assault after those horrifying mid-September days, though bombing raids were still terrifyingly common.
Jameson had been gone more than a month, and though he wrote twice a week, she missed him with a ferocity that escaped words. Every part of her ached when she thought about him. Logically, she’d made the right choice. But life was so…uncertain, and there were parts of herself that cursed logic and demanded she get on a train.
Meet me in London next month. We’ll get separate rooms. I don’t care where we sleep as long as I get to see you. I’m dying here, Scarlett. The words from his latest letter echoed through her head.
“You miss him,” Constance noted as they descended the staircase. “Unbearably,” she admitted.
“You should have said yes. You should have run off and married him. In fact, you could go now. Right now.” Constance lifted her eyebrows.
“And leave you?” Scarlett questioned, linking elbows with her sister. “Never.”
“I would marry Edward if I could, but after Dunkirk…well, he still wants to wait until the war is over, and besides, I’d rather see you happy.”
“I will be very happy next month, when I will use my forty-eight hours to meet him here in London,” she whispered. The excitement was nearly too much to keep in. “Well, not here. I don’t think our parents would approve.”
“What?” Constance’s eyes widened with her smile. “That’s brilliant!” “And what about you? Wasn’t that another letter from Edward I saw?”
Scarlett raised her eyebrows and bumped her sister’s hip. “It was!”
“Girls, do sit down,” their mother prompted as they entered the dining
room, which was dimly lit. All their windows were covered tightly to block out any light that might shine through at night, as the blackout dictated, but it also served to make the daytimes equally dreary.
“Yes, Mother,” they answered in time, each taking their place at the obscenely long table.
Her father walked in, dressed in an immaculately pressed suit, and smiled at each of his daughters, then his wife, before taking his seat at the head. It was quiet, as always, the discussion kept to pleasantries.
“Are you girls enjoying your leave?” their father asked as they finished the main course. The chicken had been an unexpected treat, given the state of rationing.
“Absolutely,” Constance answered with a grin.
“Definitely,” Scarlett chimed in as the girls shared a secretive smile. Her parents didn’t know about Jameson. She’d need to tell them eventually, but not on her mother’s birthday.
“I wish you were home more,” her mother noted, her smile failing to hide the sadness in her tone. “But at least we’ll see you again next month.”
“Actually, we might not be able to visit quite so often,” Scarlett admitted. From now on, she’d spend every bit of leave she was given to see Jameson.
Her mother’s gaze snapped to hers. “Oh, but you must. We have so many arrangements to make before the summer.”
Scarlett’s stomach turned over, but she managed to lift her water and sip.
Don’t jump to conclusions. “Arrangements?” she questioned.
Her mother drew back slightly, as though surprised. “Weddings take arranging, Scarlett. They don’t just happen. It took Lady Vincent a year to plan her daughter’s wedding.”
Scarlett’s eyes flickered toward Constance. Had she told them about Jameson’s proposal?
Constance subtly shook her head, already shrinking back in her chair. Good God. Were her parents still intending to push the match with
Henry? “And who is getting married?” Scarlett asked, straightening her
spine.
Her parents shared a telling look, and Scarlett’s heart plummeted.
Her father cleared his throat. “Look, we’ve let you have your fun. You’ve fulfilled your duty to king and country, and even though you know my thoughts on this war, I respected your choice.”
“Appeasement was not the solution to the German hostility!” Scarlett snapped.
“Had they just negotiated an acceptable—” Her father shook his head, then took a deep breath, his jaw ticking. “It’s time to do your duty to your family, Scarlett.” His voice left no room for misinterpretation or argument.
Icy rage seeped into her veins. “Just to be clear, Father, you associate my duty to this family with marriage?” Their whole way of thinking was ancient.
“Naturally. What else could I possibly mean?” Her father lifted his silver eyebrows at her.
Constance swallowed and put her hands in her lap.
“It’s for the best, dear,” her mother urged. “You’ll want for nothing once the Wadsworths—”
No.
“I would want for love.” Scarlett took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “I thought I made it clear back in August when I asked you to stop feeding the paper lies.”
“It may have been premature, but it certainly wasn’t a lie.” Her mother drew back as if insulted.
“Allow me to clarify: I will not marry that monster. I refuse.”
“You what?” Her mother’s jaw dropped. “You are getting married this summer!”
“Well, it won’t be to Henry Wadsworth.” Even the name tasted vile in her mouth.
“You have someone else in mind?” her father quipped sarcastically.
“I do.” She lifted her chin. Birthday be damned, this couldn’t wait. They could not continue to plan her life. “I’m in love with a pilot, an American,
and if I choose to marry, it will be him. You will have to find your income infusion elsewhere.”
“A Yank?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not!” Dishes clanged as her father slammed his hands on the table, but Scarlett didn’t flinch.
Constance did.
“I will do as I please. I am a full-grown woman”—Scarlett stood—“and an officer in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. I am no longer a child for you to order about.”
“You would do this? Ruin us?” Her mother’s voice broke. “Generations of sacrifices have been made, but you will not?”
She knew exactly where to hit her daughters hardest, but Scarlett pushed the guilt aside. Marrying Henry would only delay the inevitable. The way of life her parents clung to was disintegrating. There was nothing she could do to stop that.
“If there is ruining to be done, I’m quite comfortable saying that I am not the cause.” She took a deep breath, hoping there was something she could salvage here, a way to make them see. “I love Jameson. He is a good man. An honorable man—”
“I’ll be damned if I see this title, this family’s legacy, given to the spawn of a bloody Yank!” her father shouted, coming to his feet.
Scarlett kept her head high and her shoulders square, thankful that she’d spent the last year working in the most stressful environment imaginable, perfecting the art of remaining calm during a tempest. “You make the mistake of assuming I want anything to do with your title. I do not aspire to wealth or politics. You cling to something I have no interest in.” Her voice was soft yet steel.
Her father’s face pinkened, then deepened to a purely red hue as his eyes bulged. “So help me God, Scarlett, if you marry without my permission, I will no longer acknowledge you as my daughter.”
“No,” her mother gasped.
“I mean it. You won’t inherit a thing.” He jabbed his finger toward her. “Not Ashby. Not this house. Nothing.”
Her heart didn’t break—that would have been too simple. It ripped, straining, then tearing at the fibers of her soul. She truly meant that little to him. “Then we agree,” she said softly. “I am free to do as I wish, as long as I willingly accept your consequence, which includes not inheriting the very things I do not want.”
“Scarlett!” her mother called out, but Scarlett didn’t lower her gaze or give an inch as her father attempted to stare her down.
“And if I have a son,” she continued, “he, too, will be free of this anchor of obligation you treasure more than your daughter’s happiness.”
Her father’s eyebrows shot up. The only thing he’d ever wanted was a son. She’d never give him hers.
“Scarlett, do not do this. You have to marry the Wadsworth boy,” he demanded. “Any sons that come from that union will be the next Baron Wright.”
He seemed to have forgotten that if Constance, too, had sons, it would not be so cut-and-dried.
“That sounds like an order.” Scarlett pushed in her chair and gripped the back.
“It is. It has to be.”
“I only take orders from my superior officers, and as I recall, you have elected not to serve in a war you have never approved of.” The ice in her veins permeated her tone.
“This visit is over.” He spoke through gritted teeth.
“I agree.” She kissed her mother’s cheek on the way out of the dining room. “Happy birthday, Mother. I’m so sorry I cannot give you what you want.”
Then she removed herself to her room, where she quickly changed into her uniform and packed her dress into her suitcase.
As she came down the stairs, she found Constance waiting for her at the threshold, dressed identically, suitcase in hand.
“Do not do this to us,” her mother begged, coming out of the drawing room.
“I will not marry Henry,” Scarlett repeated. “How can you ask me to? You would see me marry a man I loathe? A known abuser of women, all to keep what?” Scarlett asked, softening her voice.
“It’s what your father wants. What the family needs.” Her mother lifted her chin. “We’ve cut the staff. We’ve sold most of the land at Ashby. We’ve economized the last few years. We all make sacrifices.”
“But in this case, you’d like to sacrifice me, and I’ll not have it. Goodbye, Mother.” She walked out of the townhouse and sucked in a shaky breath.
Constance followed her, shutting the door behind her. “So I guess we’ll need to purchase new train tickets, seeing as ours were for tomorrow.”
She did not deserve her sister, but she hugged her anyway. “How do you feel about applying for a transfer?”
