February 1941
Kirton-in-Lindsey, England
“Good morning!” Scarlett said to Constance as she arrived for her morning watch.
“So loud.” Eloise, who had only been posted to Kirton for the last month, winced as she stirred a mug of cocoa.
“Someone stayed out with the boys a bit too long last night,” Constance explained as she handed Scarlett a steaming mug of coffee.
That could probably be said for most of the 71st and the WAAFs this morning, as well as a healthy percentage of the single, civilian girls from Kirton. Scarlett was among the sleepless, too, but for much…different reasons. After what they’d both considered an acceptable amount of time, Jameson had taken her home for their own celebration, though there had been a sharper, more desperate edge to his lovemaking.
As of yesterday, the 71st was officially ready for defensive duties. Training, and the blissful months of relative safety, were over. The only thing to celebrate in her mind was that the unit had finally been outfitted with Hurricanes, rather than the cumbersome Buffaloes Jameson hated so very much, but he still missed his Spitfire.
Scarlett offered Eloise a compassionate smile. “More water, less cocoa.” She finished putting her things away and looped her arm through Constance’s elbow as they headed for the door. “How late did you stay out, poppet?”
“Just long enough to see some of the girls home.” She sent a meaningful look toward Eloise, who followed close behind.
“Which was totally unnecessary,” the pretty little blonde added. “Did I enjoy myself? Certainly. But it’s not like I’m silly enough to end up in any of the dark alcoves with a flyer. I’m not about to have my heart broken
when—” She winced. “Not that you’re silly, of course, Scarlett. You’re married.”
Scarlett shrugged. “Yes, and that was still silly of me. We both know there are no guarantees. I worry every time Jameson flies—and he’s only been training these last few months, but now…” Her heart plummeted, but she forced a smile.
“He’ll be fine.” Constance gave her a squeeze, and they walked toward the briefing room.
Scarlett nodded, but her stomach hollowed out. She plotted aircraft every day that had lost their radar and ended up crashing simply because they couldn’t see how close they were to safety. She plotted the raids, the losses, and changed the numbers, all the while knowing that it would soon be Jameson back in combat.
“And don’t worry about this one,” Eloise said, nudging Constance. “She’s head over heels for that little army captain of hers. She spends most nights penning letter after letter.”
Pink rose in Constance’s cheeks.
“When exactly does Edward get leave again?” Scarlett grinned. Nothing would be better than seeing Constance as settled and happy as she was.
“In a few weeks,” Constance answered wistfully, sighing at the threshold of the briefing room, which was already half full.
Scarlett’s eyes flared with surprise as she spotted one of the occupants. “Mary?”
Mary’s head whipped her way. “Scarlett? Constance?”
Both Scarlett and Constance scurried around the long table to embrace their friend. It had been four months since they’d seen each other at Middle Wallop, and yet it seemed like an entire lifetime had passed.
“You both look wonderful!” Mary exclaimed, her eyes sweeping over her friends.
“Thank you,” Scarlett responded. “You do as well.” It wasn’t a lie, but there was something…off about Mary. The spark in her eyes had dimmed, and she could do with a few nights’ rest. A weight settled in her chest.
Whatever had sent their friend here wasn’t good.
“She should practically be glowing, since she’s married now.” Constance nudged her sister. “Show her!”
“Oh, all right.” Scarlett rolled her eyes but held out her left hand with as little fuss as possible, keeping her focus on Mary.
“My God.” Mary’s gaze flickered from the ring to Scarlett’s eyes. “Married? To whom?” She’d barely asked the question before her eyes widened. “Stanton? Eagle Squadron is still here, right?”
“Yes and yes,” Scarlett answered, unable to keep her lips from twitching upward.
Mary softened. “I’m happy for you. You two really are perfect for each other.”
“Thank you,” she replied gently, still sensing there was a reason for Mary’s appearance. “Now what on earth are you doing here?”
Mary’s face fell. “Oh. Michael…he was a pilot I’d been seeing since you were reposted…” She blinked rapidly and tilted her chin up. “He went down during a raid last week.” Her mouth trembled.
“Oh no, Mary, I’m so sorry.” Constance lifted her hand to Mary’s shoulder.
Scarlett swallowed painfully past the lump in her throat. That made three lovers Mary had lost in the last— She stiffened. “They didn’t…” She shook her head. Surely they wouldn’t be so cruel.
“Label me a jinx and repost me?” Mary flashed a brittle smile, then cleared her throat. “What else were they going to do?”
“Anything but that,” Constance snapped, shaking her head. “It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Scarlett added, guiding her to an empty chair at the table. “They’re too bloody superstitious. I’m so sorry you lost him.”
“Risks we take falling in love with them, right?” Mary folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead as Scarlett took the seat next to her, Constance on her left.
“Right,” Scarlett muttered.
“Good morning, ladies. Let’s get started,” Section Officer Cartwright announced as she swept into the room with her immaculately pressed uniform. “Take your seats.”
Chairs squeaked across the floor as the women gathered around the conference table. At Middle Wallop, Scarlett would have known most, if not all, of them. But living with Jameson meant she had met only a few of the ladies here at Kirton. There was no more hut gossip, no more flurries of excitement before a dance, no more late-night chats.
She was still part of them, yet oddly separate. She wouldn’t give up Jameson—not for the world—but there was part of her that sorely missed the company of other women.
“Mail,” Cartwright ordered, and a young clerk stood at the head of the conference table, calling names and sliding envelopes down the long, polished expanse.
“Wright.”
Both Constance’s and Scarlett’s attention whipped toward the clerk as a letter came spinning their way.
Stanton, not Wright. Scarlett reminded herself when she saw the letter was addressed to Constance. Not that anyone would be sending her mail, anyway. Her parents still hadn’t deigned to respond when she wrote to them after her marriage, though Constance still received regular missives from their mother.
They never asked after Scarlett.
Constance’s shoulders fell a fraction of an inch as she opened the envelope as quietly as possible. “It’s from Mother.”
Scarlett offered her hand a brief squeeze. “Perhaps there will be one tomorrow.” She knew all too well how it felt to wait for a letter from the man you loved.
Constance nodded, then lowered the envelope beneath the table.
Scarlett adjusted her seat slightly, blocking Constance from Cartwright’s hawklike gaze so she wouldn’t be caught reading during the briefing.
“Now that’s been handled,” Cartwright began. “You should have all read
through the new standards provided to you at last week’s briefing. I’m pleased to say that we haven’t had a single WAAF late for her watch since the half-hour policy was enacted. Well done. Are there any questions about last week’s policy changes?”
“Is it true the 71st is to be reposted?” a girl from down the table asked.
Scarlett’s heart stopped. No. Not so soon. Her head spun with every possibility. They hadn’t had enough time yet, and there were only so many favors she could call in to be reposted with Jameson—if they were even headed to a station that had an ops center.
Section Officer Cartwright sighed in obvious frustration. “Aircraftwoman Hensley, I hardly see how that has anything to do with last week’s policy change.”
The younger woman blushed. “It would…change where the aircraft originate from on the board?”
There was a collective groan.
“Excellent attempt, but no.” Cartwright glanced down the table, pausing briefly on Scarlett. “While I understand that many of you have formed emotional attachments—against advisement—to members of the Eagle Squadron, I’ll remind you that it is, quite frankly, none of our business where the unit will be sent now that they’re fully operational.”
A dozen forlorn sighs filled the conference room, but Scarlett’s wasn’t one of them. She was too busy conquering the emotional devastation to sigh as though she suffered from nothing but a crush.
“Girls,” Cartwright groaned. “While I could use this as an opportunity to remind you of your responsibility regarding virtuous behavior, I won’t.” And yet with that line, she surely had.
“What I will say is that rumors are rumors. If we believed or got caught up in every piece of maybe that landed in our ears, we’d be halfway to Berlin by now, and I expect you—”
Constance began to hyperventilate at Scarlett’s side, clutching the letter so hard, she expected to see her sister’s nails pop through the paper.
“Constance?” Scarlett whispered, her breath catching at the horror in her
sister’s eyes.
Constance’s scream filled the room, the sound tearing through Scarlett’s ribcage and gripping her heart with an icy fist.
Scarlett reached for Constance’s wrist, but the scream had already morphed into a mournful wail, stuttering with gut-wrenching sobs that shook her shoulders.
“Poppet?” she asked quietly, gently turning Constance’s face toward hers. Tears didn’t just streak down her face—they ran in a continuous line, as though her eyes couldn’t be bothered to fill, then empty.
“He’s. Dead.” Constance’s words came between heaving cries. “Edward. Is dead. There was a. Bombing raid—” Her chin sank as the sobs came faster and harder.
Edward. Scarlett’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. How could the blue-eyed boy who’d grown up with them be gone? He’d been as much a fixture of their lives growing up as her own parents.
He was Constance’s soul mate.
Scarlett tugged Constance into her arms. “I’m so sorry, love. So, so sorry.”
“Assistant Section Officer Stanton, do you need to remove your sister from the room, or can she control herself?” Cartwright snapped.
“I’ll care for her privately if we can be excused.” Scarlett bristled, but the insensitive wretch was right. A display like this wouldn’t be tolerated, no matter how justified. Constance would be labeled hysterical, undependable. Girls had been reposted, never seen again after failing to stifle their emotions.
Cartwright narrowed her eyes but nodded.
“Hold on for just a second longer,” Scarlett begged her sister in a whisper, wrapping her arm around Constance’s shoulder and tugging her to her feet. “Walk with me.” Another whisper.
As quickly as she could manage without tripping them both, Scarlett led Constance from the briefing room. The hallway was mercifully quiet, but still not private enough.
She opened a door to a smaller room—the supply depot—then pulled her sister inside and shut them in before leaning against the only empty wall and holding Constance tight. When her knees buckled, Scarlett slid to the floor with her, rocking slightly as Constance sobbed with ugly, gasping breaths against her shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured against her sister’s hair. If there was anything she could have done to take away her pain, she would have done so. Why her? Why Constance, when it was Scarlett’s love who risked his life every day? Her vision went blurry.
This was something she couldn’t protect Constance from. There was nothing she could do but hold her. Tears toppled from her lids, leaving wet, chilled streaks in their wake.
Eventually, Constance’s breathing evened out enough to manage speech. “His mother told ours,” she explained, the letter still clutched and crumpled in her hand. “It happened the day after he wrote last. He’s been dead for almost a week!” Her shoulders caved in as she burrowed farther in to Scarlett. “I can’t…” She shook her head.
A loud knock sounded at the door.
“Stay here,” Scarlett ordered her sister, standing quickly and swiping at her cheeks as she hurried to the door. She raised her chin as she found Section Officer Cartwright on the other side, then moved into the hallway, shutting the door to give Constance as much privacy as possible.
“Who died?” Cartwright asked in that blunt way the military prized. “Her fiancé.” She took every emotion clawing at her throat and shoved
it down. Later, she could feel it. Later, she could curl up in Jameson’s arms and cry for the friend she’d lost—the love her sister had been denied. Later…but not now.
“I’m sorry for her loss.” Cartwright swallowed, then looked down the hall and back, as though she, too, needed to compose herself, then lifted her chin. “While the circumstances of your birth afford you both certain… leniencies, I would be remiss in my duties if I did not warn you that she cannot afford another such outburst.”
“I understand.” She didn’t, but she’d seen enough lectures about emotional stability to know they weren’t being singled out. It simply was.
“Ever.” Cartwright raised her brows and spoke softly. “It won’t happen again,” she promised.
“Good. You have to be of steady hands and stout hearts to stand at that board, Assistant Section Officer. Men’s lives are at risk. We cannot afford to lose one because we are distraught over one already lost. Should the Senior Section—”
“It. Won’t. Happen. Again.” Scarlett squared her shoulders and stared her superior in the eye.
“Good.” Her gaze drifted toward the door, where Constance’s soft cries were still making their way through the heavy wood. “Take her to her quarters—or better yet, your home. I’ll have Clarke and Gibbons cover your watches. Make sure she’s calm before you bring her through the halls.” It was as much compassion as Scarlett had seen Cartwright give to anyone, and though it wasn’t enough, Scarlett saw it for what it was—a lifeline.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She’ll find another. We always do.” She turned on her heel and strode down the hall.
Scarlett slipped back into the supply room, closing the door and sinking to the floor to gather her sister in her arms.
“What am I going to do?” Constance broke her heart a little more with every sob. Every tear.
“Breathe,” Scarlett answered as she swept her hand up and down Constance’s back. “For the next few minutes, you’re going to breathe. That’s all.” If she’d lost Jameson— Don’t think like that. You can’t afford to let that in.
“And then what?” Constance cried. “I love him. How am I supposed to live without him? It hurts too much.”
Scarlett’s face twisted as she fought for control, for the strength Constance would need. “I don’t know. But for these minutes, we breathe. Once that’s done, we’ll take on the next.”
Maybe by then, she’d have the answer.
…
“Is it true?” Scarlett asked as she flung her coat over a chair in the kitchen more than a month later.
“Nice to see you, too, dear,” Jameson answered with a smile as he flipped the potatoes in the pan.
“I’m being serious.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
He had half a mind to tell the potatoes to go to hell and eat his wife for dinner instead, but the narrowing of her eyes gave him pause. It wasn’t just another rumor she was questioning. She knew. He muttered a curse. Damn, news traveled fast.
“Can I take that as a yes?” she questioned, her eyes sparked with so much anger, he half expected to see flames shoot out of them at any moment.
He moved the potatoes off the burner, then faced his beautiful, furious wife. “Kiss me first.”
“I beg your pardon?” She arched a brow.
He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her close, savoring the feel of her body against his. They’d been married five months. Five incredibly happy, almost normal months—if there was such a thing in the middle of a war—and everything was about to change. Everything but the way he felt about her.
He loved Scarlett more than he had the day he married her. She was thoughtful, strong, smart as a whip, and when he put his hands on her, they both went up in flames. But this…this he’d been desperately clinging to this new normal they’d carved out for themselves.
“Kiss me,” he ordered again, lowering his face. “I’ve barely seen you in the last few days. We haven’t eaten dinner together for a week because of our schedules. Love me first.”
“I love you always.” Her eyes softened, and she brought her lips to his,
kissing him gently.
His heart jolted, just like it did every time. He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, but kept himself in check. He wasn’t trying to distract her with sex—not that she’d fall for it anyway. One more moment—that was all he needed.
He pulled back gently, lifting his head so he could see her eyes. “We’re being reposted to Martlesham-Heath.”
Those crystal-blue eyes he loved flared with disbelief. “But that’s…” “Eleven group,” he finished for her. “We’re operational. They need us
there.” Where the majority of the action took place. He cradled her face in his hands and fought the rending sensation in his heart—it was too similar to the one he’d felt back at Middle Wallop when they’d been forced to part. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Mary told me Howard said you were being reposted, but…” She shook her head, coming alive, and backed out of his grasp, leaving him holding air.
Damn it, Howard.
“Scarlett, honey—”
“We’ll ‘figure it out?’” She gripped the back of the kitchen chair and took a deep breath. “When?”
“A matter of weeks,” he answered, lowering his arms. “No, when did you find out?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Just this morning.” He mentally cursed Howard for telling Mary before he’d even seen Scarlett. “I know it’s complicated, but I looked into married quarters on station before my flight—”
“What?” Her voice rose, which was as good as a Mayday when it came to her temper. The woman barely—if ever—lost that calm, collected cool of hers.
“I know it’s a jump to assume you’d be willing to ask for another transfer, especially with Constance…” Barely breathing. His sister-in-law had become a veritable ghost since losing Edward, and there was no chance Scarlett would leave her, no guarantee, either, that Constance would want to
go. “Anyway, housing is full, so we’d have to live off-station like we are now, but I can start looking for digs.”
“Willing to ask for another transfer,” Scarlett repeated, her eyes catching fire. “What makes you think I can transfer there, Jameson? There’s not…I can’t…” She rubbed the bridge of her nose.
She couldn’t tell him because her job required more clearance than his. Of course he knew what she did—he wasn’t born yesterday—but that didn’t mean she came home and divulged where the other filter rooms were, or the radar stations. Too much knowledge was dangerous for a pilot who could easily crash into enemy hands. And sure, it was fine to know where she currently worked; sector operations were— Holy shit, that’s it. “There’s no sector operations at Martlesham,” he guessed quietly.
She shook her head in answer. “What Constance and I do, the training involved…” She met his gaze, and the pain he saw there dug its claws into his soul. “Command isn’t exactly going to let us go become drivers or mechanics. We are what we are.” She was as—if not more—essential to the mission as he was.
“You’re remarkable.” His stomach churned, knowing this meant an already difficult situation was about to become impossible. Just the thought of waking up without her, of not laughing together as they burned whatever they’d been trying to cook, of falling asleep without her in his arms for weeks on end was enough to make his heart scream in protest. What the hell would it be like in actuality?
“Hardly,” she blew him off. “Just highly trained and nimble-fingered, neither of which is working in our favor at the moment. Martlesham is hours away. They’ve cut practically all our leave, and you won’t be getting much, either. We’ll never see each other.” Her shoulders hunched as she tucked her chin.
His heart damn near broke as he crossed the distance between them and pulled her against his chest. “We’ll figure it out. My love for you didn’t fade when half of England separated us. A few hours is nothing.”
But it was everything. Forget a Living Out pass; it was too far to get a
Sleeping Out pass unless he took forty-eight hours, and she was right, their days of easily attained leave were a thing of the past. It could be months between visits, depending on how the war went.
He uttered another curse word under his breath. They’d come so close to losing each other during that raid at Middle Wallop, and if something happened to her now… Bile rose in his throat. “You could always go to Colorado.”
She stiffened in his arms, then looked up at him like he’d lost his mind. “I know you won’t,” he said softly, tucking a strand of her hair that had
come loose from the pinks. “I know your sense of duty won’t allow it, and you won’t leave Constance anyway, but I’d be a shit husband if I didn’t at least ask you to go, to be safe.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not American.” She raised her hands to his T-shirt-covered chest—neither of them ever cooked in full uniform. They’d learned that lesson early in their marriage to the detriment of two otherwise perfectly good jackets.
“I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but you’re not exactly British anymore, either.” Thank God the WAAF had no problem taking foreign nationals. “We both seem to be in between countries at the moment.”
She huffed a small laugh. “And how exactly are you hoping to get me into your country? Fly, then push me out over Colorado?” she teased, pressing a kiss on his chin.
“Now that you mention it…” He grinned, loving that she could always find the levity in a situation.
“Seriously, though, let’s scrap that as a possibility, because it isn’t one. You can’t even get into your own country without being arrested right now.”
“Actually…” He tilted his head as his thoughts raced. “I never renounced my citizenship. Never swore loyalty to the king, either, so I’m not treasonous. Did I break neutrality laws? Yes. Would I be sent to jail if I headed home? Probably. But I’m still American.” He glanced at his uniform jacket as it hung over a kitchen chair, the eagle bright on the right shoulder.
“You didn’t break any laws, and you’re my wife. You’re entitled to American citizenship. We’d just have to get you a visa.” A spark of hope glimmered in his chest. He had a way to get her out of this war—to ensure she lived through it.
She flat out laughed and pushed out of his arms. “Right, and that takes a year, if not longer, from what I’ve read in the papers. The war might very well be over by the time that happened. And besides, you’re right. I won’t leave my country—even if it’s technically not mine anymore—when it needs me, and I won’t abandon Constance. We swore to see this through together, and we will.” She took his hand and placed a kiss on his wedding band. “And I’ll never leave you, Jameson. Not if I can help it. A few hours are nothing compared to thousands of miles across an ocean.”
“But you’d be safe—” he started.
“No. We can discuss this again when the war is over or our circumstances have drastically changed. Until then, my answer is no.”
Jameson sighed. “Of course I had to fall for the obstinate girl.” Yet he wouldn’t have loved her had she been anyone else.
“Obstinate, headstrong girl,” she corrected him with a small smile. “If you’re going to quote Austen, do it correctly.” She pressed her lips in a firm line. “What’s the farthest you can live from the station and still have a Living Out pass?”
“It depends on the station commander.” Some were compassionate and believed that the air crew tended to be more reliable if they lived on- or off- station with their families. Others didn’t give a shit—or passes. “What about you?”
“I’m barely allowed a pass as it is. All the other women live in the huts or are billeted in the old married quarters.” Her brow puckered.
“None of the other women are married to someone posted at the same station,” he noted. Soon, she’d be just like the few others with wedding rings—married but forced to live apart.
She gnawed on her lower lip, clearly thinking something over. “What’s going on in that remarkable brain of yours, Scarlett Stanton?”
Her gaze jumped to meet his. “I can’t go with you, but there’s a slight chance I might be able to get reposted closer than where we are now.”
He tried like hell not to hope but failed. “I’ll take even the slightest chance over the possibility of going months without seeing you.”
“If only postings were up to you, my husband, and as I am not currently recognized as my father’s daughter, I can’t pull the strings I did to get here.” She laced her fingers behind his neck. “But I’ll try.”
Relief loosened the knot in his throat but didn’t dispel it completely. “God, I love you.”
“If I can’t get reposted and all we have are weeks, then we’d better make them count.” She nodded toward the stove and its forgotten contents. “Skip dinner and take me to bed.”
“We don’t need a bed.” He lifted her to the kitchen table and sank into her kiss. She was right—if they only had weeks, he wasn’t wasting a second of it.
