May 1941
North Weald, England
It had been almost eight weeks and the light still hadn’t returned
to Constance’s eyes. Scarlett couldn’t push her, couldn’t advise her, couldn’t do anything but watch her sister grieve. And yet, she’d still asked her to transfer with her to North Weald. It was the most selfish thing she’d ever done, but she didn’t know how to simultaneously be a wife and a sister, so now both suffered.
Though she may have been on the outs with her parents since marrying Jameson against their wishes, they’d apparently kept the rift private, since Scarlett and Constance’s request to transfer to North Weald had been approved.
They’d been here for a month, and though Scarlett rented a house off- station for the nights Jameson could get a Sleeping Out pass, Constance had chosen to billet with the other WAAFs in the huts on the station.
For the first time in her life, there had been an entire week of Scarlett’s life where she’d lived completely, utterly alone. No parents. No sister. No WAAFs. No Jameson. He was over an hour away at Martlesham-Heath but came…home—if that’s what this was—whenever he could get a pass. Between her worry over Constance and her fear that something would happen to Jameson, she lived in a constant state of nausea.
“You really don’t need to do this,” Scarlett told her sister as they knelt on ground only recently thawed by spring. “It still might be a bit early.”
“If it dies, it dies.” Constance shrugged, then continued digging with the small trowel, readying the space for a small rosebush she’d taken from their parents’ garden while on leave that weekend. “It’s better to try, right? Who knows how long we’ll be at this station? Maybe Jameson gets reposted. Maybe we do. Maybe just I do. If I keep waiting for life to give me the most
opportune circumstances to live it, I never will. So fine, if it freezes and dies, then at least we tried.”
“Can I help?” Scarlett asked.
“No, I’m just about done. You’ll have to remember to water it regularly, but not too much.” She finished tilling the soil at the edge of the patio. “The plant will tell you. Just watch the leaves and cover her up if it gets too cold at night.”
“You’re so much better at this than I am.”
“You’re better at telling stories than I am,” she noted. “Gardening is learned, just like mathematics or history.”
“You write perfectly well,” Scarlett argued. They’d always received similar marks in school.
“Grammar and essays, sure.” She shrugged. “But story lines? Plots? You are far more talented. Now, if you truly want to help, you sit there and tell me one of your tales while I put this girl in.” She formed a mound of dirt at the bottom of the hole, then placed the crown of roots over the mound, measuring the distance to the surface.
“Well, I guess that’s easy enough.” Scarlett sat back and crossed her ankles in front of her. “Which story and where were we?”
Constance paused in thought. “The one about the diplomat’s daughter and the prince. I think she’d just discovered—”
“The note,” Scarlett jumped in. “Right. The one where she thinks he’s sending her father away.” Her mind slipped back into that little world, the characters as real to her as Constance was sitting beside her.
Eventually, the two sisters lay on their backs, staring up at the clouds as Scarlett did her best to weave a story worthy of distracting Constance, if only for a few moments.
“Why wouldn’t he simply tell her he’s sorry and move on?” Constance asked, rolling to her side so she could face Scarlett. “Wouldn’t that be the most straightforward answer?”
“It would,” Scarlett agreed. “But then our heroine won’t see his growth, can’t really find him worthy of that second chance. The key to bringing
them the ending they deserve is to pick at their flaws until they bleed, then make them conquer that flaw, that fear, in order to prove themselves to the one they love. Otherwise it’s really just a story about falling in love.” Scarlett laced her fingers behind her head. “Without the potential for disaster, would we ever really know what we have?”
“I didn’t,” Constance whispered.
Scarlett locked eyes with her sister. “You did. I know you loved Edward.
He knew it, too.”
“I should have married him the way you did Jameson,” she said softly. “At least we would have had that before…” She drifted off, her eyes lifting toward the trees above them.
Before he died.
“I wish I could take your pain.” It wasn’t fair that Constance was in such misery while Scarlett counted the hours between Jameson’s days off.
Constance swallowed. “It doesn’t matter.” “It does.” Scarlett sat up. “It matters.”
Constance mirrored her but didn’t meet her eyes. “It really doesn’t. The other girls who move on, who see love affairs as temporary—I understand. I really do. Nothing here is guaranteed. Planes go down every day. Bombing raids happen. There’s no point holding your heart back when there’s a good chance you’ll die tomorrow anyway. May as well live while you can.” She glanced over the small garden. “But I know I’ll never love anyone the way I did Edward—the way I still do. I’m not sure I’ll ever have a heart to give. Seems safer to read about love in novels than it is to honestly experience it.”
“Oh, Constance.” Scarlett’s heart broke yet again for what Constance had lost.
“It’s fine.” Constance hopped to her feet. “We’d better get ready, since we have watch in a little over an hour.”
“I can make us something to eat first,” Scarlett suggested. “I’ve gotten rather good at a couple quick things.”
Constance looked at her sister with well-deserved skepticism. “I’ve got
a better idea. Let’s get dressed and run over to the officers’ mess.” “You don’t trust me!” Scarlett scoffed.
“I trust you implicitly. It’s your cooking I doubt.” Constance shrugged, but her teasing smile was genuine, which was more than enough for Scarlett.
Dressed and fed, the girls made it to watch in plenty of time. They left their coats in the cloak room, then headed for the filter room. As busy as their boards were in their small sector, it was hard to imagine what the ones at Group Headquarters looked like.
“Ah, Wright and Stanton, always the pair,” Section Leader Robbins noted with a smile at the door. “Anything you ladies need before watch begins?”
“No, ma’am,” Scarlett replied. Out of all her section leaders, Robbins was turning out to be her favorite.
“No, ma’am,” Constance echoed. “Just show me to my section of the board.”
“Excellent. And when you both have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about your responsibilities.” The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Are we lacking?” Scarlett asked slowly.
“No, quite the opposite. I’d like you both to train as tellers. More pressure, but I would be willing to wager that you’d both make Section Officer by the end of the year.” She glanced between the sisters, measuring their reactions.
“That would be wonderful!” Scarlett answered. “Thank you so much for the opportunity; we would—”
“I need to think on it,” Constance interjected, her voice dropping. Scarlett blinked back her surprise.
“Naturally,” Robbins said with a kind smile. “I hope you have an… uneventful night.”
The sisters made their farewell, and before Scarlett could question Constance about her answer, her sister opened the door and disappeared
into the always-silent filter room.
Scarlett followed her in, then put on her headset and relieved the WAAF at her corner of the board, taking a quick sweep over her section to familiarize herself with tonight’s activities. There was a bomber raid coming across her quadrant, nearly to Constance’s.
Would the raids ever end? Tens of thousands had been killed in London alone.
The radio operator’s voice came through her headset, and she fell into the routine of work, letting the other worries wait until later.
Every so often she’d glance at Constance. On the outside, her sister appeared normal—her hands were steady and her moves efficient. This was where Constance thrived lately, where emotion couldn’t reach her. Knowing the emptiness that swirled inside sent another wave of nausea rolling through her.
It wasn’t fair that she’d been able to keep her love, when Constance hadn’t.
Minutes ticked by as she moved the aircraft across the board, and then her stomach pitched for an altogether different reason.
The 71st was on the move, not toward the bombing raids but the sea.
Jameson.
She moved the squadron across her quadrant in five-minute increments, noting the number of planes and the general direction, but soon they were no longer hers to keep watch over, and others took their place.
The hours flew, but she was too worried to eat during her break, too anxious to see the 71st return to do much else but hover over that board, because she knew he was flying tonight. When her fifteen minutes were up, she headed back into the filter room and took over her station once more.
She noted with no small sense of satisfaction that the number of bombers on their way out was smaller than coming in. They’d had a few victories tonight.
The radio operator’s next plot came through her headpiece, and she reached for a new marker with a slight smile. The 71st was back in her
quadrant.
She placed the marker at the appropriate coordinate, then froze as the radio operator updated the number of aircraft.
Fifteen.
Scarlett stared at the marker for precious seconds as her heart lurched into her throat. She’s wrong. She has to be wrong. Scarlett hit the microphone switch on her headset.
“Could you give me the strength of the 71st again?” she said. Every head in the room snapped her direction.
Plotters didn’t talk. Ever.
“Fifteen strong,” the operator repeated. “They lost one.”
They lost one. They lost one. They lost one.
Scarlett’s fingers trembled as she replaced the little flag on the marker to one that read fifteen. It wasn’t Jameson. It couldn’t be. She would know, wouldn’t she? If the man she loved with all her heart had gone down—had died—she’d feel it. She’d have to. There was simply no way her heart could continue beating without his. It was an anatomical impossibility.
But Constance hadn’t known…
The next plot came through her headset, and she moved the appropriate markers, changing out the arrows to the timed color groups.
Jameson. Jameson. Jameson. Her limbs moved by muscle memory as her mind swam and her belly churned, dinner curdling as the 71st got closer to Martlesham-Heath. Even after they were hangered and officially off the board, Scarlett couldn’t kick the sick feeling in her stomach.
So far, the Eagle Squadron had been miraculously lucky—they hadn’t lost a pilot. She’d almost become complacent in their luck, but that had ended tonight. Who was it? If it wasn’t Jameson—please, God, don’t be Jameson—then it was someone he knew. Howie? One of the newer Yanks?
She glanced at the clock. She had four more hours to go.
She wanted to ring Martlesham-Heath, to demand the call sign of the downed pilot, but if it was Jameson, she’d know soon enough. They’d no doubt already be waiting for her at home. Howie would never let her find
out through the gossip mill.
The time passed in torturous five-minute blocks, ticking away as she moved the markers, changed the arrows, heard the orders called out from Group Headquarters. By the time their watch was over, Scarlett was a tangle of nerves with a rapid heartbeat and not much else.
“Let me drive you home. I know your bicycle is here, but I have the section car,” Constance said after they gathered their things from the cloakroom.
“I’m fine.” Scarlett shook her head as they walked toward their bicycles.
The last thing Constance needed was to comfort her.
“He’s okay,” she said softly, touching Scarlett’s wrist. “He has to be. I can’t believe in a God so cruel as to take both our loves. He’s okay.”
“And if he’s not?” Scarlett’s voice was barely a whisper.
“He will be. Come on. Get in the car; no arguments. I’ll tell the other girls to walk back to the hut.” Constance led her to the car, then spoke to the other members of the watch before sliding behind the wheel.
The drive was short—only a few minutes off the station—but for the smallest of moments, Scarlett didn’t want to turn the corner, didn’t want to know. But they did.
There was a car parked outside her house. “Oh God,” Constance whispered.
Scarlett squared her shoulders and took in a deep breath. “Why don’t you want to take the teller training?”
Constance glanced her way as she pulled up behind the car, which bore the 11 Group insignia. “Right now? You want to talk about that right now?” “I just always thought you planned to advance.” Her heart beat so fast, it
almost blended into a steady thrum. “Scarlett.”
“There’s more pressure, yes, but more pay with the promotion.” Her hand gripped the handle like a vise.
“Scarlett!” Constance snapped.
She ripped her gaze away from the 11 Group insignia and looked at her
sister.
“I promise I will come over tomorrow morning and talk to you about the training, but right now, you cannot stay in the car.”
“Do you wish you’d never opened the letter?” Scarlett whispered.
“It would only have delayed the inevitable.” Constance forced a shaky smile. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”
Scarlett nodded, then pushed her door open and stepped out onto the pavement, readying herself for another set of doors opening.
The car doors didn’t open. Her front door did.
“Hey, you.” Jameson filled the doorway, and Scarlett’s knees nearly gave out.
She broke into a run, and he met her halfway, swinging her into his arms with a hug so tight, she felt the pieces of her click back into place. He was okay. He was home. He was alive.
She buried her face in his neck, breathed in his scent, and held on for dear life, because that’s exactly what he’d become—her life.
“I was so worried,” she said against his skin, unwilling to draw back for even a moment.
…
“I knew you would be. That’s why I got a pass and drove up.” He kept one big hand splayed on her back and held the nape of her neck with the other. Holding Scarlett was all he’d thought about since the moment they’d lost Kolendorski. “I’m okay.”
She just held on tighter.
Jameson looked over Scarlett’s shoulder and nodded at Constance, who watched them with a wistful smile. She nodded back, then turned away, heading for the car she’d brought Scarlett home in.
“Who was it?” Scarlett asked.
“Kolendorski.” He’d liked the guy. “Turned to intercept a bomber and got taken out by two fighters. We all saw him go down in the sea.” No
attempt to bail out. No Mayday. He went in vertically with enough force that if he hadn’t been killed before, he’d been dead on impact. No one could survive that kind of crash.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, easing her grip a little. “I’m just…” Her shoulders shook, and he gently pulled back so he could see his wife.
“It’s okay. Everything is okay,” he assured her, swiping away her tears with the pad of his thumb.
“I don’t know why I’m being such a ninny.” She forced a distorted smile through her tears. “I saw the strength number change, and I knew one of you was gone.” She shook her head. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He kissed her forehead.
“No, that’s not what I mean.” She stepped out of his arms. “I love you so much that my heart feels like it beats within your body. I watched what losing Edward did to Constance, and I know that I’m not strong enough to lose you. I won’t survive it.”
“Scarlett,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close because there was nothing else he could do. They both knew that tomorrow it could be him. With the prevalence of the bombing raids, it could be her. Every goodbye kiss they shared held the bittersweet taste of desperation because they knew it could be their last.
And if it were her… He sucked in a steadying breath to quiet the unwelcome, impossible thoughts. There was nothing for him without Scarlett. She was the reason he ran a little faster when they scrambled to intercept a bombing raid. She was the reason he pushed the newer pilots harder. She was the reason he’d stay no matter how many letters his parents sent, telling him they were proud of him in the same line that they begged for him to come home. He didn’t need to swear loyalty to the king—he’d sworn it to Scarlett, and she was his to protect.
“Come on.” He took her hand and led her inside, but instead of carrying her to their bedroom and making love to her as he’d planned for every minute of his drive, he took her to the living room, where he put Billie Holiday on the record player. “Dance with me, Scarlett.”
Her lips lifted, but it was too sad to be called a smile. She slid into his arms and laid her head against his chest as they swayed in small circles, steering clear of the coffee table.
This right here was where he lived. Everything else he did was to get him back safely for more of this—more of her. Living apart was a special kind of torture; knowing she was only an hour away, but he couldn’t get to her, caused too many sleepless nights. He missed the feel of her skin against his in the morning, missed the scent of her hair when she’d fall asleep on his chest. He missed talking about their days, planning their future, kissing their way through yet another burned dinner. He missed everything about her.
“I have news for you,” he said softly, brushing his lips over her temple. “Hmm?” She lifted her head, apprehension filling her eyes.
“We’re being reposted.” He tried to keep a straight face, but his lips didn’t obey.
“Already?” Her brow puckered and her lips flattened. “I don’t—”
“Ask me where.” Now he was grinning—so much for keeping it a surprise.
“Where?”
He lifted his brows.
“Jameson,” she chastised. “Don’t tease me. Whe—” She inhaled sharply, then narrowed her eyes. “You tell me right this very minute, because if you get my hopes up just to squash them like a bug, you’ll be sleeping alone tonight.”
“No, I won’t,” he said with a smile. “You like me too much for that.” “Not at this moment I don’t.”
“Fine, then you like what I do to your body too much for that,” he teased, his gaze heating.
She arched a brow.
“Here,” he finally said as the song wrapped up. “We’re being reposted here. In a couple weeks we’ll be in the same bed every night.” He raised his hand to her cheek. “We’ll be back to burning breakfasts and racing each
other for the shower.”
A grin spread across her beautiful face, and his chest tightened. Just like that, she turned an absolute shit day into something truly exceptional.
“I was asked to train to be a teller,” she admitted quietly, as if someone could hear them. Joy flashed across her eyes. “It could mean I’d make Section Leader before the year is out.”
“I’m proud of you.” Now he was the one grinning.
“And I’m proud of you. Aren’t we the pair?” She rose and brushed her mouth over his. “Now what were you saying about what you could do to my body?”
He had her upstairs before the next song started.
…
Scarlett stumbled into the kitchen the next morning to find Jameson at the stove, frying up breakfast. Her stomach flipped at the smell, then somersaulted.
“You okay?” Constance asked from the corner, where she was opening a jar of jam.
Right, they were supposed to talk about training this morning. She’d forgotten, which added another reason to be annoyed at herself.
“Fine,” Scarlett lied, trying to swallow the nausea. “I didn’t see you there. I’m so sorry I completely abandoned you last night.”
Constance smiled, glancing between Scarlett and Jameson. “No need to explain. Just happy it all worked out.” The light flickered from her eyes as she brought the jam to the table.
“What can I do to help?” Scarlett asked, putting her hand between Jameson’s shoulder blades.
“Nothing, honey—” His brow lowered. “You look a little green.”
“I’m fine,” she said slowly, hoping they’d leave it be. Had she hoped the nerves would settle now that Jameson was due to be reposted here? Yes. Apparently her body hadn’t gotten the memo.
Constance studied her carefully. “Do you want to chat later?” “Of course not. I’m glad you’re here.”
Constance nodded, but there was an odd, firm set to her mouth. She looked…somehow older this morning.
Jameson brought the fried sausages and potatoes to the table while Scarlett sliced a loaf of bread. They tucked in, and Scarlett nearly sighed with relief as her stomach settled.
“Would you two like some privacy?” Jameson asked from his side of the square table, his gaze bouncing between the sisters.
“No,” Constance answered, setting her fork on a half-empty plate. It wasn’t like her to leave half her breakfast, but she hadn’t exactly been normal the last two months. “You should hear this, too.”
“What is it?” A weight settled on Scarlett’s chest. Whatever her sister was about to say, it wasn’t good.
“It would be a waste for me to take the teller training,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be allowed to keep my commission.”
Scarlett paled. There were very few reasons a woman would be forced to resign her commission. “What? Why?”
Constance fumbled her hands in her lap for a moment, then lifted her left hand to reveal a sparkling emerald ring. “Because I’ll be married.”
Scarlett’s fork fell from her hand, clattering against the plate. Jameson, to his credit, didn’t move a muscle.
“Married?” Scarlett ignored the ring and locked eyes with her sister. “Yes,” Constance said, as though Scarlett had asked if she wanted more
coffee. “Married. And my fiancé isn’t exactly supportive of my role here, so I doubt I’ll be encouraged to keep it once we’re wed.” There was no emotion in her voice. No excitement. Nothing.
Scarlett’s mouth opened and shut twice. “I don’t understand.” “I knew you wouldn’t,” Constance said softly.
“You have the same expression you wore the day our parents forbade you from marrying Edward until after the war.” Dutiful—that was it. She
looked resigned and dutiful. The nausea returned with a vehemence as that foreboding feeling slipped from Scarlett’s chest to her belly. “Who are you marrying?”
“Henry Wadsworth.” Constance lifted her chin.
No.
Silence filled the kitchen, sharper than any words could have been.
No. No. No. Scarlett reached for Jameson’s hand under the table, needing an anchor.
“It’s not up to you,” Constance argued.
Scarlett blinked, realizing she’d spoken out loud. “You cannot. He’s a monster. He’ll ruin you.”
Constance shrugged. “Then he ruins me.”
If it dies, it dies. Her words as she planted the rose yesterday echoed in Scarlett’s mind. “Why would you do this?” She’d been home this last weekend. “They’re making you, aren’t they?”
“No,” Constance rebutted softly. “Mummy told me they’re going to have to sell the rest of the land around the house at Ashby.”
Not the London house…their home. Scarlett pushed past the pang of regret at the news.
“Then it is their fault for not managing their own finances. Please don’t tell me you agreed to marry Wadsworth in an attempt to keep the land. Your happiness is worth far more than the property. Let them sell it.” More importantly, Constance would never survive a marriage to Wadsworth. He’d beat her spirit to death and body close to it.
“Don’t you see?” Pain flickered over Constance’s features. “They’d sell off the pond. The gazebo. The little hunting cottage. All of it.”
“Let them!” Scarlett snapped. “That man will destroy you.” Her hand gripped Jameson’s.
Constance stood, then pushed her chair under the table. “I knew you wouldn’t understand, and you don’t have to. It’s my decision to make.” She strode from the room, her shoulders back and her head high.
Scarlett raced after her. “I know you love them, and you want to please
them, but you do not owe them your life.”
Constance paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I have no life left for myself. All I have are memories.” She turned slowly, losing her polished facade and letting her anguish show.
The pond. The gazebo. The hunting cabin. Scarlett’s eyes drifted shut for the length of a deep breath. “Poppet, owning those places will not bring him back.”
“If you lost Jameson, and you had a chance to keep the first house you lived in at Kirton-in-Lindsey, even if only to walk through the rooms to talk to his ghost, would you?”
Scarlett wanted to argue that it wasn’t the same. But she couldn’t.
Jameson was her husband, her soul mate, the love of her life. But she’d loved him for less than a year. Constance had loved Edward since they were children, swimming in that pond, playing games in the gazebo, stealing kisses in the hunting cabin.
“There’s no saying the land would even be there by the time you wed.” Which hopefully wouldn’t be this summer—only a few weeks away.
“He’s purchasing them now, in good faith…as an engagement gift. It was all settled this weekend. I know you’re disappointed in me—”
“No, never that. I’m frightened for you. I’m terrified that you’re throwing away your life instead of—”
“Instead of what?” Constance cried. “I will never love again. My chance for happiness is gone, so what does it matter?” She opened the front door and stormed out, leaving Scarlett to scramble after her.
“You don’t know that!” Scarlett yelled from the pavement, stopping her sister before she reached the street. “You do know what he’ll do to you. We’ve seen it. Can you honestly give yourself to a man like that? You are worth so much more!”
“I do know!” Constance’s face crumpled. “I know it in the same way you do. I saw your face last night. Had it been Howie at your door, telling you it was Jameson who’d been lost, you would have been decimated. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you’ll ever love again if he dies?”
Bile rose in Scarlett’s throat. “Please don’t do this.”
“I have the power to save our family, to keep our land, to perhaps teach my children to swim in that very pond. We are not the same, you and I. You had a reason to fight the match. I have a reason to accept it.”
Scarlett’s mouth watered, and her stomach convulsed. She hit her knees and lost her breakfast into one of the bushes that framed their doorway. She felt Jameson’s hand at the nape of her neck, gathering her unpinned hair as she heaved, emptying her belly.
“Honey,” he murmured, rubbing circles on her back. The nausea subsided, gone as quickly as it had come.
Oh God. Her mind scurried, trying to trace an invisible calendar. She hadn’t had a moment’s peace since March. They’d moved in April…and it was May.
Scarlett stood slowly, her gaze meeting Constance’s wide, compassionate one.
“Oh, Scarlett,” she whispered. “Neither of us will be Section Leader by the end of the year, will we?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Jameson asked, his hand steady when Scarlett felt like the slightest breeze might send her back to the ground.
Scarlett looked up at him, taking in those beautiful green eyes, the strong set of his chin, and the worried lines of his mouth. He was about to worry a lot more.
“I’m pregnant.”
