Begun by Time (10 page)

Chapter Fifteen

New Year’s Day, 1947

Very little seemed to have changed. Catherine, Poppy, her Aunt Vivian, and her parents spent the first anniversary of the wedding that never was together in silent companionship.

Poppy had met a special man, but insisted, bless her heart, on being by her side. The past year had not been easy for Catherine. Scotland Yard still had no idea what happened to Jonnie. Nevertheless, she’d found the strength to forge ahead, while the past, and Jonnie, remained ever by her side, in her thoughts. The pain of his loss, thankfully, was less harsh now than it had been
—
most days.

After breakfast, her mother packed a basket of food for Nigel. They would spend the afternoon at his home, as they did most Sundays. He’d claimed to be too ill to spend last night with them, and Catherine understood, but she was concerned, too. She called Angus and asked that he go over, to provide what comfort he could to the lonely, devastated man.

When they arrived, Angus greeted them at the door, his expression grim. “He wasna lying when he claimed ill health. He’s taken a turn over the past week, and
I fear he’ll no’ recover this time
.”

“Should we call a physician?” her mother asked, her hand at her throat.

“Nay. The doctor has just come and gone, and given me drops to administer for the pain. He says the old man’s heart is failing, but nay t’ worry, as the passin’ should be comfortable, although not far off. For now, Nigel’s alert and resting well, and wishes t’ see each of you, but most especially Catherine,” Angus explained. He looked at her, his gaze filled with sadness. “He’s right anxious t’ speak wi’ ye.”

They hurried into Nigel’s darkened bedroom to find him propped on pillows and looking weak but calm.

Catherine sat beside him and took his hand.

Nigel smiled. “Hello, my dear. I’m so glad you’ve come. I didn’t have the heart to tell you I heard Rose call to me on the morning of the twenty-eighth,” he said, a soft light glimmering in his eyes. “She told me our time apart was coming to an end. It’s been nearly two years, and I’m glad of it.”

Catherine leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Please, Nigel, I can’t bear it if you leave me, too.”

He shook his head. “You’ll bear it just fine. She wanted me to tell you something. She said you must rest easy in the fact that Jonathan loves you still.”

Confused, Catherine realized Nigel’s medication must be causing delirium. She patted his hand and leaned in to kiss him once more, assuming their conversation to be at an end.

Nigel shifted with difficulty, swallowed, and then returned his gaze to her. “When you see my son, you must tell him I love him.”

Catherine nodded, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Of course you do, and I will, I promise I will tell him.”

“Thank you.” His whole body seemed to relax back into the pillows.

“Nigel?” Catherine whispered near his ear.

He didn’t respond, so she gave him a moment to gather his strength before she tried again. “Nigel?”

His eyes fluttered, but failed to open.

“Nigel…” Catherine paused to swallow the lump in her throat and gather herself. “Nigel, please give Rose our love. Tell her we miss her.”

A faint smile played across his lips, and Catherine was relieved to know he’d heard and understood.

As the day ticked away, Nigel rested, and everyone kept a quiet vigil. Catherine refused to leave his side or let go of his hand.

Finally, hours later, just as dusk crept into the winter sky, Nigel Brandon took a gasp of air and then became utterly still as his final breath trickled back out of his lungs, unneeded.

Catherine let out a shaky sigh, folded Nigel’s hands together on his chest, and closed her eyes. Someone touched her shoulder and she knew Angus and her parents were close. The knowledge gave little comfort.

With Nigel’s passing, the Brandons were gone. All gone. Her shoulders slumped. She covered her face with trembling hands and wept.

Later that night, she held Duffy in her bed and tried to sleep. The pup started to dream with little yips, his paws twitching. Catherine hugged him tightly.

Her precious dog. Her only remaining link with Jonnie.

Part Two

Chapter Sixteen

20 November 1947, the Mall, London

The gloom of London
’
s skies belied the bright hope of the crowd. In the freezing air, Catherine Hastings stood shoulder to shoulder with revelers outside the gates of Buckingham Palace, everyone awaiting the appearance of Princess Elizabeth and her new husband, Philip, Duke of Edinburgh.

Gazing at the empty balcony, Catherine felt a twinge of jealousy; they had married for love, and their future dazzled, beckoned.

Love.
She sighed, the pain still there, ever there, yet more distant, a ghost of remembrance.
A ghost…like Jonnie
.

She shivered and hugged herself. She had come alone, traveling for hours to get to crowded central London, while her friends and family listened snug in their homes to the radio broadcast of the wedding at Westminster Abbey.

Alone. Surrounded by thousands of people, yet utterly alone. Jonathan, almost two years gone. As yet no one had any answers. She still felt a deep, aching need to know what happened to him,
if he were dead
—
God forbid
—
or alive and simply gone off to find a new life
. The horrible idea of his betrayal had crept into her mind of late, and it plagued her.

But he wouldn
’
t have done that. He couldn
’
t. Oh Lord, if only I knew.

Tears welled. She reached for the handkerchief in her coat pocket and dabbed her eyes.

“There, there, dearie. I’ve been weeping for joy myself this day,” a woman said.

Catherine turned and stared at a pair of glistening eyes, warm and kind.

“I envy them,” Catherine said, relieved to divulge what filled her heart. She hoped the stranger would understand her need to speak the truth, something she couldn’t do at home. The advice of late had been blunt and unending, yet not given with cruel intent: she needed to get on with her life.

The woman’s gaze sparked with understanding, and she nodded. “I envy them, too,” she admitted.

With sudden insight, Catherine folded her in a hug. How many of those surrounding her had lost loved ones in the war? Hundreds, perhaps thousands.

“There they are!”

Triumphant shouts filled the air, and the crowd surged forward. Catherine lost her grip on the woman, and they were forced apart. Propelled by the people surrounding her, Catherine felt her feet momentarily lift from the pavement as she was pushed
toward the palace gates. Anxious, yet excited, she laughed and let herself be carried along.

Catherine heard the joyous tumult of the crowd grow to a thunderous roar. She joined in.
“Hurrah, hurrah!”

On the balcony, the princess stood with her groom, smiling and waving: Elizabeth, beautiful in her wedding gown of ivory silk satin; Philip, resplendent in his dark naval uniform.

The crowd’s momentum slowed, a gap opened beside her, and Catherine suddenly found herself off-balance and tumbling.

A strong hand gripped her arm, then pulled her around.

“Oomph!” She ended up crushed against a man’s chest.

“Do forgive me, miss, but—”

He had an elegant voice, deep and wonderfully posh. She stared into a pair of cornflower-blue eyes, his dark blond hair peeking from beneath his bowler hat. His winter coat was unbuttoned, revealing a dark gray pinstriped suit and red silk tie; he was certainly dressed for success.

“Kiss! Kiss! Give us a kiss!”

What in the world
…
?
She started and saw him do the same. Turning, she realized the crowd nearby had begun chanting to the bride and groom, who had been joined on the palace balcony by the rest of the royal family: King George and Queen Elizabeth, Princess Margaret, and old Queen Mary.

“Miss?” he asked. “Your name, please? May I have your name?”

“Kiss! Kiss!”

She looked back. He had lovely teeth and a nice smile. She grinned. “Catherine Hastings.”

“And I am Arthur Bertrand Howard, at your service.”

“Give us a kiss!”

His gaze went to her lips, and she felt herself blush. He noticed that, the sparkle in his eyes leaving no doubt.

“We ought not let them down. Don’t you agree?”

Caught in the moment, she nodded and felt only wonder as he pulled her close. His lips touched hers, soft at first, and then firm, the kiss deepening with every moment. The mad whirl around her slipped away, until she could hear nothing but the roar in her ears, the stirring of her blood.

He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. “Do you suppose they kissed, too?” he asked, giving a quick nod toward the palace.

“Nah,” the man next to them called out. He tipped his cap and turned to face the palace once more.

“You do realize it is not considered proper etiquette to kiss a perfect stranger, don’t you?” Arthur asked her, tongue-in-cheek.

Again, Catherine caught that delightful twinkle in his gaze.

“Might I make my apologies by taking you to supper, Miss Hastings?”

“Well, I’d expect nothing less, Mr. Howard.”

He laughed, deep and unrestrained.

Her spirits lifted, transformed. She wondered at the ease she felt with Arthur Bertrand Howard, the rightness of the moment, and the reemergence of hope. Utterly breathless, she prayed it would last.

…

London hadn’t seen such celebrations since VE Day. Revelers in conga lines danced through the streets, the crowds just starting their celebratory pub crawls. By now, the princess and prince had boarded the train at Waterloo Station to begin their honeymoon, but the party they left behind would go on all night.

Catherine and Arthur considered themselves lucky to have found the quaint half-timbered pub in an ancient, gas-lit alleyway in Crown Passage, just off Pall Mall. Arthur gave the pub landlord a quid, and he showed them to a cozy side room, the “snug,” where they had their own table. Almost immediately, a crowd surged into the pub, the noise of their boisterous singing causing the landlord to shut the glass doors that separated the two rooms.

Arthur settled Catherine into her chair and then sat across from her. They studied their menus and ordered. With rationing still on, the meal was simple fare: steamed mussels in broth for him; for her, a serving of corned beef pie, made from tinned meat and onions, with a topper of mashed potatoes.

When Arthur ordered a Pimm’s No. 1 Cup on ice, Catherine smiled. Her gaze took him in, his elegant demeanor and accoutrements marking him as the epitome of a Pimm’s man. When asked what she wanted to drink, she asked for Pimm’s and lemonade, Arthur nodding his approval.

To their delight, the barman came around again and asked if they might like French champagne instead of Pimm’s. He explained he’d hidden it in his storeroom for years and wished to share it with his customers in honor of the wedding of their crown princess.

Catherine liked her first taste. The bubbles were fun, tickling her nose. “I’ve never had this before,” she told Arthur. “It’s quite delicious.”

“It is,” he agreed. “My first taste was on VE Day. I shall never forget that moment.”

“Nor I.” The memory of Jonnie’s proposal surged to the fore, but she pushed it back, refusing to spoil the moment. “Where were you?”

“Here in London. And you?”

“In London. I saw Churchill at Piccadilly, actually. And when I got home, Dad gave me a nip of his vintage port.”

“Very nice.” He touched his glass to hers, and they drank. “Churchill brought some of his Pol Roger champagne to us early that morning, but he never offered his favorite brandy or cigars. I have no idea if he likes port.” He winked.

She gaped. “You know him? You worked with him?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Nothing so lofty. I caught a glimpse of the old man a time or two.”

She enjoyed their easy conversation. Obviously intelligent, even genteel, Arthur possessed a great sense of humor and an utter lack of snobbery. While they ate, he told her of his early childhood in Devonshire, in the town of Exeter. His father had been gassed in the First World War, which harmed his lungs and caused his early death. When Arthur was nine, his mother tragically died in an automobile accident, and he was raised afterward by an aunt and uncle in Cambridge. He went to university and law school there in the 1930s, graduating second in his class. He was now a solicitor at a top legal firm in London and confided with some pleasure he’d just received a promotion.

“I do believe I can hear a faint trace of your Devon accent, especially when you drop the occasional
T
,” Catherine said. “It’s quite lovely, actually, if a bit ancient-sounding to my ears.”

He laughed. “Uncle Herbert and Aunt Eleanor would be appalled to hear you say that. They thought I talked like a pirate lad and did their best to drum it out of me. Insufferable pair.” He winked. “Arrrr, lass, would ye please pass me the bu’er… I mean butter.”

“Jolly good,” she said, grinning.

“More like Jolly Roger.” He grinned back. “My playmates in Cambridge called me that as a boy. I actually grew rather fond of it, much to my aunt and uncle’s dismay.”

She laughed, sensing he loved them very much.

When she pressed him further about Winston Churchill, he said, “I met him perhaps a dozen times at Baker Street and once down in the War Rooms. Impressive man. I was but a low-ranking naval officer assigned to the SEO, one of the blokes who worked the smoke and mirrors so the Jerries would not guess our plans.”

At that point, he stopped talking and concentrated on his food.

Catherine had the good sense not to ask him anything more, since it was clear he did not wish to divulge. Nevertheless, she wondered how high his rank had been with British Intelligence and the so-called Baker Street Irregulars. Everyone knew the agency provided spies with gadgets and gear to infiltrate Nazi territory, or used tricks of camouflage to hide potential homeland targets, even entire military bases.

“Tell me, what do you do, Catherine?”

Other than mourn?
She hesitated, took another sip of her drink, and merely said, “I help my dad. He’s a dentist, and I work the front desk. I still live with my parents.” To her embarrassment, she finished with a hiccup, and her eyes opened wide.

He grinned, his gaze going to the champagne glass in her hand. “Shall we have a bit more to eat?”

He raised his hand, about to signal the barman, but she motioned him down and then touched his sleeve.

“No, I do believe I’ve had enough food
—
and champagne.”

“I agree, but if I might be so bold… I have not had enough of your company. Not nearly enough.” His hand covered hers.

His touch was warm, sensual. She felt a ripple of pleasure and blushed.

“May I see you home, Catherine?”

She gathered herself and looked into his eyes, sensing his hope. “Yes, that would be lovely. Perhaps you might come in for a cup of tea?”

He nodded and gently squeezed her hand. “Jolly good. I should very much like to meet your parents.”

…

Arthur Howard assisted Catherine out of the vehicle and then paid the cabbie. Her home was quaint, a two-story brick, the street one of Stratford’s lucky few that hadn’t suffered bombing in 1945.

“Do come in, Arthur,” Catherine said as she unlocked the front door. A dog barked inside. “I hope you like terriers.”

“Yes, I do. My aunt has a Westie,” Arthur said.

“I’ve got a Cairn. Just hold out your hand so Duffy can sniff you.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want him taking my hand off.”

Catherine laughed and went inside. A wheaten Cairn terrier greeted Arthur. The dog jumped on his legs, tail wagging. When Arthur bent down to pet him, Duffy turned tail and scampered off.

“Ah, Mr. McDuff probably wants to play ball,” Catherine said. “You’ll do the honors when he returns, won’t you?”

She glanced at Arthur, her emerald-green eyes captivating, the auburn curls peeking from beneath her hat perfect against her ivory complexion. Her gaze went soft, her eyes shining with light, the mark of a sweet soul. Catherine Hastings was a beautiful girl with film-star looks. He wondered about her history and why she wasn’t married. Was she widowed during the war? He hadn’t asked her at the pub, not wanting to seem presumptuous. Patience was one of his strong suits, and he guessed he’d find out soon enough.

Her mother came fussing out of the kitchen, a tea towel in hand. “Where have you been, darling? We were worried––” She stopped short and gave Arthur the once-over.

He hid his smile.

“Mummy, may I introduce Arthur Howard? He was kind enough to see me home.” Catherine faced him. “Arthur, this is my mother, Lily Hastings.”

She was an older version of Catherine, a handsome woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties. The only significant difference was in the color of her eyes, which were chocolate brown.

He doffed his hat. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“Dear me. Please call me Lily. And thank you for taking care of our girl.”

“What’s this? Is Cathy home?” a man called out from somewhere in the back of the house. As he came into view, Duffy followed on his heels. In contrast to the small, shaggy dog, Catherine’s father was bald and long-legged. Arthur decided to try again to pet Duffy, but he bounded off, a bundle of energy. Everyone laughed.

The ladies took Arthur’s hat, coat, and gloves. Introductions were made, and George Hastings pumped Arthur’s hand in greeting. Arthur noted the man’s bright green eyes, a perfect match to Catherine’s. He glanced at her and wondered if their children would have the same trait.

The thought gave him pause, and then he was filled with a delightful sense of anticipation.

…

Catherine listened to the easy conversation her father and Arthur shared about football and the merits of various teams. She smiled at Arthur’s enthusiasm, every bit as strong as her father’s.