The Passing Bells (48 page)

“Slacker,” she said in a strong cockney accent. “Strong chap like you.”

He was used to it, the insults and the white feathers. Quite a large number of men whose work was vital to the war effort or who had been judged medically unfit for service had taken to wearing armbands to avoid being harassed. He had considered the idea of wearing one with a small American flag stitched to it, but had thought better of it. It would only have led to other snide remarks: “Too bloody proud to fight, eh?”

He entered the White Manor at Marble Arch, removed his raincoat and hat, and handed them to a cloakroom attendant along with his battered umbrella. An orchestra in the second-floor dining salon was playing a waltz, the soft strains fragmented by the clatter of plates and teacups in the crowded, plebeian first floor. He looked around and finally spotted Ivy Thaxton seated at a small table next to a travertine column. He felt like shouting at the sight of her—he hadn't seen her for three and a half weeks—but suppressed the urge.

“Ivy!” He slid into the chair opposite her and reached across the table to touch her hand. “Gosh, it's good to see you. I hope you weren't waiting long.”

“No, just a few minutes.” She smiled warmly, her hand clenching his. “Have you been all right?”

“Of course.”

“You look pale.”

“I'm fine.”

She frowned slightly. “I mean it. A bit wan under the eyes.”

“I know you've been capped, but don't play nurse with me, Sister. . . . I'm just weak from hunger.”

“So am I.”

He looked around. There were tables almost on top of them—two hefty kilted highlanders within touching distance.

“Wouldn't you rather go upstairs? Maybe we could get a better table . . . and dance.”

“It's horribly crowded up there, too. And besides, the food's the same up or down. Let's just have our tea and talk about dancing later.”

She could eat, bless her. He felt almost paternal watching her devour what was placed before her—a hot pork pie, tea sandwiches of ham and cress, a slice of Dundee cake, and cup after cup of tea. And yet she was as thin as a waif. She amazed him.

“Stop staring at me.”

“I like to watch you eat.”

“It's rude.”

“Sure, but you know how we Yanks are.” He took a cigar from his pocket but didn't light it. She frowned on his smoking while they ate. “I have a little something for you. A Christmas present.”

She looked at him sternly. “That's not fair. We made a promise not to exchange gifts.”

“Okay, I welshed on the deal. But I saw this certain item in Regent Street the other day and I knew you'd like it, so I bought it for you.”

“You shouldn't have.”

“Ah, but I did . . . and they won't take it back.” He toyed with the cigar. “You'll be going to France, won't you?”

“Yes.” She looked down at her plate and crumbled a bit of cake between her fingers. “My group leaves on the third of January . . . number nine Stationary Hospital in Boulogne.”

He fished for a match and lit the cigar. “So soon?”

“Afraid so.”

“Will I be able to see you before you leave?”

“I doubt it. We go down to Portsmouth for an orientation course right after Christmas . . . the twenty-seventh, I believe. Sorry, Martin, but this is our last get-together. . . .”

“Date,” he said, forcing a grin.

“Yes . . . ‘date.' I must remember that word.”

“I could come over . . . write an article or two about number nine Stationary Hospital in Boulogne and Sister Ivy Thaxton of the QA's.”

“Please don't. It's going to be a difficult time for me . . . adjusting to the type of cases we'll meet there. I would only be terribly distracted if you were hanging about.”

His grin was genuine this time. “Would you really?”

“Don't look so pleased with yourself.” She frowned at the demolished fragments of cake. “I shall miss you, Martin. Miss you very much.”

“I'll sure as heck miss you. Funny, come to think of it. We hardly see each other—maybe once every month or so—and yet just knowing that you're in London is a comfort to me. When I got back from France last trip, my train got shunted around a lot coming up from Folkestone and we pulled into Euston Station instead of Waterloo. I took a taxi down Gower Street, past the university, and there was All Souls. A couple of guys from the
Journal-American
were with me and I pointed the place out. I said, ‘There's the best training hospital for nurses and army doctors in England.' One of them said, ‘Jesus, looks like the biggest and oldest brickyard in the world.' Well, it sure didn't look like that to me because somewhere in that maze of buildings was my best girl.”

Ivy blushed and poured herself another cup of tea. “Is that what I am to you, Martin?”

“Why do you have to ask? I've told you enough times. Sure, you're my best girl. Heck, you're the only girl I know.”

“You must meet so many girls in . . . well, Paris . . . places like that.”

“I only meet generals in Paris, drinking port at the Hotel Crillon.”

“And Cairo. They say that Egyptian women are the most exotic women in the world.”

“Who told you that? You can't even see them. They wear black sheets over their heads.” He stubbed out his cigar because the smoke was drifting into her face. “Look, you're a daisy and my heart jumps into my throat whenever I see you. Okay? Do you believe that?”

“If you say so, yes.”

“You don't seem very pleased about it. Anything the matter?”

“No . . . I suppose not.”

He reached across the table and touched her cheek. “You've got the blues because you're leaving soon. I feel the same way about it, but it won't be forever. After you're used to the hospital and sure of yourself, I'll come over. Maybe you'll be able to get a few days' leave and we could go to Paris and I'll show you the sights. And anyway, I'll be writing to you all the time, so we won't get out of touch . . . not for a minute.”

“Perhaps it would be better if we did get out of touch . . . at least until the war's over.”

“I don't see any reason for that, Ivy.” He leaned back in his chair and lit his cigar again. “It seems to me that a war's the best time to hang on to friendships, not abandon them. Why don't you finish your tea and we'll go over to the flat and I'll give you your Christmas present. Okay?”

Something was troubling her and he wasn't sure what it was. Simple anxiety and depression, he hoped. That was to be expected. She had never been out of England before and the idea of going across the channel to France—to work as a regular nurse in a huge base hospital—must be unnerving to her. He held her hand tightly as they left the restaurant, but she seemed unresponsive to his touch and barely said a word in the taxi as they drove to Soho.

The flat was tidy for a change because Jacob rarely spent any time in it. The first time he had brought Ivy there, she had been appalled by its disorder and had spent half an hour, over his protests, picking things up.

“How about a glass of sherry?”

“No, thank you.” She sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa. “Sherry makes me feel tipsy.”

“Do you good. Make you relax a bit.”

“I'm quite relaxed, thank you.”

“Well,” he said lamely, “have it your own way.” He clapped his hands and said with a forced cheerfulness, “Santa Claus has come to town . . . so close your eyes and don't open them until I say so.”

He ducked into the hall and brought out a large package from the hall closet. It had been wrapped in bright paper and tied with a red ribbon. He placed it on the cushion next to her.

“You can open your eyes now.”

She had never received a present in her life, at least not one that came wrapped in a package. A rag doll and three pennyworth of rock candy in a Christmas stocking were the only presents she had ever been given. She looked at the parcel in awe and could do no more than touch the ribbons.

“Open it. Go on.”

She undid it carefully so as not to tear the paper. A large white box with the name of the firm embossed on the lid was revealed.

“That's such a fine shop,” she said. “What on earth did you buy me?”

“You'll never know until you lift the lid. It's practical, I'm sorry to say. I wanted to buy you a whole raft of things—you know, feminine things—but I figured there was no point in getting you stuff you couldn't use right now.”

“No,” she said, touching the crest on the lid, “that's true.”

She opened the box gingerly and stared in awe at a large glove-leather carrying bag;
IVY THAXTON
was stamped in gold on one of the many flapped compartments. It was as sturdily constructed as a cavalry saddle, but amazingly light.

“Oh, my,” she whispered, stroking the leather. “It must have cost a fortune.”

“You bet it did. Nearly beggared me.” He sat next to her and put one arm about her waist. “There are all kinds of things inside: brush and comb . . . nail kit. . . . You can carry all your gear in it.”

“It's beautiful. Just beautiful.”

He kissed the side of her neck. “So are you, Ivy.”

She half-turned and seemed about to say something, but he stopped her with his lips. She resisted at first, her mouth hard, unyielding, and then she suddenly responded with a degree of passion that left them both a little shaken.

“Oh, Ivy . . . Ivy . . .” he whispered hoarsely, his lips against her cheek, one hand lightly stroking the curve of a breast through the winter serge of her uniform.

She moved his hand away with regret. “No . . . we mustn't. . . .”

“Marry me, Ivy.”

She drew away from him, shaking her head firmly. “No. You shouldn't ask me.”

“Why not? You know how I feel about you . . . and you knew I'd ask. I've done everything but advertise in the papers that I love you.”

“And I love you, Martin . . . really I do . . . but it wouldn't be right. You'd only regret it after a while.”

He tried to read the meaning of that remark in her violet eyes. Her eyes were usually so expressive, but they were fathomless now.

“I don't know what you mean. Why would I regret it? Is there galloping insanity in your family or something? That doesn't make any sense, Ivy. Only the world's biggest fool would regret marrying a girl like you.”

“And what would your family think?”

He sensed a bitterness in her tone as she looked away from him and stared down at the leather bag.

“My family? Boy! I know what my Uncle Paul would say if he saw you. He'd say that I'd finally done something really smart for a change.”

“And what would . . . Countess Stanmore say?”

So that was it. He understood clearly now. The upstairs maid. He put an arm about her shoulders and gave her a hug.

“Aunt Hanna would love you as much as I do. She's a fine woman. Don't let her English airs throw you. Underneath it all, she's Hanna Rilke from Prairie Avenue. She wouldn't bat an eye if I told her you were the girl for me.”

“I saw her this morning,” she said quietly. “The Duke and Duchess of Redford came to visit the convalescent ward in D wing . . . to hand out little Christmas presents to the men. There were several other people in their party . . . the baron this and the lady that . . . and Countess Stanmore. Miss Alexandra was with her. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but her ladyship spotted me right off.”

“And?”

“Oh, she was very gracious . . . held out her hand and asked me how I was . . . things like that . . . how was I getting along and all and how pleased she was to see me. I don't know what I said . . . just stammered a few words. I felt awkward, somehow. And Miss Alexandra just stood behind her mother, staring at me, not saying a word. I think perhaps she was a bit shocked to see me, Ivy Thaxton, shaking her mother's hand. She kept on staring at me even after they moved down the row of beds. There was something in her eyes, a coldness . . . I don't know how to explain it, Martin. You just wouldn't understand.”

He attempted to draw her closer to him, but her body was rigid.

“Look here, Ivy. That's got nothing to do with us. If we got married, we wouldn't be moving into the same house with Alexandra.”

“Perhaps not, but you'd still be marrying her maid. And think how awkward it would be if we were invited to dinner. Can't you just see Mr. Coatsworth's face if he had to serve me at the table?”

“The butler, you mean?”

“Yes. And all those stuck-up footmen. I know one of them would trip on purpose and dump soup on my head.”

She smiled to herself and then turned to Martin and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Oh, I know I'm being silly. I really shouldn't care about that. We'd live in America, wouldn't we, Martin? In Chicago, Illinois . . . on Lake Michigan.”

“Anywhere you wanted to live,” he said, stroking her hair. “Anyplace in the world. The Associated Press wants me to leave the
Post
and work exclusively for them. They're dangling a lot of money in front of me and I'm seriously thinking it over. AP men go all over the world . . . China . . . Japan . . . the South Seas. And anyplace they sent me, you'd be right there with me.”

She nestled closer to him and was silent for a time, content to lie against him while he stroked her hair. Then she said, “I'm going to France, Martin. I could never marry you until this horror is over.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know that.”

“I've been nursing gas cases the past five weeks. I never told you. It's frightful working with them. There's so little you can do. They sit propped up in bed and cough themselves to death . . . and they're so terrified.”