Under the Moon Gate (15 page)

He remembered how Diana had offered her innocence to him so sweetly and had so generously opened herself to him. He remembered the quiet tremors and sounds of satisfaction she made when they eagerly came together for the first time. And the look of surprise, the flash of pleasure, and the flush of passion on her face when she called out his name.

His feelings where Emilie was concerned were still raw, but the more time he spent with Diana, the more the old ache in his heart began to ease. He looked down at his sleeping wife and tenderly stroked her hair. Diana was his salvation. Two great loves in one lifetime. That was more than any one man deserved. Choked with emotion, he looked out the window at the rising moon, thanked the stars, and wondered what stroke of divine providence had landed him in this paradise with this woman.

Chapter 11

Bermuda

1940-July 1941

In another place and time, William and his father-in-law might have been good friends. They were both naval officers, despite their opposing allegiances. Sir Stirling Hargrave was a worthy adversary, one William had come to admire and respect. And they had something else in common. They both loved Diana. William could hardly expect the vice admiral to become his greatest confidant and champion just because he had slipped a wedding ring on his daughter’s finger. He could not assume that all the vice admiral’s suspicions would miraculously melt away and the icy reception with which William was initially greeted to thaw. But he was determined to get Diana’s father to trust him.

He was prepared to work hard to gain his father-in-law’s respect and was ready with money, information, contacts and connections, whatever it took to soften the crusty old vice admiral’s heart toward his new son-in-law. It was a relationship he was carefully cultivating and counting on. If he were honest with himself, what he really wanted was for the vice admiral to become the father he had lost.

The vice admiral stretched after a satisfying meal and relaxed to enjoy tea and dessert in his daughter’s new home. Diana had confided that her father was impressed with Marigold House and the comfortable life his new son-in-law was making for them. His father-in-law seemed to be in the mood to pontificate, one of his favorite pastimes, and William was sure he was parroting Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s words.

“I fear that this little outpost, this speck in the middle of the Atlantic, is all that stands between England and certain destruction,” the vice admiral said, referring to the fishhook-shaped landmass that was Bermuda, the island William had grown to love.

“You know how important Bermuda has become as a Royal Navy port. Bermuda serves a critical function as a communications intersect point for transatlantic traffic, a refueling base for our ships and planes, and a theater for battling the U-boats that are attacking our convoys. It’s a life-or-death fight for us.

“Great Britain is in a perilous state,” the vice admiral continued. “Not many know this, but we’re on the brink of bankruptcy and starvation. I don’t know how much longer we can stem the tide of this Nazi onslaught. It’s only the tenacious spirit of our people and the bravery of our fighter pilots that allows us to survive. We must be vigilant in these dangerous times.

“The fate of the entire war may be in our hands. Right now, Bermuda seems far removed from the venues of war. But Bermuda may be our last bastion of hope if we are to control the Atlantic and survive this threat. Bermuda and the Americans are our lifeline in the critical war at sea.”

“Control of the seas at all costs,” echoed William.

“You have been invaluable in arranging for loans for armaments and your involvement in dozens of other projects on the island have helped pave the way for us here,” the vice admiral acknowledged. “The prime minister is eternally grateful.”

William was uncomfortable being portrayed as a hero and despised himself for deceiving Diana’s father in this little give-and-take game they were playing. Sir Stirling had welcomed him into the family, a pit viper among defenseless rabbits. He wondered how long he could maintain his current illusion, and what Diana would think of him once she learned of his traitorous deeds.

“Did you know that in the first six months of 1940, German U-boats sank 900,000 tons of Allied shipping?” Sir Stirling remarked, thumbing through
The Royal Gazette
. “The Secretary of the Navy said that if England should go down—and he prays to God that will not happen—America will not have a friend in the world.”

William shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his father-in-law shook his head.

In 1941, the tide had turned. From William’s perspective, it was the frequent Royal Air Force attacks on Nazi submarine bases and Atlantic nests that were problematic. The
Kriegsmarine
was losing its best U-boat commanders to British convoy escorts while William was dying a slow death in Bermuda waiting for action.

How I wish I could feel the salty sting of sea spray on my face again. I would have loved to stand with them. Or sink with them if it came to that.

“I can’t figure it out, son,” said the vice admiral. “How did the Germans manage to sink those ships? It’s almost like they had a line into us. Like they knew every move we were going to make, before we made it.”

“Father, is that all you care about?” Diana cried. “Cargo? Think of all the lives lost. The Atlantic is a graveyard. Imagine those poor boys, wounded, gasping for their last breaths of air, drowning and dying alone at the bottom of the cold, dark ocean.”

William took a deep breath, closed his eyes and willed away the image that had haunted him since he was a child. His own father had lost his life in a stormy sea battle and rested at the bottom of the Atlantic along with his crewmen. There had been no survivors. But of course Diana didn’t know about his past.

“I have heard stories about the Germans, that they shoot survivors in the water instead of rescuing them,” accused Diana. “What of the poor souls who can never go home to their families, to their wives, their lovers? Oh, William, it’s so horrible. I’m so glad you’re not a sailor. I’m so glad you’re safe here with me. That’s selfish of me, I know.”

William felt as if Diana had slapped him. No self-respecting sailor would ever shoot a survivor—a fellow seaman—in the water. The world acted as if all Germans were monsters.
If Diana were ever to discover the truth about him, she would never understand. She would look at him differently, think of
him
as a monster. He couldn’t bear to see the light of her love for him extinguished. He’d lost the first love of his life. He still had deep regrets about the way he had hurt Emilie when he left her. Losing his greatest love all over again was his worst fear.

“That’s an insult to your husband,” the vice admiral said. “Every man worth his salt wishes he was in the fight. Those boys who drowned were heroes, but your husband has other skills, necessary skills he offers to the war effort. He does his part even if he’s not in uniform.”

“No need to defend me, sir,” William said. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Oh, William, I didn’t mean anything by that,” Diana recanted. “I was just distraught.” She turned to him with tears sparkling in her eyes.

“Try not to think of it, my darling,” William said solicitously. “I can’t bear to see you this upset. Come, maybe you’d better lie down. Sir, Mrs. Hargrave, if you’ll excuse us.”

“Nonsense,” barked the vice admiral. “You coddle the girl too much. Diana’s always had a tendency for the dramatic. You think the loss of lives doesn’t bother me? Let’s put the blame where it lies, with the bloody Germans!”

William flinched.

“Diana, why don’t you lie down on the couch for a while,” Olivia recommended, hoping to separate herself and her daughter from the fray. “William will settle you in with a nice pillow and a warm blanket. I’ll bring in some tea. Don’t worry about cleaning up, sweetheart. I’ll handle that. You’ll rest here for a while so your father can finish his conversation with William.”

“Okay,” Diana sniffled, allowing her husband to lead her into the drawing room and place a tender kiss on her forehead.

“The girl’s sprung another leak,” the vice admiral mumbled when his son-in-law returned to the table. “Did you manage to plug it?”

“She’s resting comfortably, sir,” William replied tactfully.

“William,” the vice admiral said, “the girl needs to develop some backbone. Work on that, son.”

“Yes, sir,” William said, secretly disagreeing with the vice admiral’s assessment of Diana. Did he even know his own daughter? Diana had backbone and spirit to spare. “She’s just overly sensitive, sir.”

“Perhaps she has strained nerves,” Olivia pointed out. “The ads say that undermines your efficiency and that drinking Ovaltine will help by building up nerve strength and physical fitness.”

“That’s utter nonsense, Olivia,” the vice admiral said, turning to his son-in-law. “William, you’re making excuses because you love her. I understand.”

“I think it’s all that talk in the papers about the murder of that censorette,” William suggested. “It was a violent fight. And there have been no new developments.”

Olivia shuddered.

The vice admiral had warned Diana and her mother not to go out alone during the day or at night, especially where the victim’s bludgeoned body was found, near Prospect Railway Station.

“I know the constables are on alert, but you’ll see to my daughter’s protection, won’t you, son?” the vice admiral asked as he pulled William aside. “Ever since that censorette was murdered, Diana and her mother have both been jittery. Can’t blame them. Most of those poor girls on the Imperial Censorship staff are worked to death. I’m surprised they don’t keel over from heat exhaustion down there in the basement of the Princess Hotel. Not exactly the glamorous jobs they signed up for. But to be clubbed to death with a sawed-down softball bat and foully murdered—no English lady, no lady, deserves that. Police Headquarters have hinted that a sex maniac was responsible.”

“The police have raised the reward that will hopefully lead to the apprehension of Miss Stapleton’s murderer,” William volunteered. “Until they solve this crime, all our residents and visitors will remain alarmed.”

“Regardless, we can’t be too careful with our women until the killer is found and he’s swinging from the end of a rope,” said the vice admiral. “Poor woman probably took up with the wrong man or inadvertently discovered something she shouldn’t have. Nasty business. No doubt it’s one of those German spies who did it.”

William pursed his lips. He suspected Nighthawk was somehow involved. It was his style. But he’d never admit it. And his mistress
was
a British censorette. William was convinced Nighthawk was a dangerous madman. Volatile and very unpredictable.

“Diana’s been so emotional lately,” Olivia began. “You don’t think she’s…”

“Pregnant?” the vice admiral finished her sentence. “So soon? That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, William? A grandchild. Son, do you suppose that’s the reason she’s been so teary lately?”

The color drained from William’s face. It was unthinkable. A child in these uncertain times would be disastrous. He was doing everything he could to protect his wife, but a child? A helpless child? He couldn’t let that happen. William couldn’t speak.

“Sir, Mrs. Hargrave…I…I mean, I…I don’t know what to say,” William stammered, feeling sick.

“Don’t scare the boy, Stirling,” Olivia said. “He’s just become a husband, and now to learn he might be a father on top of that? But William, a child! There’s no greater joy in life, and it would be such a blessing at a time like this.”

At a time like this? The war isn’t going well. This is no time to bring a child into the world.
Not his world.

Of course he and Diana had talked about a family.

“My life would be complete if only we could have a child,” Diana had said.

William would rather cut out his heart than deny his wife what she wanted more desperately than anything else. But that was the way it had to be.

“But we have each other,” he would always say to coax her out of her doldrums. “I love you to distraction. That’s all we need.”

“But a child would be a celebration of our love,” Diana pleaded.

“We can’t in good conscience bring a child into a world at war,” William had countered. “It wouldn’t be fair.” And then he had manufactured other excuses to placate his wife.

He had been a child alone. He had known what it was like to grow up without a father. His father had been a hero, a
submariner killed in the war twenty-five years ago, before he really had a chance to know his son at all.

What was the going rate for a dead hero? How different would his life have been if he had grown up with a regular father like the other boys had? Instead, he had grown up with a ghost—a picture, placed on a table over a lace cloth, of a man he had never known. His mother had presented him with his father’s medal, the Iron Cross, and he had left it with Emilie to assure her of his return.

What he remembered most were his mother’s
tears. The medal was a poor substitute for a flesh-and-blood man. William himself had been awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross for successful leadership as a submarine captain of the German Navy. He was proud of it but didn’t dare wear it.

He was not going to let Diana be a war widow. He didn’t know what the future held for him, and there was no way he would let Diana raise his child alone. No child of his was going to go
to bed lonely every night, missing his father’s guidance, his praise, his love. If things were different, he would love to have a son. But no. Even after the war it would be impossible.