Brave Hearts (7 page)

Three days later, he called, his voice an excited, staccato burst. “I've got fantastic news.”

“Jack, what's happened?”

“The Germans have invaded Russia.”

“My God. Oh, my God, what luck for us.”

“It changes everything. You know, we didn't understand why they hadn't bombed in more than a month. They must have been moving their forces to the east.”

Catharine tried to take it in. Could it mean that the horror was over, that the bombers wouldn't be coming back?

“Do you really think they won't bomb anymore?”

“Yes. It means the worst is over, and England's hung on.” Then he laughed, and the sound rumbled over the telephone wire. “Catharine, it's the funniest damn thing. You know how the Communists were picketing and screaming this was an imperialist war? Suddenly it's not an imperialist war after all. I've been interviewing the local comrades and boy, the tune has changed.”

Catharine listened and nodded and felt a little lightheaded. No more bombing. That changed everything.

“Look”—he was suddenly rushed—“I've got to get this story on the wire, but I'll see you in a little while. The usual time, right?”

“Right.”

But Catharine was frowning—suddenly, everything was changed.

Catharine reached the apartment in Greenwood Courts first. Inside, she drew off her gloves and dropped them, along with her purse, on the table by the door, but she didn't take her hat off. Instead, she walked to the open west window and looked out.

It was a beautiful day, the sky a delicate, pale English blue—a Wedgwood sky. Catharine leaned forward, her hands against the sill. She saw Jack turn the corner, striding toward the entrance. His walk reflected the man; abrupt, impatient, determined. She took a deep breath and wondered if she could do what she must.

Jack took the stairs two at a time, all six flights. Key in hand, he hurried to the door, but it opened before him and Catharine stood there.

His usual gut-wrenching flare of excitement at seeing her was even more intense today. She wore a soft gray suit with a white silk blouse and a double strand of pearls at her throat. The modest, quiet gray emphasized the sleek darkness of her hair beneath the red cloche hat. She was extraordinary, beyond compare, and she loved him. Delight flooded him. She loved him. He could never doubt it because no one as reserved and fastidious as Catharine would open herself to another except for love.

Reaching out, he swept her into his arms and pushed the door shut behind them. He wanted to love her, to kiss her slowly and lingeringly until she cried out for him—but not yet.

He'd prepared what he would say, worked it out in reasonable prose; then he barreled into it with no warning, no preparation.

“I want to marry you.”

She closed her eyes and looked as though she'd been struck.

He still held her in his arms, but the closeness was gone. He frowned as Catharine shook her head.

She broke free from his embrace and walked across the room to look out of the window.

Jack stood by the door and stared at her rigid back. For the first time in his life, his confidence failed him. “I thought . . . Catharine, you said you loved me.”

Her head bowed forward.

“Of course, I couldn't give you the kind of life you've known.” His voice was dull now, tired.

She faced him and tears streamed down her face. “Don't say that. You could give me the best life in the world.”

He frowned now, a dark and angry frown. “For Christ's sake, what's wrong?”

She clasped her hands in front of her and stared down at them. Her fingers were so tightly entwined they hurt. “I don't know if I can explain. You see, Jack, I didn't think the bombings would ever stop.”

In the midst of his own pain and hurt, he heard the bewilderment and torment in her voice. “What do you mean, Catharine?” he asked gently because he sensed the painful battle within her.

“I wanted to love you,” she continued, so quietly he could scarcely hear. “I wanted to love you more than anything in the world and I wouldn't let myself think about someday because I thought we'd die, you know, that one day or one night the bombs would get us. Then it wouldn't matter; I'd be free, finally. Finally free. But when you said on the telephone today that the bombing was over, I knew that someday was here, and I had to face it.”

“Face what?”

“Saying good-bye to you.” She buried her face in her hands, and the tears merged into sobs.

Jack once again swept her into his arms, but protectively now, gently.

“Honey, you don't have to say good-bye. Not ever. I want you to be my wife.”

She lifted her face, streaked with tears, agonized by pain. “I can't leave Spencer.”

“You don't love him.” There was anger now in his voice.

“No, I don't love him.”

“Then, for God's sake, Catharine, this isn't the Middle Ages. You can get a divorce and . . .”

Once again she shook her head, hopelessly. She said harshly, “I told you from the very first that nothing could come of it. I told you I shouldn't meet you.”

“But you did.”

“I did.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “I did and they've been the loveliest days of my life.”

“We can have a lifetime of lovely days, Catharine.”

“I can't leave Spencer.”

“Catharine, why?”

“I'm very important to Spencer.” Her voice was dull now, empty of emotion. “You see, if I left him, it would cause him great damage.” She took a deep breath. “I can't do it.”

“Because he loves you?”

“No, oh, no, Spencer doesn't love me. That makes it so much worse. He needs me for his career. A divorce would hurt him. It's unfair, of course, but life is unfair, isn't it?”

“You'd stay with him for his career?”

She understood Jack's reaction, and she flushed and looked at him angrily. “Damn you. Jack, it's not that. I've never cared about position or power or any of it, but I can't hurt Spencer. All he has is his career.”

“And you,” Jack said bitterly. His hands dropped away, and he stared down at her angrily.

Catharine moved blindly toward the door, reaching out for her purse and gloves.

“You could at least be honest about it,” he said bitingly.

She turned and looked at him, her eyes enormous in a pale, tear-streaked face.

“Honest?”

“Sure. How dumb do you think I am? I'm all right to while away summer afternoons, but I'm not good enough for always, am I?”

“Don't make it worse than it is.”

“That's the truth, isn't it?”

“No.”

“Then you really do love him.”

“No.”

“Then what's the almighty hold he has over you?”

Her hands held her gloves, crushed them into balls.

Jack stood very still. Her anguish pierced his anger, and he moved toward her, reached out to touch her with gentle hands. He bent close to hear the faint, pain-filled sentence.

“You see, Charles died.” A pulse throbbed in her throat.

“Tell me, Catharine.” His voice was low and quiet.

Her lips trembled. “No one here knows about Charles. And I couldn't find his pictures, Jack. I looked and looked through the rubble of the house. They told me everything in the room must have been destroyed. I couldn't even find his pictures.” Her eyes stared emptily into his. “Charles was very beautiful. But I suppose all mothers say that, don't they?”

Jack wanted so much to comfort her, but he knew without being told that this was sorrow he couldn't assuage. “Tell me, Catharine,” he urged again, softly.

“That night our house was bombed, the girl, Priscilla, she'd asked me if I had any children—and I said no. I said no.” Tears filled her eyes, spilled unchecked down her cheeks. She looked imploringly up at Jack. “It was a lovely day in April, and I told the nurse to take him to the park. I was busy.” Her voice rose. “Oh, God, I was busy.”

Jack gripped her shaking shoulders, but he knew she wasn't there in the room with him—she was in another room on an April day.

“He was in his carriage, and he laughed and waved at me. He had on his blue sweater with a soft cap that matched. He looked very good in blue, he was so blond and fair. We were giving a dinner that night for the Danish ambassador, so I told the nurse to take him to the park.”

She stared past Jack; her hands convulsively squeezed the gloves.

“The storm blew up in just a few minutes.” She looked at Jack then, her eyes pleading. “It was clear when they left for the park, but suddenly the clouds rolled in, and there was a cold, pelting rain. By the time they got back, Charles was drenched. I helped her bathe him, but he was cold, and he fell sick in the night.”

Catharine's mouth twisted. “He called for me, and when I came and touched him, he felt like he was on fire. His hair was wet with sweat, and there were great patches of heat in his cheeks.”

She raised one hand, pressed it against her mouth for a long moment, then said dully, “He died a week later. If only I hadn't sent him to the park, he wouldn't have been sick. Wouldn't have—died.”

Jack shook her then, shook her roughly. “Catharine, it wasn't your fault.”

“Oh, yes, yes, it was my fault. I didn't take care of my baby.”

Jack picked her up and cradled her in his arms and buried his face against hers; his tears mingled with hers. “Oh, God, Catharine, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“Go right on in, Mr. Cavanaugh, the ambassador's expecting you.”

Spencer nodded his thanks to the secretary and opened one of the huge double oak doors that led to the ambassador's office. Ambassador Winant insisted on working in his office even though most embassy papers and materials were stored belowground. The ambassador had permitted his staff to move his desk away from the immense windows, now boarded over, to a far corner of the long and elegant room. As Spencer entered, Winant rose and came around his desk to shake hands.

Inside Spencer churned with questions. Why did the ambassador want to talk to him? He knew he was on top of his job. The flow of Lend-Lease supplies was steadily increasing. Winant couldn't have any criticism to make there.

“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador.” Spencer smiled, but his eyes anxiously scanned Winant's face. Did Winant know about Peggy? “Lovely morning, isn't it?”

“Certainly is. London in August is lovely, even now.” The ambassador waved Spencer to a seat, then returned to his own red leather seat behind his gleaming oak desk.

Winant glanced down at a telegram on his desk, then said briskly, “You've done extraordinary work this past year, Cavanaugh, and it hasn't gone unremarked. The department is pleased, very pleased indeed.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” But this session wasn't just to commend him. Spencer felt very sure of that. There had to be something more, something major.

Winant nodded heavily. “A very outstanding job with a difficult, if not impossible, task.”

Spencer waited and felt the smile on his face was going to crack.

Winant thumped his hand down on the telegram. “Now the department has another tough job for you.”

Spencer was very alert. He tried hard to look pleasantly attentive, but he sensed trouble. He should be promoted in rank this year. He was counting on it. What assignment could possibly be as important as the one he held? Being sent anywhere else would surely be a demotion.

“We're at a critical point in the Lend-Lease program, sir. It could be disastrous to change staff at this time.”

Winant leaned comfortably back in his red leather chair. “I know you're committed to the program, and that's admirable. I know the kind of hours you've put in. That's one reason you've been so successful of course, but the department needs those qualities of yours, that willingness to work whatever hours it takes, that single-minded determination to win out, in another theater.”

“The Lend-Lease program needs the personal attention of the finance officer, sir. I have good rapport with several of the British officials and . . .”

“Of course you do,” Winant said a little impatiently. “In fact, you have the program pretty well whipped into shape, and that's why it would be a good time to make a change. Fact of the matter is, you're needed for a new task, and it's damn important, Cavanaugh. State needs you in the Philippines.”

Spencer stared at him blankly. The Philippines. Automatically, he pictured a string of various-shaped splotches in the midst of the vast Pacific Ocean. If not the end of the world, it was the next thing to it. How could anyone's career be enhanced by a move to the Philippines? The war in Europe was all-important, however much the Japanese postured and threatened in the Pacific. Spencer's mouth tightened to a thin line. It was a demotion, surely, and it must be tied to Peggy. That was the only possible explanation.

“. . . damn important,” Winant continued. His voice dropped. “And very ticklish. It will require a supremely gifted diplomat. You see, we've got to get a handle on the gold and silver in the Philippines. If the negotiations underway in Washington fail, it may mean war, and all the military experts say the Japanese will take the Philippines if we come to war. We can't be caught napping. The department wants you to go to Manila to account for all the gold and silver in the islands and prepare it for shipment to the United States if war breaks out in the Pacific.”

“Would I be sent out as finance adviser?” Spencer asked sharply. Surely he would at least have the same title he held in London, though no one, and certainly no one in the diplomatic service, would ever equate Manila with London. It was a demotion, of course. This was ridiculous, acting as though he'd been singled out for an honor.

Then Spencer heard Winant say, “Oh, no, this is too sensitive. It's a very critical task. You'll be sent out as a special envoy.”

Special envoy. He would outrank the high commissioner who headed the U.S. mission to the Philippines.

“Of course,” Winant said quickly, “you understand that your authority would extend particularly to the registration and shipment of the gold and silver.”

Spencer understood the addendum. He would be expected to defer in all other matters to Francis B. Sayre, the high commissioner.

Special envoy. It would mark him as one of the most successful of all American diplomats. Short of a major ambassadorship, it couldn't be topped.

“Certainly, Mr. Ambassador, I would be both pleased and honored to accept the new post.” He paused and smiled. “I want you to know I appreciate this vote of confidence, and I'll be delighted to accept the challenge. I'll do the very best job I possibly can.”

“Of course, you will,” Winant replied warmly. Then he frowned. “There is one point, Cavanaugh.”

Unease stirred within Spencer. “Yes, Mr. Ambassador?”

“This is a sensitive post in a number of ways.” Winant looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Spencer kept his face impassive. Was the ambassador going to mention Peggy?

“We need to go the extra mile to reassure the Filipinos of the depth of our commitment.”

Spencer waited.

“As you may know, the president ordered all military wives home from the Philippines last spring, but State Department dependents are staying. This is a deliberate effort to show President Quezon that we aren't going to cut and run, no matter what happens.”

Spencer waited.

“The point is, Cavanaugh, will your wife go to Manila with you?”

Relief made Spencer's voice expansive, relaxed. “Of course, she will.” He even smiled a little. “After all, sir, Manila will seem like a holiday after London. You know our house was bombed, and Catharine was trapped for a while.”

Winant nodded. “I know. I just hope it isn't a case of going from the frying pan to the fire.”

Spencer's smile broadened. “I doubt it, sir. After all, the Japanese aren't an industrial people. None of the chaps I've talked to take their armed forces very seriously.”

“I hope they're right.” Winant's voice became brisk. “In any event, Washington will be pleased to know you've accepted. It will be an immediate transfer.”

The ambassador stood and Spencer scrambled to his feet. They shook hands. Spencer turned to go, then paused and said casually, “There's one thing, sir.”

“Yes?”

“If possible, I'd like to take some of my team here with me. Jim Donaldson and my secretary, Peggy Taylor.”

“Certainly. Anyone you wish.” Winant smiled. “Within reason, of course.”

In the privacy of his own office, Spencer Cavanaugh stood stock-still for a long moment; then his mouth curved in a triumphant smile. Special envoy. Special envoy. Special envoy. There would be no stopping him now. He leaned over his desk and punched Peggy's buzzer.

When she hurried into the office, carrying her stenographer's pad, Spencer said, “Close the door.” He smiled at her. When the door was shut, he crossed to her, his eyes electric with excitement. “Peggy, I've got great news!”

Catharine was in no particular hurry. It was such a lovely August day. Since the bombing had stopped in mid-May, London had seemed almost like her old self. Passersby no longer looked exhausted, their faces sunken from lack of sleep. There was a feeling of hope in the air.

Perhaps love could triumph in a world which gave so little time for caring. Ever since that difficult day when Jack had asked her to marry him and she'd told him about Charles, they'd met without discussion of their future. She knew he understood how very much she wanted to be his, that she would give her life to be his. And understood, too, that it had to be done with as little harm to Spencer as she could manage. She owed Spencer that much, at the very least. Thank God, Jack understood. Perhaps when Spencer received a new assignment, she could make the break, then permit him, of course, to divorce her.

She walked slowly up the street toward the flat where she and Spencer had moved after the bombing. She wished instead that she was on her way to Jack's apartment, but he was off on a story about coastal defenses and wouldn't return to London until next Wednesday. She pictured his small, plain apartment and the bedroom with a rather narrow double bed. She felt his presence so dearly, remembering the feel of his mouth and body.

She was reaching for her keys at the apartment door when it swung open. She looked up, startled.

“Spencer! It's midmorning. What's wrong?” She stared at him. She'd rarely seen him look so alive, so excited and buoyant. “What's happened?”

He held the door for her. “I had to come home to tell you. It's wonderful news, Catharine.”

Something at the embassy, of course. The promotion he'd hoped for? Excitement touched her, too. If he'd received it, if it were certain and sure, perhaps he wouldn't need her any longer. Her heart began to thud.

“It's everything I've ever hoped for,” he began.

Joy surged through her. It was happening, oh, God, it was. This could be the right time, perhaps the only time. He wouldn't be hurt if she left him, not if he had his future assured. She could even suggest some kind of settlement—that is, with particular care that she not offend him by suggesting he'd sought her out because of her wealth. She began to smile. “Spencer, you've received your promotion.”

“Better than that. Of course, it isn't at all what I'd expected. At first, I thought it was a disaster—until the ambassador told me I'd be a special envoy.”

Catharine understood his excitement. She'd been a diplomat's wife long enough to know what the title meant. A special envoy carried extraordinary power.

The president wouldn't appoint a special envoy to Great Britain. So where would Spencer be sent? But that didn't matter to her now because if he had reached the level where he was a special envoy, he no longer needed her—and she could easily say she was going home to spend time with her family.

She smiled at him, sharing his excitement. “That's wonderful, absolutely wonderful. I'm so happy for you, Spencer. I know this means everything to you, and I'm so delighted you've been recognized. This means your career is assured now, doesn't it?”

“Well, if I can do a good job.”

“Of course, you'll do a good job. You always do a superior job.”

He smiled at her gratefully. “Catharine, you're a sport. I've always said that. I've always told everyone that. No man could be luckier in his wife than I am.”

Her heart twisted at his words. Oh, God, don't let him be grateful to her. Not now. Because she was going to tell him as soon as she could—not today so it wouldn't tarnish his happiness in any way, but as soon as possible—that she wanted a divorce. She honestly thought that he wouldn't care, not deeply. She felt certain of it. He depended upon her, and she'd been important to his career, to his progress up through the ranks, but they didn't love each other. If he'd reached the level of special envoy, it wouldn't matter if they were divorced. And he could put all the blame squarely on her. She would insist upon it.

“Where is the assignment, Spencer?”

“Hell of a distance,” he said ruefully, but his voice was still ebullient. “And it will mean some danger; the ambassador stressed that, but I told him we expect to take risks. Everybody knows crossing the Atlantic's a chess game now, but torpedoes are no worse than bombs.”