Katie’s Hero (4 page)

“Do you like to dance?”

“Yes,” she breathed, though she had sworn she’d never like it again after Tom, and then her heart lurched and she opened her eyes.

This was not an imagined conversation.

His lordship was by the door. She had not heard him wheel in.

“So do I,” he said, and in those three little words she heard such inexpressible sadness that she could feel his pain in her own heart.

What could she say? She faltered, feeling like a fool.

“Forgive me, sir, I opened the door and when I saw the ceiling I just had to have a look.”

“It’s my favorite room in the whole house.”

He seemed almost human, Katie thought, not a bit like the unreasonable individual she’d met yesterday. She glanced up again at the extraordinary ceiling. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Beauty beyond compare.”

When she looked back at him, he had a look in his eyes she couldn’t read — a faint hint of amusement, perhaps?

Then an idea struck her. “Why don’t you use it as your room, sir, then you could lie here and look up at that every day?”

As soon as the words escaped, she knew she was being much too forward. She shouldn’t be talking to him like that, telling him what to do. He was not a man you could order around.

And yet, he didn’t rebuke her. He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke. “Because I like to remember this room as it once was, before the war.”

She nodded. She could understand that.

Katie could see that he would have been tall if he had been able to stand. His hair, cut into a classic short back and sides, was fair. The longer locks of hair that swept back from his forehead were definitely blond, while the shorter bits at the back were a deep honey color. His eyebrows were honey colored, too. His light blue eyes — his most striking feature — were bright and clear, but melancholy. His aristocratic face was pale when it wasn’t pink with anger or embarrassment, and his mouth — she couldn’t help but notice that his mouth was soft and sensual. It was a young man’s mouth with lips a girl might like to kiss, if he was even slightly more approachable.

“I’ll show you the rest of the house … well, the ground floor, at least,” he said.

She hesitated, feeling awkward with him. She realized she had forgotten all about saying “good morning, my lord,” like she’d practiced and it would be silly to say it now.

He wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Come along.”

She was in no position to refuse. He was her employer.

He wheeled himself to the far end of the ballroom to another pair of double doors that opened to the rest of the house. She followed him obediently, her footsteps echoing as she went.

Together they looked into each of the quiet, lonely rooms. The billiard room adjoined the ballroom, where someone had abandoned the table in the middle of a game, as if they had intended to return in five minutes but their absence had turned into several years. The ladies’ drawing room was swathed in dust covers. The Long Gallery displayed gloomy-looking oil paintings of Michael’s ancestors. Then they turned another corner and went down a dark hallway that led back to the other side of the house. They peered into the conservatory that stood as an entryway of sorts to the formal garden beyond. It had once held masses of tropical plants, his lordship explained, but it was empty now. It would be wasteful to heat it in wartime.

“The kitchen and scullery you have seen already,” he said, as they made their way back through to the entrance hall again on the grand circuit. “The only room you haven’t been in, except for my own, is this one.”

He asked her to open the dark paneled door for him, because the handle was mounted too high.

“The library,” he said.

It was dark and sober, the walls were lined with books and there were low button-back chairs in dark leather scattered about. A globe stood in the center of the room, and Michael reached out and set it spinning as he passed by in one languid movement. It spun noiselessly on its well-oiled brass stand, gradually slowing down.

“You can read here, if you wish, Miss Rafferty.”

“Thank you,” she said, scanning the shelves, seeing a lot of dark red, leather-bound books. “That’s very kind.” She wondered why on earth he was being so friendly.

“I don’t know that you’ll find anything especially gripping. The books are mostly about agriculture and equine diseases, I’m afraid.”

Equine means horses, she thought, mentally congratulating herself. “Why’s that, sir?”

“Because horse-breeding was our livelihood before the war. We only started growing food when the Ministry of Agriculture told us we had to.”

Katie wondered why he used the royal “we” but she just nodded politely and tried to look wise beyond her years.

“Perhaps you might find that a more fruitful source of entertainment.” He inclined his head in the direction of an old gramophone player on the other side of the room — an impressive contraption with a big fluted trumpet to amplify the sound.

She smiled in delight and ran over to see which records he owned. They were housed in a polished wooden rack beside the gramophone, and she drew them out one by one to have a peek at the titles. He had quite a variety: sultry female singers and lively dance music, some jazz and some famous classical composers, even some American bands. She blew the dust off one of the records, and wondered how to ask permission to play it. She’d love to hear something lively, something fun.

“Put it back,” he said gently, “I can’t bear to hear music at the moment.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Only … this one isn’t miserable at all.”

“They all make me feel absolutely ghastly. You’ll have to wait until I’m not around. Actually you’ll have to wait until Jessop isn’t around either. Then you can play them if you must. Don’t let the children break them.”

“Of course not, sir.” She put the record back, glad she hadn’t asked.

“You’ve seen the ground floor,” he said, changing the subject. “The rest you can explore for yourself. Were you planning to go out, Miss Rafferty? Or do you feel the cold very acutely?”

She was still wearing her coat, and carrying her old woolen beret. She blushed. “I was just off to the village, sir, to post a letter to me mam. She’ll want to hear that I’m settling in.”

“Forgive me, for detaining you.”

“It’s no matter, sir. I enjoyed touring the house.”

She turned to go, but he called her back.

“There is one more thing, Miss Rafferty.”

“Yes, sir? What is it?”

He paused, as if this was difficult for him. “I do remember meeting you before.”

She stiffened. So that was why he was being so nice to her — he wanted to soften her up so she would admit it all.

No
. She refused to acknowledge that night.

He looked up at her. “You remember, too, don’t you?”

Of course she hadn’t forgotten his face. What woman on earth would forget the face of the man who had saved her life? But Katie wanted to forget. She needed to forget. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, sir, until I came here to look after the children,” she lied, staunchly.

He let out a heavy sigh. “God knows I’m changed, Katie, but I’m the same man I was that day.”

She was horrified to realize that he had used her first name. “I am sure you must be mistaken, sir. You must have danced with many girls and perhaps you once met an Irish girl like me.”

“We didn’t meet at a dance, and you know it!”

“It was someone else, sir.” She recognized a note of rising hysteria in her voice as she tried to make him believe her fantasy.

He stared at her, frowning in surprise.

She backed away and dug in her pocket for her letter. “I really must go and post this, sir. I’m sorry!”

She took a deep breath and glanced toward the door. “I swear to you — it was someone else!”

His tone was cool and level. “Yes, I expect it was.”

She turned and ran from the house, her feelings whirling about inside her. She wanted freedom, and fresh air, and to hurry along at top speed until her emotions subsided and she felt calmer again.

She went through the gate, which she remembered to clang shut behind her. She slowed down to a normal brisk walk, and set off in the direction of the village. She hoped it was not quite as far as the railway station. But even a moderately long walk would give her time to gather her composure.

His words rang in her head. “I do remember meeting you before,” he had said, in that crisp, cultured voice of his when she had desperately hoped he wouldn’t recognize her. At least he had seemed willing to play along when she refused to discuss it. She was grateful to him for that. She would put all her old troubles behind her, start anew, despite this connection to her past.

By the time she reached her destination, she felt much better.

Market Farrenden was charming. It boasted an old country pub, painted white with black beams and a thatched roof; a row of shops surrounding the village green; and a little stone church squatting in the middle, with a clock that said ten to three, even though it was only a quarter past eleven. Katie was thoroughly enchanted by it all.

All she had to do now was find the post office. It didn’t seem to be one of the shops that faced onto the green.

A young policeman, in uniform and pushing a bicycle, stopped to help her.

“Are you lost, miss?”

“How did you know I was a stranger?” she said, in surprise.

“I know everyone who lives here. The Gerries could never plant a spy in Market Farrenden,” he smiled. “I’d have them routed in the first half hour.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m a spy, Constable. I should hate to get myself arrested on my very first morning,” she said, in a teasing tone.

The young constable’s eyes twinkled, and a warning light came on inside Katie’s heart.
No flirting. Ever again. Remember?

“I know who you are,” he said. “You’re the little Irish girl that Mrs. Mallory got for his lordship.”

“I’m here for the evacuees,” Katie corrected. This young policeman had made it sound as if she were a hamper from Fortnum and Masons. He was quite a pleasant young man, though a little paunchy, and when he stopped to adjust his helmet, she could see he was going prematurely bald.

“Yes. Market Farrenden won’t know what hit it, come tomorrow lunchtime. We haven’t had any London ones, before. You never know what you’re going to get with evacuees, do you? I hope there’s no criminal element among them.”

He walked with her, wheeling his bicycle, to the post office. Katie could tell from the way he kept smiling at her that she had made quite an impression, which was not her intention at all.

He almost wheeled his bike straight into the bright red pillar box outside the post office, and he blushed furiously when Katie touched his sleeve in warning.

“Here you are, Miss. Good luck tomorrow. I might see you there, at the village hall.”

Katie thought that was entirely likely, given the length of time he spent shaking her hand. “Goodbye, Constable.”

“Perkins, Arthur Perkins,” he said. He got on his bicycle and wobbled away from the curb. She smiled as she watched him ride down the street. He’d boosted her confidence a little.

She felt for the letter in her pocket. Yes. It was there. She was a lucky girl; she had a new job, a new life, and a safe place to stay. Maybe 1941 would even be fun.

Friday morning Katie decided she would wear the pearls. She was supposed to pick up the children at the village hall at half-past eleven. She waited nervously in the grand entrance for the car to arrive, wishing she didn’t have to go alone. At least she didn’t have to walk this time.

An old black Austin, square and dependable like a large upright biscuit tin, pulled up alongside the front steps. The driver introduced himself as Harold Hammond, who lodged at Home Farm and worked on the estate. Katie hopped in, and Harold started whistling as they drove along the country lanes toward the village. He kept looking across at Katie’s legs, though she had tried to arrange the A-line skirt of her winter suit as modestly as possible.

“When’s your afternoon off, then?” he said.

“I don’t think I have an afternoon off,” Katie said. It certainly hadn’t been mentioned during the embarrassing discussion with his lordship the day she arrived.

“All the girls at the house gets an afternoon off.” He gave her a bit of a wink. “Don’t be shy.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t know when mine is, Mr. Hammond.”

“Harry,” he said. “Harold was me father’s name.”

She smiled, weakly.

“Been to the Dog and Whistle yet, have you?” he persisted.

“Is that a public house?”

“Best in the village,” he said, patting her knee.

Katie glanced down at his hand as if a haddock with its guts hanging out had just landed on her lap. Hammond moved his hand a little further up her thigh, ruching up her skirt a bit. Katie would have protested, but she noticed a horse and cart looming on the road ahead. She nearly let out a scream. Harry moved smartly and got his hands back on the wheel. He veered sharply and missed the cart, but the horse looked a bit nervous as they passed. The man driving the cart shouted an epithet and waved his fist, but Harry wasn’t flustered.

“Yes. You’ll like the old Dog and Whistle,” he said. “All the little maids from the house like it there. Nice little garden round the back, too.”

Katie was annoyed. “Mrs. Jessop said it was only five minutes to the village by car.”

“Five or ten,” he said, with a smirk. “Depends on which road you take. Lovers’ Lane might take half an hour.”

“We must take the shortest route possible, Mr. Hammond. I promised I’d be there at eleven. Now please don’t be delaying me any longer!”

“I bet it’s Wednesday,” he said, smiling to himself. “Your afternoon off.”

• • •

Mrs. Mallory was manning the village hall, the temporary home of forty-seven evacuees from Stepney in the East End of London. This was seven more than she had been expecting, which was causing her a bit of grief. Finding several more families who, at a moment’s notice, would agree to take in a grubby little Londoner or two was no mean feat. Meanwhile people were arriving to take the children home, and sometimes the children and the adults made a fuss about their match. The curate’s wife was trying to help, but at twenty-three years old, she had no experience with children, except for the slight bulge caused by her five-month pregnancy.