THREE WOMEN OBSERVED Luc Montrose’s arrival as his small English sports car swerved into the graveled circle in front of Birchfields. One was his Great Aunt Garnet, standing at the diamond-paned windows of the library. The other two, Alair Blanding and Cilla Ridgeway, looked from an upstairs bedroom window, partially hidden by the chintz curtains. They leaned on the sill, watching him as he parked the red Austinmini, then unfolded his long, lean body out of the car. He stood for a minute, running his hand through his dark, wind-tousled hair, before reaching back and retrieving his cap from the seat. He put it on, adjusted the tunic of his U.S. Air Force officer’s uniform, and in a few quick strides took the terraced steps of the sprawling Tudor mansion.
The cousins exchanged an approving glance. One girl let out a long, low whistle, rolling her eyes dramatically. The other affected a swoon, sighing. Then they both laughed. They had been curious to meet this young man they had heard so much about from Niki. His photograph was among those in Aunt Garnet’s “rogues gallery,” as she called the silver-framed family pictures displayed on the piano in her upstairs sitting room. Most of them lived in Virginia, where the girls’ step-grandmother Druscilla also lived.
From his adopted sister they had heard that Luc was handsome and charming. Was he also as reckless and headstrong as his father, Kip, the fabled WWI ace?
Alair and Cilia had grown up in England, but because of the American connection, they were always curious about that branch of the family. Since Aunt Garnet had begun having her open weekends for servicemen at the nearby army base, they came to help with the hostessing. As Cilia quipped, “Tough duty, but someone’s got to do it!” They enjoyed the flattering attention showered on them by the British servicemen, but since the United States had come into the war, a smattering of Americans training in the area also came to the dances and buffets. Alair had graduated from the Swiss finishing school they had both attended and was teaching at the improvised kindergarten started for some of the London refugee children now posted in various homes in the county. Due to the war, Cilia had not been able to return to Switzerland and was now completing her education at an English girls’ school in Kent. Cilia was champing at the bit to enlist in any of the women’s service organizations. Volunteering to be hostesses for the weekend events was a “war work” both girls enjoyed tremendously. It required little else than to be gracious and dance well, skills they both had in abundance.
“Shall we go down now or wait until Aunt Garnet calls us?” Alair asked, going over to the dressing table and fluffing her golden hair.
Cilia pulled a comical face. “I don’t know. Perhaps we’d better go on our own, appear casual.”
Alair checked her wristwatch. “It’s almost teatime. It would seem perfectly natural for us to go down now, don’t you think?” She couldn’t understand her own timidity about meeting this American cousin. Well, not really a cousin. He was actually their step-grandmother Druscilla’s cousin or half cousin or something like that!
A half hour later, sitting across the room from Luc, Alair had to admit he was every bit as handsome and charming as Niki had told them. What he was really like under his assured personality and keen sense of humor, she intended to find out. When introduced, he had greeted them both with the kind of ease attributed to well-bred Southerners. His was the more casual type of good manners compared with that of the young Englishmen she knew. And she found it very attractive.
After about fifteen minutes of general conversation, Aunt Garnet excused herself, explaining, “We’re shorthanded these days as to the household staff, Luc. The younger people have all gone into various branches of the service. My cook, Mrs. Beasley, takes an afternoon nap and sometimes sleeps through teatime. So I’d better go see if things are ready.” She got up from her chair. “Poor soul, she’s getting on in years so….”
At this remark Alair and Cilla exchanged a glance. Aunt Garnet, over one hundred years old, never considered herself as “getting on in years.” Truly she was a marvel.
Leaving the young people chatting as if they’d known each other forever and had not grown up on opposite sides of the Atlantic, Garnet went out to the kitchen. Over the years she had acquired the English custom of late afternoon tea and now looked forward to it. It was usually just a light snack when she was here alone, but now with Luc and the girls here with their youthful appetites, she wanted to make sure there were plenty of tiny sandwiches, freshly made currant scones, to serve. With so many shortages due to wartime rationing, they were lucky to be in the country, where eggs and butter from nearby farms were readily available. Although doing without such things was not all that much of a sacrifice. Surely, she’d learned to do without a great many more important things during the War between the States. What an awful time that had been at Montclair, when she, Dove, and their children had been left to manage while their husbands were off fighting. But why dwell on that? Garnet scolded herself. She pushed those unpleasant memories to the back of her mind, something that over the years she had learned to do quite skillfully. “Live in the moment” had become her byword. In life there was too much pain, sorrow, loss, that came to you without anticipating it.
Garnet found that Mrs. Beasley was up and, though sleepy-eyed, busily arranging the tea tray. Satisfied, she returned to the library. Of all the rooms in the house, this had been the favorite of Jeremy, her late husband. It had floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves filled with leather-bound classics, and was furnished with deep, comfortable chairs. Over the mantel hung the painting Jeremy had loved most, a portrait of Garnet and their daughter, painted when Faith was fourteen by a well-known society portrait artist.
Charles, the butler, pushed the tea trolley into its place by Garnet’s chair, and she poured the steaming, fragrant liquid into Wedgwood cups. Observing that Luc and Alair were in an animated conversation, she signaled Cilia to pass the plates of thin cucumber, watercress, and creamed-salmon sandwiches around to the others.
Luc helped himself generously to the plate Cilla offered him, while saying to Garnet, “This is a wonderful house, Aunt Garnet. I don’t think I noticed it when I was here before. I’ve been thinking about possibly going into architecture as a profession. That is, I was, before the war.”
“Yes, it is lovely. And quite old, but well built. It was constructed in the 1850s, we were told. Craftsmanship was a matter of pride then. It’s much too big for a woman living alone, but when we first came here, it was different, of course. We used to do a great deal of entertaining….” Garnet’s voice held a trace of melancholy as in her mind’s eye she saw the picture of long-ago summer afternoons, the women in their embroidered, lace-trimmed white dresses, veiled hats, the men in blue blazers, stiff collars, white flannels—playing croquet and gathering for tea served underneath the trees.
She glanced over at Luc. She could see in him traces of both his father, Kip, and grandfather, Jonathan, Garnet’s beloved “foster son.” Underneath the cheerful chatter, Garnet felt a wave of depression and fear. There were so many reminders in this scene. Luc looked so young and confident in his uniform, but behind him rose the specter of other young men in uniform. Confederate gray and Union blue, the khaki of 1914…. Garnet suppressed a shudder. It wouldn’t do to let the young people see under her facade. She had seen too much of war in her lifetime, what it did to young men, to women who loved them, to families. The first terrible war with Germany still was a scar in her memory. In 1917 she had turned Birchfields into a recuperative center, a place where men could come and be healed—physically and emotionally. It was something she had never thought to do again. Not that she was repeating that effort. Only on the weekends this time, and without the help of Bryanne and others, she would not have been able to do that. But life must go on. One must be cheerful and do what one could.
How long had it taken her to learn that? To accept life, to bow to fate, to become resigned to her losses, her pains, problems, challenges—and also her great happiness. She had known love and had been loved. What more could one ask? She smiled ruefully, thinking, I sound like Grace Comfort. Maybe I should write a column. She glanced over at Cilia and a smile lifted her mouth. The fact that Grace Comfort was really Cilia’s father, Victor, was the well-guarded family secret.
Then Garnet glanced at Alair, who was listening with rapt attention to some humorous story Luc was telling. There was an expression on her pretty face that brought a slight stab of recognition to Garnet. She looked dazzled. This was not exactly surprising. Luc was certainly any girl’s romantic idol, and the uniform added to the glamour, which often led many to mistake infatuation for love. In wartime so many dangers darkened these quick love affairs. But young people nowadays were more knowledgeable, more sophisticated than in other times, and Alair was a sensible girl, not one to easily let her heart rule her head—at least Garnet hoped not. She felt a responsibility to the girls’ mothers, since she had enlisted their daughters to help her hostess these weekend parties.
The best thing was to keep them all busy and moving in a crowd, no pairing off, so they don’t get romantic ideas. Garnet turned to Luc and asked, “Did I tell you that Fraser Montrose, from Scotland, is stationed nearby? He came for a visit recently. I practically raised his father, Jonathan, you know. You’ve met Fraser, haven’t you?”
Luc smiled. “You mean my Uncle Fraser?”
“Uncle?” echoed Alair, looking puzzled.
“Another of the Montrose family’s complicated relationships,” Luc explained. “My father and Fraser are half brothers. Jonathan is their father. His first wife—Dad’s mother—died, and Grandfather married Phoebe McPherson later and had a second family, Fraser and Fiona.”
“Oh, you Virginians! It’s so mixed up! I can’t keep all these relationships straight.” Cilla rolled her eyes as if in exasperation.
“You don’t have to,” Luc said, grinning. “I was a bit wary when I came over in 1939 and went to Scotland—to get acquainted, you see—but I felt right at home.” He smiled at Cilla. “Wait and see. You’ll like Fraser.”
“Niki will be down this weekend,” Garnet said, “and if Fraser comes, it will be a real family reunion. I have an idea.”
“What is your idea, Aunt Garnet?” asked Cilla, the practical one.
“Why don’t you have a picnic? Make a day of it?” Garnet suggested. She herself had always loved picnics, as a young girl and even after. She loved the informality, the gaiety, that seemed to be a special ingredient of such times.
“Do we have enough petrol?” Luc asked. “I only requisitioned enough to get here and back to the base.”
“You can take my station wagon, and no need to go far. There are some lovely spots within a short distance. I’ll have Mrs. Beasley pack you a basket.”
Niki did not arrive. She called Garnet, and although it was hard to hear with the crackling on the line, Garnet got the message that something had come up and Niki could not come. When Garnet told her Luc was at Birchfields, she sounded very disappointed. But there was no help for it. Wartime, as everyone accepted, made the best plans go awry.
“Well, I hope you’ll have better luck next time, honey,” Garnet said consolingly.
“So do I,” Niki said. Garnet could hear the sadness in her voice. To have missed a weekend at Birchfields was bad enough; to miss seeing Luc was worse.
Neither did Fraser show up. But the other three “cousins” enjoyed themselves anyway.
Since it was Friday and the beginning of the weekend open house at Birchfields, some of the regulars from the airfield came over that evening. Invitations to the picnic were extended to them, as well as to some of Alair’s and Cilla’s special girlfriends.
The following morning when Luc came downstairs, breakfast was set out in the English manner, and both girls were already at the table. Through the glass French doors a glimpse of the magnificent sweep of green lawns and gardens could be seen. It was such a peaceful scene that it was possible to imagine that there was no such thing as war.
Luc helped himself to the wide selection of dishes, remembering what Aunt Garnet had told him: in the country, the deprivations of wartime were not so obvious. Birchfields raised its own pigs and chickens, so there were grilled sausages, eggs, and jam made from berry bushes in the kitchen garden.
“You’ve certainly got a day for a picnic,” Garnet remarked, stopping in the doorway on her way out to the kitchen to check on the baskets being packed for them. In the pantry, she looked through the cabinets and saw the neatly arranged rows of canned ham, chutneys, jars of marmalade, mustard, luscious preserves. She was glad she’d gone to Fortnum and Mason before she left London last time, and had stocked up on some goodies. When she bought the delicacies, she had not thought about a picnic, but now it seemed the perfect use for them.
She put out her hand for a bright tartan container of Dundee cakes, thinking to include it in the basket. Then she thought better of it. She enjoyed them as her bedtime snack, and since one never knew when they might be scarce, she decided to keep them for herself. Old age has to have some compensations, she thought, chuckling a little at her own joke and her own selfishness. Young people had youth and the possibility of love, which was more than she had and far more enjoyable than cream crackers.
Several of the young men from last night arrived in an overcrowded jeep just as Luc and the girls finished breakfast.
By ten o’clock she had seen them off. The favored airmen piled into the army jeep, and their “dates” crowded into an old jalopy, a relic resurrected by necessity from a wrecking lot. Luc apologized that his Austin-mini had room for only a single passenger. Somehow Alair found herself seated in it. Cilla, at the wheel of Garnet’s station wagon—which was loaded with the picnic baskets, blankets, pillows, and a box containing a badminton set—took the overflow from the jeep, and the caravan started off amid much laughing and shouting.
The place Garnet had suggested was a lovely tree-shaded glade with a sloping path to a quiet lake. Actually, it was at the end of Birchfields’ vast property.
Everyone spilled out of their cramped transportation and scattered to explore the beautiful site. Some of them set up the net for the badminton game, handed out rackets, and chose teams.
The game was fiercely played, hotly competitive, the girls vying to win as the fellows wielded their rackets and sent the shuttlecock soaring over the net with strong strokes.
A great deal of laughter, teasing, challenges, ensued as they argued about points. It was all in good fun and, declaring it a draw, they finally all sought the cool shade under the huge trees. They opened the picnic hampers and started bringing out the food. Lemonade and chilled cider were poured, and everyone ate hungrily of the sandwiches and ham, the fruit and cakes.
The earlier high spirits seemed to gradually dissolve into quiet conversations. Some of the players stretched out on the grass, worn out from the strenuous exercise, lulled by the humming warmth of the afternoon, feeling the unusual relaxation of this peaceful spot. Some even closed their eyes and drifted off.
“All my life I’ve heard it quoted, ‘Oh, to be in England, now that April’s here.’ Now I know what they mean,” Luc said to Alair.
“Yes, it is lovely. Oddly enough, it seems especially so this April,” she remarked. “It’s so peaceful that it’s hard to imagine—”
Luc looked at her with a surprised expression. “You must be reading my mind. That was almost exactly what I was thinking. That I’m here in England, at this spot, at this particular time in history. Half the world is at war and there are a lot of bad things going on, and yet we’ve been given this beautiful afternoon.”
“I do know how lucky we are,” Alair murmured.
Each of them silently added to themselves, It’s as if the war did not exist.
Luc rose from the grass, held out his hand to Alair, and pulled her to her feet, saying, “Let’s walk down to the lake. I see some swans, and I’d like to see them closer.”
All right,” she said, and together they walked down the hill.
Still holding her hand, Luc looked down at her. Meeting his gaze, Alair was suddenly aware of the feel of his palm against hers. An excited little thrum of her heart made her feel breathless, and grasping for something to say, she blurted out, “Did you know that all the swans in England belong to the Royal Family?” Once the words were out of her mouth, Alair thought, What a stupid remark to have made.
But Luc merely answered seriously, “No. There’s a lot about England I don’t know. But I’d like to learn.”
They were at the lake now, standing under an old elm tree, watching the swans glide over the water in a seemingly effortless way, hardly rippling its surface. It was so still, Alair could almost hear herself breathe. From behind them, where the others were still on the grassy knoll, the sound of voices and laughter floated down to them as if from a long distance away. Luc glanced over his shoulder, then put his arm around Alair’s shoulder and drew her to him. She turned, looked up at him, and he leaned to kiss her. Alair stepped back and Luc was instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t even have tried,” he said. “But you looked so beautiful, so—”
“It’s just that … we hardly know each other.”
“Don’t we? I guess you’re right; it’s just that I had the feeling we’d known each other a long time and that—”
Just then they heard their names called and turned to see Cilla and two of the airmen heading in their direction. Cilla held up a paper bag.
“Leftover bread. Crumbs to feed the swans.”
Whatever more Luc might have said was gone now, and Alair felt sad that somehow she had missed something important, that a special moment had passed and might never come again.
However, she did know it was a day she would always remember.
It was late in the afternoon by the time they packed up the picnic things and reluctantly left the lovely site and returned to the house.
As soon as they got back, Alair hurried upstairs, bathed and changed, and came downstairs earlier than Cilia, hoping that somehow she might have time alone with Luc. She felt shy, fluttery, not at all herself, remembering the almost kiss under the ancient elm by the lake. She had been down there many times in the past, had examined the bark scarred with dozens of entwined hearts carved with initials, and had often wondered, Who was JM and FD? And did TW truly love BF? And where were all those lovers now? She went into the library, walked over to the window, and looked out at the garden. A purple dusk was falling, and everything looked incredibly beautiful, softened and touched with violet twilight.
Alair felt rather than saw Luc come into the room. But as she slowly turned and saw him coming toward her, she felt a tightening under her heart. What on earth was happening to her? For a moment they simply looked at each other. A line from a poem she had once copied into her scrapbook ran through Alair’s mind. It came and went so swiftly, she could not quite recall the words or why it was important….
The moment did not last. With a burst of laughter a group of couples came into the library, and the room was filled with people. The usual group of young airmen had invaded Birchfields. The room came alive with the sound of voices, laughter, singing, and dance music. Some of Alair’s and Cilla’s girlfriends had returned, bringing other girls with them from the village, to provide dance partners, serve refreshments, and add to the lighthearted fun.
Frightened by the intensity of her feelings, Alair murmured some excuse and hurried into the dining room, where the punch bowl and platters of sandwiches and cookies had been spread out. For the rest of the evening she kept herself busy, serving, chatting, gaily going from one dance partner to the other. Out of the corner of her eye she occasionally saw Luc. He wasn’t dancing. He was watching her. When their gazes met, he smiled but did not tag the shoulder of any of her partners in order to dance with her. Alair was both relieved and bewildered. Still, she felt too unsure of what she was experiencing not to be afraid it would show.
Garnet only stayed long enough to greet some of the newcomers, welcome them to her home, display the charm she had used all her life to make guests feel comfortable and at ease. But she tired soon these days and, leaving the hostessing to the younger women, made her way upstairs, the sounds of congeniality following her.
In a way, this wartime scene brought back her memories of the hectic gaiety of Richmond at the height of the War between the States. Even when they began to realize they were fighting a lost cause, the gallant Confederates danced and sang the nights away. It was somewhat the same now in England. Even though parts of London were burning from the German air raids, at times people still needed to laugh and be happy.
Dance music wafted upstairs to Garnet’s room. She had left her door open to listen. The songs, the lyrics, were all different from the ones she remembered. But so much was the same about the evening—pretty young girls dancing with uniformed young men, trying to be happy, forgetting for this one evening what they would soon have to face again. Gradually she began to sway to the melody, then to dance … round and round, slowly turning in the pattern the moonlight cast through the windows, humming softly…. Once she had waltzed and spun to music, once she had been in love with life and romance, once she had been young …
It wasn’t until after midnight, when many of the servicemen had returned to the base to make curfew, that Alair and Luc had a chance to be together. Three of Cilla’s friends, Sara and Anne Aldrich and Betsy Crane, were going to stay overnight, and when they had seen the last busload leave for the airfield, they all gathered in the library to have a snack and to finish the punch.
“My feet are killing me!” wailed Cilla, sitting down and kicking off her pumps and wriggling her toes.
“That’s what you get for being the belle of the ball,” Luc teased. “I didn’t see you sit down all evening.”
“I know. But some of those fellows need dancing lessons.” She rubbed her stocking toes with a pained expression.
“Good idea. Why don’t you give them?”
“I feel like I did tonight,” she retorted.
“Listen, everyone, I need your help,” Alair said and everyone turned to her. “About the fund-raising fete Mama and Aunt Lalage are giving at Blanding Court—I have an idea for the program. Since it’s going to be on April twenty-third, I thought we’d have a pantomime and have people guess the theme, and the one who gets it right will win a prize. That way the children can all be in it. They can be villagers—they’d love screaming with fright and running about.”
“We’ll have to make costumes, of course,” said Sarah.
“That won’t be a problem,” countered Alair.
“Except for the dragon. That will be a real job. What could we use for his scales?”
“Paper mache?”
Everyone leaped in with suggestions until finally Luc tapped on his punch cup with a spoon and held up one hand, saying, “At the risk of being nominated as some kind of idiot, will someone please tell me what this is all about?”
A moment of dead silence followed. Luc looked around from one blank face to the next, then said, “From the way everyone is staring at me, I’ve exposed my ignorance to a monumental degree, and no one is going to enlighten me. Am I the only one who doesn’t know what any of this has to do with April twenty-third?”
“Saint George’s Day, of course!” came all of the voices in unison.
“Who is Saint George, and why does he have a day?”
Cilia looked at him with mock disbelief. “Surely, even in America you’ve heard of Saint George and the dragon, Luc?”
Luc glanced at Alair. “Want to explain?”
“Of course,” she said sympathetically. “It’s an old legend that goes back hundreds of years, but every English school-child knows it. It’s the story of the rescue of the beautiful daughter of the King of Silene in the third century, when she was chosen to be the appeasement of a terrible dragon who was terrorizing the countryside, devouring people. That’s when Saint George came in, the veritable shining knight on a white charger, to save the damsel in distress. April twenty-third is the day he’s remembered and honored, and there are celebrations, fetes, parades, and all sorts of things.”
“I just had another terrific idea!” Cilia exclaimed, almost jumping up. “Luc would make a perfect Saint George, and you, Alair, can be the princess.”
Luc’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Alair. “Done. I’d be happy to rescue Alair any day, to say nothing of April twenty-third.”
The discussion of the staging, the costumes, the scenery, needed for the program continued enthusiastically until yawns and drooping eyelids finally put a stop to the planning. Cilla and the other three girls left to go upstairs. But at the bottom of the stairway Luc and Alair lingered.
“It’s been a wonderful day,” he said. “I hate to think of going back tomorrow.”
“But you will be here for the rehearsals and the fete on the twenty-third?” she said anxiously.
“Yes. If I’m not flying.”
At his words reality struck. As lovely as this weekend was for Alair—meeting Luc, spending time with him, getting to know him—it was all tentative. Plans could not really be made. He had a higher priority than playing the role of Saint George in a children’s pantomime. No matter that she and Luc were young and perhaps on the brink of falling in love—this was wartime, and they could not escape the dark cloud hovering over them.
As luck would have it—or rather, because Luc had offered to trade flights with another pilot in his squadron—Luc was at Blanding Court on April twenty-third. He got there in time to don a paper suit of armor, mount a stick horse, and wield a broom handle spear at a monstrous creature, made of yards of bilious-green-colored paper cut in jagged shapes, with ferocious horns and teeth. Alair was a fairy-tale princess, with a chiffon scarf floating from a cardboard crown, and the children were appropriately terrified as they scampered all over, emitting shouts and yells that ended in hilarious giggles, before the dragon was properly slain and the curtain pulled shut. The fund-raising itself was very successful, and the evening party continued the celebration. Alair changed from her princess costume into an azure dress that deepened her cornflower blue eyes. Luc was waiting for her when she came downstairs.
From the drawing room came the faint sound of the local band tuning up to play for the evening’s dancing. The melody of a familiar and very popular song began softly playing.
“Good evening, Princess,” he greeted her softly.
“Why, if it isn’t Saint George,” she said, smiling.
Luc held out both hands and asked, “Shall we dance?” She went into his arms and they moved slowly to the melody. “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places …,” the vocalist sang plaintively. The words had just that tiny hint of optimism that all the war songs had to have, the hope that some lucky few would come through all this, would be together again. One had to dream, one had to hope, one had to pray, that you and the one you loved would be among them.
Afterward Alair could never remember how long they danced or how often Luc had requested the band to play that number. How many dances, Alair lost count. She had lost awareness of anyone or anything else. She had not even noticed her mother’s frequent glances at her and Luc. She lost track of time until Luc’s arm around her waist tightened and he leaned closer and whispered, “I don’t want this evening to end.”
“I don’t either,” she sighed.
“I wish it could go on and on. I don’t want to go back to the base. I don’t want to leave you.”
Alair did not know what to reply. What she was feeling was new, hard to explain even to herself. Luc drew her closer. “This is our song. I’ll never hear it without thinking of you.” He began to sing in a low voice, “I’ll be seeing you … in everything that’s light and gay, I’ll always think of you that way.”
As she listened to Luc sing the words, Alair knew she would never forget this night as long as she lived. Luc had found a place in her heart that had been unfilled until now, and made it his. It would never belong to anyone else. No matter what happened.
It was getting late, and they would have to say good-bye. In a few more hours Luc would have to return to the base, report to his barracks. In the morning he would get his briefing and assignment.
Lady Blanding was at the door saying good night to the last guests when Luc was ready to leave. He looked at Alair, longing to kiss the soft mouth, to hold her, tell her that he had fallen in love with her, that he believed they were meant for each other. But of course he couldn’t, not with her mother and all these other strangers present. Luc hesitated. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe she didn’t feel the same way he did. He reached out and took her hand. She laced her fingers into his and looked up at him. In that heart-stopping moment he saw in her eyes the possibility that they shared a dream of love.
His letter was delivered to Blanding Court two days later. As she took it out of the envelope, she thought he must have written it as soon as he got back to his barracks. His opening told her she had been right.
My darling Alair;
I hope I can say that, because it’s the way I think of you. However, I must ask myself if I have the right to say “my.” So I’ll start again…. Darling Alair, I’m sitting on the edge of my bunk, writing this by flashlight—or “torch, “ as you Brits would say. My buddies have long since gone to sleep. I find myself wide-awake, yet I seem to be dreaming. Could it have happened? Could all of it really have happened? To meet someone for the first time and feel as though you have known that person all your life somehow. I know all the wise, cautious, sane things people say about wartime romances. But I think there are exceptions. I hope you think so, too. It was almost as though it were not our first meeting. Of course, we had heard about each other most of our lives, through all the family connections, so maybe we each had some foreknowledge that the other existed. However; I believe it was more than that…. Do you know the poem “Fate”?
Two shall be born the whole wide world apart, And speak in different tongues,
And then o’er unknown lands to unknown seas shall cross, Escaping wreck, defying death, And all unconsciously
Shape every working thought and every wandering step,
To this one end—that one day out of darkness,
They may meet, and read life’s meaning in each other’s eyes.
Alair drew in her breath. Her hands holding the letter began to shake. It was the same poem from which the last line had fleetingly come into her mind that first evening. It must be significant. It must mean something more than ordinary coincidence.
She went back to his letter.
I didn’t quote the second stanza, because it is too terrible. If you remember; it was about two people who didn’t meet, although they should have. How often the course of our lives is determined by chance. I believe we are the lucky ones. I thank God for our meeting.
I shall try to wrangle leave for next weekend—that is, if you are free and can see me. You never know here how things will go. But if I can possibly be there, I will come. It would mean everything to me if we could spend some time together.
Yours,
Luc Montrose