LONDON
THURSDAY, AUGUST 15, 1940
At the school in Stepney, thirty-seven women jeered at poor Edith Fuller. Aleida sat beside her on the stage, lending silent authority as a mother, according to Miss Granville.
“I did what your lot said last year, took your train into the country with my little ones.” A woman shook her fist at the lectern. “That farmer woman treated me like a servant. ‘Fetch this, scrub this, don’t steal anything.’ Never gave me a night off neither.”
Miss Fuller fussed with her gray curls. “I—well, it’s still vital—”
A mother in a shapeless brown dress swatted Miss Fuller’s words away. “I won’t send my Nellie off again. They made her sleep on the floor after she wet the bed. Called her names, they did.”
Aleida’s hands tensed in her lap. How was Theo being treated, wherever he was?
“Please listen, ladies.” Miss Fuller’s spindly fingers shook as she made a patting motion.
Miss Fuller was supposed to be persuading the mothers of the East End to evacuate their children yet again, Miss Granville’s usual job, but Miss Granville wasn’t available. Just as well, because her upper-crust condescension would have grated even more than Miss Fuller’s middle-class condescension.
Miss Granville had ordered Aleida not to open her mouth, lest her foreign accent lead to open hostility.
“My Bobby liked the country life.” A woman shook back scraggly blond hair.
Miss Fuller stretched taller and smiled.
“Liked it too much.” The blonde crossed her arms. “Why can’t I have a pony, he says. Why don’t we have grass and roses? Why don’t we have milk and pudding every day? Your lot ruined him. He’ll never have things like that. He won’t.”
The evacuees and their mothers faced problems Aleida had never considered. She’d taken the job to search for Theo, but maybe she was there for another reason too.
Behind the strident voices beat hurting hearts. Hearts that loved their children, that missed their children when they were apart.
“You don’t understand how dangerous the situation is,” Miss Fuller said.
Aleida’s mouth went taut. The woman couldn’t have chosen a worse set of words.
The mother in the brown dress swatted even harder. “And you don’t understand us at all.”
Miss Fuller’s narrow face buckled. If she burst into tears, all was lost.
She was correct about the danger though. In the past few days, the Germans had switched from bombing ships to bombing airfields. The invasion would come soon, and when it did, London would be a horrific place for children. As Rotterdam had been in May.
Something stirred in Aleida’s veins and down to her legs. She approached the lectern. “May I speak?” she whispered to Miss Fuller.
“Miss Granville said—”
“I can’t make it worse, can I?”
Miss Fuller’s thin shoulders settled down a notch. “No, you can’t.” She backed away.
In silence, Aleida studied the thirty-five women. Two were storming out the door. Silence did its work and quieted the women into curiosity.
Without smiling, Aleida gave a nod of greeting. “My name is Aleida Martens, and I came from the Netherlands in May. I didn’t stay long enough to see bombs fall on my country, but they did fall. Hundreds of men, women, and children were killed. While we were fleeing, my husband was killed by a German plane. That pilot didn’t care that my husband wasn’t a soldier. And I—I was separated from my son. My three-year-old boy. I don’t know where he is.”
Her throat clogged, and she took a moment to compose herself.
In the audience, women covered their mouths. Eyes widened.
Aleida hauled in a rough breath. “Before the Germans came, if I’d had the chance to send Theo into the English countryside, I would have. Even if he were lonely, at least he’d be safe. I’d know where he was. You ladies—you’ve been given that chance. I beg you to send your children to safety before the bombs start falling.”
Silence returned, heavy and momentous, and Aleida let it weigh on them. Then she stepped to the table with the registration sheet, where Miss Fuller joined her.
Not all the women signed up, but some did.
Afterward, Aleida and Miss Fuller took the District Line from Stepney Green to Charing Cross Station, where they parted.
Aleida transferred to the Bakerloo Line, and she held on to a leather strap overhead as the train swayed down the tracks deep beneath the city.
On a seat near her, a woman in a dark green hat held a little girl on her lap. So many photos showed smiling evacuees playing games in flowery meadows. But how many mothers and children had struggled as the families in Stepney had?
If only Aleida could find out.
At Oxford Circus, she emerged into the sunshine and headed up Regent Street.
Everyone always welcomed her at the Hart and Swan, even though she wasn’t a reporter. The conversations reminded her of living with her parents, who had encouraged her to read the papers, to know what was happening in the world.
Sebastiaan had said such knowledge was beneath a woman’s comprehension and only stoked hysteria.
Aleida squared her shoulders, bought a copy of the Times from a newsstand, and entered the Hart and Swan. Without a hint of hysteria.
In the back room, Collie sat with a middle-aged man Aleida hadn’t met.
Only the two of them, and Aleida paused.
If it were only Guy Gilbert, she’d turn and leave.
Gil flirted. Despite her cool rebuffs, he flirted. Despite Louisa chiding him for pursuing a widow of only three months, he flirted.
Collie didn’t flirt, but he was charming. And charm made her leery.
He laughed with the voice Louisa had called golden. Caramel fit better—not just golden, but thick and rich. And sweet. Charmingly so.
He sat turned in profile to her, with caramel-colored hair rippling back from his forehead. “Every morning, Lennox leaves a gift at the foot of the bed. I must take care. It is most unpleasant, in my early-morning fogginess, to tread upon a dead mouse.”
His companion chuckled. “That cat has taken a shine to you.”
“In his own disturbed way, he—” Collie spotted Aleida, and he grinned and rose. “I hoped you’d come today. I brought my uncle, Elliott Hastings.”
His uncle—the Member of Parliament who had offered to help. She dashed over and shook the man’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
“Ah, no, Mrs. Martens. The honor is mine in meeting you.” Hazel eyes sparkled, much like Collie’s. Charm apparently ran hard in the family.
Collie held out a chair for her. “Uncle Elliott said you haven’t come to his office yet. I realized your hours must coincide with his, so I brought him here.”
Aleida sat, set down her purse and newspaper, and studied Collie as he returned to his chair. He’d done that for her. “Thank you.”
Mr. Hastings sipped amber liquid from a tumbler. “Hugh already told me your story.”
Aleida raised an eyebrow at Collie. “Hugh?”
“It is my name.” He leaned closer and cupped his hand beside his mouth. “Don’t tell the others, but I much prefer it to Collie. I’m always afraid they’ll toss a stick and ask me to fetch.”
Aleida smiled at his joke. Humor and cheer formed the pillars of charm. Along with feigned interest in others.
But Collie’s—Hugh’s—interest seemed genuine.
Mr. Hastings pressed his hands together and pointed them at Aleida. “Before my nephew runs off to herd sheep and before we discuss the search for your son, I wanted to ask about your situation. Do you have a safe place to live? Does your job pay enough to cover your needs? Have you been treated well?”
“Forgive my uncle’s impertinence,” Hugh said. “He’s quite concerned with the plight of the refugees.”
“Oh.” Aleida’s gaze shifted from uncle to nephew, from charm to charm, from kindness to kindness. “I’ve been treated very well. And I have family in England, a flat in town, and plenty of money.”
“Good.” Mr. Hastings’s mouth bent down. “Too many refugees don’t, and far too few people care.”
“You do.” Hugh’s eyes shone with pride. “If refugees could vote in your constituency, you’d win in a landslide.”
“Not if the French voted.” Mr. Hastings winced. “I don’t blame them.”
“He’s received a death threat,” Hugh said to Aleida.
She gasped. “A death threat?”
Mr. Hastings related how he’d broadcast the departure date of a ship repatriating French soldiers—which had been sunk by the Germans. His face twisted with regret. “The police think the death threat came from a Frenchman, but I think it’s from the MoI.”
“M-O-I?” Aleida hadn’t heard that term.
“Ministry of Information,” Hugh said. “However, if it came from someone there, Jouveau would have been threatened too. Ridley blames him even more than he blames my uncle.” Hugh inclined his head toward Aleida. “Albert Ridley is a ministry advisor to the BBC.”
“I see.” Aleida’s mind spun with questions. “Who else would threaten you?”
Hugh’s mouth curved without parting, a most pleasant smile. “I’m afraid my dear uncle has more enemies than friends.”
A huff came from behind her, from Mr. Irwin, the owner of the Hart and Swan. “I’m not surprised.” He glared at Mr. Hastings and stomped away.
“This is why my tea is out.” Hugh lowered a pout to his cup. “Irwin thinks my uncle shouldn’t speak disparagingly of anyone in government. It isn’t patriotic.”
Aleida glanced behind her to make sure Irwin was gone, then she flicked a smile to the men. “Is Irwin a suspect?”
Mr. Hastings chuckled and raised his tumbler to Aleida. “Ah, she likes a mystery.”
“I do. It’s rather English of me, don’t you think?”
“Quite so,” the men said in unison.
Aleida did like a mystery, and she liked the company, and she liked how Hugh Collingwood looked at her with enjoyment and appreciation, as if she were unforgettable.
Her breath stopped. Charm. She knew better.