CHAPTER 22
LONDON
MAY 2019
Despite my comfortable bed and beautiful bedroom, I’d slept fitfully, tossing and turning and replaying the evening over and over in my head. Mostly I focused on Colin’s kiss, but then I’d loop back around to the after-dinner conversation and Precious telling us to have sweet dreams as she left the room. Eventually, I’d thrown on a sweatshirt and jeans and grabbed my backpack, then attempted to make my way down to the kitchen in search of coffee just as the sun rose. I stumbled through the house, turning down wrong hallway after wrong hallway.
My phone beeped with a text from Aunt Cassie as I crossed through the dining room. I stopped to respond, knowing I couldn’t text and figure out the maze of hallways simultaneously. It was the middle of the night in Georgia, but my aunt sometimes worked best in the wee hours on the creative aspects of her job as the partner of an advertising agency.
I made your appointment with Dr. Grey.
Thanks. I think.
How’s it going?
Fine. Confused.
Is it Arabella’s cousin?
???
Sorry—Sarah Frances told me about him. What’s his name?
I ignored her second question. Yes—Arabella’s cousin. I paused, wondering how much I should tell her. And then I remembered this was my aunt Cassie, who knew me better than most. I took a deep breath. He kept a photo of me on his desk all these years.
Wow. Did you remember him?
I held my thumbs over my phone, not sure how to answer. Finally, I tapped, Sort of. More than I thought.
A smiley face emoji appeared on my screen.
I answered with ???
It was that way with your uncle Sam and me, too. Turns out I remembered a lot more about him than I thought. And then I married him.
I stared at my screen, wondering how to respond. I’m not marrying anyone so tuck that thought back where it came from.
Sure. Call me later. Although I like texting you.
Why?
Because you type in full sentences. And tell me his name!
I sent her an eye-rolling emoji, then closed my screen and returned to my hunt for the kitchen, imagining I smelled coffee as I opened yet another door and found myself in a broom closet. I wondered if lack of caffeine made people hallucinate as I opened the second doorway to my right, which finally led me into the kitchen.
Sun streamed through the tall windows over the sink, reminding me of home. I could picture my mother standing at our kitchen sink, washing out the endless Tupperware Popsicle holders to make sure that each of us had his or her favorite color. She always wore pink rubber gloves to protect her hands. The last time I was home, I’d found a box of them tucked in the back under the kitchen sink. They must have made the move when my dad and Suzanne relocated to a new house after they married. The rubber had probably disintegrated by now, but no one seemed to have the heart to throw them away.
“Good morning.”
I jumped at the sound of Penelope’s voice. She sat at the kitchen table with a cup of steaming coffee and the hatbox of cut photographs, surrounded by newspaper clippings. A rectangular black box and a thick leather-bound album I hadn’t seen before sat next to the hatbox.
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you.” She looked closely at me. “I expect you’re needing some coffee.” She indicated the pot on the counter by the sink. “Please, help yourself.”
“Thank you. I thought I was imagining the smell.” I pulled out a mug from the glass-fronted cabinet.
“I love my tea,” Penelope said, “but I need coffee first thing in the morning. It’s a habit I picked up on our first trip to Atlanta.”
I brought my cup over to the table and sat down. “Were those trips to Atlanta for Colin’s brother?”
She nodded. “He told you, then? He doesn’t usually tell people.”
“I saw the picture of Jeremy in a stroller at the Atlanta airport and asked him about it. All he told me was that it was his twin brother and that he died of leukemia when they were nine.”
Penelope took a sip from her cup, flicking through the photographs on the table with an unvarnished nail. “Jeremy was diagnosed when he and Colin were four. Ever since, Colin has had survivor’s guilt, which I think is especially hard since they were identical twins.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine anything more difficult than losing a child.”
Her clear blue gaze settled on me. “I imagine it would be a lot like losing one’s mother when one is still a child.” She smiled sympathetically. “Colin told me. I hope you don’t mind.”
I shook my head. “No. It’s all right. I just never liked telling classmates. I didn’t want to be known as the girl whose mother died.”
Penelope sat back in her chair, her hands wrapped around her mug. “Colin was the same way.” She took a deep breath. “I wish I’d handled it differently. For Colin, I mean. We were older parents, and I knew we wouldn’t have any more children, so I became a bit overprotective. I believe that’s why he’s so cautious now. It’s not that he’s afraid of getting hurt himself. He worries about us if something happens to him.” She looked down into her mug. “I think that’s why he admires you so much, Maddie. The way you don’t hold back. How you aren’t afraid of how other people might perceive you. Even your silly pranks. They always made him laugh—especially the time you put a Teletubbies theme on his laptop before a PowerPoint presentation. He thought that quite brilliant, although he pretended otherwise.”
“I can’t take credit for my sense of humor—blame my aunt Cassie. My whole family, really—I’ll let you listen to my ringtones sometime. But Colin’s worry over what might happen if he should be hurt is just . . .” I started to say “ridiculous” but stopped. “I wondered why he was always so cautious. It’s not like his chances of survival can change just by worrying about them. My aunt Cassie says that worrying is a lot like sitting in a rocking chair. It keeps you busy, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.”
“Brilliant observation.”
The voice came from the doorway, and we both turned to see Colin, who looked annoyed. I wasn’t sure how much he’d heard, but I assumed it had been most of it. He filled a kettle, then put it on the AGA, his movements jerky.
“It is, rather,” Penelope said, turning back to the table. “It’s something we should all adhere to, I think. Worrying about things that may or may not happen reminds me of riding a horse with the reins always pulled in tight. A person might admire the scenery along the way, but they won’t experience the joy of a full gallop.”
She was looking at me as she said this, her eyes kind, but her expression that of a person trying to explain something complicated to someone who speaks a different language. Colin waited for the kettle to boil, then sat down at the table across from me with his cup of tea, his eyes meeting mine as he took a sip.
I couldn’t help but remember our kiss, and the way I’d pushed him away, and how all night long I’d wished I hadn’t. Flustered, I studied the items on the table. “What are these?”
“Arabella brought these in here last night. The clippings and photos from the hatbox you’ve already seen, I believe. The album and box came from the attic—I missed them in the last go-round when I was collecting things for you and Arabella to go through. It’s Sophia’s scrapbook from her debutante season in nineteen thirty-nine and other related materials in the box. I discovered a leather valise up there, too. It’s too bulky for me to bring down, but I believe it belonged to Sophia. It must have been put there prior to her death—I don’t remember seeing it in her rooms when we redecorated afterward. You’re welcome to bring it down if you think it might be helpful.”
I nodded absently, studying the photographs from the hatbox, their carefully cut edges, once again wondering why. “Any guess as to why these have all been cut?”
Penelope shook her head. “I was hoping you’d have some theories about that.”
“Sadly, no. Have you by any chance found the missing halves? Those might give us a better idea of why they were cut.”
“No, I haven’t,” Penelope said. “And I have no theories as to why Sophia would save these. We’ve already got so many photographs of Precious. Have you asked Precious? She might know something.”
“Not yet—I will. You said you found Sophia and David’s wedding album. Can I see that before I get into these?”
“Of course. It’s in the library—on the window seat. Colin—would you take Maddie? I don’t think she’s had enough coffee yet to find it herself.” She smiled, the glint in her eyes reminding me of Colin.
Colin stood. “If only to protect these walls from being knocked down by Maddie taking wrong turns and bumping into them. The house will thank me.”
“Very funny,” I said as I stood to follow him.
No fire burned in the grate, and despite the warmth of the day outside, a distinctive chill hovered about the room. I took a moment to admire the tall bookcases and the highly polished paneling in the prisms of light streaming from the multipaned window.
Colin sat down on the window seat and opened the album on his lap, leaving me no choice but to sit beside him. He opened it to the first photograph, the one I’d already seen of Sophia and David with the full wedding party. Except this one showed Precious staring into the camera instead of looking away, a bright smile on her face. I leaned closer.
“I know this is an old photo, but look at her smile. The way her eyes match the joy in the rest of her face. She looks . . . different.” I had struggled to find another word before settling on that one.
Colin leaned forward, too, his thigh pressing into mine. I told myself that the flash of heat that shot up my leg was simply gratitude to him for sharing his body warmth in the chilly room. “I see what you mean. In all the years I’ve known Nana, I’ve never seen her smile that way with her whole face.” He squinted, leaning even closer. “Of course, she’s lived through a war since then, which could account for it.”
“Very true.” I pointed at the even edge, which neatly sliced the woman standing next to Precious in half. A woman with blond hair the same brightness as Precious’s was partially visible, their shoulders at an even height, showing that they were of the same statuesque build, both slightly taller than the groom in their high heels.
I tapped Precious’s face, wondering what it was besides the smile that was bothering me.
“What is it?”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure. It’ll come to me—usually it does when I’m not thinking about it. But there’s something about the jaw. . . .” I stopped, turned the page. “Don’t worry—I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
We looked at the next page, a photo of the bride and groom with two older couples, most likely the parents. One of the men leaned heavily on a cane, his face pained as if it had taken all of his energy to get out of bed.
Colin pointed to his face. “That is my great-grandfather. He was very ill and died within a year of the wedding, according to Sophia. She showed this album to me when I was a little boy—not that I really paid attention at the time. There are a few more formally posed photographs of the happy couple and family groups at the church, but the rest are unposed shots from the reception at the house. Looks like most of the photos in Grandmother’s debutante scrapbook, I think. Formally dressed people having a good time. Hard to believe they were on the brink of war.”
He turned the pages slowly. He was right—the smiling, beautiful people in the pictures looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world. As if Poland wasn’t on the verge of being invaded, and Hitler hadn’t already set his sights on Great Britain.
“But isn’t that the British way? To ignore the obvious so as not to appear rude?” I said, reaching over to turn a page.
“I wouldn’t say it’s solely a British trait,” he said very close to my ear, so close that I fought hard not to turn my head.
“Where are the missing photos, do you think?” I asked, noting the blank spots between photos, as if several had been randomly removed.
“I just assumed that’s how the album was created.” Colin lifted the book and shook it. “Nothing.”
I nodded slowly, then leaned forward, studying the faces. “I’d hoped to find more photos of Eva, but there aren’t any. I wonder why.”
My phone beeped on the ledge behind us, making us both turn.
I read the screen. His name is Colin, right? It was Aunt Cassie again. I reached for my phone, but Colin was quicker.
“How should I reply?” he asked.
“Don’t reply at all. That’s the only way to get her to stop.”
Turning his back to me, he began to text, avoiding my reaching hands. I heard the swish sound of a text being sent and then he handed the phone back to me, a satisfied grin on his face.
I looked down at my screen with one eye closed. Yes. He tried to kiss me last night. I wanted him to, but I pushed him away because I enjoy being impossible to understand.
My phone immediately began to ring, and I sent a quick text back. Call you later. Looking up at Colin, I said, “She’ll never believe I wrote that.”
He crossed his arms. “Really? Who else texts in full sentences?”
I wanted to ask him how he knew that I did but didn’t bother. I stood and began walking toward the door.
“Aren’t you going to argue with me?” he asked, following close behind.
“No.” I headed down what seemed to be a familiar hallway.
“Because you know I’m right.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I’d reached a door that I thought should take me back to the kitchen.
“Madison, stop.”
I tugged on the doorknob. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine. But that’s a coat closet. The kitchen is two doors to your right.”
I dropped my hand and walked toward the kitchen with as much dignity as I could muster.
Arabella had joined her aunt at the table and was going through the black box. “Good morning,” I said, as I slid into the seat next to her. “Anything interesting?”
“Just odds and ends, really. Train tickets, invitations—that sort of thing. Leftovers that didn’t fit in Sophia’s scrapbook, I think. Nothing from Eva showing a return address.”
“What about Graham?” Colin asked. “Surely he would have written to his sister.”
Arabella shook her head. “Nothing so far. That doesn’t mean he didn’t write, though. If it was during the war, the letters he sent might have been so heavily censored that Sophia didn’t deem them worthy of keeping. There are a few from William before he was killed. Nothing very informative, sadly. Just a lot about nearly getting frostbite when flying at higher altitudes.”
I turned to the cut photographs again and tapped my fingers on one showing Precious with Sophia wearing pretty spring hats and linking arms in front of the glass house at Kew Gardens.
“Did you by any chance grab the folder of photographs I printed at Colin’s?” I asked Arabella. “I need to look at them again.”
Arabella chewed on her bottom lip. “I think so. Might be in one of the totes I brought in. Let me go look.”
A small bell from a row of bells on the wall behind the table rang. Penelope stood. “That’s Precious—she still believes we have a houseful of servants. She’ll probably want help dressing and breakfast brought up. I’ll be back eventually.”
She excused herself, then left the room with Arabella. I pulled the scrapbook over to me and began thumbing through the pages, thick with mementos of 1939. The first contained a pressed orchid, still in its wire corsage frame, next to an invitation for a coming-out ball at Blenheim Palace. The pages were full of invitations, race cards, dance cards, train tickets, and photographs of Sophia at boat races and horse races and relaxing on lawns in front of castles with groups of beautiful young people.
“It’s amazing that all this entertainment happened right up to war being declared.”
Colin moved to stand behind me. “Gives a whole new meaning to ‘Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die,’ doesn’t it?”
“Look at this,” I said, pointing to a clipping from The Bystander. Under a subhead entitled “Women in Uniform” was a picture of Red Cross volunteers showing women how to put on their gas masks. It was dated June 1939. “Some people were prepared, at least,” I said.
“Someone had to be,” Colin said as he began rifling through the black box. “Looks like there are a few things that either fell out or were never put in.”
A matchbox cover from the Café de Paris caught my eye. “Isn’t that the club that was bombed during the Blitz? I read that somewhere. A bomb found its way through a ventilation shaft and killed lots of people.”
“The bandleader was decapitated, if I remember correctly,” Colin said. He picked up a yellowed menu from the Savoy. “I wonder when she got this.” He turned it over in his hand. “The Savoy was a hotbed of intrigue during the war. Exiled European heads of state living cheek by jowl with spies, MI-Five operatives, and Nazi sympathizers.” He handed me the menu. “They also had a very luxurious bomb shelter beneath the building—it was known for its five-star accommodations. Apparently, the Savoy believed their guests wouldn’t want to bunk with the average Londoner in a public shelter.”
“Can’t imagine why,” I said, turning the menu over in my hand, noticing the pretty print of a woman with a fan on the cover before replacing it where I’d found it.
“Found the folder,” Arabella announced. She entered the room and slapped it on the table in front of me. “Is anyone hungry for beans on toast?”
“Just coffee for me, thanks,” I said as I opened up the folder. It contained the candid shots of Precious I’d taken as we chatted in her flat. She had the sort of face that looked good from any direction, in any light. Even at nearly one hundred years old, her bones hadn’t softened, as if time’s chisel had sharpened the planes of her cheeks and nose instead of blunting them.
“These are really good,” Colin said over my shoulder. “I especially like this one.” He pointed to the photo I’d taken of Precious sitting in the front drawing room of her flat, looking at the windows as the rain pelted them. She’d been telling me that she’d always imagined Eva and Graham together, in a house by the sea.
“Thank you. I like it, too. It tells its own story, I think.”
I felt him nod, but I didn’t look away from the photograph. There was something about it that drew me in, that tugged on a sense of recognition, a piece of information that kept sliding away from me as I reached for it.
“Oh, and Aunt Penelope would like you to come out on the terrace,” Arabella said. “Precious is skipping breakfast and wants to have coffee outside. She said to bring your notebook.”
I met Colin’s eyes, then stood. “I’ll go get it.” I started to leave, then turned back to grab the menu before rushing out of the room.
“Turn right and then left,” Colin shouted after me as I tried to enter the broom closet again.
When I finally managed to find the terrace, Colin was already out there with Precious, sitting under an umbrella in the bright morning sun. Coffee sat next to her in an untouched china cup I remembered from my previous visit, the steam leaking weakly into the air. Sparkling dew capped the leaves and flowers of the garden; it looked magical enough to make a person believe in fairies.
“Good morning,” I said as I approached.
Colin sent me a worried look, and as I bent to kiss Precious’s cheek, I realized why. Her skin seemed blanched under her makeup, the peach lipstick almost garish against the stark whiteness. Her gold hair sat atop her head in lackluster strands like unpolished brass. When she turned to me, her blue eyes were pale and watery, her smile weary.
“Good morning, Maddie.” She spotted the menu I’d laid on the table. “Where did you find that?”
“With Sophia’s scrapbook. We also found a hatbox full of photographs. Penelope said they’d belonged to Sophia. All of the photographs appear to have had something or someone cut out of them, but we haven’t found the missing halves. Do you know anything about them?”
Precious sighed, the weary sound bone-deep. “I don’t.” She placed her fingers on the menu. “Sophia did love her photographs. And her mementos. But then, she had the sort of charmed life she’d want to remember.” Her eyes met mine. They held a wariness I hadn’t seen before. “Do you ever fear, Maddie, that your past is the most important part of your life?”
“Every day,” I said without thinking. I felt Colin’s gaze on me but didn’t turn. “I can’t seem to help it.”
Her voice sounded weighted with time, each year marking its passing with invisible force. “Oh, you dear girl. Your past should never become your present. When you live your life looking backward, thinking of all the ways you could have or should have done things differently, of the infernal unfairness of life, you end up running into the brick wall of old age, having learned nothing but the futility of it all.”
I shook my head, not sure what I was disagreeing with. Maybe I was just so used to telling people I couldn’t change that it had become a rote reaction. “It’s different for me.”
“Is it?” Her smile looked ghostly against the pallor of her skin. “I lost the two people I loved most in the world. Colin lost his twin brother. The only difference I can see is how we go about atoning for whatever we blame ourselves for. I don’t think we’re allowed to die until we figure that out. In fact, I believe that’s why I’m still here. No offense, you understand, but I surely don’t want to be. Old age is nothing but a cruel thief.” She kept her eyes on me. “Do you know what atonement is, Maddie?”
I frowned. “Sure. It’s making amends for a past transgression.”
“No. That’s selfishness. That’s like committing a crime because you know you’ll be forgiven.”
Colin sat very still. “Then what does atonement mean to you, Nana?”
She closed her eyes. They were bare, without eye shadow or the false lashes I was used to seeing, giving her the appearance of innocence. “Living one hundred years. So that I might hear their voices and see their faces every time I close my eyes.”
An odd note in her voice caught me by surprise, making my eyes sting. “You once told me that grief is like a ghost.”
“I am glad you were listening, Maddie. Maybe that’s why I’m here—to shake up your sad life.”
I sat up, ready to argue, but Colin placed his hand on my arm. “Who did you love and lose, Nana? Eva and who else?”
She shook her head slowly. “Not Eva. It’s because of her that I lost the other two.” A sad smile crossed her face. “Have you found her yet?”
“No. Not yet. But we’re still trying.”
A soft smile touched her lips. “When I dream of Eva and Graham, I always dream of them together.” Straightening her shoulders, she said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to go home now. I left something behind.”
I kept my voice light, but I was worried by the color of her skin and how, for the first time since I’d met her, she looked her age. “I’d be happy to go back to London and get whatever it is. I know Penelope and James had hoped you’d stay the week.”
She shook her head. “I want to go back. I don’t dream when I’m here.”
Colin took her hand. “Did you have a nightmare?”
She surprised us by smiling. “My nightmares follow me everywhere. In London they’re more vivid, and for good reason.”
“Are you referring to the Blitz, Precious? Were you in the flat when it was bombed?”
“We all were.”
“‘We’?” Colin prompted.
She stared down at her hands as if she hadn’t heard the question.
Gently, I asked, “Is that why you left London for France?”
She waved her hand at me weakly. “I went to France hoping I’d die. I wanted to do something for the war effort and there was nothing left for me here. David had connections and helped me get across the Channel. I didn’t think I’d survive six months fighting with the Resistance, but God had other plans for punishing me, however, so I lived. I still live.” She braced her hands on the arms of her chair. “I’m feeling poorly. I’d like to go home now.”
As I watched Colin lead her to Penelope, who was hovering in the doorway, I thought of the dozens of questions I still had. I had learned next to nothing today except that I didn’t know the meaning of atonement and Precious didn’t want to be one hundred years old. Slowly, I began to gather up my things and shove them into my backpack.
“I’m sorry,” Colin said. “I know my parents were looking forward to your stay.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I said. “Is Precious going to be all right?”
“She has spells like this sometimes. Mother’s called Laura, who will be expecting her. She’ll let us know if anything is amiss.” He tilted his head, regarding me like I was a problem to be solved. “Are you all right?”
“I think so. I’m just . . .” My gaze fell on the menu. “There’s something you said, about the Savoy. About it being a hotbed of intrigue during the war.” My eyes met his, and I focused on keeping my gaze steady and not thinking about our kiss. “And about reasons why a person’s records might be missing.”
He folded his arms across his chest, his eyes widening as he reached the same conclusion I had. “Do you think Graham might have been involved in espionage?”
I nodded. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility, is it?”
“No, I suppose not. I’m just disappointed that I didn’t think of it, too. Makes sense, though, doesn’t it? And it’s actually a bit of good news. Recently—twenty seventeen, I believe—the National Archives released top secret files of MI-Five and MI-Six operatives during the war.”
“Really? So Hyacinth might be able to tell us more?”
“If there’s something in those records about Graham, she’ll unearth it. I’ll let Mother know so she can call. It might be a few days, if Hyacinth is on baby watch with her daughter. Although it wouldn’t surprise me if Hyacinth had her laptop and phone with her in the labor and delivery room. She’s a general at multitasking.”
“That sounds terrible, but I hope you’re right. If what we suspect is true, it would certainly answer a lot of questions.”
“And raise just as many,” Colin said. “Although it might mean you have to stay longer.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No. Maybe it will give you the chance to lose that accent of yours.”
I frowned at him as we passed through the terrace doors, my mind spinning with unanswered questions, wondering what ghosts haunted an old woman’s reflection. And which voices spoke to her in her dreams.