May 9, 1945
Church of St. Michaels
Framlingham, England
“I can’t help thinking there’s something decidedly unlucky about this,” Wyatt whispered as Amelia reached for his hand and gripped tight. “Seeing the bride before the wedding? I seem to remember my gran warning young grooms about it. Something about wedded bliss. I sincerely hope I won’t miss out on that part because of a pair of shoes.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, but I can’t possibly get these on unless you hold me up. There’s no chair in here and I refuse to sit on the floor in this remarkable dress. Darly would agree with me. Are you going to argue with that?”
Amelia struggled with the buckle on her strappy golden heel, draping the liquid-satin train over her ankle and laughing as she pressed against his side because hadn’t she sworn she’d never wear them again as long as the sky was blue?
“I wouldn’t dream of arguing with someone as pretty—or as stubborn—as you, my love.”
“You fancy your wartime bride tripping her way up the aisle, hmm?”
“Why wear them then?”
“You Yanks don’t understand English girls. These heels may induce pain, but they’re lovely. And the best I own until rationing decides to leave us for good. So I’ll bite my lip during the ceremony and, if necessary, through having our photograph taken. I promised that we’d allow the dress shop to hang our photo of Bertie’s prized gown behind the counter, and I refuse to be caught grimacing for the rest of eternity. Afterward I’ll throw them in the bin on our way out of the church, and you can carry me back to Parham Hill for all I care.”
“Careful.” He pressed a kiss to her lips as soon as she’d straightened against him. “I might try it.”
Amelia reached up, tilting his uniform hat a shade to give him just enough of an off-kilter look to add a little mystery.
“There. Now you’re perfect,” she said, pecking him back. “Now shoo. Get out to that altar before I race you to it. And see that Luca looks smart in his suit. I’ve a feeling he’s going to try to get out of wearing a tie, and I’m afraid I must insist upon it today.”
“I’ll keep an eye out, milady. I love you enough to do your bidding any day of the week. Not just today.” He winked, adding a more tempered whisper: “Don’t keep me waiting too long?”
A slight vulnerability dropped over his face, the kind that said the moments to come meant everything to him, and he wasn’t ashamed to say it.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
He smiled in that dashingly quiet way of his, fluttering her midsection as he slipped out the door, then clicked it closed behind him. And Amelia was alone for the first time that day.
The radio called it V-E Day—a victory over Europe.
What might have been an inconsequential Wednesday in May turned into the biggest exhale the Allies had breathed in more than four years. And as the victory celebration kicked off, and Framlingham remembered the lost alongside the triumph that was the Nazis’ unconditional surrender across Europe on May 8, and surrender of the Channel Islands on this their wedding day, Amelia Woods stood in a bride’s room. Glowing. Relieved and heart full. Having struggled to buckle tiny gold straps on evil, toe-pinching heels with her American groom anchored at her side.
The bouquet Liesel had gathered for her leaned in the windowsill, one of her golden-yellow hair ribbons wrapped around marigold and camellia stems, sprigged with English violets and ropes of ivy in a homemade nosegay from the estate gardens. Amelia walked to it and gathered the blooms in her palms.
It was then she noticed the spring scene through the leaded-glass window—the green grass, the bowers of fully leaved trees, and the gentle sway of a breeze rustling their color against a blue sky. And there, underneath it all, was a gravestone in the shadow of the afternoon, set off from the rest: Arthur Woods, Viscount of Huxley. Royal Air Force. Beloved husband. Died 14 April 1940.
My love . . . Do you mind at all if I smile today?
She whispered who he was: her first love. Not Viscount or His Lordship. Not pilot in the Royal Air Force. Not even Arthur, which was the name he’d so sweetly given as they gathered books and taxis whizzed by them in the middle of Victoria Street during that first meeting. But “my love.”
The war was over, or would be soon.
The children would be loaded on trains to London and Norwich. And Lakenheath . . . bound for wherever home was. Flocks of B-17s would fly off across the Atlantic and the flyboys back to their own nests, leaving the airfield silent and Framlingham Castle with only the ghost of humming engines in the sky. Parham Hill would lose its temporary tenants, the 390th officers all discharged back to life in a changed world. And the library would play host to the story of the man she’d lost, to the legacy that Amelia assured wouldn’t die with Arthur or Darly, or any of those who’d given their lives in the pursuit of freedom.
Wyatt and she had agreed to close up the library once all the children had gone, keeping Arthur’s story safe and untouched, until a new owner would come along and discover a cabinet of books and Victoria’s beautiful visage and, maybe one day, would breathe new life into a cherished beekeeper’s cottage.
Amelia pressed her fingers to her lips, kissing a good-bye before she walked down a hall with photos of former brides and grooms—knowing a photo of Arthur and her would always hang among them. She’d walk down the aisle in a beloved liquid-satin gown, and terrible shoes, to stand beside a captain with a rare heart, with a full future ahead for them both.
New York City, a family, and a fresh start.
Just like authors H. A. and Margaret Rey, whose lives were saved by a story they carried with them, Wyatt and Amelia Stevens became the protectors of a beautiful story left behind.
One day Victoria would be found and protected again. Until then, the cottage—their own painted castle—would sleep.