4

WHITBY HOUSE
KENT, ENGLAND
2100 HOURS
AUGUST 17, 1942

 
As he pulled the heavy tarpaulin from the trunk of the Ford and dragged it in place over the car, Captain James M. B. Whittaker wondered if he was being subtly punished by Major Richard Canidy.

There was no reason Canidy couldn’t have driven the Ford himself into London, but he had insisted that Whittaker drive him. And there was no reason Whittaker could not have stayed in London, but Canidy had insisted the risk of leaving the stolen car (despite new numbers painted on the hood and a valid trip ticket) in London overnight was too great to take.

So he wound up, in the car he had stolen for his own convenience, playing chauffeur to Canidy and being sent back to Whitby House like any other chauffeur.

Canidy could be subtle at times, and this was probably one of those times.

When he walked into Whitby House, the officer of the guard told him that Lieutenant Jamison had gone to the movie they were showing. The movie started at 2000 hours, so there was no point in walking down there just to see the end of it. If Jamison had gone to the movies, the duchess had probably gone with him.

With Canidy gone, he could have at least tried to have a shot at the duchess, even though he knew Canidy was dead serious when he told him the duchess was off-limits. As Whittaker made his way up the wide staircase to his apartment—the one that was once the duchess’s—he was forced to conclude that the world was often cruel to kind, gentle, and all-around worthy people like himself.

When he got to the apartment, he felt he was entitled, by way of solace, to a drink or two of the Scotch Canidy had had the foresight to steal from the cabinet in the library of the house on Q Street. If he didn’t drink it now, he thought, it would be all gone. And technically, it was his anyway.

He went into the ducal chambers, found the Scotch, poured a glassful, and carried the glass back into the apartment. There he carefully poured two inches of it into a second glass, added water, and sat down in a high-backed chair. He was sipping it when there was a loud and almost vulgar gurgling sound. He looked around the suite in surprise and for the first time saw there was a crack of light under the door to the bathroom.

The duchess is shamelessly taking advantage of the American hot water, he thought. Naughty. And she is not at the movies with Jamison.

Elizabeth, Duchess Stanfield, came into the room several minutes later. She was wearing a thick terry-cloth robe, and her hair was wrapped in a towel.

“I’d hoped to be done before you returned,” she said.

“No apologies required,” he said. “My bathtub is your bathtub, as they say in ol’ Meh-hi-co.”

She smiled at him. “That was a quick trip,” she said.

“Our leader elected to stay in London,” Whittaker said.

“And you didn’t?” she teased.

“Oh, he was on business,” Whittaker said. “And I guess he—”

“What?”

“There’s a mission on. I think he wanted to stick close to London to get word on it. A couple of pals of ours are involved.”

“I see,” she said. “Waiting is difficult, isn’t it?”

“Can I offer you a little belt of this?” he asked. “Guaranteed to cure what ails you and to take the hair off your chest.”

Now, that was a goddamned dumb thing to say.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Genuine Scotch whiskey,” he said

“Yes, I think I would,” she said. “I feel a bit down, myself.”

She has forgiven me. Watch the mouth from here on in.

“Me, too,” he said. “They say that misery loves company.”

He made her a drink. She surprised him by saying she would take it neat.

“This is very nice,” she said.

“Reimported from the United States by our leader,” he said.

“Will he be angry when he finds it gone?”

“Probably,” Whittaker said. “Why do you ask? Has he been jumping on you again?”

“Oh no,” she said, and then laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Two people speaking the same language differently again,” she said. “The vernacular is different. I would not use that slang, if you don’t mind the suggestion, in mixed English company.”

“Jumping is screwing in English English?” he asked.

“Why did I bring this subject up?”

Why indeed?

“In Australia it’s ‘rooting,’” Whittaker offered.

“Did you have a nice ride to and from London?” she asked, diverting the conversation to what she obviously hoped was a sexless subject.

“Lovely,” he said. “Why are you down? Is there anything I can do?”

“You’ve done it,” she said, raising the whiskey glass.

“That’s not an answer,” he said.

“I took advantage of everyone’s absence to wander through the house,” she said. “I’m afraid it was a mistake. It made me miss my husband.”

Well, there goes the ball game.

“Where’s he stationed?” “Where’s he stationed?”

“My husband is down,” she said. “He was flying a Wellington. It went down over Hanover. There were some parachutes, but there’s been no word.”

“Jesus,” Whittaker said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about that.”

Her eyes met his for a moment, then she looked away.

“Could you possibly spare some more of that?” she asked. She could not let things stand like that, she decided. It would be unfair.

“Of course,” he said, and poured Scotch in her glass. “When that’s gone, I’ll go steal some more.”

“Why are you down?” she asked.

“The standard reason, I suppose: unrequited love.”

“That’s strange,” she said. “I thought you would be one of these people who believe that not to worry, if you lose one woman, another will be along shortly, like a tram.”

“After a while, Your Grace, one becomes rather bored with trams,” he said, in a credible, mock British accent.

She laughed.

“Then this is a serious relationship that’s gone awry?” she said.

“It hasn’t gone awry, because I have never been able to get this particular tram on the tracks.”

“Have you told her?”

“She knows.”

“Oh.”

“Were you ever infatuated, as a girl, with a boy? I mean when you were ten, or twelve? And the boy was a couple of years older?”

“Of course,” she said. “This girl thinks she is too young for you?”

“The reverse. I was the ten-year-old hopelessly in love with a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“And she thought—still thinks—she’s too old for you?”

“That’s part of it, I think,” he said. “She can’t forget the bony-kneed little boy with braces on his teeth and suppurating acne.”

She chuckled.

“You don’t have acne now,” she said.

You’re a damned good-looking young man, as a matter of fact.

“I was sitting here developing a theory that she’s been burned by love.”

“All women are burned by love at one time or another,” she said. “It passes with time.”

“I think she was really in love with this guy,” Whittaker said. “Which makes sense, considering the guy. And the girl.”

“You know him?”

“Very well,” Whittaker said. “He died.”

“And she’s mourning over him?”

“Some people have said that this guy and I are—were—very much alike. Theory two thousand and two holds that she is rejecting me because I am so much like the other guy. That she was really hurt when he kicked the bucket and is afraid of getting involved again and getting hurt again.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” she said. “You want my advice?”

“Why not?”

“She’ll probably come to her senses,” she said. “Sooner or later. Are you willing to wait?”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t have any choice in the matter.”

“Then wait,” she said. “It may not take as long as you think it will.”

“And, in the meantime, you don’t happen to know when the next tram will be along, do you? To tide me over?”

Whittaker saw her face change.

You did it again, Motormouth! Jesus, what’s wrong with you?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“No offense taken,” she said. “I knew what you meant.”

“I’m about to have another of these,” Whittaker said, raising his glass. “How about you?”

“I won’t even say I shouldn’t,” she said, drained her glass, and handed it to him.

He reached for the bottle of Scotch.

“Have you ever wondered why there are two apartments?” she asked. “Why I lived here, and my husband in a separate apartment?”

The question confused him, and when he turned to look at her, it showed on his face.

“I suppose that goes back a long time,” he said.

“The purpose of marriage between the nobility is to ensure the line, to buttress alliances,” she said. “That sort of thing.”

“I’m about to misinterpret this whole conversation,” he said.

“No,” she said. “You already have misinterpreted this conversation, with that sweet, hopeless look on your face when I told you Edward is listed as missing.”

“You said you missed him,” Whittaker said.

“As indeed I do,” she said. “He’s a fine, amusing, decent human being, and I pray he’s all right.”

“But?”

“We were married because it was expected of us,” she said. “One does what one is expected to do. And avoids what one is expected to avoid, which includes doing anything that would cause talk. In other words, I had to be Caesar’s wife while I was assigned to the War Office.”

He looked at her in surprise. He saw in her eyes that he had not misunderstood her meaning.

“This isn’t the War Office,” Whittaker said.

“And we are alone in the house,” she said. “I was thinking that perhaps we both have been waiting for the same tram.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Whittaker said.

She licked her lips nervously. “I shock you, don’t I?” she asked. She stood up. “Would you rather I leave?”

“No,” he said, a tone of excitement in his voice. “For Christ’s sake, you can’t leave now.”

She nodded her head.

Carrying her fresh drink, he went to her and handed it to her. She took a sip and then set the glass on the table beside her chair.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” she said. “But I just realized I have been hoping that something like this would happen from the moment I saw you looking at my breasts.”

“In the kitchen, you mean?” he asked.

She nodded.

She put her hand to his face.

“You looked so hungry,” she said. “So love-starved. I know the feeling.”

She took her hand from his cheek, caught his hand with hers, and directed it to the cord of her robe.

He tugged on it, and it came loose. He lowered his head and took her nipple in his mouth.

She held him there for a moment, then shrugged out of the robe and let it fall to the floor.

She stepped away from him and, looking into his eyes, pulled the towel off her head and shook her hair. Then she turned and walked naked to the canopied bed, threw the cover off, and slipped under the sheets.

“If Canidy finds out about this,” he said, “both our asses will be in a crack.”

“Then,” the Duchess of Stanfield said, “we shall have to be careful that he doesn’t find out, shan’t we?”

He went to the three doors to the apartment and carefully locked them. Then he walked toward the bed, shrugging out of his clothes.

 
He was later glad that he had locked them, for at ten minutes after four, several minutes after the duchess had woken up feeling frisky and had wakened him in what he thought was a delightfully wicked way, Lieutenant Jamison attempted entry without knocking.

“Whittaker!” Jamison called impatiently. “Open the damned door!”

Whittaker tried to open the door just wide enough to see what the sonofabitch wanted, but Jamison pushed his way inside, looked in genuine surprise at the duchess, and thereafter pretended she was invisible.

“Colonel Stevens was just on the horn,” he said. “You’re to come to the hangar at Croydon as soon as you can get there.”

“He say why?”

“No,” he said. “But he said bring a change of clothes, and either come by jeep or bring somebody along to drive the Ford back here.”

“Go take the tarpaulin off,” the duchess of Stanfield said. “I can drive the Ford.”

Then she got out of bed and trotted regally, stark naked, across the room to retrieve her bathrobe from where she had dropped it on the floor.