46

Kensington
Friday, June 9, 1944

In a fine slanting rain in the low evening light, Dorothy stood outside her house. She hadn’t been home in almost three weeks, but it felt longer.

The invasion had succeeded. All five beachheads were secure, and the Allies were pushing inland. Her job was almost finished.

In the drawing room window, the curtain swished. In a moment, the door flew open. Papa stood on the threshold, gaping at her. “You came back.”

Never once had he met her at the door. “This is my home, and you’re my father.”

“Well, come in. Come out of the rain.” He stepped back, his hand still on the doorknob.

Dorothy climbed the steps. Was it her imagination, or did he have more color in his cheeks? She eased past her father, set her hat on the coatrack, and untied the belt on her raincoat. “How have you been?”

“I didn’t think you’d come home.” His voice sounded husky. “I wouldn’t blame you. Why come home to a father who doesn’t love you?”

She cringed at her own words. “I shouldn’t have said that.” A cold breeze shackled her ankles, and she reached around her father and shut the door. “It’s raining, Papa.”

He grasped her shoulders, his fingers digging in, his eyes awash with emotions she’d never seen before. “Yes, you should have said that. I needed to hear. I needed to know what I’d done.”

Dorothy couldn’t speak, and she fumbled for the buttons of her coat. This wasn’t like him at all.

Papa’s face contorted, and his cheeks reddened. “Oh, my Dolly. My sweet little Dolly.” He crushed her in an embrace.

She stared up over his shoulder, stiff and confused, the wooly smell of his jumper pulling her back to her childhood, to her father’s knee. When was the last time he’d hugged her, called her Dolly? Her face buckled, and a sob swelled in her throat. “Papa—”

“I do love you,” he said in a fierce voice. “I have always loved you. But how could you know? How could you when I barely talked to you, barely looked at you?”

“I—I understand why you didn’t.”

“No.” He pulled back and gripped her shoulders again, his eyes red and blue and intense. “You’re wrong.”

Her head bobbled back and forth, trying to understand, trying to comprehend this strange sight.

A howl rose from the back door, and a scrabbling sound.

“Charlie.” Papa glanced over his shoulder.

“Poor thing’s out in the rain. You let him in, I’ll get out of my wet things, and then I’ll make us a spot of tea. Mrs. Bromley’s left for the night, hasn’t she?”

“Yes. Yes, she has.” Papa darted down the hall to the back door.

Dorothy swiped the moisture from her eyes and took off her coat with shaky fingers. What was happening? Papa loved her? Why did those words only send more questions pinging around in her fuzzy head?

Tea. They both needed tea.

Papa knelt at the back door, toweling off the little black dog.

In the kitchen, Dorothy filled the kettle with water, then set it on the stove to boil.

Tiny taps on the floor behind her, then paws scratched at her calf.

“My poppet.” Before he could ruin her stockings, Dorothy crouched down and rubbed him behind his ears. “Have you been a good boy while I was gone?”

“You’re wrong about why I ignored you.” Papa stood in the kitchen doorway, taller and stronger than she’d seen him in years.

“I’ll make the tea.” She grabbed her favorite Blue Willow teapot and rinsed it with water.

“Listen to me. It had nothing to do with your mother.”

Dorothy’s vision blurred, but she popped open the nearest tin of tea. “Darjeeling?”

“I lost my wife, my sons, and my best friend. I couldn’t abide the thought of losing you too. I—I loved you too much.”

Her fingers found the drawer handle, slid it open, and groped for a teaspoon.

A chair scraped across the floor, then creaked. “I know I never paid you much attention. I didn’t know what to do with a girl. I—I didn’t have sisters. And you seemed so happy with your nanny and your brothers and your little friends.”

Dorothy spooned tea leaves into the pot. Now she had to wait for the water to boil. But she couldn’t see, couldn’t compose herself. Perhaps there were some biscuits in the larder.

“Suddenly you were all I had.” Papa’s voice dropped and shattered.

The shards pierced Dorothy’s heart, and she spun to face him. “Papa . . .”

He sat hunched over the table, his forehead in his hands, his head shaking. “God had taken everyone I loved. I—maybe if I ignored you, he wouldn’t see how much I loved you. Then I wouldn’t lose you too.”

“Oh, Papa.” She dashed to the table and sat across from him.

“Sounds preposterous.”

“No.” She pressed her hand over her quivering mouth. No more preposterous than believing she could stay out of God’s reach.

“And I . . . I . . .” His fingers curled in, his knuckles taut. “I was trying to protect myself. If I kept my distance, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if you died too.”

A sob gurgled in her throat, and she stretched her hand across the table, but she couldn’t reach her father. Charlie whimpered and pawed at his master’s leg.

“I was wrong.” Papa lowered his fists to the table and glared at them. “The past few weeks I thought I’d lost you forever. And it hurt. It hurt. I hadn’t protected myself at all. I’d only hurt you.”

Her fingertips found his fist, and she wrapped her hand around it.

He dragged his gaze up to her, slammed his eyes shut, then opened them—full of remorse. “You—you lost your mother and brothers. Then you lost me too.”

She squeezed his fist. “I—I always had you.”

His cheeks twitched. “Not as you needed me. You needed me to be warm—I was cold. You needed me to be strong—I was weak. You needed me to provide for you—I didn’t. You’ve been the one holding us together, holding me together, nagging me to eat and go to the office. I am . . . so ashamed.”

“Oh, Papa, Papa, Papa.” Her heart broke for him, and she grabbed both of his fists, shaking them in her grip.

“No more.” His fingers clawed open and enveloped her hands in his. “That has all changed. I’m eating as much as I can. I’ve gone to work every day. I will be strong again. For you.”

That strength poured through his hands to hers, from his eyes to hers, from his heart to hers, and her cheek tickled from a tear she couldn’t wipe away.

“What hurt most . . . you thought I couldn’t look at you because of your mother.” He squeezed so tight her knuckles rubbed together. “My sweet, sweet Dolly, you may look like her, you may have her high spirits, but you’re nothing like her inside.”

She lowered her chin, wanting to reject his words, wanting even more to accept them.

“That woman is selfish and disloyal. You—you, my girl, are generous and faithful. Look how you’ve cared for me all these years. You never abandoned me. You never ridiculed me.”

Truth coursed warm throughout her. She might be like her mother in many ways, but she’d made better choices. And she would continue to do so.

“Dolly. My Dolly. You are tender and kind and thoughtful. You are nothing—nothing like that woman.”

She managed a nod and slid her hands free. “That’s what Wyatt said.”

“He’s a good man.”

Dorothy dashed for the larder. Biscuits. Biscuits. Where were the biscuits? There was so little food on the shelves. Papa really had been eating well. “He—he was quite the hero on D-day. His ship sank—but he—he survived.”

“Thank goodness. Have you seen him?”

Never again, and her chest convulsed. She grasped the shelf for support.

A little loaf of war bread rested before her, wrapped in a napkin, and she clutched it to her chest. Memories ground up the kind words from the two men she loved and kneaded them into old, cruel truths. “I am like Mum. I am.”

“Dorothy?”

She stepped out of the larder and faced her father and her shortcomings. “I am like Mum in one horrible way. You—you’re a good man, and she threw you over for a rogue. I—Wyatt is a good man, but I ignored him and chased after Lawrence.”

Papa’s face darkened. “Now there’s a rogue.”

A whooshing sound rose from the teakettle, and Dorothy removed it from the stove. “You never liked him.”

“He had no regard for others. I spent too much time apologizing for his shenanigans in Normandy. I spent too much money paying for the damage he caused on his sprees. He didn’t care that he put people at risk. He only cared about his own fun.”

As she poured water into the teapot, Dorothy pulled back from the steam and from Papa’s words. Lawrence hadn’t changed one whit. “You’ll be happy to know I’ve thrown him over.”

“As I said, you’re nothing like your mother. Wyatt is a far better man.”

Dorothy stared down at the war bread, still in her hand. “It’s too late. I offered him crumbs when he deserves the whole loaf.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I love him, but it’s too late. I lost my chance forever.”

A soft rumble sounded in Papa’s throat. “Don’t be so sure. A man like that—his feelings run deep and strong.”

So many memories—Wyatt always there, taking her to church, going to the office, singing to her, telling her he loved her, kissing her with wild passion. Why had she waited so long . . . too long? If only she could see him one more time. She’d never told him she loved him.

“Did he really go all the way up to Edinburgh with you?” Papa lifted Charlie to his lap.

Dorothy hauled in a breath, set down the loaf, and pulled two teacups and saucers from the cupboard. “He was training in Greenock and met me there. He’s the one who solved the mystery.”

“Then I owe him.”

Dorothy set the china on the table. “What good does it do if you don’t prosecute?”

“I don’t want to. Not only do I not want the scandal, but I don’t want vengeance. I don’t care to see them in prison.”

He was far more merciful than they deserved, but she loved him for it. “All right. But even if you don’t want vengeance, don’t you want justice? The theft needs to stop.”

Papa stroked Charlie’s fur. “It’s impossible to have justice without scandal. Impossible. Mac knows I can’t withstand it.”

Gears turned in her mind. She fetched the teapot from the stove and the milk from the icebox, and she set them on the table. “You’re strong enough to withstand the scandal, I know it. If we lean on each other and we lean on the Lord, we can endure anything.”

“You’re a good daughter.” His voice roughened, and his face fell. “But you have too much faith in me.”

“What if . . .” Dorothy plopped into the chair and drummed her fingers on the table in tempo with her ideas. “Mr. MacLeod believes you can’t endure scandal. But what if he believed you could? What if you assured him you could endure it very well indeed?”

Papa’s face scrunched up in confusion.

Dorothy patted the table and smiled. “He’d lose his power. You could have justice without revenge, without scandal.”

“I don’t see how.”

“I do.” She sprang from her chair and flung up her arms in a dramatic pose. “All you need to do is a few minutes of playacting.”