THE CROWD PARTED around Emma, the audience as eager to see the spectacle laid before them as she was to be free of the horror of witnessing her child pretending to be a bombing victim.
Her worst nightmare come true.
If Emma thought the air would be easier to breathe once she was free from the awful scene, she was wrong. It was just as thick, just as hard to suck into her lungs.
The world was spinning, rocking her balance, darkening her vision at the edges. She reached for the building to her right, braced her weight against the solid surface and let her eyes fall closed.
Her mind displayed a picture of Olivia’s still form, darkened with soot. Emma’s nostrils filled once more with the sting of smoke.
Too much, too much, too much.
Her knees went soft and she started to slide down.
Strong arms grasped her shoulders, holding her upright.
Papa?
That wasn’t right. She knew it wasn’t him, but whatever level of panic she’d been trapped in blurred the lines between what was real and now, and what was in the past.
“I have you, Miss Taylor.”
Miss Taylor?
She blinked her eyes open in confusion and found Mr. Fisk’s brown gaze regarding her with concern. Flecks of green and amber were visible in the chocolate brown of his irises. She focused on them, grounding herself enough to try to speak.
“I’m... I’m fine... I’m sorry,” she gasped. But she wasn’t fine. Not when the air was still too heavy to breathe, and her thoughts too wild to tame. “I don’t need help.”
The strength came back into her legs and she floundered for a brief second in a bid to stand on her own.
Mr. Fisk helped steady her, but did so in a way that left the firm brick wall braced at her back. “Look at me.”
She let her eyes lock onto his, centering herself once more on those amber-and-green flecks.
“Breathe in slowly.” He waved his hand toward himself as his chest expanded beneath his heavy fire brigade jacket in demonstration.
Emma pushed beyond the short gasps she’d been sipping and drew in a full inhale.
“Now out.” Mr. Fisk swept his hand forward as he gently blew out.
She followed his instruction as he repeated the directive several times, until her vision cleared and the erratic sprint of her pulse ebbed to a regular pulsing beat.
As her body calmed, she suddenly realized exactly how close she was standing to Mr. Fisk—near enough to see the new growth of barely perceptible stubble on his jaw and how soft his mouth looked by comparison.
And how she must be staring at him like quite the idiot.
She threw her attention to the ground, where his thick boots framed the narrow toes of her loafers as he helped her remain upright. “I’m so sorry. I’m not normally so...”
“I know.” The boots stepped back, giving her space, and his grip on her shoulders fell away.
Mortified, she looked up again to find him regarding her with concern.
“People can become overwhelmed at these exercises,” he said. “Are you sure you’re feeling well enough?”
“Yes, thanks to you.” Embarrassment burned at her cheeks. “I thought just getting away might help. That I could clear my head.”
“Mum always says that no one person can get by without a community of others around them.” He smiled. “Think nothing of it.”
“I should get back,” Emma said. “My daughter was one of the—”
The casualties.
God, she couldn’t even say the word.
He offered a sympathetic half smile. “She played her role perhaps a little too well, I take it.”
Emma exhaled something between a scoff and a laugh. “Far too well for a mother’s heart.”
“May I walk you back, Miss Taylor?” He offered her his arm.
And though their arrival together was sure to raise myriad questions among those who observed, she slid her hand against the thick fabric of his jacket and found strength in the sturdiness of the man at her side.
Margaret was searching the crowd when Emma rounded the corner. Her friend’s frantic gaze immediately caught on Emma and Margaret rushed toward her.
“Oh, Emma, I didn’t realize, I—” Her attention snagged on Mr. Fisk, the concern in her expression going coy as she slid a glance at Emma. “Thank you for helping her, Mr. Fisk. We are truly fortunate to have men so brave as yourself to save us.”
“She did well enough on her own,” Mr. Fisk replied easily. “She just needed some air. But I did insist on walking her back to find you.” He winked and relinquished Emma to Margaret’s care.
As he strode off, Margaret’s mouth fell open, putting her delighted shock on full display. “I want to hear everything.”
“Mummy, did you see me?” Olivia raced through the crowd, her face still smudged with soot and dust with a bit of fake blood smeared at her hairline. “I was pretending to be dead and I didn’t move once.”
Emma knelt on the ground, not caring one bit about her stockings as she pulled her daughter into her arms. Olivia smelled of ash and char, but beneath that was the familiar clean milk-and-honey fragrance that pulled at Emma’s heart.
“I did see you,” she said against her daughter’s hair.
“I didn’t move once,” Olivia repeated with pride. “I did so well.”
“Yes, you did.” Emma squeezed her once more before releasing her. “Now let’s go see to the food. I have it on good authority the pie crusts are made with actual butter.”
No matter how Emma tried over the next week, she couldn’t clear her mind of Olivia lying amidst the rubble, immobile, gray with ash and the application of overly convincing cosmetics to appear dead.
Especially as the so-called “phoney war” shook off its stagnant demeanor with Hitler tearing a path through Europe. His attack launched him through Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, and ultimately into France.
The latter invasion terrified Emma the most. If he wrested France into submission as easily as he had Poland, there would be nothing more than the strip of the Channel to keep Hitler from encroaching on British soil.
In the wake of war bleeding across Europe, the Booklover’s Library was crowded with subscribers desperate for a bit of romance and mystery to wipe away their worry.
Time at the lending library swept by in a flash, blurred with new faces, a plethora of various books checked out and returned, and shelves that were impossible to keep fully stocked. On one of the quieter mornings before the rush poured in, Emma stood at the polished Class A subscriber desk, checking out a pristine copy of Jane Eyre to Mrs. Chatsworth. When Emma handed the book to her, the woman accepted it awkwardly with her left hand, her right engaged with the basket where Pip slept soundly on his blue velvet pillow.
“This is one of my favorites,” Emma said.
“Oh, mine too.” Excitement flashed in Mrs. Chatsworth’s eyes and Emma knew she was in for a lengthy discussion on the merits of Jane Eyre. Yet this time, she found herself genuinely anticipating the prospect.
As much as the other woman liked to natter on about this and that, when she brought up books, her points were generally well thought out and intriguing. And books were a far better topic than the war, which had sent a low buzz throughout the lending library.
Mr. Beard, however, had been delighted with such fodder for his little notebook and loitered around the bookshop as soon as school was out, scribbling away with rapacious urgency.
At least the new details about the war would bury whatever he’d written about her.
He paused as she passed, offering her a slight smile. Interactions between them had been that way since he found out she was a widowed mother. Kind and respectful. Without a hint of threat, thank goodness.
And by way of thanking him, she made sure to keep him well stocked with new mysteries she knew he would enjoy despite his protestations.
Upon entering the Bespoke Room with a new delivery, Emma found Margaret already there, shifting several items about. Her lips were almost bare of lipstick, dulling her appearance in contrast to her usual brilliant red smile, and the confident lift of her shoulders drooped.
“Is everything all right?” Emma asked.
Margaret startled, her thoughts clearly interrupted. “My brother has signed up for the Air Cadets.” She sighed.
“It’s only a children’s group,” Emma offered gently.
“Yes, but you see them marching about.” Margaret pulled at one of her perfect curls and coiled the spiral around her finger. “They’re truly like little soldiers. Which means they’re being trained to go to war and fight. How long until he signs up for the military too?”
Margaret released her hair and looked up, her eyes wide with worry.
Emma understood Margaret’s concern about her younger brother. He was a sweet boy who helped around the house, from fixing whatever Margaret’s father was too drunk to bother with to doing various household chores while their mother worked at the Raleigh factory, making casing shells for the Hispano guns on Spitfires.
“We can only hope this war ends in the next two years before he turns eighteen,” Emma said. “Did you hear about the new canteen opening at Victoria Station?”
“Is it ready?” Margaret sat up straighter with interest, as Emma had hoped she might.
The distraction had worked.
The canteen at the train station had been in the sights of the WVS for some time, a way to help soldiers maintain morale with a hot meal, a cup of tea, and a friendly smile as they passed through Nottingham.
“I have it on good authority...” By this, Emma meant Mrs. Pickering had told her. “...it will be opening in three days. And they are looking for volunteers.”
“Do you think we might be able to secure positions there? So many women were interested.”
Emma smiled at Margaret, knowing Mrs. Pickering was well aware of their hopeful intentions. “I’m sure we’ll both be at the canteen on the day of the grand opening.”