EMMA HELD A stack of blank invitations in one hand and with the other, she angled the chipped wooden edge of a large mirror to reflect Margaret’s image back at her. The wedding dress needed to be taken in a smidge at the waist, but aside from that one small detail, the sweetheart neckline gown with long tapered sleeves was a perfect fit.
Several months had passed, filled with work at the lending library and with the WVS, time with Charles when they could spare it, and of course, the stream of heartbroken letters from Olivia. This was a good distraction, one that was positive and joyous.
Mrs. Avory folded her arms over her generous bosom and stared at her daughter with a smile tucking the corners of her lips. “Hard to believe I was ever that tiny. It fits you like a dream though.” Margaret’s mother had the same velvety brown eyes as her daughter, her hair hidden away beneath a scarf like so many factory women took to doing these days.
“I’m so glad you kept it.” Margaret turned to her mother and the cream-colored silk rustled like a whisper in her quiet bedroom. There was a note of admiration in her gaze, an eagerness for approval that her mother readily gave.
“It’ll bring you good luck too.” Mrs. Avory winked, showcasing the same charm as her daughter. “I sucked all the bad luck out of it the day I married your father.”
Margaret threw her head back and laughed. “I wonder what he might say if he heard that.”
“He’d have to be home first, and earlier someone said there was beer on tap at The Bell Inn.” Mrs. Avory drew out a tin of cigarettes and rattled them. “I’d be willing to bet my Woodbines he’ll be there until the blackout.”
“Oh, do stop, Mum.” Margaret tsked. “You’d never give up your Woodbines.”
They looked at each other and laughed again, a familiar, easy camaraderie shared between them.
Emma wondered about when Olivia was a grown woman preparing for her own wedding day, and what kind of relationship they might have then.
If their bond was even half as strong as that between the mother and daughter in front of Emma now, she would consider herself immensely fortunate.
She was also grateful for her timing in coming by to pick up the wedding invitations that Margaret had agreed to let her help fill out. If Emma had been any earlier, she’d have missed seeing Margaret in her dress.
They’d only just learned of Jeffrey’s approved leave and there was far too much to do in such a short time to prepare for his arrival and the impending nuptials.
“I can’t believe I’ll be married in less than two weeks’ time.” Margaret turned back to the mirror, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “I know I dragged my feet for a while.”
“A while.” Mrs. Avory scoffed with an affectionate chuckle.
“A long while,” Margaret conceded. “But I’m finally ready. Even if Miss Bainbridge will never forgive me.”
It was true, the manageress had been unable to keep her tears at bay when Margaret told her she wouldn’t be able to work there any longer once she was married.
“She’ll forgive you,” Emma said with certainty, recalling the woman whose job Emma had stepped into. “Once she sees how happy you are with Jeffrey, she’ll forgive you.”
“And you promise you’ll come by to see me all the time?” Margaret looked at Emma in the mirror.
“All the time,” Emma vowed. “With Mrs. Pickering too, when I can pull her away from the WVS.”
“Pull her away?” Margaret elbowed Emma playfully. “I’ll likely be working right alongside her to keep from being bored out of my mind.”
“Unless you have a babe to tend to.” Mrs. Avory pressed her hands to her bosom and gave a wistful sigh. “Ah, to think of the little nippers now. I was ready to give up on ever having grands, you know?”
“I’ve heard that a time or ten.” Margaret put the veil over her hair and threw her mother a smirk from her reflection.
Emma picked up the list of wedding guests. There was such a large crowd expected, they likely wouldn’t fit into the modest church. “Are you certain I can’t help with anything else?” She carefully tucked the wedding invitations and list into her handbag.
“Unless you can dream up sugar and butter, I think we’re good,” Mrs. Avory said.
“I can’t,” Emma admitted. “But I believe Mrs. Pickering is on the task.”
Margaret squealed with delight and clapped her hands. “We’ll have a cake the size of Buckingham Palace.”
Emma could almost taste the rich confection. Several weeks with barely any sugar had her craving even the smallest taste. But the sacrifice of her rations would be worthwhile for Margaret’s wedding day to be perfect.
“We’ll let you know if we need anything, Emma.” Margaret pulled off the veil and offered her back to her mother to undo the dozens of tiny seed pearls running down the length of her spine. “Thank you for being such a dear.”
Emma closed the door, a grin on her face at Margaret’s infectious joy. It was good to see her friend so genuinely happy.
Emma’s own wedding had been small, an affair easily managed for an orphaned bride and a groom estranged from his parents. The day had been lovely, with gorgeous blue skies hung with puffs of clouds that looked like they’d been painted in a storybook. The auspicious start had felt like a promise of good things to come, hope that after the suffocation of her grief, she might be able to breathe again. Smile again. Live again.
But the empty pews on her side of the church had been a stark reminder of the void in her world where her father had been.
There had been no mother’s dress to wear—it had been burned with the rest of Emma’s life—and there had been no family to offer well-wishes and love.
There’d been only her and Arthur and the other solicitors he worked with, and their wives who tried to pretend like Emma had a place among them. And they truly had tried, coming together to style her hair, apply light cosmetics, and even lending her a lovely strand of pearls.
Perhaps someday Emma might have what Margaret did, perhaps even with Charles. She opened her friend’s door to let herself out, pulling her jacket round her to stave off the bite in the early-April air, and found Charles still there waiting for her.
“I told you that you didn’t have to wait,” she chided playfully. But really, she was glad.
“Seeing you look at me the way you just did made the time worth it.” He gave her a boyish grin. “I was thinking we could go to the cinema tonight if you’re free.”
Emma tapped her chin and gave him a coy look. “The ABC Cinema?”
They had been wanting to go together, especially after learning that, unbeknownst to them, they had both attended the cinema’s showing of the film Pollyanna back when the theater first opened and was called the Elite Picture Theatre.
“Absolutely the ABC Cinema.” He offered her his arm and she readily took it.
His body was so close to hers, their hips brushed as they began to walk, a quiet intimacy that sank into her soul like warm sunshine. They’d spent many of their evenings and weekends together, volunteering at events, such as Dig for Victory, and helping the WVS with their various projects. Charles was always willing to offer to lift heavier items, much to the appreciation of the ladies, in more ways than one.
The two of them had fallen into something of an easy routine in the months since she’d returned from Chester. And though being with Charles settled a part of Emma that she hadn’t known was restless, she still didn’t feel whole without Olivia. In fact, her relationship with Charles made her crave her daughter’s presence more, a final piece to fit into the puzzle of her life, to make her gloriously, wonderfully whole.
Given the imploring tone of Olivia’s letters that had only increased in desperation, she was likely feeling the pain of their separation as poignantly as Emma.
But there had been more bombs in Nottingham. More deaths.
Though the attacks were nowhere near as aggressive as in London, where bombers flew over the city like buzzards on a nearly nightly basis, but Nottingham was certainly not without its scars.
Twelve bombs had fallen on Ribblesdale Road in March, and just the week before, there had been bombs and incendiaries in Beeston.
Emma and Charles hadn’t more than a dozen steps from Margaret’s door when a young man with a mop of messy dark hair ran past them so quickly, he nearly crashed into Emma. Charles put his hand on her shoulder protectively and cast a hard look back.
But the dark-haired man wasn’t paying them any attention as he stopped at Margaret’s door and pounded at the knocker. He cast a desperate look in Emma’s direction. “Is Margaret in?”
There was a pitch to his voice, a wildness in his eyes, and it set off alarm bells. Charles must have sensed the man’s overly excited mood as well, and stepped forward, putting himself protectively in front of Emma.
He peered around Charles, his brows pinched together. “Please, it’s urgent.”
“She is,” Emma replied reluctantly. “Give her a moment. She was trying on her wedding dress.”
“Her wedding dress,” he murmured more to himself than to Emma, then he covered his mouth with his hand and dragged in a harsh breath.
Emma walked toward him, bringing Charles with her. “What is the meaning of th—”
The door opened and Mrs. Avory lifted her brows in surprise. “His feet haven’t gone cold, have they?” She jerked her thumb at him and addressed Emma. “This here is Jeffrey’s brother.”
The young man choked on a sob and Mrs. Avory snapped her head back to him, her playful twinkle dulled with worry. “Come in.” She waved at the boy. “You too,” she called to Emma and Charles. “God help me, I think my girl might need us all.” She turned and shouted for Margaret over her shoulder, asking her to come down at once.
Emma and Charles entered the narrow home in time to see Jeffrey’s brother pull out a telegram, the paper trembling in the pinch of his fingers.
Telegrams seldom delivered good news. Those seemingly innocuous slips of paper struck fear into the hearts of every person in Britain with the news they brought—that a soldier had been captured, or was missing. Or worse—that he’d been killed.
It meant the man whose name was printed in the stark type would not be coming home any time soon. If at all.
The power of what that telegram meant slammed into Emma, landing directly in the center of her chest. Charles put his arm around her, holding her tight to him, as if reassuring himself she was near. And she was glad for his presence. Not only to have him at her side, but also selfishly to know she did not have to worry about ever receiving such a telegram about him.
Margaret came down the stairs, the smile bleeding from her face at the sight of the telegram. “No.” Margaret shook her head, blond hair sweeping over her shoulders, eyes already welling with tears. “No, I can’t read it. I won’t.”
Jeffrey’s brother gave a hoarse sob, his voice breaking. “He’s missing, Margaret. They don’t know where he is.”
Margaret pulled in a shaky breath and her mother was immediately at her side, drawing her daughter into her arms just as Emma had so often done with Olivia when she wanted to protect her from all the world’s hurt.
“I was too late.” Margaret gasped the words, as if her pain was too large to even speak around. She fell against her mother in a fit of soul-shaking sobs. “He wanted to marry me, and I was too late.”