The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1940-Josie Page 15

  “We do!” Their little faces might be smudged from their play, but their raised hands and their eager nods gave her hope that they understood the gravity of Gideon’s warning.

  “This is for you, Molly,” Josie said, drawing a clean pink floral kerchief from the pocket of her dungarees and handing it to Molly. “We’ll start with your brilliant discovery today. Molly, will you please tie this to a tree branch and then let’s head down to tea. You all deserve extra jam for your hard work today.”

  Molly chose a branch and tied the kerchief to the end, grinning from ear to ear when she turned back to them. “Like that, Miss Josie?”

  “Just like that!” Josie said, relieved beyond measure that the children would be safer when they were playing. “I think Colonel Fletcher’s men will have no trouble at all finding the metal kit and bringing it back to their headquarters for examination.”

  “Then it’s tea time, sir?” Robbie asked of Gideon, on pins and needles.

  “Dismissed!” Gideon said with a sharp salute. “Now, to your tea, troops.”

  Off they sped, out of sight among the trees in a moment.

  Josie closed her eyes, suddenly weary with old responsibilities and a brand new worry. Nimway Hall had always been a given, then came the war with its demands on the farm. Now the children. Until this moment they were just lodgers — dear and sweet and funny, but somehow outside her worry. Now she wondered how the devil she’d be able to let them run free when danger lurked in the very wood she loved and trusted with her life.

  “You surprised me, Josie.”

  She laughed and scrubbed her fingers through her hair. “That I carry a kerchief?”

  “That you are not only a trained plane spotter and a civil defense warden, but you just now rattled off the contents of a pre-invasion enemy drop.”

  “Air Raid Protection printed circulars for every eventuality. All required of me as head of a large estate like Nimway.” Better than elaborating on the true extent of her training—he wouldn’t approve. “And you, sir, did very well with your new recruits. I confess, I’m surprised.” A sudden thought came bursting out of her, “Are you married, Gideon? Do you have children of your own?” A question he’d never really answered.

  “Not married—” the faintest dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth when he smiled “—no children. But I’m an uncle, many, many times over. Four nephews and five nieces ranging in age from three months to fifteen years.”

  “Good grief!” And how odd to be so relieved that he wasn’t married. He seemed a solitary man to have such a large family waiting for him at home. “So our houseful here isn’t so very unusual for you?”

  “Not at all. Nimway Hall and High Starrow are of pair, even in the time of war. You should see the place at Christmas.”

  The statement landed hard between them, an invitation that would never be offered, let alone accepted. So Josie walked beside and behind and ahead of him in shared silence as they negotiated a large stand of birch before rejoining the main pathway that dropped down toward the lake.

  Where she finally found the courage to ask: “Your visit today to the air station—how did it go?” She felt suddenly, oddly shy, her stomach flipping at the intimacy between them, the secret knowledge they shared.

  He took a long, long time to say, “We’ll talk about that later.”

  Later? After all his steaming about, raging over the orb. His warning that she was in danger of treason, of stealing military secrets and abetting the enemy. Later! What an enigma Gideon was turning out to be!

  “Just now I’d best return to work before my staff thinks I’ve gone on holiday.” He cast her a sideways glance, then gestured for her to take the lead and they continued down the trail toward the Hall.

  ‘Later’ turned out to be more days than Josie had imagined. Days filled with chores and responsibilities, nights when Gideon would beg off their meetings that she’d come to adore, then disappear with his staff until long after she had gone to bed.

  Three whole days, in fact, without learning what had happened between the colonel and Aunt Freddy’s Orb of True Love.

  With the coming of autumn, daylight hours were beginning to diminish, the plowing schedules lengthening into the night. Meals at Nimway came and went in a rush, Jenny decided to have her calf during an air raid, and the children were gleefully anticipating four new evacuees—new friends, they said—making plans to invite them into their company.

  Which was the reason that three nights after Gideon had returned from Yeovilton, Josie found herself dashing between the Spitfire Fund Fete committee in the parlor, the Knit for a Knight ladies in the library, and the Christmas Box Committee in the dining room, their donated goods spread out across the table in piles of wool scarves, boxes of sweets, small tins of tea, all to be packed and sent to soldiers posted in far away places.

  And no sign of Gideon. The last time she’d seen him was late that afternoon; he and his staff officers were heading down the drive in a canvas-covered military lorry. The third such trip in the past two days. He must have found a site for one of his anti-tank islands.

  To top off Josie’s responsibilities for the evening, the Balesborough Home Guard was training in the old threshing barn and she’d promised Mr. Peak she would deliver him a supply of pencils and a leather bound notebook for each member.

  She finally excused herself to each committee, explaining that she’d be back in a quarter hour, then set out to the barn with the supplies, lighting her way with the shielded electric torch Gideon had given her.

  It’s dangerous out there at night with your candle lantern, Josie, he’d explained in a note she’d discovered yesterday morning in the middle of her desk. The first time she remembered seeing his handwriting, bold, block letters with a precision that surprised her.

  The humpbacked roof of the old barn loomed ahead in the utter darkness, its few, high windows painted black for the duration. The only sign of life was the sound of voices from within. One voice in particular reaching out before she opened the door and let herself through the blackout curtain.

  “It’s vital to remember, gentlemen—” Gideon was standing in front of a group of men seated on benches at the far end of the barn. He was lit by a single overhead lamp, holding a branch of yew over his face “—that carelessness in the use of camouflage, such as tracks in the earth or even the most subtle movement—” he lowered the branch “—may give away a well concealed position to the enemy. Now, let’s all have a go at not being seen.”

  The men broke into spirited chatter and nods of agreement, a few stood. Mr. Peak, the company captain. Isaac, Mr. Broadfoot, the blacksmith, the vicar. Familiar profiles and silhouettes. One profile in particular. Quite familiar, quite famous in his day, for being the toast of London and the sensation of Europe.

  “Father! What are you doing here?” In the middle of a Home Guard training session, she was tempted to add.

  “Josie, Bear!” He turned his famous grin on her, waved a hand, his cheeks and forehead smudged with finger-streaks of soot and grime, laurel branches sticking every which way from his brown uniform shirt. “Glad you’re here.”

  “Can you see me here in my twigs, Miss Josie?” the elderly Mr. Short waggled his arms at her.

  “I can, Mr. Short, but not very well.” Every man in the room looked as though they’d just walked off the stage of a pagan play in the role of the Green Man, equally smudged, equally bristling with greenery.

  And at the center of the madness was Lt. Colonel Gideon Fletcher, looking quite pleased with himself, doing a wicked bad job of hiding that know-it-all smile of his.

  “Welcome to our camouflage training meeting, Miss Stirling,” he said, “I didn’t realize you were coming.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “You’ll be glad to hear that the Balesborough Parish Home Guard, under the command of Mr. Peak here, are a crack bunch of fighters.”

  “I know that, Colonel,” Josie said, trying to keep her outrage tucke
d under her hat. “May I speak with you? Alone.”

  “Of course. Gentlemen, continue your camouflage exercise. I’ll return in a moment and we’ll practice fitting out your puggarees with lichen and moss.” He caught Josie by the elbow and led her back to the door. “Now, Josie, how can I help you?”

  She grabbed the knot of his tie and brought him close enough to whisper, “You can tell me why you recruited my father for the Home Guard!”

  He wrapped his hand around hers and leaned in even closer. “I asked and he agreed, quite readily, I might add.”

  “Of course, Father agreed to this madness! What man wouldn’t love marching around all day with a loaded rifle, playing soldier?”

  “Protecting his country, feeling useful. Is that what you think of the Home Guard? That these men are playing at war?”

  A swift blow to her argument, her own words stinging like nettles. “My father is a man of arts and refinement—” she caught sight of him tucking another branch under his lapel and groaned in disgust and terror. “He knows nothing at all about guns or warfare.”

  Gideon straightened, still holding her hand against his chest. “Are you so sure of that?”

  “He’s my father; he wouldn’t know a bullet from a cuff-link. I’ll not have you putting him in harm’s way—”

  “Edward Stirling joined the Home Guard, Josie, not the Expeditionary Forces. He wants to serve.”

  “Then I’ll appoint him to the Parish Invasion Committee.”

  “You’ll appoint me to what, Daughter?” Her father came to stand between her and Gideon, a frown creasing the smear on his brow.

  “Father, you can’t honestly mean that you want to serve with the Home Guard. ”

  “Why the devil not?”

  “Frankly, Father, this is hard for me to say but—you’re too old.”

  “Ha! I thank you not very much for that, my dear girl. But what nonsense! Just look around. Half the men in this barn are older than I. And, as I’ve informed the colonel here—” he lifted one of his patented eyebrows toward Gideon “—far, far less experienced at military matters. You’ll have to do better than that if you want to keep me in the upstairs nursery.” He turned on his heel and made a dramatic retreat, returning to his comrades. “Gentlemen, let me demonstrate for you a trick I remember from the Great War.”

  “What does he mean by that?” Josie stared after her father, blinked up at Gideon. “What have you been saying to him?”

  Again, Gideon smiled away his bloody secrets, his face half in shadow. “Now, Miss Josie, if you’ve nothing more to add to our meeting then I need to get back to—”

  The air raid siren in Balesborough began to wail. A shrill, harrowing sound that chilled her to the marrow, even as it set her heart to racing.

  “You know what to do, company,” Mr. Peak shouted from their midst, a commander once more, “to your posts.”

  “Good work tonight, gentlemen,” Gideon called over the tumult, pulling Josie backward, out the stream of men in camouflage who were spilling into the darkness, to the distant but unmistakable rumble of airplane engines.

  She caught her father’s arm before he could follow. “Where are you off to in this? Tell me, so I can worry.”

  He cupped her chin in his warm hand, eyes glittering with a passion that she hadn’t seen in years. “To guard the bridge on the Brue, Josie Bear. Let’s catch up at breakfast, shall we?” With a kiss on her cheek, he was gone into the howling night.

  “Do you plan to find shelter, Josie, or take your chances inside this medieval tinderbox?”

  “It’s Jacobean, and no,” she said, dropping the notebooks and bundle of pencils on the table by the door. “I’m warden for the Hall and at this moment I have three minutes to shepherd nearly fifty people into the air raid shelter before the bombers arrive. You’re welcome to join the party.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Chapter 9

  Gideon followed the pale, narrow-beamed bounce of Josie’s electric torch as she led him quickly toward the cluster of older outbuildings, through ankle-high grass, along a deer path.

  “Two air raids in three days, Gideon,” she said, calling back to him as he kept up with her, wincing with every step. “Not Bristol, this time. Too far south.”

  “Plymouth, from the flight path,” Gideon said as Josie swung open the wooden kissing gate and passed through ahead of him.

  “Or Exeter. I hope not.” She paused long enough in her progress to cover his hand with hers as he swung the gate open, her eyes damp and glinting as she looked up at him. “Isaac lost a brother in the first bombing there, back in early August. A niece and two nephews as well.”

  “The Luftwaffe’s program of terror: randomness designed to provoke fear and panic in the civilian population.” He could only hope that the war would end before Britain and the RAF were forced to carry out similar programs.

  As they neared the dairy barn, the sound of an approaching aircraft sent them running. She grabbed hold of Gideon’s sleeve and ducked with him under the eave of the loafing shed.

  “A Junkers 88,” she said, out of breath, flicking off her electric torch and looking up into the coal dark sky. “Listen!”

  He was listening, all right, to the thrum of her in his veins, the thump of his heart against his chest. Josie Stirling was becoming the bright spot of his days, the longing of his nights.

  “How the devil do you know a Junkers from a Heinkel?” And the mystery of his every waking moment. He’d missed her these last three days. Owed her an explanation.

  Her eyes glinted in the darkness as the aircraft passed on to the southwest. “ARP training. Other reasons. But now I need to get to the Hall. Are you coming inside, Gideon?”

  “Lead on.” Why not? His staff was occupied for the night at the OB, working inside the ice house, turning its natural cave into a remarkably dry and livable headquarters for the Auxiliary Unit.

  He dodged along behind the woman in the blinding dark, followed her through the cobbled yard, around to the front of the hall, where she took the steps two at a time before bursting through the front door into the great hall like a fearless champion come to the rescue.

  Just in time to find the redoubtable Mrs. Patten standing on the main staircase, shouting into the chaos below her like a stationmaster at rush hour. “Down the backstairs, everyone! The backstairs!”

  The children came pouring down the staircase in their bedclothes, carrying their gas mask boxes as they eddied past Mrs. Patten like a school of trout coursing round a stump, Mrs. Tramble in their wake— “Slow down, children, else you’ll fall!”

  “Follow me, please!” Josie shouted from the doorway in her most imperial voice. “This way! Hurry, but watch for the person in front of you!”

  She led the surging group through the library, down the backstairs, and into the cellar. Once the passage was clear, Gideon followed after, then watched from the safety of the landing as Josie moved among the others like a balm.

  The expansive cellar was a dimly lighted forest of thick stone pillars and vaulted ceilings that supported all the floors above and now sheltered a small city of people who seemed content to settle into their various constituencies.

  Mrs. Tramble shepherded the sleepy children toward the camp beds and blankets tucked away in the farthest corner. The knitters rounded up chairs into an alcove and kept knitting and chatting. The household staff went to work ensuring everyone was comfortable. The Spitfire Fete Committee descended upon a long table and continued charting their program—which was to happen at the end of the week.

  Until last night’s message at the dead drop, the fete had meant little more to him than an event he hoped to attend with the lady of Nimway Hall. Now the live drop would happen there, at the crowded fete. Arcturus would hand off to him the list of names for the Aux Unit and he could begin recruiting the patrol.

  But that was days from now and as easily done as any other live drop.

  Tonight he ached t
o be with Josie, but had lost track of her in the orderly bedlam. He’d avoided her like a coward since his trip to the air station because he’d been trying to formulate an explanation for his unforgivable behavior toward her. Which required him understanding the nature of the orb—which still eluded him.

  No excuse. Josie deserved better than—

  “Ah, here you are, Gideon.” He felt the sudden warmth of her hand as she slipped it into the crook of his arm, the heat of her palm like a brand. “Come with me.”

  “Gladly.” He let her lead him away from the others, down a dark-paneled corridor that took a left turn and eventually opened into an stone-built, dimly lighted alcove with a great, arching oak door set into the longest wall and fitted out with thick iron hinges, and latched with a massive brass lock.

  “Where have you brought me, Josie? To your secret lair?”

  “You found me out!” She unlocked the latch with a shiny brass skeleton key, pushed the thick door open and gestured into the cool darkness beyond.

  The aroma was familiar and pleasant. “A wine cellar.”

  “Designed by my great-grandfather, Richard, for this unused section of the undercroft.” She slipped into the darkness and he hesitated to follow, implausibly suspecting a trap, feeling she might lock them both inside for some nefarious purpose. Not a bad fate.

  “Do come join me inside, Gideon.” She turned a switch and the room suddenly filled with golden light from the iron chandelier hanging from the timbered rafters. “Or are you afraid?”

  “Terrified.” And he meant it, felt the world shifting beneath his feet, a charge in the air between them, heady and exquisite. But he stepped inside anyway, felt the room embrace him.

  The barrel-vaulted ceiling was made of very old stone and braced with thick timbers. Brick alcoves on either side, each fitted with crosshatched shelves, laden with wines of all types and vintages. The enormous old cabinet that filled the back wall, its shelves studded with bottles of rare spirits, its drawers and stoneware crocks and glass jars of dried herbs giving it the air of an apothecary.