Catching the Wind(31)

As Lady Ricker awaited her company in the parlor, Eddie Terrell slipped into the kitchen to find his wife busy preparing for the annual New Year’s Eve party. She, along with three other staff members, had been assigned the task of serving their guests.

“Where have you been?” Olivia whispered as she reached back behind her collar, checking her neatly pinned knot of hair. There wasn’t a loose strand hanging from it. Never was. But Olivia still felt obligated to check it whenever her hands weren’t occupied with something else.

“In the gardens,” he lied.

“You smell like soap.”

He shrugged. “I cleaned up.”

He hadn’t really been in the gardens, of course, but truth was as elusive these days as black treacle at the market. His wartime tasks spanned past his obligatory duties as foreman in the outdoor gardens, like Olivia’s. She was a secretary by trade, but Lady Ricker often sent her to work in the kitchen. And now she’d taken on an evacuee for her ladyship as well.

The wooden counter was filled with platters of jellies, chocolates, and cheese. No wonder people came often from London to visit. Between their gardens and dairy—and the cook’s sleuthing skills—the residents at Breydon Court didn’t suffer the pains of rationing. Here they enjoyed the finest of foods that had seemingly vanished from England at the beginning of the war.

He stole a piece of cheese while the cook was distracted, her wooden spoon circling inside a copper pot on the stove.

The chauffeur, a man named James, stepped into the kitchen. “Lord Ricker has arrived.”

“Blimey,” the cook snapped. “Where are the others?”

James shrugged. “Haven’t seen anyone else.”

The cook began stirring the pot again. “The Dragues were due an hour ago.”

“Their driver is probably wandering around the dark roads. It’s almost impossible to see out there with the new headlamps masking the light, and I know my way.”

The cook brushed her hands over her stained apron. “One of these days, I fear you’re going to drive right into a den of Nazis.”

“There aren’t any Germans around here.”

“Except those working in the garden.” The cook turned toward Eddie as if it were his fault they’d employed prisoners of war to help with chores once done by men who were now fighting or women who’d been recruited by Britain’s Land Army.

Olivia motioned Eddie toward the pantry, and they stepped away from the rest of the staff. “One of the Germans was talking to the girl today,” she said.

His eyes narrowed. “I thought she couldn’t talk.”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t hear.”

One of the servants walked by, and they waited until the woman rounded the corner. “Why was the girl outside?” he asked.

“I sent her to collect eggs.”

“Maybe we can send her to an orphanage in London with one of our houseguests.”

“Then Lady Ricker will require us to take in a new evacuee. Unless another member of the staff can billet a child—”

Breydon Court was required to billet at least one evacuee. Instead of protesting this mandate, Lady Ricker had passed the responsibility down to Olivia, telling her that she would care for an evacuee at home. Her ladyship thought an evacuee would help distract his wife.

Eddie glanced toward the door. “Perhaps I can persuade her ladyship to change her mind.”

His words loomed between them, and he waited for Olivia to fuss at him like she always did when he mentioned his friendship with their employer. Instead, she placed her hands on her narrow hips, speaking much too loudly. “Perhaps you can persuade her ladyship to care for the girl herself. The woman is a lazy—”

“Hush,” he demanded. “Lady Ricker is one of the most driven women I know.”

Her cheeks flushed with red. “You’re a fool, Eddie Terrell.”

He smirked as she marched out the door. A fool indeed—he was fooling all of them.

Minutes later, a housemaid rushed down to the bottom step with the news that their guests had finally arrived. While the other staff clamored for the platters, he picked up his camera and strung it around his neck. Before the war, he’d been a photographer for a magazine in London, taking pictures of cricket matches and society balls.

The papers these days didn’t care much about society, but Lady Ricker still wanted him to photograph her soirees. They must all act, she insisted, as if the war hadn’t deterred them from their lives. As if the society pages wanted to print these pictures.

The eight guests were mingling in the room, sipping their drinks, when Eddie walked inside. He heard Admiral Drague talking about the bombs dropped on London, crippling the city and killing more than fifteen thousand people.

Occasionally they heard Luftwaffe planes in the skies above Breydon Court. The Germans were usually flying north toward London or back across the channel after they’d dropped their bombs. They might empty the last of their explosives on any flickers of light before heading home.

Lord Ricker stood by himself near the piano, wearing a plum velvet smoking jacket, a glass of bourbon clenched in his hand. Even though most other Members of Parliament dodged the bombing in their country homes, his lordship preferred London over Kent. And he rarely engaged with their guests or even his wife when he was at Breydon Court.