Lovely War(36)

“That’s what it was,” he said loftily. “I’m fixing its mistakes.”

She laughed. “I’m glad to know you, Your Majesty.”

He nodded grandly. “You as well, Your Ladyship.”

“But you must take it back,” she said. “About Beethoven making mistakes.”

He gave her a pointed look. “Everybody makes mistakes.”

“I suppose, but—”

“Except me.”

She gasped. “You’re unbelievable!”

He winked. “You’ve got that right.”

Hazel smiled. Already she’d begun to mentally compose a letter to James about this outrageous young pianist. She doubted she could capture the humor of his jokes.

“You’ll come back and play more, won’t you?”

He nodded, jiggering with the reveille until a sleepy voice with a lovely accent spoke.

“Isn’t once a day more than enough to be dragged out of bed by that bugle song?”

It was a tousle-headed Colette, coming out of her bedroom. A wide-open robe was all that covered her very short silk nightgown and her long-legged frame.

The music stopped.

King Aubrey Edwards blinked.

Colette squeaked and clutched her robe around her.

Hazel jumped up, feeling she ought to do something, but it was hard to think, just then, which new friend of hers was more in need of rescue.

Colette stifled a giggle with a hand over her mouth. Her eyes sparkled.

Aubrey held out a hand for Hazel to shake without taking his eyes off Colette. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Windicott,” he said. “I will most definitely be back.” He tipped his hat toward Colette on his way out. “Ma’am.”

“And I,” Colette said between gasps, “will most definitely be dressed.”

“That’s all right,” said the unrepentant Emperor of Jazz. “I’ll still come back.”





APHRODITE


     Midday Mail—January 9, 1918





ELLEN FRANCIS BURST through the hut door with a bang, waving a packet of letters. “Mail’s here!”

Hazel tried not to pounce. Surely, today, there’d be a letter from James.

Ellen passed them around. Four letters for Colette—her aunt in Paris, and three doughboys. Two for Ellen. Several for Mrs. Davies.

Two letters for Hazel. One from Georgia Fake. One from her mother.

It was treasonous to feel disappointed at that.

Hazel curled up on a corner couch and read her mother’s letter. It contained more questions than news. Pleas for Hazel to dress warmly, watch out for pushy Americans, be safe, and come home soon. Bits of parish gossip and news of Dad’s “old Arthur” flaring in winter, of the opera-loving spinster sisters in the flat above, and of the boisterous barber below. Hazel pulled a leaf of letter paper from her writing box and tried to form a reply.

“May I?”

She looked to see Colette. Hazel patted the seat beside her.

“Bad news?” Colette watched Hazel’s face. “Or . . . no news?”

Hazel couldn’t answer.

“Sometimes no news is worse,” said the Belgian girl. “At least, when bad news comes, there is no more wondering if it will. Is there someone special you hope to hear from?”

Hazel considered this delicious, dreadful thought. To tell someone about James! Telling her parents had been more of an apology than a revelation. Would Colette think she was silly?

I squeezed in between them on the couch. I didn’t want to miss a word.

“I met a young man,” Hazel said hesitantly, “right after he’d enlisted. Right before he had to leave for France.”

Colette, like the best of listeners, waited.

“He was lovely.” She found herself whispering. “We met, and we had such a good time together.” She gulped her embarrassment. “I only knew him for a few days before he left.”

“But you felt like you’d always known him.”

Hazel nodded.

“That’s how it should be.”

“It doesn’t even make sense to me,” Hazel confided, “how much I miss him. How constantly I think of him.” She blushed. “Feels like I’ve got no right.”

“What is your soldier’s name?”

“James Alderidge.”

“Do you have a photograph?”

She pulled it from her writing box. Might as well hand Colette her own beating heart.

Colette studied the picture. “Ah, Jacques,” she said. “Vous êtes très beau. Et très gentil.”

Hazel beamed. “Do you really think so?”

“But of course,” replied her friend. “He looks handsome. And kind.”

“Oh, he is.” Hazel sank back into the couch cushions. “The picture doesn’t half do him justice. He loves music and dancing, and he makes me laugh all the time. He’s thoughtful, and good, and ambitious, but in the right sort of way, and he wants to build safer homes and hospitals and . . .” She was rambling. Idealizing him. She couldn’t help it.

“He sounds like a dream come true.” I was ready to put Colette on my payroll.