The Light Over London(70)

“You’re as much a part of this as I am,” she said, growing more assured of the idea as she realized how much she wanted him there. It was strange to think that at the beginning of September she’d shied away from this warm, generous man when his sister had suggested something as simple as dinner. Yet there was something here, small and delicate, but growing, and she no longer wanted to hide from it. Instead, she’d rather nurture it with patience and trust, giving it a chance to flourish.

“I’m happy to pay for our accommodation,” she offered.

“I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“For one thing, I’d like to be there as much as you would.” He paused. “You really want me to come with?”

“Yes.” And the more she thought about it, the more certain she was.

“When?”

“Laurel makes it sound as though her mother may not have much longer.”

“I’m free next weekend,” he said.

Whatever was between them grew a little stronger. “So am I.”

“If we leave on Friday and come back on Monday, we could find where Bakeford’s stood, and the Smuggler’s Cave.”

“I’d like that.” She paused. “You’re sure?”

He spread his hands wide. “I’m all yours, Cara.”

As they settled back to continue reading the diary together, she lifted her tea to her lips to hide her smile.

23 September 1941

I spent last night with Paul, wrapped up in him in that borrowed flat off of the Earl’s Court tube stop. Maybe I should feel guilty about that, but I don’t. Not when I think about tomorrow. Not when it felt right.

I came back to the billet this morning to pack my dress uniform and bring it back to the flat, but I’m taking a few minutes to write to Da. The one thing I regret is that he won’t be there tomorrow. He and Mum, because I do want her there too. If she’d made an effort to know Paul even a little bit, I think she would’ve been impressed with him. Not just that he’s posh and from London, but that he’s kind and he loves me.





18


LOUISE


Louise’s wedding was nothing like she’d imagined. When she and Paul climbed out of a cab—an expense he’d insisted on, much to her delight, because she’d never been in a cab before—Charlie had been waiting outside a church that looked as though it had sustained at least one hit from a bomb. Paul had laughed at her horrified expression and patted her hand. Because the church had been damaged, they’d be married in the vicarage around back where Father Norwood was staying because his own parish had been even more horribly damaged in the Blitz.

Then Reggie, Paul’s childhood friend, had rolled around the corner, weaving as though he were standing on the bow of a ship. He was spectacularly drunk, but Paul slapped him on the back and introduced him to Louise.

“Caught him, have you?” Reggie laughed, bringing Louise’s hand to his lips and giving it a loud smack. “I hope you plan to keep him on a pretty tight lead.”

Paul had laughed, but Louise and Charlie exchanged startled looks.

“Has he been drinking since he woke up?” whispered Charlie, watching Reggie try three times before he successfully lit his cigarette while Paul had a word with Father Norwood. “It’s barely eleven in the morning.”

Louise stared in shock. “I really don’t know. Paul told me we were lucky Reggie was able to come at all. He’s attached to the foreign office, and it was touch and go as to whether he’d be able to take a day’s leave.”

“Good lord, if that’s who’s working in the foreign office, we’re all doomed,” said Charlie.

When Paul jogged back to them, she pulled him aside and whispered, “What on earth is wrong with your friend?”

Paul glanced over as though realizing for the first time that Reggie was three sheets to the wind. “Oh, don’t worry, darling. He’s always like that.”

“Will he be able to even witness the ceremony? Will it be legal?”

Paul kissed her on the cheek. “Everything’ll be right as rain. Come on now.”

The ceremony, such as it was, was swift. Father Norwood sped through the appropriate readings in the vicarage’s front room while Louise clutched her bouquet hard enough that she surely bruised the stems. Everything about it was surreal, as though everyone else had been handed a script and she was the only one who was really present, until Paul produced a ring from his uniform pocket.

“Darling,” he murmured. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and gave him her hand. Paul was all that mattered.

As he swore to love and protect her, a lump formed in her throat. She was so far from the path she’d thought her life would go down. This wasn’t Gary, the local golden boy; it was Paul, a sophisticated man who told her he was crazy for her. Educated, erudite, brave, and handsome, he was everything a girl should want.

But still, it wasn’t perfect. The groomsman was drunk, the priest seemed more intent on getting through the ceremony than in imbuing it with any weight, and she knew she and Paul would be separated less than a day after they were married and would return to their respective services. Yet she was determined to make the most of it until they could be reunited to start their lives together in earnest.