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  "Have you plans for tomorrow?" Richard asked as he walked with her to the stairway.

  "My aunt and I will be going to the village church, but you're welcome to come along, unless you'd prefer to attend the service here. I understand the vicar comes out on Sunday and plans to hold a special Christmas service for the men who can't get out to church."

  "Oh, I'd much prefer to worship with you and your aunt, unless I'd be intruding—"

  "Not at all," Kitty assured him. She turned to go up the steps. "Well, good night then."

  "Wait." He put out his hand to halt her. "Since it's already morning, Merry Christmas, Kitty Cameron."

  "Merry Christmas," she replied, looking into the eyes regarding her so steadily.

  'Thank you for making this such a special Christmas Eve."

  Kitty smiled, then turned and went slowly up the stairs, thinking that it had been a strange, yet a special one for her, too.

  chapter

  14

  THE NEXT MORNING Garnet evidenced only mild surprise when Kitty told her that Richard Traherne would be accompanying them to the Christmas service.

  "Oh, yes, that nice Canadian lieutenant."

  Kitty excused her aunt's seeming indifference. Holidays must be especially hard for her since the double tragedy of losing both her beloved husband and daughter. Even with her dear little Bryanne's sunny presence to occupy and distract her, there was still a void lurking just beneath the surface.

  The interior of the small church was dim and cold. Kitty slipped to her knees in the pew. Her first prayer was for Kip.Where was he this Sunday morning? Flying a dawn patrol in the gray skies over hostile territory? Dear God, keep him safe! She felt her prayers trite and unspecific and maybe ineffective. Could God really protect Kip from German guns and the skilled enemy pilots with their superior planes and greater experience? Oh, dear Lord, give me faith to believe you will, she prayed desperately.

  But what about the prayers of German women for their sons and sweethearts? Whose prayers did God hear and answer?

  Kitty shivered, and Garnet glanced at her anxiously. Just then there was a stirring and shifting as the congregation stood for the entrance of the vicar, preceded by three small boys in red choir robes carrying lighted candles in tall brass holders.

  Kitty tried to concentrate on the service but found that she was more aware of the man beside her. It was astonishing how, in such a short time, she felt she had come to know Richard Traherne. She sensed a quality in him beyond the superficial good looks and manners, the intelligence and charm. Yet even to admit her attraction to him might be dangerous. She was glad when the end of the service also put an end to her troubling thoughts.

  That evening Aunt Garnet asked Kitty to entertain for the men once again since many at the Christmas party had requested an encore. This time Kitty selected some of the sheet music on hand.

  With the first rippling chords, she began to sing along: " I f you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy—" She had last sung this song at Montclair on Christmas Day two years ago . . . an age . . . another lifetime ago. She had been singing to Kip, although at the time he'd been too busy talking to Beau Chartyrs to notice. She remembered.

  Now as the familiar words flowed, Kitty's eyes drifted toward the door. Richard had just entered and was standing in the shadows, leaning against the wall. The expression on his face was so transparent that she drew in her breath, and her fingers stumbled on the keys, missing a few notes.

  She finished the piece, then stood and closed the lid of the piano. Moving to the window, she stared out onto the winter garden, blurred by the gathering darkness.

  Soon she heard footsteps behind her, and Richard came up to stand beside her. "Guess what?" he said softly. "My cast comes off tomorrow. What's more, I've got the day off and the loan of a motorcar. Would you come with me to see the countryside?"

  Heathercote Inn boasted the English tearoom of the tourist's dreams. While Richard helped her off with her jacket, Kitty looked around. From the small entryway, they stepped down into the main room. Heavy oak beams supported the low ceiling, and rough-textured walls further added a rustic flavor to the room. There were diamond-paned windows, and there was a cozy inglenook fireplace in which a welcoming fire was burning brightly.

  As Richard helped her off with her jacket, she unwound her mohair scarf from around her head and neck.

  A motherly looking woman with gray hair and rosy cheeks appeared through a door that Kitty presumed was the kitchen, carrying a loaded tray. "I'll be with you in a moment and show you to a table."

  "Look, Kitty." Richard took her arm and led her over to a wooden plaque by the entrance. He pointed to the words carved on the surface, then filled in with paint:

  TO OUR GUESTS

  To all travelers, our door's open wide—

  A haven for wanderers, a safe place to hide.

  There's always a welcome any day of the year—

  This is a haven of love, faith, and cheer.

  "How charming," she murmured, looking up at him. Their eyes met and held for a moment, a moment that seemed somehow significant to Kitty but came and went so quickly that its possible meaning was lost.

  "I can seat you now." A cheerful voice spoke behind them, and they turned to follow the hostess down two shallow steps and into the main part of the restaurant.

  "What would you suggest?" Richard asked her. "You see, we're North Americans—"

  At his remark, the woman lifted her eyebrows and beamed knowingly. "I took you to be Yanks." But she was smiling. "Perhaps, then, you might enjoy a typical English tea."

  "Kitty?"

  "Yes, that would be lovely."

  When the woman left to get their tea, Kitty leaned across the table and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "My Virginia ancestors would turn over in their graves if they'd heard her calling me a Yank!"

  Richard whispered back, "I wasn't sure how she felt about Canadians, either!"

  The ride in the open car had given them both an appetite, so they were ready for their meal when it was served. Kitty exclaimed appreciatively over everything—a squat pink and white teapot, matching cups and saucers, a linen cozy keeping the buttery currant scones warm, soft ginger cookies, and tiny cherry tarts. They devoured every morsel and, even before they had finished, their hostess was back with a fresh pot of tea.

  They didn't lack for conversation. Their lively exchange of confidences about their childhood was liberally punctuated with laughter and sprinkled with anecdotes about their lives before the War.

  They paused while Kitty poured tea, refilling their cups, and Richard fell silent. His expression was thoughtful, almost pensive.

  "Penny for your thoughts," she teased. "Or maybe, since we're in England, I should say, 'sixpence'."

  Richard sighed. "I'm afraid I'm going to wake up and find this was all a dream. I wish I could somehow stop the clock, make it all last."

  "That's wishful thinking."

  He reached into his vest pocket He reached into his vest pocket and brought out the small silver wishbone he'd found in his piece of prophecy cake, and dangled it between his thumb and forefinger. "Remember this? I think it means I get any wish I make."

  Kitty took a sip of her tea, her eyes smiling at him over the rim of her cup. "Well, anyway, I hope it will be a pleasant memory, a pleasant interlude."

  Reaching across the table, he took her hand. "Is that all this has meant to you, Kitty? Just an interlude?"

  Kitty felt her face grow warm. But Richard was regarding her with such an imploring gaze that she could not look away.

  "Maybe I shouldn't tell you, but I won't regret saying it, because it's true. I've ve fallen in love with you, Kitty—" He paused. "Is there the slightest possibility that you—"

  She should have known this was coming . . . a lonely soldier facing who knew what kind of dangers. She should have told him from the first. "Richard—" She took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry . . . I'm engaged—"

&
nbsp; He looked surprised, shocked. He picked up her left hand, examined the third finger. "But you're not wearing a ring. I looked right away to be sure. That first night, as a matter of fact, while you were playing the piano—"

  Gently Kitty withdrew her hand. "When I knew I was coming to England to be a nurse, my mother suggested I put it in a safe deposit box. I couldn't wear it on duty, and it was too valuable to bring with me. But I am engaged, Richard. I should have mentioned it, I suppose. I just didn't think—"

  The disappointment on Richard's face was so obvious that Kitty felt obliged to explain. "He's in France, an aviator with the Lafayette Escadrille—-"

  "And you love him?"

  "Yes, of course. We've known each other since we were children."

  "I might have known—" Richard's tone was disheartened. "It was foolish to hope. I suppose that's what most of us live on nowadays, though. Hope. The chance to grab a little happiness in all this madness."

  He recovered quickly and they talked of other things. Then it was time to go.

  Richard was silent as they drove back to Birchfields. Kitty huddled miserably in the passenger seat, feeling the cold wind in her face, and the cold around her heart. She was so sorry she had had to let him down, however gently.

  In a way, she wished that Richard hadn't declared himself. Yet knowing that he loved her was strangely comforting. It assuaged some deep hurt in her, wounded by Kip's neglect.

  Approaching Birchfields as darkness fell, the estate grounds held a stark kind of beauty. When they swung into the circle of the gravel driveway in front of the house, Richard parked the small car. They sat there, neither of them willing to speak nor move.

  Finally, Richard leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands. Then he kissed her. She started to pull away, but the warmth of his lips, the surprising sweetness of his kiss, her unexpected response held her still.

  "Kitty, Kitty," she heard him murmur before they went into the house, "why is the timing all wrong for us?"

  The next morning, Kitty did not go down to breakfast. Instead, Garnet's maid Myrna brought up a tray with tea and cinnamon toast. Afterward, when Kitty put on her uniform, it felt unusually stiff after the days o f soft knits, silk blouses, the satin-lined evening gown borrowed from her aunt.

  Aunt Garnet came in to tell her that the chauffeur would take her to the train station, as there were household supplies for him to pick up in the village.

  "I hate to see you go, honey. You've been such a blessing.Your being here helped make the holidays bearable for me. And for others, too—" Garnet gave her a teasing look. "Especially that handsome Canadian officer. I do declare, I believe he's smitten."

  "It's been wonderful, Aunt Garnet. Thank you for every­thing," Kitty said, giving her a hug.

  "When this wretched war is over, I'm expecting you . . . and Cara, too . . . for a long stay."

  Garnet bustled off with her handful of lists to start another busy day, and Kitty finished packing. Her time at Birchfields was already beginning to feel like a brief, magical respite. Now she had to go back to London, face the reality of her work, begin again the tedious wait for her orders to France.

  She wondered where Richard was. Had he gone off somewhere? Last night he had told her he hated good-byes. There was something so hopeless in the way they had parted, a sad ending to their otherwise happy day.

  Why did it have to be this way? Only hours before she had met Richard, Kitty had felt so very alone, thousands of miles from anyone she loved. Now, only a stone's throw away, perhaps, was a fine, honorable man who had offered her his whole heart, his love, his life.

  She gathered up her cape, folded it over one arm, and picked up her overnight bag and started down the stairway. Halfway down the stairs, she halted. She saw him standing at the hall table, as if looking over the mail. At her footstep, he turned. Kitty knew, in spite of what had been said yesterday, that he was waiting for her.

  It was the first time Richard had ever seen Kitty in uniform. The sight of her in her demure gray dress with its starched white collar startled him at first. Then he was aware of his immense longing to take her in his arms, hold her close, to breathe in the sweet fragrance of her hair.

  He walked toward her slowly, both hands extended. She set her valise down and held out both her own.

  "I don't want you to go," he said.

  "I have to."

  "But there's so much more I want to say—" he began. "I love you, Kitty. I can't let you go with so much unresolved between us."

  "There's no use discussing it, Richard."

  "But there may never be another chance," her reminded her gently. "I just want to know . . . need to know, Kitty. Before I go . . . do you love me?"

  Kitty started to draw away her hands, but he held them tight. "You know I'm promised to someone else, Richard—"

  " But . . . if you weren't. . . would you, could you love me?"

  "That isn't a possibility, Richard. I never meant to let you think—"

  "You didn't, Kitty. All I know is what I feel." He pulled her into his arms so she couldn't turn away. Looking into her eyes, he spoke urgently, "I love you, Kitty; I'd do anything in the world for you. Just give me some hope—"

  Kitty closed her eyes to block out the pleading she saw in his, and shook her head. " I - I can't, Richard."

  With a sigh, he released her. "Good-bye then, Kitty. Don't forget me, will you?"

  "I'll never forget you, Richard—wouldn't want to."

  "I don't know why, but I feel somehow, some way—" He paused, then smiled. "That's not fair, is it, Kitty? I do wish you happiness." He hesitated. "Kiss me good-bye?"

  "Of course." She lifted her face to his.

  His kiss was deeply tender. In it was all the longing of a passionate heart. Kitty responded to its sweetness, its relinquishment.

  When it ended, Richard said quietly, "I shall always love you, Kitty, as long as I live."

  Kitty repressed a shudder. His words held such poignant potential. These days life was so tentative, so precarious. In another day or two, Richard was going back to France. Anything could happen.

  In the train all the way back to London, Kitty wept softly.

  If there were no Kip . . . if there had never been Kip . . . she knew she could love Richard. She did love Richard, but she was not in love with him. There was a difference. Richard was charming, witty, intelligent, considerate—a gentleman in every sense o f the word. Kip was . . . well. . . Kip. He was a part of her, of all she had ever been. And he would always be a part of her.

  She looked down at her bare third finger on her left hand and thought of the other things she had left in the bank's safe deposit box along with the engagement ring—the keys and deed to Eden Cottage. She felt a chill as though someone had opened a window and let in a draught o f icy air. Would she ever wear that ring again, or turn the key in the lock of the little house across the rustic bridge from Montclair?

  Kitty had been back in the hospital in London less than a week when she received a letter marked "Somewhere in France." She scanned the unfamiliar handwriting and guessed before opening it that it was from Richard.

  Inside, he had written:

  I told you that at Oxford I dabbled in painting and poetry, but I'll never be able to capture in words what last week meant to me, only to say it was like a dream, with timelessness and joy I've never experienced before. Maybe it was a romantic illusion of what I imagine life could be with someone you love.

  I enclose something I found recently and want to share with you, written by a Winifred Mary Letts:

  I saw the spires of O)xford As I was passing by ;

  The grey spires of Oxford

  Against a pearl- grey sky.

  My heart was with the Oxford men

  Who went aboard to die.

  I love you, Kitty Cameron.

  Always, Richard Traherne

  Kitty folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. She hated the depression she sensed in Richard's wor
ds. She knew the awful waste of the young men whom the poet had written about. Didn't she see them every day? Some scarcely out of high school, others fresh from college campuses. But there was something else that disturbed her deeply, a kind of fatalism. Did Richard expect to die?

  Suddenly Kitty was reminded of something that old Lily used to say when she'd received bad news, "Somethin' jest walked ober mah grave."

  Kitty forced back the superstitious thought. She was being foolishly morbid. What did the Bible say about fear? She couldn't manage chapter and verse, but she knew there were many admonitions to trust God and not be afraid. Quickly she whispered a prayer of protection for Richard, for Kip and Scott and all the unnamed, unknown soldiers facing death. Then she went on duty with determined cheerfulness.

  Only a few weeks later, Kitty received her orders to go to France.

  Part IV

  No Coward Soul

  Somewhere in France

  No coward soul is mine,

  No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:

  I see Heaven's glories shine,

  And faith shines equal, arming me from fear—

  —Emily Bronte

  chapter

  15

  PALE WISPS of fog swirled about like shreds of gray cotton wool in the cold dark pre-dawn. Kitty shivered even under her nurse's cape, its warmth useless against the deep shudders she was powerless to control. She found herself praying, Please, Lord, don't let anything happen to prevent my going to France! No incidental error on her papers, no question about her eligibility, no last-minute hitch.

  Her initial excitement at receiving her orders had been lost in the frenetic rush to complete all the necessary papers, send word of her transfer home, get her duty release from "Starchy," and pack. Now all that was left, after a hurried trip by train to this seaport town of embarkation, was a bad case of nerves.

  At the train station her Red Cross certification and signed release from St. Albans had not been sufficient identification to offset a thorough search. She had been requested, though politely, to take off her shoes and empty her purse while another matron ran expert hands along the lining of her cape.