The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 31

Irene

The first thing I remembered was a hum. Not the lacerating rumble of the Luftwaffe that overwhelmed my senses, but a gentle one. Soft and delicate on my skin. A song.

I forced my eyelids open, only to be blinded by a rush of light. I winced and my head screamed in protest.

“Careful now, you’ve had quite the knock.” A woman was kneeling next to me, one hand pressed firmly against my forehead, the other holding a rag against my bleeding shoulder. This was the same woman who’d tried to get me into the shelter. Her graying hair was matted with the same dust and blood that streaked her skin and clothes. In another life she might have been a kind, matronly woman, but she wasn’t smiling now.

“What . . . what happened?” My clothes were torn and stained unrecognizably, my skin covered in angry purple bruises and cuts.

Pain laced her kind eyes. “A bomb. It knocked you down the stairs. I wasn’t sure you were going to wake up at all.”

The memory ricocheted through me. The deafening screech of the blast that threw me backward before the world went black.

I pushed up onto my elbows despite the searing ache in my head. “Harry. The air raid warden who was with me. Is he okay?”

“No,” she said in a heavy whisper. “Some of the other men in the shelter went to look for him after the all-clear went up. They found him buried beneath the rubble. It was too late to help him.”

My lungs were too raw for breath. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt. He’d been trying to save me. To save everyone. That wasn’t how this was supposed to be.

“Try to breathe. We all need to stay calm and brave. It’s what Harry would want,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.

I sucked in a ragged breath, clinging to her words. Calm and brave. How could anyone feel that way after the hell inflicted upon us? But what other choice did I have?

“Grace, we need your help with this boy,” another voice called out.

“Rest as much as you can,” Grace said. “I’ll come check on you again in a bit. I’ve stitched up your shoulder, but it’s your head I’m worried about.”

I looked around, the blur in my vision finally receding enough for me to make out my surroundings. All around me, people lay on the ground, blood-soaked rags wrapped around hands and torsos and heads. People old and young. A girl no older than Margaret with hair matted black from soot wept against the still body of an older child just a few feet over from me. This wasn’t the shelter. This was some sort of makeshift hospital, only with no supplies or doctors or even running water to clean the wounds.

“Wait,” I called after Grace. “Do you know what happened to my briefcase? It was small and metal.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’m not certain, but my son, Fred, would know. He was one of the rescuers who brought you in. He’s just over there by the supply table.”

I climbed to my feet, a sharp pain stabbing in my left ribs.

“You shouldn’t get up so soon,” Grace protested. “Nothing is more important than your health.”

She was wrong. If I’d lost that briefcase, I’d lost everything.

I limped toward the teenage boy she had gestured to seconds before. “Excuse me, were you the one who brought me here?”

He tilted his head with a bashful expression that revealed just how young he was. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen. “You were in quite a state.”

“Thank you,” I said. “For everything. But I need to know if you saw a briefcase. It was made from metal. It’s very important.”

I bit my lip and poured every last shred of hope and desperation into my silent prayer. It was impossible enough that I had survived the wreckage. How could I expect the briefcase to do the same?

Fred rubbed his whiskerless chin. “The one with the lock?”

My heart leaped in my chest. “Yes!”

He reached under a long table covered with bandages and other supplies and pulled out the briefcase. “I found it when I carried you out. Seemed too special to leave in the rubble, so I grabbed it. Didn’t realize it was yours.”

I nearly crumpled with relief. It was dented and covered in dust, but it was unopened. “Thank you! Do you know if the trains are still running?”

He straightened his back in a gesture of pride. “Yes, ma’am. London isn’t going to stop running just because of a few bombs.”

Without the survival of the briefcase, I would not have had the will to continue. It was the hope I needed in the face of the devastation that surrounded me when I emerged from the church. The destruction from last night’s attack was even worse in the daylight. Where buildings once stood remained only their crumbled remnants. Gaping holes marred the streets. Buses and trams were overturned. And everywhere smoke billowed in dark spires in the spaces where buildings should have been. Death hung in the air like a fog.

But in spite of it all, the people of London were not broken. They boarded up their broken windows and picked through the rubble with a determination and courage I couldn’t fathom. They had been through absolute hell for weeks, and still their spirit did not die.

I was not the one who could stop any of the Luftwaffe’s destruction, but my father could. I had to make sure the device inside this briefcase didn’t fall into the wrong hands. I clutched it to my chest like a piece of armor as I made my way to the train station.

The chances of James finding me among the chaos were low, but I scanned my surroundings obsessively for signs of him as I walked nonetheless. He was obsessive in his pursuit. If he was alive, he wouldn’t stop looking for me.

If he was still alive.

I knew it was evil to hope he hadn’t survived, but I couldn’t stop the thought from racing through my brain with every step. But as much as I hated him for all the horror he’d wrought, I had only myself to blame for my part in it. I’d been so naive to fall for his charm and believe that we deserved more than everyone else. I’d justified the gifts and extravagances simply because I’d wanted them. I had never thought to question their true cost.

I used the last of the money I had to purchase the train fare, leaving me without so much as a shilling for a sandwich, though my stomach ached with hunger. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. Thankfully, the elderly woman seated next to me on the train took notice of my state and offered me some of her biscuits, which I accepted with gratitude.

“Is Cambridge home for you?” she asked as I bit into the stale biscuit.

Home. For the last eight years, I’d wanted nothing more than to escape Havenworth. Now, I would do anything to be welcomed back into the safety of those stone walls. “It’s where my family’s from.”

She patted my knee. “It’s good of you to visit them. They must be very worried about you all the way in London. Especially at such a tender age. My granddaughter lives in a village just outside Peterborough and has asked me to stay with her. She said it would be a favor to have me around to help with the little ones, but I suspect it’s more about helping me than anything else. I don’t think I could tolerate many more nights like last night. My back can’t handle sleeping on the hard floors of the underground. I do appreciate the pretense, though. It helps an old woman like me feel a little more useful.”

“I’m sure it will be a relief to have you there,” I said.

She nodded. “In times like these, family is what truly matters. All the buildings and houses can be rebuilt. Everything physical can be replaced eventually. It’s only love that’s irreplaceable.”

Tears bit at the corners of my eyes.

Had I done enough to protect my family? Would they understand why I had to do what I did?

“It’s okay,” she said, patting my knee. “Your family will be all right. You’ll see.”

“Would you tell me about your family?”

The stories of her great-grandchildren were a welcome distraction from my thoughts for the rest of the ride. It made me feel like there was still goodness in the world. There was still hope. Even for someone like me.

I had no money left for a taxi when I arrived in Cambridge. My legs ached and protested, but I managed the long walk to Havenworth without collapsing. The journey was made easier knowing each step brought me closer to the end.

Roger was dead. I was finally free to tell my family the truth. I couldn’t feel any anger for what he had put me through. If he hadn’t, I would never have discovered the true depth of James’s treachery.

Twilight had darkened the sky to a hazy indigo by the time I reached the long gravel lane leading to Havenworth. It was so quiet, I could hear the gentle rustle of the foxes and badgers in the fens. I stopped at the front gate and inhaled deeply, taking in the fresh, familiar scents.

Home. This was where I belonged.

There were no lights visible through the windows, but that was to be expected. Lady Montgomery had always insisted on being careful about that. I understood now that it wasn’t silliness or paranoia. She had lived through the worst of humanity once before and knew it was inevitable that we would walk down that dark path once more. But even in the darkness, I knew something was different. I walked up the front steps and banged on the knocker. When no one answered, I jerked on the handle. The door was locked. I knocked again. Surely someone was here. Annie or Albert or any of the half dozen Land Army girls who had been here all summer.

I followed the winding path along the side of the home to try the back entrance at the orangery. That was when I realized what was so wrong.

There were no plants left in the orangery. The room was empty, without so much as a single plant remaining. The doors at the back were locked, too, with no sign of life anywhere.

The truth hit me like a blast from the sky. Everyone was gone. Margaret wasn’t in London solely for a visit with the doctor. She was leaving Havenworth. My stepmother had always been concerned about Havenworth’s proximity to the RAF base. The Blitz must have been the final push for her to leave.

A plan formed in my mind. I could stay here as long as the home remained empty. No one needed to know. There would likely be enough food in the cellar to get me through the first few weeks, at least. Enough time to come up with a better idea.

But there was still a chance James would come looking for me here.

I had to hide the briefcase.

There was only one place where it would be safe. Where no one would look for it, but I could be certain Margaret would find it.

Clutching the briefcase tightly, I followed the familiar path to the parterre. The roses had been ripped out, I realized with a pang of sadness. The Land Army must have used the space for a vegetable garden, but there were no signs of broccoli stalks or lettuce that ought to have sprouted by now. All the beauty and life that once grew here was gone, with nothing to show for it.

I passed through the laburnum walk to the cottage gardens that had become strangled with weeds. Even my beautiful moon garden was in shambles. My eyes strained in the dark as I navigated my way through the wild forest to the abandoned folly. This was the only part of the gardens I didn’t know by heart, and I had no doubt my sister had left behind a series of traps. My steps were slow and careful, but I finally reached the crumbling entrance of the folly.

My breathing turned shallow. I did not want to go inside, especially not in the dark.

You can do this. You must do this.

I dropped down to my knees, setting the briefcase in front of me. The sunken opening was so small and narrow, my shoulders barely fit through, and I had to duck my head to avoid banging it on the rough brick.

I nudged the briefcase with trembling hands, forcing my knees forward. My injured arm screamed in pain from the awkward movement.

Just keep going.

The musty smell of sodden dirt was oppressively thick, sticking to my esophagus. My claustrophobia raged more powerfully with every inch, flooding my brain with images of my mother. Finally, I reached the inside of the folly. The squeezing sensation abated. I could breathe.

It was pitch-black inside the folly—too dark to see the hidden world Margaret and Charlie had created. I set the briefcase against the wall close to the entrance, too afraid to venture farther into the structure in case I lost track of how to escape. The folly terrified me with its crumbling walls and endless darkness.

I took a deep breath to steel myself for the tight crawl out of the folly. Just a few seconds and it would be over. I braced my hands against the dirt. The faintest sound in the distance made me pause. The drone of a plane passing overhead. It was a sound I had become all too familiar with these last few weeks. But there had been no sirens. No alarms.

An RAF plane, most likely.

But the strange whistling that followed sent a chill down my spine. I scrambled for the exit as the sound grew louder, banging my head against bricks. The pain was so fierce, my stomach heaved with the urge to vomit. The whistling grew to a deafening screech.

The bomb was right overhead.

I had to get out of here.

I had to get out of here . . .