The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 7

Irene

The guests had all left by the time I coaxed Margaret back to the house. I tried not to let any feelings of disappointment take hold of me. James was a stranger, after all. An RAF officer I’d likely never see again. But how could I not feel dismay? In just a short conversation, he had recognized and appreciated my artistic talent in a way no one ever had since I’d arrived in this country. And he was beautiful. And now he’d gone without a proper goodbye.

Father and Lady Montgomery were pacing the main floor hallway when Margaret and I returned. My stepmother cried in relief and pulled Margaret into an embrace.

“Where on earth were you?” Father asked wearily, another crack in his stoic armor forming.

“I found her in the garden folly,” I said, knowing his concern was entirely for my sister.

Father nodded, the closest I would come to an actual thank-you.

“Oh, Margaret, you know you aren’t allowed to play there,” Lady Montgomery said, running her hand along Margaret’s tangled hair.

“I wasn’t—” Margaret began to say before her voice cracked. She coughed—quietly at first, but it quickly devolved into a fit. Father and Lady Montgomery looked at each other with concern.

“Shh, darling,” Lady Montgomery said. “We should get you to bed.”

Her coughing didn’t ease until she was tucked into my bed and I had rubbed her back until she finally fell asleep. I ought to have joined her but too many thoughts raced through my mind to allow for any true rest. Would my father have worried for me if I were the one ailing? I couldn’t remember him ever showing such concern for me when I was younger. Not even before we moved here. It was my mother who tended to my wounds and comforted me when nightmares came. Father was always too consumed by his work.

I sat at my vanity and ran my brush through my hair. My mother had taught me to brush out my hair every night before I slept, no matter how tired I was. Perhaps it was silly, especially on a night like this, but it was another way I kept her memory with me.

A gentle tap sounded at my door, so subtle I might not have realized there was someone on the other side if they hadn’t knocked again.

“Come in,” I said softly, not wanting to wake Margaret.

My father entered, grimacing. “Irene, I know we’re all exhausted, but we need to talk.”

“It’s late.”

“And yet you’re still awake.”

With a heavy sigh, I rose to my feet and met him in the hallway, where we wouldn’t disturb Margaret. “What did you want to speak about?”

My father glanced over my shoulder, still staring into my room. He was not an imposing figure—of average height, with a lean build and a face so plain and nondescript that it was easy to overlook him in a crowd. But those of us who knew him well understood the sharp intellect behind his deep-set, watchful dark eyes; they missed nothing. “You’ve changed your room again.”

“I decided the vanity would look better next to the window. But I doubt you’re here to discuss my design choices.”

He shook his head. “It’s your careless comments this evening that concern me.”

“Why do you assume anything I do is careless?”

“Because it’s far more frightening to assume you understand the implications of your ignorance.”

Embarrassment heated my cheeks. Maybe I didn’t understand much about the war, but I knew it had aged Father well beyond his forty-six years and forced Charlie to leave his family. It was the reason my sister was afraid all the time.

“The soul and freedom of this nation are in jeopardy, not just from Hitler but from those inside Britain who espouse fascism. We do not have the luxury of pretending the danger isn’t real. Each one of us needs to decide whether our freedom is worth fighting for. Once this war reaches our doorstep, it will be far too late for regret.”

It was a speech he’d recited before, but this time it was different. This time he said it as though I were the danger. The enemy.

Margaret was a bundle of energy when she woke the next morning. After stretching her limbs like a cat, she bounded out of bed with the declaration that she would be spending the day searching for butterflies among the milkweed. The only signs of something off were the rasp in her voice and the slight cough that grew more apparent as the day wore on. Otherwise, she was her typical stubborn self who refused to acknowledge the fear she’d shown last night.

For my part, I woke with a wretched headache and a heavy weight on my shoulders. Father’s lecture had kept me awake all night, doubting myself. Had I been selfish for expressing my opinions? He had never chastised me for speaking my mind before. If anything, it was the one thing he had always encouraged. Just not about the war.

I didn’t enjoy the feeling of being in the wrong.

It was approaching midday by the time I finally dragged myself downstairs. Late enough that I wouldn’t have to face my father yet, but still early enough that there might be breakfast waiting for me.

Annie was in the dining room when I entered, clearing the dishes from the table.

“I hope it’s not too late for breakfast,” I said, glancing at the empty table, where the food had been cleared away.

She offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Ruth has already repurposed the leftovers for today’s lunch. Bacon and vegetable soup. She’s in a good mood today on account of her new grandbaby. Perhaps she’d give you some toast if you asked nicely.”

“Thank you, I’ll try,” I said, managing a small smile. Ruth, our cook, was economical by nature, but since the rationing began, she had made it her mission to waste not a single crumb.

I turned to leave, but Annie called out once more. “Oh, wait! I forgot to tell you that a letter came for you this morning.”

“A letter? From whom?” I immediately thought of the acceptance letter from Goldings. Had they written to rescind their offer? Not that it mattered, since Father had no intention of ever letting me attend.

A wry smile bloomed on Annie’s lips. “It’s from Officer James Atherton.”

My heart soared like a bird taking flight. “May I have it? Please?”

She slipped it out of the pocket of her skirt and handed it to me. “I figured you might not want your father to know about this.”

“Thank you,” I breathed out, tearing the envelope open.

The note was written on monogrammed stationery with elegant cursive.

Dearest Irene,

I have not stopped thinking about our conversation last night in the garden.

If you are willing to see me again, I have some leave next Friday. I humbly ask if I may take you to lunch.

Signed,

James Atherton