The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 9

Irene

James didn’t have leave again for another four weeks. In the absence of physical connection, writing letters became our way of keeping in touch. He wrote to me of his daily life on base, never providing more than the vaguest details of his activities, lest the censors take issue and confiscate his letters altogether. But I could read beyond his words, scrubbed free from any true substance or insight, that he was worried about something. He’d hinted that the missions were increasing in frequency and, subsequently, danger.

There was no such excitement on my part to convey. My days blended together like clouds drifting in all directions. The only thing of significance was Margaret’s worsening health. Her cough grew fiercer with each passing night, and though I tried to hide my worry, knowing it would only upset her, I couldn’t help but fret. It was as though her once-vivacious spark had burned out. The doctor had given her a course of sulfonamide, which Lady Montgomery assured us would cure my sister soon enough, but so far it wasn’t working. Of course, this was not the kind of news I wanted to share with James.

The written word was never my strength, and I’d never had anyone to correspond with before. So I sent James drawings along with my meager updates. Astrantia for courage. Eucalyptus for protection. Camellia for longing and desire—not that I was so bold as to reveal those meanings. But James had no hesitation expressing his affection.

My dearest Irene,

I have done little but dream of you since we last met. You are the light that guides me when the nights are dark and grey . . .

I kept each letter hidden inside my sketchbook, tucked beneath my mattress so I would have him close to me every night. I had never felt so strongly about anyone before. James and I were meant to be together—even the war wouldn’t keep us apart forever.

On one particularly sunny morning, I made my way outside before breakfast, wanting to check on the newly planted rose I’d grown from a cutting of our established Baronne Prévost to make sure it wasn’t drying out. Paul took great care of the gardens, but he had been without help this season since his sons had all enlisted. I filled a metal watering can from the outdoor spigot and carried it to the parterre, where I watered the thirsty young shrub. Almost immediately, the leaves seemed to uncurl and the pink blooms smiled up at me.

I sat down on the dry grass and pulled out the coloring pencils James had given me. The rich colors filled me with excitement as my hand swept over the page of my sketchbook. I lost myself in fantasies of James. The memory of his lips against mine had taken hold, consuming my thoughts and shocking me with its intensity. I imagined what it would be like to kiss him again—a real kiss this time instead of the brief peck I’d given him. What would it feel like to run my fingers through his hair while his mouth trailed along my skin?

“Why are you so happy?” Margaret asked me, casting a shadow over my sketchbook.

I set my pencil down and looked up at her. “Who says I’m happy?”

“You’ve been humming to yourself all week. It’s quite annoying.”

I laughed.

She threw her hands up in the air. “See? Even when I say things like that, you don’t get mad at me like you usually do. You’re happy.” She spit the last word out like an accusation.

I tried my best to keep my expression serious, but it was impossible when she was so exasperated. “What’s wrong with being happy? Would you rather I moped about the house like a wounded dog?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she said sullenly.

“Margaret,” I said slowly. “What are you talking about?”

“I overheard Mummy saying you want to go to school in America. That’s why you’re so happy, isn’t it? Because you’re going to leave.”

I sighed and opened my arms wide. She wasted no time burrowing into them. “I’m not going anywhere. Father won’t let me.”

The tension eased from her tiny shoulders.

“Good. I would miss you terribly.”

I stroked her wild curls. “I would miss you, too.” She’d grown thinner over the few weeks from her illness. The knobs of her spine poked through the fabric of her dress as I ran my hand along her back.

“I never want you to leave.”

“One day I’m going to have to grow up and experience life for myself. When you’re older you’ll understand that, too. But I won’t leave without telling you.”

“Promise?”

“Of course I promise.”

She gave a gratified smile. “Good. Who else will play cat and mouse with us?”

“I can’t right now. I need to finish this drawing.” An involuntary smile tugged at my lips. Margaret’s eyes narrowed, but I didn’t offer an explanation.

I picked up my pencil once more, admiring the vibrancy of the hue. The colors blended so seamlessly I’d almost forgotten how much of a difference it made.

“Can I draw with you?” Margaret asked. She sank onto the picnic blanket next to me and reached for my case.

“No!” I batted her hand away before I could think better of it. She recoiled, clutching her hand to her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. It’s just . . . these coloring pencils are special. I’ll get you my old ones to use.”

I pulled the other tin from my bag, but Margaret wouldn’t take them, her interest still fixed on the long, unbroken coloring pencils in my possession. “How did you get new ones? Daddy said we weren’t allowed to ask for presents until our birthdays.”

“Father didn’t give them to me. A friend did.”

“But you don’t have any friends.”

“That’s not true. I have you. And now I have James.” I tried not to grin ridiculously when I spoke his name, but my cheeks seemed to have a mind of their own.

“Who’s James?”

“Michael’s friend from dinner last month. Do you remember him? He’s a pilot with the RAF.”

She crossed her arms and stuck her chin out. “I don’t remember him. He sounds boring.”

I laughed. “Maybe to someone who spends her days inventing fairy tales and adventures like you, but I found him quite charming and refined.”

She feigned retching, which made me laugh only more. “Why would anyone care about being charming? I want to be as wild as I can be.”

“One day when you’re all grown up, you will understand why these things matter, I promise you.”

“Never!”

Whether she meant she would never understand or simply never grow up, I wasn’t sure. But Lady Montgomery descended into the back gardens in a flurry of energy, calling for me.

“Irene! There you are,” she said in a rush of breath. “The local orphanage is seeking donations of clothing due to the shortages in fabric. I was wondering if we could give them your old dresses?”

“All my dresses still fit me.” Long before the war, Lady Montgomery had been in the habit of having us all donate anything that no longer fit to charitable causes.

“Yes, but with the changing fashions, it would be uncouth to wear such large, voluminous skirts. Think of all that wasted material that could be repurposed into two or even three new dresses for the children.”

“Just because it doesn’t follow government-regulated hemlines doesn’t mean it’s not fashionable. Besides, I like my clothing and I don’t want to give any of it away.”

“Would you at least consider it? I know it’s difficult to do without, but we all have to do our part. We’re donating all the old frocks Margaret’s grown out of and a handful of my own as well.”

I sighed, knowing I was being recalcitrant simply because it was my stepmother making the request. “Fine. I’ll have a look in my wardrobe and see if there is anything I can spare.”

I began to gather up my things, not wanting her to notice my new pencils. But of course my stepmother was always too observant of my every move, waiting for an excuse to criticize me. She picked up the pencil tin before I could hide it from her sight. “Where did you get these?”

I snatched the tin back. “It’s none of your business.”

“James gave them to her,” Margaret said tauntingly. “He’s her new friend.”

“Shush,” I scolded.

“Margaret, go find Charlie and tell him it’s time to wash up for lunch,” Lady Montgomery said.

“But—”

“Listen to your mother,” I said in a rare moment of agreement with my stepmother.

Margaret threw her arms out in a huff and flounced off toward the house. Lady Montgomery and I waited in stony silence until Margaret was out of earshot.

Finally, when my half sister disappeared into Havenworth, Lady Montgomery turned her gaze back to the tin I gripped in my hands like a rosary. “Anyone who gives you German contraband is not a friend.”

I rolled my eyes. “These are coloring pencils, not weapons.”

“That’s not the point. If your father were to find out—”

“No, please,” I pleaded. “Don’t tell him. He’ll only make me throw them away, and what good will that do? The pencils already exist. It’s wasteful to destroy something perfectly functional when there is so much scarcity.”

She crossed her arms, pressing her lips so tightly together they nearly disappeared. I’d made a reasonable point, but she wasn’t convinced.

“I’ll give you my gray dress,” I said quickly. “For the orphanage.”

I loved the frock and its elegant wool fabric, but it was too warm for the summertime and surely this war would be over by the winter and I would be able to replace it soon enough.

“That’s very generous of you. You can keep the coloring pencils, but please be smart about who you are associating with. Not everyone has your best interests at heart.”

“Not everyone is evil either.”

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I care about you, Irene. I wish you could see that.”

I wish you could show it, I thought unmercifully. “It’s just a set of coloring pencils.”

She sighed, all her disappointment in me gusting out like a windstorm.

The rumble of a motorcar’s engine interrupted whatever chastisement was about to come. It was an unusual sound these days, with petrol rationing severely limiting travel. I followed Lady Montgomery to the front of Havenworth to see who the visitor was. The black vehicle was unfamiliar to me, moving quickly and spitting gravel as it pulled up the driveway before grinding to an abrupt halt.

Father stepped out of the passenger side. I knew instantly from the look on his face that something was terribly wrong.

“John? What are you doing home?” Lady Montgomery asked, rushing to him.

My father took her hands in his, those solemn eyes even more grave. “It’s your nephew. Michael.”

My stepmother’s anguished cry cut through my chest, filling me with dread.

“His plane was shot down over the English Channel.”

“Is . . . there a chance he’s alive?” Lady Montgomery asked.

I knew before Father shook his head that any hope was misplaced. No one could survive the crashing waves and bitter cold of the wild seas.

A searing pain gripped my stomach, sharp and unfamiliar. The war that had seemed so far away, so abstract, had suddenly become all too real.

The next morning we drove to Edward and Gwen Howell’s house, Father driving with Lady Montgomery in the passenger seat next to him, and Margaret, Charlie, and me mashed together in the back. It was strange being inside a car again after ten months of petrol rationing. It should have felt like a brief return to normalcy, but there was nothing joyful about this. The car was stifling hot, and my stepmother’s shoulders heaved from her quiet sobs.

I felt awful for the pain she was in. I knew too well what it was like to lose someone. It was a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Michael and I weren’t close, but he didn’t deserve to die. And what was it all for? A war that Britain had no business taking part in.

Margaret rested her head on my shoulder as we drove, more stoic than I’d ever seen her. Charlie, too, silently hid his emotions, but I could sense the fear in his eyes. He was too young to understand any of this.

Edward and Gwen lived in a gated redbrick home on a posh, quiet street not far from the university. It wasn’t anywhere near as large or stately as Havenworth, but few homes were. Still, my stepmother’s cousin was a wealthy woman—not that wealth meant anything when it came to keeping one’s family safe in these times.

I linked my fingers with Margaret’s and Charlie’s as we walked up the path to the front door, giving them each gentle, reassuring squeezes.

Edward, Gwen, Deborah, and Pamela were all seated in the parlor when we arrived, their heads bowed, too upset to greet us properly. The lights were dimmed, casting a somber tone over the room.

Lady Montgomery sat next to her cousin, putting an arm around her. “I’m so sorry, Gwennie. Michael was such a special boy.”

“Is,” Gwen corrected fiercely, refusing to look up from her tightly interlaced fingers at her lap. “He is a special boy. He is resourceful and strong, and he will come home to us soon.”

Lady Montgomery and my father exchanged a glance.

“Stop it, Mother. Of course he’s dead,” Deborah spit out. “He was gunned down by a Messerschmitt over the North Sea. No one can survive that. We owe it to him to begin planning a funeral.”

“There is no way for anyone to know for sure,” Father said diplomatically. “But the RAF would not deliver a condolence telegram if they weren’t fairly certain.”

“You expect me to trust the RAF?” Edward countered. “They’ve been incompetent from the moment this war began. We’ve been sending those boys out to slaughter without any real form of protection. How many need to die before you finally share your bloody inventions with the rest of the committee?”

“Edward!” Gwen said, aghast. Deborah and Pamela began to cry loudly.

I pressed my hand to my mouth, shocked by Edward’s accusation. I knew he and Father had been at odds, but Father was an honorable man who would never withhold his work without reason.

“It’s true. For months, John’s refused to share any of his work with the rest of the committee.”

“Someone’s been passing confidential information to Churchill before they’re ready for the public,” Father said, an accusatory note in his otherwise calm voice. “Our work is too important to risk any more leaks.”

Edward’s face turned a shade of puce. “You think I’m the one leaking information?”

The shouting and arguing were too much to bear. “Please stop fighting. It’s not what Michael would have wanted.”

“How do you know what Michael would have wanted?” Deborah said, her glare sharp enough to feel like a slap. “What are you even doing here? You’re not part of this family.”

My throat went dry. I knew I wasn’t wanted here, but hearing it so plainly stung. I managed a polite smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take a walk.” Keeping my composure, I reached for Charlie’s and Margaret’s hands, guiding them gently away. Whatever pain was being laid bare in that room didn’t need young hearts to bear witness.

The bright, warm sun instantly calmed me as we stepped outside. I let out a deep exhalation. The children, however, seemed distressed, refusing to let go of my hands.

“Go on,” I said to Margaret, gesturing to a spindly birch tree in the yard. “I won’t be upset if you want to climb it.”

She shook her head, too upset to consider her normal adventures.

I glanced around the garden for something that would lift their spirits. “Look over there. There’s a tiny snail trying to crawl up the railing.” I pointed to the iron railing where the little creature had fastened itself.

Charlie was the first to perk up. Margaret did, too, when the boy jogged over to inspect it.

I watched them play for the next half hour, giving my father and Lady Montgomery time inside. The iron gate creaked behind me, and I turned to see who it was.

My heart stuttered when I saw the navy uniform and dark, wavy hair. “James!”

I ran to him and threw myself into his arms, oblivious to whatever the children might think. He squeezed me tight against his chest. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” I said, tilting my head to look at him. “But what are you doing here?”

“The RAF granted me an afternoon’s leave to pay my respects to Michael’s family.”

“I’m so sorry. This must be incredibly difficult for you.”

He swallowed hard, emotions seeming to battle beneath his calm surface.

“I should warn you, they’re quite distraught. Edward even lost his temper and lashed out at Father. He practically accused him of being responsible for Michael’s death.”

“Edward has every right to be angry. Our pilots are sitting ducks up in the skies as soon as night falls, unable to see the enemy planes until it’s too late.” He shook his head in frustration. “But why would he blame your father?”

“My father is working on something—a device that could turn the tide of the war. But for now he’s keeping it under lock and key.”

James’s brow furrowed. “He must have his reasons. Still, it’s hard not to wonder. Is it something that could save lives? Ease the burden for the men risking everything up there?”

I hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze, but I couldn’t answer. “I . . . I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“I understand, truly. But I can’t help wondering how much more we might be able to do if there’s something out there that could help. Just knowing someone’s working on it would mean so much.”

I twisted my hands together, squeezing until my knuckles turned white. I couldn’t say anything about Father’s work. I wasn’t supposed to know anything. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

His expression softened into something that looked like disappointment mingled with sadness. “I didn’t mean to pressure you, Irene. I just . . . it’s difficult sometimes, being out there and feeling so powerless.” He sighed, turning slightly away. “Forget I asked. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“Wait,” I blurted, catching his arm. “It’s called a cavity magnetron.”

He stopped, his curiosity clearly piqued. “A cavity magnetron? What’s that?”

“I don’t know what it is exactly. It’s supposed to allow the planes to have their own radar while flying.”

“That’s remarkable,” he said, his voice laced with admiration. “Is that even possible?”

“If my father says it is, I wouldn’t doubt it. You won’t tell anyone about it, will you?”

He cupped my cheek. “Of course not. I promise this will stay only between you and me.”

I smiled, grateful I had found the one person I could trust in a world that felt increasingly uncertain.