Chapter 29

As far as Mab knew, princes married princesses, not Canadian commoners—therefore, Philip of Greece had no business making Osla fall head over heels, and Mab wasn’t prepared to warm to him. Still, she had to admit he was a looker as he picked the three of them up from Euston station in his rakish little Vauxhall, fair hair rumpled. “Hullo, princess, ” he greeted Osla, and his grin made even Mab’s impervious pulse flutter. “I hear you and your damsels are in need of rescuing. ”

“No daffing about, Philip, we barely escaped with our lives. ” Osla leaned over the Vauxhall’s door to kiss him, and though it was a brief kiss, the heat of it made Mab wonder if that midnight talk about the facts of life had come just in time. “Philip, meet Mab Churt and Beth Finch, ” Osla continued. “The three of us are temporarily homeless and absolutely knackered. ”

Philip hopped out and shook hands. Mab did her best to look like she met princes every day, and Beth spoke for the first time since leaving Bletchley on the train they’d caught by the tips of their fingers. “Do you have anything to drink? ”

“Fizz, coming right up. ” Philip’s eyes gleamed as he threw their bags in the boot. “So, why the SOS so late at night? I sense a story. ”

Osla shrugged. “Beth’s mother flipped her wicket—”

“Bitch, ” Mab couldn’t help muttering. “I’m sorry, Beth, but she is. ”

“She is, ” Beth agreed. She looked pale and wrung out, climbing in the backseat with Boots, but Mab thought something inside Beth had unwound somehow. It had left her shaky but defiant, shoulders squared as never before. Hurrah, Beth, Mab thought with a rush of pride as the Vauxhall shot off into the night. Wherever the BP billeting officer bunked them next, it simply couldn’t be worse than Mrs. Finch. No more nosy questions, no more leathery Woolton pie. . .

“Claridge’s, darling, ” Osla was saying to Philip. “My mother’s at Kelburn Castle on a house party, so her suite’s empty. . . ”

The hall porter at Claridge’s greeted Osla like a long-lost niece, and Mab and Beth like royalty. “A gentleman waiting inside for you, Miss Churt. A Mr. Gray—”

Mab flew inside. The art deco hotel court with its glittering chandelier and black and white tiles was thronged with women in satin and men in uniform, champagne corks popping as everyone celebrated the Americans’ entering the war. To Mab, that already felt like it had happened a year ago. She craned her head, and there was Francis, standing hands in his pockets, watching the party with that air of distant enjoyment she knew so well. He looked less tanned—evidently he hadn’t seen much sun, these last two months in America—but the smile was the same.

“Francis, ” she called, and there was a moment’s awkwardness as they both hovered, visibly wondering whether to embrace or shake hands. They hadn’t worked any of that out yet—they hadn’t worked anything out, really, though they’d been engaged since September. Finally Mab stepped forward and kissed his cheek. He smelled like sandalwood and his hair looked so soft she wanted to run her hands through it, but she didn’t quite dare. “I didn’t think you’d be able to meet me on such short notice. ” Mab had managed to ring him from Bletchley station, but what a way to reunite after nearly three months.

“You look well. ” His eyes went over her, that look that made her feel naked. “Your family, they’re well too? ”

“Yes, Lucy’s back in London with Mum now that the bombings have tailed off. ” Francis had met them both, two days before he left for America—Mab’s mother had been flustered by the posh tearoom and Lucy had been wary, not at all convinced that this stranger wasn’t going to take Mab even more away than she already was. . . but Francis had been friendly, unflappable, and he hadn’t raised even the hint of an eyebrow at Mab’s post-tearoom suggestion that Lucy might live with them. With that, Mab had exhaled her last bit of caution. It was all going to be just fine.

Another silence fell.

“I wish we’d been able to write more. ” Mab tried not to sound accusatory. Overseas post was spotty, and telephone calls cost a fortune—Francis had sent a telegram when he’d arrived in Washington, but there had only been postcards afterward. It had been difficult not to wonder if he was regretting his offer. If he’d come back wondering what he’d been thinking when he folded that big ruby into her hand. . . “I can’t believe it’s been nearly three months! ” she said brightly.

“Two months, one week, and four days, ” he said, and the knot of anxiety in Mab’s stomach eased. If a man was counting the days, it wasn’t because he was looking to take his ring back.

“How was Washington? ”

“Not much I can tell you, I’m afraid. Busy. Cold. Too many Americans. Your work? ”

“Not much I can tell you, I’m afraid. Busy. Hot. Too many machines. ”

Another exchange of smiles, a visible sense of wondering if they should join hands or kiss again, or. . . Surely we’ll learn to talk to each other, Mab thought, once we’re married. Once they could do their not talking in a bed. Mab wished they could get on with that side of things now—his tie was rumpled, and something in her was rising, wanting to yank it off. . .

Give away nothing for free, the steely voice in the back of her mind said. The voice that had held her upright when Geoffrey Irving and his friends left her on the side of the street. Give away nothing for free. Even at the eleventh hour.

By this time the others had squirmed through the celebratory crowd. Introductions were made, Osla embellished the story of their departure—“Beth was an absolute brick! ”—and Philip went off to order Bollinger and came back with brimming coupes. Beth slugged hers with surprising speed.

“Steady on—” he said as she swallowed the second glass before he’d half refilled it.

“I just told my mother she was a Sunday school bully, ” Beth said.

“Drink up. ” He refilled her glass before turning to Francis. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Gray. When’s the happy day? ”

Francis looked at Mab, one of those quiet glances with something burning behind it. “I’m leaving London again day after tomorrow, ” he said. “No time to arrange a proper wedding and honeymoon until I get back. Three more weeks—”

“Or there’s the registry office, ” Mab heard herself saying. “What about tomorrow? ”

“MR. GIBBS, ” OSLA SAID, descending on the hall porter with a ravishing smile. “My friend is getting married tomorrow, and she is going to need a slap-up wedding party. Can you help me? ”

“Yes, Miss Kendall, ” he replied, not batting an eyelash.

“Good. Bollinger, enough to get all London kippered, and the best wedding breakfast rationing will allow. How many eggs can you get your hands on? Foie gras? What about beluga? Put it on my mother’s bill. I’m also going to need the room number of every guest currently staying in this hotel with a daughter aged. . . ” Osla looked back at Mab. “How old is Lucy? ”

“Nearly six. ” Mab choked, helpless with laughter.

“Between the ages of five and seven, ” Osla finished to Gibbs. “Please send notes to all their parents, and beg emergency morning loan of their daughter’s best frock. I will be by at nine sharp tomorrow morning to inspect the selection. ”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Don’t let me down, Mr. Gibbs. ” Osla pressed a wad of bills into his hand and turned, hands on hips, a general surveying the troops. “Francis, I’m sending you home so your bride can get her beauty sleep. Come back at eleven tomorrow, in your best suit, with rings and whatever bits of paper one needs for a marriage license. Philip, if you can collect Mab’s mother and sister tomorrow morning at nine, and deliver them to Cyclax round the corner, where we’ll get our faces done. Your mother’s address, Mab? ”

Mab, giggling, gave it. Mum is going to faint, being chauffeured to my wedding by a prince!

“Right, ” Philip grinned, clearly thinking it the best lark in the world to use up his precious petrol coupons in a mad dash across London for a Shoreditch mother of the bride. Mab’s urge to distrust him melted. “Come on, old man. ” The prince clapped Francis on the shoulder. “I’ll drop you home tonight. I might know a chap who can grease the wheels at the registry office. . . ”

“Excellent. We convene here at eleven tomorrow, and you slackards will not be late! Say goodbye to your fiancé, Mab, you and I have a closet to raid. ” Grabbing the bottle of Bollinger and three glasses, Osla headed for the stairs. Beth followed with Boots, and after a hasty kiss to Francis, Mab floated along behind, still laughing. “My mother’s suite, ” Osla said, waving them into the opulent set of rooms, with its massive bed, the bathroom with its huge tub and shining mirrors. “You can borrow it for your wedding, you and Francis—Mr. Gibbs can find Beth and me another bunk. ”

“All right, ” Mab said immediately. She’d been prepared for a wedding night in Francis’s bachelor digs before he left London and she departed for Bletchley, but my God, did she want a night of luxury if it was on offer. Not just because she’d never stayed in a sumptuous hotel, but because surely it would be easier to get to know a brand-new, all-but-silent husband when you were surrounded by satin sheets and champagne in ice buckets. . . Mab swigged from her coupe, feeling the first surge of wedding nerves. She was a bride. She was getting married tomorrow. To a man she’d only met six times. . .

“Beth, keep the fizz topped. ” Osla yanked open her mother’s wardrobe and began flinging dresses around. “Now: a scrummy frock that will pass as a wedding gown. . . ”

“Your mother’s going to know if I raid her rack of Hartnells! ” Mab yelped.

“She’ll never miss one, and you are not getting married in your blue curtain liner, Scarlett O’Hara. ” Osla held up a dress: long sleeved, tight waisted, cream satin pleats cascading from the waist in devastating knife-edge folds. “This one. ”

Mab coveted that dress more than air. “I can’t. . . ”

Osla paid absolutely no attention, bless her. “It won’t hit the ground on you, since Mamma’s much shorter, so we’ll hem it to the knee. Knee-length is better for a day wedding, anyway. Now, for Beth. . . we’ll be your bridesmaids, of course. This smoke-blue chiffon would look scrumptious with some sashing. . . ”

“This has been a very strange night, ” Beth said, sitting on the bed drinking straight from the champagne bottle. She looked tipsy and tired, but a smile hovered at the corners of her lips. “A very strange night, ” she repeated, looking at Boots ensconced on the nearest down pillow, snoring.

Osla raised her glass, beautiful alabaster face flushed pink. “To Mrs. Gray. ”

“And to you, Os. ” Mab lifted her own glass. “And Beth—” She wanted to say something about what they meant, the two of them. How she’d never in her life had such friends. But she didn’t have the words to explain how much she felt, so she just raised her champagne, throat choked. “To Bletchley Park. ”

Ten Days Until the Royal Wedding

November 10, 1947

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