The thing could scarcely be held, it’d been so pruned of its contents. Grace lay the fragile paper upon the smooth counter surface to keep it intact and read.
George apologized for his delay in writing to her for a reason she couldn’t read. He hoped she’d enjoyed The Count of Monte Cristo and bemoaned his lack of access to books where he was. He had a copy of something which he’d read time and again, though its name had been cut from the paper. He hoped to eventually be back in London sometime that year and asked if she might still be free for a date.
Her pulse kicked up its heels at the last bit. He hadn’t even bothered to hide the invitation behind a suggestion of being available to help her with advertising the shop.
A date.
Grace had been on a few when she lived in Drayton, all of which had not ended well. Tom Fisher had been a terrible bore, Simon Jones had pushed too hard to kiss her and Harry Hull was just trying to get to Viv.
And not a one of them had made her heart skip like George Anderson.
She floated through the rest of the day on thoughts of that shredded letter. The smile was still hovering on her lips when she entered the townhouse and found Mrs. Weatherford in the parlor amid bandages in various states of being rolled and packaged.
“They’re coming back home,” she said excitedly from where she sat on the floor before a box of bundled bandages.
Grace lifted a strip of linen and began to roll, the way she’d done with countless others at the WVS meetings. “Who is coming home?”
“Our men.” Mrs. Weatherford beamed so brightly, even Mr. Stokes wouldn’t have been able to dim her brilliance. “The BEF is returning home from France, and we at the WVS have been informed to prepare for their arrival. We’re to offer aid where we can and present refreshment and comfort.” She huffed as though trying to catch her breath. “Grace, Colin will be coming home.”
If the British Expeditionary Force was returning from France already, that could mean only one of two things: either France was victorious in ousting the Germans, or France had fallen and the British were fleeing. From the official reports Grace had heard, as well as the unofficial rumors, she was more inclined to believe the latter.
She hid her distress at the news, for an uncomfortable gnawing in her gut told her the BEF’s return was not a good sign. If their men were coming back to English soil, it was because they were retreating from the enemy, and that Hitler was winning.
But what would that mean for Britain?
ELEVEN
The confirmation of Grace’s suspicion was as swift as it was bitter. But it didn’t come from the BBC or any newspaper. It came from the saddest source of all: Mrs. Weatherford.
The blackout curtains were closed before the older woman finally arrived home the first night of her assistance with the WVS for the men returning from Dunkirk. Grace wished that she might have joined the ladies of the WVS, at least this once in their aid of the returning soldiers, but only those who were members were allowed to help the men. Instead, she waited in the parlor with Pigeon Pie cradled in her lap. If nothing else, her purchase was one more sale out of their unmoving stock. The story held humor to be sure, if one took into consideration it was written prior to Hitler’s attack on France.
Never had there been a book with such poor timing.
The click of the front door alerted Grace to Mrs. Weatherford’s return. She all but leapt out of the Morris chair and ran to the foyer.
Mrs. Weatherford’s gaze was stuck in the distance, her hands feeling for the doorframe, which she leaned heavily upon as she stepped out of her short heels.
“Mrs. Weatherford?” Grace reached for the older woman.
To her surprise, Mrs. Weatherford did not protest when Grace’s hand closed around her soft forearm. In fact, she offered no reaction whatsoever.
“Mrs. Weatherford?” Grace said again, this time slightly louder. “How was it?”
But even as she asked the question, the tension squeezing at Grace’s chest told her she wouldn’t want to hear the answer.
“Hmm?” Mrs. Weatherford’s brows lifted with great exaggeration.
“Did you see the men?” Grace asked, unable to stop herself. “Of the BEF?”
Mrs. Weatherford nodded slowly. “I did.” She drew in a deep breath and lifted her head, her vision going distant once more. “It was…it was…it…” She swallowed hard. “It was awful. Those men looked near death.” Her voice quavered. “Their eyes were filled with horror, and all of them were so tired they were falling asleep as they chewed the boiled eggs and apples we brought for them. I’ve never in all my life seen such defeat.”