“Nothing, Gertie. You’re trying your best. Perhaps you’re trying a little too hard. It will take a while for you to get used to having another person in the house, and it’s difficult for Hedy too.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I need to give it time, but you know how impatient I am.”
“Are you, Gertie Bingham?” teased Charles. “I had no idea.”
Gertie laughed. “That’s enough about me. How are you?”
“Busy. I’m going back to Germany next week to help bring over another trainload of children.”
“You’re a good man, Charles Ashford.”
“And you’re a good woman, Gertie Bingham. Give it time with Hedy. You’re still getting to know each other. It’s been a while since you’ve had to share your living quarters with anyone. You’ll be firm friends in no time.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Trust me. I know you.”
Gertie sensed he was right about that part at least. She had always felt as if Charles Ashford knew her better than she knew herself. It was as if he could see into people’s souls. Her brother, Jack, had summed it up perfectly when Gertie introduced them amid the opulent luxury of the Savoy’s River Restaurant many moons ago.
“It’s strange, but I feel as if I already know you,” he said as they shook hands. “Or rather, you already know me.”
They had been there to celebrate Gertie’s twenty-fourth birthday. Her parents had been out of town at the funeral of a distant relative, so Jack had been sent to chaperone Gertie. She had swallowed down her irritation and persuaded her father to let her invite Charles to make up a four with Harry.
The evening hadn’t been the rip-roaring success that Gertie hoped. Encouraged by her mother, she had worn an uncharacteristically showy cream silk gown decorated with cascading lilac wisteria and sage-green foliage. She had felt like an empress as they swept in through the entrance of the Savoy and then immediately peeved when Harry didn’t tell her that she looked like one. He was too busy tugging at the collar of the evening suit he’d borrowed from Charles’s brother with obvious discomfort and proclaiming astonishment at how expensive everything was.
At the end of the evening, when Harry went to fetch their coats and Jack predictably disappeared to the American Bar after spotting an old chum, Charles turned to ask if she’d enjoyed her evening. Gertie had looked into his engaging blue eyes and bared her soul: the fact that she was still very young, that Harry seemed so uncomfortable in this world, and her worry that life was moving a little too fast toward the inevitability of marriage. She was almost breathless when she finished. Charles had smiled with careful kindness as he spoke.
“My dear Gertie, I can’t tell you what you should do, but I do know this.”
Gertie straightened her shoulders, ready to listen.
“Firstly, and I confess I’m a little envious of this fact, I can’t remember ever meeting a couple who fit so perfectly together. And secondly, I can honestly say, hand on heart, that there is no kinder, truer, finer man anywhere than Harry Bingham.”
“Gosh, that was a hairy moment. I thought they’d lost your shawl, Gertie,” said Harry, returning from the cloakroom.
As their eyes met, Gertie realized two things: she would never find a man who loved her as much as he, and Charles Ashford would always tell her the truth.
“I do trust you, Charles,” she told him now on the phone. “And I’ll do my best to be patient.”
“You’ll be marvelous, Gertie. You always are.”
Later that afternoon, Gertie went into Hedy’s room to dust. She was impressed by the way her guest had made her bed with neatly folded corners, pillows plumped, and the eiderdown smoothed. It was clear that Else Fischer had taught her daughter well. Gertie was also pleased to see the upside-down copy of Pride and Prejudice by her bedside, although she couldn’t resist marking Hedy’s place with a ribbon from the dressing table before closing it again. Gertie’s vision of hell was a shelf-lined room full of books with cracked spines.
She was working her way around the cornices with her feather duster when she spotted the photograph. As the man staring back at her had the same clear gaze as Hedy, Gertie guessed it had to be her father in his youth. She noticed his thick mustache, strong jaw, and chin tilted forward in a confident pose but also spied a glittering kindness behind his eyes. What disturbed her, however, was the fact that he was wearing an army uniform. A German army uniform.
Gertie sank onto the bed, photograph in hand. She may be a naïve fool, but it had never occurred to her that Hedy’s father would have been a soldier in the Great War. That he may well have fought and killed English soldiers. English soldiers like her brother, Jack. Gertie stared into his eyes. He didn’t look like a murderer. If it weren’t for the Pickelhaube helmet and bayonet by his side, he looked like the kind of man who would offer you a seat on a train or help you with your luggage. An ordinary man. A husband. A father. History liked to cast people as heroes or villains, but Gertie knew from experience that life was less definite. It tossed humans from event to event like pebbles in the sea. All you could do was deal with the world that surrounded you. To fight or flee, to protect the ones you loved and try to survive. It was all anyone could do. She ran her duster over the outer edges of the frame, replaced it on the nightstand, and crept from the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
When Hedy returned later that afternoon, it was Sam who escorted her to the door. Gertie spied the car pulling up outside the house and rose to her feet, nearly tripping over Hemingway, who was in a great hurry to greet their visitors.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bingham,” said Sam, tipping his hat. Gertie had met Betty’s brother once before when he called in to the bookshop. He had an affable quality and a boyish appearance, which reminded Gertie a little of Jack. “I’m returning Fräulein Fischer to your care.”
He bowed to Hedy. Gertie noticed a rosy flush to her cheeks that hadn’t been there this morning. “Vielen Dank, Herr Godwin,” she said, stepping over the threshold.
“Bitte schön,” he replied with a grin.
“Did you have a good trip?” asked Gertie.
Sam turned to Hedy. “Well, Miss Fischer. What did you think?”
“It was spiffing,” declared Hedy triumphantly.
Sam and Gertie laughed. “We’ve been helping Hedy with her English, not that she needs it really,” he said.
“Come along, Samuel,” called Betty from the car. “Don’t make Mrs. B stand on the doorstep all day.”
Sam grimaced. “She called me Samuel. That means trouble.” He gave a gallant bow. “Schön dich kennenzulernen, Hedy. Good to see you again, Mrs. Bingham.”
“And you, Sam. Thank you for your kindness today. Hedy, did you remember to thank Betty?”
The trace of a frown flitted across Hedy’s face. “Of course.”
“Toodle pip,” said Sam. “Hopefully see you next week at the pictures.”
“Goodbye, Sam,” said Hedy with a smile.
“A trip to the pictures?” asked Gertie as they waved them off.