This was where it ended.
No more grief, no more bombings, no more loss. William would live.
Ignoring the calls of the men around her, Constance grabbed the handbag at her feet and picked her way across the pavement, slipping twice on shrapnel as people appeared on the pavement, emerging from their shelters.
She had to get William to Vernon. She had to get him on that flight.
Dazed but determined, she walked back to the car, William’s cries mixing with the ringing in her ears and the screaming of her own heart.
She slid behind the wheel, noting that she’d left the keys in the ignition. Securing William in the seat next to her, she headed for the airfield, blinking constantly against the blur in her eyes.
She didn’t remember much of the drive, but she arrived at the airfield, showing them the pass she kept on the dashboard. The guard let her through, and she continued toward the hangar, dazed, drunk on shock and grief. She parked the car haphazardly, then bundled William in his blanket and climbed out. His foot caught in the strap of her handbag— No, it was Scarlett’s handbag.
Which meant she had William’s paperwork, but where was hers?
With Scarlett. She’d handle that later. She clutched William and stumbled toward the front of the car, where a tall, uniformed man rushed her way. He looked too much like Jameson to not be his uncle.
“Vernon?” she questioned, clutching William reflexively.
“My God, are you all right?” The man’s eyes were as green as Jameson’s, and they flared in surprise and shock as he reached her.
“You’re Vernon, right?” Nothing else mattered. “Jameson’s uncle?”
The man nodded, inspecting her face carefully. “Scarlett?”
Her heart cracked open, blinding pain slicing through the fog. “My sister died,” she whispered. “She was right there in my arms, and she just died.”
“You were caught in the bombing?” His brow furrowed.
She nodded. “My sister died,” she repeated. “I brought William.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s a pretty nasty gash on your forehead.” He steadied her shoulder with a hand and pressed a handkerchief to her forehead.
“Sir, we don’t have much time. We can’t delay takeoff again,” someone called out.
Vernon muttered a curse. “Do you have everything you need?” he asked her.
“The bags are in the back. One trunk and two cases, just like Jameson said—” Her voice broke. “I packed them myself.”
Vernon’s face fell. “They’ll find him,” he swore. “They have to. Until then, this is what he wanted.” The sadness in his eyes reflected her own.
She nodded. They won’t find him, not alive anyway. The feeling settled deep. Her heart told her Jameson was with Scarlett. William was alone. What would happen to him?
“Get the bags,” Vernon ordered the men standing behind him, then brushed his thumb across William’s cheek, then the blanket she’d wrapped around him. “I’d know my sister’s handiwork anywhere,” he muttered with a small smile as the bags were unloaded and carried toward the runway. He studied her again, his face softening. “Your eyes are just as blue as he described,” he said quietly, shifting his gaze to William. “I see you have them, too.”
“They run in the family,” Constance mumbled. Family. Was she really about to hand over her nephew, Scarlett’s son, to a complete and total stranger just because he was a blood relation?
Protect him. Scarlett’s voice rang through her ears. She could do this—for her.
“The cut on your head looks to be more bluster than wound,” Vernon noted, examining her face as he removed the pressure and the handkerchief. “But I’m pretty sure your nose is broken.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said simply. Nothing mattered.
His brow puckered. “Let’s get to the plane. The docs can check you out before we head to the States. I’m so sorry about your sister,” he said softly, moving his hand to her back and leading her toward the runway. “Jameson told me how close you two were.”
Everything in her recoiled at his use of the past tense, but she kept moving, kept walking, and soon they reached the runway, where the props spun on a converted liberty bomber she knew the ATC used to ferry the pilots back to America.
A few uniformed officers waited outside the door, no doubt completing the manifest.
“Holy shit,” one of the officers muttered, staring at her face.
“What’s wrong, O’Connor?” Vernon snapped. “Never seen a woman caught in an air raid before?”
“Sorry,” the man mumbled, averting his gaze.
“Don’t tell me that baby is going to cry the whole way to Maine,” one of the Yanks joked in an obvious attempt to divert the awkwardness.
“That baby,” Vernon said, motioning toward William, “is William Vernon Stanton, my great-nephew, and he can cry the whole damn time if he likes.”
“Yes, sir.” The man tipped his hat at Constance and climbed aboard.
“You have all your papers?” Vernon glanced at her handbag—no—Scarlett’s handbag.
“Yes,” she whispered as her stomach pitched and gravity shifted. Your eyes are just as blue as he described. Vernon thought she was Scarlett. They all did. She opened her mouth to correct him, but nothing came out.
“Excellent.”
The last remaining officer lifted his clipboard and glanced between Constance and Vernon. “Lieut. Col. Stanton,” he said with a nod, checking the name off his list. “I wasn’t expecting William Stanton to be quite so young, but I’ve got him here.” He checked again. “That leaves us with…”
Protect him.
With my life. She’d promised Scarlett, and that was exactly what she would give—her life for William’s. Only Scarlett could go with him, protect him.
She lifted her chin, adjusted William on her hip, and opened the handbag with trembling fingers to find the visa she’d packed this morning. The damage to her face was, in its own way, now a blessing. She handed the papers to the officer, showing him the scar on her palm that matched the description. Then she pressed a kiss to William’s forehead and silently begged his forgiveness.
“I’m Scarlett Stanton.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Georgia
“Oh my God,” I whispered, the last page fluttering to the floor between my feet. My breath came in a stuttered gasp as a pair of tears splattered on the paper.