If pressed, Margaret would have said she preferred a man with a more rugged nature. Maybe it was a consequence of growing up in working-class Brooklyn, where sweat and toil and labor were the currency of respectability. There was a distinction to her between a man and a gentleman. Which was not to say that Oliver was delicate in any way. He’d carried Dottie all the way over here. But there was a genteelness to him that was just a little too polished for Margaret’s taste.
But one glance at Gladys told her that her friend held a distinctly different opinion. There was something surprising about the way she was looking at him.
Besotted. A recent Word of the Day. That was it. It was a revelation of sorts. Gladys—the most self-sufficient, grounded woman she’d ever known—seemed to be floating. At least to one who knew her so well.
“What brings you here to the States?” Margaret asked him.
“He’s a correspondent for the London Times,” Gladys answered on his behalf. “Sending news about the Yankees back home.”
“The baseball team?” She wasn’t surprised. The World Series had just begun, and already the Yankees were tied one to one with the St. Louis Cardinals. The third game would be played tonight just half an hour away at Yankee Stadium, and all of New York—even Brooklyn Dodgers fans like herself—were wild with excitement. It was the best kind of diversion from a world steeped in tragedy.
Gladys laughed. “No, doll. Not the Yankees. I just mean us. Americans.”
Margaret wanted to roll her eyes. She was sure no one living south of the Mason-Dixon Line would take kindly to being lumped in with Northerners like herself. But that might be too nuanced for a foreigner.
All this time, Oliver was silent, folding his arms and watching Gladys with a look of bemusement on his face.
Margaret nodded and turned toward Oliver. “You’ll have to excuse my gaffe. The World Series is big news around here right now.”
He smiled. “I practically grew up on a polo field. But I have to admit, I’ve been quite swept up in the enthusiasm for the American pastime. In fact, I’ve acquired tickets for the game tonight. Something a little different to send to the office back at home. If either of you…” But he was looking at Gladys.
Gladys’s eyes widened, and though Margaret was delighted by the unexpected dynamic between the two of them, she desperately hoped that her friend wouldn’t accept. She was nervous about taking care of Dottie by herself. At least not until they knew what was wrong.
But Gladys came through, and Margaret should have had more faith in her. “Thank you, but I’m sorry. Sick friend beats lonely Brit. Another time, though?”
Margaret breathed a sigh of relief.
“Of course,” he answered. “I believe the following games are in St. Louis, but perhaps you would accept dinner as a substitute.”
Before Gladys could answer, a stout, gray-haired figure walked toward them, carrying a larger black bag than the one Catherine had brought over. He was a good head shorter than both women, and Oliver’s significant height over him would have been comical in any other circumstance.
“I’m Dr. Feingold. Is this where I can find the pregnant woman?”
No euphemisms for this man. Why add flowery language when he saw the grit of human illness every day?
Gladys pulled her attention away from Oliver and stood up straight. “Yes. Right through that door there. A midwife is in there with her. I can show you the way.”
“That won’t be necessary. The fewer people, the better.”
Margaret hoped that his skills were more profound than his demeanor. Then again, he must be particularly busy with such cases right now. According to Catherine, Dottie’s predicament was not an uncommon one.
It didn’t matter, as long as he took good care of Dottie.
The doctor departed, closing the door behind him, and the next fifteen minutes were nerve-racking for Margaret. Gladys and Oliver continued their conversation with palpable ease, as if there was not a sick woman just feet away from the other side of the brick façade. Margaret was distracted with worry and heard little of what they were saying, though it seemed that Gladys said she would consider meeting up next weekend at a restaurant that Oliver was keen on. Margaret decided to walk around the block to clear her head and circled the route four times before an update seemed forthcoming.
Her heart clenched when Catherine came back outside.
Please let it be good news.
Chapter Five
The Browns’ house in Chilton Foliat backed up to a fingerlike branch of the River Kennet. At that point, it was not much more than a stream, but it still attracted some of the rainbow trout that the river was known for. Open-windowed mornings at the kitchen table invited the sound of the gentle babble of its movement over the stones in its bed. Tom found peace listening to it, accompanied only by some distant noises from nearby Leverton Lane.
Autumn trees had begun to boast a spectrum of colors, and it made Tom miss his favorite season back in Virginia.
He liked being near the water because it was easier to pretend that he was back at home. Though in the Chickahominy, the bounty was different—often yellow perch and black crappie and his favorite—largemouth bass. When he closed his eyes, he could taste the bass with lemon, garlic, and pepper—a Friday night staple at his house, and later the dish his mother always made when he returned home on the first night of a semester break.
So he was delighted to discover that Mrs. Brown prepared the trout in much the same manner. A reminder of simpler days, quelling the ache of being so far away.
It was one of the few things about England that reminded him of home. Because otherwise, there were reminders all around him that he was far from it. The accents. The automobiles driving on the opposite side of the road. The village of Chilton Foliat was peculiar to him as an American with its thatched roofs and stone fences. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if the word village was correct. He’d also heard parish, estate, and hamlet. They seemed interchangeable to him, but the locals understood the minutiae of difference in all of them and he had not yet cracked that code.
Only two streets ran through the village, perpendicular to each other and lined with sagging redbrick houses. St. Mary’s Church sat at the westernmost point and was a common gathering spot for the community. It was surrounded by farmland—wheat, barley, and root vegetables—and nearly every household sat on a small plot of land on which they sowed and harvested. The Browns were partial to parsnips, along with the trout, and Tom, William, and John had been treated to all sorts of variations of the humble root.
They didn’t know why the Browns hadn’t had children, but they appreciated how the elderly couple doted on them.
Mr. Brown was bald save for scattered patches of thin white hair, and he was perpetually bent over at a twenty-degree angle. Mrs. Brown was the healthy kind of plump, with a wide face and fewer wrinkles than Tom might have expected for her age.
Though “the boys”—as the couple called the trio—offered on many occasions to help with the cooking, cleaning, and parsnip picking, the Browns were adamant in their refusal.
“You boys have to keep your strength up for fighting Hitler,” they would say in the perfect unison of two people who’d spent decade upon decade in each other’s company. Tom knew that they were getting off lucky—others in their platoon were made to feel that the lodging was provided for the purpose of having extra hands to help with farm chores. Never mind that the Browns had a point—the majority of their days in the 101st Airborne Division were spent training, parachuting, shooting, and marching, with few daylight hours to spare.