23
Mary
Mary had been in the house for more than a week, and she'd barely had a minute to herself the entire time. Nobody came calling, nobody asked why she was there. Nobody pushed her to explain how she'd come to reside in a man's apartment with the man out. She'd been alone with her thoughts, and that was so much worse.
When she'd gotten there, she was sick from worry about everything—about the bombs falling, about what people would think. About what they would do to stay away from her uncle if they were even able to implicate him in anything at all.
Then she'd started worrying about bigger issues. James hadn't come back, and where was she going to stay? By the time she'd made it to London, presses in Yorkshire were already running with the story that the Geis estate had been nearly destroyed in the bombing.
If she was kicked out of this place, she had no place to go back to. The hotel wasn't safe; she'd be caught. If she wasn't caught, what would happen when her father's money ran out? It had to happen, and if James had told her the truth, it would happen soon.
She thought that her father's fortune could afford to pay the rent, if she could access it, but there was further the question of who to pay it to. She hadn't seen anyone since she had walked through the front door, nine days ago. She had found it quite nice, to be able to be by herself. Now she was beginning to go mad from the isolation.
James... she had tried, for a while, not to think about him. It seemed easier that way. When she slept, though, she dreamed of him, and woke in a pool of sweat. When her mind wandered, visions of him danced before her eyes, and a tightness clutched her chest.
She tried to think of the times they'd spend together, even in this very room, and remember the surge of emotions she'd felt with him. But it didn't help her feel better. Instead, it just made the aching in her chest feel worse.
When she had gotten the paper on the train to London, and heard that her house had collapsed, she'd been so sure that he had made it out alive. He'd promised to her, promised to come back to her. And yet, as the days passed, she was realizing more and more that it was hopeless.
Wherever he was, he wasn't coming back to her. Probably, he was buried under the rubble, and if he'd found anything that could have protected her from her uncle, then it had been buried with him.
Mary shook her head. She couldn't afford that sort of thinking, not now. She needed to be strong, like everyone else with husbands or sons in the war. The only difference was that her war was back in Dover. She took a deep breath and let it out, and tried to count her blessings.
It had been nine days, and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of Oliver. Davis had been with him when she'd seen them leaving the house, and Davis knew about the apartment. Maybe there was some soft feeling for her left in his heart. But the thought didn't make her feel any better.
She much preferred the idea that James had stopped them, that he'd succeeded even if he hadn't made it out alive. However he had stopped them, she knew, there was little chance that they were still coming after her. If they were going to then they would have done it already.
She laid back in the bed, the bed that she and James had shared their first night together in. She could still smell him on the sheets, could feel him on top of her, his weight giving her a comforting feeling of safety. Could remember the way he moved inside her.
Mary nearly jumped when she heard a rap at the door, the first visitor in days. This was it, she thought. Finally, the landlord had come, and he was going to evict her. She straightened and smoothed her dress and tried to look as presentable as possible. Nothing untoward here, she reminded herself. She needed a place to stay, and her steward had offered the use of his house while he was out.
Until he got back.
The words drifted through her mind and hit her like a punch in the gut. She wiped the wetness from her eyes, blinked until she had control of herself, and opened the door.
She saw the cast first. It was large and white and drew the attention of most people who saw it. It took up his entire lower arm on his right side.
James Poole stood outside his flat, on a pair of rough-cut crutches. He carried his weight hard on one leg, and he had a single red rose in his hand.
For a moment, Mary could feel her anger flash, red and hot, and she wanted to slap him.
"James Poole, do you have any idea how much you scared me!" She settled for balling her fists up at her sides. "Not a letter, not a word to me, for a week!"
She could feel her tears welling up again, and she tried to push them away, but it was a losing effort.
"I thought you were dead, and I didn't—I couldn't—"
She took a step back and pressed her back against the wall. It was as much a crutch to her as the ones under James's arms, and without it she would have fallen right down.
He waited outside the door for her, until she took a deep breath and turned to him. She wanted a response, but none was forthcoming. He smiled before he spoke, and she already wanted to slap him again.
"I'm sorry, Miss, I seem to have misplaced the key to my flat."
He laughed, a deep sound that came from his belly, and she hated and loved him for it. He took a step into the house and winced when his foot touched the doorstep.
"Do you need any help?"
"No," he lied. "I can get around well enough, if I take my time."
He hobbled across the room and fell into the sofa.
"What happened?"
"I don't remember that well. It happened quickly, so I've only been able to piece some of it together after." He took a deep breath and rubbed his knees. "I found your uncle's footlocker, and it was full of letters. I'm guessing it must have been blackmail of some kind. I remember that several of them were from Germans."
Mary sat across from him and motioned for him to continue.
"Oliver is dead. Last I saw, Davis was in critical condition, but he looked bad. The third man, whatever his name was—I shot him when he came at me."
"No," she said softly. "They left, I saw them."
"They saw me when I was heading out of town, and must have doubled back. I think your uncle was working with the Germans, on something. Your father got mixed up in it. They probably offered him a big payoff if he fronted some of the money."
James looked up to see if Mary was listening, and she was.
"Well, I guess he backed out—that would have been when he hired me, I guess—and then they killed him over it."
They were both silent for a long time. Mary knew, really, that neither of them knew what had really happened. It was a lot of guesswork, and if the house had come down then in all likelihood the evidence was gone. Finally, James broke the silence once more.
"I do have one last question, though."
She could see his face, and could see he thought he was being clever again. She couldn't help but smile seeing it. He was a fool, but she loved it about him. She said the words he was obviously waiting to hear.
"What's that?"
"Mary Geis, will you marry me?"
Mary blushed, and then crossed the room to him. He was seated, and looked up at her. For a moment, she was taller than him, and she thought that was the way she wanted it. Then she leaned down, looked him in the eye, and kissed him.