“Excuse me,” a voice, to her left, said. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Thrilled to be interrupted, Mary smiled at the speaker, the cook from Wharton Lacey. “Yes?”
“Just wanted a quick word. If you don’t mind.”
“By all means. Miss Aubin, isn’t it?” Mary stepped to the side and Tom moved away. To ask someone else for a dance, no doubt. “Can I help you?”
“Just wanted to introduce myself properly. You’re the Guernsey girl, am I right?”
“Yes, I’m Mary LaPrioux. Evacuated here with my class.”
The woman held out her hand. “Edith Aubin. From St. Clement’s Parish on Jersey.”
Mary clasped her hand. “I’m from St. Martins. It’s good to meet someone else from the Islands.” Even if she was from Jersey.
“Just wanted to say hello.”
“I’m glad you did. Home seems a long way away these days. Have you been here long?”
“Fifteen years. Used to be I went home every holiday, but now…”
Who knew when they’d be home? If ever. “I alternate between homesickness, being glad I’m safe, and worrying about everyone left behind.”
“You get news?”
“Yes,” Mary replied. “But how much can they say on those Red Cross forms? We set up a code before I was evacuated, so we could let each other know if anything dire happened.”
“I’ve an old mother, I worry about her,” Edith Aubin said. “Didn’t have much schooling so she never did write much. I’ve a married brother and sister but seldom hear from them.”
Worrying. Had to be. “I think there’s a limit how many of those letters they can send.”
“I know,” Miss Aubin replied. “I tell myself he uses them to write to his wife. She and the children went back to her family in Devon. But I can’t help but worry.”
She looked more than worried. She looked downright haggard. “Do you know where in Devon? The doctor’s family are from that way and so’s her new husband. Perhaps if you ask them.”
“Miss LaPrioux!” a voice called across the hall.
“Sorry, I’d better go,” Mary said. “I’ll talk to Alice.”
“Come up and have tea one day. I’d enjoy talking to someone from home, or at least close to home.”
“Thank you, I will. I’ll stop next time I’m over your way.”
“Please do.” With a nod, the older woman buttoned up her coat and left.
Mary went over to see what Mrs. Chivers wanted.
“I think you’re breaking Tom Longhurst’s heart,” Gloria said, as she and Mary walked home, their shaded torches lighting the way.
Mary assumed she was teasing. “He’ll survive.”
“You really don’t fancy him, do you?”
Good question. “He’s a nice enough chap.” And, she had to admit, one of the few single men left in the village, now that Gloria and Alice Watson, the doctor, had snagged the nicest two. “But he’s just not my type.”
“He’s smitten, sexy, intelligent. If you gave him just the weeniest come-hither he’d be yours for the taking.”
Maybe. But he was clearly and unmistakably human, and Mary wasn’t about to tangle with him. Going out to the flicks once had been an error in judgment she was not likely to repeat. He might have a hammerpond on the edge of his land, where she bathed when the need for water overwhelmed her. But she could just imagine the look on his nice, human face if she said Oh, by the way. I’m a Water Sprite. You don’t mind if I go off in the moonlight and swim in all weathers, do you?
Might almost be worth it to see the shock in his big blue eyes, but no. She’d been trained from childhood to keep her nature a secret, and a secret it would remain. Unless she met another of her kind, and the odds of meeting another in landlocked Surrey was about as likely as the Germans deciding they didn’t want to invade her home after all.
“A penny for them?” Gloria asked. “Tom on your mind?”
“Gloria, he’s just not my sort. He really isn’t.”
“I didn’t say he was your Mr. Right, but how about a Mr. Right Now?”
Mary shook her head. “No. Someone else can have him.” They were practically lining up after all. Of course, there was still the problem of the damn dance she’d promised him.
Maybe she’d stay home tomorrow night. Fat chance of that. Sensible, oh-so-human Gloria would nag her into going. There was no way out, short of breaking a leg or developing some contagious disease. She was going to have to brace herself to dance with the most eligible bachelor for miles around.
Chapter Three
“Dad, I’m not going tonight. I can’t. And that’s flat!”
Howell Pendragon looked up from filling the teapot, almost baptizing himself with boiling water at the sheer panic in Gryffyth’s eyes and the sweat beading on his forehead. “Right you are, son,” he replied, putting the lid on the pot and covering it with the knitted cozy Helen Burrows made out of Air Force Blue wool. “Tea’ll be ready in a minute. Want a piece of toast with it?”
“Did you hear me, Dad?”
“Yes, I heard you.” Would have been impossible not to, given he’d as good as shouted. Another mark of how keyed up he was. “You don’t want to go to the party tonight.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?”
Howell put two mugs on the table and reached into the bread bin. “What do you expect me to say, son? You said you won’t go. You’re a grown man. I can hardly wallop you on the bum and tell you, ‘yes, you are!’ The way I did when you refused to carry your cousin Bronwen’s train at her wedding.”
“Dad, I was six at the time.”
“And now you’re twenty-six. So you won’t come. Want one slice of toast or two?”
“I don’t want any toast!”
Silly git! Not that he’d say that aloud. Howell shook his head and put four slices of bread under the grill. He was hungry and he bet Gryff was. He fetched the week’s ration of cheese from the pantry and started slicing. The lad had always had a weakness for cheese on toast. (He damn well wasn’t calling it Welsh Rarebit the way the English did.) And they had two hours to go before Alice Watson would pick them up.
Howell busied himself with plates and filling the milk jug, all the time casting glances in Gryffyth’s direction. He understood the lad’s reluctance. It was no joke for him, hobbling about on his tin leg while everyone else, old fogies to little nippers, skipped around on two. But dammit, Gryff had done nothing but mope and frown since he came home, aside from one trip down to the Pig with Andrew and Peter. He’d gone the once and refused ever after. It wasn’t good. Not at all.
“Here you are.” Howell slipped two slices onto a plate and put it on Gryffyth’s side of the table. “Come and get it while it’s still warm and bubbly.”
“I’m not hungry, Dad.”
“Maybe not, but that’s your cheese ration for the week so best eat up, or you will be.” He set to pouring tea and made himself not watch his son. But nodded with satisfaction as Gryffyth walked over to the table. He managed that far without his stick. Good. “Here’s your tea.” Howell put the mug by the plate and sat down himself.
The