“Dammit, Pamma,” he said. “I’m only human, you know. Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of doing this, while I was in that wretched hellhole?”
“I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Have to learn to control myself, won’t I? Behave like the good chap again.” He gave her a wicked grin. “As soon as I’m not confined to this chair, I’m going to whisk you away. We’ll run off together.”
“Elope, you mean? To Gretna Green?” Pamela asked, not quite sure whether to be excited or scared.
Jeremy looked amused. “My dear sweet girl, you really still are a romantic innocent, aren’t you? Who can think of getting married with a war on? I want to whisk you up to a discreet hotel in London. I want to go to bed with you.”
“Oh.” Pamela felt her cheeks burning.
“As you just said, my darling. You are now an adult.” His eyes were teasing hers. “Or is there someone else I don’t know about? I’d understand if there was. I’ve been gone a long time, and I don’t suppose you even knew whether I was alive or dead.”
“There’s nobody else, Jeremy,” she said. “There’s only you. There has only ever been you.”
He looked pleased. “Well, that’s all right, then.”
She took a deep breath before asking, “I gather my little sister has been coming to visit.”
“She has. Entertaining little kid, isn’t she? Quite amusing.”
Pamela felt a wave of relief.
As Ben came out of the front door, a Rolls-Royce was pulling up. The driver’s door opened, and Sir William Prescott himself climbed out, brushing down his suit jacket in case it had picked up any creases during the drive. He always looked immaculate. Perfectly groomed, hair with the requisite amount of grey in it, Savile Row tailored suit. There had been a rumour at one time before the war started that he was considering running for Parliament. But the war had put a stop to such aspirations, if indeed they were any more than a rumour. He walked around the car and opened the passenger-side door.
While Ben was considering that in the days before the war a footman would have come running out to do this, Lady Prescott emerged. She was always elegant, too, but in a country sort of way. Where Sir William’s image said clearly, city, high finance, banking, his wife’s spoke more of growing prize roses for the flower show, of church bazaars and charity events. It was she who noticed Ben first. Her face broke into a beautiful smile. “Ben, how absolutely lovely to see you. We didn’t know you were coming down. You’ve heard about Jeremy, then. Isn’t it splendid? There were times when I never thought I’d see him again. And then we got the telegram. Like a miracle.”
Sir William extended his hand. “Good to see you, young Cresswell. How are you? Are they keeping you busy?”
“Busy enough, sir. How are you?”
“Up to our eyes, old boy,” he said. “Trying to put a deal with the Yanks in place. They might want to stay out of the war this time, but we need their help financially. Churchill’s the only one who can persuade them. If we don’t get their money, we’re sunk.”
“The Americans are going to give us money?”
Sir William gave a short, brittle laugh. “Lend, my boy. Lend. And at a pretty favourable rate to them, too. But we desperately need help. Money and equipment, all to be repaid if we ever win this damned war.”
Lady Prescott was less interested in the American lease-lend deal. “You’ve been to see Jeremy, have you? He’s so painfully thin. I can’t imagine how he survived all those weeks, making his way through hostile territory. Sometimes not eating for days, he said. And with that horrible infected wound. How does he seem to you?”
“Clearly on the mend,” Ben said, remembering the smouldering look he was giving Pamela. He was tempted not to mention her presence and thus let them be caught, but instead he cleared his throat. “Pamela is in with him now.”
“Pamela? How lovely.” Lady Prescott beamed. “I expect her mother telephoned her with the news, and she came straight down. How is she doing? We’ve certainly missed her.”
“Doing well,” Ben said. “Looks a little tired, but we’re all working too many hours with night shifts and fire-watching duty.”
“Doing your bit. That’s what matters,” Sir William said heartily.
“Are you here for long, Ben?” Lady Prescott asked.
“Not sure. A week maybe?”
“We must have you to dinner before you go back. It’s been too long since we’ve had a dinner party. I promised Lord Westerham’s lot, too. And your father, of course.”
“You’re very kind.” Ben nodded solemnly. “I should be getting back.”
“Good to see you, my boy,” Sir William reiterated and took his wife’s arm as they went into the house.
Ben stomped home to the vicarage, fighting back his growing anger. He should never have gone in the first place. Jeremy and Pamela obviously hadn’t wanted him there, couldn’t wait to get rid of him. And to see the way they looked at each other. Ben blinked to shut out the memory.
You’re a fool, he said to himself. If you’d wanted her, you should have made your move while he was missing and presumed dead. You could have comforted and reassured her, and she might have come to rely on you, and then maybe . . .
He shut off this thought because he knew he would never have betrayed Jeremy. Pamela might have been the one he yearned for, but Jeremy was his friend. And now he supposed they’d marry and live happily ever after. He made the decision to put Pamela from his thoughts once and for all and to get on with his life.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
All Saints vicarage, Elmsleigh
May 1941
The Reverend Cresswell was sitting in his study, staring blankly out of the window where a blackbird was singing on the wicker fence. He was roused from his trance when Ben knocked politely and came into the room.
“Sorry to disturb you, Father,” he said.
“What’s that, my boy? Oh, not at all. Not at all. Trying to come up with a theme for Sunday’s sermon.” He sighed. “So difficult these days. You can’t preach hellfire anymore. They all know about hell only too well. So it has to be encouraging and uplifting. But how can you tell them that God is on our side when the Germans are told the same thing? I’m thinking Daniel in the lion’s den. Trusting God against all odds. What do you think?”
Ben nodded. Since he’d gone off to Oxford, he had found it harder and harder to believe in his father’s version of God. Of course, he never told the old man, but since the accident and then the outbreak of war, he had begun to wonder whether God existed at all.
“Do you still have an ordnance survey map of the area?”
“Should have, somewhere. Try the second drawer in that bureau.” He watched as Ben opened the drawer and found it crammed full of papers. “Planning to do some walking along the footpaths while you’re here?”
“I may.” Ben dumped the tangled mess of papers on the table. “Really, Father, these need sorting out. Do you want me to do it for you while I’m home?”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it,” Reverend Cresswell said. “I never seem to have the time to get around to it. Of course, Mrs. Finch would love to get her hands on my study, but it’s strictly out of bounds, except that I allow her to run the carpet sweeper over the floor. If I let her have her way, she’d have everything in the room stacked neatly and alphabetically, and I wouldn’t be able to find a thing.”
Ben smiled. He put aside a pamphlet on preparing for confirmation, one for last year’s church fete, a programme for Gilbert and Sullivan at the D’Oyly Carte, and sundry letters, before he unearthed a map of France, one of Switzerland, and then the one he wanted. “Ah, good. Here it is,” he said. “I’ll start sorting this stuff for you later, but I need to borrow this now, if you don’t mind.”