*
MAC stayed less than an hour; long enough to have tea, which Emmy knew Charlotte would offer him, and to make sure Emmy had a place to stay. She had only minutes to explain to Charlotte why he believed her name was Isabel Crofton. She was thankful that, upon her introducing Mac to Charlotte, he’d asked to use the privy—it had been a long drive—and Emmy used those precious few minutes to tell Charlotte why she had taken on the name of someone a few years older. So that she would be free to look for Julia. Julia was missing, and had been since the night before Mum died. Charlotte asked Emmy who Mac was and it seemed she feared he had taken advantage of Emmy, or worse, that Emmy had become what Mum was: a woman who traded favors to get what she needed. As they heard the toilet being flushed, Emmy assured her that Mac was a good man who had been nothing but kind to her. She hadn’t slept with him and he hadn’t asked her to.
For the next forty minutes Charlotte attempted to make polite conversation with this stranger who had driven Emmy the eighty-plus miles to Thistle House. Her impatience to ask Emmy questions that needed to wait until Mac was gone made for a stilted performance on her part, however. And Rose, who seemed annoyed that Emmy had returned, sat in a chair by the window and frowned at Emmy the entire time they drank their tea. The tension in the room was palpable, but since Emmy had told Mac that she and her aunt had parted on less than amicable terms, the woman’s unease around the pale Isabel Crofton surely seemed perfectly apropos to Mac, as did Rose’s icy silence.
While they sipped from their cups, Charlotte learned how Mac had found Emmy delirious with fever on the floor of the bridal shop just a few hours before the entire block was set ablaze by incendiaries. And Emmy could see that Charlotte was flummoxed when Mac said he had been impressed with Isabel’s relentless volunteer efforts to find and care for the orphaned children of London, especially her missing half sister, Julia, whom he promised to keep an eye out for. The wordless question in Charlotte’s eyes was obvious. So Isabel is the one with a half sister named Julia?
When their cups were empty, Charlotte did not offer to make a second pot. Mac took the cue and rose from his chair, saying he had best be on the road.
Emmy had started to get up from the sofa, too, but Mac insisted she stay put, which seemed to surprise and impress Charlotte. When she went to get his hat and coat from the hall tree, Mac walked over to the sofa and leaned over Emmy.
“You sure you’re going to be all right with these people?” he whispered as his lips brushed her forehead.
“I will. Charlotte and I just need to talk about . . . some things,” Emmy whispered back.
He pressed a few pound notes into Emmy’s hand. “Train fare if you need to hightail it out of here,” he said.
Emmy started to laugh and the sound struck her as the most foreign thing in the world. She hadn’t laughed in what seemed like forever. She stopped abruptly.
“It’s okay to laugh again, Isabel,” Mac said, touching her chin with his fingers as he stood.
At that moment Charlotte returned with his coat and a slightly alarmed expression on her face. “Thank you so much for bringing ah, Isabel, to me. May I pay you for your petrol?” she said, handing him his things.
“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Havelock,” he said as he put on his coat. “You have a charming home here. And a lovely niece. I hope I may have the opportunity to visit again?”
“Oh. Um. Thank you. Thank you very much. Friends are always welcome at Thistle House,” Charlotte said, struggling just a bit to sound completely convincing.
Mac put on his hat and tipped it to Emmy in farewell.
“Thank you, Mac. Safe journey. And do be careful back in London.” It suddenly occurred to Emmy that Mac was returning to what was the closest thing to the front lines of battle that she had ever known. She instantly worried for him and for his safety.
Charlotte had turned away to walk toward the entry. Mac winked at Emmy. “I’ll be seeing you,” he murmured. And then he was gone.
*
AFTER Mac left, Emmy found she dreaded the thought of recounting every terrible thing she had done and every horror she had witnessed in the weeks she’d been away. As Charlotte made her way back to the sitting room after seeing Mac to the door, Emmy resolved to answer with as little detail as possible the questions that were sure to come.
“What happened to your sister, Emmeline?” Charlotte asked as she sat down next to Emmy. “The authorities told me Julia wasn’t sheltering with your mother in the basement of that hotel.”
Emmy shook her head. “She was alone in the flat where I left her. It was only supposed to be for a little while. I thought Mum would find her there. But Mum didn’t come home from work that afternoon. And I tried to get back to the flat when the bombing started, Charlotte. I tried. God knows I tried! I couldn’t! After Mum died, I looked for Julia everywhere I could. I walked past the bodies and the blood and the mess every day, looking for her.”
The ache of loss that had dulled while Emmy lay in the hospital now regained its vigor, and she clutched her chest.
“Why did you leave here like you did? Why?” Charlotte’s eyes were full of tears.
Emmy closed her eyes against the sting of her confession. “I had an appointment with a designer who wanted to see my bridal sketches. Julia was going to tell you that I was sneaking away if I didn’t take her with me. I swear to you I never intended to bring her. If I could go back in time and do it all differently, I would do it, Charlotte! I never intended to bring her with me.”
As fresh tears streaked down her face, Emmy waited expectantly for the chastisement that was due her. She wanted to be berated for having been so foolish, so selfish, so shortsighted. She wanted Charlotte to raise her hand and slap her senseless, even though Emmy knew Charlotte had probably never slapped anyone before. Emmy wanted her to at least walk away in utter disgust. But Charlotte did not do any of these things. Instead, she wrapped Emmy’s still-feverish body in hers and held her while they both wept. Emmy thought she had been done with tears. In London, they were useless. Here at Thistle House, it was as if the walls themselves wanted to weep with her. Emmy felt ugly and small in Charlotte’s arms, and cheated of the reprimand she was owed.
“Someone will find her, Emmeline. I am sure of it,” Charlotte said, and while Emmy desperately wanted that to be true, she bristled at the use of the name she no longer used.
“Please. Please don’t call me that,” Emmy said, unable to say the name herself.
Charlotte pulled back and blinked, her eyelashes silvery with tears. “Pardon?”
“Don’t call me that. Please? Can you please call me Isabel?”
Charlotte studied Emmy’s face, looking for the girl she knew from before. “But that’s not who you are.”
“It’s who I am now,” Emmy said. “That other name means only misery to me.”
“But . . . you can’t just decide to become someone else, Emmeline. Inside, you are still you. I know you’ve been through hell, but you will—”
“I don’t want to be called that anymore.”
Again, Charlotte held Emmy’s gaze, and Emmy could see fear, like an old neighbor, in the woman’s eyes. “What happened to Julia is not your fault.”
“Of course it is,” Emmy said. “I took her to London with me when I ran away and I left her alone in the flat.”
“But you didn’t know that—”
“I took her with me when I ran away. And I left her. Alone,” Emmy said again, louder and with a prickly vehemence that made Charlotte wince. Emmy could feel her pulse pounding in her head. Her hands were starting to shake.
“All right,” Charlotte said soothingly. “I will call you whatever you want. If you want to be called Isabel, I will call you Isabel.”
“Isabel is eighteen,” Emmy said in a challenging tone that a ten-year-old would employ. But she wanted Charlotte to know she was not like the other fifteen-year-olds in Stow. She would never be like them.
Charlotte rested her hand on top of Emmy’s. She flinched at first. “You, as Isabel, are more than welcome in my home,” Charlotte said gently. “Thistle House is for people who love and care for one another. We respect one another in this house, Emmeline. We carry one another’s burdens. We weep for one another and we laugh with one another. We hold one another by the hand when the lights go out and when the way seems hopeless. We work together and we share the table together and we pray together. No matter how old we are or what we are called.”
She waited for Emmy to respond that she not only understood but was also willing to abide by this contract. Emmy hesitated only because she had never known a house like that. It wasn’t that Mum was a terrible parent. She just never said words like that to Emmy. She didn’t think Mum believed she was capable of creating such a home.
“Emmeline?” Charlotte said, for what would be the last time.
“Yes.” Tears formed at Emmy’s eyes and she wiped them away. “I understand.”
“Then Isabel you shall be. But there will be conditions. I will need to inform Mrs. Howell in Moreton that you, Emmy Downtree, have come back and that you wish to continue to live with me. They must likewise be informed that Julia is missing so that they will be looking for her and will return her to us when they find her. Plenty of children here in the village finish their schooling at fourteen, so it will not raise an eyebrow if you do not attend classes here. But I insist you finish your education at Thistle House with me. And you will finish it. I will not allow you to stop learning just because you wish to be treated like an adult. Lastly, I must insist that you never run out of this house again without talking to me first. And I shall make that same promise to you. I won’t budge on any of these things. Are we agreed?”
Emmy nodded.
Charlotte reached for Emmy’s hands and clasped them in her own. “And I will pray every day that Julia comes home to us. I promise I will.”
Emmy’s voice felt thick in her throat but she wanted to express her gratitude to Charlotte, if nothing else than for a warm place to sleep that night. Emmy had grown used to expecting only as much good fortune as one day could hold. “Thank you,” she said, the two words coming out thin and splintered.
Charlotte patted Emmy’s hand under hers as if she had uttered her thanks with the boldness of a field general. “You’re welcome, Isabel.”