As I drove out of Heathrow, following my phone’s GPS and announcing each turn out loud so I didn’t mess up, I gave him an overview of what I’d found.
“Roundabout to the third exit. Stay to the left . . . Caro and Margo split in 1934 . . . turn left . . . Caro went to boarding school . . . left lane. Turn.”
“Should I be worried?” Mat waved a hand toward the road.
“Yes. Do you know they let people drive a full year here on their foreign licenses? On the wrong side of the road? I looked it up to make sure I could do this.”
“You’ve never driven here before?”
“I’ve barely visited.” I glanced over at him and almost missed a right-hand turn. I veered to the right as he screamed out, “Swing wide. Swing wide!”
“Right.” I wrenched the steering wheel left to miss an oncoming line of cars. “No more talking. Either direct me or start praying. Your choice.”
As we approached Belgravia, I felt more comfortable. The roads were less crowded, giving me time to think before reacting.
“You’re safe now.” I peeked over at him. He sat grinning and turned to the window in a pathetic effort to keep me from seeing.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“No, it wasn’t.” He laughed. “But you muttered to yourself the entire time . . . just like when—” He stopped with a head shake. “Never mind.”
“What?” A tingly bubbly feeling caught me by surprise.
“I was thinking about our run from campus security sophomore year when our dorm party got shut down. You got lost.”
“It was dark.” I threw him an indignant glare. But he was right. I got lost running across a campus I knew like the back of my hand. I never could navigate my way down a straight road.
I shook my head, to myself rather than him, and refocused my attention on the road.
After a few turns, Mat spoke again. “What more have you found?”
Something had changed in the timbre of his voice. It felt as if a subtle line had been drawn between yesterday and today—and we were to stay in the present.
“You’re going to love these two. Caro and Margo, they called each other. I haven’t learned about Caro’s war work yet—I’ve been reading their early years—but I’ve learned so much history.” I glanced at him again. “I started to make a list of things that struck me last night. Caro was bold and daring, but loyal. She was also in love, and not with Paul Arnim, like I said on the phone.”
“A steamy romance doesn’t preclude another affair.”
“If you’re going to be difficult, I’m taking you back to Heathrow.”
“How is that difficult?”
“I tell you a fact and you’re argumentative, drawing your own conclusion. You always do that. You haven’t even read anything yet and—”
“Always?” Mat scowled. “I don’t recall talking to you in seven years. You know nothing about my ‘always.’”
“Seven? We graduated six years ago.” I scowled right back.
“You ghosted me senior year. It doesn’t count.”
“Ghosted you?” The car followed my head jerk and I quickly brought both back in line.
Mat huffed a short, concise breath. “I told myself we wouldn’t get into all this and it took—what—an hour? Let’s stick to history.” Mat added quietly, “Their history, I mean.”
“Sure . . . but . . . I feel like I need to apologize for something.”
I kept my eyes on the road, but I could feel him staring at me. I got the impression he was trying to work out what to say.
He settled on, “I promise you don’t.”
I pulled the car through Eaton Mews North toward the garage at the back of the house. I was about to say more when Mat leaned forward, mouth dropped wide, to see all four stories rising above us. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I know, right?” I pulled Mom’s car into the garage. “Welcome to the London House.”
Eighteen
Sticking to task, I started sharing more of the letters and the early years of sisterly hijinks while we climbed the short flight of stairs to the kitchen.
Mom called out as I hit the top riser, “Caroline, your father is here to see you.”
I stopped so suddenly Mat bumped into my back.
“Whoa . . . sorry.” He gripped my shoulders to keep us both from toppling downward.
I flapped my hand to shush him as Dad’s voice carried across the kitchen. “I didn’t want to believe it was true.”
Rounding the corner, I found myself face-to-face with him. A glance at the table, laden with coffee, toast, jam, and a bowl of berries, revealed he’d been there for some time. Mom had added a champagne ice bucket full of red, purple, pink, and white delphiniums as well. It was a cozy, colorful scene.
“How?” I gestured to the spread.
“After we spoke, your brother called. He filled in some blanks you omitted and suggested, rather demanded, I get over here.”
“Jason told you to come? Here?”
I looked between my parents and felt Mat step behind me. Mom moved in front of me, creating a barrier between me and Dad. It was such an incongruent sight—my mom protecting my dad, or me—I blinked.
“Let’s take a moment.” She crossed between us and stretched out her hand. “Mat Hammond? It’s nice to meet you. You’ll be on the fourth floor. I converted it into an apartment and I think you’ll be comfortable there. The room outside it is also where Caroline has been working.”
“No.” Dad’s voice draped over us.
Mat looked between us. “That’s okay, Mrs. Payne.” My mom’s name lifted like a question, and he glanced at me as if unsure that’s what he was to call her. He rushed on. “There’s a cheap hotel by the British Library. I got a room there last time I was here. I can crash there again.”
“You’re welcome to stay here . . . The letters are here.”
“No,” Dad repeated. This time it came out in a strangled whisper. Like he wasn’t so much against the idea as he was pained by it.
Mom turned to him. “He’s here, Jack. That ship has sailed.” She tapped me on the arm. “Caroline, your conversation with your father can wait while you show Mat upstairs. He can shower and rest while I prepare him some food.”
I nodded and we left, Mat carrying his messenger bag and small suitcase, and neither of us saying a word.
At the top, I showed him the apartment to the left of the large room and let him wander through it alone. After he placed his bag on the stand, he rejoined me and stepped toward the high table. Sunlight flooded this room as it had the kitchen and I didn’t want to leave. It felt warm and safe three floors from my dad.
“Are you going to be okay?” Mat asked.
“Most likely not.”
He looked down at the piles on the table. “You go talk to your dad. I’ll shower, get settled like your mom said, then come back down for food. I won’t touch a letter until you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” I headed back down the stairs, pausing in the hallway outside my room to send a text to Jason.
You traitor! This is my project and I chose to tell him exactly what I wanted him to know. Now he’s here. If he puts an end to this, we’ll never know the truth. Happy now?