“She’s beautiful,” I said. And for once I meant it. Rose is the most gorgeous baby you’d ever see. Even you would think her a gem, with her big blue eyes and gurgling smile. “It’s odd seeing you all grown up with a baby now,” I said to Hattie. “It seems like yesterday the three of us were making that pact in the Pixie Ring, that we would stay together come what may. How funny it seems now.”
“It does seem a long time ago, doesn’t it?” She smiled, and suddenly I felt so very close to her again. “Venetia, I’d like you to be Rose’s Godmother. Victor and I talked about it in our letters over these last few months, and both knew that you were the right choice,” she said. “I know that Rose will grow to love you, as I do.”
“As I do you,” I said hastily, feeling immensely touched and overwhelmed. “Thank you, Hattie. I’d love to be her Godmother. What a wonderful idea. I’ll make sure no harm ever comes to her.”
I looked down at the beautiful child, and I must admit, Angie, that with such an old friend as Hattie producing an angel like Rose, it made me wonder about having a baby myself. I’m sure the magnificent Mr. Slater would make the very best of fathers, don’t you think?
Hattie’s being tremendously brave, but I know she’s terribly worried about Victor. He’s out in the Atlantic until next year, they say, and she hardly gets word from one month to the next. With news of ships torpedoed every week, I know she’s wondering if he’ll get back at all, if little Rose will grow up without a father.
Oh, wouldn’t it have been nice to be born fifty years from now, when all this is over, and we’ll be back to normal. Imagine what the world would look like then! Will we be married and happy, our children grown up with children of their own? Or shall we be famous for something or other, some daring deed or great invention? Obviously, that’s assuming we’ll still be here, and our dear country makes it through in one piece.
I know you think I’m silly to fall in love, but Angie, maybe I’m just not the same as you, busily seducing every man in London. Maybe I need to do my own thing. I’ll write again soon.
Venetia
Thursday, 16th May, 1940
The Litchfield Park bigwig who is billeted to stay in my house arrived this afternoon amid much confusion. He was supposed to come next week, so when I heard the doorbell I thought it was the postman and became flustered (the poor postman is the harbinger of sorrow these days). But when I opened the door, an extremely tall middle-aged man stood on the doorstep, in the pouring rain. His tan raincoat was soaked and clingy around his bulk, and his brown hair clumped wetly when he took off his sodden hat, exposing a big, squashy face with a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once.
“Oh,” I uttered, looking at him accusingly. “You’re not the postman.”
“No. May I come in?” he said bad-temperedly, barging past me into the hallway, trying to brush off some of the rain. He put his somewhat shabby suitcase down next to the stairs.
“May I ask who you are?” I said, rather crossly.
“Colonel Mallard,” he muttered.
“As in the duck?” I asked vaguely. He didn’t look like a colonel. He was wearing civvies and was frankly more than a little unkempt.
He nodded, his eyes flickering over the dilapidated hall. The servants’ dwindling has taken its toll on my poor house, although I was relieved when Mrs. Peck left, as I couldn’t work out who was in charge of whom any more.
“I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry,” the Colonel said, turning toward the stairs.
I glared at him, wondering what on earth he was doing. “Well, I don’t know what you’re in a hurry about, or what it has to do with me, but I would be grateful if you could tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I’ve been billeted here.” After scrambling around through his pockets, he dragged out a crumpled, soggy letter and handed it to me.
“Oh!” I had a quick look. “I was told to expect you next week. Your room’s not even ready yet.”
“Well, I’ll just have to make do with it the way it is, won’t I,” he said, looking at the stairs impatiently.
I led the way up, the man’s heavy footsteps following me. Hardly bearing the notion of him inside David’s room, I eased the door open, taking one last glimpse, one last breath of its peaceful air before it became someone else’s.
The Colonel was well over six foot, and the room suddenly seemed terribly small as he entered. I hurried back to the door, feeling a little claustrophobic. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” I said, and disappeared off before I became teary.