All at once, May was filled with a sudden, desperate urge for something normal. It was like a breath of fresh air to spend the evening with a man who made proper conversation without swearing like a sailor, and wore an actual suit instead of work clothes. Just one night in classier company, away from the rough cast of characters running rampant through her life.
Her friends would always ask to bum cigarettes, while tonight it was Edward who offered her one from his own pack. Silly as it seemed, even the fact that he used a proper lighter—and an expensive one at that—left an impression on May. Edward lit her cigarette like a proper gentleman, leaning in close with the flame. He politely asked where she’d like to go for dinner, treating her with respect instead of making the decision for her. Ironically enough, May ended up choosing Sailor’s Hideaway. A fitting choice, as despite Edward’s charm, Sally-Anne was still very much on May’s mind, and in her heart.
With unfinished wood floors, tables, and chairs, and waitstaff wearing fishmongers’ aprons, Sailor’s Hideaway was obviously nothing like the restaurants Edward frequented. He put up with all of it, to the great delight of his date. When May saw that Edward ate his oysters with a fork, she opened another and brought it up to his lips.
“Smell that, take it in,” she said with a smile. “You’ve got to relish the taste, right in the salt water itself. It’s amazing, you’ll see.”
Edward did as she asked, savoring the flavor. “Okay, you’re right, I have to admit. It’s better that way.”
“And now, a sip of white wine—tell me that’s not the most amazing combination.”
“How in the world did you ever find this place?” Edward asked.
“I live around the corner.”
“So, this is how you spend your evenings. I certainly do envy you.”
“How does a man like you end up envying someone like me?”
“The life you lead,” he said, with a sweeping gesture around the space. “It’s freedom. Everything is simple, full of joy.”
“I take it you spend your nights in a prison? Or maybe the morgue?” May asked.
“You can poke fun at me all you want, but that’s not so far from the truth. The establishments I frequent can be fairly grim, the patrons stilted and cold.”
“Like you?”
Edward looked May in the eye.
“Yes, like me,” he replied evenly, then leaned in closer. “Would you mind if I asked you a favor?”
“Ask. And we’ll see if I mind.”
“Would you consider helping me? To change myself.”
May studied her date, finding his vulnerability endearing. But all at once she came to her senses and burst out laughing.
“Give me a break!”
“Am I that ridiculous?”
“Sally-Anne warned me about you, but I think you’re even more dangerous than she let on.”
“My sister can be judgmental,” Edward said. “But listen. I have a confession to make. As long as you promise not to tell Sally-Anne.”
“Fine. I would spit in my palm, but I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“The way things are between the two of us is entirely my fault. I envy my sister almost as much as I admire her. She certainly is braver than me. After all, she broke free from her chains and ran away.”
“Sally-Anne has her flaws, too.”
“Hers are exceptions; mine are the rule.”
“I, me, mine. Four times total in the last thirty seconds.”
“I rest my case. You see just how serious the situation is, how much I need you?”
May resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “And just what could I do to help such a deeply unhappy man?”
“You can’t call a man unhappy . . . when he doesn’t even understand what happiness is.”
Not even the greatest masters of the art of seduction would have been able to come up with such a line. May’s last defenses soon yielded to her nurturing instincts. She led Edward down to the waterfront and kissed him at the end of a long dock.
It was as though Sally-Anne’s words were ringing out from a distance over the calm waters . . .
“They’re all complete frauds, every last one of them. The glory of the Stanfields . . . is nothing but a tall tale. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”
16
ROBERT STANFIELD
March 1944, Hawkinge Airfield, Kent
It was a perfect night for flying. The twinkling stars cast just enough light for visual flight, while the glow of the crescent moon was weak enough to obscure the Lysander’s dark frame, improving its chances of crossing enemy lines undetected. As the two-passenger plane was prepared for takeoff on the dirt runway, Robert Stanfield checked and rechecked his harnesses from the back seat. He heard the radial engine sputter to life and make the propellers spin, first choppy, then steady. As the mechanic pulled out the chocks, the small plane lurched forward with a jolt and started rolling down the runway.