“Good morning, Miss Blythe.”
Percy smiled at Mrs. Collins. The old dear who, in some inexplicable curvature of time, had seemed ancient for at least three decades had a knitting bag strung over one arm and was clutching a fresh-baked Victoria sponge. “Oh, but Miss Blythe,” she said with a woeful shake of her fine silvery curls, “did you ever think it would come to this? Another war?”
“I hoped it wouldn’t, Mrs. Collins, I really did. But I can’t say I’m surprised, human nature being what it is.”
“But another war.” The curls shivered again. “All those young boys.”
Mrs. Collins had lost both her sons to the Great War, and although Percy had no children of her own, she knew what it was to love so fiercely that it burned. With a smile, she took the cake from her old friend’s trembling grasp and hooked one of Mrs. Collins’s arms over her own. “Come on, my dear. Let’s go inside and find ourselves a seat, shall we?”
The Women’s Voluntary Service had decided to meet in the church hall for their sewing bee after certain vocal members of the group had declared the larger village hall, with its wide wooden floor and lack of ornamental detail, a far more suitable site for the processing of evacuees. As Percy took in the huge crowd of eager women clustered around the assembled tables, however, setting up sewing machines, rolling out great swathes of fabric from which to make clothing and blankets for the evacuees, bandages and swabs for the hospitals, she thought that it might have been a foolish choice. She wondered too how many of this number would drop away after the initial excitement wore off, then chastised herself for being uncharitably sour. Not to mention hypocritical, for Percy knew she’d be the first to make her excuses just as soon as she found another way to contribute to the war effort. She was no use with a needle and had come today simply because while it was the duty of all to do what they could, it was the duty of Raymond Blythe’s daughters to give what they couldn’t a damn good go.
She helped Mrs. Collins into a seat at the knitting table, where conversation, as might be expected, was about the sons and brothers and nephews who were set to join up, then delivered the Victoria sponge to the kitchen, careful to avoid Mrs. Caraway, who was wearing the same dogged expression that always presaged delivery of a particularly nasty task.
“Well now, Miss Blythe.” Mrs. Potts from the post office reached out to accept the offering, held it up for inspection. “And what a lovely rise you’ve managed here.”
“The cake comes courtesy of Mrs. Collins. I’m merely its courier.” Percy attempted a swift escape, but Mrs. Potts, practiced in conversational entrapment, cast her net too fast.
“We missed you at ARP training on Friday.”
“I was otherwise engaged.”
“What a pity. Mr. Potts always says what a wonderful casualty you make.”
“How kind of him.”
“And there’s no one can wield a stirrup pump with quite so much verve.”
Percy smiled thinly. Sycophancy had never been so tiresome.
“And tell me, how’s your father?” A thick layer of hungry sympathy coated the question and Percy fought the urge to plant Mrs. Collins’s marvelous sponge right across the postmistress’s face. “I hear he’s taken a bad turn?”
“He’s as well as might be expected, Mrs. Potts. Thank you for asking.” An image came to her of Daddy some nights ago, running down the hallway in his gown, cowering behind the stairs, and crying like a frightened child, sobbing that the tower was haunted, that the Mud Man was coming for him. Dr. Bradbury had been called in and had left stronger medicine for them to administer, but Daddy had quivered for hours, fighting against it with all he had, until finally he fell into a dead sleep.
“Such a pillar of the community.” Mrs. Potts affected a sorrowful tremor. “Such a shame when their health begins to slide. But what a blessing he has someone like you to carry on his charitable works. Especially in a time of national emergency. People around here do look to the castle when times are uncertain—they always have.”
“Very kind of you, Mrs. Potts. We all do our best.”
“I expect we’ll be seeing you over at the village hall this afternoon, helping the evacuation committee?”
“You will.”
“I’ve already been over there this morning, arranging the cans of condensed milk and corned beef: we’re sending one of each with every child. It isn’t much, but with hardly a scrap of assistance from the authorities it was the best we could offer. And every little bit helps, doesn’t it? I hear you’re planning on taking in a child yourself. Very noble of you; Mr. Potts and I talked about it of course, and you know me, I’d dearly love to help, but my poor Cedric’s allergies”—she raised an apologetic shoulder heavenwards—“well, they’d never stand it.” Mrs. Potts leaned in closer and tapped the end of her nose. “Just a little warning: those living in the East End of London have entirely different standards from our own. You’d be well advised to get in some Keating’s and a good-quality disinfectant before you let one of them set foot inside the castle.”
And although Percy harbored her own grim fears as to the character of their soon-to-be lodger, Mrs. Potts’s suggestion was so distasteful that she plucked a cigarette from the case in her handbag and lit it, just to be spared answering.
Mrs. Potts carried on undeterred. “And I suppose you’ve heard the other exciting news?”
Percy shifted her feet, keen to pursue alternative occupation. “What’s that, Mrs. Potts?”
“Why, you must know all about it, up there at the castle. You probably have far more of the details than any of us.”
Naturally at that moment silence had fallen and the entire group turned to regard Percy. She did her best to ignore them. “The details of what, Mrs. Potts?” Irritation lengthened her spine a good inch. “I have no idea of what you’re speaking.”
“Why”—the gossip’s eyes widened and her face brightened with the realization that she was a star performer with a new audience—“the news about Lucy Middleton, of course.”
THREE
MILDERHURSTCASTLE,SEPTEMBER4, 1939
