The brides box was at Thistle House, though.
And although Emmy felt no tingling sensation of hope or aspiration at the thought of being reunited with her sketches, at least she would have them again.
“There is someone,” Emmy said. “She’s... an aunt. She lives in Gloucestershire.”
“I’d be happy to telephone her for you,” Mac said, then added, “or take you to her.”
He said this last bit as if he wanted to take Emmy to Charlotte’s himself, but did not want to appear too forward. The last thing Emmy wanted was for Charlotte to learn over the phone what she had done and then have to come to London to pull her out of the pit she had dug for herself.
“Would you? Take me there?” Emmy asked.
Mac smiled. “I’d be happy to.”
Emmy nodded. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes at the kindness of this man who thought he knew her.
Mac leaned in, thumbing away the tear that had escaped and was now sliding down her cheek. He kissed her forehead.
It was not the first kiss of lovers, yet it felt just like that to Emmy. A gnawing desire to be wanted—in every possible way—surged up within her. Despite all the mistakes she had made, she still wanted to be loved.
Emmy reached up with one hand to touch Mac’s face and he leaned into her palm.
“If London weren’t a battleground, I’d be attempting to convince you to stay here with me,” he whispered, kissing Emmy’s wrist where it met his jaw.
He rose from his chair. “I’ve got to get back. We’ve a broadcast in less than an hour. But I’ll see you tomorrow, Isabel.”
Mac smiled at Emmy from the door, then turned and left.
As she listened to his footfalls on the corridor outside her room, she reasoned that it was okay for Mac to be attracted to her and for her to be attracted to him.
Because she wasn’t foolish, immature Emmy who had abandoned her sister.
She was Isabel.
And Isabel had done nothing wrong.
Twenty-six
EMMYdidn’t know how many hoops Mac had to jump through to borrow someone’s car and drive her to Gloucestershire when she was released from the hospital two days later. When Emmy asked him how he managed it—and the cost of the petrol—he waved away her questions and told her he had a friend who owed him a favor.
The handful of women with whom Emmy had served at the WVS and who came to visit her at the hospital seemed genuinely sad to hear that Emmy was leaving London; at least as sad as they could be to say good-bye to someone who had volunteered with them for only two months. The war made every relationship seem temporary. Someone else would surely show up to take her place.
Mac offered to drive Emmy past the burned ruin of Primrose on their way out but she declined. She wantedto remember it as it had been, when it was a lovely shop on a bustling street back when the war was just a rumor, and even after the first bombs fell, when it was a dark and shadowed haven for a young woman who had nowhere to go. For the last eight weeks, Emmy had fought to stay in London so that she could find Julia, but on the day she left, she could not get away soon enough. As they drove out of the tattered city, gray from November clouds and never-ending smoke and ash, Mac assured Emmy that he would stay on the lookout for her half sister. He would continue to ask about her among his colleagues covering the many sides of the war. He had the connections Emmy did not have and none of the transgressions that she did. He was the perfect person to look for Julia.
He also asked Emmy whether it would be all right if he stayed in contact with her after he returned to London. She could tell Mac was growing fond of her—fond of Isabel the Crusader. Emmy did not hope for a minute that his affections would amount to anything lasting; he was an American stationed abroad. But she liked how he made her feel. She was taken with the notion that Mac preferred her over other women he knew—older, more experienced women. Emmy would enjoy his attentions as long as she had them. She told him she would like that very much.
The hospital had deemed Emmy well enough to be discharged as they needed her bed for the wounded, but cautioned her that she still required bed rest for a week or two. She began to get sleepy as the car rumbled out of the city, and when she began to nod off around High Wycombe, Mac told her not to fight it. He had a map. He’d get her safely to Stow.
So she slept.
An hour or so later, Mac shook her gently awake. They had arrived at Stow and he needed to know how to get to Thistle House from the village. Emmy told him which direction to head for and soon they were traveling down Maugersbury Road, the same narrow lane on which she and Julia had started their escape in the dark two months before. It seemed like such a long time ago. And then in no time at all they were pulling up to Thistle House. Smoke swirled from the chimney in delicate tendrils and soft lights glimmered in the front room windows.
“You can just let me off,” Emmy said to Mac, unable to take her eyes from the cozy beauty of the house, its timeless perfection and stoic presence.
“What was that?”
Emmy turned to him. “You can just let me off.” She needed to speak to Charlotte alone.
Mac laughed lightly. “Not a chance.” He put the car in park and set the brake.
