“Forgetting me will be easy, because you’ll never see me again.” With a flip of her chin, Aleida spun around and marched away.
But her chin wobbled. Once again, she’d placed her trust in the wrong man.
30
What happened? Hugh’s arms stretched before him, empty, as Aleida strode away at a crisp pace, out of his life.
His feet jerked forward to run after her. But he could still see her fury and terror when he’d grabbed her during the Second Great Fire of London in December.
It was over.
How could it be over?
He’d been direct, rechtdoorzee. Well, as direct as an Englishman could be. Why would she fault him for it? For speaking the truth?
Hugh’s arms drifted down to hang limp at his sides. Over? It had barely started. Why, he’d never even told her he loved her.
Deep in that emptiness, a spark flared. How dare she compare him to Sebastiaan? And if she reacted that strongly to any sort of rational advice ...
The spark fizzled and died. He swayed, and he braced himself against the statue. Beneath his coiling fingers, the stone felt as if it were crumbling away.
Aleida would never love him. His parents would never approve of him. His career lay in shambles.
He shoved away from the statue and walked. Walked somewhere. Away. His hands clenched and flexed, over and over.
What did he have in this world? An aristocratic name, an estate, and money. None of that mattered to him.
He had to get out, get away, do something vital.Bevital.
A trio of naval officers passed him in their smart blue uniforms.
He should try to enlist again. If he died for his country, he’d finally be good for something other than a laugh.
Hugh groaned, and his swinging hands slapped at the skirt of his overcoat. Every time he’d tried to enlist, he’d failed the medical exam. Even the Army and Navy didn’t want him.
Great restlessness bulged inside him, punching fists in all directions, pushing him, driving him. He had to get away. Had to.
Fletcher—he always worked late. It was only a quarter past five. He’d still be at Broadcasting House.
Hugh broke into a run toward Westminster Station. He paid his fare, boarded the District Line, transferred to the Bakerloo Line, and traveled to Oxford Circus.
In the dying light, he ran up Regent Street to Broadcasting House, as passersby stared. He didn’t care. He had to get away.
He burst into Fletcher’s office, panting, bordering on wheezing. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Collie?” Fletcher rose from his desk, concern etched on his forehead.
Hugh gestured toward the studios and gulped a lungful of air. “I can’t do this—these vapid, meaningless stories. I must get out of London. Can you transfer me out of domestic news? You’ll be glad to be rid of me. I’ll go anywhere. I’ll go overseas. I’ll go to the jungle or the desert or the bottom of the sea. I don’t care. I only—”
“Would you go to Scotland?” A strange light infused Fletcher’s eyes.
Hugh tried to catch his breath. “Scotland?”
“Our regional reporter in Scotland joined the RAF, and they called him up earlier than expected. We need a replacement immediately. It’s rather a desperate situation. He’d arranged a story—an excellent story. But it’s dangerous. It would—”
“I’ll do it.”
“I haven’t told you—”
