Sinclair chuckled. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would stand for any nonsense.’
‘It’s different for you, a man. I bet you never had to work your way up from being an office junior.’
‘Yes, I’m lucky in that respect. The diplomatic corps recruited me straight from university.’
‘That’s not bad! Men like you are systematically promoted. You must be quite high up by now.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m more interested in foreign postings than promotion. The trouble is, they always need a free translator who’s good with handling tricky situations.’ Almost to himself, he murmured, ‘Liaising, picking up leads, things I picked up during the war.’
Intrigued, she asked, ‘What kind of war work did you do?’
Perhaps Sinclair also had something to hide, as he sped his pace. ‘It was far away from Westminster, that’s for sure.’ He chuckled, looking up into the clear night sky. ‘Funny, the reason I joined the diplomatic corps was to see the world, see how the stars look from the other side of the planet. But here I am, stuck in London.’
‘The stars,’ Miranda murmured, transported for a moment back to Connecticut. ‘I watched them during the war, too.’
After Jack left for the war, she’d gone back to college to finish her degree – that’s when she’d thrown herself into writing for the college newspaper. If Jack had to fight, then she would join the battle by writing about it.
Every night she’d gaze at the distant stars, wondering if Jack could see them from the Pacific Ocean, wondering if he was thinking of her, too. He wrote sporadically, and even though his letters were censored, between the lines she could sense him gradually unravelling. He was a law scholar, not a naval officer.
And then the telegram arrived. A man on a motorbike delivered it like it was a ticking bomb, running as fast as he could from the door before she could read the words, her life exploding into a thousand tiny particles, like stars themselves, fragments of a life destroyed expanding into the universe.
The following days had been a blur, blending into weeks before something inside her knew she couldn’t carry on with this grief. She had to get out, get away from Connecticut, where every street corner, every tree, every part of her house reminded her of him. There were shadows in her bed where he should have been, a place set for him at the dining table. How could she live with these ghosts?
Packing his photograph away, she moved to New York, buying new clothes, redirecting her energies into her career. Journalism would save her. She took Jack with her, of course, inside her heart. If she couldn’t have Jack, she didn’t want anyone.
Something was caught in her eye. She wiped it dismissively, annoyed that she’d exposed herself, let her guard down.
‘Miranda, what’s wrong?’ Sinclair caught her arm. ‘Here, come and sit down. Let me get you a cup of tea.’
She glared at his hand on her arm. ‘Tea? You British people think a cup of tea will solve everything!’ She laughed, but her voice was taut, and with a final glance back at him, she pulled away and darted down into the station.
Quickly, she lost him in the crowds, but she could hear him calling her name, blending into the cacophony of people hurrying home, a busker on a mouth organ, young men joking after a few drinks.
On the northbound platform, she found a space on a bench and sank into it.
What had come over her?
And more to the point, how had she let herself be caught off guard?
From now onward, she’d have to double her work efforts, gather more stories for O’Hara, make sure her mind was far too preoccupied for unsavoury emotions.
CAROLINE
IT WAS THE SATURDAY MORNING OF THE HORSE CARRIAGE REHEARSAL, and Caroline, Annabel and Miranda headed to Regent’s Park in the spring sunshine. Frank had made it difficult for them to leave, of course, even with Miranda there, but in the end, Caroline had promised to be home to make him a special lunch, and they’d manoeuvred themselves to the door.
Beneath a row of trees, a large area of ground was sanded over, and a small crowd had gathered to watch as two dozen horse guards trotted majestically up and down, the horses’ dark coats gleaming in the sunshine.
‘This is where they train for ceremonies,’ Annabel said, delighted to have a fresh audience in Miranda. ‘But today there’s something even more special.’
From the other side of the park came the sound of jangling harnesses, and soon four open carriages came into view, each of them pulled by gleaming teams of coordinated horses.
‘All the other royals will use these lesser carriages to get to the abbey, and the prime minister needs one, too.’
They were magnificent, and when a full brigade of soldiers on horseback joined them to circle the training ground with complete precision, the effect was spectacular.
‘My teacher said that it’s been quite a feat getting the coaches into shape. Not least the Gold State Coach, one of the oldest and most exuberant in the world.’
That’s when it appeared, dazzling in the sunshine, pulled by eightpale-grey geldings. It gleamed with the Baroque glitz. Between the gold panels, the exterior was filled with curlicues and paintings, the interior covered in bright-red satin. Dramatic and spectacular, it exuded dominance, prosperity and great ceremony.
