Begun by Time

In 1945, a man disappeared into thin air…

In the final days of World War II, Catherine Hastings meets the man she wants to marry. Flight surgeon Jonathan Brandon isn’t just handsome—he’s everything Catherine could hope for in her betrothed. But her dream of a happily ever after is shattered when Jonnie disappears shortly before their wedding...leaving Catherine bereft, broken-hearted, and with a lifetime of unanswered questions.

Arthur Howard is smitten with the lovely Catherine the moment he sees her. He’s certain he’s found the woman he wants to marry. Yet behind Catherine’s sparkling green eyes is a haunted look—the look of a woman who has known loss. But can he love a woman who still grieves the loss of her fiancé? Now Arthur wants answers about the man Catherine intended to marry.

But the truth about Jonnie’s disappearance is far stranger than fiction...

Begun by Time

the Prequel to The Thornless Rose

Morgan O’Neill

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Morgan O’Neill. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Select Historical is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Suzanne Evans

Cover Design by Syd Gill

Cover Art by iStock

ISBN 978-1-63375-408-9

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition August 2015

We dedicate this novel to the Allies of World War II, those who went to war against the Axis Powers, and those who stayed at home and supported the war effort in every way possible.

Deborah O’Neill Cordes and Cary Morgan Frates

Love is begun by time,
And time qualifies the spark and fire of it.

William Shakespeare,
Hamlet

Part One

Chapter One

16 March 1945, Stratford, London

Catherine Hastings pulled a large switchblade from the nex
t-of-kin parcel and waved it in the air. “Gosh, I haven’t seen one of these in a bit.”

Her friends Poppy, Mirin, and Susan looked up and grinned.

“That would send the Jerries into a dither,” Poppy said.

“Bloody Nazis,” muttered Gertrude, their Red Cross supervisor. “They’d love to find something like that in a POW box. Would stop the whole program, and our boys’d have nothing in those awful camps. Oh, I’d love the chance to use that knife on those Nazi wankers meself.”

The girls giggled, and Catherine tossed the switchblade toward the rubbish bin. It missed and clattered across the floor.

Rose Brandon arrived with a cart of new parcels to check. The oldest of their group by thirty years, she’d recruited them from their Stratford neighborhood to join the Women’s Voluntary Service. Ever elegant and perfectly coiffed, Rose dipped and swept the knife off the floor, pushed the button, and released the blade.

Her eyes sparkled with humor. “Not my cup of tea, but it is beautifully made. Look here. It’s inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Rather pricy, I would guess. Do keep it, Catherine.” Rose closed it and handed it over. “For your own protection.”

Catherine dropped the switchblade into her pocket and patted it for good measure. “Protection from whom? The Nazis? Our boys will keep them out. Besides, there are only old men in town these days.” She shrugged. “Who’s going to harm me?”

“Nobody, of course,” Rose said, “but keep it anyway, just to be safe.”

“The war’s got to end soon,” Mirin added. “And with your green eyes and Hedy Lamarr looks, there’ll be men lined up at your door in no time.”

“Quite so.” Susan sighed dramatically. “We’ll just have to settle for your leftovers.”

Catherine blushed. “That’s silly.”

“Catherine Ellen Hastings, it seems everyone knows this but you. Well, I’ll just spit it out
—
you’re a dish,” Poppy said with a grin.

Catherine saw the sincerity in her friends’ admiring gazes, even though she knew Poppy was exaggerating for a good laugh.

Rose nodded. “Ah, you’re all lovely girls, and I’d be proud to introduce my son to any one of you.”

“How is he feeling?” Mirin asked.

“He’s much more chipper these days. Recovering nicely, but I do sympathize with his nurses.” Rose chuckled. “Doctors make the very worst patients.”

Catherine had seen a photo of Jonathan Brandon, flight surgeon RAF. He had a handsome face, but she wondered how he looked now, since Rose told them he’d suffered a concussion and facial injury from shrapnel when his hospital was bombed in the south of England.

She hesitated to ask, not wanting to seem too forward.
Besides, Rose already had much to deal with, and nosy questions from a nineteen-year-old would surely be viewed as prying and bothersome.

The wall clock suddenly chimed, and Gertrude called out, “Five o’clock, ladies. We’ll finish these parcels on Monday. Thank you, and have a time of it this weekend.”

…

Catherine tilted her face to the late afternoon sunshine. The air was balmy, the bike ride lovely, with no icy streets or frost like they’d had over the past few weeks. She hoped the springtime weather was here to stay.

She and her friends rode single file, Rose in the lead, followed by the others, with Catherine bringing up the rear on her lipstick-red Raleigh. The bike was a birthday gift from her mum and dad. Her father, a dentist, had gotten it in lieu of payment from one of his patients. How proud he was to present it to her, a real luxury amidst the ever-present rationing and wartime deprivations.

When they reached Albert Road, Rose stopped and waved as they passed.

“Have a lovely weekend,” Catherine called out.

“Jolly good!” Rose said over her shoulder as she headed down the street that would take her home.

“Are we still on for the pub tomorrow night?” Susan asked, pulling up alongside Catherine.

“Yes, Mummy and Dad will be there.”

“My parents as well,” Susan said, then added with a laugh, “along with Uncle Edgar and Auntie Muriel, and, of course, dear Cousin Frank. The whole kit and caboodle will be there.”

Catherine was about to make a crack about Susan’s cousin, a gawky kid who made goo-goo eyes at all the girls, but her mouth snapped shut when she heard the brooding drone of planes. She felt an immediate jolt to her gut and looked at the sky, but saw nothing beyond the puffy white clouds.

Susan shaded her eyes and stared in the direction of the distant seacoast. “RAF or Luftwaffe?” she asked nervously.

“I’ve no idea,” Catherine said, just as the hum of the planes was joined by the eerie whine of air raid sirens.
Run!
her mind screamed, but her body betrayed her and froze in fear.

“Catherine, come on!” Susan shouted.

Crack, crack, whoosh!
Blinding light.
Catherine felt a dull thump in her chest and
then t
he world tilted in slow motion. Another flash.
A rush of wind hurled her into the air, her body weightless, flying, but then the world spun, and she crashed into the pavement. Pain ground into her. Stunned, she desperately tried to breathe, but her diaphragm seized in agonizing spasms.

Someone grasped her shoulders and shook her. Confused, she swatted at the insistent hands and opened her eyes. Susan. Mirin. Covered in blood and dust. She gasped in horror and managed to take in a few, painful breaths.

Susan shouted at her, but Catherine couldn’t hear a thing. She couldn’t see much, either
—
ash and dust filled the air.

Mirin suddenly turned and stared at something, and Catherine followed her line of sight.

Lord help us!

Through the haze, she could see Poppy running naked, her clothes blown off by the blast. She was heading back toward Albert Road.

Mirin and Susan pulled Catherine to her feet, and they stumbled after their friend. Mirin caught up first and tried to cover Poppy with her coat, but she fought her off, screaming, pointing, the sounds muffled to Catherine’s ears, strangely distant.

Catherine ground to a halt and gaped.

Rose Brandon’s bicycle!

The frame had twisted around a broken lamppost, the tires melted away. The basket was ablaze, its painted rose disappearing in the flames. The stink of burning rubber and the odor of bacon assaulted her senses.

She gagged, knowing what it was. Swaying, retching, Catherine felt trembling hands grasp hers, and together the friends moved forward.

Albert Road destroyed. Rose
—
gone. A huge, smoking crater was all that remained.

Chapter Two

The funeral for Rose Brandon drew Catherine, Mirin, and Susan together again. The friends linked arms for support as they approached St. Mary’s Parish Church, Leyton. All wore bandages and plasters to cover their lacerations, and Susan limped, her usual sense of humor as bruised and strained as her injured hip.

Poppy remained in hospital with minor burns, seven stitches in her forehead, and a broken clavicle—injuries no one realized she’d incurred at the time of the blast. However, the physical pain Catherine and her friends experienced was nothing compared to the hurt each felt for Rose and the tragic loss her family had to face.

Catherine gazed at the little church, which was beautiful and unpretentious, just like Rose. The small garden was tidy, and she wondered whether she and her friends might donate a rose bush to honor her memory. She tucked the thought away as they stepped inside.

Clustered near the sanctuary doors, the Brandon family stood in a small receiving line to welcome those attending the funeral.

Mirin and Susan went through first. “Welcome. Thank you for coming.” “So sorry for your loss.” “Welcome. Thank you for coming.” “So sorry for your loss.”

Everyone said the same thing, over and over. But what else was there to say? Surely Rose was worth more than catchphrases. Catherine reached deep, searching for the right words. She had to say something more.

The gray-haired gentleman she presumed to be Rose’s husband greeted her. She took hold of his outstretched hand with both of hers and looked straight into his eyes.

“Catherine Hastings, sir.” She indicated her girlfriends with a nod. “We worked with Rose. She recruited us to work at the Women’s Voluntary Service. We had many laughs together and loved every minute with her. She was a delightful lady, and we also miss her terribly.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He nodded and smiled vacantly, ready to greet the next person in line.

Catherine held on, desperate to say more, to convey how much Rose was loved and admired. “We rode to and from work together, you see, and we…we were there, laughing, gadding about, when…” Tears filled her eyes as she recalled the horrific moments following the blast. As she tried to withdraw her hand to seek a hanky, it was his turn to hold on.

His eyes were more focused now, and they, too, sparkled with unshed tears. “Nigel Brandon, Miss Hastings. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I know all about you, of course. Her girls. Rose called you ‘her girls.’ She was proud of how you squared up and shouldered the work. Not the fluffy, self-centered types. She said you were tough and had great, kind hearts, each one.” He patted her hand before releasing it and looked at the other girls. “I’m glad to hear she was with you, laughing and gadding about, as you say, when she went. She couldn’t have known pain, I think, and now I know she was laughing as well. My heart rests better with the news. Thank you.”

Sniffling, Catherine moved to the next person in line, a woman who looked remarkably like Rose, but with the same blank, sorrowful expression Nigel had worn.

“Hello. I’m Rose’s sister, Glynnis. Thank you for coming.”

Catherine felt overwhelmed and unable to come up with anything more to say. Instead, she reverted, like all the others, to the simple acknowledg
ment, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Glynnis nodded, and Catherine moved on to the last person in line, Rose’s son, Major Jonathan Brandon. She recognized him from snapshots shared by Rose, but was surprised to see his face bore no sign of injury, except for a small bandage beneath his left eye. She’d been under the assumption he’d been badly disfigured, but that was not the case at all. Black hair. Blue eyes. A handsome man. He stood tall and somber in his dress uniform, a barrage of colorful medals across his chest. Encased in a cast, his left arm rested in a dark navy sling under his jacket, the empty sleeve of the jacket neatly pinned to the patch pocket.

She put her hand out, and he gently surrounded it with his.

“I’m glad to see you’re recovering so nicely, Major Brandon. Your mother kept us up to date on your progress. She was very proud of you.”

Tears glinted in his eyes, but his smile was genuine. “Thank you, yes, I’m healing up rather well. I heard what you said to my father. It’s a great relief to know she was happy, not terrified and running for her life, or the like.”

Memories of that awful day engulfed her. She felt a tightening of his hand around hers and realized, having gotten swept up in her emotions, she hadn’t let go. She lifted her gaze to his and tried to smile, but all she could manage was another sniffle as one big tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Major Brandon. I didn’t mean to cry.”

“Not to worry.” He released his grip, reached into his pocket, and produced a handkerchief. “Here, take this. I’ve brought plenty more today, for just such a need.”

“Th-thank you, Major.” Catherine started to move away to allow others to greet and be greeted.

“Pardon me,” he said, putting a light hand on her forearm. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Catherine. Catherine Hastings.”

“Pleased,” he replied with a sad smile. “And, thank you for being such a good friend to my mum. It means a great deal.”

Catherine walked into the sanctuary and sat beside her friends, then glanced at the altar. A lovely, pale pink casket stood there, and the sight of it caused her chest to tighten with grief. She knew it was empty, only there for show.

She focused on her hands as they worried the major’s handkerchief into a twisted mess.
You’re ruining it
, she scolded herself. Carefully, with more concentration than was needed for the simple task, she unfolded the bit of cloth and smoothed it over her knee, then proceeded to fold it into a tiny square. When she finished, she noticed a monogram
—
the initials JB. Stunned, she realized Rose had probably done the work herself, or commissioned a seamstress to do it, but it surely would have been something she gifted her son.

She glanced over at the Brandons and saw the crowd milling about, waiting to pay their respects. The major looked stricken, pale. She did not wish to bother him anymore. She knew he would regret handing off such a prized possession, once he realized it was gone. Although there might not be another opportunity this afternoon, she resolved to return the precious memento to him one day soon.

He seems very much like Rose
, she thought.
A decent sort.

He suddenly stared in her direction, the blue of his eyes rimmed with red. She nodded to him, saw no reaction, and then realized he did not actually see her, his gaze unfocused and bereft. She looked down at his handkerchief, touched the delicate embroidery, and cried for Rose.