Begun by Time (2 page)

Chapter Three

A full month passed before Catherine got up the nerve to return the monogrammed handkerchief. She kept telling herself Nigel Brandon was still grieving and wouldn’t want to entertain company, even for a moment. Of course, his son was surely back on base, but eventually the handkerchief would get back to him. In the meantime, she hoarded her meager sugar rations, traded in some ironing work in exchange for more ration tickets, and then, finally, she had what was needed.

She rose early on what promised to be a beautiful, sunny Saturday. Her own folks were away in Brighton visiting her ailing aunt, so she had the kitchen to herself. She put on her apron and got to work.

By midafternoon, she was ready to go. She carefully placed a box into her market basket, which contained several mince tarts. Traditionally a Christmas treat, she hoped it would raise Mr. Brandon’s spirits. She tucked in a jar of last summer’s strawberry jam, added a jar of pickled eggs, then carefully placed the laundered hanky in as well.

Nervous, Catherine took a deep, calming breath and checked her reflection. Fine. She looked fine. There was a hope at the back of her mind that Jonathan Brandon might be home today. It was more of a wish than a hope, to be sure, but the possibility set her on edge as she studied her legs. If only she had a proper pair of stockings to wear. It seemed a cheap trick to run eyeliner up the back of her legs to create an illusion. Who would be fooled by it? The answer was no one, of course, since silk stockings had gone the way of the dodo years ago.

She glanced at her reflection again. At least she had a nice skin tone and didn’t need to paint gravy browning on her bare legs, like so many ladies did. She’d never actually worn stockings in public, since she’d been too young for them when the war rationing started in 1940, and then, once she’d matured, the supply had dwindled to nothing. Her mother had some old pairs tucked away, but they had runs in them. Catherine had played dress-up with them years ago, but they weren’t much use to anyone now. She guessed her mum kept them for sentimental purposes, to remember the good old days.

Catherine smiled and shrugged it off. It was such a minor inconvenience in the face of all that had happened in the war. Besides, there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it. She took a last look in the mirror, and then her gaze strayed to the clock. It was time to leave for Mr. Brandon’s.

Get cracking!
She grabbed her things, headed out the door, and got on her bicycle.

The day was clear, with a modicum of warmth, and she enjoyed the ride through Stratford. As she neared the bomb site, her mood shifted, and she felt anxious. Catherine tried to push back the terrible memories, but gave up and decided to confront them head-on. She stopped beside the cordoned-off destruction and said a prayer for Rose. Somber, but feeling more at peace, she walked her bike the remaining two blocks to the Brandon home.

As she turned onto their street, she could see neighboring houses with cracks in some of the exterior walls and several chimneys with tumbled-down bricks, peripheral damage from the bomb. There had been so many hits all over the East End during the Blitz, but this street had been one of the fortunate few to sustain only minor damage.

Catherine spotted the house number she sought
—
145, the Brandon residence. It was a typical row house, identical in most respects to those running up and down both sides of the street. It was nearly identical, in fact, to her own home and so many others across London.

She leaned her bicycle against a tree and mounted the front steps. There was a lion’s head knocker at eye level, which she gently used three times and then waited. And waited. She frowned when she couldn’t hear any movement inside. She’d never entertained the thought no one would be home. She glanced to either side and felt silly at her presumption. She should have telephoned ahead or sent a note. Should she wait? Would it be better to just leave everything on the doorstep? Or maybe she could hand it over to a neighbor for later delivery? She rummaged around in her handbag to see if she had anything to write on, or something to write with.

“Drat,” she muttered, exasperated. No pen, no paper, nothing. For all her nerves and hesitation over the past month, she might have taken a moment to plan better.

“May I help you, miss?”

Startled, Catherine spun around at the sound of the pleasantly rumbling voice behind her. “Oh, Major Brandon, hello!” she blurted. His left arm was still in a cast, but the bandage on his face was gone. The scar beneath his eye looked red and tender, but she guessed it might fade in time.

He smiled and gave a small bow from the waist. “At your service, miss.”

Catherine smiled back. “I never expected to see you here, but, well, why not, after all? Have they given you leave? Oh, I didn’t mean to imply you’d be here without permission.”

She was twittering like a schoolgirl and hated herself for it. Forcing calm, she was about to start over when she noticed how the blue of his eyes was dotted with violet, the effect gorgeous.
Gosh, he’s handsome. And standing so close.

“Allow me to put your mind at ease,” he said, indicating his cast. “I’ve been granted a two month leave, so I’m here quite legally. Would you like to come in? I can manage a passable cup of tea, if you’d care for some. We’ve tucked away some Earl Grey, which we serve on special occasions, and I’d be pleased to share it with you today. My father will be home shortly, and I’m sure he’d love to thank you personally as well, since it seems you’ve been very thoughtful and brought us a bounty of gifts.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry to have shown up unannounced. It seemed to me your father…well, both of you, I suppose, might enjoy a little something special, since, er, because, eh, well, to brighten your day.”

With a raised eyebrow, the major leaned over to scrutinize the contents of her basket, then nodded approvingly. “Everything looks wonderful. I’ll admit, we’ve been surviving on pub rations of late, and the canned whale meat, which is bleeding awful.”

She nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me on that point.”

“Yes, your gifts look quite a bit more tempting than that.” He smiled and stepped past her to unlock the door. “Now let’s have that brew-up, shall we?”

“Yes, I’d quite like a cup of Earl Grey, if it’s not too much trouble. I haven’t tasted it in years.”

“It’s no trouble at all, I assure you, Miss Hastings.” Major Brandon pushed open the door
, picked up her basket with his good arm, and stepped aside for her to pass.

His warm reception began to put her at ease, and she smiled up at him as she went through the door. The twinkle of delight in his eyes made her catch her breath, but it was the sudden realization he remembered her name that set her heart to thumping.

The major showed her to a lovely drawing room, placed the basket beside her, and left to make tea. The decor was traditional but not too ornate, and the chintz wingback chairs gave the room a homey, welcoming atmosphere. She noticed a small clump of dust under one of the chairs and knew Rose would have been mortified for a guest to see such a thing. It made Catherine sad but piqued her sense of protectiveness at the same time. These men were doing the very best they could, and it was to their credit the home looked as good as it did.

China rattled, and Catherine hurried into the kitchen to help him with the tray, which she placed on the coffee table.

“Thank you so much, Major. This is lovely. So kind of you.”

When Brandon smiled, she noticed the corners of his eyes crinkled. The effect was…
delightful
, she thought, then felt a flush of heat creep into her cheeks.

“Please, call me Jonathan. Or Jonnie is even better,” he said. “All of my closest friends call me Jonnie.”

Catherine seemed to be having memory problems
—
she could hardly think of a single word to say.

“Th-thank you…Jonnie. And you must call me Catherine.” She grinned and lifted her shoulders. “I’m afraid I don’t much care for the diminutive of my name. My father insists on calling me Cathy, but I prefer Catherine.”

“A lovely name for a love—”

There was a thud against the front door, and then the sound of a key inserted in the lock, along with mumbling. Jonnie stepped away and opened the door for his father.

“I’ve beaten you home this time, Dad,” Jonnie said cheerfully, and took a satchel out of his father’s arms. “We’ve got some delightful company come to bring us gifts of home-cooked food. I’m sure you remember Miss Catherine Hastings from Mum’s funeral? They were friends from the Voluntary Service.”

“Ah, yes, yes, quite so,” the elder Brandon said, and reached out to pump Catherine’s hand with enthusiasm.

He quickly settled in, and they reminisced about Rose over the tea and some shop-bought shortbread biscuits
that Nigel provided—a luxury Catherine hadn
’
t tasted in a long while
.

As sunset approached, she knew it was time for her to leave. Blackouts were in effect, having been reinstated after the most recent bombings, and she did not wish to get caught outside in the dark. She picked up her basket and prepared to say good night. Jonnie sensed her purpose and rose.

“Oh, my! I almost forgot,” she exclaimed. Reaching into the basket one last time, she pulled out the handkerchief and handed it to Jonnie. “You gave this to me at the service, but it’s monogrammed, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to lose a memento from your mother. I assume it was she who did the embroidery?”

Jonnie took the keepsake, gazed at it for a moment, then handed it off to his father, who had tears in his eyes as he passed his thumb over the stitching.

“Thank you, Catherine,” Jonnie said. “I hadn’t realized that one was in the batch I took with me. It is precious to us both, of course, and we are indebted to you for your thoughtfulness.” He met her gaze and nodded. “Now then, I was about to say
—
it’s getting rather late. I should like to see you safely to your door.”

“Yes, thank you,” Catherine agreed. She said good night to Nigel and then felt the need to hug him. As she wrapped her arms around him, he chuckled, then hugged her back. She felt happy leaving him in such good cheer.

After Catherine and Jonnie set off, she walked her bike alongside him, chatting about ordinary things like music and the cinema. She found he had quite a dry wit, which she fully enjoyed.

Handsome and funny. He’s such a dream
—
and so tall!

She found herself wishing the evening wouldn’t end. When they reached her street, she had the sudden urge to ask him in for a cuppa.

But she sensed watchful eyes. She glanced at a neighboring house and saw Mrs. Brown peeking out from behind a blackout curtain.

I can’t invite him in
, she thought
. It would cause a scandal with Mum and Dad out of town
.

With a sigh, she unlocked her front door and turned to face Jonnie. “I had a lovely time. Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Catherine. It was very kind of you to bring the gifts.”

She hesitated, but when he said nothing more, she smiled and moved to step inside. She felt his hand touch her elbow and spun around, her heart full of hope.

“I, er, might I see you again sometime?” he asked. “Actually, now that I think of it, I’ve planned a day trip out to the country for my father before my leave ends. We’ve planned a day at Hatfield House, to be precise. I’ve arranged to borrow a mate’s car for Saturday week. Would you like to come along? My father is a very competent chaperone, so you needn’t worry I’ll misbehave.”

He laughed at the absurdity of his words, and so did she, taken by how his face lit up when he did so.

“I’d love to, Jonnie. I will make sure my schedule is clear.”

“Jolly good.” He backed up a step and paused as he held her gaze. Then, as though coming to a decision, he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

The softness of his lips against her skin entranced her, and she yearned for more. He smelled wonderful, too, of Pears’ soap with its scent of thyme, and something she couldn’t quite place—a wholly masculine scent that made her knees tremble.

“I shall look forward to seeing you again, Catherine. I shall look forward to it very much indeed.”

He pivoted and left with a bounce in his step, his fine figure caught in the sunset’s golden glow.

She shut the door when he was finally out of sight, then leaned against it and let out a squeal of delight.

Chapter Four

Saturday seemed to take forever to arrive, yet once the day dawned bright and sunny, Catherine felt unprepared. She spent the morning trying to ignore a bout of the jitters as she styled her hair, donned a pair of practical sightseeing shoes, her brand-new utility suit, and a pretty beret she’d splurged on just for the occasion. Thank goodness her parents greeted the news of her date with enthusiasm. With the exception of a few school dances, Catherine’s dating history was virtually nonexistent, the majority of young men having gone off to war after graduation.

She checked herself in the mirror and approved of the tailoring job she and her mother had accomplished on the government-issued outfit. It fit to perfection, and the soft beige tone complemented her complexion.

She heard a car pull up outside, rushed to the window, and saw Jonnie and Nigel mount the steps to the front door. Excited, she clapped her hands together and raced downstairs. Despite her nerves, the moment she opened the door to Jonnie’s smile, she felt at ease. Dressed in a civilian shirt, cardigan, and trousers, and wearing a dashing fedora, he looked every bit as handsome as he did in uniform.

Her folks hurried up behind her. Catherine turned and noticed their smiles. Clearly, they liked what they saw.

“Major Brandon, Mr. Brandon, how do you do? I’m George Hastings, and this is my wife, Lily,” her father said, and they all shook hands.

“We’re so very sorry for your loss,” Lily offered. “Catherine always spoke of Rose in the most admiring terms.”

“I appreciated your kind letter, Lily,” Nigel said. “Rose had deep affection for Catherine and the other girls. She was quite proud of them.”

The mood had grown somber. Catherine exchanged a glance with Jonnie. “I was honored to work with her,” she said.

He smiled. “Mum loved Hatfield House. I can’t think of a better way to honor her memory today. Shall we be off?”

Catherine appreciated how Jonnie managed to turn things around and lighten the mood.

After her parents bid them good-bye, she took Jonnie’s arm, and they headed for the car.

“You certainly have the look of your mother,” Jonnie said. “But you’ve got your dad’s green eyes.”

Catherine grinned. “Yes, runs in his family. Baldness does, too.” She touched her hair.

“Blimey, you hide it well.”

Catherine laughed.

“My father will be our driver today,” he said. “I can’t manage to shift with this blasted cast getting in the way.”

Given his bad arm, he fumbled to close the door, and Catherine quickly reached around and closed it for him. Suddenly aware she was pressed against him, she looked up, eyes wide, and met Jonnie’s softened gaze. She quickly straightened as Nigel climbed in on the driver’s side.

“I haven’t ridden in anything with more than two wheels, other than diesel coaches, since I was a little girl,” she said, hoping her embarrassment didn’t sound obvious. “And I’ve never been in an American car at all.”

The black Willys automobile dated from the early 1930s. It was a bit dented and rusty, and probably only running thanks to twine and hairpins, but she didn’t mind. Riding in a car would feel quite luxurious, anyway.

“How in the world did you manage to get a personal car? I thought they’d all been requisitioned or melted down.”

“It belongs to a physician friend,” Jonnie explained. “He took some shrapnel to his femur in the early days of the war and wasn’t fit for combat duty any longer, but he is still able to practice and is allowed a car, as he lives in the countryside.”

They sat three abreast in the front seat, with elbow room to spare, and she noticed the ample rear seat held a large picnic basket, blankets, and spectator chairs. Sitting between the two Brandon men, she felt pampered and excited, and looked forward to the outing.

Nigel smiled at her. “I do hope you like Marmite sandwiches. It’s my son’s favorite. In case you don’t, I’ve brought some pork pie as well.”

Catherine smiled. “Thank you. I do believe I’ll have the pie.”

Jonnie laughed. “You mean you don’t like Marmite? Really, Catherine! Might I remind you it’s filled with B vitamins. Very healthy.”

“Yes, but it’s so salty,” Catherine countered. “I’ll find my B vitamins in something else.”

“Broccoli,” Jonnie said.

She shook her head. “Oh, dear.”

Nigel chuckled and told her his son had loved Marmite since he was a little tyke. There was a photograph of him as a toddler, his face smeared with the stuff.

“Oh! I would love to get a look at that,” Catherine said, laughing.

As Nigel continued to reminisce about the olden days, Catherine gazed out the window. They’d reached the outskirts of London proper, the houses surrounded by large gardens, no rubble or bomb craters in sight. She realized it made her feel better to know there were still places that looked like they did before the war. Lovely.

“How much farther to Hatfield House?” she asked. “I confess, I’ve not ventured outside of London in quite some time, other than stays at my aunt’s home in Brighton.”

“It isn’t far. I expect we’ll be there well before noon,” Jonnie replied, flashing a smile.

Catherine’s heart nearly seized up when his sparkling gaze caught hers, and she hoped her return smile looked natural.

They made good time with the sparse traffic and arrived a little after eleven o’clock. Before long, they were following a tour guide in the Old Palace of Hatfield, which was the only section that survived from the time of Queen Elizabeth I.

Catherine loved touring the beautiful palace, but the very best part was having her hand in the crook of Jonnie’s arm.

…

Brandon enjoyed the tour. Hatfield House was truly a marvel
—
however, Catherine Hastings claimed his attention more often than not. She kept his blood rushing through his veins and thundering in his ears. His father seemed to have a sixth sense about his feelings for Catherine and stayed a certain distance away to afford them some privacy.

They came to the display room filled with tables covered by raised panes of protective glass. The jewelry, books, clothing, paintings, and miniatures had all belonged to either Elizabeth I or important people in her life.

Brandon put a light hand to the small of Catherine’s back in order to guide her inside. “I’ve a greater liking for the architecture than the history,” he said, “but every bit of it gives one pause.” He hoped he didn’t sound inane.

It was hard to find words with this woman so close and smiling up at him. He took it as a good sign when she didn’t scoot away, but instead seemed to welcome his familiar gesture. Not wishing to push his luck, he removed his hand once they passed through the door.

“Look, Jonnie!” she exclaimed, pointing at a tiny portrait of the queen, done with bits of gold and jewel-like colors. “Oh, it’s embroidery! I thought it was a miniature painting at first glance. And look at this beautiful pair of gloves.”

Catherine put a hand on his arm and smiled, her eyes alight with joy. “She was rather vain about her beautiful hands. Did you know?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, amused by her enthusiasm.

Her touch was gone too soon as she moved along, exclaiming with delight at every new artifact.

All he could do was watch and marvel. Catherine had no idea she held his heart in her hands. He’d only admitted as much to himself that morning. He thought about her constantly, and there was something in the light in her eyes when she looked at him that told him she felt the same way. It made him feel giddy. Positively swept away.

“Oh! Jonnie, Jonnie,” she gasped. She tucked her hand inside his and then pulled him to the next display.

Euphoria. He had no idea what she was saying and smiled at the realization. Her sparkling eyes, her pretty, bow-shaped lips, the feel of her warm hand in his
—
it was all he could do to keep himself from taking her into his arms and kissing her.

Finally, his hearing cleared enough to let some words filter in. “Dr. Dee…spells…
occult…scrying.”

“What? I’m sorry,” he said, scrambling to make sense of Catherine’s words. A shiny pitch-black mirror stood propped on a pedestal in the center of the room. Transfixed, he gaped at it, unable to look away.

“This says it’s Dr. John Dee’s obsidian scrying mirror,” Catherine explained, examining the display card. “It was brought over from the Americas and originally belonged to an Aztec priest. Dr. Dee was a mathematician, astronomer, astrologer, and advisor to Queen Elizabeth I.”

She continued to talk, but her words became muted as he stared at the object. Scrying mirror. He wanted to touch it, look into it.

“
Tirratarratorratarratirratarratum
…” a man’s voice whispered in his ear.

“Jonathan!” Catherine screeched.

Startled, he came out of his reveries as a curator shouted from across the room. He focused on Catherine’s shocked expression and looked down to see his right hand splayed across the face of the mirror.

What had he heard? When had he put his hand on it? Mortified, he pulled away just as the irate curator arrived at his side.

“My good sir,” the fellow huffed. “It is absolutely forbidden to touch anything on display in this room or anywhere in the palace, for that matter. One would think a grown man would have sense enough to know that. I’m afraid you have forfeited any right to remain on the premises. Please leave at once.”

“Forgive me, I
—
”

“Out, if you please. Now.”

Still puzzled and terribly embarrassed, Brandon allowed Catherine and his father to guide him out of the building and into the bright light of the garden.

“What in the world happened?” his father asked.

He shook his head, mystified. He had no answer.

“Jonnie.” Catherine stopped, put her hands on his cheeks, and looked him in the eye. “Are you well? What’s wrong?”

He frowned. She seemed truly worried. With an effort, he straightened and looked around in an attempt to gather his thoughts. A garden. Hatfield House. The scrying mirror. A shiver ran through him. What the hell was wrong with him? What just happened?

“I, uh…
” He cleared his throat and rubbed his temple. “It just seemed… I simply wanted to have a good look at the thing. My head is throbbing. Perhaps we should call it a day.”

He noticed a look of deep concern pass between his father and Catherine.

“Yes, it’s been a long day, Jonnie,” Catherine said. “Perhaps we should head back to town and take lunch in your back garden, instead of staying here?”

“Jolly good idea,” Nigel said. “When do you see your physician next, Jonathan? I’m worried about your sudden headache.”

His mind was still reeling. “First of the week.”

Catherine and his father exchanged another look before linking arms with him and heading toward the car park.

The ride back to town was quiet. Still puzzling over the strange occurrence in the museum, Brandon didn’t mind the lack of conversation.
What a colossal muck-up I’ve made of this outing.

Catherine sat close beside him and held his hand the whole way. The gesture soothed him as his training took over and he pondered the aftereffects of the concussion he’d suffered when his hospital was bombed. A visit to a neurologist seemed the best course of action.

His head didn’t hurt, but the ruse had provided an explanation the others could understand. Whatever happened at Hatfield, he now felt absolutely normal.

At that moment, he pushed his troubles aside and smiled at Catherine, determined to enjoy the rest of his day.