Secrets of a Charmed Life (24 page)

THE
occupants of Thistle House spent 1941 adjusting to the odd sense of subtraction that was the war. Every day it seemed there was the loss of some small thing, like no more lemon curd or brass cleaner or toilet paper. Heeding the national call to plant a victory garden, Charlotte and Emmy doubled the size of the vegetable patch that spring, and they cared for it and the orchard trees all summer. They harvested, canned, and distributed in the fall and winter, making many trips to Moreton in Charlotte's coughing blue car with crates of food to be sent to the cities where the need for food was greatest. Hugh and Philip were the caretakers of the chickens and roosters, and they walked to town every morning on their way to school with two dozen eggs that Charlotte gave away. The reports from London and beyond tutored everyone to keep a perpetual eye to the sky as it
seemed the enemy would soon be screaming over Gloucestershire as it had elsewhere and rain down its wrath.

An RAF airbase had been constructed near Moreton and a fleet of Wellington bombers was now taking off and landing only a few miles away, a new development that the boys loved as much as Emmy hated. She had heard enough of planes.

Emmy kept to herself and the house. She ventured out now and then to meet Mac in Oxford, but only in the company of other people. As the second year of the war ended and 1942 began, Mac made it clear he was hoping for more than just friendship from Emmy. He wanted to date her, for lack of a better word. Did anyone still date? Did the war allow for that? Emmy didn't know. And she didn't want to know. She was afraid to give her heart over to Mac. He assured her more than once that he didn't just want to take her to his bed. He also wanted the deeper emotional intimacy that a loving, caring physical relationship would bring to what he hoped was a very serious friendship with potential for much more. As the buried Emmeline within her aged, Emmy became aware of a pounding ache to be desired in that way. But how could she give herself body and soul to a man who had no idea she was an imposter?

Emmy finally told Mac she was not the woman for him, not the one he wanted to be with in
that
way, but that she very much treasured his friendship. And she did. He was still the only friend she had or wanted as she had purposely kept her circle of loved ones small. Charlotte. Rose. Hugh. Philip. Mac. No one else.

An awkward few months followed after that conversation when Mac didn't ring her up. She started to think
her circle was down to four. But in the end, Mac agreed to friendship only, if that was what she wanted. He told Emmy he understood the war kept her from risking her heart on love, but that maybe when it ended, she would feel differently.

Emmy let him think what he wanted as it kept him from abandoning her completely. Perhaps she
would
feel differently in the distant future. She wanted to believe that maybe she would.

Mac did not come for Christmas dinner in 1942. Everything had changed for Americans, even those stationed abroad. Pearl Harbor had been bombed by Japan, and the United States had entered a war that now stretched around the globe.

The next two years were spent in a mindless routine, of “mend and make do” and hoping against hope that the forces united against the Allies would break and the beast be rendered powerless. As 1944 came to a close, it began to seem possible that the dark hand of war might lift.

It was wonderful to imagine that the madness and violence would end, peace would be restored, and simple joys like sugar and ham and nuts would find their way back to the pantry at Thistle House. And yet Emmy didn't want her time there to end. There was nothing for her in London, and she had given up hope of finding out what had happened to Julia, though whenever she saw a blond little girl, she did a double take. Emmy did not know what Isabel Crofton could do with a life not dictated by war. She didn't know what she was capable of doing as Isabel other than surviving.

Mac was only so much help in this regard. He and Emmy had come to an understanding of sorts. She told him she couldn't see ever leaving the Cotswolds; it was
as if she was tethered to the area now. And he could not wait for the war to end so that he could return to America. They still enjoyed each other's company, but he no longer made romantic overtures toward her. What was the purpose? Emmy could see there was no future for them as a couple.

Mac began to see other women: a nurse he met at a triage center, a secretary he encountered at a cocktail lounge, a ballet dancer with whom he huddled in a Tube station during an air raid. He didn't parade them in front of Emmy, but he wanted her to know about them so that she would not find out another way. He did come for Christmas that year, but their easy camaraderie had been dealt a blow when she rejected his deeper affections. Mac was still her friend, but it was different. It was hard to describe how other than there was no expectancy. Nothing to anticipate.

The war was waning. Emmy's relationship with Mac was waning. Her time at Thistle House was waning. If she just stood still, would the walls of her existence fade to gossamer and then to nothing? Would she disappear into whatever world Julia had been spirited away to when she vanished?

Emmy had called herself Isabel for four years. No one knew her as Emmy except for Mrs. Howell in Moreton, and she had long since stopped paying Emmy any mind since she had aged out of the evacuation scheme for children several years earlier. And while at the beginning the ladies in Stow who knew Charlotte best also knew that Isabel's real name was Emmy, they seemed to forget it as the years passed. Isabel had proved to be a helpful companion to the aging sisters and their evacuees. And Emmy surmised that even though she seemed
standoffish whenever she had to be in town, these women chalked it up to what the war had taken from her—a sister and a mother. So what if the Londoner wanted to be called Isabel.

Which was why on February 11, 1945, a cold, windy day, Emmy was surprised to receive a thick envelope in the post from Mrs. Howell, addressed to Isabel Crofton née Emmeline Downtree.

Hugh, just turned twelve, had collected the post that morning from the box at the driveway. He'd dropped it into the empty fruit bowl on the kitchen table on his way outside to work on a sailboat of tree bark that he and Philip were making at the edge of the pond.

Emmy saw the thick envelope peeking out from behind the smaller bills and letters and pulled on it to see what it was.

That Mrs. Howell would use Emmy's former name so publicly annoyed her for only a second, for that was the time it took Emmy to realize that perhaps inside the envelope there was news of Julia. She brought the envelope into the privy before anyone saw her with it so that she could open it and deal with its contents in private.

Emmy's hands were shaking as she slit the letter open and withdrew a sheet of paper and another sealed envelope. The piece of paper—a note signed by Mrs. Howell—notified her that a certified letter that had been crisscrossing the south of England had finally found its way to Emmy. Mrs. Howell hoped that it was good news.

Emmy laid the letter down on the sink and turned the other envelope over. It was addressed to Emmeline Downtree, at the old address in Whitechapel. The return address was a law firm in Chelsea.

Emmy tore it open, willing the documents to reveal the whereabouts of Julia, lost for nearly four and half years.

But the cover letter said nothing at all about her.

January 7, 1945

Emmeline Downtree
24 Great Trinity Lane
Whitechapel
London

It has come to our attention that the bequest to you of £30,000, as stated in the last will and testament of your father, Henry Thorne, has not been received by you. If you wish to claim your inheritance, it is suggested you appear at the law offices of Grimm and Bowker at your earliest convenience. Please kindly inform us when you shall be coming so that we may prepare your cheque.

Yours truly . . .

Emmy did not read the remaining few words. The letter fell from her open hand and glided to the tiles at her feet.

EMMY
had not expected to see London again.

It was not the lure of the money that drew her back, though she supposed few would believe that to be true. She hadn't any idea what it would be like to have that much money. Indeed, she could not imagine it. Instead, it was the notion that Emmy had been
known
that pulled her. The shadow man who was her father had a name, Henry Thorne. And Henry Thorne knew her. In his death—and in his will—he had acknowledged her as his daughter. He had provided for her, the only way the dead can: through what they leave behind.

Emmy wanted to know who he was, how he knew Mum, how he knew where to find her, what he thought of her. She wanted to know if he wished he could have been a part of her life and why he chose not to be. Surely this lawyer, who must have known her father, would have the answers.

Charlotte offered to come with Emmy, nearly insisted that she come, but Emmy thanked her and told her she would go alone. Rose and the boys would not like it if they both left for an entire day, and truth be told, Emmy did not want Charlotte to be any part of this meeting, even as a witness. Emmy would have to crawl back into Emmeline Downtree's skin to find out the answers to her questions. She didn't want anyone to see her as her old self.

She did not need Charlotte's assistance legally, either. In Emmeline years, she was nineteen, though Emmy felt every bit as old as Isabel's twenty-two years.

Charlotte drove her to the train station in Moreton early in the morning on February 16. When she hugged Emmy good-bye, her eyes glistened with tears, as though she were bidding Emmy farewell for a journey of ten thousand days.

“I'll be back this evening,” Emmy said.

Charlotte nodded, laughed away her tears, and told her to be careful.

Emmy chose a seat where she could see Charlotte on the platform. She wanted to wave to her from the window, to smile, and assure Charlotte that she would be all right. And Emmy wanted the last thing she saw as the train puffed out of the station to be Charlotte's face, her raised hand, and that long silver braid.

Emmy had spent her whole life minimizing any thoughts or feelings she had about her father. Mum had never wanted her to contemplate him, which had always made Emmy think that to her mother, he was just a chance encounter she wished to forget. But as the train rumbled across the landscape, all Emmy could do was contemplate him. His name was Henry Thorne. He had provided for her in his will. He was a man of means. He had to be. Thirty thousand pounds was an enormous amount of money.

Had he made himself rich at a young age?

Or was he the son of a rich man?

How did he die? Was he a soldier in the war?

Did his parents know about her?

By the time Emmy arrived at Chelsea station three trains later, her mind was awhirl with ponderings. As she walked the blocks to the law firm's offices, she was insulated from contending with the evidence of London's four-and-a-half-year-long nightmare. She was only vaguely aware that the city's streets did not look the same, nor did its weary people.

At the threshold of Grimm and Bowker, a brick and ivy-covered building on a street lined with leafless trees, Emmy stood still for a moment to calm her anxious heart. She did not want to inundate Mr. Bowker with endless questions, yet she hoped the man would have time to speak to her. There was so much Emmy wanted to know.

As she stepped inside, a silvery bell announced her arrival. A woman in a tweed suit sitting behind an ebony desk looked up and offered a knowing half smile.

“Emmeline Downtree,” Emmy said anyway. “I've an appointment with Mr. Bowker.”

The woman nodded toward three upholstered chairs lined up against a paneled wall.

“Won't you have a seat?” she said.

As Emmy turned to follow her instructions, a door behind the woman opened. Standing there was a silver-haired man wearing a charcoal gray suit, wire-rim spectacles, and a trimmed mustache and goatee. He was expecting Emmy, yet she was aware that her presence startled him. He stared at her, undone, or so it seemed, by her physical features.

“Miss Downtree, this won't take but a moment. If you will follow me,” he said a few seconds later, with the same forced politeness as his secretary.

Emmy sensed she was to take her money and leave. Her many questions hovered in her head. Which ones would she have time to ask?

She followed the man into a narrow hallway, past two closed doors, to a third door, which was open. He stepped inside.

Mr. Bowker's office was nicely appointed. Polished wood gleamed everywhere. Red- and brown-spined books were shelved on bookcases that spanned three of the four walls. Two leather-upholstered chairs faced his desk.

Emmy started to sit in one of them but Mr. Bowker stopped her.

“Actually, I have your check right here, Miss Downtree,” he said, emphasizing her last name in a way that befuddled her. He reached for an envelope lying near the edge of his desk.

“I have a few questions,” Emmy said, hearing a tremor in her voice and wondering whether he heard it as well.

He arched his silver-gray eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

Emmy lowered herself into one of his chairs, feigning confidence, but actually needing to sit to keep the world from spinning.

“I—I have a few questions.”

Mr. Bowker stared at her. “I have not been instructed to answer questions, Miss Downtree.”

Instructed? Who was giving him instructions?

“I would like to know when my father died, please. I was not told,” Emmy said, attempting to sound merely like a grieving daughter.

His raised eyebrows lowered to become part of a thinly veiled scowl. “I have not been instructed to answer questions. If you feel you are entitled to more than this check—”

“Entitled?” Emmy echoed, feeling a strange indignation rising up within her. “You—you wrote to me that my father had provided for me in his will, Mr. Bowker.
You
wrote to me.”

He opened his mouth to say something but the secretary poked her head in the room.

“She's on the telephone. She wants to speak with you. Says it can't wait,” the secretary said.

Mr. Bowker frowned. He handed the envelope to Emmy. “I believe we are finished here, Miss Downtree.”

Emmy hesitated, unwilling to leave without so much as a crumb of information. He took a step toward her, the envelope now just inches from her.

Emmy took it. What else could she do? She rose slowly from the chair, holding the slimmest of evidence that she'd had a father who had known who she was.

As the secretary ushered her back down the corridor, she heard Mr. Bowker speak into the receiver of his phone.

“That's not what we agreed,” he said. And then, “I really don't think that will be necessary.” And finally, just as the inner door to the corridor closed behind Emmy, “But she's already left.”

Whoever he was speaking to was talking about her. The person on the other end of that call was surely the one who had instructed Mr. Bowker that Emmy was to be given her check and shown the door.

At that moment Emmy had the first inkling as to why Henry Thorne had waited until he was dead to provide for her the way any decent father should.

Emmy was the result of an illicit relationship that ought not to have been. She had long known that. But now she was putting the rest of the puzzle together. Wealthy Henry Thorne had not taken responsibility for
her existence while he lived, but did so in death—hence the will—lest he be damned twice over.

Emmy wanted out of that office. She quickened her steps to the front door and pulled it open.

“Wait!” said a voice behind her.

She turned and Mr. Bowker stood at the connecting door.

“You've been asked to please wait for a car to come for you. You're wanted at the house.” He said it as if he'd been forced to speak with a gun pointed at his head.

“Who wants me? What house?” Emmy replied, hardly able to comprehend what he was saying.

Mr. Bowker sighed heavily. “Mrs. Thorne wants to have a word with you. She's sending a car.”

“His . . . mother?” Emmy said. A nervous mother cleaning up her son's mistakes? Her grandmother?

He looked at Emmy as if she were daft. “His
wife
.”

The way he said it made her feel ugly and valueless. A pariah.

Emmy's hand was still on the doorknob as she vacillated between leaving and staying.

“She wants a word,” Mr. Bowker said again, and it was obvious he'd been told to see that Emmy stayed and waited for the car to come for her.

“I've done nothing wrong,” she blurted.

The man's hard features softened the tiniest bit. He had not been paid to look out for Emmy's interests, clearly, but a sliver of compassion for her was now etched on his face.

“You said you had some questions,” Mr. Bowker said. “If you really want the answers, stay for the car. If you don't, leave. I will tell her I couldn't make you stay.”

Emmy wanted so much for someone to tell her what to do. She should have brought Charlotte with her. It
was her damnable pride that made her tell Charlotte she didn't need her. But Charlotte wasn't there. There was only herself, the lawyer, and his tight-lipped secretary.

“Would you stay, if you were me?” Emmy finally asked, a challenge in her tone.

He shook his head, almost as if to shake away the entirety of all the messes people made when they let their desires run amok. “Honestly, I'd take the check and leave.”

Mrs. Thorne was not happy about this situation. That was clear.

“I never knew his name until you sent me that letter,” Emmy said, her throat thickening with childlike sadness.

“She never knew about you until she saw his will.”

It hurt Emmy to hear him say it that way. She felt at fault for having survived childbirth and taken her first breath.

But she was sure Mr. Bowker didn't include himself among the unaware. He had known about her. He had drawn up the will.

“Why not?” Emmy asked.

“You seem a reasonably smart girl. I am sure you can guess.”

Emmy didn't want to guess. She wanted the truth. She took her hand off the doorknob and let the door swish closed.

She took a seat in one of the chairs and smoothed her skirt.

“When did he die, Mr. Bowker?”

Emmy expected the man to say a year ago or six months ago or even on Remembrance Day, three months before.

She did not expect him to say that Henry Thorne had died on September 8, 1940, in the basement of the Sharington Crescent Hotel, his arms wrapped around her mother.