THE WAR BRIDE CLUB (15 page)

      “You must be Betty.”

      He extended his hand. She walked the last few steps and reached out with her own. It was an effort to make a smile appear, but she did it. This was the man who was keeping a roof over her head. She had to make a good impression.
 

      “I’m sorry, you just look so like Charlie,” her voice was soft, low. “It took me by surprise.”

      She watched as something passed over his face. A darkness, a sadness perhaps.
 

      “And this is my nephew?”

      She took the last step to land beside him and propped William up in the crook of her arm.
 

      “This is William Charles Olliver,” she said proudly. “I named him for my father, and for his own father too.”

      Luke nodded. She noticed that he kept snatching looks at her face, but it didn’t bother her. He was probably as unsure of her as she was of him.
 

      “Let’s have dinner, shall we? Then you can tell me all about your voyage.”

      He took up his glass. She walked beside him, keeping his pace.
 

      “I want to thank you for taking us in, Luke. I am so grateful. Without Charlie…”

      He cut her off. Abruptly. “William is my only nephew and you are my sister-in-law. There are too many unfilled rooms in this house as it is.”

      She felt a coolness that hadn’t been there before. Had she said something to offend him already? She hoped not. He was hard to read.
 

      “Ivy has dinner waiting,” he told her.
 

      Not for the first time, Betty wished Charlie was by her side. Wished he was joking and prodding at her, teasing his brother, introducing them himself. Talking about their plans, their future. Instead she was embarrassed about being a charity case.
 

      Luke might bear a resemblance to his little brother, but she had a feeling that was where the similarities ended.
 

      “Shall we let Ivy take William while we eat?”

      It was a simple question, but Betty couldn’t help the quiver in her bottom lip. Charlie would have wanted William at the table, in her lap or his.
 

      “Of course.”

      He dropped his now empty whisky glass on a low table as they passed and led her to the dining table. It was huge. Ridiculous even. She was only pleased to see they didn’t have to sit at opposite ends.

      Ivy appeared. She had a younger woman by her side who carried a tray of food. Ivy gave her an encouraging smile.
 

      “Thank you, Ivy. Are you sure you’ll be okay with him?”

      She hated to put the woman out. Looking after him twice in less than two hours!

      “My dear, that’s why I’m here.” She reached for William and tucked him against her body. “He’ll be fine. Enjoy your meal.”

      Luke stood at her chair, pulling it out and waiting for her to be seated. She complied and watched as he folded himself into the
 
seat to her left. She found it hard to meet his gaze. His dark eyes seemed to search her, to watch every move she made.
 

      It wasn’t so unusual. He’d probably formed a picture in his mind of what she’d be like, how she’d look. She was embarrassed to say she’d thought little of him. Charlie had always been on her mind. She’d often thought of where they might live, but other than looking forward to meeting his family, they hadn’t often filled her thoughts.
 

      Betty tried not to wriggle nervously in her seat. In the center were pepper and salt, and in front of her was a steaming bowl of soup. She thought of her childhood. Soup had always been accompanied by her mother’s own crusty loaf of bread, used to mop up every splash of soup. But dunking bread didn’t seem fitting given her surroundings.
 

      Luke smiled and dipped his spoon into the velvety soup. She’d eaten well enough on the ship, but the constant motion had made her feel queasy. Not that sitting with Luke was helping her nerves any.
 

      “Ivy tells me you didn’t receive the telegram.”

      She stifled a choke and placed her spoon down. She’d hoped they wouldn’t cover anything so serious so soon.
 

      “I’m sorry if you weren’t expecting me.” She kept her eyes down. Where could she look? Was this his way of telling her he wished she’d stayed behind?

      Luke’s eyes drilled a hole into her. She had to look up. He was waiting for her to make eye contact, she could feel it, like he was silently commanding her.
 

      “I’m sorry, Luke.” She barely recognized her own voice. “I’m sorry for Charlie, and I’m sorry for not staying behind.”

      She wanted to flee. To run so fast up those stairs, gather her things and go. But she didn’t. There was no where else
to
go.
 

      Luke picked up his spoon again and started to eat. As if nothing had happened. She did the same. Swallowing was hard, but she forced each mouthful down.
 

      When there was no soup left in his bowl, he put down the spoon again, wiped at the corners of his mouth, and folded his arms, chair pushed back from the table ever so slightly.
 

      Betty hadn’t finished, but she did the same. She doubted she could force any more down if she tried.
 

      The young maid scurried over and took their bowls leaving the room as quickly as she’d appeared. Betty wished she wasn’t alone with Luke.
 

      “It’s not that I don’t want you here, Betty.” Luke looked thoughtful. She saw a flicker of, what? Something that reminded her of Charlie, just briefly, in his eyes. “It’s just an awkward situation. I’m sure you agree.”

      She nodded. He was right.
 

      He smoothed a hand over the tablecloth, long fingers tracing a rhythm over the surface.
 

      “Charlie was my only brother, and he would have wanted me to look after you. I’m unmarried, so there are no heirs to our family’s property and interests, and William is my nephew. He will want for nothing, I can promise you that.”

      Betty felt a shadow fall over her – a whisper of cool air that told her she deserved better than what sounded like a business arrangement to ensure the family had a successor.
 

      “I loved him,” she said, forcing the words out. “He was my husband, and I loved him.”

      The young girl appeared again then, with two plates, one in each hand. She placed them down. Betty could feel anger burning in her veins, threatening to explode, but she held her feelings tight.
 

      “Roast duck, with an orange cointreau sauce, candied yams and green beans.”

      “I’ve no doubt you loved him,” Luke said in a low voice once the maid had disappeared again. “Charlie wrote home about you frequently. He was very pleased you were expecting.” 
      “He’s Charlie’s son.” She spat out the words, forgetting her manners.
 

      Luke smiled tightly at her and picked up his cutlery.
 

      “He looks very much like an Olliver. I never doubted it, not once I saw him.”

      Betty took her anger out on her food, cutting violently at the meat.
 

      His words hung, stale, in the air. Was she to presume he had doubted it
until
he saw William? Her hands started to shake, but she wasn’t going to flounce off.
 

      Luke was a strong man, but she was strong too. You didn’t survive losing your parents and being newly married in wartime London without being a fighter.
 

      She wanted so desperately to ask how Charlie had died. To know if his body had been recovered, how it had happened.
 

      But she would wait. She could question Ivy later, once Luke had retired for the evening.
 

CHAPTER TEN

MADELINE stared at her hands. She couldn’t help it. She could see every line, every crevice. Raw from hours working
 
in the fields, and the scrubbing afterwards.
 

      They told a story of their own.

      A thud echoed down the hall. She cringed.
 

      “Hurry up, girl!”
 

      Madeline didn’t bother with a response. She hated her mother-in-law’s voice more than the persistent miaow of a cat or whine of dog. Loathed hearing the coarse, common accent of a woman who treated her like dirt beneath her boot.
 

      “You not hear me, girl?”

      
And she hated being called girl.
 

      “I heard you just fine, and no, I’m not finished, as you can well see.”

      She wished she’d bitten her tongue, but it wasn’t in her nature. She’d grown up with parents who treated their children and those around them with kindness. Asked little of their daughters beside respect and moderate help around the house.
 

      Here, she was no better than a slave. Working in a house that was meant to be her marital home. She had to work her fingers to the bone just to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly.
 

      Her mother-in-law, Sarah, gave her a look of disgust and inspected a plate from the pile Madeline had almost finished washing. Madeline tried to ignore the woman’s tobacco-stained fingers.

      Dropping the plate back into the water, Sarah gave her a cruel smile.
 

      “Wash it again. Didn’t your mother teach you how to be a wife?”

      Madeline struggled to breathe. She managed not to scream, held the words in check, but she wasn’t going to put up with this any longer. Had to say
something.

      “If it’s not to your liking, then perhaps you should attend to them yourself,” she said.
 

      The old woman glared at her, spittle forming at the edges of her mouth as she flustered.
 

      “I’m not feeling myself. Please excuse me.” Madeline turned sharply on her heel and walked away. Calmly. Shoulders squared, with dignity, moving as slowly as she could.

      “Don’t you walk away from me!”

      She squeezed her eyes shut for a heartbeat, but kept moving.
 

      Her room appeared in front of her. She was at least grateful that it had a door. The room her sister-in-law slept in was separated from the living area by only a curtain, hanging crudely from a low pole protruding from the wall. The privacy was her savior.
 

      Madeline jammed a chair beneath the door handle as a makeshift lock and flopped down on the bed. Springs assaulted her spine but for once she didn’t care.
 

      She half expected banging on the door, for Sarah to come in and demand she get back to the dishes. Pull vegetables from the garden or hoe weeds.
Or worse.
Ring the neck of a hen for dinner.
 

      Madeline shuddered. She had no idea what to do, how to deal with the situation she’d ended up in.

      Her father kept appearing in her head, swimming in front of her eyes. She could hear his words, over and over.
I’ll bring you home, Madeline.
She needed to keep thinking it, to remind herself that what he’d said was real.
If it’s that bad over there, I’ll do whatever it takes to bring you home.
 

      Could she ask that of him? Would he still want to help her if she truly told them what it was like here? What her new family expected of her? How they treated her?
 

      When she’d met Roy’s mother, it had been a shock. A stooped lady who had once been very tall, with a mouth set in the meanest of lines, not to mention her grey hair and sharp eyes.
Like a witch
.

      Since she’d arrived, there had been times when Sarah had smiled. Or been kind. But never to her. Sometimes to her daughter, and often to her son. It was as if she thought Madeline inferior. Not good enough for him.
 

      She had never been one to compare, but it was she who felt superior in this house. Not even from a monetary point of view, but certainly when it came to manners and status.
 

      But the biggest shock had been her new sister-in-law, Carolyn. Mean as the mother, if not meaner, with a look on her face that read of nothing but disgust.
 

      They treated Roy like royalty, when in fact Madeline had come to realize he was anything but. He worked like a peasant for his parents. And he certainly cared more for them than his new wife.
 

      Where was the man she’d met in London? Where was the strong, assertive young soldier who had made her believe in him? Impressed her family and made her want to leave them behind just to be married to him? No wonder he’d avoided her questions about his home and family.