The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

knew—that I was confused and unsure, not willing to let go of a lifetime’s worth of self-denial and a strongly held belief that my life had a known outcome and a specified number of years assigned to it. She would have couched it in different terms, though. She would have just called me an idiot.

Colin was already moving toward the exit. Not wanting to argue in front of Penelope and James, I said my good-byes and followed him out into the cool spring evening.

“You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,” he said, already looking for a taxi, striding ahead with his hands shoved into his pockets.

I rubbed my hands on my bare arms. It had been warmer in the afternoon when we’d rushed Precious to the hospital, and I was wearing a sleeveless blouse.

“Here,” Colin said, slipping his sweater over his head and handing it to me. “I remember you always being cold and never having the proper clothing. It must be an American thing.”

He wore a long-sleeved shirt underneath, so I didn’t feel guilty accepting the sweater. “Probably more of a Southern thing,” I corrected. I pulled the sweater over my head, feeling his body heat against my bare skin, smelling the clean, soapy scent of him that clung to the fibers. I resisted the impulse to bury my nose in the knit and breathe deeply. The sleeves were way too long, and I let them dangle.

“Can we walk back?” I asked. “I’m exhausted, but it’s not that far. I need to clear my head.”

“Yes, that bagel in a bowl of grits must be difficult to overcome.”

I gave him a playful elbow in the ribs, and he groaned with exaggerated pain.

“Sure,” he said, falling into step beside me as we made our way to Marylebone Road.

We walked in silence as I breathed in a lungful of air, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I loved London’s deep purple sky on clear nights, the city’s glow creating a bruised halo on the horizon. But over Regent’s Park, where there was no competition from artificial lights, I could see the stars.

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” I asked, finally voicing the thought that had been pecking at my head since we’d rushed Precious to the hospital.

“She’s almost one hundred, Madison. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that it’s simply her time. And believe me, I hate saying that as much as you probably hate hearing it.”

I swallowed, nodded. “She told me she went to France to escape her ghosts. And that living this long has been her punishment. I’m not sure what to make of that.”

I felt him looking at me, but I didn’t turn my head. “Neither am I. I’ve never heard her say that.”

“I’m wondering if bringing up all these old memories hasn’t been good for her health.”

“Arabella said the same thing.” A car passed by, the sound of an orchestra pealing out from an open rear window, then fading as the car sped away.

“Do you agree?” I asked.

“No. I actually think Nana’s relieved. It’s cathartic. You seem to have given her a new purpose, something to achieve before she dies.”

Now I did look at him. “How have I become something for her to achieve?”

“Well, imagine living most of your life holding on to some burden, something for which you believe you need to be forgiven. You plan on taking it to your grave. And then, just when you think it’s too late, you see the opportunity to unburden yourself. To perhaps make dying not so hard to contemplate.”

“But she could have chosen anyone—you or Arabella, for instance.”

“True. But maybe she chose you because you’re blood related. Or she just saw an opportunity to help someone avoid the same mistakes she’s made.”

I stopped walking and faced him. “Just stop right there. Regardless of what Precious does or doesn’t think, you can’t make assumptions. You know virtually nothing about me.”

A cool breeze lifted the hair from his forehead, making him look somehow boyish. Vulnerable. “I know you more than you think.”

I turned away and resumed walking, faster than before. “We’re not talking about this now.”

“Later, then?”

I shook my head vigorously. “No.”

“All right. But can we talk about something else? We have about eight blocks to go.”

“Depends—about what?”

“I didn’t get to tell you earlier because of what’s happening with Nana, but Mother heard from Hyacinth Ponsonby. About Graham. We found him post–nineteen forty.”

I slowed down. “And? Where was he? What was he doing?”

“Do you want the official title or what he was actually doing?”

“They’re not the same thing?”

“Not exactly. After Graham was shot down over the Channel, his injuries prevented him from returning to the RAF, so he secured a position in the War Office. He was assigned to work in the map room in Churchill’s basement war rooms.”

“How did he do that? Doesn’t a person have to know someone to jump from flying planes to that sort of position?”

“Well, he came from an aristocratic family, but you’re right. One doesn’t ‘get a job’ at the War Office without some sort of background. Or, as you said, knowing someone. Apparently, Great-uncle Graham had both. Hyacinth, bless her, did some digging into his life before the war. She discovered that he read Persian and Arabic at Christ Church, Oxford—apparently he was quite proficient with foreign languages; his government files show that he spoke at least six, including German.” He raised his eyebrows at this last. “He also learned to fly at Oxford, as a sort of hobby, I suppose. Following Oxford, he joined the Diplomatic Service and was sent to Burma. He also flew while he was overseas. His earlier training meant he was able to jump through some of the basic RAF training requirements. He flew his first mission—reconnaissance, not actual fighting—in December nineteen thirty-nine, after joining the RAF in July of that year.”

“Smart guy or a fast learner?” I asked.

“Most likely both. I am related to him, after all.”

I pressed my