The Rose Code - Page 42

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow.” Beth’s father spoke loud enough to make everyone jump. “We’re all overwrought, this news about the Americans—”

But Mrs. Finch rode over him, eyes filled with tears. “Why are you behaving like this, Bethan? Why? You haven’t been the same since that job.”

“Why is this about my job?” Beth had to raise her own voice to be heard. “You threw my dog out! What kind of person would—”

“—you didn’t have to take that job. They don’t need you!”

“Yes, they do.” Beth threw her head back. “There isn’t anyone there who can do what I do.”

“And what is it you do?” Mrs. Finch’s voice rose. “If it’s so important, tell me. Tell me right now.”

Beth refused to get sidetracked down that path. “I won’t apologize for taking the job at BP.” Ever since she’d started working, all she’d done at home was apologize for it. No more.

“Your job is here! You’re my little helper. What am I supposed to do without extra hands at home?”

“I help you every minute I’m home. I’m happy to help. And you still threw my dog out in the damned street—”

“You care more for a dog and a job than your own mother.” Mrs. Finch pressed a hand against her temple. “Your own mother, who isn’t well—”

Mab’s voice sounded behind Beth, amused and contemptuous. “Here comes the headache.”

“Right on schedule,” Osla agreed.

“Don’t you talk back to me, you two tarts,” Mrs. Finch snapped. “Encouraging my Bethan to behave like a common—”

“A common what?” Suddenly Beth’s words were pouring out. “Mother, I work for the war effort. I meet with friends to talk about books. I have the occasional glass of sherry. Why does any of that make me a tart?”

Mrs. Finch poked her Bible at Beth. “‘Do not profane your daughter by making her a harlot—’”

Beth swatted the book out of her hands to the floor. “I’m not doing anything wrong, and you bloody well know it. So why does it bother you?”

“I didn’t give you permission to—”

“I am twenty-five years old!”

“It’s my house, you’ll obey my rules—”

“BP pays me a salary of one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and I give it all to you! I’ve earned the right to—”

Mrs. Finch seized Beth’s arm. For the first time, Beth put her hands to her mother’s shoulders and shoved her back. The skin inside her elbow stung, and she realized how unerringly her mother’s strong fingers always found that spot where the flesh was the most tender. She couldn’t remember the last time her arms hadn’t been bruised blue.

“Please.” Beth’s father stood wringing his hands. “Can we all have a cup of tea and—”

“Where were you when she put my dog out?” Beth rounded on him. The spark of rage had grown to a cloud, billowing up inside her throat, choking her. “Why didn’t you stop her? Or why didn’t you get out of your armchair and take him out yourself when I was working late, so he didn’t make a mess in the first place?”

“Well—” Mr. Finch shifted, uncomfortable. “She said I shouldn’t—”

“It’s your house, too!” Beth cried. “But you never tell her no. Do it, Dad. Tell her I can keep my dog. Tell her to stop badgering me. Tell her to stop.”

Mrs. Finch folded her arms tight, a spot of color burning high in each cheek. “I want that dog gone, and that is final.”

Silence. Boots whined beside Beth’s feet. She could feel Osla and Mab behind her like sentinels. Mr. Finch cleared his throat, opened his mouth. Shut it again.

Mrs. Finch gave a sharp nod, eyes boring into Beth. “What do you have to say now, miss?”

“If the dog goes, so do I,” Beth said, drawing a long breath. “And the next time you get a headache you can wring out your own washcloth, you Sunday school bully.”

This time it was Mrs. Finch’s hand that whipped out. Beth stepped back, and the blow missed. Mr. Finch seized his wife’s arm before she could swing again. “Muriel—Beth—let’s sit down—”

“No.” Beth turned away and fumbled her coat on, numb and shaking. “I’m going.”

“So are we.” Mab brushed past Mrs. Finch, Osla marching straight after her. A moment later Beth heard their footsteps up the creaky stairs, heard the bedroom door open, heard the sound of traveling cases sliding out from under beds. Mrs. Finch turned a mottled red, lips pressing together in a tight line. Beth looked at her another long, dreadful moment, then turned away to fetch her handbag and a lead for Boots. She knew she should go upstairs and gather some things, but she couldn’t make herself retreat even one step further into the house. The dreadful stillness spread and spread.

In no time at all, Mab and Osla clattered back downstairs, carrying not just their own traveling cases but Beth’s, exploding with hastily stuffed slips and blouses. “The road you are walking leads to hell,” Mrs. Finch said, white with fury.

“At least you won’t be there,” said Beth.

The three of them walked out of the house where Beth had lived all her life, Boots trotting at their heels, and shut the door behind them.

Chapter 29

As far as Mab knew, princes married princesses, not Canadian commoners—therefore, Philip of Greece had no business making Osla fall head over heels, and Mab wasn’t prepared to warm to him. Still, she had to admit he was a looker as he picked the three of them up from Euston station in his rakish little Vauxhall, fair hair rumpled. “Hullo, princess,” he greeted Osla, and his grin made even Mab’s impervious pulse flutter. “I hear you and your damsels are in need of rescuing.”

“No daffing about, Philip, we barely escaped with our lives.” Osla leaned over the Vauxhall’s door to kiss him, and though it was a brief kiss, the heat of it made Mab wonder if that midnight talk about the facts of life had come just in time. “Philip, meet Mab Churt and Beth Finch,” Osla continued. “The three of us are temporarily homeless and absolutely knackered.”

Philip hopped out and shook hands. Mab did her best to look like she met princes every day, and Beth spoke for the first time since leaving Bletchley on the train they’d caught by the tips of their fingers. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Fizz, coming right up.” Philip’s eyes gleamed as he threw their bags in the boot. “So, why the SOS so late at night? I sense a story.”

Osla shrugged. “Beth’s mother flipped her wicket—”

“Bitch,” Mab couldn’t help muttering. “I’m sorry, Beth, but she is.”

“She is,” Beth agreed. She looked pale and wrung out, climbing in the backseat with Boots, but Mab thought something inside Beth had unwound somehow. It had left her shaky but defiant, shoulders squared as never before. Hurrah, Beth, Mab thought with a rush of pride as the Vauxhall shot off into the night. Wherever the BP billeting officer bunked them next, it simply couldn’t be worse than Mrs. Finch. No more nosy questions, no more leathery Woolton pie . . .

“Claridge’s, darling,” Osla was saying to Philip. “My mother’s at Kelburn Castle on a house party, so her suite’s empty . . .”

The hall porter at Claridge’s greeted Osla like a long-lost niece, and Mab and Beth like royalty. “A gentleman waiting inside for you, Miss Churt. A Mr. Gray—”

Mab flew inside. The art deco hotel court with its glittering chandelier and black and white tiles was thronged with women in satin and men in uniform, champagne corks popping as everyone celebrated the Americans’ entering the war. To Mab, that already felt like it had happened a year ago. She craned her head, and there was Francis, standing hands in his pockets, watching the party with that air of distant enjoyment she knew so well. He looked less tanned—evidently he hadn’t seen much sun, these last two months in America—but the smile was the same.

“Francis,” she called, and there was a moment’s awkwardness as they both hovered, visibly wondering whether to embrace or shake hands. They hadn’t worked any of that out yet—they hadn’t worked anything out, really, though they’d been engaged since September. Finally Mab stepped forward and kissed his cheek. He smelled like sandalwood and his hair looked so soft she wanted to run her hands through it, but she didn’t quite dare. “I didn’t think you’d be able to meet me on such short notice.” Mab had managed to ring him from Bletchley station, but what a way to reunite after nearly three months.

“You look well.” His eyes went over her, that look that made her feel naked. “Your family, they’re well too?”

“Yes, Lucy’s back in London with Mum now that the bombings have tailed off.” Francis had met them both, two days before he left for America—Mab’s mother had been flustered by the posh tearoom and Lucy had been wary, not at all convinced that this stranger wasn’t going to take Mab even more away than she already was . . . but Francis had been friendly, unflappable, and he hadn’t raised even the hint of an eyebrow at Mab’s post-tearoom suggestion that Lucy might live with them. With that, Mab had exhaled her last bit of caution. It was all going to be just fine.

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