I smiled as she squeezed my hand.

  “You’re right, I really ought to. I’ve been such a coward, but our baby deserves better than that. He or she isn’t something shameful to be hidden away. I have to stop being so wet. I’ll go into town tomorrow and use the telephone at the Post Office.”

  “We’ll go together,” said Barbara. “After I’ve milked the cows and mucked out the pigs. God, there’s nothing worse than smelling like manure!”

  Winter was bitterly cold that year with more shortages, and the shelves in shops bare. The government encouraged us to eat horsemeat and whale meat, and we were warned that Christmas would be a threadbare affair. To keep warm at night, we’d each put a brick in the oven, wrap it in tea towels and take it to bed to warm the frigid sheets. It helped, a little.

  The snow was particularly bad in the Dales, falling in thick, wet flakes that turned to banks of ice on the roads.

  While Barbara did her morning chores, I moved slowly and sluggishly, heaving my heavy belly around the little cottage as I dressed in front of the fire and ate a boiled egg with thick slices of freshly baked bread, a gift from Mrs. Dowthwaite, the farmer’s kind and considerate wife.

  She’d become something of a surrogate mother to me, bustling without being intrusive, but I knew she wondered why I wasn’t with my family. I wondered that, too, and every day it seemed more of a puzzle why hadn’t I confided in parents who loved me. I knew they’d be shocked at my condition, but they’d forgive me, surely?

  I wrapped another scarf around my shoulders and searched for my gumboots to wade through the farmyard muck. Barbara and I were getting a lift into town on the milk lorry, and Mrs. Dowthwaite said she’d meet us from the bus stop on the way back, although for the life of her she couldn’t understand why I was insisting on going into town in such filthy weather. She had no idea how important this telephone call would be.

  But as I was attempting to bend down to pull on my boots, there was a knock at the cottage door. We had a few visitors, other Land Girls who wanted a moment away from the farm, and we’d had several cosy evenings together chatting around the fire or playing cards. It was, however, more unusual to have a caller during the day.

  I opened the door, shivering as a gust of icy wind cut through my layers of clothes. A boy in the uniform of a Telegram Messenger stood there, his bicycle propped against the cottage wall.

  I stared at him, horrified. Telegrams only brought bad news. Had something happened to Charlie? Was it my mother? My father?

  “Mrs. Sylvia Woods?” he asked, holding out a brown envelope.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to wait for a reply, missus?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Just a moment, please.”

  With shaking hands, I opened the envelope. I gasped in shock, the message slipping from my numb fingers.

  Harry alive STOP

  Telephone us STOP

  Mother

  And then I fainted.

  Chapter Forty

  Day Eight, June 2019

  Fiona

  Joe was right. Dolly was counting cards, a complicated system that involved memorizing all the cards in a deck as they were played then calculating the odds of which cards would come up next. Joe tried to explain it to me, but it was clear that the calculations were extremely complex and involved more than one deck of cards—sometimes as many as eight—and he didn’t really understand the process either.

  It wasn’t cheating, but it was still frowned upon, and she’d cleaned up at two more casinos that evening, netting more money than she was prepared to tell us about.

  Word had gotten around quickly. By the time we hit the last casino that night, Vegas was buzzing, and her street name, ‘The Lilac Ladykiller’ was being whispered everywhere we went. She loved it, but I was worried. It seemed to me that it was hanging a huge sign over our heads saying, Please mug us!

  Joe was nervous, too, even though he’d been in on the plan from the start. To be honest, I was a little hurt that neither of them had told me the truth about this trip. Was it because they thought I was too prudish to approve? Was I really that much of a fun sucker? No! I wasn’t a prude—I was just careful.

  We fell into bed as dawn was breaking, and I had no idea where Dolly had gotten her stamina, because I was utterly exhausted.

  I slept until lunchtime, waking only when I heard Joe turning on the TV in our living room. I glanced across at Dolly who was curled up on her side, a tuft of lilac hair peeking out from under the sheet. Yawning, I pulled on my robe and tiptoed from the room, closing the door quietly. But when I saw Joe, I stopped in my tracks.

  He was barefoot and bare chested, wearing only his jeans. He stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, lifting his face to the sun, hair streaming down his back. His skin glowed, golden in the warm light, and my eyes followed every ripple, every curve and play of his muscles, drinking it in, an oasis in my desert. It reminded me so much of the first time I’d seen him, and the moment when I’d felt my dormant heart give the faintest shiver to show it was still there, beating quietly.

  He must have heard me behind him, or perhaps I was just breathing very loudly. He didn’t turn around but his head tilted in my direction.

  “Join me?”

  I knotted my robe more firmly, aware that my generous boobs were freewheeling underneath.

  I stood next to him, every molecule aware of his closeness, a spicy scent rising from his warm skin. Then he draped his arm around my shoulders, and I nearly jumped.

  He grinned down and squeezed my arm.

  “Quite a view,” I said, wishing the windows opened so I could feel the sun on my face, wishing that the Bellagio’s penthouse came with balconies, wishing that my looks matched those of the beautiful man standing next to me.

  And wishing I didn’t sound like I’d swallowed a rock when I spoke.

  “Yeah, it is,” he said, staring down at the fountains, not appearing to notice that I was stiff as a board next to him. “But I’m not much of a city guy.”

  “Me either. I went to Des Moines once, and that’s the largest city I’ve ever been to. It had a lot of energy, but I don’t think I’d want to live there. I always dreamed about living in LA because it seemed so far away and glamorous, but it’s just a dream, and I’m a small town girl at heart: ‘welcome to Iowa—we do amazing things with corn’.”

  He gave an amused snort, then turned to look at me. “You looked beautiful dressed as Marilyn last night.”

  “Thank you,” I said, pleased and surprised, but still not able to relax with him this close to me.

  “But you look more beautiful without the makeup, standing there all soft and sleepy. It makes me want to…”

  He paused, and I held my breath. When he didn’t speak, I prompted him.

  “Makes you want to what?”

  His eyes flashed dangerously and he hooked a finger through the belt of my robe, tugging me closer.

  “It makes me want to undo this and see if you’re as soft and sweet underneath it,” he said, his warm breath tickling the side of my neck. “It makes me want to see how wet I can get you, and it makes me want to take you back to bed and hear you scream my name.”

  I gasped, so very, very interested in all of that happening, too.

  He stared at me hungrily, his hot gaze trickling down my cleavage.

  I was starving for him. I wanted to run my tongue across his sculpted chest; I wanted to taste the hollow at the base of his throat; I wanted to suck his heated skin until it turned red; I wanted to feel his body against mine, around mine, inside mine. And I didn’t want to live my life with regrets anymore.

  Boldly, I reached out to press my hand over his heart, not having the words to ask for what I wanted so very badly.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low, shaken. “You want this?”

  I nodded, licking my lips, trying to speak but unable. I nodded again, aware that I must look as ridiculous as one of those toy dogs that wagged their heads in car windows.

  But I didn’t need to speak, because he held his hand over mine, flattening my palm against his chest, pressing so hard I could feel his heart pounding under my fingers. Then he grasped my wrist and led me into his bedroom.

  The moment the door closed, his hands were on me, pulling my robe open roughly, his lips grazing my throat. And I was doing the same, wanting to touch and taste and feel and see all at the same time. Our mouths met in a frenzy, teeth clashing, my nails clawing his back, dragging across his perfect skin, feeling his spine ripple under my hands. I pushed my fingers down the back of his jeans, that wonderful firm ass flexing under my fingers.

  He grunted, his hands flying to the button on his pants, forcing them over his legs as his shaft reared up towards me.

  My robe was gone and I didn’t know when that had happened. And my hunger was roaring inside me. He groaned but didn’t stop me.

  And suddenly awareness hit me, the brightness of the daylight, the wide open curtains, and I froze, trying to cover my bulging belly and heavy breasts from anyone who might be looking up, but mostly from Joe.

  “No, don’t!” he snapped, pulling my hands away. “You’re not hiding anymore. I’ll stop if you want me to and God knows I don’t, but I won’t let you hide.”

  And before I could answer, he fell to his knees, burying his face in the round, softness of my stomach, his strong arms gripping my hips, as he kissed and kissed and kissed me there, raining soft, hard, wet kisses onto my belly, the part of me I hated the most.

  And when his lips moved lower, sucking at my clit, I cried with amazement and joy and relief; and I cried real tears, not just of release but of something deeper, of acceptance.

  He nudged me backwards as my legs shook, and I fell onto the bed, naked, reckless, free. The size of his body excited me unbearably, his whole body—the width of his shoulders, the thickness of his rough thighs, the vast canvas of his beautiful skin, and his hair, that glossy mane, tangling in my hands, as I used it to drag him against me.

  He struggled backwards as I tried to pull him closer, his eyes intense as he reached for his wallet and rolled on a condom.

  “Going to be quick,” he muttered. “Can’t … I can’t…”

  I pulled him against me again, feeling powerful as I felt his sweat slick skin on mine. It was super-heated, rough and hard, and his eyes never left mine as he slammed into me again and again. I locked my ankles behind his waist, pulling him in deeper, throwing my head back as he surged once more, his eyes blazing, before he buried his head into the pillow next to me, his hips flexing one final time.

  We lay in the sunshine, panting, smiling, jubilant. And because I could, I pushed his hair away from his throat and sucked his ear lobe gently.

  He rolled off me so we were side by side, but when his hand reached across to push a sweaty lock away from my cheek, he’d never felt closer. I was small and sheltered against him. His height and strength made me feel safe and I trusted him to keep me that way. But experience had taught me trust was a dangerous thing.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Yorkshire Dales, December 1943

  Sylvia

  Barbara and Mrs. Dowthwaite were crowding around me, rubbing my hands and peering into my face. I don’t know if they picked me off the floor or whether the skinny little Messenger Boy had, but now I was lying on our small settee, shrouded in blankets.

  “Thank God,” Barbara whispered as my eyes fluttered open.

  “You gave us quite a scare, luv,” said Mrs. Dowthwaite. And as for that poor Messenger Boy, I don’t think he’ll ever be the same again.”

  “I’m alright, missus,” said the boy, holding his cap in his hand as he warmed himself beside our fire.

  I licked my dry lips, struggling to sit up.

  “Is … Harry … I…”

  “Yes,” Barbara said, her gaze worried. “The telegram is from your mother. She says that Harry is alive.”

  “Isn’t that the most marvellous news!” said Mrs. Dowthwaite. “Miracles do happen, my dear!”

  I felt a sharp pain in my belly as they all waited for me to say something. I blinked up at them.

  “I think my waters have broken.”

  In the shocked silence that followed, Mrs. Dowthwaite was the first to react.

  “Right, we’d better get you upstairs, luv. Can you walk?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “And you, my lad,” she said to the Telegram Boy. “Go and fetch Dr. Barnard. Quick as you like.” Then she turned to Barbara. “Come along, lass. Let’s get Mrs. Woods upstairs.”

  Standing on legs as wobbly as a newborn foal, I clung to Mrs. Dowthwaite’s warm hand, drowning in a sea of uncertainty as emotions overwhelmed me. What was I going to do? What would I tell Harry? What would I tell Charlie? What about the baby? I should have been delirious with happiness that Harry was alive. But I’d heard him die. I’d heard the moment that his plane had crashed into the sea. He’d said goodbye. He’d gone. He’d died. I’d prayed for him. I’d mourned him. I’d fallen in love again, and now … and now…

  Another sharp pain cut through the fog of confusion, and I cried out.

  I let the pain wash over me, then took a deep breath. My baby was not going to be born on the floor of this cottage. With a strength I didn’t know I possessed, I climbed the steep stairs to my tiny room, staggering like a drunkard. There was no fire in the room and snow was beginning to pile up on the window ledge.

  The world outside was completely white.

  Barbara was sent to fetch some warm bricks for my bed while Mrs. Dowthwaite helped me undress. I shivered with cold even as sweat ran down my face every time another contraction shuddered through me.

  When Barbara arrived with two hot bricks wrapped in a tea towel, I was very grateful.

  “And a nice cup of tea for everyone,” said Mrs. Dowthwaite, chivvying Barbara down the stairs again with whispered words that I couldn’t hear. “Oh dear,” she said to me. “I’m not thinking very clearly. I should have told that Telegram Boy to send a message to your mother. Ah well, no use crying over spilled milk.”

  “I … I need to telephone her,” I gasped.

  “We’ll take care of that, don’t you worry. Let’s see your bairn into the world, and then you’ll really have something to tell her.”

  I started to laugh hysterically. “She’ll be so surprised!” I hiccoughed.

  “Well, the little one is eager to come, that’s for sure,” she said, and then looked at me carefully. “Is your mam not in good health? Is that why you’re not with her?”

  I was saved from answering by another contraction.

  Mrs. Dowthwaite frowned. “Hmm, they’re coming quite close together now. I think it’s the shock.”

  “But … the baby isn’t due for another five weeks,” I cried.

  “The little one’s in more of a hurry than that,” she said. “But don’t worry. Dr. Barnard brought my four boys into the world. There’s no better doctor in the whole of the Dales.”

  When Barbara arrived with cups of tea for us all, flakes of snow were clinging to her hair. She must have been to the farmhouse, as well.

  “How long will it be before Dr. Barnard gets here?” I asked. Barbara and Mrs. Dowthwaite exchanged a look. “What? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Look here, Woods,” said Barbara gently. “The snow’s coming down pretty heavily now. The road will be blocked soon.”

  Mrs. Dowthwaite nodded in agreement. “I asked Barbara to nip over to the farm. One of the girls will drive the tractor to meet Dr. Barnard at the top road.”

  Panic started to grip me, but Mrs. Dowthwaite held my hand firmly.

  “Now listen to me, my girl. I’ve birthed four babies at home and they all grew up to be strapping young men. And I helped my daughter-in-law bring her little ‘un into the world. Even if the doctor doesn’t get here, you’re in good hands. Right then, Barbara, go and start boiling some water. Sterilise a pair of scissors and bring me all the clean towels you have. If there aren’t enough, pop over to the farmhouse and get some more.” She turned to me, her heavily lined face warm and reassuring. “There, there, dear. You’re going to be just fine. You and your little miracle.”

  But before she could move, another wave of pain hit, a scream tearing from me. When I opened my eyes, my hand was still gripping Barbara’s, and her face was pale but determined.

  “Come on, Woods,” she whispered. “We can do this. I won’t let go.”

  I nodded, perspiration soaking my body. “It’s too soon,” I gasped, my voice begging. “The baby, it’s too soon!”

  “It’s going to be fine,” she said. “The little nipper will be smaller, so a bit easier to pop out, I expect.”

  Her voice was matter-of-fact, but her eyes were large and fearful.

  “If anything happens,” I whispered, “you’ll take care of my baby, won’t you?”

  “Nothing is going to happen to you,” she replied, tears gathering in her eyes.

  “Promise me, Barbara!” I begged.

  “Of course I promise! But you’re going to be fine!”

  “Is the doctor coming?”

  “Yes, he’s coming. But there’s deep snow outside. It’ll take a while. But he’s coming, I promise you.”

  “We’re a tough lot up here, luv,” said Mrs. Dowthwaite. “This little bit o’ snow won’t stop the doctor.”

  “Soon?” I gasped.

  “He’s on his way.”

  Another pulse of pain swept through me, and I crushed Barbara’s hand in mine.

  “Steady on, Woods!” she yelped, making me laugh through my panting and crying.

  But then another contraction clawed at me, and the agony tore an animal scream from my throat.

  Pain, so much pain, white hot, erasing my mental anguish as visions of Charlie and Harry swirled through my mind.

  Hour after hour, I was trapped in a cycle of torment as my body sought to tear itself in two. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow, just now, burning in the fire.