The Wartime Matchmakers, page 9
She placed his form and matching index card in a new pile in their private back office and had just settled down, only to jump to her feet when there was yet another knock.
“Together this time?” Hetty asked.
“Together.” Elizabeth smiled and opened the door to find a trio of young working-class girls near their own age.
“Welcome to the Marriage Bureau.”
CHAPTER 6
June 1939
“Isabelle?” Elizabeth came down for breakfast and halted as she saw two men out in her aunt’s back garden. Each man had a shovel, and they were digging up Isabelle’s best roses. The blooms and their leafy branches had been tossed into a messy pile a short distance away.
“Isabelle?” she called again, more deeply concerned than ever.
“Yes?” Isabelle swanned into the room. She’d pulled her hair back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck and looked ready to go on a picnic on the Amalfi Coast. The dark-green dress she wore was more sedate than her usual fashion.
Elizabeth pointed toward the kitchen window that overlooked the garden. “What are those men doing?”
Isabelle peered out the window. “Oh, good, they’re here. They’ve come to put our Anderson shelter in.”
Elizabeth shot her aunt a glance. “Do we need one?”
She and Isabelle stared at each other a long moment. “All the neighbors on our street are putting them in. I thought it was best while they still have enough. We don’t know what will happen to supplies when the fighting starts.”
The fighting . . . Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath.
For a long while, she and Isabelle studied the men digging. Elizabeth tried not to think about what it would mean to stay all night in a shelter while a cold wind howled and rainwater collected in puddles at her feet. The men had finished digging and were now moving six sheets of curved metal into a position where they were half-buried in the earth.
“Mrs. Potts, who lives two doors down said it would hold four adults and two children. We should have plenty of room if . . .”
If . . . The single word hung in the air, like a dark, choking cloud.
The corrugated iron roof was a harsh metallic creature that stood out amongst the wild glorious flowers Isabelle had worked hard to cultivate in the garden. It was silly, but Elizabeth wanted to cry at the sight of those roses that lay dying upon the gravel path. Some of the blooms had been so perfect. Without a second thought, she rushed outside, ignoring the confused stares of the two workers.
Her hands dug frantically around in the discarded blooms. Most were crushed, ripped apart, the petals ravaged and scattered upon the gravel path. Elizabeth swept up the few fallen roses that still held their glorious shape. Carrying them back to the house as though they were more fragile than spun glass, she fought back tears.
“Lizzie, what on earth are you doing?” Isabelle asked as she retrieved a vase and filled it with water before she took the stems from Elizabeth.
Once the blooms were safe, they both noticed the blood that had dripped on the kitchen table. Little crimson droplets covered the wood surface. Elizabeth found dozens of little pricks in her palms and arms. Blood welled up in several fresh places, ready to fall to the table below.
Isabelle gasped and began dabbing at the cuts with a clean cloth. “Lizzie, are you sure you’re all right?” Her eyes were shadowed with worry.
“Yes, of course.” Lizzie’s breath was a little faint. “I just . . . Something came over me, and I couldn’t . . .”
She didn’t dare finish her thoughts. It sounded mad to say that seeing those roses, innocent creations of nature, being tossed so carelessly away to die so that something so ugly, so unnatural as a bomb shelter could take their place felt wrong. It was as though the laws of nature were being overturned in the name of war.
Isabelle finished cleaning Elizabeth’s arms and dabbed some ointment on them to protect the wounds.
“I don’t like it either, but we must be practical.” Isabelle tapped her chin with a manicured finger. “Perhaps we can plant things over the top of it. I’ve heard of others trying it. Some have even put wood around the outside to make it look like a garden shed.”
“Shouldn’t a shelter be buried deeper?” Elizabeth asked. The curved metal roof looked so vulnerable to any threat from above.
“Apparently it’s supposed to be like that. They don’t work unless they’re halfway buried. It’s something to do with the corrugated roof. It allows it to survive a nearby bomb blast.”
“What about rain?” Elizabeth cringed to think of how wet and cold they would be huddling in such a thing at night.
“Mrs. Potts is putting in two sets of bunk beds. We could do the same, and make sure they’re high enough up off the ground to stay out of rainwater.” Isabelle turned away from the window and checked the slender wristwatch she wore. “I’m running late. You’re off now too, aren’t you?”
Elizabeth fetched her handbag. “Yes, I’ve got to meet Hetty early. We’re reviewing letters from applicants for the secretary position.”
Isabelle gave a proud smile. “Are you? Business that busy?”
“Yes, we’re getting about three hundred letters a day. The poor postman has to make a second trip back by our office in the evening to deliver the rest of the letters for us. My hand was fairly cramped yesterday, so Hetty is buying a typewriter and we’re looking for a secretary.”
“Marvelous. Good for you, Lizzie. See you this evening at the Astoria?” Isabelle put on her ladies’ fedora hat that had a dark-green scarf banded around it to match her dress.
“Yes.”
Her aunt rushed off and left Elizabeth to lock up. By the time she reached the office, Hetty was inching the new typewriter into the right place on the third desk they’d recently added to the office.
“Oh, there you are. Did Mrs. Meriwether, the landlady speak with you on the way up?” Hetty asked.
“No, I came in through the back door.” Elizabeth and Hetty had found that it was easier to use the entrance in the small mews beside the lingerie shop that belonged to Mrs. Meriwether so as not to disrupt her store during business hours.
“Well, she’s selling the place—the bottom half, anyway.”
“What? Oh no, she can’t. What if whoever buys the bottom won’t lease to us?” Panic rose inside Elizabeth with a swiftness that startled her. This place was more than just an office; it was a part of her now, and the thought of leaving made her ill.
“Oh, we’ll be able to stay,” Hetty assured her with a devious chuckle as she moved to study her reflection in the little mirror hanging on the wall. She smoothed her hair into place as she met Elizabeth’s gaze through the mirror’s reflection.
“What? How can you know?”
Hetty turned and placed her hands on her hips. “Because we’re buying it. We need a decent waiting room below for customers to gather and a central front desk to check in. That way, we have these two rooms up here for more private interviews and our own inner sanctum, where we may have a minute alone to do the mating of the cards.”
Elizabeth noticed that a new table had been brought in, one that had been polished to a shine and was perfect for conducting interviews. Hetty had put their desks in the smaller private room where the kitchen was.
“Where did you find that?” She nodded at the table.
“It’s a gift from Charles. Apparently, the man is remodeling his office space and he didn’t need this old thing.”
Elizabeth hid a smile. The desk was clearly brand-new.
“We’ll have the new space below ready in a week, just in time for us to find a secretary. And I was thinking, we need curtains, and more flowers . . . It should feel like a proper drawing room.”
It was a good idea. They wanted everyone who came in to feel comfortable.
A knock on the door came a moment later, preventing either of them from putting the kettle on or even settling down for the day.
“That must be our first official appointment!” Hetty hastily checked her hair again in the small mirror hanging on the wall before she answered the door. It always amused Elizabeth how much Hetty fretted over her hair. It was such a beautiful natural blonde, and Elizabeth wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a strand of it out of place.
When Hetty opened the door, a tall man with dark-red hair came into the room and removed his hat. He was handsome, perhaps almost too much so, and there was a playful glint in his hazel eyes that warned her he might be quite a charmer.
“This is the Marriage Bureau, correct?” He glanced between them. “I was recommended to visit here by a friend.”
“Oh? Who?” Elizabeth asked.
“Charles Humphrey.”
A faint blossom of color darkened Hetty’s cheeks. “Oh? How lovely. Charles is such a darling. Please come in and sit down. We’ll begin our interview shortly.”
“My name is Damien Russell, age twenty-five, fifteen thousand pounds a year in income . . .” He recited several more particulars of his person. “I’ve been in India for two years. Now I have a post here in London and plan to stay. I thought it was time to settle down.”
He gave Hetty plenty of time to write notes on a sheet of paper. “I have a small house in the country, and I enjoy outdoor sporting life.”
“And what is it you are looking for?” Elizabeth queried. “In a wife, I mean.”
“Someone attractive, well bred, someone who can be a proper hostess. That being said . . .” He paused, his face more open and honest as he relaxed. “I don’t wish to marry simply for the sake of being married. I would rather remain single than make a regrettable mistake. I’ve no use for a loveless marriage.”
“Does the money a woman brings to the marriage matter?” Hetty asked.
Elizabeth read her mind. They had met a lovely heiress last week who did not mind if her husband had money or not. They rather liked her and had been quite excited to match her up with someone proper.
“I’m not keen on marrying anyone too well off. I’m the second son of a marquess. It’s unlikely at all that I shall ever see the title in my hands. I’m quite glad of that, I assure you, but I do not want a wife who will marry me with certain expectations. I’ve worked hard to obtain what I have, and it would be unfair to marry a woman who has her heart set on a title.”
Drat! Elizabeth had hoped the heiress might be an option for him, but he might be put off by a wife who had too much money. Most heiresses had expectations for that money to buy a title, even if the man they bought it from was poor.
The three of them spoke at length about what he really wanted. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and smiled bashfully. “I desire a wife who’s passionate. Someone who’ll explore everything with me, indoors and outdoors.”
Hetty nodded in understanding. “A woman who is ready to taste life.”
“Exactly.”
Elizabeth thought of a clever young woman who had written to them that first week they’d started the business. “Hetty, what about Miss Penelope Ford?” She was a journalist who wrote columns about arts and the theater. She lived in London but was more than happy to move to the country. Her current position at her magazine was entirely by correspondence and required no physical presence in London. She had no interest in titles or any social expectations, but she was quite happy to entertain and do whatever a husband who had connections might require of a wife.
“Penelope, oh yes.” Hetty turned to Mr. Russell. “How do you feel about a woman with a career like . . . say, a magazine writer?”
“I’m here visiting you, aren’t I?” He winked at Hetty; his clear approval of career women was obvious.
“We will speak to Miss Ford. If you would write her a letter and post it to our office, we will send it along. We will handle the correspondence until you are ready to meet.”
“Wonderful. Would you mind if I wrote to her now? In the hope she agrees? I don’t want to waste a moment if she’s the woman I’ve dreamt of finding.”
Elizabeth set him up with pen and paper before she and Hetty retreated to the inner office to allow him some privacy to pen his thoughts.
“Penelope would be perfect. She’s clever, but not demanding. She has a good sense of humor, and she’s very pretty,” Hetty said.
Elizabeth made them a fresh pot of tea as they discussed it. “She’s had a devil of a time finding men who would approve of her continuing to write for the magazine after marriage. Mr. Russell might be a good option.”
“I have an excellent feeling about it.” Hetty smiled. “Perhaps he will be the first successful match we make.”
When Mr. Russell left, Hetty and Elizabeth sat down to review letters of reference for potential secretaries. The ever-growing stack of letters had somehow mated with another pile on the counter of their kitchen and produced a small litter of more letters. They needed someone fast to manage the office, sort letters, and help them draft replies.
“You’re coming out to the club tonight, right?” Elizabeth finally pushed away the last letter of reference in the pile of secretary letters and stretched her arms above her in her chair. Lord, she was stiff. She checked her watch and saw that she and Hetty had been sitting for nearly two hours. It was a good thing they’d planned to get out tonight and dance.
“The Astoria? Of course. I desperately need to go out. We’ve been pushing ourselves hard the last month.” Hetty leaned back in her chair and sighed.
When someone knocked at the door, Hetty got up to see who it was. Elizabeth took a moment to use their newly installed second phone in their private office to dial Charles.
Charles’s distracted voice answered. “This is Humphrey.”
“Charles, it’s Elizabeth.”
“Oh, hello, Lizzie. Everything all right?” he asked, his voice warming now that he knew it was her.
“Fine, but I wanted to let you know that Hetty and I will be at the Astoria tonight if you wish to drop by and see us.”
“The Astoria, eh?” Interest colored his tone. “I might be free this evening. Thank you for the call.”
“You’re welcome. Now I suspect you’re deep in a case. I’ll let you get back to it.”
His amused chuckle made Elizabeth grin.
Let the secret matchmaking begin.
Hetty stood in her bedroom, admiring the finishing touches on her appearance in the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room. Outside her window, the sun was sinking deep into the horizon. The peachy hues of the waning sun brightened the pale-yellow walls of the room and made the walnut wood paneling glow. Her flat was exactly what she’d always enjoyed in modern houses. It had none of the Victorian or Edwardian clutter typically found in older homes. Everything here was lovely, yet comfortable. Her grandmother’s home was overcrowded with ornaments and sentimental pieces that left the home feeling musty and dim, a relic of a lost age.
Hetty wanted her home to feel bright and light, with the freedom to move about.
She left her bedroom and passed briefly into the kitchen to wash her teacup and a small plate that had held a sandwich she had eaten an hour ago. Once they were rinsed clean, she set them to dry on a wooden draining board and dried her hands on a dishcloth. The sight of her hands, bare of jewelry, caught her eye.
When she’d first moved in, she had felt lonely. She had left Roger back in Ceylon, and while she didn’t miss him, she did miss sharing her life and space with someone.
Her romance with Roger had once been wild, exciting, all fire and passion beneath the hot exotic sun. But the man he was and the woman she now knew herself to be hadn’t fit. They were like two opposite edge pieces of an elaborate jigsaw puzzle, and an ocean of other pieces had kept them apart. When she’d moved home to England, she’d wanted no more ties to the past and she’d changed her name back to her maiden name of Byron. She needed to feel like herself again.
She absently rubbed the place where her wedding band had been. The bright sunlight of Ceylon had left a pale band of untanned skin on her finger, but even that had finally faded.
Giving herself a little shake, she dried her hands and retrieved her handbag from the sideboard table by the front door. It was good to go out this evening and change things up from her normal routine. She had not done a single social thing since the Marriage Bureau had opened, and while she was surprisingly fulfilled by her daily work, tonight she wanted to dance, to sing, to remind herself she was alive.
By the time she hired a cab to take her to Charing Cross, night had draped a cloak of darkness over the city. The shadowy world was broken intermittently with the illumination of shop windows and corner streetlights. The haze of the Astoria’s illuminated red sign on the white building corner stood out eerily in the growing gloom.
Elizabeth and her aunt Isabelle were waiting just outside the entrance and waved at Hetty as she quickly crossed the street to join them. Isabelle wore a gold dress with square shoulders that tapered to her trim waist, and sequins flashed on her skirt. Hetty was immensely relieved to see that Elizabeth had abandoned her plain frocks and was wearing a lovely rose-colored dress. It was not as fashionable as Isabelle’s was, but Elizabeth didn’t need flashing glamor. There was a freshness to her that made her sparkle without the aid of sequins or beads.
Hetty’s own gown was a black dress with a silver bodice that nipped in at the waist. Normally she would’ve donned a slinky thing of silk or satin that accented every curve, but such a gown wouldn’t do for dancing.
“Are we ready to go in?” Isabelle asked as Hetty reached them.
“Yes, shall we get a drink first?”
They passed through the doors into the reception. The Astoria’s main business was a theater by day, but there was a ballroom in the basement that had a nice little dance floor. They headed down the stairs to the ballroom below, where strains of music wove between the dancers to reach them. Hetty took a deep breath and let herself relax.
They made a stop at the bar, and Hetty ordered a cocktail.
