Authors: Morgan O'Neill
“See here! I’m coming!” he shouted.
Knock, knock, knock!
What in God’s name
…
?
Who could possibly be so insistent?
Perhaps Findley, with some information he’d forgotten to tell him? No, it was ridiculous to assume the man would bother him at home. More likely, it was Mrs. Brooks, his pesky next-door neighbor, with another plea for help with a lost cat or leaky sink. The woman was always in a panic over something.
Bloody hell, just what I need. Another faux emergency
. Shaking his head, he opened the door. To his surprise, Catherine promptly fell into his arms.
“Arthur!” she said as she kissed him full on the mouth.
She tasted of popcorn and breath mints.
Wacky. Wonderful
…
“Oh, Arthur, I love you.”
He felt a deep jolt to his gut as she moaned into his mouth. Groaning back, he drew her into a tight embrace, then lifted her, cradling her against his chest. Her softness yielded to him, his body hardening in return. Their kiss deepened as he pushed the door shut, then fumbled with the chain, locking them in, the rest of the world be damned.
She drew back, her breathing fast, matching his. “Arthur, please. I love you. Let me stay the night.”
He looked into her eyes, so filled with desire, and knew this was the moment. No more worrying about propriety. No protests. No questions as to her past and the troubled times they’d shared. No mention of Jonathan Brandon and James Findley’s ghost theory.
Certainly not tonight.
…
Deep places, secret places. Catherine’s body pulsed with heat, an animal lust. She moaned as Arthur lay beside her in his bed, kissing her. They were naked now, flesh to flesh, her breasts against his chest. She could feel the pounding of his heart, a match to her own, two fast drumbeats, passions raging.
He kissed and stroked her body, and her legs parted at his touch, her instincts driving her to let him in. His fingers gently explored, her places secret no more, and then he rose above her, poised and ready.
“Catherine, I love you,” he whispered as his mouth covered hers. The world around her seemed to vanish as he entered her. To her surprise, she felt no pain. He filled her deep to her core, down to his very root, and then they began rocking back and forth, in and out, in and out.
The sensations were exquisite, beyond her imaginings. They built with each stroke until she felt as if her body lifted to the stars. Arthur called her name and pumped harder, taking both of them to a pinnacle, the tipping point. Suddenly, the heavens sparked and thundered in an explosion of bliss.
As her heart pounded at a deeper and slower pace than she’d ever known, she held him close. A languid warmth enveloped her, and the world returned from love’s oblivion. She caught the faint scent of his cigar, the soft feel of the mattress beneath her, the ticking of his wall clock.
He rose on one elbow and gently kissed her lips. “Will you marry me, Catherine?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I want to be your wife.”
He kissed her again, and she felt his passion renew.
“To my mind, you already are, my darling,” he whispered as he began to make love to her again. “And I am already your husband.”
Chapter Twenty-One
4 December 1947, London
Catherine woke to bright sunshine and promptly recalled the past night. With a smile, she turned and noticed Arthur wasn’t in bed.
“Arthur?” she said, suddenly remembering he’d kissed her on the cheek and whispered sweet nothings to her before leaving for work.
She stretched languidly before spotting a note resting on his pillow.
With a grin, she opened it and read.
Dearest Catherine,
I love you! I adore you!
Please make yourself at home. I must work in the office today, but do telephone me when you have a chance. I think I’ll be able to sneak away early. Will you join me for supper tonight?
I shall apprise you of the details of last evening’s meeting once we talk on the phone.
Ever yours,
Arthur
P.S. I love you, darling! I’ve left pajamas for you on the bed. And a spare key to my flat is located on the transom above the front door.
She glanced over the top of the note and saw a folded swath of baby blue fabric at the foot of the bed. She rose and fingered the pair of men’s silk pajamas. Soft to the touch and seemingly new, she held the bottoms against her waist and found the legs too long. She tried on the top, which fit her just fine, and decided to wear it like a short nightie.
Turning back to make the bed, Catherine stopped short when she saw bloodstains on the sheets. Embarrassed, she hoped Arthur hadn’t noticed and promptly stripped the sheets from the mattress. She’d been a virgin, yes, but when she felt no pain, she assumed there would be no blood. After carrying the sheets to the bathtub, she rinsed them out in cold water. When she telephoned Arthur, she would ask him the name of his laundry and take them there for a proper wash and drying. By the evening, all would be done, tidy and set, his bed clean again.
And ready for another go
.
She laughed out loud at the audacity of the thought. The secrets shared between them had taken on a new dimension, now that they’d made love.
Yet there was something more serious, almost palpable, the sense they had a sacred bond between them.
Her mind played back to late in the night, after they lay together a second time. They’d discussed the date for their wedding.
“I want a small wedding,” she told him. “I’ve never been one to lust after pomp and ceremony. The simpler the better, just our family and a few close friends.”
“Whatever you wish, love,” he replied. “How about a month from now? That way I can make arrangements for my aunt and uncle to travel from Cambridge, and your Aunt Vivi should be able to attend as well.”
“My birthday is on the tenth of January,” she said.
“Then we can plan around that, perhaps a week or so afterward.”
“No, I’d actually like to be married on my birthday,” she said. “Call me batty…”
He smiled. “Then the tenth it is,” he declared. He went on to say he sincerely doubted he’d ever forget their anniversary, coinciding as it would with her birthday.
That brought laughter and the joy of sharing, their bonding complete. Arthur had changed her world with his touch, and also with his patience and determination to see her through the storm and into the light.
Memories clouded her thoughts.
Oh, Jonnie, Jonnie.
Tears came to her eyes, but they were neither as mournful as before, nor part of any deep obsession. His loss had been replaced with a sense of the inevitable, as if the new path in her life was meant to be. She felt the change in her spirit was permanent, the depth of her grief replaced by bittersweet remembrance.
Jonnie, you’d understand, wouldn’t you? I think you would approve of Arthur and wish us a happy life.
Smiling through her tears, she turned her attention back to the present and Arthur Howard. As she considered his flat, she sensed his bright future in the legal field and his success so far, for he was already acquiring some of the finer things in life.
His bachelor flat was tastefully decorated with good furnishings. Even his bathroom had elegant accoutrements. Her gaze fixed on a pricy razor and shaving brush set on his sink, which was discreetly stamped
Taylor of Old Bond Street
. Posh. Her gaze roamed to his silk dressing robe, which hung on a hook on the door, then to a shelf containing an assortment of bottles and jars of shaving cream and men’s cologne, also from Taylor’s, along with some vials of vitamins and aspirin.
But something is missing.
She smiled to herself, realizing it was a woman’s touch.
She imagined her things sharing the shelf with his: her cold cream, lipstick, and mascara, and perhaps some perfume as well. Future gifts from him?
Certainly
, she thought, imagining crystal bottles of Shalimar, Tabu, and two Chanel fragrances: No. 5 and No. 22.
Shaking her head, she realized she wouldn’t want her costly perfume teetering on the shelf. Instead, she would need a mirrored dressing table for their bedroom. She’d display her perfume on a Waterford tray along with bits of jewelry.
“Yes, Arthur will give me presents,” she whispered to the air. “He’ll surely buy me presents, he’s such a dear.”
Returning to the task at hand, she wrung out the sheets as best she could, then went off in search of his laundry bag. She found it in the hall closet. To make matters even better, the bag was stamped with the establishment’s address. No need to bother Arthur with such a nuisance, no need to explain.
Her stomach suddenly growled. Famished, she went to the kitchen and made tea and toast, ate with relish, and then tidied up, taking extra time to straighten the things on his kitchen worktop. This made her feel satisfied and rather domestic. Her future role as Arthur’s wife would suit her just fine.
“Mrs. Arthur Bertrand Howard.” Catherine smiled, quite liking the sound of that.
After finding a bottle of milk bath, a brand new toothbrush, and some clean towels in the linen cabinet, she drew herself a bath. While the water ran, she brushed her teeth using Arthur’s toothpaste. It was S.R. brand, one she’d never tried before.
Rather good
, she thought.
I shall make it my own as well
. That decided, she sank into the bathtub. The water was perfect, her body welcoming its soothing warmth.
She took hold of the soap and sniffed it
—
a sandalwood scent.
Lovely
, she thought, as she made plans to add some bars of the luscious Yardley English Lavender.
Give and take. Back and forth. Sharing and compromise. They would surely work things out. Love always found a way.
With a contented sigh, she whispered again, “Mrs. Howard…Mrs. Arthur Howard.”
…
Before leaving Arthur’s flat, Catherine telephoned his office. His secretary, Mrs. Philips, took the call, Arthur being engaged with a client. The woman relayed the message that Arthur would be free at four and would be pleased to meet Catherine at the gates of Buckingham Palace around quarter past the hour.
Joy! That meant he planned something special!
After dropping off Arthur’s laundry and then catching the tube, Catherine arrived in Stratford a little before noon. She was determined to make her stay at home short and sweet, only long enough to change her clothes and freshen her makeup.
Catherine entered her house, greeted the ever-exuberant Duffy, and then found her parents in the kitchen having lunch. She reassured them all was well and that she was fine, having gotten a very good night’s sleep at her friend’s flat in London. When asked about Arthur, she told them she was meeting him for supper. She felt relief in that everything she said had a modicum of truth behind it, since Arthur
was
her friend and she’d had a
very
good night’s sleep and she
was
meeting him for supper. She crossed her fingers behind her back and went upstairs to dress for the evening ahead.
When she finally came back down, she put on her red coat and then went searching for her parents, ready to say good-bye. She found them in the lounge. Her dad was in his favorite chair, reading his newspaper. Her mum sat on the sofa, knitting and listening to the radio. Duffy was on the floor, stretched out and intent, ears perked up, presumably listening to the radio, too. She bent and ruffled the fur of her darling, silly dog.
“Catherine, is there something you’re not telling us?” her mother asked. “Is that Shalimar I smell?”
She smiled. “Yes, from Aunt Vivi, remember? I decided to wear it because I think Arthur is taking me someplace special tonight.”
“Is that so?” Her dad glanced up from his paper. “Do tell him it is proper to ask the father beforehand.”
“Dad!” Catherine said, grinning as she headed for the door. “Please don’t wait up for me,” she called out to them. “I’ve no idea when I’ll get home tonight.”
“If your date ends at a late hour, Cathy, you have my permission to stay in London at your friend’s flat again. And please do invite your…Arthur here for supper tomorrow, for our chat.”
Catherine turned. Her father’s gaze was steady, his brow clear. She knew he knew. She could tell he understood and was glad she’d made peace with her past and now embraced the future.
She raced back to him and hugged him. “Thank you, Dad,” she said as she glanced at her mother, who smiled and nodded.
All was well. She raced upstairs and packed a small suitcase with some necessities, things she planned to leave at Arthur’s flat. Smiling, she came downstairs to say good-bye to her parents, promising again she would bring Arthur back for the family supper tomorrow evening.
How wonderful she felt! With a jaunty step, she walked to the Underground Station on Leyton High Street. Despite her parents’ understanding, she felt determined to honor them and her upbringing as a young woman of good family. Given the morals of the time, and despite their decision to look the other way, she vowed this would be the last night she would spend with Arthur before their wedding.
But she guessed they would discreetly make love many times over the next few weeks, the back and forth between his flat and her home well worth the effort.
Poor dear, he’s going to be exhausted
, she merrily thought as she boarded the train.
…
Hours later, Catherine walked along the Mall, feeling as if she were seeing London with new eyes. It still bore the scars of the Blitz, with rubble-strewn lots and damaged buildings on nearly every street. But like her, the city’s healing had started, the very worst over. There was a post-war construction boom, the new replacing the old. 1948 was just around the corner, and the future seemed bright.
She’d already picked up Arthur’s laundry and gone back to his flat. His bed was now neatly made, his other things put away, and her suitcase stowed in a closet.
With Buckingham Palace in her sights, she enjoyed the sunny weather, quite unusual for December, with a brisk breeze that caused the last, scattered autumn leaves to whirl about on the pavement. She felt beautiful in her red coat, her hair loose upon her shoulders, the silk stockings on her legs a pair she’d recently bought at Marks & Spencer.
Beneath her coat, she wore an elegant black suit with golden embroidery by Jacque Griffe. Her Aunt Vivi had gifted her the couture outfit last year, on the occasion of Catherine’s twenty-first birthday, and it was the first time she’d worn it. Black pumps completed the outfit, little bows gracing the tops. Definitely posh trappings for a girl from Stratford, but then, Arthur Howard was rather posh himself, even if he’d once been a wee pirate lad from Devonshire.
Chuckling to herself, she caught sight of a tall man in a dark suit and bowler hat, a handsome man
—
all hers. Her heart went pitter-patter.
She laughed at her own giddiness just as he spotted her and waved. How handsome he looked, how debonair! Not Cary Grant, no. But certainly a mingling of David Niven and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.
Oh, I am the luckiest girl in the world!
She raced into his arms, and they kissed with passion, the heat generated by his touch a promise of all the moments to come.
Arthur held Catherine tight against him and whispered into her hair, “This seemed the perfect place to meet.”
She nodded. “I shall never forget that moment in November.”
“Nor I.” He drew back and looked into her eyes. “What is that perfume you’re wearing? You smell wonderful.”
“A gift from my aunt, who spoils me rotten,” she said. “It’s her favorite
—
and now mine, too. She bought it for me when last she visited. It’s called Shalimar.”
“Well, it was made for your skin, darling.” He kissed her again. “Catherine, I shall devote my life to spoiling you as well. That is, if you would do me the honor…?”
A small crowd had gathered at the palace gates, and there was a scattering of applause as he removed his hat and went down on one knee. He took the heart-shaped box from his breast pocket, the one he’d offered her before, and opened it, holding forth the beautiful diamond engagement ring.
Her eyes welled up as he asked, “Catherine Ellen Hastings, will you marry me?”
She nodded again, this time to rousing cheers. “Yes,” she replied. “I love you so very much.”
Grinning, Arthur rose and swept her into his arms. After he kissed her, her gaze strayed to the palace, where a dark-haired woman stood alone in an upper-story window, one hand resting against the glass pane as she stared down at them.
Could it be
…
?
Catherine wondered. An instant later, the figure backed away and was gone.
Was that Elizabeth?
She guessed she would never know the truth, but she hoped it was true. It seemed so right, as if everything had come full circle in elegant simplicity.