“I’ll get over it.” A shrug. “Besides, if I wait a bit, Harry might bugger off home to his wife and Beth might look my way. A chap can dream, eh? Until then . . .” Giles placed his last half inch of cigarette in the saucer on the bedside table and cupped a hand to her cheek. “You’ve got someone you’d like to forget, and I do, too. Now that we’re both sober, what d’you say we give it a try?”

Part of her wanted to, just to get out of her own miserably aching head. But he was Giles, one of her few remaining friends, and he didn’t deserve a woman who was only going to shut her eyes and wish he were someone else. “I can’t, Giles.”

He smiled, dropping his hand. “Then what do you say to breakfast, my queen?”

Chapter 57

* * *

FROM BLETCHLEY BLETHERINGS, MARCH 1944

* * *

Trains and train stations—what a thing they become in wartime. How many heartbreaks and homecomings, ecstasies and agonies, have we experienced with a rocking floor, a platform crowd, and a sweaty ticket clutched in hand?

* * *

This time Osla was the one to wait on the platform at Euston.

A gleam of ash-gold hair—there was Philip, right on time, coming through the crowd with his loose-limbed stride. He hadn’t written since Christmas or invited her to meet up before today. He’d said he was up to his ears, reassigned to a new W-class destroyer in Newcastle upon Tyne . . .

Perfectly reasonable, Osla thought, watching him approach. She was up to her ears too; the clock was ticking down to June and the planned invasion, and the Hut 4 translators were swamped. But her mental insistence that things were fine couldn’t entirely banish Philip’s cool voice at Claridge’s: You never really answered my question last night. Why you stopped writing.

And the voice of Philip’s friend David: He and Princess Elizabeth sparked like a bonfire . . .

Philip stopped before her. “Hullo, princess.” Eyes traveling over her blush-pink dress—the same one she’d worn the very first time they’d met at this spot—and landing on his naval insignia pinned between her breasts. He smiled despite himself, scooping up her hand and kissing it. “I’m only in town the one night. Tomorrow it’s back to Newcastle—lots to do, overseeing the Whelp’s finishing touches.”

“Whelp—what a name for a fighting ship.”

“She’s a nice, fast piece of work . . .” He waxed technical, hands flying. He wanted to be back at sea, Osla knew. A man like Philip was meant for heavy seas and dodging fire, not squiring ladies around London.

“And you?” He tucked her hand in his arm, drawing her back toward the shelter of the wall. A train had just roared in, soldiers spilling out hauling kit bags, harried-looking women scolding children. “What are you up to in that dull job of yours, Os?”

Yesterday, my fellow translators and I were all having a good snicker at Herr Hitler, Osla thought. The Führer seems to have written off the idea that the Allied invasion is coming through France. He thinks it’ll be Norway; isn’t that an absolute screamer, Philip? You really have to wonder about Hitler—if a lot of dabbling debs can point out there’s no practical way a huge amphibious force could bang through those North Sea choppers and then clamber over those rocky shores inland, you’d think the supreme leader of a Reich that’s supposed to last a thousand years could figure it out. But he hasn’t, and a hut full of women is laughing their heads off at his expense. That’s my week in a nutshell! Isn’t it a hoot?

“Oh, you know. Nothing to tell!” Osla squeezed his arm. “According to your friend David, you’ve got something to tell. He rang me after Christmas, saying poor Lilibet has a mad crush on you. I hope you haven’t broken our princess’s heart.”

She made her voice warm and teasing, inviting him to laugh. But Philip glanced down at her, and an expression shifted across his face. “I wondered if you’d heard anything.”

“Is there anything to hear?”

“No. There isn’t.”

“Then what . . .” Osla didn’t know where to go with that, so she trailed off. They stood silent on the platform. How much time had they spent here, waiting for each other? “Philip, I’m not jealous. Though I think that was David’s aim—why else call up your friend’s girl and tell her he spent Christmas getting ogled by a seventeen-year-old in pantomime tights?”

Philip sounded clipped. “Elizabeth is far too young for people to be hashing out wedding plans—”

“Wedding plans?” Osla’s heart pounded unpleasantly. “Who’s hashing those?”

A pause. “I’d rather not talk about this anymore, Os.”

“I’m not trying to pry into—royal matters,” she managed to say. “But you gave me this to wear”—touching the naval insignia—“and you’ve told me you loved me more than once over the last four years. Even if things have been strained lately, I think I have a right to know if your name is being seriously bandied about in wedding plans to someone else.”

“It isn’t.” He rounded. “Far too early for that.”

“Well, isn’t that topping.” There really was something then. Something besides idle whispers. Osla let out a slow breath. “Shall I wait a year or two and bring it up then? Will that still be too early? Or too late?”

“Osla, let’s drop this. Go get Dover sole and champagne at the Savoy.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

They stood looking at each other. The platform was almost empty; the crowd from the last train had cleared out, and passengers for the next had yet to gather. “I’m not discussing this here,” Philip said at last. Osla heard the bite of royal disdain that so rarely cropped up in his voice; disdain for saying anything remotely personal in public.

“This is about as close as we’ll get to private, Your Highness, given that we don’t have a room at Claridge’s this time. So I’d like to hear what is happening with you and dear Cousin Lilibet.”

He thrust his hands into his pockets. “She’s fond of me,” he said finally. “She has been since she was thirteen.”

“That’s a silly girl’s crush.”

“She’s not silly. She’s very serious, actually. Solemn. She knows what she wants.”

“And she wants you. And now that she’s nearly eighteen”—the age I was when I met you—“people are starting to think about whom she might marry one day.”

“I suppose.” He looked restless. “I’ve never given it a thought, Os. I’m still not. I’ve got a ship to think about. I’m heading out to fight—that’s what I’m thinking about. There’s a war on.”

I know there’s a war on, Osla wanted to shriek. I know! I know! But something else went on at the same time war did, and that was life. It kept right on going up until the moment it stopped, and this was hers, limping along like a horse suddenly gone lame, all because someone had chucked an obstacle in her path called Lilibet.

“So she’s thinking about you, but you aren’t thinking about her.” Osla kept her voice level. “Why are you so edgy, then? And why have you been avoiding me since Christmas?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.”

A long pause.

“My family’s got the bit in their teeth,” he finally said. “Some guests at Christmas noticed the lay of the land—with Lilibet, I mean—and that’s how my cousin George got wind of it.” George as in the king of Greece, currently in exile from the throne. “Suddenly the whole family’s buzzing. Uncle Dickie loves the idea, Cousin Marina won’t let it go—she’s written my mother. Everyone’s harping on the possibility . . .”

“So?” Osla folded her arms. “They can’t force you down the aisle because they want an alliance, Philip. This isn’t the Middle Ages.”

“I have obligations.” He couldn’t look her in the eye. “They’re my family.”

“Which family members would that be? The ones in exile from their own homeland? Or the ones allied with Hitler? You have told me for years that you feel you hardly have a family at all, and now that you might potentially make a match of it with the future queen of England, their wishes are suddenly paramount?”

“I have obligations,” he repeated flatly.

“You have other obligations first, as you pointed out. There’s a war on, Lieutenant, and fascists to fight. But what if we get to the other side of this war and your solemn, serious princess is still taking a dead set at you?”

A long pause. “Then my family will expect me to step forward.”

Osla unfolded her arms, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling. “And what will you do?”

Another long pause. Osla turned and took a seat by the wall, remembering the blackout when she and Philip had sat here all night kissing. She took some deep breaths, waiting for the tightness in her throat to subside. “Were you ever doing more than—marking time with me?”

“You know it’s more than that!”

“Is it? You love me. I know you do. But did you ever mean it to last?” A brittle laugh. “You didn’t, did you? What you said to me the night we met: I’ll lay odds you’re hard to get over.”