13. Peter
13
PETER
T he first time I’d come to Hawthorne Hall, Diana’s family’s country home, I’d been intimidated by its grandeur and history, all towering stone walls and ivy-draped facade. Once the home of dukes and duchesses, it still carried a sense of splendor, though now tempered by the practicalities of wartime. Like many country homes, this one now served as a hospital for wounded soldiers.
The grand ballroom had been converted into a hospital ward. Beds lined the walls where fine art once hung, and the grand chandeliers now lit the faces of the wounded rather than glittering guests.
Diana’s parents, Lord and Lady Hawthorne, were a striking pair. Her father, tall and lean, carried himself with the quiet authority of a man who had spent decades negotiating delicate international matters. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, and his keen gray eyes had a way of seeing everything without giving much away. He was a man of dignity, but there was a softness in his demeanor when he looked at his daughters.
Lady Hawthorne, petite and poised, with impeccable manners, was quiet and observant. She wore her rich auburn hair, streaked with silver, swept into a chignon. Diana had described how she’d worked with compassion to turn her home into a hospital. No one would have guessed such a tiny, quiet woman had the strength to take on such a large task.
Diana’s younger sister, Charlotte, shared her mother’s fiery hair and determination. At just seventeen, Charlotte was already working tirelessly as a nurse in the estate’s converted hospital. The first time I met her, she was in a neatly pressed uniform, which contrasted sharply with her freckled nose and mischievous smile. Despite the exhaustion etched into her features, her eyes sparkled with curiosity and warmth.
On the day of the wedding, Charlotte found me in the rose garden. We were dressed for the ceremony already, me in my officer’s uniform and Charlotte wearing a modest dress made from pale blue silk. The weather had cooperated; although cloudy, there had been no rain.
“Hi, Peter.” Charlotte smile at me shyly.
I smiled at her, bobbing my head politely. “You’re looking lovely.”
“Thank you. Mother and I have had to make do with dresses that are seasons old, but what’s a girl to do? Rations being what they are.”
“All for the war effort,” I said.
“I have something for you. I made it myself.” She gave me a small box. Inside was an embroidered handkerchief with my initials and the Hawthorne family crest. “To welcome you to the family.”
“I’ll cherish it.”
“You’ve made my sister very happy,” Charlotte said. “Father used to tease her that it would take a strong man indeed to take on Diana Hawthorne. It seems he was right.”
I thanked her, embarrassed and pleased at the same time.
“Father wondered if you would like to join him in his study for a drink before the ceremony,” Charlotte said. “And I must get back to my sister and Mother.”
I bade her farewell and wandered into the house and down the hall to Lord Hawthorne’s study. My soon-to-be father-in-law was seated by a roaring fire, reading. For a moment, I admired the polished mahogany and rich leather furniture, as well as the walls lined with shelves of books. Scents of pipe tobacco lingered in the air. I stood awkwardly just outside the open door before knocking.
Lord Hawthorne looked up at me, a grin softening his sharp features. “Ah, yes, my boy, come on in. I thought you could use a bracing drink before we get started.”
“Thank you, Lord Hawthorne. I’d enjoy one.”
He motioned for me to take one of the leather chairs, got up to pour two generous glasses of scotch, and returning to sit next to me.
“I thought we could use a moment before the chaos begins.”
“I’d have to agree—it’s a good idea.” I raised the glass slightly in acknowledgment before taking a sip. The scotch was smooth and smoky, warming my throat as it went down.
Lord Hawthorne leaned back, his glass cradled in one hand, and studied me for a moment, his sharp gray eyes appraising but not unkind.
“Marrying an American. I didn’t predict that when I agreed to let her attend Oxford. This war has had a way of disrupting everything, hasn’t it?”
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all. I love America. Anyway, I couldn’t be happier that it’s you Diana’s chosen. She’s always been driven, even as a child. Never one to settle for anything—or anyone—less than exceptional. I doubted she’d marry at all, to tell you the truth. I knew it would take someone exceptional to catch her eye.”
A flush rose to my face. I took another sip to steady myself. “I’m not sure I’d call myself exceptional, but I’ll do everything I can to make her happy.”
“I have no doubt of that. You’ve impressed me, you know. Not just because you’re an American—though I suppose that adds a certain charm—but because you’ve handled yourself well here, under these circumstances.” He swirled the liquid in his glass thoughtfully before continuing. “These are trying times, Peter. Ones that require us to be better and braver than we thought we could be.”
“Yes, it does seem that way. I’d thought I’d be home trying to earn a byline in the Times , not an intelligence officer in the navy.”
“Life does that to us. Surprises us with a twist we didn’t see coming. More than once, I can tell you that. You’re still young. Someday, you’ll look back, amazed at the way things unfolded.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s just one thing I must ask of you. When this blasted war is over—and it will be, mark my words—you’ll bring her back here from time to time, won’t you? Don’t whisk her off to America and keep her there permanently. This is her home.” The corner of his mouth quirked in a faint smile, but his eyes held an edge of sincerity.
“I would never keep Diana away from her family. Having been away from my family, I would never wish for her to miss them as I do mine. We’ll figure out a way to be part of your lives and mine, God willing.”
He sat back, visibly pleased with my answer, and raised his glass. “Good man. That’s settled, then. Now, let’s drink to victory—ours, of course—and to the Americans finally joining the fray. It was about time, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
I smiled, meeting his toast. “I hope it will matter. In the end, that is.”
“It will.” He drained his glass. “With your lot fighting alongside us, there’s no way we can lose.” He stood, buttoning his jacket. “Shall we go get you married?”
I rose with him, my stomach fluttering with nerves. “Lead the way, Lord Hawthorne.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Good man.” Together, we walked toward the sitting room where the ceremony would take place, the faint murmur of voices and the scent of flowers waiting to greet us.
Lady Hawthorne had decorated the hearth in her parlor with a simple garland and holly for the occasion, its bright red berries a pop of color. The only other decorations were flickering candles placed on side tables and a vase Charlotte had arranged in an understated but festive display of evergreen branches, their needles fresh and fragrant and tied with a single red ribbon.
Her mother had apologized to Diana earlier for not having anything more formal or pretty but the time being what it was, this was the best she could do. Diana had brushed it aside, clearly not caring one iota about pageantry or tradition. “If I return to London as Mrs. Westbrook, then I’ll be content.”
The vicar arrived a few minutes late and breathless, his rotund middle heaving as if he’d run there. We gathered around the fireplace.
There had been a flurry of activity around the wedding dress. With the war making luxuries like new fabric impossible, Lady Hawthorne had suggested repurposing one of her own dresses—a soft ivory evening gown she had worn to a diplomatic ball years ago, back when Diana and Charlotte were still girls.
A seamstress from the village had been called to the estate, working quickly but skillfully to transform the elegant evening gown into something befitting a wartime bride. Softening the neckline, she reshaped it into a modest scoop that framed Diana’s delicate collarbones. Full-length sleeves were removed, replaced with short, capped ones for a lighter, more youthful feel. Simplifying the skirt, she crafted a graceful A-line, trimming the hem and refitting it to avoid unnecessary extravagance. Tiny imperfections lingered—evidence of hurried stitching and clever adjustments—but the gown’s transformation was nothing short of stunning.
Whatever it had taken, the result was the most beautiful bride in the world standing next to me. If only my mother and sister were here to see my bride. And Mireille. No, not her. I could not let her into my thoughts on a day meant for Diana.
Diana stood beside me, her hand resting lightly in mine.
Lady Hawthorne stood to Diana’s right. My mother would have approved of Lady Hawthorne’s gown. The material, likely a high-quality crepe or wool blend, had long sleeves and a fitted bodice while the skirt flowed to her ankles. A delicate lace handkerchief, embroidered with her initials, peeked from the cuff of her sleeve, ready to catch a mama’s tears. Charlotte positioned herself just behind her mother.
Lord Hawthorne, with his tall, imposing frame, stood to Diana’s left. When Diana glanced at him, he gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, pride evident in his soft expression.
The vicar led us through the familiar vows of an Anglican service. Outside, the faint rustle of wind in the evergreens and the distant call of a bird filtered through the heavy curtains.
“Do you, Peter Westbrook, take this woman to be your wedded wife?”
“I do.” There. Completely sure. No thoughts of anyone else. This woman, who looked into my eyes with such trust—she was everything I could ever want.
“And do you, Diana Hawthorne, take this man to be your wedded husband?”
“I do.” She smiled, looking almost shy. But I knew better. This woman didn’t have a shy bone in her body. She was smart and determined. And she wanted me. I still couldn’t quite believe that part.
“With the power vested in me by God and his church, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Diana’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears. This surprised me. She’d always been so unsentimental, but perhaps that was only a facade? A necessary one when she worked with only men.
But a niggling thought came—did I know her well enough to marry her? We’d known each other less than a year.
George’s voice echoed through my mind. Of course, you do, you idiot. Don’t ruin this.
We kissed quickly, almost chaste as if we hadn’t already been intimate. Since that first night back in May, we’d shared a bed and our secrets. Almost all of them, anyway.
Lady Hawthorne dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she’d pulled from her sleeve. Charlotte beamed, her fair skin flushed from the excitement of it all.
Lord Hawthorne smiled, with only a slight sadness evident in his eyes. “And now we will feast and toast the new couple. Off to the dining room.”
We all convened in the dining room. The table had been tended to by the staff, and it was obvious they’d tried their best to make it festive for Diana and me. A simple but elegant centerpiece of evergreen branches, holly sprigs dotted with red berries, and a few pine cones arranged in a low brass bowl lined the table. Three tall ivory candles nestled in polished brass holders. Simple white porcelain plates rimmed with gold, featuring delicate hand-painted depictions of fruits and leaves, and crystal wineglasses had been carefully placed. Cloth napkins, tied with green ribbons and tiny sprigs of rosemary, rested neatly beside each place setting.
Lord Hawthorne had brought up several bottles of wine from his cellar, a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet from 1937 to pair with the first course—potage Parmentier, or leek and potato soup, as it was known to me.
We all dug in, exclaiming over the soup and the wine that possessed aromas of toasted hazelnuts, citrus, and honey with a creamy texture and a crisp, clean finish.
“I’d like to make a toast to my Diana,” Charlotte said after the soup was cleared and before the staff brought out the main course. “Yes, Peter, before she was all yours, she belonged to me.”
Diana raised an eyebrow at her younger sister, her lips curving into a smile, but didn’t say anything. She squeezed my knee under the table.
“I am going to share a story about my big sister. One she probably would not tell anyone, for fear of being immodest.” She paused, her eyes damp and her voice husky with emotion. “This was when we first moved to Berlin. I was eight, which would have made Diana thirteen. There was this boy at school—Otto Müller.”
“Oh, I remember him,” Lord Hawthorne bit out. “A menace to society if there ever was one.”
“That’s right,” Charlotte said. “He thought he was clever, pulling pranks and teasing girls in ways that made them cry. For some reason, I seemed to be his favorite target. One day, I found my lunch tin full of worms—actual wriggling worms. I came home in tears, mortified and embarrassed. Diana took one look at my face and pounced, demanding to know what had happened.”
Everyone chuckled, and Diana shook her head, chuckling. “Dear me. I’m afraid where this is going.”
“Of course, I told her everything, including all the other things he’d done to me. One time, he’d put a frog in my desk—the horrid boy loved the amphibians—and another time, he replaced the lid of my inkwell, and it splattered all over my dress. He about fell off his chair over that one. One day, he planted some stinky cheese in my desk so that when I opened it, all the other kids started going on about the smell and saying I had messed myself. That one was particularly humiliating. Anyway, when my dear sister heard about these unfortunate antics, she tracked Otto down in the village, where he was causing mischief for one of the shop owners and—” She paused dramatically.
We were all leaning forward, waiting to hear.
“I’ve only heard about it secondhand from witnesses,” Charlotte said. “Diana, why don’t you tell us what you did to get him to leave me alone.”
Diana dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “I may have tackled him, straddled him, and beat his stupid face until his nose bled and his right eye wouldn’t open, followed by several other suggestions of ways to permanently wreck his manhood, or chance to have children.”
“Not really?” Lady Hawthorne clutched her necklace.
“I’m afraid it’s true,” Diana said, lips twitching. “But he never bothered my baby sister again.”
“Or any other girl,” Charlotte said.
The room erupted in laughter, with Lord Hawthorne the loudest of all. “That’s my girl. I suppose it’s good I didn’t know about it then, or I would have had to punish you.”
“Sadly, Otto Müller is probably a highly ranked German officer now,” Diana said, her voice serious. “The bullies of the world never give up.”
“You beat him then, and we’ll beat him now,” Lord Hawthorne said. “We must fight for what’s right, just as you did that day.”
“I’d rather we didn’t resort to violence,” Lady Hawthorne said. “But in this case, I can see that’s the only language he understood.”
“I had forgotten about the whole thing,” Diana said. “Until now.”
“You’ve always protected the weak or the fragile,” Charlotte said. “I’ve admired you all my life, and that certainly hasn’t changed.” She turned toward me. “Peter, I sincerely hope you treat her as the gem she is, but also, watch your back.”
We all laughed again.
“You’ll be surprised to learn that my sister Betsy’s of a similar ilk,” I said. “I have a few stories of my own about her that I’ll share another time. I fear we’ve shocked you, Lady Hawthorne.”
“Not at all.” Lady Hawthorne raised her glass. “To my brave if rather reckless daughter, and the gentle scholar she’s fallen for. Peter, welcome to our family.”
We all toasted. Diana reached across the table to squeeze Charlotte’s hand. “I’m not nearly the hero you think I am, but I thank you just the same.”
The next course arrived then. The Hawthornes’ cook had managed to save enough ration cards to secure a small beef roast. She’d cooked it to perfection, pink on the inside but with a crusty outside coated in garlic and salt.
Lord Hawthorne had the maid pour glasses of Chateau Margaux 1928 to accompany the beef and creamy mashed potatoes. I’d never tasted finer wine, with its notes of blackberry, cedar, and tobacco. A Bordeaux. Mireille’s family’s vineyard was not far from Chateau Margaux. She’d mentioned it once.
No. I was not allowed to think of her tonight.
Instead, I turned to my wife and told her how beautiful she looked.
Later that evening, my new bride and I lay entwined in bed, reflecting on the day, laughing about Charlotte’s toast at the wedding dinner. One of the maids had started a fire for us in the hearth, and it warmed the drafty room but not enough that I didn’t enjoy the sensation of holding my wife in my arms.
“Did it ruin the day, not having your family here?” Diana asked.
“Nothing could ruin this day. To me, it was perfect. But yes, I miss them. I was imagining Betsy and Charlotte together. What a hoot that would be.”
“Someday.” She stirred in my arms, turning so that she could see my face in the orange light cast by the fire. I could feel her body humming, not with desire as it had earlier, but with something else.
“What is it?” I asked softly. “Do you have something to tell me?”
“I’m pregnant.”
For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. It wasn’t as if I didn’t understand how these things happened, but we’d been careful. Not careful enough, apparently.
“Please, say something,” Diana said. “I know it’s terrible timing.”
I rolled to my side, stroking her hair and her face. “It’s not a bad time at all. A baby? What could be better in these times than a new life? Are you unhappy about it?”
“No, not that. It doesn’t seem real. Not yet, anyway. I’m only a few months along.”
I did the math in my head, remembering a particularly amorous night in early October. “The night it rained so hard?”
“That was my thought, too. It’s rather marvelous to think we’ve made a baby together,” Diana said. “But what about my work?”
“We’ll manage somehow.” I placed a hand on her flat stomach, marveling there was a baby inside her. My baby. “Do you feel different?”
“No, other than my chest hurts like the dickens.”
I nuzzled against her neck, breathing in her perfume and clean hair. “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps I should pay them more attention?”
She giggled, sounding like an innocent. “You’re a wicked man.”
“You’re stuck with me now.” I kissed her gently and then lay back, pulling her onto my chest.
She ran her hand along my shoulder. “It’s not safe for a child in London. All the children have been sent to the country. I’ll have to come live here. Give up my job.”
“We can decide when the time comes.” The ambivalence in her voice did not go undetected. She wasn’t certain this was the life she wanted. Not me. But motherhood. How difficult it was for women, deciding between career and family, especially now when the world had been turned upside down. Women were doing work they’d never been allowed to do before. Would they want to continue after all their men returned home? If we ever did.
“Do I sound like a monster?” Diana asked.
“Not at all. You’ve found fulfillment in your career. You’ve worked hard for it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
She disentangled from me, sitting up and resting her back against a pillow. “As much as I hate the war, I love having a purpose outside of looking pretty. I love my mother. Of course, I do. She’s impossible not to love, and she was so good to us, more involved than a lot of mothers in society, so to speak. But the idea of that kind of life—just raising children and looking pretty while the men do all of the interesting work—it seems awful.”
I scooted upright, positioning myself next to her and taking her hand. “Your mother’s working. Look at what she does every day.”
“Yes, but once the war’s over, she’ll go back to the way it was. Hosting parties and deciding which dresses she’ll have made. Looking beautiful on my father’s arm. Charlotte will probably marry into one of the other society families. And you and me? What will we do?”
“I promised your father I wouldn’t take you to America forever. We can decide later, but I can make a life in England. As long as we’re together. That’s all I care about. And we’ll have a family. One we can do with as we please. Raise children how we want to. Maybe a daughter with a lot of opinions, for example.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I want you to know, however, that you’ve married a woman with her own opinions and dreams that are not only about being a mother and a wife.”
I chuckled, tickling her cheek with a lock of her hair. “I’m fairly certain I knew that the first time I met you. I’ve no delusions about who I married.”
“It’s a relief to say it all out loud,” Diana said.
“You never have to pretend with me. Complex feelings about motherhood are nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I think my mother would disagree.”
“She’s of a different generation. Perhaps a less complicated time?”
“Surely one with fewer choices.”
We didn’t discuss it further, finding other ways to occupy ourselves on our wedding night. It wasn’t as if we had to worry about her getting pregnant. She already was.
I was thrilled.