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“Thank you. What about winding it up with some frantic words about their future?”
“Or possible loss of one,” Charity heard herself say automatically.
As the Duchess began to write, Charity’s throat constricted. She forced down some tea, as a mental image of Lieutenant Colonel Doug Douglass, completely out of uniform—as well as any other garment—came to mind.
Loss of a future with Doug is exactly my fear.
“There,” the Duchess said, turning the page so Charity could better read it, “how’s that?”
Charity looked at the paper.
Oh, God. That’s too close.
I’m think I’m going to cry.
When she was sure of her voice, she said: “Perfect.”
The letter was passed around the table. Everyone approved.
“Now we need another,” Montagu said, “one written from her job.”
He reached into the box and produced a short stack of blank typewriter stock he had taken from a typing pool at the Admiralty. He slid it to the Duchess.
“So she’s now at the office,” Montagu said. “Date it the twenty-first. She’s bored out of her mind.”
“I think it would be wise to pick up on what Charity so brilliantly suggested for the first letter,” Fleming put in. “Have her make reference to a letter the major has written to her in which he talks of being sent on a hush-hush mission.”
Niven added, “You could have her say something that violates a confidence. That is, she won’t violate a confidence, the way women tend to do.”
Charity and the Duchess immediately shot him daggers with their stares.
“I don’t mean that in a vicious way, mind you,” Niven said, trying to save face. “You know how women can be—proud of what their man is doing, trying to one-up their buddies in the course of conversation.”
The Duchess looked away.
“Perhaps,” she said. “But you just gave me an idea for an opening.”
She studied the far wall a moment, then began writing:
* * *
Office.
Wednesday, 21st
The Bloodhound has left the kennel for half an hour so here I am scribbling nonsense to you again.
Your letter came this morning just as I was dashing out—madly late as usual! You do write such heavenly ones. But what are these horrible dark hints you’re throwing out about being sent off somewhere—of course I won’t say a word to anyone—I never do when you tell me things, but it’s not abroad is it?
Because I won’t have it, I won’t. Tell them so from me.
Darling, why did we go and meet in the middle of the war, such a silly thing for anybody to do—if it weren’t for the war, we might have been nearly married by now, going round together choosing curtains etc.
And I wouldn’t be sitting in a dreary Government office typing idiotic minutes all day long—I know the futile sort of work I do doesn’t make the war one minute shorter—
I’m going to a rather dreary dance tonight with Jock & Hazel. I think they’ve got some other man coming. You know what their friends always turn out to be like
* * *
