The accounts were grisly with soldiers being stranded on the beach without cover as Nazi planes sprayed bullets. Men swam miles to boats, only to find them bombed and their salvation lost. They were fleeing in retreat—or as Mr. Stokes had called it, a bloodbath.

Yet through it all, Mrs. Weatherford clung to hope with a white-knuckled grip.

Despite the other woman’s forcedly happy demeanor, Grace could only guess what Mrs. Weatherford was going through when Grace herself couldn’t stop imagining Colin amid such violent chaos.

Gentle Colin, who wanted only to help animals, whose heart was as golden as they came. If it so happened that he had to kill someone to save himself, it would be him taking the bullet. And if a man needed help, Colin would never leave him behind.

War was not meant for tender souls.

Most especially not ones such as Colin’s.

All over Britain, telegrams were being delivered to front doors, sharing painful messages of men who had been killed or taken prisoner.

As more soldiers swept into London on the trains, no telegram was presented to the townhouse door on Britton Street. The silence was a blessing as much as it stretched out their expectation, so much so that every pop or creak of the house settling made Grace and Mrs. Weatherford jump.

It wasn’t until two days later that Churchill addressed the enormity of their loss. Over 335,000 men had been saved from the Germans with casualties expected to be around 30,000 including those missing, dead or wounded. A staggering number to every mother and wife and sister waiting anxiously for news of her loved one.

But it was not only men Britain lost; equipment had been abandoned, given up to spare lives. A worthy sacrifice, as Grace saw it, but still costly and dangerous.

Even such dismal numbers, however, were met with a positive slant by the newspapers and radio, for the civilians with fishing vessels and personal watercraft who helped bring thousands of BEF over the Channel to safety were touted as heroes. A symbolic gesture that declared Britain would never surrender.

There was power to Churchill’s voice as he spoke that made determination pound in Grace’s chest and brought tears to Mrs. Weatherford’s eyes as she nodded to the new prime minister’s message.

Yes, there had been a great defeat, but they would carry on.

The spirit of his words charged through London like lightning, crackling with power.

Days continued to tick by. It was on a rare quiet afternoon that Mrs. Weatherford appeared in the parlor where Grace was reading her latest book, Of Human Bondage, an incredible tale of a man who grew up at the mercy of life’s worst cruelties. It pulled at a wounded part of Grace that had been buried deep, a place she suspected everyone kept inside themselves, that remained tender despite one’s victories and strengths.