“Yes, I do, and I know you’ll be making a sacrifice by putting it on hold, but we’re only talking a couple of months.”

Theo had been working with the Council on Books in Wartime ever since he’d attended a meeting at the Times Hall theater last May. It had been filled with writers, journalists, publishers and editors, all eager to explore the power and potential of the written word in wartime. After two nights of discussion, a working committee had been formed of figures from the larger publishing houses and the broader industry, with the motto “Books are weapons in the war of ideas.”

Walter added, “You could be one of the few men helping to take more American books to the British market.”

Walter was right about increasing the potential to export, and Theo knew the council would be keen on that too, but his employer was wrong in trying to appeal to his ego; he didn’t have any when it came to this. It seemed, though, he did need to be Walter’s henchman, and he felt uncomfortably hot. Can I say no? Is that even an option?

“And the wedding date?”

“That’s up to you and Virginia to decide, but from what she’s told me you should be back in plenty of time.”

When she and Theo had discussed it the night before, they’d decided to keep the original date the following February, whatever happened with this London trip.

He looked out at the smoke trails rising from the dockyards, at the lighters traveling back and forth on the river, and the ribbon of vehicles across the Queensboro Bridge; the sight always filled him with hope for human progress. Hundreds of feet below, thousands of workers made intricate patterns on the frosted sidewalks as they journeyed around the city. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay; he’d contributed as much as he could to the council, and now he would try to make a difference in London.

Seven

Brighton, March 15, 1943

“Your mother is on her way!” Hope said, squeezing Alice’s hand. “Just breathe, slowly . . . One, two, three, one, two, three—”

Alice blew out a long forceful breath as another contraction racked her body. Once she’d expelled all the air, she collapsed back onto the pillow, hands gripping the bedclothes. After only a few moments, another one began. She groaned louder as she drew another breath, muscles clenching across her belly, gathering their own rhythm as they wrenched at her insides. “Oh my God!” she screamed.

The curtains were open, the brightening sunlight sweeping into the corners of the room, throwing a soft haze across her clammy body. Her cotton nightdress clung to her wet skin as she gripped her knees with both hands, neck stretched rigid with exertion.

“I don’t care about her,” she hissed. “Where’s the bloody midwife?”