There really wasn’t an alternative. “Yes, here . . . I’ll write it down.” She handed Olive the slip of paper, and the two women smiled at each other.

Alice felt a stirring deep inside, not unlike the quickening she’d felt with Eadie, infused with nervousness. She had achieved what she came for: Olive’s promise of help. Now she had to hope that it would be enough.

Seventeen

London, March 29, 1943

As Theo raced up the stairs to the boardroom, a spring in his step, he thought about the telephone call he’d just had with Virginia and her excitement when he’d recounted the events of the weekend.

He hadn’t been able to refuse George’s offer to be his guest in Norfolk, but it had been a resounding success; while there had been disappointingly few grouse, George’s family had been faultless in their hospitality. As well as his wife and two daughters, there had been a horde of neighbors and other London visitors. Friday supper had grown into a rowdy affair that lasted until well after midnight so that their dawn hunting departure came far too soon, then luncheon rolled into another long supper. He’d captivated Virginia with his descriptions of the estate: the handsome seventeenth-century house, sandstone walls covered with ivy and wisteria; a formal garden with fragrant verbena, lavender and rose; and the kitchen garden of equal size featuring herbs he hadn’t tried before, including borage, lovage and lemon thyme. Not even Walter owned such a prepossessing home.

On Sunday, Theo had been driven back to London feeling a little shabbier than on the drive up, relieved he’d accepted the Alka-Seltzer and packed breakfast offered by the butler on departure. He’d wanted to go through everything before the Monday morning meeting, and he was glad he’d spent Sunday afternoon doing just that; there were still areas he didn’t understand and British terms he couldn’t fathom.

George had stayed in Norfolk, but the others were in the boardroom when Theo arrived: Tommy, Emily and Ursula. And, to his surprise, Alice Cotton sat at the far side of the table. Ursula had been right about her after all, although he wondered what had changed her mind. “Good morning,” he said. “And welcome back, Alice.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bloom.”

“Theo, please.”

A cold spring air blew through the open windows, the fresh sunlight whitewashing the room, and Theo took the seat opposite Alice. It was only a few feet away yet close enough to see how her appearance had improved: blond victory rolls framed her made-up face, and she wore a smart blouse and jacket. She still looked rather pale, her features altogether more fragile than they’d appeared in the café, but perhaps that was just the contrast of her navy eyes against her delicate English skin.