The Woman In the Green Dress Read online

  About the Author

  TEA COOPER is an established Australian author of historical fiction. In a past life she was a teacher, a journalist and a farmer. These days she haunts museums and indulges her passion for storytelling. She is the bestselling author of several novels, including The Horse Thief, The Cedar Cutter, The Currency Lass and The Naturalist’s Daughter.

  www.teacooperauthor.com

  Also by Tea Cooper

  The Horse Thief

  The Cedar Cutter

  The Currency Lass

  The Naturalist’s Daughter

  (Available in ebook)

  Matilda’s Freedom

  Lily’s Leap

  Forgotten Fragrance

  The Woman in the Green Dress

  Tea Cooper

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  For Cooper and Violet

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Tea Cooper

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt

  One

  London, 11 November 1918

  A whole, unexpected morning off. With pay! All because Mrs Black reckoned they’d driven back the Hun, the toffs had finally signed the piece of paper, and the Armistice would be a done deal. The whole idea had Fleur Richards’ heart pounding fit to bust.

  It wasn’t until she reached the end of the Strand and walked around the corner that she was finally convinced Mrs Black knew what she was talking about. Hundreds of thousands of people, crowded into Trafalgar Square, though they were strangely quiet.

  A huge rumble shook the pavement. The maroons fired with a blinding flash of light. Smoke billowed into the air.

  In the stillness of the moment she fancied Hugh stood beside her.

  The sky is higher in Australia.

  Truly?

  The stars are brighter and the sun always shines.

  I don’t believe you.

  You will. Not long now. I promise.

  A flurry of bugles sounded the all clear, drowning out his voice, and the streets erupted. The whole of London must have downed tools. Everyone hugging each other, cheering wildly, throwing their hats in the air, a swirling whirlpool of happiness; strangers with tears streaming down their faces, embracing one another, and the bells, bells that hadn’t rung for four years, pealing like it was Christmas, Easter and the King’s birthday all rolled into one.

  Not long now, my love. Not long now. We’re going home.

  Without thinking she threw her arms around the nearest person. He picked her up, twirled her around and deposited her back on the pavement with a thump. Before she could move, the tall lanky soldier grabbed her hand and towed her towards one of the packed buses circling the square.

  If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine it was Hugh’s hand she held. She hadn’t known love could be like that. One look and it was as though their souls had merged. The image of his face always before her eyes and his voice drowning out her fears.

  I’ll be back before you know it!

  Hands reached out and grabbed her. Her feet took on a life of their own and she was hauled aboard the bus, dizzy with excitement, her head swimming.

  A number 13. Dad’s bus.

  ‘Oi! Fleur. Hold tight.’ The clippie’s voice brought her back to reality. ‘Your dad can’t be here, nor your mum neither, but you can. I’ll bet me boots they’ll be watching and cheering up there, waving the old flag.’

  Blowing the clippie a kiss she swung up the steps, squeezing past the people hanging on by their fingernails, and eased onto the platform. The soldier threw her a cheeky salute and blended into the crowd.

  ‘Is it really over?’

  A young boy, hardly old enough to shave never mind wear his tattered uniform, grinned at her. ‘Armistice was signed at five this morning. ’Ostilities to cease on all fronts at 11 am on the knocker. That’s what they said.’

  Mrs Black was right!

  One of the drivers, she couldn’t remember his name but she’d met him at Mum and Dad’s memorial, patted the small space on the edge of the seat. ‘Sit yourself down. We’re off to see the King.’

  The bus slewed to one side, throwing her against his broad shoulders as they turned into the Strand. ‘Never thought we’d see the day.’

  She’d had serious doubts herself but thankfully she’d been proven wrong. ‘I’m meant to be going to work this afternoon.’

  ‘Nah, you’re not. No work today. Not for you. Not for anyone.’

  She didn’t mind work. It gave her a sense of purpose and at least she didn’t have to worry about a decent meal and queueing for hours for a pound of tea and some canned meat. Her feet might ache at the end of the day but her stomach didn’t rumble.

  The man heaved himself to his feet. ‘Ladies and gents. This ’ere young lady’s worried about missing work. Do we think she should go?’

  A resounding roar filled the bus and she was snatched from her seat and swirled around, landing on the lap of an American with big white teeth and a smile to match. ‘No work for you today, doll. And I’ll be taking on anyone who tries to tell you otherwise.’

  That was something she’d like to see. This man might be all big and brash but Mrs Black would make mincemeat of him, then slap him between two pieces of pastry.

  The bus lurched around the corner and trundled off, but didn’t get far. A procession of cheering civilians and fighting men all decked out with flags filled the Mall, bent on reaching the gates of Buckingham Palace, every one of them shouting ‘We want the King!’ ‘We want the King!’

  The American grabbed her hand. ‘Come on! We’re not missing this.’

  They jumped off the bus and joined the throng, pushing forward as though their lives depended on it.

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  A thunderous cheer echoed and the King, all dressed up in a posh uniform with enough gold braid to rival the crown jewels, appeared on the palace balcony.

  The Yank’s eyes glowed in awe. ‘Is that the Queen, next to him?’

  ‘She’s the one in the dreadful hat, and that’s her daughter, Princess Mary. I’m not sure who …’ Fleur, clamped her mouth closed as an all-encompassing hush descended on the crowd. So quiet even the Queen up there on the balcony could have heard her.

  The King stepped forward and she craned to hear his words. ‘With you I rejoice and thank God for the victories which the Allied arms have won, bringing hostilities to an end and peace within sight.’

  And that was all. The Queen waved a Union Jack a
nd a massive roar rocked the air, the force of it shaking the ground.

  Somewhere behind her a band struck up and she found herself yelling—not singing, no one could call it singing—‘God Save the King’, ‘Tipperary’, ‘The Old Hundredth’. With her heart fit to burst she sucked in enough air to join in ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

  Then the King waved his hat to the crowd and trooped off with all the other toffs.

  Four years, fourteen weeks and two days of hell. And it was over. Just like that.

  Not long now, my love!

  Several hours later Fleur floated home dizzy with delight, with bubbles of happiness fighting for space in her chest.

  I’ll take you home. As soon as it’s over, I’ll take you home.

  She was going to Australia, with Hugh. Soon, so soon.

  By the time she’d reached Kings Cross, rain had seeped under her collar and trickled down the back of her blouse but nothing could dampen her euphoria. Not even the familiar stench of stale sweat and old cabbage that greeted her when she threw open the front door. She could cope with anything. All she had to do was wait for Hugh.

  She tripped up the stairs and slipped her key into the lock and went straight across the room to fling open the window.

  So much had changed since she’d stood on Waterloo station, waving a soggy handkerchief, watching the train pull out taking Hugh away and leaving her with nothing but dreams and a carefully folded marriage certificate in her pocket, convinced she’d never see an end to the war. Now hundreds of bonfires had consumed the blackout and the acrid smell of the fireworks dispersed more than the stench of her room. Her fear, too, was gone.

  A group of crazy Tommies called up a greeting as they staggered down the street brandishing trophies and souvenirs from different uniforms. Hugh always looked so smart. Slouch hat, turned up at side, puttees and belt always worn. Not like these dishevelled revellers bundling their friends into flag-strewn motor cars. She grinned down at them and waved as they disappeared into the clamouring crowd, amidst a flurry of bunting and shaking rattles.

  There was no need to waste her money on lighting tonight; the glow from the streets and the joy in her heart could illuminate the whole of London. The bloody slog was over.

  With a delicious yawn, she collapsed onto the bed and pulled off her shoes, wriggling her toes in relief, tasting the remnants of brandy from the hip flask the American kept pressing on her.

  Rummaging in her pocket for sixpence for the gas, she came up blank. There had to be one somewhere. She reefed open the drawer and shot the contents all over the floor.

  Bending down, she scooped up the odds and ends and frowned at the white envelope staring up at her.

  Ministry of Information printed in the top left-hand corner and slap bang in the middle Mrs Hugh Richards.

  There must be a mistake. She didn’t use her married name, hadn’t told more than a handful of people about her marriage. The letter must be meant for someone else, another Mrs Hugh Richards.

  It couldn’t be bad news. Bad news came in a telegram. No one had hijacked her with a dreaded telegram.

  ‘Fleur. Fleur. Are you there?’

  No, she wasn’t. At least she didn’t feel as though she was. The door inched open. She slid to her knees, started to edge beneath the bed, overtaken by some childish craving to become invisible.

  ‘Oh Fleur. I’m sorry. I hoped to catch you before you came upstairs.’

  She forced down the overwhelming need to hide and eyed her landlady with suspicion. What was she doing here? What did she want? The rent was paid.

  ‘You found the letter?’

  Oh, God! So, it wasn’t her imagination. She bent over and picked up the envelope.

  ‘You’re going to have to open it, you know.’ The woman took two steps into the room.

  She cradled the envelope against her chest. ‘There’s been a mistake.’

  ‘No dearie, I don’t think so.’

  Why was the battle-axe calling her dearie? She’d never heard any form of endearment slip between her nasty, narrow lips.

  ‘You’re going to have to open it. Here, let me.’ She stretched out her hand and tugged at the envelope.

  Fleur grasped it tight in her fingers and sank down onto the bed.

  ‘Come on, dearie. Best to know.’ The interfering busybody eased down beside her.

  Fleur shot to her feet. ‘Go away. Leave me alone.’

  ‘I was only trying to be helpful. Have it your own way.’ Huffing and puffing, the woman stomped off, shutting the door with an irritated clunk.

  It couldn’t have anything to do with Hugh. It said Ministry of Information. He was a soldier, just an ordinary Australian soldier, a tunneller. And if anything had happened to him it would be a telegram.

  She shot the bolt on the door. No audience, no snooping onlookers, no meddlesome landlady. Just her and an envelope.

  It wasn’t a telegram!

  The war’s over!

  The words shrieked through her head like the six-o’clock steam train out of Waterloo, all noise and belching clouds of smoke. She’d trailed down there often enough, stood in the shadows watching, waiting, hoping Hugh would step onto the platform, his face creased with the lopsided smile he saved for her and his blue eyes sparkling, and now there was this. A nasty envelope with her name—his name—smudged on the front. A name she’d barely got used to wearing. A surname she didn’t deserve to have. It belonged to his mother, his sister, someone whose arms had held him far more often than hers had.

  The typewriter’s ‘s’ key had blurred from overuse: all the wives and mothers who’d received frightful news. News she wasn’t going to receive.

  The folded paper crackled as it fluttered in her fingers.

  She glanced down at the precise writing:

  Dear Mrs Richards

  I have information regarding your husband, Corporal Hugh Richards.

  What did that mean? Perhaps he was coming home, maybe he’d been injured, Missing in Action … she forced her eyes back down to the paper.

  I would appreciate it if you could call at Wellington House, Buckingham Gate at ten on the morning of Tuesday 12th.

  Yours, most sincerely,

  Archer Waterstone

  What was going on?

  Hugh couldn’t be dead. There’d be a telegram, not a handwritten letter on expensive writing paper. Besides she’d have known if he was dead, felt it in the special part of her heart reserved for Hugh, and Hugh alone.

  We’ve got our whole future ahead of us.

  She twisted the thin silver band on her finger.

  No one’s going to take me away. Not now I’ve found you.

  He made her heart sing, and now she doubted she could even manage a half-hearted whistle, never mind a sob. She was cold, so very cold.

  ‘Fleur? Open the door. Fleur! I’ve got a cup of tea for you.’

  Was it too much to ask for a few minutes’ peace? The doorknob rattled.

  ‘Fleur, I know you’re in there. Is it bad news?’

  It wasn’t a telegram. It wasn’t bad news.

  ‘I’ll leave the tea outside.’ Footsteps retreated and then silence, blissful silence.

  Shivering, Fleur teetered to the door and slid the lock. God, what she wouldn’t give for a bath. In Australia, they had the bathrooms out the back, and in summer a bath under the stars.

  No need to worry about anyone watching, not when you’ve got acres and acres to call your own.

  She’d go mad if she didn’t pull herself together. She picked up the tray and kicked the door shut behind her.

  With Mum’s trousers under her dressing gown and Dad’s old cardigan over the top she curled up in the chair.

  Why hadn’t she heard from Hugh? She’d longed for letters. Billet-doux he called them. Billet-don’t, more like. He’d written a few then they’d dried up quick enough to make her wonder if he’d changed his mind, regretted their madcap race to the registry office.

  She eyed the expansive ha
ndwriting, sprawling across the immaculate envelope, nothing like usual buff-coloured telegram forms, elegant like Hugh’s hands. Long elegant fingers and pale nails—a pianist’s hands.

  Concentrate. She had to concentrate.

  Buckingham Gate! Ten o’clock.

  How the hell was she meant to do that? It was halfway through her shift. Right at the busiest part of the morning. No chance. Mrs Black would have a fit. Not a chance in hell. Not after today. Didn’t the man understand women had responsibilities? And she certainly couldn’t do without her job. Not if … a groan slipped between her lips and she swallowed it down with a mouthful of tea, choking in the process.

  If something had happened they’d send a telegram. Hugh wasn’t dead. He’d promised they’d go to Australia and she couldn’t miss work. Couldn’t ask for any time off. Not after today. She was tired, so tired. Her eyes kept closing of their own accord. She’d write a note, get Mrs Black’s boy to deliver it when she started her shift. That was the answer. Tell Mr Archer Waterstone she’d make another time.

  She slipped underneath the blankets and curled into a tight ball, hugging her memories close, waiting for the dream to come, the same dream she’d had every night since the first Zeppelin raid, the ominous shadow dampening the grey morning light. She groaned and covered her ears, knowing the whine of the bombs would come next. Then the sudden silence as the world held its breath to see what devastation the bloody Huns had wrought, waiting to see whose turn it was to die.

  Strangely she couldn’t see Dad’s hands clutched, knuckles white on the steering wheel as though, even in death, it was his responsibility to drive his passengers away from danger. No clouds of smoke, no wreckage full of screaming twisted agony.

  Instead she dreamt of Hugh.

  She lifted her eyes, past the dome of St Paul’s to the hill where St Martin’s stood and he was there, bathed in sunlight on a patch of grass, holding out his hand and she ran, ran through the tattered streets, sliding on the rain-soaked cobbles and she reached out to him …

  He’d filled her head and her heart with dreams and promises of clear skies and pure white birds.

  Doves?