The Last Night in London Read online

  ALSO BY KAREN WHITE

  The Color of Light

  Learning to Breathe

  Pieces of the Heart

  The Memory of Water

  The Lost Hours

  On Folly Beach

  Falling Home

  The Beach Trees

  Sea Change

  After the Rain

  The Time Between

  A Long Time Gone

  The Sound of Glass

  Flight Patterns

  Spinning the Moon

  The Night the Lights Went Out

  Dreams of Falling

  COWRITTEN WITH BEATRIZ WILLIAMS AND LAUREN WILLIG

  The Forgotten Room

  The Glass Ocean

  All the Ways We Said Goodbye

  THE TRADD STREET SERIES

  The House on Tradd Street

  The Girl on Legare Street

  The Strangers on Montagu Street

  Return to Tradd Street

  The Guests on South Battery

  The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  Copyright © 2021 by Harley House Books, LLC

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: White, Karen (Karen S.), author.

  Title: The last night in London / Karen White.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020032228 (print) | LCCN 2020032229 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451492012 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780451492029 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3623.H5776 L37 2021 (print) | LCC PS3623.H5776 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032228

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032229

  Cover design by Rita Frangie

  Jacket photographs of women: (left) © RetroAtelier / Getty Images, (center and right) © Elisabeth Ansley / Trevillion Images, (with umbrella) © Drunaa / Trevillion Images

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0

  To Tim, for everything.

  And to the 32,000 citizens of London who were killed during the Blitz. You are not forgotten.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Karen White

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Feelings . . . of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

  As have no slight or trivial influence

  On that best portion of a good man’s life,

  His little, nameless, unremembered, acts

  Of kindness and of love.

  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

  PROLOGUE

  LONDON

  APRIL 1941

  The cool, clear night shuddered, then moaned as the fluctuating drone of hundreds of engines eclipsed the silence. A wave of planes like angry hornets slipped through the darkened sky over a city already wearing black in preparation for the inevitable mourning.

  She tasted dust and burnt embers in the back of her throat as she hurried through a crowd of stragglers running toward a shelter. A man grabbed her arm, as if to correct her movement, but an explosion nearby made him release his hold and hurry after the crowd. She shifted the valise she cradled in her arms, the pressure on her chest making it difficult to breathe. Fatigue and pain battered her body, both eagerly welcomed, as they disguised the bruise of overwhelming grief. She staggered forward, the blood dripping unchecked from her leg and forehead, the acrid stench of explosives mixed with the sharp smell of death.

  Gingerly, she moved through the darkened high street so familiar in the daylight but foreign to her now. The night sky blossomed with fire and scarlet light as the loud bark of the antiaircraft guns answered the banshee wails of the warning sirens. Pressing herself against a wall, as if she could hide from the noise and the terror, she closed her eyes. Moonlight Sonata. Someone—she couldn’t remember who, in an underground club, perhaps—had whispered that that was what he called the music of the nightly bombings. She’d thought then it had been a beautiful sentiment, that it was a wonderful way to make something good out of something so terrible. But she’d been younger then. More willing to accept that the world still held on to its beauty when everything lay charred and smoldering, with roofless structures like starving baby birds, mouths open to a useless sky.

  Another incendiary bomb fell nearby. Another fireball lurched upward. Another building, another home, another life destroyed as the haphazard finger of fortune pointed with random carelessness. The sidewalk rumbled beneath her, causing her to stumble into the street, almost losing hold of her precious bundle. The shrill whistle of an air raid warden rang out, the sound padded into near oblivion by the thunder of the engines above them. The baby lay still as she ran, the partially closed top of the valise protecting him from the ashes that drifted from burning buildings.

  She ducked into a doorway to catch her breath, oddly grateful to the fires for lighting her way. Fairly certain she was on Mac Farren Place, she flattened herself against a recessed door, imagining she could hear approaching footsteps coming for her. She needed to keep running until she reached her destination. She wasn’t sure what she’d do after that, but she’d think about it then.

  Another wave of planes slithered overhead, the rumble of their engines echoing in her bones. She was tempted to collapse on the doorstep and remain there until dawn or death, whi
chever came first. But she couldn’t. She felt the heft of the valise in her arms again, a small movement within it reminding her of why she couldn’t give up.

  She stood, planting her feet wide for balance and for the false sense of strength it gave her. As the world vibrated beneath her, she clung to that tenuous spark of will that wouldn’t allow her to stop. It pushed her out onto the street again to begin moving as the roar of the next approaching wave of planes swelled behind her.

  She hid in another doorway as the planes flew overhead, letting go of their bombs as they neared Oxford Street. Her shoulders and arms ached from carrying the valise. How could such a small thing seem to weigh so much? But she couldn’t stop. Not now. Not after everything that had happened. One more loss would be insurmountable, the largest and final hole in her cup of luck.

  Her ears rang from the cacophony of destruction raining down around her, the coppery tang of blood filling her mouth from biting her lip to keep it from trembling. A stray bomb could explode on top of her and her precious cargo regardless of its intended target, the erratic hands of fate never quite sure where to land.

  Avoiding wardens and anyone else who would veer her off course, she continued to hurry forward until she reached Davies Street and the square of beautiful Georgian terrace houses now sheathed in black, the windows darkened like sleeping eyes. She knew the house, had been inside it even. Knew that the basement was being used as a private bomb shelter, one complete with electricity and stocked with food and soft mattresses and blankets. But that was not why she was there. She wouldn’t be staying.

  The flashing white undersides of an air warden’s gloves beckoned two women dressed as if they’d just been dragged from a party; they stumbled toward him as he guided them to a public shelter. Holding the valise closer, she pressed herself against the wrought iron fence of the house, ducking her face to hide its paleness. When the three disappeared, she moved cautiously along the fence, then unlatched the gate. She carefully took the steps down to the lower level, then turned the doorknob, not thinking until she did so of what she’d do if it was locked.

  The door opened to an unoccupied room, filled only with mattresses and cushions piled against the windows and walls, the flickering firelight from outside showing her a closed door across the room. Memorizing her path, she shut the door behind her, enveloping herself in complete darkness. Soft, murmuring voices came from behind the door opposite as she approached. She stopped in front of it and raised her hand to knock, then paused to mouth an old prayer she remembered from childhood to a God she no longer thought listened. “Amen,” she whispered to the dark when she was finished, then brought her knuckles down sharply against the wood.

  The voices stopped, and she held her breath as footsteps approached.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice, clear and refined. English.

  Her knees almost buckled with relief. “It’s me. Please open the door.”

  The door was jerked open, allowing her to see inside the small room with the tidy cots around the perimeter, a small crystal lamp sparkling from the polished surface of a round table with cabriole legs. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she might have laughed at the absurdity of crystal and fine furniture in such a place, at such a time, when the world above was being smothered with ashes and blood. The person she’d been might have been amused. But she wasn’t that person anymore.

  The woman looked into the darkened room as if expecting to see two other people seeking refuge.

  “I’m alone. There’s no one else.”

  A look of understanding and grief crossed the woman’s face before she nodded briefly and straightened her shoulders. “You’re hurt,” the woman said, her fine skin glowing like alabaster in the lamplight. Reaching out manicured hands with scarlet nails, she said, “Come in. Quickly. We have a doctor.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I have to go.” For the first time, she relaxed her hold on the valise. She set it down and picked up the baby, his soft body stirring sleepily in her arms. Pressing her lips against the smooth forehead, she smelled deeply, the stench of the torn night erased by the sweet scent of new life. She lifted her head, then handed him over before she could change her mind and be the ruin of them all.

  The woman’s pale eyes widened with surprise, then showed understanding, as she accepted the child, pressing him against her chest, an unasked question dancing in the air between them.

  “I’ve got to go back. He . . .” Her arm gestured aimlessly. “It might not be too late. . . .” Despair escaped from her chest and filled her mouth.

  “But you can’t leave. Not now. There’s a raid. . . .”

  “I have to. There’s no one else.” A sob caught in her throat. “I have to try.” Her eyes moved to the squirming bundle, but she dragged them away.

  The woman hadn’t reacted to the news except for a quick intake of breath. With studied composure, she said, “But you’re hurt. Surely you can wait five more minutes.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’ve already stayed too long.” She took a step back to emphasize her words. “I think they might be looking for me.”

  “All the more reason you should stay here. We can keep you safe. We can help you get the proper papers. . . .”

  As if the woman hadn’t spoken, she said, “You’ll take care of the baby?”

  “Of course. But—”

  “Good.”

  The woman looked so lovely standing there with the light prisms sparkling against the wall behind her as she held the baby. She’d done the right thing, coming here. “Be safe,” the woman said. “But this won’t be good-bye. We’ll see each other again, when this is all over.”

  “I hope so,” she said, allowing her eyes to rest on the pale moon of the baby’s cheek for just a flicker. She took another step backward. “When this is all over.” She turned and let herself out of the second door and back into the wounded night.

  She passed through the gate and hurried toward the street corner and paused, getting her bearings, knowing only that she had to keep running. Just for a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes, to see the baby’s face one last time.

  A high, keening shriek split the air around her, jerking open her eyes. Her chest heaved from the percussion of the bomb hitting the building across the street, bricks and glass and plaster being thrown into the air like the discarded toys of a petulant child. Something hard struck her in the back between her shoulder blades, throwing her against the pavement, knocking her to her hands and knees. The stray thought of how she’d never be able to repair the damage to her clothing trickled across her brain as she watched the debris falling in slow motion around her, a lit piece of floral wallpaper drifting down and extinguishing itself on the sidewalk.

  She struggled to stand, pain radiating like fever, the bleeding scrapes on her palms and forehead merely an afterthought. Her right leg buckled under her, her knee bending in a way it wasn’t intended to. No, no, no. Not now. Not like this. Sucking in her breath, she began to crawl back to the shelter, a fading glimmer of self-preservation driving her forward, defeat nipping at her heels.

  Darkness danced behind her eyes, seductively calling to her. She fought it as she pulled herself up on the gate, reaching for the latch, forcing herself to stay conscious as she felt for the release. Propelling herself forward with her elbows, she tumbled down the steps, her body landing against the door with a thump, her face turned toward the sky in silent supplication. For a brief moment she imagined she was walking in sand, the sound of a distant ocean teasing the air. Home. It was there, as it always had been, just beyond her reach.

  Please. The word echoed inside her head, but she remained mute as the darkness overcame her and the sky above screamed with a thousand unanswered prayers.

  CHAPTER 1

  LONDON

  MAY 2019

  The plane jolted and bumped down the runway at Heathrow, the usual
rain of a gray London morning spitting on the windows, a timid sun doing its best to push aside the clouds. The plane finally rocked to a stop and its travel-weary passengers stood in the aisles and began pulling cases from the overhead bins, the sound of zippers and latches filling the rows like a choreographed routine to signal the end of a journey. I remained in my seat, my recent dream still lingering, recalling the images of the old magnolia tree and the large white columns of my aunt Cassie’s house and the red flowers she planted along the front steps each year in memory of my mother.

  A polite throat clearing brought my attention to the aisle, where the line of passengers waited for me to exit. I nodded my thanks, grabbed my backpack from beneath the seat in front of me, and headed for the exit, my thoughts still clinging to the place I’d called home for the first eighteen years of my life and where, if pressed, I’d still tell people I was from. Which was stupid, really. I’d been living in New York for seven years and hadn’t been back to Georgia for the last three, with no plans to return anytime soon.

  I turned on my cell phone as I made my way toward the baggage claim. My phone dinged with five texts: one from my father; one from my stepmother, Suzanne; one from my sister Sarah Frances; one from Aunt Cassie; and the most recent from Arabella, my friend from my junior year abroad at Oxford and the reason I was in London now.

  I opened my phone to read Arabella’s first, smiling to myself as I saw that she’d been following my flight on her phone app and knew I’d landed and that she was waiting in the short-stay car park. I was to text her when I’d passed through passport control so that she could meet me outside Terminal 2. It was typical Arabella, the kind of person whose organizational skills were simultaneously helpful and annoying. Despite her thriving career as a fashion editor at British Vogue, her main job seemed to be organizing the social calendars and lives of her large circle of friends.

  I tossed my phone into my backpack, deciding the other texts could wait, and joined the throngs of people walking through passport control and customs, then began texting Arabella as I made it outside. I had barely typed my first word when I heard the rapid beeps of a car horn. I looked up to see my friend in a red BMW convertible—a hand-me-down from her mother that she’d driven while in college. The top was lowered despite the threatening skies, so I could see her curly hair creating a blond halo around her pixielike face. She looked like a Barbie doll, an image she liked to cultivate if only because it hid her sharp wit and killer intellect.