Read Chapter 18: The Lie Exposed

The ward smelled of antiseptic and stale tea. Maggie had grown used to it over the past two days, the way the odour clung to her coat, her hair, the inside of her nostrils. She sat in the hard wooden chair beside Thomas's bed, her fingers loosely wrapped around his hand, watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin hospital blanket.

His leg was suspended in a heavy plaster cast, the white material stark against the pale skin of his foot. The doctors said the break was clean—he would walk again, though it would take weeks. The concussion was the greater worry. He drifted in and out, waking for minutes at a time, his words slurred and thick, before sinking back into a sleep that seemed almost too deep.

But he was alive. That was what Maggie told herself, over and over, like a prayer.

He stirred now, his eyelids fluttering. She leaned forward, her heart quickening.

“Thomas?”

His eyes opened, unfocused at first, then finding her face. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You're still here.”

“Where else would I be?” She squeezed his hand gently, mindful of the bruising along his forearm.

He tried to shift in the bed and winced. “The bomb—”

“Don't.” She pressed a finger to his lips. “Don't think about that now. Just rest.”

He caught her finger, held it for a moment, then let go. “I keep dreaming about the cottage,” he said, his voice rough from disuse. “The garden. Those apple trees. You were there, hanging laundry, and it was so quiet you could hear the birds.”

Maggie's throat tightened. “That sounds lovely.”

“It's going to be real, Maggie. I promised you that.” He closed his eyes again, the words already fading into sleep. “We're going to get our peace.”

She stayed motionless until his breathing evened out, then pressed her lips to his knuckles in a kiss he would not feel.

A nurse appeared at the foot of the bed, her uniform crisp and efficient. “Miss Hollis? There's a visitor for Mr. Elliott. His mother has arrived.”

Maggie's stomach dropped. She had known this moment would come, of course—had wondered how she would face the woman whose son lay broken in a hospital bed because of his job, his duty, his stubborn refusal to stand aside while others died. But knowing and facing were two very different things.

She smoothed her skirt, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and walked into the corridor.

Mrs. Elliott was unmistakable. She had Thomas's eyes—that clear, steady grey—and the same upright bearing, though her shoulders seemed to carry a weight that her son's did not. She wore a dark wool coat, practical and well-made, and clutched a handbag as if it might anchor her to the ground.

“Miss Hollis,” Mrs. Elliott said. The words were neither warm nor cold. They were a door held open, waiting to see what would enter.

“Mrs. Elliott.” Maggie extended her hand. “I'm so sorry. Thomas is—he's stable. The doctors say he'll recover.”

The older woman took her hand briefly, her grip dry and firm. “I should like to see him.”

“Of course. He just fell asleep again, but the nurse said you can go in.” Maggie stepped aside, then added, “I'll wait out here.”

Mrs. Elliott paused, studying her with an intensity that made Maggie want to look away. “I'd prefer if you came as well. We have things to discuss.”

The corridor was narrow, lined with trolleys and the occasional chair where visitors sat with heads bowed. Mrs. Elliott chose a spot near the window, where the grey London sky pressed against the glass, and turned to face Maggie.

“You're younger than I expected,” she said.

Maggie blinked. “I'm sorry?”

“Thomas wrote to me about you. Said you were a shelter warden, brave and resourceful. He didn't mention your age, but I assumed you were closer to his own.” She tilted her head. “How old are you, Miss Hollis?”

The question hit Maggie like a blow to the chest. She had rehearsed this lie so many times, had told it so often, that it came out almost without thinking.

“Twenty-four.”

Mrs. Elliott's expression did not change. “Twenty-four. I see.”

Something in the flatness of her voice made Maggie's pulse quicken. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem at all.” Mrs. Elliott smiled—a thin, polite smile that did not reach her eyes. “I was just curious. You look young for your age, that's all. It's no insult.”

But Maggie knew it was. She could feel the weight of the lie settling between them, a stone dropped into still water. She should tell the truth. Now, before this went any further. But the words stuck in her throat, caught on the fear that if Thomas's mother knew she was barely twenty-one, she would see her as a child, a girl playing at love during a war, unworthy of her son.

The moment passed. Mrs. Elliott excused herself to see Thomas, and Maggie fled to the relative sanctuary of the hospital canteen, where she nursed a cup of tea that had gone cold and watched the hands of the clock crawl toward evening.

She told herself it was over. Mrs. Elliott had accepted the answer, had moved on. But Maggie knew better. There was something in the way Thomas's mother had looked at her—a measuring glance, as if she were counting the seconds until she could check the arithmetic.

Two days later, Maggie arrived at the hospital to find Mrs. Elliott waiting for her in the corridor, a piece of paper folded in her hand.

“Miss Hollis,” she said, her voice carrying that same flat, careful tone. “I should like to speak with you privately.”

Maggie's throat went dry. “Is Thomas all right?”

“Thomas is improving. This is about something else.”

They found a corner near the empty side-ward, away from the nurses' station. Mrs. Elliott unfolded the paper and held it out. Maggie did not need to read it—she could see her own name at the top, her birth date in neat black ink—but she took it anyway, buying herself a moment to breathe.

“You're twenty-one,” Mrs. Elliott said. “Not twenty-four. I checked the parish records this morning. You were born in September of 1919. I had to pull a favour from a clerk who owed my husband a debt.”

Maggie felt the walls close in around her. “Mrs. Elliott, I can explain—”

“Can you? Because I find it difficult to explain why a young woman would lie to me about something so simple. Unless she has something to hide.” Mrs. Elliott crossed her arms. “My son is lying in that bed. He tells me he intends to marry you. And I find that I don't know the first thing about you—not even your real age.”

“I lied because I was afraid you wouldn't take me seriously,” Maggie said, the words rushing out. “I know I'm young. I know Thomas is older, and he's done so much, and I'm just—I'm just a shelter warden with no family fortune and no education beyond secretarial school. I thought if you knew how young I was, you'd think I was a passing fancy, a wartime whim. I didn't want to lose him before I'd even had a chance.”

Mrs. Elliott's jaw tightened. “You thought a lie would serve you better than the truth?”

“I thought it would give me time.”

“Time for what?”

Maggie opened her mouth, but no answer came. She didn't know. Time to prove herself. Time to become someone worthy of Thomas. Time to forget that she might have to leave him anyway, that her parents were still waiting for her to sign their future away.

Mrs. Elliott exhaled slowly. “My son has never been a fool. He chose you. I trust his judgement—but I cannot trust a woman who begins her life with him by lying about who she is.”

“I'm not lying about who I am,” Maggie said, her voice cracking. “I'm Margaret Hollis. I love your son. I've sat by his bed every day since they brought him in. I've held his hand while he screamed in his sleep. I've promised to build a life with him, and I meant every word. I'm twenty-one years old, and I'm terrified, but I'm not a child, and I'm not a whim. I'm the woman who's going to marry him if he'll still have me.”

The words hung in the air between them. Maggie could feel her heartbeat in her ears, could feel the edge of tears pressing against her eyes, waiting to be released.

Mrs. Elliott was silent for a long, terrible moment. Then, slowly, she unfolded her arms.

“Thomas did not tell me he proposed,” she said. “I heard it from a nurse who recognized his name. He asked you, and you said yes.”

“Yes.”

“And your parents? Do they know?”

Maggie shook her head. “Not yet. My father doesn't even know I'm staying in London. There's a solicitor's meeting in five days. I'm supposed to sign papers—selling off my father's assets so the family can start again in Canada. I'm not going to sign. I've already told my mother. But my father doesn't know, and neither does Thomas.”

Mrs. Elliott studied her for a long moment. “You've been carrying a great deal on your own.”

“It feels like the whole war sometimes.”

The older woman reached out and, unexpectedly, took Maggie's hand. Her grip was warm, firmer than Maggie had expected.

“I still don't like being lied to. But I understand fear better than I'd care to admit.” She squeezed once, then let go. “When Thomas wakes—when he's well enough to hear it—you tell him the truth. The whole truth, including this conversation. And you tell your father before that solicitor's meeting. You've been brave for London, for Thomas. Now you need to be brave for yourself.”

Maggie nodded, her throat too tight for words.

“Now,” Mrs. Elliott said, her voice softening. “Let's go see my son. He's been asking for you all morning, and he's impossible when he's fretful.”

They walked down the corridor together, two women who had chosen, in their own ways, to stand by the same man. When they reached the ward, Thomas was propped against his pillows, his face pale but his eyes sharp and alert.

“Maggie,” he said, relief flooding his voice. “And Mother. You've met, then.”

“We have,” Mrs. Elliott said, taking the chair beside his bed. “And I've decided she'll do.”

A laugh broke from Thomas's chest, cut short by a wince. “That's high praise from you.”

Maggie stepped to the other side of the bed and took his left hand. The weight of his mother's acceptance was still settling around her shoulders like an unfamiliar coat. But Thomas was smiling, and he was alive, and for now, that was enough.

She would tell him the truth about her age. She would tell him about the money. She would tell him about the solicitor's meeting.

Just not yet.