Certain As The Sun

Chapter 1

Rye, Sussex, United Kingdom
Tuesday, September 9, 1947

It was a catastrophe. Everything lay in ruins. She was sick to death of ash, and that was hardly the worst of it. Sir Geoffrey Post, her father, had been hired to preserve and recover the historic fortress of Rye Castle. Beatrice, at twenty two, and with out a home, was forced to accompany him. The war had been tragic for her homeland. Communities like her own, had been torn apart, and left people with simply the clothes on their backs.
In the earliest parts of the day, when the sun had barely begun its climb, all she could think about were the bombs, the screams, the devastation, and how much it contrasted with the serenity of Mermaid Street. Tears brimmed her sleep swollen eyes, but she blinked them away. There wasn't time for disappointment. There was too much she couldn't change, however she could make a strong pot of black tea.
As she neared the kitchen, she was surprised to see her father, fully dressed for the day, hurriedly penning a note. He worked furiously at the small table, then folded it offhandedly.
"Father?" Bea questioned archly, "you're quite busy for so early an hour."
"Yes," he sounded distracted, " I need Alice to make it to the telegram office as soon as it opens this morning. It's of utmost importance that this arrive on time."
Bea smiled to herself. Everything with father was an emergency these days.
"The tapestries are covered in soot! Have the maids scrub them at once!"
"Look at the hall torches! Have the carpenters sent for immediately!"
She was hardly shocked to see him confronted with another dire situation. In York, he was a man of high standards. His meticulous watch over artifacts and land development, led to his prominence in the preservation community. It broke his heart that he was not commissioned to recover Yorkshire, however, his reputation is why he was called upon for Rye. Balding, graying, and portly, the war seemed to have pulled the vitality from his bones. He was left now half the man he'd been. There were ghosts in his eyes, and Bea did what she could to cheer him. Today, this emergency, seemed to give his eye a twinkle.
Suddenly, the front door burst open.
"Bea, luv, you brewing' a pot? Pour me a cup, won't you?" Mrs. Bertram huffed, finally noticing her father, "Why! Sir Geoffrey! What's got you about so early?"
Mrs. Bertram took care of the cooking and cleaning, as both Beatrice and her father were continuously busy with overseeing and preserving the historical integrity of an entire community. Alice, her grand daughter was fourteen, and had recently lost her father in the war. Mrs. Bertram and Alice were all each other had. Florence Bertram was a mother hen clucking at her father, and cooing at Beatrice.
"I've a telegram for Alice! She needs to make the first bus to the office!" Sir Geoffrey grouched.
"An emergency , no doubt," she shook her head an rolled her eyes, "Alice stopped to talk with Nora, but I'll send her off when she gets here."
With a nod of satisfaction, Sir Geoffrey exited with hat in hand. He squeezed Bea's shoulder on his way out of the house.
"Oy, Nan!" Alice breezed in, her ponytail slipping from its ribbon, "are the hounds after the master?"
Alice was tall, blonde, and in a continuous state of disarray.
"You'll watch your tongue where he's concerned!" Mrs. Bertram clucked, "he's more knowledge in him, than you're likely to ever see. Now, take this, and not a moment wasted!"
"Nan! Bea has loads of smarts too! She's going to go places, right, Bea?" Alice gazed adoringly at her.
"As much as I know, Alice, I am perfectly content to stay put," Bea smiled over her cup.
"Now, hear that? She's smart enough to know where she's needed. Go on," Mrs. Bertram shooed Alice out the door. Alice groused and sighed, as she shoved the note into her jumper pocket and took off on her bicycle.

Florence and Beatrice sat in companionable silence an hour later.
"How is Alice?" Bea asked quietly.
"The girl's made of stern stuff, I'll give her that, but I hear her crying some nights."
Mrs. Bertram shook her head sadly.
Beatrice nodded. She understood all too well what it was to lose someone suddenly and too soon. Her brother, her mother, her home...
Healing and rebuilding took time, and if anyone could carry on it was the Brits.
"S'pose it's one thing to lose someone you cherish when you know why you had to sacrifice them, but to not know why, and to be forced to give them up to a cause you can't comprehend. It's a cruel thing," Mrs. Bertram whispered the musing to a contemplative Beatrice.
Cruel indeed. Bea thought of her mother. Someone who should've shaped who she was, taken from her before she'd been able to even know who she was. She shook herself out of the reverie, and donned her woolen jumper. Her chestnut hair was pinned not too harshly to the nape of her neck, and her brown tweed skirt drowned her petite frame. Mrs. Bertram bussed her cheek and pushed a wrapped sandwich into her hands.
"Take care, luv," she smiled, as Alice sped up on her cycle, and dropped it haphazardly in the drive.
"Made it just as Colin was unlocking the door!" She cried breathlessly.
"You'll ruin your bicycle, you will," Mrs. Bertram shouted back, " I'll watch it be mangled by a car, and I won't bat an eye. I'll see it coming, and I'll not make a sound. Then you'll walk everywhere you go, and will I care? Not at all!"
Bea laughed as she watched Alice angrily prop her cycle by the garage. She stepped out onto the cobblestone lane, and headed to her sanctuary—The Rye Harbour Library.

"Father?" Beatrice called out entering the 300 year old fortress.
""Ah! Beatrice!" Sir Geoffrey stood majestically in the old ballroom. "Come! I have news for you."
"What's happened now, father?" She smiled patronizingly up at him.
"Boston," he winked.
"What?" Her confusion transformed into cold fear when she noticed the postmarked letter in his hand. Massachusetts.
America.
"I received a letter last week, requesting me to approve collector's items from the Colonial Rebellion. Fact checking and inspection is required by a licensed curator. Commissioning and finding artifacts of American significance, that's what the gentleman says, but I am otherwise engaged, and your license arrived weeks ago. It's providential."
His grin was broad. Her brother's ghost had vanished, and life was in his face. Her heart had paused and her limbs felt numb. Leave?
"Papa...?" Her weak whispered plea was lost on him.
"Accommodations are included, and the pay is good! It's just the opportunity you need to begin your career," he looked so proud, so excited, and she couldn't bring herself to dampen his joy.
"The telegram Alice took this morning...?" She choked back tears.
He nodded vigorously, "I accepted the position on your behalf."
She forced a smile, and squeezed his hand tightly.
"Thank you, Papa."
"Of course, my dear. The world needs us."
"History is depending on us," I quoted him, while wiping a stray tear away," when do I leave?"
"An appointment is set for the fourteenth," he eyed her warily.
"Father! That's five days!" Beatrice felt herself begin to tremble.
"Yes, well, he is in quite a hurry to get started."
Her heart sunk to her stomach. She felt sick. She meant to preserve British history, and rebuild her own nation. She'd rather dump all of England's tea into the ocean, than work for some uncouth American! Perhaps, she could sabotage his endeavor...