Duchess

Chapter 12

Sleet began to fall outside as I stared tensely out of our bedroom window, the Washington DC street below us slowly winding down as night began to come.
We had already packed up what little we would be able to parachute down with us, and had met with officials for our final briefing. All that was left was to meet Stanley Lovell, our "gadget man" tomorrow to get our new guns and whatever else he had made for us.
Then, we would leave the safety of the US for perhaps years.
"You know," Benjamin said from the bathroom with shaving cream all over his face, "we don't have to sit here and sulk the whole night. This is our last night in America for who knows how long! We could bake something," he suggested weakly.
     I turned around and smirked at him. "Bake something? What kind of adventure is that? But I like the idea," I mused, climbing over the bed and rummaging through my closet, "of doing something fun."
     He poked his head out of the bathroom with raised eyebrows, halfway shaven.
     "Let's go dancing."
     "No way," Ben said with a laugh, "I'm not going to have us recognized by the press the night before going to France. The last thing you need is a photograph of your latest appearance in the paper."
     I rolled my eyes and rushed to his side, tugging on his pajama shirt. "I'll wear a wig and a different color lipstick. It's not like we aren't experienced with a good old fashioned cover. And this one would be easy compared to every other cover we've ever made. I promise it'll be fun, sweetheart."

     "I'm sure it would be fun," he smirked, "but I don't think it would be wise."

      We don't have to talk to anyone; we can just dance and eat. We haven't gone out in so long and I think Benny Goodman is playing tonight at the Madison Club. Please."
He washed off his face and kissed me on the forehead, looking up at the sky and shrugging. I knew he'd have to say yes.
     "They told us not to leave the house."
     I rolled my eyes. "They also told you not to shave, and I can see you following that rule quite nicely, hmm? C'mon, you can wear a nice suit and I'll wear my red dress. If we stay in here any longer we'll die of dread and regret and fear."
"Fine. But if they play Sing, Sing, Sing," Benjamin sighed, pointing to me with a smile as he unbuttoned his pajama shirt and put on a white button down, "you have to let me throw you up at least one time. It looks so great."
I laughed and cried, "I kicked you in the face last time!"
"Yes," he shrugged with a small grin, "but we beat that arrogant lawyer and his girlfriend. The crowd loved it."
"This isn't a jitterbug contest, Ben," I reminded him as I slipped into my dress, "just a night out like normal people have."
"Either way, we're gonna win."
I rolled my eyes.
Thirty minutes later, we were walking arm-in-arm down the dimly-lit street to the Madison Club, just a few blocks from our old row house.
I was wearing one of the many wigs I'd accumulated doing domestic intelligence operations in my time not overseas, and I switched from my favorite deep red lipstick to a brighter, pinker shade that would be less recognizable.
Benjamin was wearing a nice brown suit jacket he got from a thrift store in Dublin, Ireland and the same olive green sweater he was wearing when we first met in France. Thankfully, someone was able to get the bloodstains out.
The thick-rimmed glasses that he always refused to wear, and slicked back golden hair peeking out from his hat gave him enough of a disguise to blend in with the rest of the men in the club.
"Oh no," he said as we approached the enormous building, pulling me back by the arm, "they've got someone at the door checking tickets."
I giggled and mused, "That won't be an issue, darling. Just tell the man who we are and he'll let us in."
Benjamin's eyes widened. Always so cautious. We balanced each other out nicely.
"We aren't telling anyone who we are, Louisa! That's the whole reason I said we could go! You're wearing a wig for heaven's sake!"
"Oh, please," I said, waving my hand, "he's way too busy to tell anyone anyway. They won't care."
He grabbed my arm and smiled a little, putting his hand on my cheek. "You're crazy. I have a better idea."
Bursting into a limping run, I followed him into the alley with a laugh. "I'm in heels, Benjamin," I whispered loudly, "and my legs are killing me!"
Even after three years, the damage done to my legs in the plane crash still surfaced every now and then and it hurt something terrible.  
     Benjamin reached back and grabbed my hand as he hoisted himself up onto the rickety fire escape.
     "Excuses, excuses," he crooned, mocking one of the trainers we'd encountered at Camp X. I climbed over the metal railing and followed him up the stairs until we'd reached the fifth floor.
     Sure enough, the window was open and the curtains were fluttering in the brisk November wind. I looked at him in amazement.
     "How did you-"
     "I used to deliver newspapers to this building in 1933 and it was the last stop on my route. My friends and I always went up the fire escape to the 16th floor where some old lady lived for years. She," he chuckled as he helped me through the window, "always left the window unlocked and her kitchen was the first room we came to, so we ate like kings."
     I gasped and punched him in the shoulder. "That's awful!"
"Every time I pass this building, I look up to see which windows are open out of curiosity." I rolled my eyes and followed him into the bland waiting room we'd found ourselves in.
     "So," I said, "now what? Do we just find some stairs and act like we've been here the whole time?"
     Ben shrugged and opened the door to the hallway, beginning to reply when we both realized it was not a hallway. Instead, we came face to face with Benny Goodman himself, wearing a bathrobe and holding the reed of his clarinet with one hand and a comb in the other. My jaw dropped, and Benjamin froze.
     Of course, I thought, thinking about what a tremendous story this would make later.
     Obviously, Benjamin was not thinking about it as lightly as I was. "Oh, sir, I am so sorry," he stammered, taking my hand and beginning to walk backwards toward the fire escape, "We just-"
     "Are you Major General Tallmadge?"
     We exchanged glances as the famous musician looked between us with eyes wide.
     "Oh, no," Ben stumbled over his words, "I think you're thinking of someone else. We just-"
     I stepped in front and gave him a smile. "Yes, sir, he is."