In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  Leila had wrenched away, trying to rip free of Orma’s babbling as much as her grip. As a child she accepted her stories without question but with age had come skepticism. This legend was nonsense, pure and simple. Until this moment, she had never met a living soul who could confirm that this had happened. Even if the legend were true, it was senseless to think that she would pay for a crime committed years ago. Isn’t it?

  The room spun back into focus and Leila’s eyes bored holes into the portrait as though she intended to commit each detail to memory. Strange. Thomas’s family line had born only men—one male per generation—while her own ancestry had followed the same pattern but with daughters instead of sons.

  Orma had always linked the matriarchal nature of their family to the supposed curse but Leila became convinced that this was just grandmother’s attempt at rationalizing her own failed marriage. Her daughter—Leila’s mother—had just been unlucky. She had married a drunkard whose habitual beatings had gone too far one night. Her father had run to escape the law after the murder, leaving Leila to be raised by her grandmother.

  And me? A tremor ran through her spine. She had been a child, hiding terrified in the corner, the night her mother had died but she was old enough to remember the screams. She could still hear the violent clatter of furniture crashing to the floor, the smash of splintering glass—and the abrupt silence that followed the soft thud of her mother’s body hitting the ground.

  Bad blood. That night, Leila had sworn that no man would ever lay a hand on her. After running away from home, she had made her way to Indonesia with Theo, a charming Scottish merchant. All too soon, Theo began to draw more comfort from the bottle than from his wife, filling her with a growing sense of unease. An all-too-familiar pattern began to ensue. Late nights, arguments, violent threats. It had all ended the night he died. She had fled back to Alsace only to learn that Orma had passed away the winter before.

  Malcolm’s reckless passion had resurrected her hopes of breaking the fatalistic cycle. But that too had failed. Was she indeed... cursed?

  “It doesn’t matter now, of course.” Thomas’s voice cut through the haze that surrounded her mind. “Before the war, it seemed that every man abroad with a French accent claimed to be the lost dauphin! The paper even ran a weekly column with the latest updates for a while.”

  Leila swallowed hard and glanced at him. He had no idea who she was. Fate, with its twisted sense of humor, had once again brought the two bloodlines together.

  Betrayed by his own family, her ancestor had died in a French prison, taking the place of Thomas’s great-grandfather and, in so doing, had saved his life. Malcolm had married a descendant of the very man that had saved his family centuries before. But the curse that followed her own lineage had ripped them apart.

  “Y-you never told the world the truth?” Her voice was strained, tired. Though their families were not related by blood, she was connected to Thomas more closely than he could ever suspect.

  Thomas shrugged. “There’s no reason to do so. I don’t need the money. And I definitely don’t need the press!” He nodded toward the second portrait.

  “My grandfather, John, found some letters among his father’s private papers. Apparently, a general named Lafayette helped Jacques establish himself in England while secretly smuggling money from France across the Channel. By the time he became an adult, Great-Grandfather Jacques, or Louis really, had enough of his inheritance to purchase Northshire. He invested in the Bank of England and became part of its governing staff. His solid leadership abilities brought him to the point of becoming a senior member of the Bank’s management.”

  The corners of Thomas’s mouth tipped upward. “You wouldn’t think it now, but this entire estate was a decrepit old ruin upon which the Bank of England had foreclosed. My grandfather and my father resurrected this place. I, too, have done my part to preserve the family legacy.”

  He paused, looking intently into her widened eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was as solemn as a judge about to deliver a verdict. “That is why I must ensure that Northshire is left to hands that are worthy of her when I die.”

  With those words, Leila caught a glimpse of his soul. Twin thoughts exploded in her mind, throwing all her preconceptions about the man before her into an orbital shift.

  First, Thomas was not a dogmatic tyrant bent on thwarting her happiness. He was a father, caught between the powerful forces of tradition and a rapidly-changing world. He was a son, determined to preserve what had been entrusted to him by his ancestors. He was a human, plagued by the forces of worry and sentimentality. All three aspects of his personality could be wrapped up in one name: Thomas.

  Second, her love for Malcolm did not blind her to the fact that he was unable to keep Northshire afloat in the years to come. His reckless nature would quickly cause the estate to slide into the bankrupt condition from which it had been rescued. In removing Malcolm as his heir, Thomas had taken a hard but necessary precaution to protect his heritage.

  “The corruption of French kings brought the nation to the point of revolution, but my family was given a second chance when an innocent boy was tricked into taking my great-grandfather’s place, allowing him to go free.” Thomas gestured toward the three images.

  “You asked what would happen to Malcolm after the war. My dream is to see him home, here at Northshire. I want to see his portrait hanging next to mine. However,” he thrust a finger in the air, “he must first show me that he is worthy to hold the title.”

  Leila closed her eyes for a moment as he lapsed into silence. Fate was indeed a fickle mistress, playing with hearts as though life itself was nothing more than a ludicrous game.

  “I understand.” Her eyes flickered open. “I do.”

  Thomas considered this for a moment, then nodded.

  “Well,” he rubbed his hands together briskly, “now that I’ve inundated you with our family history, let’s leave for London. I’ve been instructed to have tea with the prime minister.”

  Her pulse quickened. “The prime minister?”

  “Yes, which can only mean he needs more money.” Tapping his cinnamon colored Fedora firmly into place, Thomas offered her his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, Leila rested her hand lightly upon it. Together, they stepped past Greyson and exited the hallway into the bright light of a new day.

  Chapter 16

  Berlin, Germany. April 1915

  Clara stalked back and forth in her room, a prowling tigress ready to tear into the first person she saw. She was ravenous, consumed by an inner hunger to fulfill the dream that had been born the night she clenched Fritz’s revolver between her sweaty palms.

  Goals. She had always needed clear goals. Give her a chemical problem and she would solve it. Challenge her to do the unthinkable and she would. All she needed was a clear objective. She had lost that clairvoyance shortly after her wedding day and, for the last fourteen years she had stumbled about in the darkness, achieving nothing of importance. True, there was Hermann, but her son was simply the product of biology that had been sparked by Fritz’s lust.

  She had achieved nothing worthwhile, like immortal fame or the scientific advancement of mankind, because she had lost her way. Like dust in the air she had been in a state of suspension, blown about by the various currents of life that swirled around her.

  Her mouth twisted. Marriage had sucked her into a vortex of emotional instability. But her husband’s infidelity was the catalyst that had snapped her out of her comatose state. At last she had a goal in mind once again.

  “Soon Fritz, soon you’ll see.” Her words were slurred and frantic but there was no one to hear. She was alone. Always alone. And that was the source of her frustration.

  She stalked to the door and cracked it open. Her lip curled back in a snarl. Across the hall, guarding her husband’s door, stood the same three soldiers sent by some over-paid bureaucrat to ensure Fritz’s well-being wherever he went. Clara slammed the door shut, chest heaving.


  She had protested the soldiers’ sudden appearance three weeks ago. “Surely Fritz doesn’t need protection in his own home.” Fate had proven to be a fickle god, offering the ultimate revenge in one hand and then pulling in an obstacle with the other. “What harm could possibly come to him here?”

  But her protests had been ignored. Clara should’ve expected nothing more. She’d been ignored for longer than she cared to remember.

  A knuckle, harsh and unfeeling, rapped on the door behind her, vibrating it with its force. Clara stood frozen for a moment then, realization struck. She flew to the drawer of her desk, jerking the key for the drawer from a thin silver chain around her neck.

  Pop, pop, pop! The hand struck the door again, each blow resonating like a gunshot through her skull. She stabbed the key at the lock only to miss. It jangled as it struck the lock’s silver casing and she dropped it. Muttering under her breath, Clara scooped it up. Her hands trembled. She stabbed with the key again. It slipped into the lock.

  She dashed aside the papers that lay on top the drawer. “Come to me, come, come, come to me.” She groped downward, frantic now. Where was it? Her grasping fingers struck something hard. There!

  The unforgiving metal felt refreshingly cool against the feverish touch of her palm. Clara withdrew the pistol, smothering an unexpected giggle. At last, at last!

  Her heart crashed wildly in her chest, trying to escape the prison to which it had been condemned when she had slipped Fritz’s ring onto her finger. The gun was loaded. She had made sure of that.

  Clara slipped it behind her back, clutching its ribbed stock with moist hands, and stepped toward the door.

  FRITZ HABER PULLED his spectacles from his face and tapped a staccato rhythm with his foot on the wooden floor outside his wife’s bedroom. Memories of the past three weeks flitted through his mind. After his first encounter with Charlotte at Pringsheim, he had been unable to get the dark-haired beauty out of his mind. Not that he wanted to. She had given him everything he craved and more. The sheer exhilaration of what she offered blotted out the misery of Clara’s rejection. Even now as he waited for his wife to open the door, his mind hummed with desire.

  “Herr Haber.” One of the guards sent by the Ministry of Defense spoke up from behind him.

  Fritz craned his neck around, frowning at the interruption of his amorous thoughts. “Never interrupt a scientist when he’s thinking. Didn’t they teach you that in military school?”

  The soldier ignored his jibe. “Allow me to knock. One can never be too careful.”

  “You think my wife could be an assassin?” Haber snorted with laugher. “Clara? Really man, get next to yourself.”

  “I have my duty, Herr Haber. You are to open no doors, enter no vehicles or any building unless we enter first.”

  Fritz stepped back with an exaggerated bow and sweep of his arm. “As you wish.”

  The soldier stepped forward and raised his fist, ready to hammer it against the door. But at that moment Clara pulled it open. She started visibly and Fritz snorted again in disgust. Charlotte would never have reacted in such a way. She had such a talent for transforming awkward moments into sweet memories. Like when he had first begun to undress—

  “Your pardon Frau Haber.” The officer bowed low and stepped to one side, gesturing for Fritz to step forward.

  “Hello dear.” The greeting was wooden and he knew it. But how else could he greet this enemy he had once loved, this stranger he had married?

  “Hello.” She fidgeted, her eyes darting from him to the soldier then back to him. A sheen of perspiration covered her forehead and her face was only a shade darker than that white nightgown she had doubtlessly worn all day. He bent down and looked more closely at her eyes. They were too bright. Perhaps she was feverish.

  “Are you feeling quite well?”

  Her eyes shifted from his face to the armed men around him and Fritz sighed. The soldiers made her nervous.

  Turning to the guards behind him, “Gentlemen, could you please give us a moment?”

  The officer who had just ceded his place spoke up first. “I’m sorry sir, but that is out of the question. Our orders are to remain with you at all times.”

  Fritz ground his teeth together. “Even when I’m on the toilet?”

  The soldier stared straight ahead. “Sorry sir. Our orders are clear. We remain with you always. Except for the toilet. Sir.”

  With a low growl, Fritz swung back to his wife. “I’m off to war, Clara. Goodbye. We’ll celebrate my good fortune on the second of May, here in our home. Everyone who is anyone will be here, perhaps even the Kaiser.”

  He bent and kissed her cheek stiffly. “Tell Hermann goodbye for me.” Then, pivoting on his heel, he strode down the carpeted hall.

  CLARA WATCHED HER HUSBAND lead his pack of dogs outside their home. His voice floated back to her just before he turned the corner. “Well, that’s over with. Come along, gentlemen. Glory waits for no man!”

  Clutching the front of her sweat-stained nightgown, she retreated to her bedroom, quietly closed the door and sagged against the wall. The gun in her hand suddenly felt like a boulder, dragging her beneath its weight. With a groan, she heaved it onto the bed. Shoulders shaking, she sank into a heap as powerful sobs nearly tore her in two.

  “Celebrate y-your good fortune, Fritz?” Her tears were as hot as the flames of jealousy that burned within her. She scraped at her cheek with her fingernails, trying to cleanse her flesh from the stain of his hypocritical kiss. His parting words rolled through her mind with the mercy of a freight train. Well, that’s over with. “Talking to me is a chore that you want t-to end?”

  She meant nothing to him. Glory waits for no man. That was the only thing that mattered. She was nothing. Her life was nothing.

  Then, in the gloom of her despondency a solitary thought skulked into her mind, mesmerizing her with a magnetic intensity. A goal. She gave voice to the thought. “I... have a... goal.”

  Struggling upright, Clara lurched toward the bed. The revolver whispered her name, begging to be used. She sniffled, then wiped her eyes as a thought echoed in her mind.

  Fritz had mentioned a gathering at their home in honor of his anticipated success at Ypres. As was typical, she had known nothing about it but now, the memory of his words gave her pause. What had he said? Everyone who is anyone will be here, perhaps even the Kaiser.

  She gasped as anticipation suddenly swelled within her, expelling the ocean of self-pity in which she had been drowning only moments before. If Fritz succeeded, most of Germany would hail him as the new hero. He had fed the world and now he was about to manipulate nature to destroy Germany’s enemies. He would be their messiah, the god of the Fatherland’s new age of scientific achievement. What better opportunity could there be to shatter his perfect world than in his home on the day when the whole country proclaimed his glory?

  Her pulse surged as one dark thought followed another. No doubt Fritz’s lover, this Charlotte Nathan, would also attend. Over the past weeks, Clara had heard the spiteful whispers. She had seen the derisive looks of other women. Everyone knew that Charlotte Nathan offered what she did not.

  Clara had resorted to locking herself in her bedroom. She refused to be the object of Berlin’s pity. She refused to endure the shame of it all.

  Straightening, Clara grasped the pistol once again. The goal had not been thwarted, merely postponed for a more glorious outcome than anyone could have anticipated. She sucked in a deep breath and kissed the weapon’s chamber. She had placed five bullets in the gun. That would be more than enough.

  GENERAL WERNER JAËGER plucked a plump cigar from his mouth and let his eyes dissect the report he held in his left hand. Outwardly, the head of Germany’s espionage unit knew he was the epitome of calm. His starched navy-blue pant legs were propped up on his mahogany desk, his white striped shirt hung unbuttoned at the collar and his mouth formed a perfect “O” as a ring of smoke escaped his lips. But beneath his cool demeanor, Werner�
��s mind concocted and analyzed an assortment of dizzying plausible scenarios.

  “Christophe.” He spoke quietly, for he never raised his voice, but within moments his assistant rapped twice on the door.

  “Enter.” Werner didn’t bother to remove his feet although he knew his subordinate would be shocked to see his spotless black shoes perched so perilously close to a photograph of Germany’s supreme ruler.

  Christophe entered and saluted. As expected, his eyes wandered to Werner’s feet then to the Kaiser’s picture.

  “When you’ve lived as long as I have Christophe,” the silver-haired man tilted his head back, “you’ll learn that all men are the same. We all eat, relieve ourselves, and die. Sit down.”

  The younger man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he quickly complied.

  With a sigh, Werner tossed the report onto the desk. “You know the troops are preparing to use Haber’s invention at Ypres.”

  “Ja, General.”

  “Our agent in London has sent us news. She warns us that the British are sending a contingent of reinforcements but that they are not expecting a gas assault.”

  Christophe shrugged. “Then she is doing her job. If you recall, I mentioned that in our last meeting she said—”

  “Things were difficult.” Werner’s eyebrows knitted together. Christophe had great potential, but he lacked the ability to discern the subtle hints of bigger problems that only experience could bring. “Believe me, I forget nothing.” His frown deepened. “The trouble is, her report tells us nothing we did not already know. Her news is old... perhaps even delayed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Pursing his lips, the spymaster held his apprentice’s gaze. “When the war ends, I will retire, Christophe. But the Fatherland’s need for invisible soldiers will not go away. You may be the one to lead this organization.”