In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  “Your Grace.” There was a note of hesitation in his butler’s voice. “Why would Mr. Hughes attempt to infiltrate Northshire of all places?”

  Now it was Thomas who hesitated. He had full confidence in Greyson’s discretion, but felt it best to keep the truth of Leila’s past hidden from all eyes. Contrary to the villagers, who knew only that Leila was a relative come to live with him during the war, Greyson and Jenny knew that Leila was Malcolm’s wife. But Thomas saw no need to burden the man with further information.

  “Hughes no longer trusts me as he once did.” He let the curtain drop back in place and turned toward his butler. “Who knows what the future holds?”

  “I see.” The butler extended a sealed envelope. “Very good, Your Lordship.” He hesitated again.

  “Is there something else?” A slight frown creased Thomas’s brow. If he didn’t know the man as well as he did, he would have thought Greyson was being evasive.

  “Yes... Your Lordship.” The butler cleared his throat and held out a sealed envelope. “A telegram arrived just before you did.”

  Thomas’s heart skidded to a halt. Telegrams were the army’s method of informing civilians that their loved one was a casualty. Malcolm. Is he... dead? His thick fingers ripped open the envelope. His gaze flitted over an image of a crown nestled between the words post and office and dropped to the message below.

  Deeply regret to inform you that your son, Corporal Malcolm Richard Steele, has been badly wounded during ground operations on July 13 STOP Transported to St. John’s hospital at Etaples, France STOP May not survive STOP Lt Colonel Jas Stewart

  Thomas clutched the message to his chest. The weight of the slip of paper fell upon his shoulders like a mountain of concrete. Shoulders slumped, he shuffled toward the unlit fireplace and laid his head against its marble exterior. “My son, my son!”

  His eyes slid upward to the portrait of his wife. The boy, rebel though he might be, was all he had left of Isabella. If he died...

  Thomas’s jaw stiffened, and he pushed back from the fireplace. The battle was not over. This was no time to mourn. Malcolm wasn’t dead yet. He turned to his steward and issued terse commands.

  “Greyson, have Jamison bring the car around to the back in one hour. Make sure he understands that I want to meet at the back. I don’t want our friend out front to know that I’ve left the estate.”

  He waited for Greyson’s nod then continued. “Send Lady Steele to me at once. Prepare my uniform in a bag for me and have Jenny pack for my daughter-in-law. I expect to return in two weeks.”

  “Very good, sir.” Greyson bowed and strode from the room, leaving Thomas to plot the course of a battle that had just become infinitely more painful.

  LEILA ENTERED THE STUDY with slow, measured steps. Her morning had passed in a whirl of visiting sick tenants, settling decisions involving the Estate and meeting with leaders from the local village to solve the food shortage crisis brought on by mandated rations.

  The war was being fought across the Channel, but everyone felt its impact right here at home. Less manpower in the fields meant smaller harvests. Commodities such as sugar, flour, and milk were all rationed. But there were a number of small, hungry mouths in Northshire Village that she needed to help feed.

  Her afternoon was slated to be equally demanding, but Greyson had informed her that Thomas wished to see her in his study. Something in the aged steward’s eyes dampened her initial joy at knowing her father-in-law had returned. Now, as she looked across the spacious study and took in Thomas’s bearing—back stiffly erect and feet planted shoulder-width apart—the sense of malaise returned with full force.

  “Thomas?” She took a few hesitant steps forward.

  The Earl of Northshire turned toward her. “Leila. How good to see you!”

  She clasped his strong hands in her own, noting that they trembled slightly. “You are troubled.”

  Her eyes searched his face. Thomas was not a man prone to worry. The set of his brow could only mean that something serious had happened. “What is it?”

  Thomas cleared his throat. “Sit down, Leila.”

  “Thomas, you know me well enough by now to know that whatever news you bring, I’d rather face it on my feet.” She smiled, trying to ease the tension of the moment.

  His face remained grim. “I’ve had news today.”

  Her heart began to beat an erratic rhythm. News. That was not good. News came from far away. From... the Front. This was the true horror of war. Waiting, always waiting, knowing that each minute could shatter your world. “Malcolm?”

  Thomas nodded once.

  Her eyelids slammed shut. “Is he...?”

  “No. Not dead. But he’s been hurt. Badly hurt. He... he may not make it.”

  A scream began to build inside of her and she struggled to choke it into silence. She heard the murmur of Thomas’s voice, but she was deaf to the meaning of his words. He may not make it. The words sprayed like a volley of bullets across her mind, punching holes in the peace that had filled her heart for the past year.

  “Where is he?” Her voice sounded strange in her ears, like the groan of an old woman who had lost her will to live.

  “At a hospital in Etaples, France.”

  Her eyes flew open. “I’m going to him. I’m already dressed for travel, I just need to pack a few things.” She spun on her heel, ready to get her bags, but Thomas’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

  “No.” He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Leila shook his hand off. “He’s still my husband, Thomas. Don’t try to stop me.”

  “I’m not trying to stop you, Leila. I’m coming with you.”

  A small gasp escaped her lips. “You’re coming?” Incredulous, she shook her head. She had grown to understand Thomas, even love him as a father-in-law, but there were times she still failed to understand the mind of a father who expelled his son from their home only to risk his own life by making a perilous journey to a war zone.

  “The same reason as you. I’m going because I love him.”

  Her voice quavered. “Despite all that he’s done? All the bitter words?”

  Thomas swallowed and looked away. “At this moment, Leila, I can’t even remember a single wrong he’s done. All I can think about is that my son is lying out there, blown to pieces. All I can feel is a longing to be with him, no matter the risk.”

  His face became hazy as tears clouded her vision. “When do we leave?”

  The muscles in his face tightened. “We have a problem.”

  “What is it?” She wiped the corners of her eyes.

  “Hughes, head of foreign security, believes that I am collaborating with the enemy to undermine our government.”

  “What?” Leila stared at him, slack-jawed. “Isn’t he your friend?”

  “He was,” Thomas said in a grim voice. “The war has blurred the lines between right and wrong, coming between friends. No one is above suspicion anymore.”

  He inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. “Hughes has at least one man posted at our front door. There are probably others scattered around the property. No doubt he suspects that the woman he knew as Annabelle Durand and Mr. Rettinger’s tenant are one and the same.”

  “And he traced me here.” Leila’s blood ran cold. “If his agent gets one glimpse of me, I’ll be arrested.”

  Her eyes flew to his face. “And you! If they know you’re harboring a German spy, you’ll be arrested for collaboration.”

  Thomas did not answer and, in that moment, she understood how much he had risked for her sake. Gratitude flooded her but it was replaced by another, more raw emotion: determination.

  Leila began to pace, quick choppy steps that moved in cadence with the rhythm of her thoughts. “If they arrest you as a traitor, you’ll hang Thomas. I won’t have that on my head. Not after all that you’ve done for me.”

  “Leila.”

  She ignored Thomas’s voice, wrapped up in her own thoughts. �
��I still have my gun. You can distract the guard while I—”

  “Leila.”

  She shook her head. “No, it won’t do. I’m done with assassinations. Maybe—”

  “Leila!”

  This time Thomas’s voice came through. “There’s no need for any of that.” A compassionate smile lightened his face.

  Leila groaned and slumped into the leather armchair to his left. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. We just need to pray, I know.” She buried her face in her palms. “I forget so easily sometimes that God controls my life. I just start planning and then—”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be the first to do that.”

  She rested her chin on her palm. “Okay. No violence unless necessary. We’ll trust God to make a way.”

  “He already has.”

  “What do you mean?” Leila bolted from the chair.

  Thomas strode toward the fireplace. “This is a castle.”

  He stood directly under the portrait of his late wife. “What kind of castle would it be,” he pushed the wooden panel beneath the gilded frame and stepped back, “without a secret passageway?”

  Leila’s skin tingled as a section of the marble hearth above the fireplace slid forward, revealing a small golden object. Thomas retrieved it and held it up for her inspection. “The key to our escape.”

  She stared at it for several seconds. “What does it open?”

  “Ah!” Thomas turned again toward the portrait and took several full-length strides backward, always keeping his eyes on his wife’s face. “...four, five and six.”

  He stopped and glanced at Leila. “Isabella always said that I made too much of a fuss over her, but you see,” his voice grew tender, “she was my world. Every renovation I had done in Northshire reflected her in some way.” He gestured toward the portrait. “What are her eyes looking at? You can see the angle best from where I’m standing.”

  Leila came to stand next to him, and then drew a mental line from Isabella’s eyes to—

  “The bookcase!” She hurried to the massive structure, which rose from floor to ceiling.

  “More specifically, at The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan.” Thomas came to stand behind her, key in hand. Leila scanned the titles, which were categorized by author’s last name. “It was her favorite book.”

  “It’s here.” She pulled the slim volume from the shelf.

  Thomas handed her the key. “Put this in the keyhole, turn to the right, and step back.”

  She squinted, at first barely noticing the small slit in the dark wood that was now exposed. Then she slipped the cool metal key into the orifice and turned it.

  Immediately the entire section of shelving began to move. With a long moan of protest, followed by the clanking rattle of unoiled chains, the two closest shelves turned in on themselves, revealing a small narrow corridor.

  Slowly, Leila approached the opening. She stared, mesmerized, at the withdrawn shelving.

  “You built this?” Awe tinged her voice as she glanced at Thomas.

  “I’m a military man.” He shrugged then said, “I believe in having back-up plans.”

  She licked her lips and edged forward. “Wise as always.”

  Thomas was about to respond when a knock sounded on the door.

  “Enter!”

  Greyson pushed the door open. From the indifferent expression on the butler’s face, Leila gathered that he had known about the secret passageway all along.

  “The car is ready sir, and your bags have been loaded.” Greyson offered Leila a small haversack. “Miss Jenny found this as she packed your bag, Lady Steele. She thought you may have need of it.”

  Leila knew the instant her fingers felt the hard cylinder that she was holding her Luger. “Thank you, Greyson.”

  The butler nodded. “Your own arms are in your bag, sir.”

  “Keep an eye on our unwanted guest.” Thomas shook his butler’s hand. “If things become too touchy, you know how to reach me.”

  “Of course, sir.” Greyson dipped his head. “You will be in my prayers. Both of you.”

  Leila wrapped the man in a quick embrace. “Thank you.” She hurried back to the staircase and glanced over her shoulder at Thomas. “Let’s go.”

  “Greyson, return everything as it was, will you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Leila released a breath that she didn’t realize she had been holding. The narrow corridor was illuminated by only a few electric lights. She moved forward and saw that the corridor ended in a wall but to her left a set of stairs spiraled downward in a seemingly interminable loop, only to vanish into a hole of murky blackness.

  A storm of emotions swelled within her. If God was merciful, she would see her husband alive. But would he be conscious? If he was, would he forgive her or carry his hatred to the grave?

  A hand squeezed her shoulder gently. “It’ll be alright, Leila.” Thomas’s voice cut through her doubts. “Everything will be alright. Life is best faced one step at a time.”

  Chewing the inside of her lip, Leila nodded. Then she placed her foot on the edge of the first step and began the long descent into the winding, dark staircase.

  Chapter 29

  St. John’s Hospital, Etaples, France. July 1916

  Veronica Coughlan slammed the door of the nurses’ dormitory shut behind her and hurried to catch up with Eleanor. With the dawn had come a fine drizzle that misted her face and sent cold droplets down the nape of her neck.

  Yesterday’s bright sunshine had given way to a summer storm that had persisted through the night. The ground was soaked from the showers, forcing the women to walk on wooden planks that formed a rough footpath between the buildings which were as mucky as the ground itself.

  Veronica yawned as she slogged through the mud. Unlike the weather, the face of the war never changed. It was cold, brutal and merciless. Today promised to bring another wave of mangled bodies, most of which were destined for the nearest cemetery. What a waste!

  “You’d think that since we were transferred to the new ward things would’ve slowed down.” She jammed a white cap emblazoned with a large red cross over her dark hair.

  Eleanor paused, shook her head and waited for her friend to catch up. Several large tin barrels, containing blazing fires in which the clothes of the dead were burned, sent plumes of black smoke toward the gray skies behind her. “Once that was true, but everywhere is equally busy now. Yesterday, Ward Sister Mathilda told me there was a big push at the Somme.”

  She resumed her brisk stride. “It was a disaster for our side. Over nineteen thousand dead in one day.”

  The roar of several passing lorries drowned out the last of Eleanor’s words. Their dull, canvas tops were pulled back from the moss green metal rods that formed the trucks’ frames, exposing a mass of men who slouched, moaned or lay in morbid immobility in its bay.

  Veronica grabbed Eleanor’s arm. “We’d better hurry. It looks like the first wave is already here.”

  The two women pressed forward, dodging the horse-drawn ambulances and motorized vehicles that crammed the muddy street. A series of huts, each of which could treat thirty men, made up the medical facilities collectively called C-Section. Each nurse was assigned to a Ward Sister, or head nurse, who delegated responsibilities within her ward.

  Eleanor and Veronica passed a field of sprawling white-domed tents which housed new recruits, rounded a corner as they entered C-section—and froze.

  A sea of bodies littered the ground before them. It was as though the battle had taken place here instead of eighty miles to the southeast. Mutilated figures writhed on the ground like worms, laid out in hundreds of long rows. Some were missing limbs, others clawed helplessly at the air. They were victims of the latest gas attack.

  Frustration coiled in the pit of Veronica’s stomach. She slammed her foot in the mud, sending a small spray upward. There was no way they could treat them all. The cold drizzle had intensified into a steady shower and she wondered
how many of these men would die of exposure before they could be treated.

  “Nurse!”

  A patient’s desperate plea for help shook her out of her reverie.

  “Let’s get inside,” Veronica jerked her head toward a small building labeled Hut 327 W-14, “and see where Ward Sister needs us to start. Then we’ll tackle this lot.” Running up the stairs, with Eleanor right behind her, Veronica pushed open the door, lips set in a tight line.

  Today would be a brutal day indeed.

  INSIDE THE HUT, ABSOLUTE chaos reigned. Ragged screams rose to the conical, wood-slatted roofs. Nurses scurried around the room, pushing metal carts laden with bloody needles and various other medical supplies. Puddles of blood and vomit spattered the ground, making the wooden floors slick. The wounded and dying were crammed into every available inch of space filling the room with the stench of blood, feces, and morphine.

  Veronica grabbed a bowl on her left, nearly colliding with two grim-faced soldiers as they carted off a corpse whose arm dangled from the cot. “I’ll start sponging down some of the men. Ward Sister looks like she needs some help.”

  “Ward sister!” Eleanor dashed toward a short, stocky woman who held a struggling patient down with one hand and a sharp-edged saw in the other, careening around a nurse who sopped up the blood from the floor with stained cloths.

  “Get the morphine.” Mathilda, the frumpy nurse in charge of her unit, wiped a bloody hand on her apron and grabbed the patient’s swollen leg. Pus oozed from a wicked gash and the flesh around it had darkened into a deep purple. Gangrene. Eleanor knew at first glance that the leg was unsalvageable.

  She darted to the side of the metal bed and rolled over a long steel pole, from which a bag of morphine dangled. “Shouldn’t the surgeon do this?”

  Mathilda glared at her. “He’s been in theatre for the past twelve hours.” She gestured toward the door, sending a flick of blood onto Eleanor’s face. “Have you seen outside? There’s no time to wait for the surgeon. Stick him and let’s get on with it!”

  Eleanor wiped the man’s forearm with anesthetic.