by Murray Pura
“I’m grateful you’ve thought of me, but I’m not sure why you or the professor would want me along on an occasion like that. I’m no writer or scholar.”
“You are extremely intelligent and strong-minded. Herr Hartmann values that. He believes your opinions would ensure his book had adequate depth, was thorough, and was…harten Gleichgesinnten…how do I say this in English? Ah, tough-minded.”
She didn’t know how to respond.
After a moment, the baron added, “You appreciate how important this book will be to Germany?”
“Yes, yes.”
“That subversive, that man Hitler, was released from prison just before Christmas. His autobiography will be published in July.”
Catherine put a hand to her forehead. She felt warm and flushed. “Honestly, I don’t know what to say. I’m flattered Professor Hartmann thinks so highly of me, but it is a lot to take in. I should like to think about it.”
“Naturally. May I call this evening? We intend to set out tomorrow.”
“This evening would be fine.”
“We would, of course, come to Dover Sky and escort you and Sean to Pura.”
“Thank you for the invitation, Baron. I’ll consider it carefully.”
“Okay, then. I’ll phone you tonight. Good day.”
“Good day, Baron.” Catherine set the phone in its cradle and leaned a hand against the table it rested on. What’s the matter with me? It’s a simple request. And the reply is also simple: No thank you. She opened the door and left the parlor. Skitt was standing by the staircase.
“Everything all right, m’lady?” he asked.
She gave him a quick smile. “Fine, Skitt. I wonder if you could get Nancy to bring me up a spot of tea?”
“I’ll take care of that personally, Lady Catherine.”
“Thank you. How is Sean? Do you know?”
“Still with Harrison and Holly.”
“Good. Very good.”
In her room she sat and waited for the rap on the door. When it came she called, “Enter.” Skitt came in and she nodded toward her writing table. He placed the tray with tea and biscuits there before leaving. Catherine set herself up at the table near the fireplace. She poured her tea and watched the rain slide along the windowpane. Mountains. Sun on the snow. How lovely. She’d scarcely thought of Albrecht Hartmann since she’d met Terrence Fordyce. Now, at the mention of Albrecht, not only her mind but her entire body had reacted just as it had when she first met him in his red sports car the summer before. His golden-brown eyes, light-brown hair, and dark tan stormed her senses. She could almost smell the eau de cologne on his body. She drank her tea quickly and poured another.
The book. Yes, the book to offset this Hitler fellow’s book. But was the invitation really about the book? Or was it about Albrecht and her? About them as a couple? She picked up a pen and opened the journal she’d named Cornelia.
My dear Cornelia, my diary,
I was just sitting here thinking how dreary the weather is in February. I was also thinking about Terry and wondering why he hasn’t sent even a birthday card. At the back of my mind I was admitting a long line of escorts is all good and well, but that loses its charm after a while. What I want is a man I can really speak with and listen to and explore absolutely everything in heaven and earth with.
I suppose that is why I was pining after Terry and moaning about the rain and sleet. By chance—chance?—my Bible opened to the book of Nahum, and I read about someone on the mountains bringing good news just when I had been longing to see sun on the snow of a tall peak. How amazing of God is that? Then to complete the string of unusual events, the phone rings and it’s Baron von Isenburg asking me to spend two months in the mountains of Switzerland with him and Professor Hartmann. Mountains! Sunshine! And a stable of white stallions too!
But here is the tricky part. The baron says the invitation is for me to help Albrecht write his book. My opinion is valued apparently. Rot or not? It may well be my opinion is valued. It may also be the professor values my womanhood just as much. After all, he came on very strong when we first met—saying how lovely I was, how sweet I was, how beautiful my eyes were. But we never saw each other again.
Then it was all Terry, Terry, Terry.
Now, eight months later, the baron mentions Albrecht Hartmann in a phone call, and I blush like a schoolgirl. Either this is all in my head or even over a phone line I’m picking up on something between the handsome academic and myself. Do such feelings cross land and sea and know no loss of force due to time and distance?
I want to jump in one of their German Mercedes and go with them to Switzerland! Sean would adore riding a white horse. But another part of me just wants to stay squirreled up in my room and wait on Terry Fordyce. Will he write, send a telegram, post a gift, show up at the door, come to call in April or May?
Catherine put down the pen abruptly. Why, I have become the sea widow yearning for her sailor after all! She stood up and pressed the buzzer. Skitt was at the door in minutes.
“M’lady?”
“Skitt, please get Nancy and Harriet. I’d like them to help me get packed. Sean and I are going to Switzerland for a few weeks, and we will need the warmest clothing we have.”
“Switzerland! Why Switzerland? Aren’t you comfortable here, m’lady?”
She patted him on the cheek and then quickly withdrew her hand. “I’ll be back, Skitt. I’m sure you’ll keep Dover Sky clean and cozy against my return.”
Parliament, Westminster, London
“Ah, Lord Danforth, there you are.” Tanner Buchanan approached Edward on the busy street outside the Parliament buildings where politicians and automobiles and carriages were rushing back and forth.
Edward kept his hands behind his back and his top hat on his head. “Mr. Buchanan.”
“Lord Buchanan actually. My dear old papa’s earldom finally made it through the gates and chutes.”
“Earldom?”
Buchanan tugged on his black leather gloves while he gripped his silver-headed walking cane under his arm. “Indeed. You never knew much about my father up in Scotland, did you? He has benefactors and allies who are now my benefactors and allies.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. What did you think of my maiden speech today?”
“About the same as what you thought of mine the other week.”
Buchanan barked a laugh in the chill gray air. “True! We are met on the field of battle and neither shall be the first to cry ‘Hold! Enough!’ How will it play out in the end, Lord Danforth?”
“Since you are fond of Macbeth, I expect with you yielding ‘to kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet and to be baited with the rabble’s curse.’ ”
“Do you think so? And who will this young Malcolm be? You? Do you intend to be the ruler of the realm?”
“Here’s my cab.”
The driver got out and opened the door for Edward.
“Tell me, Lord Buchanan, do you really think you will bless England and these islands by scrapping our capital ships and securing relations with Moscow as a bulwark against a resurgent Germany? Or was your speech merely crafted to be in direct opposition to my own?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to me if you mean it. I’d rather you actually meant it, to tell you the truth, than to hear you were making speeches as part of an ongoing duel with me and my family. Governing Britain is no place for personal games.”
Buchanan smiled and shook his head. “On the contrary, the House of Commons is the perfect place for games. It always has been. Fox and hound. I being the hound who shall rend you limb from limb.”
Edward got into the hack, and the driver shut the door.
Buchanan stood tall and dark on the sidewalk, tapping the silver head of his cane in a gloved palm and nodding. “Limb from limb, Lord Danforth. How I enjoy blood sport.”
Scarborough estate, Southern England
“Kipp.” The warm han
ds came from behind and slipped under his arms and over his chest in the dark. “I didn’t know where to find you! Dad said you’d gone walking in the rain, so I said I’d take a peek at the horses.” He felt her lips press lightly against the back of his neck and closed his eyes. “So then I knew you’d be in our secret place—our little tack room beyond the stables that is warm, dry, and delicious with the scent of leather.” Her mouth found his ear and her breath made his skin tingle. “Every time Dad tells us you’ve come on business, my heart leaps. I can’t help myself. You do love me, don’t you?”
“Caroline, the Lord knows how attracted I am to you. I don’t even know all the reasons why. But I love Christelle. She’s my wife.”
“You love us both, Kipp.”
“No I don’t,” he said as he swung around within her embrace to face her.
“You do.” Her lips touched his ear, his neck, his cheek, and hovered near his mouth.
“No man can love two women.”
“You can.” Her lips brushed his. “Push me away if you don’t want me.”
“I do want you, but I love Christelle.”
“You don’t think you love me?”
“I shouldn’t be caught up with you, but…”
She kissed him softly. “But here we are in each other’s arms.”
His hand reached up and stroked the long blonde hair that was loose about her shoulders. “I can’t get you out of my blood.”
“Good. That’s where I want you to stay.” She kissed him again.
“Two women. My life revolves around two women and a son.”
“Only two women? Are you sure?”
“Believe me, Christelle and you are enough. A man can only handle so much beauty.” He placed his lips against her hair. “I wish it were ancient times—ancient biblical times—when men had more than one wife. That would work for me.”
“In a way you do have that.”
“I know you genuinely care for Christelle and our son, Matthew.”
“I adore them. Just as you do. And I know you love my son, Charles.”
He leaned his head against hers. “This makes no sense, does it? I don’t want to hurt Christelle. I don’t want to hurt my family. And I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve done that enough.” He kissed her forehead.
“You’re not hurting her.” She smoothed back his blonde hair. “And I’m certainly not feeling hurt right now.”
“Christelle is hurt; she must be hurt. She knows there is something between us. Chris is no fool. She’s always told me I still care for you. Even when I object she shakes her head and says it doesn’t bother her because she knows that you may have part of my heart, but she has all of it.”
“Shh.”
Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the tack room. For the first time, he noticed she was wearing a tweed jacket, and raindrops had beaded on its shoulders.
She took his hand and sat on one of the English saddles resting on a wooden stand. She gestured to the saddle on a stand next to her.
When he sat down, she turned away from him and shook her head, letting her hair fall over her shoulders to her waist.
“Will you brush it for me, Kipp?”
Kipp ran a hand over her hair’s rich thickness. It was damp in some spots and wet in others. He took the brush she gave him and began to pull it gently through. The rain brought out the scent of her hair, and it came to him along with the leather of the saddles and traces, the wax and polish, the musk of horses and ponies, and the dryness of the wood on which the bridles and halters and lead ropes and saddles were hung. He sank his face into the softness and the richness. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and guided her around until she was sitting up and facing him. Then he gathered her into his arms.
“I suppose I do love you. I love you both. There’s nothing I can do about it. God help me, it is not the Christian thing. But Christelle and you are rubies and diamonds to me. You both are silver and gold. I can’t walk away from either of you.”
He fumbled in his pocket for matches. When he found them, he struck one and held the amber flame a foot from her face.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I just had to see your eyes.”
The flickering match filled her eyes with brightness and shadows. The blueness was a sky at early morning, and he could almost feel the cool breezes moving over him. Tears came from her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks, glistening from the light of the flame. Then the match went out.
“Don’t light another.”
“I want to see you.”
“No…don’t…please.” Her hand folded over his in the dark.
“Your parents will worry.”
“They were already turning in when I walked out into the rain.” She brushed his nose with her hair. “You didn’t get very far. It’s still wet and matted from our April showers.”
“I got as far as I could. Your beauty is overwhelming when I’m with you. I’m helpless, really. It’s the same way with Chris. One can only do so many chores. Then one has to love.”
“My goodness, is my hair a chore now?”
“It’s your crowning glory. I love you. It’s wrong; but I don’t know what else to say. God forgive me.”
She traced his mouth with her finger. “And I love you. And we both love Christelle and care for her very much.”
“Yes.”
“Hold me. I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“How strong my feelings for you are. I don’t know where they’re going to take us, Kipp.”
He brought Caroline into his chest. Once again the scent of her hair mixed with the straw and leather and wet and now he heard the tapping of the rain on the roof. The moment seemed to make everything fall into place. Caroline, Christelle, Charles, Matthew, God, love…
“I won’t ever abandon you, Kipp,” she said quietly. “I bind you to me tonight. You’ll never be lost, never be alone as long as I have breath. I swear it. I’ll care for your son just as I care for my own. My love for you won’t stop…ever.”
“That’s a lot to promise.”
“Kipp, I make this promise to you and to Chris.”
“What do you mean?”
She reached into the pocket of the riding pants she was wearing. She pulled out a small envelope and placed it in Kipp’s hand.
“Christelle sent this to me, and I need to share it with you. You’ll need a light to read it.”
“What is it? You want me to read this right now?”
“Yes.”
She sat up and unhooked a lantern from the wall. “Perhaps you’d better use this.”
“Why? Have you given me a book?”
“The ink is faint.”
“What were you using to write with?”
“I didn’t write it.”
He flicked a match with his thumbnail. It caught and he pushed the match inside the lantern as she held it. The wick took the flame and lit up the shed.
Caroline hung the lantern back up. The glow revealed her tweed jacket and the pants and boots she wore. The tumble of her hair about her shoulders and the blue-and-gold of her eyes shone.
He stopped what he was doing and took in her beauty. Then he looked at the note in his hand. “I don’t understand…”
She avoided his gaze and glanced at the tack hanging on the walls. “Read it, Kipp. It’s from Chris.”
He looked at the blank envelope. He pulled out the notecard that was covered with barely legible writing. He recognized his wife’s hand. “Caroline, what’s going on?”
She didn’t look at him. “Read it, please. You’ll understand.”
My dear Caroline,
As we’ve discussed, you know I’m gravely ill. The doctors say I will probably not live long past April. I need your help…Kipp will need your help.
I know this may be awkward, but please let Kipp know you love him. Take him in your arms and kiss him. Tell him everything you feel. At first he will push you away. But
keep trying.
I know what is in your heart for him. I know you’ve held back because of our marriage. But he still loves you, just as he still loves me, even if he will not admit he has feelings for you. I want you to help him find that love for you again. I don’t care how hard it is. Reach out to him. Use all the words you have inside you. Be beautiful for him. Touch him. Let him discover what is in his heart for you.
Kipp loves me, and he will always love me. Long after I am gone, he will love me. But he has enough love in his heart for both of us. The last thing I want is for him to be alone in his grief. I don’t want him to wander off to try to find solace in the arms of someone who will care nothing for his soul.
There is only one person I trust him—and our son, Matthew—to, and that’s you.
Love him, Caroline. Love him forever. For me. For our son. For you. For him.
When the time is right, show him this letter. Thank you for this, Caroline. This is such a difficult time.
Your friend always,
Christelle
7
May, 1925
Ashton Park
CHRIS
I HAVE TOLD HIM.
CAROLINE
Christelle sat on the couch with the telegram in her hand. Todd Turpin had brought it, his collar turned up against the May Day rainstorm as he trudged through mud puddles to the cottage in the ash grove. He’d asked how she was feeling, and she’d told him she was much better. He had not been gone five minutes before pain cut into her stomach. She bent double as she tried to get her breath.
Her three-year-old looked up from where he was sitting on the floor playing with wooden blocks.
She forced a smile. “I’m fine, Matthew, my darling. Just a game, oui? A game mommy likes to play.” She rested on the couch until her breath came smoothly and deeply. Then she put her son down for his nap, returning to the couch to think as she stared into the flames in the fireplace. She heard the front door of their cottage open. She turned, thinking it might be Victoria or Lady Preston.
Kipp caught her up in his arms, the wetness of his clothes pressing against her cotton dress as he kissed her. His blonde hair had been flattened and darkened by the wintry storm. The moisture was cool on her face, but she also felt the heat of his tears. She patted him on the back.
