by Cathy Gohlke
It had been too long since she’d found the time and freedom to visit her treetop, and her heart was ready to burst for want of its sanctuary. If inspiration struck, she might even begin a story of life in Paris before the war—romance, suspense, a bit of life at the brink of Nazi invasion among the elites in Parisian literary circles. It was a story she’d been conjuring in her brain in that place between sleep and awake, that veiled spot where magical things happen. Was that memory from Peter Pan or somewhere else? Claire didn’t care; she was only glad for the bit of muse.
She’d almost reached the secret door when she heard whistling, somewhere not far beyond the garden. She froze. When it came nearer, she stumbled back into the shrubbery. Who is so close to the secret garden . . . my secret garden? The children are all in school. Mr. Dunnagan? What would he be doing here? She burrowed deeper into the shrubbery as the whistling came closer, then stopped.
“What the devil?” and a chuckle. “‘The Secret Garden.’ How great is that?” The sound of the locked door handle shaking rattled Claire’s heart.
David Campbell! What are you doing here? Oh, please, please don’t find my way in.
But she knew he wasn’t stupid and wasn’t easily discouraged. For the next several minutes she heard him doing exactly what she had done, following the wall, pushing back ivy, grunting in frustration, and making his way around the outside. It wouldn’t take long until he found the indentation. If she made her way back to the path and called his name, as if she were looking for him, as if she wanted to take that ramble he had offered, she knew he’d come, perhaps be deterred from finding the entrance as she had done.
Claire walked quickly, determined, frantic, back toward the maze. She must be far enough from the garden to alleviate his suspicion, close enough for David to hear when she called. She’d reached the edge of the maze—just far enough—when she heard her own name.
“Claire! Miss Claire! Come quickly!” It was Nancy on the other side of the maze. “Lady Langford wants you. She said it’s urgent. Can you hear me? Miss Claire!”
Claire closed her eyes in frustration. She couldn’t call David and pretend she hadn’t heard Nancy, so close at hand. So little is mine. Please, please don’t let him find my garden!
Claire sat by the library fire opposite her aunt, holding the envelope in her lap for several minutes, her heart beating wildly, like a caged bird. She knew she would open the letter, but she was afraid. Whatever it said was final. Either Arnaud was in custody or he was free. Either Arnaud was alive or he wasn’t. And if he was alive, either he’d penned the words himself and declared his love or he hadn’t. She closed her eyes, waited until she heard her own breathing, and felt very much alone.
At last she slit the seal with her thumbnail. A quick line on the outside of the envelope came from Mrs. Beach: I hope this brings good news. Write your mother when you can. She’s terribly worried.
Claire felt her face warm. Mother? Worried? I don’t believe it. And I can’t think about that now. She unfolded the inner letter. From Josephine. Claire’s eyes smarted. She scanned the lines . . . so much white space, so few words:
Our beloved friend is well and recovered, lighthearted as a bird in flight, as merry and busy as always. Never worry, dear Claire. I take good care of him.
Claire’s heart fluttered. “He’s alive.”
“Thank God, most truly,” Miranda said, leaning toward her niece.
Claire swallowed, doing her best to come to grips with the paper in front of her, what little it said and all it didn’t say. She understood the lines to mean that Arnaud was alive and well. He was “busy”—which must mean he was free again and working with the Resistance. Free because he was freed or free because he escaped? Either way, is he too busy to write me himself?
“Yes.” Claire looked up and tried to smile. “So much to be grateful for.” What she didn’t understand was the second line. It might mean nothing, or everything. Arnaud flirted with all the girls. Josephine was nearer his age than Claire. Yet Josephine knew how she felt about Arnaud, what she believed he felt about her. Claire had always hoped, even trusted that Josephine and Arnaud’s feelings for one another were more like brother and sister, or comradely friends. Arnaud had reassured her that was so—then.
But Josephine is working with Arnaud in dangerous and exciting missions. She probably nursed him back to health. She’s the one he confides in now, the one he shares his exploits with over a glass of wine in the back of the bookstore. Josephine is there . . . and I am not.
Chapter Fourteen
GASTON MISSED SHABBAT. He missed his mother lighting the candles, praying, and pulling the flame toward herself. He missed his father’s prayers and the long, leisurely meal they would enjoy after. He missed temple.
Gaston understood that in a Christian home they would not celebrate Shabbat, though it seemed a shame, a great loss for all of them. He wouldn’t have realized the days for Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur had passed if Bertram had not told him. It was a solemn revelation. How could the new year begin and he not know it? What of their parents? Did they forget too?
But despite the fact that Lady Langford observed no Jewish holy days, despite the fact that neither he nor the others dared to ask for such a thing from the Christian lady who gave them sanctuary, he would not forget Hanukkah. All year he waited for the festival of lights, and no one could make him miss it.
He’d looked in every drawer in every room but the kitchen and never found a menorah. Tonight, the second of his midnight raids, he found candles, enough to represent all the days, in the back of the pantry. He might have felt chagrin at pilfering Madame Creedle’s pantry. After all, that fearsome lady had insisted each child stir her Christmas pudding and offer a wish, saying it was “a tradition for all the children in a house, Christian or not.” Gaston had steeled himself against her last comment and wished for his parents to come to England, though he hadn’t believed they would. Now he shook off any misgiving about taking candles. This was too important.
“What are you doing in there?” It was Josef, always nosy Josef, out of bed and trailing him, sneaking about in his bare feet.
“This is my business.”
“Not if it means you are stealing tomorrow’s dessert. I will tell Frau Creedle.”
Gaston smirked, knowing that was a lie. Neither of them willingly spoke to Madame Creedle; neither dared come within twenty feet of the monarch of the kitchen.
“Frau Newsome, then. I’ll tell and you’ll be banished from tea.”
“It’s nothing to do with food. Go away.”
“What, then? Tell me or I’ll knock on Frau Newsome’s door now.”
Gaston sighed heavily. Such a chore it was to put up with Josef and his meddlesome, wheedling ways. He was the same age in years, but Gaston believed the boy stunted in intelligence, though he knew Josef did not see it that way. “Can’t you mind your own business for once? Your curiosity will be the undoing of you.”
“You heard Frau Newsome say that. You’re just repeating; nothing clever in that.”
“I’m not trying to be clever. I’m trying to be left alone!”
“They’ll hear you if you shout. Now tell me, what are you doing?”
Gaston stood, undecided. If he refused to tell Josef, the boy would surely sound the alarm. If he did tell . . . well, could he trust him? “I suppose a German Jew is still a Jew.”
“What? What did you say?” Josef raised his fists, prepared for a fight.
“I said you are a person, a Jew, like me.”
“That is not what it sounded.” Josef lowered his fists.
“Dig the potatoes out of your ears.”
“Frau Newsome says that, too.”
“Oui, she is clever, that good lady.” Gaston handed Josef the candles. Now he would be a conspirator and less likely to tattle.
“What are these for?”
“Do you not know what tomorrow is? What happens at sundown?”
Josef’s facial muscles
tightened, Gaston could see, but he could not read the boy. “Frau Newsome said it is their Christmas Day.”
“Oui! It is their Christmas Day. It is our first day of Hanukkah.”
“Is it?”
“Bertram said almost never do the two fall on the same day, but this year it is the same.”
“You’re going to light the candles? Let me help. Let Peter help. Peter’s good at carving. He will carve a menorah for us if I ask him . . . or at least holes in wood for the candles. They must all be the same height, you know. You don’t want to simply stand candles on a plate.”
Gaston considered. He’d only planned to let Aimee know. She was the one most needing Hanukkah light, the most lonely and forlorn of them all. But having Josef and Peter, having them all, would make it a proper celebration. Half the fun, the joy, was in seeing the flame reflected in other smiling eyes, and having a real menorah, or even a semblance of one would be best. “In France our shammash was always higher. Tell him to carve it higher than the rest. And Madame Langford must not know. She has forbidden Monsieur David the Christmas tree. I think she does not like the celebrations.”
“Ja, this is true. I heard Herr David ask if they could not at least ‘kill the old red rooster,’ but she did not answer.”
“What old red rooster?”
“I do not know. I asked, but he said it is an expression, and to never mind.”
“These Americans, they always say to never mind but do not explain.” Gaston had had quite enough. “D’accord. You and Peter, and we will invite the others to come—after Mademoiselle Claire thinks we are in bed tomorrow night, after they have all gone to their rooms. When the hall clock strikes ten. You ask Peter about the carving in the morning.”
“Ja, and a dreidel. I know he will do it. Where shall we meet?”
Gaston thought for a moment. It must be somewhere safe, out of hearing from the others, but with a window to shine the candle’s light into the night to bear witness to the miracle—a window the night warden on his rounds would not see. “There is a tower on the far end of the house.”
“I know the one you mean. But it is locked,” Josef asserted. “Impossible. I’ve tried to get in.”
“Oui, it is locked.” Gaston smiled, glad for this opportunity to exhibit his superiority. “Mais ooh-la-la! I found the key.”
Josef blinked, nodded slowly in admiration, and stuck out his hand. Gaston grasped it and they shook in agreement.
Christmas night, after the children were in bed, Claire offered to pour tea in the library for her aunt and David. She knew her aunt was still vexed with Mrs. Newsome about the Christmas crackers at dinner.
“But they’re children,” Mrs. Newsome had begged, aggrieved. “They must be allowed some pleasure, my lady. They’re so very far from home and it is the holidays.”
“They’re Jewish children, Mrs. Newsome. I don’t believe they mind missing Christmas celebrations,” Aunt Miranda had retorted.
Mrs. Newsome had had her way with the meal, and for that Claire was glad: roast chicken and stuffing flavored with onion, rosemary, sage, and something scrumptious Claire couldn’t define. Mr. Dunnagan’s favorite carrot and turnip mash, plus potatoes, split and roasted brown in their jackets, creamed celery, and brussels sprouts steamed in such a way as to make them buttery and sweet rounded out the meal. Claire sighed. Mrs. Creedle was truly a wonder in the kitchen, and her Christmas pudding with hot custard sauce had melted in Claire’s mouth. You’d hardly think there was a war on.
Still, the tension had been thick enough to slice, and neither Aunt Miranda nor Mrs. Newsome had said another word during the meal, at least not until Josef pulled a Christmas cracker with Aimee. Though Josef earned the prize—a metal puppy—he’d gallantly presented it to Aimee, bringing a smile to the pale little face.
That had opened the meal and the remainder of the day to merriment, including David’s hamboning and harmonica playing. He’d even played Christmas carols, which most of the children did not know. The carols brought a few solemn moments to the group. He’d ended with “Silent Night,” a carol that Claire had always found peaceful and comforting.
Claire smiled as she poured cream into the tea, remembering Aimee’s adoring gaze up at Josef after the Christmas cracker gift. Josef had surely grown two inches while straightening his shoulders. It was the single most healing gesture between the German and French children that Claire had seen. She wondered over the ability of simple gifts to bring peace and change.
“Thank you, Claire.” David smiled, accepting the cup she handed him. “That was something to see—Josef giving that token to Aimee.”
“I was thinking the same,” Claire agreed. “And what a surprise. They never cease to amaze me. First it’s pranks enough to make you tear your hair out, and the next thing I know they do something . . .” She shook her head.
“Something kind and wonderful,” Aunt Miranda sighed. “And to think I almost ruined it.”
“But you didn’t,” David affirmed.
“I must apologize to Mrs. Newsome tomorrow. I don’t know why I was so hard on her.”
“I suppose those things are reminders of earlier days.”
Claire’s stomach tightened. David had been at Bluebell Wood little more than a month, but he rarely hedged from saying things she longed to say to her aunt, things she didn’t even know how to frame into words.
“Yes, they do.” Aunt Miranda sipped her tea. “Christopher loved the crackers. When he was young we had a much larger staff here, even though it was just the two of us. My husband always felt it his duty to employ as many as our income allowed, that it was a way of giving back in gratitude for all we’d been given.”
“He sounds like a wise and generous man.”
“He was. You would have liked him. He would have liked you . . . and you, Claire.”
Claire smiled in return, hoping that was true.
“After he was gone, I broke with tradition—too often to suit Mrs. Newsome—but always at Christmas, at least if we had no guests or were not away on holiday. Christopher and I went below stairs and ate with the staff. What a merry time we had, and what hilarity when the crackers were pulled and popped and the crowns came out! Of course many traveled to their homes, or they did after luncheon, to spend time with their families. But some lived in, and . . . we were a sort of family then.”
“That’s why Mr. Dunnagan and Mrs. Newsome ate with us today.” Claire had wondered—glad they’d come—but she bristled at the notion of a makeshift family. How her aunt could pretend like that was beyond her ken.
“I wish they would every day. I’ve invited them, and Raibeart—Dr. MacDonald. He would often come for Christmas, even in years past.”
“I think my presence is the reason for the doctor’s absence. I’m sorry.” David sounded as if he meant it.
“It’s not your fault.”
“The fault of my name and lineage.” David’s brow creased. “I’ve met the doctor at a couple of the town meetings about the new factory—a good man. I’d like it if we could get acquainted. I think he’d find I’m not the bloodthirsty, murdering sort my ancestors were.”
“I’m sure he would.” Miranda smiled wearily. “That, and all these British formalities and separations, seem silly, especially now that we’re so few, what with the war taking our young men for soldiers and even most of the young women for lumberjills or factory workers. I do understand that by the time the meal is served, Mrs. Creedle wants a rest, and Mr. Dunnagan prefers to slurp his coffee from his saucer in peace. He doesn’t think we’d like that. But I wish Mrs. Newsome would eat with us regularly.”
David laughed. “Sounds like my grandpa, my mother’s dad. He always preferred the saucer to his cup.”
“What about your family?” Claire asked, curious. “Have you heard from them? What are they doing for Christmas?”
David shifted in his seat. “My uncle passed away last spring. He was the last of our part of the clan in Edinburgh. So it’s ju
st me.”
“I’m sorry. What about your family in America? In the mountains where all that good hamboning the kids love so much originated?” Claire meant to be amusing, but David didn’t respond. She exchanged an uncertain glance with Aunt Miranda.
David stood, setting his cup and saucer on the tea table. “Think I’ll go for a walk before turning in. It’s mild for a Christmas evening. Thank you, ladies, for today.”
Claire hadn’t meant to break the friendly moment. It felt as if she’d snuffed a candle without knowing how she’d done it. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry if—”
David was nearly out the door. He hesitated only a moment. “I don’t know what they’re doing. Good night.”
“The mails are so slow now, what with—” Claire began, but he’d gone, the door closing behind him. Startled, Claire looked at her aunt. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”
“You couldn’t have known. I certainly don’t. He hasn’t received any letters, except for business, since he’s been here.”
“You looked?”
Aunt Miranda colored. “Mrs. Newsome sorts the mail. I asked her.” She shrugged, guiltily. “I was curious.”
Claire understood. So was she.
It wasn’t until after Aunt Miranda had gone to bed and the fire burned low in the grate that Claire decided to go upstairs. As she turned out the light, she noticed that David had left his book behind. The Problem of Pain . . . the book that had fallen from his briefcase the night he moved in.
Claire turned the book over, reading the dust jacket, and over again. She sighed. I could certainly use some help with the problem of pain. She returned the book to the table, hesitated, looked over her shoulder at the library door, then picked it up again. David wouldn’t be back for it tonight, in any case.
Claire closed the library door behind her and took the stairs to her room slowly. This Christmas Day had been like none other in her life. Even last year, so far from home, she’d celebrated by sharing little gifts with Arnaud and Josephine in the back of the bookstore, toasting the day. The year ahead had loomed uncertain, but rich with adventure.
