by Cathy Gohlke
Now what? Claire saw no end to the day-after-day lessons and schedules and needs of the children, and no soon end to the war, no matter how stiff the British upper lips around her. That also meant no knowing how long until she could return to Paris and Arnaud, or if he would be waiting for her.
The clock in the hallway bonged nine. Claire switched on the lamp and sat on the edge of her bed. She turned David’s book over in her hands, knowing she should not have taken it. I’ll read it as quickly as I can and leave it again in the library. He won’t even know. With a prickle of guilt, and no longer certain precisely why she’d taken it, Claire tucked it beneath her mattress.
She reached for the leather journal she’d found slipped beneath her door when she’d come up after dinner. The leather was soft as doeskin and the linen-quality pages a beautiful cream. Inside, she’d found a note:
For Claire—
Writing is a gift. May you know and enjoy it in full. May this journal help you make sense of all that surrounds us.
Love,
Aunt Miranda
It was an astonishing gift—astonishing that there was such a gift in wartime, and then that it was the perfect gift, a special place to pen her novel, though that writing was going anything but well. Somehow, her characters didn’t ring true, and every bit of dialogue sounded forced and artificial, even to Claire.
She picked up her pen, then put it down. She wanted to mark this day, to begin her writing right away. Perhaps this time, in this beautiful, literary journal, she’d be able to write the words of her heart. But it didn’t seem enough to begin it here, in her room. She wanted to begin somewhere more likely to beckon the muse. Perhaps in her secret place, in Christopher’s secret place. What could be more fitting, more truly a new beginning, than to climb the tree by moonlight and write in this journal from his mother on Christmas Day?
There was still time, and David had said the evening ran mild. He was probably back inside by now and the children fast asleep in their beds. She’d take her torch and muffle the light with a cheesecloth cover. That was allowed in the cities; surely in the country as well.
Claire’s heart beat with renewed purpose and a twinge of excitement as she crept down the carpeted stairs. Even Mrs. Creedle and Mrs. Newsome must be sleeping by now. No one need ever know. That thought appealed to Claire and made her shiver. My own secret adventure to close this day.
She had just slipped through the front door and pulled it silently behind her when she turned, bumping headlong into David. “Oh,” Claire all but squealed, then slapped a gloved hand over her mouth. “You startled me!” she whispered. “I thought you’d gone in for the night.”
“I was just on my way. What are you doing out here?”
“I decided I need a walk too.” She lifted her head in the dark, hoping she sounded confident, brave, offhanded, and not guilty for stealing his book.
“It’s a wonderful night. Just look at those stars.” His hand swept the night sky.
“Amazing.” She meant the stars, but her heart beat faster than the sky allowed.
“‘The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.’”
“That’s beautiful—what you said, and the stars.”
“From the Psalms. When I see the night sky, when the stars light the world like this, I know beyond any doubt that God is there.”
“Even in the middle of war?” Claire looked at the sky above her and might believe in anything. But doubts, she knew, dawned with daylight.
“Especially in the middle of war.” She could hear the strength and smile in his voice. “It’s a bit late. The Home Guard will be making their rounds before long. Are you sure you want to be out?”
“I’m quite safe. I’ll stay on the grounds. Good night.” She’d already started moving away, not wanting to be questioned or deterred.
“Claire?”
“Yes?” She stopped.
“Would you like me to come with you? The planes haven’t started, but on such a clear night, they’re bound to come.” He sounded worried and possibly interested. She didn’t want that—didn’t want to want his company, though the image of walking the maze paved in starlight, David Campbell at her side, appealed.
“No, no—but thank you. I’ll be fine. I won’t be long. Good night.” She hurried on before he could say more, before he convinced her not to go at all.
Claire stepped quickly through the maze, cut through the orchard, and made her way toward the gardens. The wall around the secret garden, so high and shadowed, looked almost forbidding. She shivered, eagerly following the ivy curtain around its perimeter, coming at last to the indentation in the stones. Her fingers ran over the lightly frosted lintel. She grasped the cold key, turned the lock, pushed the heavy wooden door that creaked in the night on its hinges, and stepped inside. My garden—my own secret garden. She reveled in the thought and in the joy of it.
Claire flicked off her torch. Starlight bathed the barren garden as if it contained its own light. She raised her hands in freedom, in success, then spread them wide. A perfect night. A romantic night.
She breathed deeply and exhaled, watching her breath rise before her, warmth rushing to her cheeks and her imaginings. The face that sprang before her was David’s. Alarmed, Claire pushed the image aside, forcibly bringing Arnaud to mind. But Arnaud’s smile faded quickly. Confused, she didn’t try to conjure it again.
Claire shook her head, annoyed with her own fickleness, and headed for the winding path on the other side of the garden that led to Christopher’s tree. She’d nearly reached the center of the garden when she stopped. Her eyes blinked, trying to focus on exactly what she was seeing through the dark.
The small evergreen, a tree perhaps six feet high that stood in the midst of the garden, shimmered and tinkled softly in the faint breeze. She flicked on her covered torch. From top to bottom hung beautiful, old-fashioned ornaments. Claire approached cautiously, circled the tree, reached out, and touched one. She pulled off her glove and reached again . . . glass.
Each ornament was as beautiful as the one before, and each different—starburst centers or hand-painted globes; exquisite, tiny scenes painted in hollowed-out glass bowls; glimmering stars; silver and golden bells. On top sat a multi-pointed star. Claire recognized it as Moravian, popular in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.
David . . . David must have done this. How on earth did he get all this? Did he send for it? At first the thought thrilled her, made her heart race that he would invest himself in creating such beauty. But then she realized, That means he found the key that day. He’s made himself at home in the garden, my garden.
Claire swallowed. It felt a violation, a theft, no matter that the garden wasn’t rightfully hers. Before she’d discovered the entrance, it was an abandoned garden. Well, it’s not abandoned anymore. The thought was rueful and, she knew, ungenerous.
He must be terribly lonely to have done this. If Aunt Miranda had only allowed a Christmas tree in the house, he probably wouldn’t have. Claire sighed, not sure whether she was more frustrated with David or Aunt Miranda. I can’t feel sorry for him when he’s discovered my special place . . . but this tree is magical and beautiful . . . and romantic. Perversely, Claire wished she’d thought of it.
At least he doesn’t know about the treetop—Christopher’s and my tree. I hope. Oh, please, let it be untouched!
Claire picked up her pace and made for her tree. She pulled back wisteria vines. Nothing seem changed from the last time she was there. Even with the light of heavenly bodies, she needed her torch to find the knotted rope, and higher, the boards for her feet. She tucked her torch into her coat pocket and began to climb.
Clambering up and onto the board was trickier in the dark. But she found her footing and, at last, her resting, nesting place. Claire adjusted her coat, pulling it tight for warmth, and leaned bac
k against the thick trunk of the old tree. A haven. This is my haven. Thank you, that it is mine.
Claire’s heart swelled in gratitude for this sacred spot, for the clear and brilliant sky, for the gift of the journal in her pocket and the knowledge that however little her aunt understood her, she’d understood enough to give it, and cared about her.
Aunt Miranda loves me. Claire sat a little straighter, startled and pleased by the thought. She held it close to her heart, daring to let it past the inner shield she’d built, and blinked moisture from her eyes.
On such a night, in such a place, Claire could almost believe there was a God. But believing was too big a jump to commit. If she did, she’d no longer be able to ignore Him, to push Him aside. And what would that mean? A changed life. Changed for knowledge, for some kind of inner joy and relationship, for duty of some kind, if David was an example. But even with his apparent believing, David still seemed distracted, sometimes almost tortured. Shouldn’t believing change that?
Claire shook her head, hoping to free her mind. Beneath the crescent moon, she pulled her pen and the precious journal from one deep pocket, her torch from the other. Even needing her muffled light pleased her. Like a writer in her garret, creating by candlelight. Or like Jo in Little Women, writing her bloodthirsty tales and plays in the attic, late at night. Delicious!
She opened to page one, took up her pen, remembered Paris and the avant-garde writers who’d frequented Shakespeare and Company, and began to write as she believed they would.
She struggled through five pages, but the lines came stilted, deliberate, the dialogue forced, as before. She crossed out several lines, then half a page, then the opening scene, tempted to rip and crumple the desecrated pages from the binding of the beautiful book. Why is my story not coming? It all sounds so false . . . worse than vaudeville.
All Claire could do was compare her life to the life she wanted to write about—the flamboyant and heroic characters she wanted to pen. Real life came up short, and frustrating. The Mass Observation Project . . . I wonder if that’s why Aunt Miranda gave me the journal, if that’s what she intended. But it’s not what I want. By the time I return to Paris, I want a novel in hand, a novel that will make Sylvia Beach sit up and take notice. A novel she will champion as she championed Mr. Joyce’s Ulysses.
Claire felt herself blush in the dark. She’d never framed her wish so clearly, and she would never write a book like that. The desire to go to such places in her mind, to peruse those avenues with her pen, made her shudder, though she wasn’t sure why. She certainly wanted to write something grand, something the world would read and remember.
She heaved a sigh, her intensity spent. When her back hitched, she sat straight again and stretched, realizing she’d been huddled in a cramp all the time she’d written, or tried to write. She leaned back against the tree and flicked off her torch, which had steadily dimmed, the battery waning. It didn’t matter now.
That’s when she saw the light . . . high in the north tower of Bluebell Wood. A candle burning brightly, steadily. Or was it two candles of differing heights? Claire frowned, squinting her eyes to better see. No one would burn a light like that, not with the strict blackout regulations. It made a pinpoint for German Messerschmitts. The ARP and Home Guard would rage. Aunt Miranda would surely be fined, not to mention ridiculed and further harassed by the locals.
Claire’s skin prickled. Fear of invasion ran rampant through the village, as it did through all of England. Every man, woman, and child kept on high alert, on the lookout for spies said to send signals to German planes in the night. Lake Windermere and its banks were a prime concern, constantly patrolled. German flying boats could land right on the water, sending ashore troops under cover of darkness in a matter of minutes. Planes that never left the air might fill the sky with parachutists.
It would be just like Hitler to send his minions on Christmas—a terrible “gift” to the people of England, the people whose lives and morale he’d vowed to grind into the dirt. Hadn’t they heard the bombers on Christmas Eve?
Who from Bluebell Wood would wreak such vile betrayal? The few servants had been loyal members of the household for years, some for multiple generations. The idea of Aunt Miranda betraying England was unthinkable. That left David, of whom she knew so little.
Claire’s heart constricted. She couldn’t reconcile such betrayal with a man who secretly decorated a Christmas tree in an abandoned garden. She also knew she couldn’t let romantic notions keep her from her duty. If it came out that she’d seen the light and done nothing—if Bluebell Wood was bombed because she’d hesitated—Claire couldn’t live with the repercussions or guilt of either.
She pocketed her treasures and made her way down the tree as quickly as she dared. Not covering Christopher’s boards or his tree sign, Claire stumbled through the garden, raced past the Christmas tree and to the garden gate. She took time only to lock the door and replace the key before groping her way around the garden wall and heading for the path.
Nearing the maze and lawns, she stumbled over a stray tree root. Pain shot through her knee, reminding her of the night she and the children left Calais . . . the sudden bump on her head . . . the sick feeling that the world had taken a turn she didn’t want and couldn’t stop.
She pushed through the maze. Out of breath, she had nearly reached the porte cochere when a deep-voiced command stopped her cold.
“Home Guard. Hold on, missy!”
A second man added, “Who are you? State your business here.”
Both terrified and relieved, Claire bit her lip to keep from screaming. “I’m Claire—Claire Stewart. I live here, with my aunt, Lady Langford. Thank goodness you’re here!”
“I’ll wager,” the first huffed. “Trust the Yanks. In a bit of a hurry? There’s a curfew, young lady.”
“I was out for a walk. Look, it doesn’t matter—”
“I’ll be the judge of what matters, miss.”
Pompous! Insufferable! Claire had hoped to investigate on her own, but perhaps it was better this way. If someone was sending signals, especially if that someone was David, it might be best to have two strong men with her, though they weren’t really tall nor did they look so very strong. “Please, I need you to come with me. I was out for a walk, but I saw a light burning from the north tower.”
“A light?”
“It could be anything, but everyone should be asleep by now.”
“Signals!”
“And with a clear view of the lake!” Both men, past their prime, took on new energy.
“Show me!” the thinner one ordered.
“This way.” She turned back to the path she’d just left and took them to the edge of the maze. The light in the tower still shone.
“I’ll be—”
“That’s a pinpoint for the Jerries, by gum.”
“I can show you how to reach the tower if you come with me.”
“Lead the way, miss.”
She found the front door still unlocked, proof that Mrs. Newsome had gone to bed before Claire had slipped out. At least she’ll be off the grill list. Surely there will be a grilling. I hope I’ve not made a mistake!
Inside, protected by the blackout curtains covering every window, a soft lamp burned in the foyer. A brighter light gleamed beneath the library door.
Aunt Miranda must have come back down. Should I alert her or take the men upstairs first?
“Take us directly, miss. No time to waste.”
“Right.” She knew that was true and raced up the stairs, the Home Guard hot on her heels. She’d only been to the north tower once. It was a convoluted route ending in a high and steady climb. Aunt Miranda had said the rooms were locked ages ago—no need for them now, and certainly no need to clean or heat them. Claire realized that once the Home Guard saw those empty rooms, Aunt Miranda was bound to receive a visit from the local billeting officer. Plenty more room for evacuees.
At last they reached the stairs to the tower. A ligh
t, barely visible, filtered onto the high wall at the top of the stairs, just as they reached the last winding.
The Home Guard officer behind Claire grabbed her wrist, pressing a finger to his lips, and pulled her back.
Please, please don’t let it be David. She swallowed, hating to be the one to turn him in. She waited, holding her breath, behind the edge of the stone wall, as the Home Guard took over. That’s when she heard the door at the bottom of the tower open and new footsteps—heavy, rushing upward.
A moment later, one of the Home Guard exclaimed, “Well, by gum!”
And the other, in tandem: “What in the name of King George do you think you’re doin’?”
The unholy howl of a child’s scream didn’t sound like spies to Claire. She rounded the wall just as David appeared behind her.
A circle of nine wide-eyed, panic-stricken, pajama-clad children stared back at them with open mouths, while Aimee screamed, clinging to Jeanine. Two brightly burning candles in a crudely carved menorah, sitting on the tower’s window ledge, illuminated a homemade dreidel, just finishing its spin on the floor between them. Claire saw all this in a flash, just before the heftier of the Home Guards swatted out the burning candles, leaving them all in total darkness and sending Aimee into high-pitched hysterics.
Chapter Fifteen
IT WAS TWO O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, long past curfew and the time all mortals should be asleep, when Dr. MacDonald opened the library door of Bluebell Wood. Lady Langford and Claire, still dressed in their Christmas Day clothes, had both fallen asleep in chairs flanking the fire.
He wanted nothing more than to gaze on Maggie Langford’s sleeping face, to watch the low firelight play across her cheek, but hearing footsteps in the hallway, he coughed discreetly. Maggie’s sleepy eyes flitted open and met his. He saw the smile of relief there, the assurance that she saw him as her rescuer. He wanted that, and more.
