by Cathy Gohlke
What Claire had not expected, when the moment came, was for Peter to stand up and share his tallith—to cover his friend’s shoulders with his own prayer shawl, the one inherited from his own presumed-dead father and grandfather. The two young men stood side by side, their shoulders touching and covered—brothers united in prayer before God and man.
Claire’s heart lurched and her eyes smarted. Perhaps this really is family.
Dr. MacDonald congratulated Bertram heartily and shook Peter’s hand. He thanked Rabbi Meir for all he’d done and continued to do for the children, then waited for the meal prayer and for the gramophone music to begin before slipping from the festive bar mitzvah celebration in the dining room.
He walked swiftly up the stairs, paused outside Miranda’s door, and tentatively knocked. He didn’t want to wake her if she slept, but he would not allow the moment to pass. He’d waited too long as it was.
“Come in.” The voice on the other side of the door came weaker than he would have liked. He steeled himself for a battle of wits while summoning every ounce of Scottish diplomacy he could muster.
“We missed you, Maggie. You’d have been proud of our boy—of all of them.”
Miranda pulled herself to a sitting position in her bed, wrapping her bed jacket close about her. “Mrs. Newsome’s already stopped in and told me of Peter’s kindness. I’d no idea that they’d planned anything so symbolic. Such fine young men, both of them.”
“Aye.” He nodded, raising his brows, uncertain how to begin.
“Don’t give me that look, Raibeart. I’m simply tired. I’d have gone if I could. I didn’t stay away because of Christopher, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“That dinna cross my mind, my darlin’ girl. I know you would have been there if at all possible. It’s that that concerns me.”
Miranda shifted in her bed and smiled faintly, unable to keep a trace of worry from her brow. “Old age? What can I say?” She attempted to laugh.
“You’re not even fifty.” He didn’t smile.
“Nearly.”
“What is it, Maggie? You must tell me what ails you.”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes pierced his, but he saw that she couldn’t hold the connection and looked away. “If I knew, I would tell you. I would do something about it.”
“Would you?”
“Of course I would! How can you ask me that?”
“Because that’s not been your response, not since Christopher . . .”
“Not since Christopher died. You can say it, Raibeart. Even I can say it now.”
“That’s something.”
“Yes, it is. The children here have made that possible. I never imagined I could . . .” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading for his understanding. “They, and Claire, have given me—”
“Life?” he finished.
“A reason to go on—to want to go on . . . at least for a while.”
“Then we must get to the bottom of this.” He ignored her last phrase. “I know a doctor in London, at the—”
“I’m not going to London! I won’t leave Bluebell Wood—not while the children are here, not while they need me.”
“Maggie—” he sat on the bed beside her and took her hand—“I’ve done all I can for you, all you’ll allow me to do. I’ve not got the equipment doctors there have, and if I don’t miss my guess, you’re going to need treatment I canna provide.”
“You know what it is, don’t you?”
He could not stand the stark fear in her eyes, nor could he abide the resignation that followed. “We won’t know until we know. And we won’t know until you have the necessary examinations and tests. The sooner we have a diagnosis, the sooner you can be treated.”
“If it’s—if it is what I fear, it would mean surgery.” She looked away, withdrawing her hand. “I don’t want surgery. I don’t want to be half a person . . . half a woman.” She blinked back tears.
It was all Raibeart could do not to beat his head against the wall and shout at her. Fear had wound its menacing tentacles through his gut over the past months. He’d made mental excuses when she’d not rallied from the influenza. She’d refused the more intimate examination he’d offered, but if not by him, it must be done by someone. Her life was worth far more than her pride. Of that he was certain; for that he was desperate. But anger and frustration would not work with his Maggie, so he knelt beside the bed, as if to plead. “You will never be less than you are, Maggie, darlin’—the most beautiful woman in the world. That’s what you’ve always been and will always be to me.”
“I need more time. Remembrance Day is almost here. I must stand for Christopher, and for Gilbert. And then, Thanksgiving. I want Thanksgiving here, with the children.”
He pushed frustrated fingers through his thick silver hair. “And then you’ll be wantin’ Christmas, and New Year! Don’t you understand, Maggie? Time is of the essence. It can make all the difference to—to—”
“Life or death?”
“To everything. To everything, my girl. Please . . . please, Maggie.” He turned away, unable to keep his chin steady. He’d never crumbled before Miranda Langford, not in all the years he’d known her, not in all the joys and sorrows that they’d shared. But he’d never felt so desperate.
At last he felt her fingers trace his arm. He looked up, hoping against hope and reason.
“I’ll think about it, Raibeart. I promise.”
He took her fingers in his hand and brought them to his lips. “For love of all that’s holy, don’t take too long.”
By mid-October the fells and valleys of the Lake District reveled and burned in color—shades of gold, orange, and rich mahogany amid evergreens and the earthy browns of autumn. Still, it was the first time Claire missed home. Growing up, she’d made an annual class trip to New England in the fall. She wished the children from Europe could see the northern Appalachians in their glory—brilliant crimson, pumpkin orange, and every rich shade of gold and butter yellow.
In Claire’s mind, autumn was both a time of new beginnings and a time of mellowing, of drawing in—the new year of school, with its sheets of pristine notebook paper and the hope of stimulating classroom lectures, balanced by long evenings before the fire, cozy under a warm quilt, a mug of hot spiced cider by her side, transported lands away by a compelling read from a favorite author.
Mrs. Newsome, uncommon to her nature, declared it cruelty on students and teachers alike to keep the children shut up in the schoolhouse on glorious days, to expect them to attend to lessons when birdsong and the last of autumn’s brazen leaf showers beckoned. It was far too easy for young minds to worry and wander home to France or Germany in this golden, melancholy time.
By late October hedgerows of the Lake District grew thick with wild rose hips, more than enough to route the Women’s Institute into forming bands for collection. There was no time to lose, as long as the rose hips could be picked by the buckets full and processed in a timely fashion.
“We can make teas and jams—though not so sweet without the rationed sugar, I’m sorry to say. Above all, rose-hip syrup is essential to the war effort—all that vitamin C for the young ones.” Mrs. Newsome instructed Claire as they prepared the dining room before the breakfast gong was rung. “They’re best now we’ve had a bite of frost. Tell the children to pick only the bright-red ones, a mite soft, but not shriveled. Leave the rest for the birds and squirrels. Collecting rose hips is the perfect thing to get these youngsters out and about. I’ve spoken with the village teacher, and she’s all for sending them out a day or two at the end of the week. Poor thing, she looks ready to drop.”
“I know how she feels,” Claire admitted, pushing a stray tendril back from her forehead, “but won’t the board say we should have organized the event for a Saturday?”
“Pish-posh. I don’t care what they say. Bureaucrats! The WI is intent on the collection and they’ll be able to process them on Friday and, if necessary, Saturday. We have so few days wit
h no rain. We must take advantage of each one! Besides, the board should try corralling eighty youngsters into a classroom built for forty-five! It will do them all a world of good—and you, too, Miss Claire, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’ve grown rather pale of late.”
“It’s just so hard to keep everything going at once, to mind all the children and their needs.”
“They look to you for everything now, don’t they? I know my lady is not up to doing what she was,” Mrs. Newsome confided.
“I’ve tried to take worry of the children off her,” Claire said, setting the last of the silverware in place. “Is there something more you think I should do?”
“Not at all. You and Mr. David have done a tremendous job in that way. She’s just so very weary, and she sleeps more of a day.”
“I could try to keep them quieter, I suppose, but—”
“No, Miss Claire; they’re children after all, and I think their shouts and running laughter through the gardens are the best medicine for her spirits. I just wish I knew what more to do for her. She seems to be languishing, and I don’t know why.”
“What does Dr. MacDonald say?”
“I’m not privy to that. He comes and goes, frustrated and terribly worried, I can see, but he’s said nothing to me and it’s all beyond my ken.” Mrs. Newsome nearly dropped the teapot, spilled some on the white damask cloth, and scolded herself.
Claire sopped up the spreading splotch as best she could and ushered the older woman to a chair. “You love her.” Love was still such a mystery to Claire.
“Oh, my . . . ever since that first winter’s day Lord Langford carried her over the threshold. Such a bride, she was . . . so young and inexperienced in every way.” Mrs. Newsome shook her head. “Hadn’t a clue or a care in the world but that she loved the master with all her heart. She gave him everything he longed for until he was called to war.” She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “You’re the spitting image of her at that age, Miss Claire.”
“Well, I am her spitting image if she hadn’t a clue. I certainly don’t.”
“You’re doin’ fine. Better than you know. Even the doctor says so.”
Claire doubted that. She wasn’t like her aunt at this age in one way. She certainly had no husband to love with all her heart.
“Well, we may not be able to rally her ladyship,” Mrs. Newsome clucked, “but we can rally these children. They all need a bit of cheering up. A day of rose-hip plucking in the October sunshine might be just the thing. Let’s hope the weather holds.”
Claire hadn’t anticipated the joy and freedom to be found in such a day, or in the polite nods and occasional smile, in the few words of conversation here and there from villagers who’d attended the fete. It felt a new day to Claire, a new beginning. Mrs. Creedle had even packed a picnic lunch, and Mrs. Newsome included linen tablecloths to be spread across the frosted meadow. Bread and butter, a thermos of tea, and apples from the last of the harvest made a feast. Those venerable ladies even sent a jar of custard to pour over bread pudding. The children ran and laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. Squeals from games of tag and hide-and-seek rang through the valley and bounced off the fells.
But twice through the later afternoon, when their rose-hip-gathering party neared the woods, Claire felt as if someone were watching her. Once she even asked Jeanine if she’d seen anyone.
“There are dozens of women and children here whom I do not know, Mademoiselle Claire—whom none of us know, probably. How can you ask me if someone is watching?”
Claire swatted a bramble from her face. “Yes, of course. Silly of me.” She laughed, as if it were nothing, a stupid question. But when she sensed the presence a third time, she felt tiny hairs prickle the back of her neck, just as she had that day she and Aimee had tramped home from Mrs. Heelis’s house.
Claire counted the children from Bluebell Wood, to make certain all were present. Peter, it seemed, had strayed to the hedgerow on the opposite side of the lane and down quite a way. On closer inspection he was picking beside Emily, Mr. Firthman’s daughter, who spilled over with giggles every time Peter whispered in her ear.
“Peter?” Claire felt as awkward as Peter’s guilty glance. “Will you help Mr. Dunnagan load the crates? I think they’re rather heavy for him.”
Peter’s neck burned red. “Ja, certainly, Fräulein.” He came away without a backward glance, but Claire noted the pout on the girl’s pretty lips. She sighed. Young love. What a disaster in the making, and what a muddle!
By the time shadows stretched across the fells and darkened the hedgerows, Claire did not need to call for the children. Mr. Dunnagan’s wagon groaned under the weight of weary and finger-sore children unused to the thorns of wild roses. Still, they laughed and mustered just enough energy to pummel one another with the last of their rose hips—hard-won ammunition which Claire and Mr. Dunnagan did their best to rescue. After all, Mrs. Creedle had promised a rose-hip tart for Saturday if they brought two buckets home after gathering enough for the WI.
At the fork in the road, Peter and Bertram stowed their crates in a wagon headed for the village and the WI, then bounded back to their group, waving good-bye to the villagers tramping homeward on foot. Claire didn’t bother to count the tousled heads in Mr. Dunnagan’s wagon or walking beside. There was just enough time for a cup of tea before she and the children washed and dressed for Shabbat. She trudged beside the wagon, certain that if she sat down, she’d never get up again.
They’d almost reached the lane to Bluebell Wood when Peter asked aloud where Josef was.
“He’s not with you? Gaston, where is Josef? The two of you were together, weren’t you?”
“Oui, mademoiselle, but not for the last hour or so. He walked up the fell to pick a bouquet. He’ll catch up.”
“A bouquet?”
“Oui.” Gaston looked disgusted. Claire deemed it best not to ask whom the posies were for. She’d sensed Josef’s infatuation for some time but never encouraged it or called attention to the young Romeo.
“It will be dark soon,” she worried. “I wonder if we should search for him.”
“Nein, Fräulein Claire.” Peter shook his head. “It is as Gaston says: he will catch up. He knows his way, even in the night. I will give him a shake when he comes for worrying his love.”
Claire ignored Peter’s grin and Bertram’s snort.
“He will be late for Shabbat,” Elise observed with a note of tattling. “Rabbi Meir won’t like that.”
“No, he won’t,” Claire agreed. Why couldn’t she keep them all together and on task? Why hadn’t she counted heads?
By the time they reached the kitchen and poured their tins of remaining rose hips into a large bowl for Mrs. Creedle, it was teatime. They’d not even washed, but Mrs. Newsome took pity on the “poor, hungry waifs” and fed them “just enough tea and biscuits to gather their strength for a wash. After all, they’ve been about a good deed today.”
Claire marveled at the smiles Mrs. Newsome poured over the children. Happily, some spilled her way, or she might even be jealous.
A cold bath was better by far than no bath, and it felt good to wash the stickiness of the day from her hair and rub a bit of Aunt Miranda’s lotion into her thorn-pricked hands and arms. Claire tied her wet hair up in a knot, securing it with pins, making it as presentable as possible. Rabbi Meir could be heard in the dining room below. It would not do to be late.
She was just on her way down the stairs, buttoning the last button on the cuff of her sleeve, when Josef tore through the front door and into the foyer, white as the goose down of her pillow. “Josef?”
But before he heard her, Peter had grabbed his brother by the arm and shaken him. “Josef, you’re late! It’s time for the lighting of the candles. Where have you been? Oh, never mind. Come in as you are. Rabbi has asked for you.” He dragged a visibly frightened and dirt-streaked Josef into the dining room.
Claire paused on the stair, distracted. A compliant Jos
ef was just as curious as a late one. She hurried down to the dining room. Where has he been? And what became of his bouquet?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MRS. NEWSOME shook out the tablecloth for tea with more vengeance than care. She simply did not understand young Josef. He and Gaston had been thick as thieves for months, ever since the digging of their Hitler holes. Mischief could be attributed collectively or divided between the two. But for the last week, ever since Friday’s outing to pick rose hips, Josef had pushed Gaston away, wanting nothing to do with him—a fact that had obviously hurt Gaston, no matter that the boy pretended otherwise.
For that matter, Josef appeared to want nothing to do with anyone except Peter and little Aimee. He shadowed his older brother as if he might disappear at any moment, and Aimee had become to him as a bird in a gilded cage. Josef panicked if Mrs. Newsome did not have the child tied to her apron strings or if Claire did not have Aimee glued to her side in the library or the drawing room. He all but forbade Aimee to wander alone on the grounds or even to visit Mrs. Heelis in the company of Claire, a thing Aimee declared “Intolerable!”
Mrs. Newsome smiled to think Aimee knew the meaning of the word.
Just as worrisome was Mrs. Creedle’s report of food missing from the larder.
“Half a joint! It’s one thing when the scallywags nip a biscuit or two. I know you favor those two meddlesome boys, but this is not to be tolerated. I’d cooked that mutton yesterday for this noonday meal. It would have fed half the table! You must deal with it, Mrs. Newsome!”
Deal with it, indeed. Mrs. Newsome heaved a sigh. Intolerable—such a mild word for stealing. In the old days—older than I—the boys would have been horsewhipped. She wouldn’t admit it to Mrs. Creedle, but she knew Gaston was not part of the conspiracy. This she could pretty well lay at Josef’s door alone, though she hadn’t caught him in the act. It was more a case of knowing where Gaston was when it had happened, and he could not have been the culprit. But why is Josef stealing at all, and half a joint of meat, of all things? He eats his fill at mealtime. I’ve even given him a bit extra. It’s not as if we starve the lad.
