Until We Find Home

by Cathy Gohlke

  Mrs. Newsome shook her head. Why her lady had not swallowed her pride, or whatever kept her from claiming happiness, and married that dear man years ago, she could not fathom. Such a waste of life and love. Such a pity not to enjoy what God has placed before us! What must the Almighty think of our ingratitude at His providences?

  She thought of her dear Thomas, long gone in the Great War. There’d never been another for her, never been an opportunity or interest. But what if there had been? Would she have taken that step forward? She didn’t know, but yes, she thought she might. Living alone seemed a sad thing to her way of thinking.

  Mrs. Newsome smiled, ever grateful that she did not live alone. She lived in a great house with a brood of children, as dear as any of her own she could imagine. Indeed, she prayed for their parents, and for sweet reunions at war’s end, where the children rightfully belonged, but couldn’t help her dread of that parting, or of their growing up and leaving to make their way in the world, if it came to that. Didn’t every mother and auntie grieve the same loss when her children grew up? It was—would be—another station in life to embrace.

  Embracing the death of Lady Miranda Langford, if it came to that, was another thing. Mrs. Newsome could not imagine this earth without her ladyship, or what she herself would do on such a day. Lady Miranda had become more like a younger sister than an employer to Mrs. Newsome—nearly blood of her blood. Mrs. Newsome was a praying woman, and if ever she had prayed, she prayed now.

  Thanksgiving—quietly, closely, and warmly celebrated—came and went. David was still away. It was understood that his war work was crucial and hush-hush, but he and his infectious smile, and his lively hamboning of the year before, were sorely missed. Even Mrs. Creedle’s miraculous savory turkey and sage dressing could not bring the needed life to the eyes and hearts around Bluebell Wood’s full table, though there were many brave faces.

  Miranda knew Claire’s recovery was speeded by her own agreement to pursue tests and treatment. Claire’s face held such hope for Miranda, but Miranda didn’t feel quite ready, either to go and face her future or to say good-bye to her family at home—the family she’d taken too long to embrace as her own.

  Very early Monday morning, before leaving for hospital as promised, before relinquishing her days and hours into the hands of medically minded strangers, Miranda Langford insisted on seeing her solicitor in her library.

  After reading and approving the changes she’d asked him to make weeks ago, Miranda signed and set her seal firmly upon her last will and testament, sealed the envelope, and gave it to her frowning longtime family solicitor.

  Far from embracing the role of fatalist, she maintained that it was only right to keep things up to date. She did not expect miracles on her behalf, but no matter what happened, she wanted to make things as easy and clear as possible for Claire, whenever her time came. Navigating Britain’s death and estate taxes had proven overwhelming and nearly disastrous for Miranda, and they would surely prove a bear for Claire, an American citizen.

  “Thank you, Mr. Peabody, for coming so early. I know this is an inconvenience, but I feel much better knowing my will is in your capable hands.”

  “I hope to see you soon, Lady Langford—soon and well.”

  She smiled. “You’re very kind. You’ve always been very kind.” It was a statement meant to graciously close the door, for neither the solicitor nor the locals had always been kind to Miranda. Perhaps her gratitude might help pave an easier path for Claire. “Mrs. Newsome will show you out,” she told the man, who looked nearly as pasty white as she. “I’d like a few minutes to myself. Ask her to hold my tea, if you don’t mind. I’ll ring when I’m ready.”

  Mr. Peabody nodded in a half bow, straightened his shoulders, and walked crisply from the room.

  Miranda imagined he’d hoped to see the last of the Americans with her passing. We Americans spring like chickweed in the Motherland’s gardens. That had been her private joke with Gilbert. She sat back in her desk chair and smiled as the door closed.

  Jokes with Gilbert were so long past. If Miranda held regrets, they were few. Only, if she could do life over again, she would have accepted Raibeart the moment he’d asked, when Christopher was young and in need of a father, when she was still young and in need and longing for a husband.

  She should have let Raibeart into the private world she’d forged with Christopher. What joy it could have been for the three of them! He’d embraced the role of a dear friend to her and a kindly, guiding uncle to her son, but he could have proven so much more.

  She’d been so concerned with appearances, so determined that she and especially Christopher be accepted in the village and by the community. Christopher’s father and her husband, lord of the manor, hero of the Great War, could not be superseded by a mere Scottish doctor.

  Could she and Christopher have left the manor tenantless to live with Raibeart in the village? Either scenario had seemed impossible. Langfords had owned and worked the land of Bluebell Wood for nearly six hundred years. There were standards to uphold, for love of Gilbert and for the sake of Christopher’s future.

  Just now all those high notions seemed empty, futile, especially since Christopher had been taken for good and all from his Hundred Acre Wood.

  Miranda smiled through her tears. The Hundred Acre Wood—that’s what Christopher had named their surrounding forest the moment she’d read A. A. Milne’s books to him. Christopher Robin, Pooh, Eeyore, Piglet—they’d all become dear friends and intimates.

  And so Bluebell Wood had remained the Hundred Acre Wood, at least until Christopher had grown a little older and she’d read him the many adventures of Robin Hood and his merry men. Then Bluebell Wood became Sherwood Forest to her brave, young Robin Hood. Once in a while, in childish enthusiasm, he had proclaimed her his Maid Marian.

  Always, they’d kept the secret garden together. She knew that over the years, Christopher had savored treetop secrets there even more precious than her own among the sun-dappled roses and shaded lily of the valley. The garden at large was a private, magical world they’d shared.

  Miranda sighed. Claire wasn’t the only one who saw a story or line of poetry wherever she turned. Her niece was so much like her in all her literary dreaming. Miranda only hoped Claire wouldn’t hold living, breathing love at bay for the sake of grief or fear of loss or abandonment or reputation, or for high hopes of a storybook romance that didn’t exist, or any of the myriad feeble excuses her aunt had wasted life upon.

  She hoped and prayed that Claire would cast aside her fear and embrace the real love offered her, both by her Savior and by a good man, perhaps even by David Campbell.

  If David was that man, as she so easily envisioned, Miranda prayed that God would bless them with children who could imagine and create to their hearts’ content within the walls of the secret garden, that they might spill over into the rooms and grounds of Bluebell Wood, making its walls ring with song and childish laughter, as they were meant to do.

  Miranda set her pen in the inkwell. She was tired, clear through to her bones. She knew where her eternal home lay, not only where she would find the husband of her youth and the son of her joy but, even more, where she would at long last see face-to-face her loving Lord and Savior.

  No more pain, no more sorrow—the invitation tempted. She prayed only that if she couldn’t recover, the Lord would let her die with grace, with dignity. She did not want to embarrass those she loved so dearly. If Raibeart’s test results and possible treatments didn’t work—and she hardly dared believe they would—then Miranda hoped, even prayed, that she would die in hospital, not fade further before the grieving eyes of Claire and the children at home. She didn’t want that. They didn’t deserve that.

  One last time she glanced around her beloved library, sanctuary and refuge so long dear to her. She stood and walked toward the fireplace, kneeling before her favorite armchair, just as she had done many times over the years.

  She clasped her hands and p
oured out her heart to the One who loved and understood her best—her fears for the uncertain days just ahead, her every longing for the inhabitants of her home, and ultimately thanksgiving for each day’s joy. All these she surrendered to the One who’d comforted and guided her each step of life’s journey.

  She asked forgiveness for giving in to the fear that had waylaid her so many times, for not grasping with both hands the joy He’d set before her on countless days, especially the earthly love of Raibeart, and for the years of wasted relationship with her only sister.

  She thanked Him for the late-in-life love of Claire and the remarkable “apple of His eye” children entrusted to their care, for their unmindful awakening of her senses and rekindling of her heart. Raibeart had been right about that, too. She must tell him so.

  Finally, Miranda stood, as ready as she would ever be to face this day. She wiped her tears and pinched color into her cheeks. Pasting on the bravest smile she could muster, she walked toward the library door.

  On the other side, she knew, waited her good and patient Raibeart; her worried, loving Claire; and her precious Mrs. Newsome, faithful friend and protector for more than twenty-five years. Each of them would go as far as allowed with her into the unknown.

  Once Aunt Miranda and Dr. MacDonald had left for London, Bluebell Wood seemed much bigger to Claire. Quieter, colder, bereft of sunshine.

  At luncheon the children poked and prodded their food. Mrs. Newsome did not chide them, despite the waste. She seemed too distracted to notice, or too heart-heavy to care.

  Jeanine looked down at her plate and spoke so softly Claire barely heard her. “It is like losing Maman all over again.”

  Elise began to cry.

  Claire’s eyes burned. She looked round at her table of war orphans—at least that’s what she feared them to be based on all she’d heard in the news and from David. She realized that Aunt Miranda had become much more than an aunt to her, more like the mother she’d never experienced. Was she to be an orphan too?

  Mrs. Newsome lifted her chin and tried to speak, but Claire saw that words and the British stiff upper lip failed her.

  Such sadness would not do. Aunt Miranda would not want it, would demand she take hold and lead the family to higher ground. Claire cleared her throat. “Aunt Miranda would be appalled to think we’ve all given up on her getting well. She’s gone to hospital to be cured. We must believe in that.”

  Gaston, ever the realist, looked at her as if she should be telling them all the truth and preparing them for the worst.

  “No matter what happens,” Claire continued, “we must pull together as a family. We are a family.” She said it firmly, as if she meant it, and realized that she did. Ever since Josef had risked his life to save her and Aimee, ever since Gaston had seen beyond apparent cruelty and hurt to look into his friend’s soul, ever since David had risked life and limb to rescue her and the children, she’d realized that these were far more, far dearer than wards or tenants or refugees to her. Claire swallowed the lump of fear that surfaced each time she remembered standing between the children and danger, each time she remembered lunging for the prisoner’s legs as he disappeared up that ladder with Josef. No matter her knife wound, she would do it again, in a heartbeat. “Whatever the future brings for Aunt Miranda, or for any of us, we are, most truly, a family of strength and love. We’d best start acting like one.”

  One by one, the children blinked, looked up, or stole glances at one another. Bertram’s shoulders straightened. Slowly, first Peter, then Gaston and Franz sat up. Marlene and Jeanine smiled at each other through worried eyes. Ingrid and Elise sniffled but raised their chins. Josef reached for Aimee’s hand and squeezed it in comfort.

  Mrs. Newsome sniffed and wiped her pocket handkerchief across her nose—at the table—and spoke with authority. “You’re quite right, Miss Claire. We’ve every reason to hope for good things all round and enough love and courage to bolster one another on, come what may.”

  Elise stared at Mrs. Newsome’s regained stiff upper lip until she giggled, and that set off a chain of grins and low chuckles, easing the tension wonderfully. Though Mrs. Newsome huffed and pretended to look offended, Claire saw the long-missing twinkle return to her eye for a moment.

  A moment is one thing; a lifetime is another. Please, God, keep Aunt Miranda in Your care, whatever that best care is for her. You know we want her well and returned to us. But most of all, we want what is best for her. Help us to help each other through the uncertainty. Help us to be strong for one another, to love each other well, as You love . . .

  Claire faltered, her mind and heart unable to utter the final word. Perhaps, even if the Lord couldn’t accept Claire as she was, He would grant help on behalf of the children. After a moment, she concluded, As You love them.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE CHILDREN TOOK TURNS writing daily letters to Lady Miranda, whom they each now called “Dearest Aunt Miranda.”

  Claire kept an ongoing journal for her aunt, reporting each day’s activities and the children’s exploits. She left it on the dining room sideboard. Anyone at any time could add a bit and send their love. By the time Claire posted it at week’s end, the letter was fat despite paper rationing, and mostly a jolly collection meant to cheer Aunt Miranda. But there were the occasional smears—not so much from sticky childish fingers as from blotted tears. Claire knew her aunt would understand.

  After a long and wearisome week, Mrs. Newsome had finally settled into her sitting room for a nice hot cup of tea, hoping to find some inspiring Sunday-evening organ music on the BBC, when her program was interrupted by a broadcast from America.

  She listened, cup of tea in midair, unable to believe her ears. “Cheeky monkeys!” She slammed her teacup into its saucer, a thing for which she would have severely scolded the scullery maid. Paying no heed, she tore up the stairs to the library, rapped on the door, and entered without waiting for a word.

  By the stricken face of Claire and the worried faces of the children, she saw they’d already heard.

  “America . . . at war,” Claire said, clearly dazed.

  “The Yanks have joined at last.” Mrs. Newsome spoke before she could catch herself. She knew she should be horrified and sorry for the terrible loss of life on the Hawaiian island—and she was—but she also gave thanks that the sleeping giant had been awakened. Now they will help. Britain won’t stand alone. Horrible as it is, how many Pearl Harbors have the Europeans seen in the last two years? It’s nothing new to us.

  “I’ll bring tea.” Mrs. Newsome closed the door quietly, resorting to her standard cure-all. It would take them all time to absorb Mr. Roosevelt’s speech, to form a plan of action. Will Miss Claire feel the need to return home to her mother? Surely not now. We need her here more than ever, and travel is out of the question. What about Mr. David? Will he be required to return to the States and enlist? With my lady so ill and all these children, whatever would I do?

  The questions spinning round gave Mrs. Newsome a headache. One day at a time, Lord Jesus. One day at a time. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. Oh, Father in heaven, let Hitler and his evil be annihilated. Let families and peace be restored. Let these dear children go home to their parents. Let Lady Miranda come home well and strong to us. And in the meantime, Father, I’ll set a card on my sitting room mantelpiece as a reminder to hope: “America Is In.”

  Just over a week later they lit the first Hanukkah candle. Peter presided over his new and intricately carved menorah. Although there was little joy and laughter, even from spinning the dreidel, Claire believed the growing number of lights and the miraculous hope of Hanukkah somehow helped their uncertainty and relieved the darkness. If God had performed miracles on behalf of the Jewish people so long ago, might He not perform miracles for Aunt Miranda now, for the parents of these children, for the people of Britain and America and all the world caught in this horrible, messy war?

  Rabbi Meir, who had come so faithfully each Shabbat to l
ead the meal and services, received a reduced petrol ration, like everyone else. The weekly journey was now too long. Bertram and Peter took turns presiding over the meal. Jeanine and Marlene took turns donning the veil and lighting the candles.

  Some of the children accompanied Claire and Mrs. Newsome to church on Sundays. Mrs. Creedle and Mr. Dunnagan kept to the balcony, as was their custom. Nancy shared the pew with her mother, Mollie spent Sundays at home, and life at Bluebell Wood went on.

  But life in the village had changed. Since the Americans had entered the war, a few locals, even the postmistress, actually welcomed Claire. Some gave her knowing nods, confiding, “It’s high time.” The growing level of acceptance lifted Claire’s spirits, if only a little.

  A week before Christmas a letter came from Aunt Miranda, in her own hand—a thing that had not happened since she’d left Bluebell Wood, so a miracle in its own right. The handwriting was shaky, the lines broken, but each word burned into Claire’s heart.

  My dearest Claire,

  When I heard Mr. Roosevelt’s speech, I could scarcely believe my ears. For all we’ve been so focused on Germany, I’ve given little thought to threats from Japan. But America’s declaration gives me hope for a speedy end to this wretched war, and for the future of the parents of our dear children at home.

  The tests here are uncomfortable, but that is all. It is the diagnosis of breast cancer and the coming surgery that are more daunting. Because of that, I must write plainly.

  You will know from my solicitor that one day, perhaps soon, Bluebell Wood will be yours. It is all I have to give, my darling niece, and I give it to you freely, gladly, though I know it comes as a mixed blessing.

  You will find joy and refuge there and, I hope, security for the family you choose. You will also find that while there may be a bit more appreciation just now that America is in, it may not last. Being an American in this ancient British village is not always easy. But you know that already.