The Spirit of Grace

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  I will proceed as you see best, but am quite desperate to meet my daughter, even if it’s only from a distance. I must lay eyes upon her. It is that desire which drives me to make this journey.

  With Sincere Thanks,

  Grace Kensington

  ***

  My spine tingled as I stared at the two pictures which were enclosed with the letter. One was the same photograph that Zeke had, a portrait of Grace Kensington. The other picture depicted Grace holding a child--me--when I was just a babe. I had a chubby face and rosy cheeks. Grace held me in her arms as my head rested on her shoulder. The sun was in our eyes and we squinted toward the camera, encircled in an aura of happiness.

  I dropped the letter on the desk and ran into the bathroom. Had I eaten breakfast, I would have vomited. I bent over the porcelain bowl, heaving and coughing to no avail. When the spasms of nausea subsided, I rinsed my mouth and washed my hands and face with cold water. I stood in front of the small mirror, trying to catch my breath, but unable to do so. I now had absolute proof that my entire life had been a lie. The treachery of it washed over me, the no-nonsense, black-and-white, irrefutable story of my past, and the tragedy that had led me to this place lay before me on the desk of my murdered grandmother.

  I went back to the desk, picked up the letter and read it again, and again, and finally, after the third time, the implications contained in it sank in. The death of Grace Kensington, and the reunion we would never have, formed a yawing chasm in the center of my being, resulting in a deep, physical ache. We had just missed knowing each other. How much easier it would have been to accept the story of adoption, if my real mother were there to explain it to me. As for Grace Kensington, there lay another tragedy, thanks to Vivian Mason.

  I don’t know how long I sat at Gran’s desk, staring at my mother’s picture, the only sound the ticking clock which had rested on Gran’s mantle for decades and the gentle rain which tapped against the leaded windows.

  “Please come to me.” I spoke out loud to the emptiness, desperate for Grace to appear, as she had so many times before. “Tell me about the night you died. Tell me about your murder. Tell me about--” I paused for a second. “Tell me about me.”

  Silence. I didn’t see Grace. I received no sign that she was with me. But like a jolt of lightening, I was given the gift of knowledge. The puzzle fit together and understanding flowed through my veins like water in an ever running stream.

  Gran had read this letter before she died. She knew that the woman my father married was not the real Grace Kensington. I remembered the night Gran came to the house, so anxious to speak to my father, so upset that she gulped Scotch as though it were orange juice. My hands shook as I tucked the white envelope in the pocket of the blouse. If Gran confronted Vivian Mason with the knowledge of her true identity--which Gran was certain to do--what would Vivian do? According to Zeke, she would commit murder.

  Chapter 11

  I put Gran’s key back underneath the potted ivy, donned my raincoat and boots, and headed back to Bennett House, not caring if I got wet along the way. Soon I would be cleared of suspicion of Gran’s murder. I would point the police to the only person who had a motive to kill Gran.

  “Vivian has a motive. Vivian has a motive. Vivian has a motive.” I whispered the words out loud in rhythm with my feet as I walked through the rain toward Bennett House.

  I barged through the back door, shedding my boots and my coat, leaving them in a pile by the servant’s staircase. I hurried through the kitchen, anxious to get upstairs to the privacy of my own room.

  “Are you even aware that we are in the room, Sarah Jane?” my stepmother, Vivian Mason, also known as Grace Kensington, asked.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just distracted--”

  My father and Vivian had just sat down to lunch at the refectory table in the kitchen. Vivian was doing the serving herself. The smell of chicken noodle soup, a perennial favorite of mine, nauseated me now.

  Vivian smiled. My father didn’t. He looked at me with concern, but he didn’t say a word. Why didn’t you tell me I was adopted? I wanted to shout. But I didn’t say anything out loud, didn’t make a scene. Not yet. Vivian Mason, the woman who had murdered the real Grace Kensington, took the napkin from her lap and set it on the table before her. She started to stand up.

  “You’re soaking wet. Go upstairs and dry off. I’ll bring you some soup.”

  “No, I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Sarah Jane?” Concern echoed in my father’s voice.

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” I smiled, forcing my words to sound receptive to my stepmother’s feigned kindness. “I’m just here to change clothes before I go into town.”

  “I’ll drive you.” Vivian looked at me through knowing eyes, as if she was privy to everything I knew, as if she had planned this whole scenario, and I was just a puppet, a player in some macabre game.

  “I’d prefer to just go alone, if you don’t mind. You don’t mind if I use the car, do you?”

  “Of course not,” my father said.

  I hurried out of the room before they could speak to me further, before Vivian could finagle a ride into town or otherwise get the car away from me.

  I stopped for a second in the foyer, looking at the portraits of my grandfather, my great grandfather, and their respective wives. These men were no relation to me. I had no attachment to them or to Bennett House. Jack Bennett had always been kind to me, and even though he wasn’t my real father, we would always have a relationship, no matter where I lived. But nothing held me here. Nothing tied me to this place. I could pack a bag and leave this afternoon if I wanted to. But I didn’t want to, not until Vivian Mason was punished for murdering my mother and Gran.

  Zeke’s voice cut through my thoughts. He spoke from the phone in the office with the door open, his voice louder than usual. He wasn’t scheduling an appearance for my father this time. He spoke German, and although I couldn’t understand the meaning of his words, their tone conveyed anguish. The door to the office was open. Zeke stood with his back toward me. His shoulders, so strong and broad, were hunched, as though unable to handle the burden being placed on them. I listened to him speak, heard the catch in his voice as he fought back tears. When he hung up the phone and turned around to me, his face was pale. The tears filled his eyes, making the green of them shimmer like emeralds. Zeke tried to blink them away, but they spilled down his cheeks. My heart broke for him, for us, for the unknown tragedy that he held inside.

  I opened my arms to him. He stood up and stepped into them as though it was the most natural thing to do. I led him over to the sofa, where we sat down, never breaking our physical connection. I held him like a baby as he cried violent, wracking sobs that shook his body and took his breath away.

  I didn’t let go. I held him to my breast, murmuring the assuring words that I had often wished someone would say to me when I was alone and afraid and in need of comfort. “It’s all right. You’ll be okay. I’m here. It’s all right.” I murmured the same phrases over and over again, until the sobbing was reduced to a ragged breathing and stopped completely.

  Whatever Zeke was going through, whatever he had done, I would face it with him.

  He pulled away from me, took a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, and blew his nose. He didn’t say anything about the intimate moment we had just shared. He didn’t speak at all. He just stared at me with those green eyes, now rimmed with red. After he put his handkerchief away, he took my hand and kissed my fingers. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. When he took his hand away, the heat from his touch lingered on my skin, a burning reminder of my desire for him.

  “Do you want to talk?” I asked.

  “My older brother, William, was picked up by the Gestapo.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. There has to be something we can do,” I said, in a feeble attempt to provide him some glimmer of hope.

  “There’s nothing anyone can do. They come for you, they take you,
torture you, and, if you’re lucky, they kill you. I was with him. We went over together in the summer of 1939. My father charged William and me with the responsibility of getting my aunts and cousins back to America. William was to stay and deal with some financial issues. My father hoped to smuggle my aunts’ fortune out, too. I should have been the one to stay, not William.” He stood up and walked over to the window, where he stood with his back to me. “I feel guilty for being alive.”

  I stood and went to him. I grabbed his hand in mine. “Please don’t say that.”

  “Sarah, don’t,” he said, brushing my hand away.

  He turned around, came back to the couch, sat down next to me, and took my hand. “We need to talk. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I know we shared some intimate moments these past few days, and I shouldn’t have led you on like that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have things in my life that need to be sorted out before I fall in love--get involved.”

  “So what happened between us--” I couldn’t say it out loud, couldn’t ask if the kisses we shared were real. It was too late for me.

  Zeke didn’t say anything. He let go of my hand.

  “I’m not saying never; I’m just saying not now. I need time. I’m sorry, Sarah. I hope you can forgive me.” He didn’t meet my eyes as he stood up and walked out of the room.

  I loved Zeke. I wanted him with a passion, the likes of which I had never known before. He needed time. I would give him that. There would be no more stolen kisses, no arms wrapped around me, no one to lean on during this time of revelation and change. I was alone--as I had always been. I bit back tears as I headed up the stairs to my room.

  The letter I had stolen from Gran’s desk was now tucked away in the breast pocket of my blouse. I didn’t remember putting it there. The urgency of my new-found information, Vivian Mason’s motive for Gran’s murder, paled in comparison to Zeke’s news.

  I would call Sheriff Carpenter and tell him what I had found. I would turn the letter from Grace Kensington to Gran over to him and let him deal with Vivian Mason. But the phone lines at Bennett House--and in Bennett Cove for that matter--were not secure, and I knew without question that my conversation with Sheriff Carpenter should be private.

  If I discussed my stepmother’s true identity with the sheriff over the phone, the news would be all over town by tomorrow morning. No, I would have to speak with Sheriff Carpenter in person.

  Up in my room, I changed into a sensible gray wool skirt and a pale blue cardigan, along with my mother’s pearls. I combed my hair, pinned it up, and drove into town in the rain, only to discover that Sheriff Carpenter was in San Rafael for the day and wouldn’t return to his office until tomorrow afternoon.

  By the time I got back home, my stomach growled from hunger. I needed to eat but couldn’t bear to face my father and Vivian. Luckily for me, they would be going out tonight. My father was going to read excerpts from his book at a party in San Rafael. Zeke would serve as chauffeur, in case too many martinis were consumed. I would be home alone this evening. Anca brought up a tray of bread and butter and a mug of hot tea. After she left, I stayed in my room with the door locked, so as to not be interrupted. I tried to read my father’s book, but I couldn’t focus and read the same sentence over and over.

  As if driven by an unforeseen force, I took the letter out of my pocket and read it. My reading alternated with trips to the window, where I would watch the rain as it formed a pool in the low part of the gravel drive. Then, because I had no self-control to do otherwise, I would open the letter and read it again, and yet again. I read until my eyes burned and the words were seared into my memory.

  I was awakened by my father, Vivian, and Zeke leaving in the car. The rain had stopped, leaving the air brisk and clean in its wake. I had spent hours in my room and was antsy from being cooped up. I didn’t light any candles. Instead, I fumbled in the dark for warm outdoor clothing, and bundled up in a warm navy pea coat and a wool stocking cap. Armed with a thermos of hot tea to stave off the chill, a cheese sandwich for my dinner, and a canvas cushion to sit on, I set out into the night toward the beach for a solitary picnic.

  ***

  I stayed in the dunes until I found a secluded spot. As I set down my cushion and laid out my unglamorous dinner fare, I considered what a good spy I would make. I knew the hills and trails around Bennett Cove better than any of those soldiers. I could sneak a cannon in from San Francisco if I put my mind to it.

  The cushion on the sand kept me dry. I was content in the night air, eating my sandwich and drinking hot tea, while the waves pounded the shore and the stars pulsed in the October sky. When I finished eating, I leaned back on my elbows, content, undisturbed until the cold sea air, which had been seeping through the legs of my trousers, became unbearable.

  I packed up my dinner leavings, put the top on the thermos, picked up the cushion, and was ready to head back home when I saw the flashing lights. They weren’t random or arbitrary. They were a signal--two short blips before a long flash. The same pattern repeated two or three times and stopped. The signals came from the mountain behind me. I guessed they originated from one of the empty cabins that were let to summer tourists prior to the war. The cabins were rustic affairs, with wooden shutters for windows and no running water. The campers would bring their own cots, beds, cooking stoves, and other supplies. The tourists didn’t mind the lack of modern accoutrements, as the breathtaking views of the Pacific Ocean in all her glory made any inconvenience well worth the trouble.

  I stood up and craned my neck, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the lights, but they had stopped. Across town, on the opposite edge of the beach, another set of lights answered. My pulse quickened. After the light by the water blinked a few times, the light on the mountainside blinked its response.

  Carrying my thermos and cushion, I ran toward home, kicking the sand up behind me, cringing as it seeped into my shoes, underneath my socks. I burst through the front door, through the foyer, through the library, and into my father’s office. I gasped for breath. Rivulets of sweat ran down my face and between my shoulder blades.

  Anca had stoked the fire, even though no one would be using the office until my father and Vivian returned from their evening out. The room was aglow with its licking flames. Newspaper and magazines cluttered the desks, and piles of fan mail sat on Zeke’s desk, to be dealt with tomorrow.

  I picked up the phone, and after what seemed an eternity was connected to Colonel Matthews.

  I told him what I had seen, the lights, clearly a coded signal, and the response.

  “Thank you, my dear. We are aware of it.”

  “Were you able to discover who was up there?”

  “I will tell you that arrests have been made, but I cannot discuss more than that.”

  Any enthusiasm I had for pursuing the matter further waned when the exhaustion from this long day washed over me. I hauled myself up to bed, ready for it to be over.

  Chapter 12

  I had disturbing nightmares and awoke shivering, the covers in a pile on the floor. I dreamt of violent fighting, of the peaceful beaches of Bennett Cove being invaded by Japanese and Germans alike. The soldiers knew where we lived and where we kept our valuables. They looted our banks, ransacked our homes, kidnapped our children, and destroyed our democracy, all enabled by Vivian Mason, the spy in our midst. Vivian couldn’t be captured. She outwitted everyone who went after her. I dreamt Hitler drove his tanks right up to our front door and was about to burst through it and into our foyer when I awoke, more exhausted than if I hadn’t slept at all.

  I lit the candle next to my bed and took it with me as I headed down to the kitchen for a mug of cocoa. I reckoned that I would read my father’s book until I fell back asleep and remembered that I had left it downstairs earlier. I was one of those readers that read every book written by an author that I liked. I could read the same Margery Allingham novel over and over, and find something new
and delightful every time.

  Once downstairs, I headed into the library. The dwindling fire and the light from my candle provided all the light I needed. I had fetched my book and was about to head into the kitchen to make cocoa when the sound of drawers opening and shutting and papers rustling came from my father’s office. Newspaper reporters again? Would they be so bold as to break into the house? Of course they would. I ducked into a cranny next to an unwieldy piece of furniture that was as old as Bennett House and tried to still my heart while someone searched through my father’s office.

  I grabbed the shotgun by the front door, cocked it, and walked back to the office, careful not to step on the boards that I knew would creak. I stepped into the room, pointing the gun at Vivian Mason, who was now seated at my father’s big wooden desk. An oil lamp was lit and cast a faint glow over the things she had laid out on the blotter. I moved closer to her and recognized my passport, my birth certificate, the paperwork concerning the inheritance from my mother, along with the deeds to Bennett House and other property my father owned. She was dressed in a warm navy coat and wore a black watchman’s cap. A pair of black leather gloves lay on the desk near her. She looked up at me, saw the shotgun I held trained on her, and gasped.

  “What in the world are you doing with that thing?”

  “What are you doing with my personal papers?” I asked.

  Vivian placed her hands on the desk. “Sarah, please put the gun down. Everything will be all right.”

  “Quit talking to me like I’m crazy.” I engaged the safety before I leaned the gun against the wall. “It’s 2:00 a.m. What are you doing up at this hour, going through my papers?” I moved toward the woman who had taken my mother’s name, who in all likelihood murdered her in cold blood.