by Candace Camp
“No,” Ian cut in quickly. “No, I’m sorry. He is dead, just as we feared.”
“Oh.” The anticipation beginning to dawn on Jessica’s face faded. “But you have proof now that he is dead.”
“Yes, and… his body is here. You’ll be able to give him a proper burial.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t give you all the details. It involved one of our operations. The rescue of a scientist who foolishly enlisted in the army and was captured at Dunkirk and whose expertise is now most desperately needed. A couple of our best men went into Germany to the POW camp and released him—along with several others to help confuse the trail. Alan was one of the officers in the camp.”
“Then he was alive!”
“Yes. Apparently he didn’t die in the crash of his plane. For some reason, his name wasn’t listed on the rolls of prisoners that we received. At any rate, Alan escaped with the other men. They split up into groups. It was vitally important that the scientist escape, of course, and he and one of our men separated from the others. Many of the men just fled wildly on their own. Our other man, a chap named Marek, took several officers with him, including Alan. The fellow’s a damned good escape artist; almost made it. They got as far as Belgium, but they were discovered there, and Alan was shot. He was bleeding quite badly, I understand, but Marek wouldn’t leave him. He almost literally carried Alan—despite his own wounds—to the fishing boat that took them across the Channel. The fisherman says Marek wrapped his own coat around Alan and held him the whole journey, trying to keep him warm. It was no use. Alan was dead almost from the time they left Belgium.”
Tears glistened in Jessica’s eyes. “Poor Alan. I—it’s so odd. I’ve believed he was dead for so long, and to find out that he was alive all that time but is dead now—it’s—I hardly know how to feel.” She stared at her hands. “What about the other man? Mr. Marek? Is he all right?”
“He’s alive. He’s in the hospital, suffering from exposure, wounds, and near starvation. Still, the doctors are optimistic about his chances. He’s a strong man.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“What?” Ian looked startled, then frowned. “I don’t know, Jessica. He’s being kept very secluded.”
“Ian, I want to see him. I have to thank him for not leaving Alan there, for bringing him back to me. Maybe he could tell me about Alan—what he said, what he looked like, what his last days were like.”
“I’m not sure you’d want to know.”
“Please, Ian, I’m not a child or a silly, fragile lady to be coddled. You think that working here I don’t know about the harsher realities of this war? I don’t expect a pretty story; I don’t need to be told one. I simply want to know.” When he hesitated, she said sharply, “What do you think? That I will reveal this man’s identity or tell anyone what he did? Of all the people in the world who might visit him, you know that I’m one of the most trustworthy. A great many more important secrets have been passed through me.”
“Of course I trust you. As much as anyone in the world. But Marek is very sick. I understand that he’s being difficult. Half the time he’s babbling nonsense, and the rest of the time he won’t say a word to anyone including our agents.”
“Perhaps he would talk to me.”
Ian looked thoughtful. “From what I’ve heard the man is having strange delusions about Alan’s death. I suppose Alan’s wife might be able to reach him when others cannot. But… are you sure you’re up to it? Emotionally?”
“Yes. I want to. Please. I’d feel much more at peace. In a way, it would be like saying good-bye to Alan.”
“Yes. I understand.” Ian sighed. “All right. He’s at Long Grove. His name’s Stephen Marek. As I said, he’s being kept in seclusion—only one physician and one trusted nurse attending him. Delirium talk, you see.”
“Yes, of course.”
“There’s an officer guarding him. Captain Fletcher. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll need several days to make arrangements about the funeral. I want you to take a week off.”
“All right.” Jessica stood up slowly. She was still stunned by Ian’s news.
He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I’m so sorry.”
Jessica managed a faint smile. “I know. Thank you.”
She collected her things and boarded a train into London. She sat in her compartment on the train, staring blindly out at the rows of houses flashing past. Alan was dead. She’d known it over a year, had accepted it long ago. She thought she had cried out all her tears for him, but now fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Jessica didn’t want to cry. She had almost begun to feel again, to live again. She woke up nowadays without the heavy grayness clouding her world. She could laugh. She had begun to actually enjoy a few things—a conversation with friends, a crisp, wintry afternoon, a pretty song. She didn’t want to sink back into the morass of sorrow.
But the tears came, regardless of her wishes. She tried to remember what Alan looked like; it was harder all the time. She could summon up a picture of him in her mind, but she knew it was really a memory of the photograph that stood on her dresser, not the real, breathing, living man. He had been alive the past year, had lived without her knowledge, without knowing about her. Somehow that seemed the saddest thing of all. She had mourned him, and he hadn’t even been dead. Now that he was dead, her mourning was past; she didn’t know how to act.
At home she trailed up to her bedroom and opened his wardrobe. His suits still hung there; shoes sat on the floor, hats on the shelf above the clothes rod. The highboy in the corner held his shirts and sweaters, handkerchiefs, pajamas, underclothes. She had been unable to put them away, as if doing so might make his death a fact. She had hoped that somehow, someday he might come home.
That was impossible now.
Jessica ran her hand down a tweed jacket, remembering the times she had seen him in it. Her grief for Alan, reduced to a small, soft ache, like a half-forgotten bruise, now twinged to life again. She pulled the jacket from its hanger and cradled it against her chest as if it were a baby. The faint smell of Alan clung to it—a woodsy cologne mingled with the scent of pipe tobacco. She lay down on the bed, cuddling the coat to her, and began to cry.
*****
Alyssa got off the train from Scotland at the ornate St. Pancras Railway Station, a huge Victorian gothic building that looked more like a palace than a train station, and walked through it to the tube. Brightly colored posters reminded her that “Careless Talk Costs Lives” and that she should refrain from taking the underground trains for any but long distances. She took the tube to the station nearest Jessica’s house and walked from there. The streets were empty of vehicles except for the red city buses and a few military or government cars. Everyone else walked or rode bicycles, dodging around the gaping craters left by the bombs.
The city was much the same as it had been when she left it. There were more buildings destroyed, more holes in the ground. But clearing away the debris, and rebuilding, was constantly in process, just as it had been a year ago. The looks on the faces of the people she met were the same, too—still determined not to give in. That fact gave her a lift despite her weariness. England had held out against the Germans all alone for over a year. Hitler hadn’t been able to defeat them. Now that the United States, with its vast resources, was in the war, too, it would soon no longer be a question of just holding on. They would be able to turn and fight the enemy. Alyssa smiled, and a woman she passed smiled back at her.
When she reached Jessica’s house, no one answered her knock. Disappointed and a little surprised that not even Matty was at home, she was about to turn away when the front door opened. “Alyssa! I can’t believe it.”
Smiling, Alyssa whirled back around. “Jessica! I was just about to give up.” Her smile died on her lips. Jessica had obviously been crying. Her eyes were swollen and red rimmed, and
her face was blotched with tears. “Darling, what’s the matter?”
“I can’t believe you came just when I needed you.” Jessica held out her arms, and Alyssa quickly stepped inside the door to hug her. Arm around her friend, she guided her into the sitting room. She was reminded vividly of the day that Jessica had received the news that Alan’s plane had been shot down.
“Is it Alan?”
Jessica nodded. “He’s dead. He’s actually, truly dead.”
“Oh, Jessica.” Alyssa released a long sigh. “I’m so sorry.” She had hoped against all reason that somehow her friend’s husband would return to her unharmed. It seemed unbearably wicked that something like this should happen to Jessica.
They sat down on the couch and Jessica briefly told Alyssa what had happened.
“What are you going to do now?”
“They’re shipping… the body home to Chilton Dean for the funeral. I must go down there this afternoon and tell Alan’s parents.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Jessica smiled faintly and shook her head. “No. You must have something to do or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m going to see Ian, but I can put that off.”
“No. Go ahead. Have Claire call Ian and tell him you’re here. Claire should be back soon; she’s living here now. Her flat was bombed, like Matty’s sister, and she moved in, too. There’s so much room here and as little as any of us are home nowadays, it seems foolish to keep multiple residences. So we’ve just retained the arrangement. It helps a bit with the loneliness.”
“But wouldn’t it help if I were with you in Chilton Dean?”
“Come for the funeral if you can. But I have to see Alan’s parents alone. You understand.”
“Of course.”
“They’re the ones who will need the help,” Jessica went on. “Poor Cecily, she’s always maintained Alan was still alive; this will be very hard on her.” She paused, staring into space. “You know, it’s strange…this morning I cried and cried about Alan. But I felt a kind of curious release. As if after all these months of wondering and hoping and telling myself not to hope, now, at last, it’s over. And I can go on.”
Jessica wiped the tears from her face with a handkerchief. She sighed. “Well. I’d better pack and be on my way.”
Alyssa watched her friend start up the stairs, tears stinging her eyes. Poor Jessica. It seemed as if no love could survive this war.
*****
Before she traveled to Chilton Dean, Jessica had a stop to make; she must see this man Marek at Long Grove Hospital. From what Ian had said, Stephen Marek might be too ill to talk to her, but she needed to see the man, and she didn’t want to wait several days to thank him for what he had done.
She reached Long Grove in the middle of the afternoon. The front desk gave her Marek’s room number, and when she found the proper wing, a nurse showed her to his small private room. A captain in dull army green sat beside the door to Marek’s room, and he rose at her approach.
“Sorry, miss. No one’s admitted in here.”
“I’m Mrs. Alan Townsend. I believe I’m expected.’
“Oh. Yes.” He looked at her disapprovingly. “They did ring up to say you were to be let in.” But he didn’t move away from the door. “I must tell you that I don’t think it’s a good idea to see Mr. Marek. He’s not quite right. It won’t be a pleasant experience for you.”
“I didn’t come here to be pleased,” Jessica retorted, irritated by the officer’s attitude. “I came to see how Mr. Marek is doing and to thank him. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”
He shrugged as if to say it was her mistake. “If you insist. But he’s rather surly and, well, a little ‘off’ acting.” He paused, then added as if that explained it, “He’s American, you know.”
“No. I didn’t.” Jessica waited for the man to move aside.
Instead, he opened the door and walked into the room before her. Jessica followed him, her irritation with the captain growing. She hoped he didn’t plan to stay with her the whole time she was here. She wanted to see Stephen Marek alone.
A man lay in the bed, asleep, one arm flung across his eyes to shut out the afternoon light. The sheet was pulled up to his waist, and above it he wore only a white T-shirt. His collarbone stuck out sharply above the T-shirt. He was too thin, and his skin was pasty. There was a stubble of beard on his chin.
“Marek!” the captain said loudly.
“Oh, no! Don’t wake him!” Jessica protested in a hiss.
But the man in the bed was instantly awake. His arm flew away from his eyes and he sat bolt upright. Fierce black eyes focused on the army officer. His upper lip curled with contempt. “You son of a bitch. Get out.” His voice was no less vicious for the fact that it was low and hoarse. He flopped back onto the bed and closed his eyes.
“I say! That’s no way to speak in front of a lady,” the officer reprimanded him.
The dark eyes opened again, and his head turned toward Jessica as he growled, “I don’t want any damn woman in—” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Jessica!”
It was eerie. She had never seen the man, yet he had recognized her, had spoken her name as if she were an old friend whom he was surprised to see. But, of course, he had been with Alan in close quarters all through their escape. Alan had probably talked about her or shown Marek her photograph. Alan had always carried her snapshot with him.
Jessica smiled at Marek. “Yes, it’s I.” She stepped past the obstructive captain. “How are you feeling?”
He shook his head as if that was of no consequence. His eye darted back to the army officer. “Get out of here.”
“I can’t leave Mrs. Townsend—”
“Please,” Jessica cut in, putting her hand on the captain’s arm. “It’s all right. You may leave us.”
“I’m not sure it’s safe.”
“I’ll be all right. I’m positive. Go ahead.” Jessica smiled encouragingly.
He cast another doubtful glance at Marek, then at Jessica, but he pivoted on his heel and walked out the door. Jessica turned back to Stephen Marek. He was a dark man, his hair and eyes black, but illness had turned his skin sallow. His eyes seemed too bright and fierce for the pale face, and his bones pressed against his skin.
His dark eyes bored into Jessica. She gazed back, not knowing what to say. She had hoped to feel some connection with Alan through this man, but she did not. She felt nothing except a faint pity because he was obviously unwell.
He spoke, his flat American voice shooting out suddenly and startling her. “Where’s Alan?”
Jessica stared, thrown by his words. “Pardon?” she asked finally, feebly.
“Where is he? Do you know where he is? These bastards keep telling me he’s dead. He’s not. I know he’s not. I don’t know why they’re lying.”
Jessica felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. No wonder the captain and Ian had spoken of Marek’s not being quite right. He though Alan was still alive!
“He was shot, sure,” Marek went on, not waiting for her answer. His breath rasped in his lungs, panting as if he’d been running. “But he wasn’t dead. I put my coat on him to keep warm; it was cold out there on the ocean. He was warm enough. He had to be. I held him. And we talked. I remember talking. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t.”
Jessica’s heart went out to him, and the faint, cold fear left her. He was simply sick and a little feverish, and he didn’t want to admit that Alan was dead. It wasn’t insanity or anything close to it. She remembered after Alan’s fighter had crashed into the Channel that she had denied that he was dead. “He couldn’t be,” she had said because she had wanted so badly for the words to be true. Stephen was doing the same thing, although in his weakened state he was confused enough to really believe Alan hadn’t died.
“Mr. Marek.” She came forward and laid a hand on his arm. His other hand clamped down on it fiercely. “I’m afraid it’s the truth.
Alan is dead.”
“No!” His face contorted with revulsion, and he jerked away from her, sitting up. “You’re lying, just like all the others!”
“No, truly I’m not. I wouldn’t lie about that. I love Alan. I wish he were alive as much as you do. More. But it’s the truth. His commanding officer identified the body. I’m traveling to Chilton Dean to Alan’s parents right now.”
“No! He was alive! He was warm. I held him right here.” He looked down at his arms as if they would somehow prove his words. His head snapped up. His eyes were razor sharp. “You’re an imposter.”
“Really. Now why would I pretend to be Jessica Townsend?” Jessica asked indulgently, almost smiling.
“I don’t know! I don’t know what you’re trying to pull. It’s some trick. You’re—“
His hand lashed out and gripped her arm with a strength that was surprising, considering his weakened state. He jerked her closer to the bed, his black eyes blazing into hers. His other hand clumsily unbuttoned her sleeve at the wrist and he rolled it up. Jessica gasped, frightened now, but too stunned to pull away. He revealed the soft flesh of her inner arm. There was a dark, almost heart-shaped freckle there, a mark she had had from birth and which Alan had always called sexy. Marek stared at the mark. Slowly his fingers relaxed, and he rolled the sleeve back down. He released her arm.
“You are Jessica.” She could see the knowledge growing in his eyes. “Oh, God. Oh, God. He’s dead.” Marek looked at her. Tears sparkled in the dark eyes. He shook his head. “Christ!” His hands came up, palms digging into his eyes, and his shoulders shook.
Answering tears welled in Jessica’s eyes. She had no thought except for his pain, a pain she had known for a long time. She put her arms around Stephen and pressed his head down onto her shoulder. His arms went around her, hard and hurting, and he cried against her.
Chapter 13
The telephone rang, and Alyssa jumped to answer it. She had been waiting to hear from Ian since yesterday evening. A male voice asked for Alyssa, and when she identified herself, he told her to go to an office building not far from St. James’s Park and take the elevator to the fifth floor.
