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Miranda felt her carefully ordered room spinning. “Jewish children?”
“Dr. MacDonald is right.” Claire pushed her cup and saucer aside and leaned forward. “Things are bad for the Jews of France now. Some emigrated to other countries months ago—those who could. But many, many more have no resources or connections or sponsors, so . . .”
“So you’ve brought children from France without any idea—”
“A friend—a dear friend—was supposed to meet us, to line them up with a contact and homes, but . . . something happened.”
“What, precisely?” the doctor asked.
“I don’t know.” Claire spread her hands. “He was supposed to meet us in Calais and there was to be someone in England to take them . . . but . . .” She shrugged helplessly.
“He deserted you and the children?” Miranda wondered if mother and daughter had both chosen poorly.
“No—he would never! But neither he—Arnaud, his name is Arnaud—nor our contact appeared, and it was the fisherman’s last run across the Channel. He wouldn’t take them without me and I couldn’t let them go alone, and besides I’d hit my head . . . But if I hadn’t gone with them, they wouldn’t have gotten out.”
“Are you telling me those children are here illegally?” Miranda couldn’t grasp it.
The doctor chortled. “I’d say you’ve met your match, Maggie. It appears the apple does not fall far from the tree.”
“This is not funny, Raibeart. I cannot take in illegals and I cannot take in children. You know that.”
The doctor drained his cup, smacked his lips, and set the cup and saucer on Miranda’s tea tray. “On the contrary, Lady Langford, you’ve done just that by opening your door. And for the next month—at least, and if no more in your household come down with it—they’ll stay right here. See to their care, and I’ll see to their health on my rounds in a day or two. Telephone me if there are complications beyond your ken.” He grabbed his black bag and headed for the door.
At the last moment he turned and addressed Claire. “And you, young lady, to bed with you. All the visiting in the world can happen once that fever’s down. You should be a fair sight tomorrow with your bright-red spots. Welcome to Windermere.”
“Raibeart!” Miranda called, following him through the door into the grand foyer. “Raibeart, I can’t have children here. You know how I—”
But the doctor did not stop until he reached the great front door. He set his bag down and turned toward Miranda, taking her face in both his warm hands. “I do know how you feel, Maggie. I’ve always known. But there’s nothing you can do about this, no way I can allow chicken pox to run through the village or a train.”
Miranda’s heart beat so hard it nearly burst from her chest, raising a sob from her stomach to her throat. “But Christopher—”
“Christopher, above all, would have wanted you to help those hurt by that demon Hitler. Our country’s at war now—your own adopted country and mine. This, for this time, is our opportunity to help.” He pressed her face with his hands.
Miranda closed her eyes. If she hadn’t, she feared he might kiss her or that she might want him to kiss her. But she wasn’t ready for that. She’d never be ready for that.
Chapter Five
MRS. NEWSOME’S GRIP on Gaston’s ear was formidable. Dragging him from the pantry and out of Mrs. Creedle’s kitchen amid that good lady’s howls and Gaston’s French babblings had been no small feat. The poxed little wretch must have gained five pounds in the last hour.
Mrs. Newsome had suffered all she could stand at the hands of the small trickster for the past two weeks. She’d worked hard to give Lady Miranda little cause for concern, and Miss Claire the peace and necessary time to heal, but enough was enough. Sick or nearly well, Gaston was more than one body could keep an eye upon.
Gaston tripped and stumbled up the crooked kitchen stairs leading to the main floor, all the while begging for mercy in mixed English and French, but Mrs. Newsome was not in the mood for mercy. “Up and come along, you disrespectful urchin! Chicken pox suppresses the appetite; that’s what the good doctor said—a fact no one seems to have informed your stomach of, now have they, little man?”
Marching him up the wide, crimson-carpeted mahogany staircase to the second floor was easier. Gaston became more subdued as he scrambled up the stairs—likely hoping to keep his ear attached. Mrs. Newsome gathered speed and momentum along with some great satisfaction in her plan to throw the child into Miss Stewart’s arms, if not on her mercy.
She rapped crisply on Claire’s door.
A weak voice answered, “Yes?”
Mrs. Newsome turned the knob and stomped in, keeping a sure grip on Gaston’s ear and knocking over a tottering stack of books beside Claire’s chair—novels liberally borrowed from Lady Miranda’s library, as Mrs. Newsome knew full well.
“What—what’s wrong?” Claire dropped the book in her hands and paled, despite the red splotches still covering her face.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Newsome felt as if her gramophone needle stuck. “Everything’s wrong. This child has utterly destroyed—and eaten—Mrs. Creedle’s lovely treacle pudding—a pudding made for dinner today, for the doctor himself, who’s coming to examine you all. And the greedy little—little—” She gasped, completely lost for words. “Well, he’s eaten himself silly and surely sick! If this selfish little demon spends the night regurgitating his sins, it’s you, Miss Claire, that will be cleaning up after him. Not I! I’ve had my fill.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Newsome. I’m sure Gaston regrets—is terribly sorry for—”
“Sorry? Sorry? Is he sorry for pulling the feathers from Mr. Dunnagan’s best laying hens and frightening them into infertility? Is he sorry for stripping the beds in the servants’ quarters and tying their sheets into a rope to climb down from the west tower? I tell you I cannot keep up with this one, let alone play nursemaid to the others.”
“I’ll speak with Aunt, Mrs. Newsome. Maybe she can arrange for a governess or something.”
“A governess?” Mrs. Newsome thought she’d blow a gasket. “It’s you that needs to govern these hooligans, Miss Stewart. You brought them here and they’re your responsibility!”
“I can understand why you’d see it that way, Mrs. Newsome, but my job was to get them on a boat out of France. I can’t actually keep them.” Claire’s chin wrinkled. “There are so many more children who need help. I must return to Paris as soon as possible.”
Mrs. Newsome stood speechless but did not loosen her grip on Gaston’s ear. It took a good fifteen seconds for her to comprehend the audacity of the young woman before her. “Do you mean to tell me you intend to leave them here—all of them?”
“Well, yes, that’s my hope . . . my expectation. They are, after all, victims of the war. Children are being evacuated to large estates all over Britain, I understand. You had none here. Now you do.”
“English children is what we’re to take! Has her ladyship agreed to this?” If she had, well, Mrs. Newsome and her ladyship needed to have a good heart-to-heart. It wasn’t like Lady Miranda to go over her head. She’d been conscientious about that in the past, a fact Mrs. Newsome had greatly appreciated.
Claire stood from her wingback chair, albeit shakily. The girl really did not look well to Mrs. Newsome. Perhaps she should take pity and leave Gaston’s outrageous behavior for another time—for surely there would be other shenanigans on the child’s part. But this impertinence, this idea that five French hooligans might remain at Bluebell Wood unsupervised and indefinitely was more than she could tolerate. Best to catch the cat before it’s out of the bag.
“I haven’t actually spoken with Aunt Miranda about it.” Claire was clearly confessing. “I haven’t seen her much—at all, really, since that first day Dr. MacDonald came. I think she might be afraid of catching my chicken pox. She didn’t seem to remember if she’d had them as a child.”
No, she wouldn’t want to be talking to
you, now would she? You look enough like young Christopher to be his twin or his female form awakened from the dead. You’ve probably scared her out of her wits, poor thing. Perhaps it’s best if you do go, young miss, but I wager she won’t want you leaving this lot behind.
Mrs. Newsome sighed. But it is war. It’s true, there are children being housed all over Britain. How can we not billet them here—an estate of this size? But English children. We should take in English children!
Mrs. Newsome released Gaston’s ear. The boy made a dive to hide behind Claire’s chair. Perhaps it would be best if she talked with her ladyship first, before Claire saw her. That way they could come to some understanding.
“I honestly don’t know what to do, Mrs. Newsome. I never intended to intrude or force this quarantine on Aunt Miranda—on anyone here. But our contact never came through, and as far as I know, my friend Arnaud is the only one who knew where or with whom they were to go.”
How can the vixen look so pitiable? Don’t let her pull at your heartstrings, Florence Newsome. She’s as winsome as Christopher ever was, and you know how he played you like a Stradivarius, Lord love him.
“Then can’t you ask him, this Arnaud fella? Where in all that’s holy is he?”
Tears pooled in the girl’s eyes. “I don’t know. He didn’t make it to our meeting point in Calais. And then, on the way to the docks, I got this terrible bump on my head, and the next thing I knew I was in a boat—with the children—on my way across the Channel. I was never meant to come!” Claire burst into tears, covering her face with her hands so that Mrs. Newsome could barely hear the rest. “Aunt Miranda was the only name I knew in England. I didn’t know where else to go. I’m afraid Arnaud is—is—”
Gaston crept from behind her and wrapped his arms around Claire.
Mrs. Newsome shook her head. She never could resist a good love story or turn her back on a tragic turn of events. She, too, against all her best judgment, crossed the carpet and wrapped her arms round the sobbing girl. So frail, so young, so like Lady Miranda when she first came to Bluebell Wood all those years ago. When will you give us peace from the colonies, Lord? Americans will be our undoing if the Germans don’t finish us first. “There, now. There must be some explanation. You love him, don’t you?”
Claire sniffed and sniveled, her nose dripping on Mrs. Newsome’s sleeve. Mrs. Newsome pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped Claire’s nose as if she were no older than Gaston.
“And I’m supposing he loves you too?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it.” Claire nodded, her eyes begging Mrs. Newsome to believe her. “At least, I hope so. I think so.”
Mrs. Newsome’s heart ached for Claire. Frenchmen. They croon like doves, but in the harsh light of day . . . Well, who am I to know or judge? “Things happen that we can’t predict. He’s probably turned up and is wondering where on God’s green earth you’ve gotten to, what’s become of you, and what you’ve done with all these children.”
Claire’s head lifted. “You’re right. I’ve only been waiting, hoping for word. I never thought about him looking for me.”
“He must be worried sick by now, and whoever’d planned to take these children must be scared out of their wits thinking you’ve all drowned or some such.” She clucked her tongue in disapproval.
“I hadn’t thought of it in that way. I wrote to a friend, giving this address. She’ll give it to him. I’m sure she will.” But Claire didn’t look certain about something; what, Mrs. Newsome couldn’t divine. Claire pushed her hair back from her forehead as if her head still ached.
Mrs. Newsome thought it surely must. The lamb’s not off the fells yet. These childhood diseases are harder by far on grown-ups, let alone that bump on her brain, and for all her youth I suppose she’s a grown-up in fact. “I think you’d best lie down now, Miss Claire, and take a wee rest. There will be time tomorrow to talk with her ladyship. I simply ask that you keep Gaston with you for the rest of the afternoon. Give him a task, if you will, or insist he sit in the corner. I don’t care which. Just keep him out of Mrs. Creedle’s kitchen and away from Mr. Dunnagan’s henhouse.”
“I will,” Claire promised. “And if any of the other children give you any trouble at all, please send them to me, and . . .” She faltered. “I’ll talk with them.”
Mrs. Newsome nodded curtly and turned to go, knowing that neither she nor Claire believed Claire capable of making any difference in the youngsters. The girl simply doesn’t possess the mettle. Outside the door she stopped, drew a deep breath, and smoothed her skirt, as if that might smooth the ruffles in her feathers over Gaston. It will take a fair sight more than talking with that one.
Dr. Raibeart MacDonald’s examination revealed more to him than the progression of Claire’s chicken pox. “And how do you know so much of Christopher’s death in the short time you’ve been here? I wager it wasn’t your aunt who told you.”
“Nancy, Aunt’s housemaid—”
“Ach, naw! Talking out of turn, was she?”
Claire blushed. “Not at all. I’m afraid I’m the one who prodded her.”
The doctor raised his eyebrows in amusement.
“She only said that he was killed in RAF training, last year.”
Dr. MacDonald pulled his stethoscope from his ears. Carefully, he laid the fine instrument in his black bag. He would not look Claire in the face; it was too like seeing Miranda twenty years prior. “Miranda begged him not to join. She’d have marched into the inferno to keep him back, but he was of age and made the choice. He believed in what he was doing, in what needed to be done. The rest of us hoped and prayed that war would never come. Too many of us thought Mr. Chamberlain would make peace with Hitler in the end. Fools, we were.”
“But Christopher didn’t make it to the war.”
“No. It might have been better if he had. An explosion from a backed-up fuel line. Such a waste, and no glory.” He snapped his bag shut. “Not that it matters in the long run, but it’s noticed by the locals, and somehow harder in the end.”
“I don’t understand.”
Dr. MacDonald felt he was talking to someone very young. “Because your aunt’s an American. Because she’s always been an outsider. Because the Americans are not coming to our aid in this war, dragging their isolationist heels.”
“Aunt Miranda’s lived here all of her adult life—over twenty-five years. She’s a Brit now.”
He shook his head and smirked. “Americans can never be Brits, my dear, any more than I can deny my Scottish roots simply because I’ve lived in England these thirty-odd years—not that I’d have the least inclination to do so.”
“But—”
“You’ll find that the locals have long memories, strong prejudices, and short fuses. You’d not be one of them if your family had lived here for two generations.”
“That must be so lonely for Aunt Miranda.”
“Aye, I believe it is.” He looked at her at last and smiled. “And for that reason, I think it’s a very good thing that you’ve come.”
“She doesn’t seem to want to see me.” Uncertainty seeped through Claire’s voice and into her eyes. “I would have thought—”
“You look so much like him, lass. Christopher. You’re the spittin’ image. You could have been twins. I’ve no idea what your own mother looks like, but you’re Maggie Langford at twenty in the flesh . . . as I live and breathe . . . and her son grew straight from the root.” Raibeart MacDonald could not keep the years from falling away as he looked at Claire. But she was not Maggie, and it was Maggie who had drawn his heart from his chest the first moment he’d set eyes on her. Not that it had ever mattered. She’d never given a glance to anyone but Gilbert.
“She can’t look at me because I remind her of her son.” It was a statement of fact.
There was little the doctor could say. He didn’t know Claire’s story and wasn’t inclined to pry. But he believed—was certain—she could be good for Miranda, if Miranda let her. And all th
ese young people so in need of mothering . . . they could be the making of both these broken women, if only they’ll open their eyes. “Let me talk with her.”
“I need to leave the children here. I need to return to France.”
“So Mrs. Newsome said.” He stood, looking down at a mouth as stubborn as Maggie’s, eyes just as expressive. “You know that the tide has turned, that General Pétain is prime minister, and France has signed the armistice with Germany?”
“Yes, but there must be a way for me to get back. I’m sure Arnaud will think of something.”
Dr. MacDonald knew there was no point in talking to the girl—feverish as she was with desperate hope. Current events and the women must sort themselves out. “I don’t doubt what she’ll say, but I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you!” Claire’s smile was magic.
He couldn’t help but chortle, “Two peas in a pod.” On the way out the door he paused and turned. “I suggest that you set your mind to compromise, Miss Stewart. I don’t believe your aunt will be seein’ it all your way.”
Dr. MacDonald passed a distracted Mrs. Newsome on her way out the library door. Ten minutes later he’d argued with Miranda until he was blue in the face. He could stand anything—any amount of wheedling or complaining or threatening or temper. But he could not bear her tears. Knowing that she didn’t use them manipulatively or freely did not help.
He took her hands in his. “I understand that she reminds you of Christopher. I understand that the children remind you of happy years with Christopher as a child. I know it rips your heart out to hear them laugh and see them running through the garden because your own son is not here to do that, and he’ll never sire children to fill these rooms. But I also know you crave that very thing, Maggie—that life, that boisterous exuberance children and family bring. It’s what you’re missing.”
“That life—my life—is gone, Raibeart, and to have them here now, to see them all so alive and happy . . . it seems a sacrilege, as if I don’t care or—”