Until We Find Home Page 7

  “Remember?”

  She winced.

  “Och, but you do remember, with every breath you take. And if anything could honor the life of your bonny lad, it’s seeing these children saved from the likes of Hitler. It’s why Christopher enlisted. He saw the evil coming before the rest of us did. He was an insightful, compassionate, determined young man. He wanted to fight that injustice.”

  “He wanted to be like his father, to make his father’s memory proud.”

  “And that he did. He honored Gilbert and carried his legacy. But Christopher was more like you, Maggie. Full of life and vitality, as you were before—” His arm swept the room, the grounds, then dropped to his side in near defeat. “Do you not see that Claire and these children are a gift from the Lord?”

  She turned away, but he grasped both her hands once more.

  “You may not want to own it, but He loves you. He sees you and knows your name. He’s reaching out for—”

  “What has He done?” Her sharp anger took him by surprise. “He’s taken away my husband and my son—my only son!”

  Raibeart dropped her hands. If she was intent on blaming God for the evils of men and the weakness of their inventions, there was not much he could do. He didn’t know why Christopher’s time had come so soon, only that it had. And that, he believed, as tragic and sad as it was for all of them, was no mistake. He sat back.

  Miranda, her face fallen and eyes nearly closed, reached for him, as if she thought he too might leave her. But he wouldn’t, not as long as he drew breath. Not as long as she didn’t send him away.

  “I see death in my work, Maggie. It’s the end of this life, and it comes to every one of us, sooner or later. But those left behind . . . If we spend all our years mourning those who’ve gone, we miss the life God’s given us here and now, the breath to help our fellow beings while we’re able.”

  She shook her head.

  “I cannot change your mind. I can only say that these children need you and the gift of your home and love as much as you need them. It’s a shame to throw such a gift in the lake—back into the face of God—and walk away. But it’s up to you now, my darlin’ girl, isn’t it?”

  Miranda spent the remainder of the morning alone, refusing tea and refusing to see Claire, though her niece asked to meet with her. There was so much to think about, to consider. If only she could make them all disappear. If only she could turn back time. In the end, all she could think to do was to ask Christopher.

  While the others ate their midday meal in the dining room, Miranda walked to the last door on the third floor of the west wing. She stood in the hallway, key in hand, listening to the great clock in the downstairs foyer as its pendulum swung back and forth, tick and tock, tick and tock.

  Once she opened the door to Christopher’s room, she knew the memories would flood her heart, her mind, like a storm breaching the banks of Lake Windermere, pummeling the shore, chipping away at its edges. She could stop that flood by not going through, by simply focusing on the tick and the tock, by walking away.

  Raibeart was right—Christopher had seen war coming, had seen that Hitler would not be satisfied until he’d wiped every Jewish man, woman, and child from Germany, and then from the face of the earth. “He’s a madman with a demonic agenda.” Those were Christopher’s words. And though she hadn’t wanted to believe, she’d read the speeches, had even read Christopher’s copy of Mein Kampf. If only the world had seen as clearly as her son and stopped Hitler before . . . If only Mr. Chamberlain had not been fooled . . . If only Christopher had not been killed by such a senseless . . .

  Miranda leaned her head against Christopher’s door. Why, God? Why?

  She expected no answer. At last she straightened and turned her key in the lock. She opened the door, stepped through, and closing it behind her, reached for the light.

  Gaston would never have believed that treacle pudding could make a fellow so sick. If a little made one feel better, then a lot should have put him head and shoulders above the world. But it hadn’t. He hadn’t needed Mrs. Newsome to forbid him his midday meal; he couldn’t have taken a bite if they’d served roast beef and Yorkshire pudding slathered in brown gravy—his favorite since coming to England.

  So he wandered the halls of Bluebell Wood, quietly peeking into forbidden rooms—they’d all been forbidden to him—and taking an inventory of all he saw. He had no plans to pinch or break anything. He was very careful—just wanted to look round.

  Some of the doors remained locked. He’d tried them before, so didn’t bother now. But there was one, at the end of the hallway in the west wing, that shone a light beneath—a light he’d never seen there. It must not be locked now . . . unless Mollie Taggert had told the truth. Mollie, the scullery maid, had vowed there were ghosts and bogles haunting the north tower, just itching to get their misty claws into wayward boys. What if one had found its way to the west wing? What if one found its way anywhere?

  “There’s no such thing as bogles, nor ghosts, neither,” Gaston whispered aloud, gulping, more to bolster his courage than because he believed it. Slowly he turned the brass doorknob. It didn’t even creak. He pushed the door open.

  The curtains were drawn wide so the sun streamed in and he could see everything at once. It was a boy’s room—not a nursery, but a proper grown boy’s room with football pennants on the walls and a couple of trophies on a high shelf. A tennis racket hung beside a cricket bat, and a violin and bow lay on the mantel, as if the owner had just set them down.

  Gaston stepped into the room. He hadn’t seen any grown boys at Bluebell Wood. The shoes—a pair of soiled tennis shoes and some scuffed golfing cleats—heaped in one corner looked grown-man size. Only a fully grown boy or a man could wield the set of golfing irons in the opposite corner.

  So mesmerized was Gaston with this treasure trove that it took several moments for him to see the woman on the floor beside the four-poster bed. So quiet was he—so reverent in a room of such grown-up maleness with grown-up toys a boy would give his right arm for—that the woman didn’t seem to have heard him.

  As Gaston’s eyes adjusted better to the light and shadows in the room, he realized he was staring at the back of Lady Langford. His throat went dry. If he wasn’t on her blacklist before, he surely would be now. He’d been told by Mrs. Newsome in no uncertain terms to stay out of this end of the wing, and by Mademoiselle Claire to steer clear of anything that he even imagined might bring trouble. As silently as he could, without daring to breathe, he tiptoed backward toward the door.

  He’d just crossed the threshold and was trying to decide whether to pull the door to when he heard her whimper. He stopped. Not a sound.

  Gaston took another step backward, into the hallway. Lady Langford began to cry . . . soft moaning sounds at first, as she rocked gently back and forth, and then great, wrenching sobs that pulled at his heart.

  She reminded him of his mother, the night before she sent him away to the boat in Calais. Gaston had overheard his parents’ deliberations, their arguments about whether to keep him and Bertram at home or send them to England. He was eavesdropping and dared not let them know, but silently begged them to let him stay—to want him to stay with them. He wasn’t afraid of Hitler—not one bit. What could a maniac with a nasty little mustache do to him?

  His father would have let them stay and taken their chances in hiding together, but it was his mother who’d insisted, who’d said she’d seen her grandparents murdered in a pogrom in Poland, and she wasn’t about to watch her children stabbed or shot or set aflame before her eyes. Gaston had never heard his mother use such language or conjure such violent images. All he could think was that she no longer wanted him, didn’t want Bertram, either—not enough to fight for them.

  That night, when she came to tuck him in, to say good night, he’d pretended to be fast asleep, though he knew she realized he was not. She’d spoken softly to him and kissed him on the cheek, the forehead. But he was angry with her and turned over,
pretending to stretch in his sleep. She’d sat there a long time, Gaston knew, until he’d fallen asleep.

  It was only toward morning, when the pale light of dawn had crept through his window, that he woke enough to hear her whimpering softly, still sitting by his bed. Even then, he’d not reached out to her. When they’d said good-bye, just before meeting the lorry driver who’d taken him and Bertram and all the others to Calais, Gaston had not kissed her, he was so hurt and so angry.

  And this was what he thought of as he watched Lady Langford weeping on the floor, her head resting on the side of the bed. From the back, he could imagine his mother—a similar height and build, her shoulders shaking as she wept.

  If he could return to Paris, return to his mother, he would hug her now. He would tell her that he loved her with all his heart and that he was sorry he’d treated her shabbily. It was not how he was raised. It was not what he felt in his heart. He would explain that he had feared she didn’t want him, though he realized now that was not true. She was afraid, more afraid than he.

  Gaston stepped back inside the room. Lady Langford seemed not to hear. He took another step closer to her, and another. Soon he’d crossed the divide and was standing just behind her back. She held a cricket ball in one hand and had wrapped both arms around a teddy bear, much the worse for wear and perhaps for love. Gaston understood it must have once belonged to the man-boy. It was the kind of thing his own mother kept—things that he and Bertram had long outgrown but once loved best of all.

  Still she cried, her face buried in the thin fur of the teddy bear.

  Gaston knelt beside her. He was tempted to run away. But that would be the coward’s way, and Gaston was not a coward. He would not repeat the mistake he was now so very sorry for. He put his hand on her shoulder and said softly, using his best English, “May I help you in some way, madame?”

  Her breath caught. She opened her eyes and for a moment Gaston thought she might be angry with him. Yet she looked like she didn’t believe he was there, as if she somehow saw him, but didn’t.

  “I thought . . . I thought for a moment . . .”

  “Oui? You thought something?”

  She sobbed once more, then sniffed, wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand.

  Quickly Gaston pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. It was wadded and dirty, but he knew a gentleman should always offer a crying lady a handkerchief.

  She looked at the handkerchief, then at Gaston.

  He smiled encouragingly, willing her to take it from him.

  She looked as if she was about to say something but stopped.

  “Allow me,” he said, wiping her cheeks and the corners of her eyes.

  She closed her eyes, but not rudely, he thought. It was as though she savored his touch—something his mother used to do. “Gaston.”

  “Oui, madame, that is my name. You remembered!”

  “Where did you come from?” she asked, her eyes still closed.

  “From Paris, of course,” he said, most seriously.

  She smiled and, after another moment, opened her eyes. “I meant just now.”

  “Ah, oui, I understand. I came through the door.”

  “Yes. You weren’t at table?”

  “No, madame.” Gaston reddened. Does she know about the pudding? “I was not hungry.”

  Her eyebrows lifted toward her hairline. “That seems most unusual for a boy.”

  “Oui, madame. It is not my usual state of affairs.”

  “Ah.” She looked as if she was trying not to smile. “I believe you.”

  “Merci, madame.”

  “Merci to you, Gaston.”

  “But of course, madame. I am pleased to help in any way that I can.”

  She hefted the cricket ball in her hand. “Do you know who this belonged to?”

  “A very lucky boy, I think.”

  She looked at him quizzically.

  “To live in such a place as this, to possess such—such toys and tools for the sports. It is a dream come true.”

  “A dream come true,” she echoed, another tear escaping her eye.

  “Oui, madame . . . the room of a very lucky boy,” he repeated.

  “Yes.” She looked around at the room. “A very special boy—my son.”

  Gaston sat back on his heels. He now felt certain he had intruded on a private moment and wondered if he should leave.

  But the lady stood, not looking at him. She sniffed again and pulled the cricket bat from the wall. “I think there are wickets in the carriage house. Mr. Dunnagan will know.” She turned the bat over in her hands, then picked up the ball once more. “Would you like to have these?”

  “Pour moi?” Gaston stood, unable to believe such good fortune. Was she testing him? Should he thank her politely but say no?

  “For you and the other children . . . well, I suppose mostly for you and your brother.”

  “Bertram.”

  “Yes, for you and Bertram.”

  “Mais oui, madame! That would be most wonderful! But your son—will he not object?”

  She smiled sadly and placed the ball into Gaston’s hands, wrapping her own around them. “I think . . . I think he would be happy for you to have them.”

  “We will take most special care of them, madame.” Gaston did not fully comprehend, but felt as if he’d received something more sacred than a ball and bat. “And we will not make noise . . . I promise.”

  “No, that will not do.”

  “Non, madame?”

  She looked at him very carefully, deep into his eyes. “You must make noise, Gaston—in the garden. Make all the noise you want.”

  Chapter Six

  THOUGH CLAIRE’S SPOTS had not completely faded, her fever had long gone. The spots still itched, but not violently, and that was a relief.

  Looking and feeling stronger, Claire believed it was high time she talked with her aunt about returning to France. It couldn’t be more dangerous in an occupied country than in one under incessant bombing and daily threat of invasion, could it? If she could find a way to reach Paris . . . If her aunt, who must surely have connections in high places, would help her . . . If she’d finally agree to keep the children long-term . . .

  According to Mrs. Newsome, Aunt Miranda had committed only to keeping the children through the extended quarantine.

  Claire waited until after breakfast, when she knew her aunt would be in the library, and knocked on the door.

  “Come,” her aunt’s voice answered.

  Claire squared her shoulders and pushed open the door, giving her best and most confident smile.

  Aunt Miranda straightened uncomfortably but graciously welcomed her. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better, Claire.”

  “Thank you, Aunt. I owe you a great debt. I can’t imagine what the children or I would have done without your generous hospitality.”

  “I’m glad you’ve enjoyed the respite.”

  Claire breathed. Perhaps she does understand that I’m leaving. Perhaps Dr. MacDonald and Mrs. Newsome have cleared the way. “It’s been a saving grace for the children, especially . . . having to leave their homes and families. You’ve really made them welcome.”

  Aunt Miranda tilted her head. “I was just about to pour a cup of tea—chamomile, actually. Now that our tea is severely rationed—much to Mrs. Creedle’s dismay—we’ve resorted to drinking weeds from the lawn at odd times,” she joked. “Would you like some? It’s not bad with a dollop of Mr. Dunnagan’s honey.”

  “Yes, thank you.” It seemed the civilized and friendly thing to do. This was going better than Claire had anticipated, but she rushed on. “Bluebell Wood really is a perfect wartime home for them—safe from the bombing, all the running and playing space they could possibly want, good food from the gardens and your livestock, fresh Lakeland air.”

  Aunt Miranda nodded slowly. “Yes, no matter that no place in England is truly safe just now, I’ve been thinking the same. Of course—” she smiled—“Dr. MacDonald
and Mrs. Newsome have had a hand in helping me see the light.”

  Claire sighed, a great weight falling from her shoulders. She sipped the tea, smooth and velvety in her mouth. “I’m so glad, Aunt. I don’t know what would become of them if you didn’t take them. I’m so grateful you understand.”

  “I’ll take them for the duration of the war as long as I have help,” Aunt Miranda said carefully.

  “Of course—you’ll need help. I was telling Mrs. Newsome the same, that perhaps you could hire a governess and maybe even a tutor . . . if the cost isn’t too dear. I think Aimee might need a nursery maid still, but Elise and Gaston could attend school.”

  “I won’t be hiring a governess.” Aunt Miranda was firm.

  “Oh. Well, I suppose there’s the village school. No one will know they’re not children you took in of your own volition, will they? I heard that a great many French orphans were evacuated just before Dunkirk. Under the circumstances, with evacuees running all over the north of England, the constable’s not likely to come round to collect them!” Claire laughed nervously at her own joke. When Aunt Miranda didn’t smile, she rushed on. “Of course, now that we know so many have been taken in, they’ll be able to get identity cards and ration books in their own names. I’ve collected the children’s full names, their parents’ names, their birth dates and addresses. I assume that’s all you’ll need.”

  “Obtaining identification and ration cards won’t be difficult. I’ve already discussed our need with the local authorities.”

  Claire smiled, relieved. “Great!”

  “I don’t see why they would need the village school, though that is a possibility. It would give you a few free hours each day, though Aimee might need a nursery maid. I can see that.”

  Claire wasn’t certain she liked her aunt’s use of words. To make things perfectly clear, she said, “I promise to keep in touch as best I can. I don’t know if there is any way to get civilian mail through from France now. Perhaps I can send letters to someone in America—Sylvia Beach’s parents live in New Jersey—and from there to here. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. I’ve no idea how long it will take letters to reach you. I’ll let you know what I learn of the children’s parents, of their families, as soon as I can.”