Until We Find Home Page 8

  Aunt Miranda stared at Claire a long while, then spoke slowly and deliberately. “I’ll take them as long as you remain here and supervise them, Claire.”

  Claire felt sudden heat rise from her heart to her face. “You know I can’t do that, Aunt Miranda. You know I must get back to France—to Arnaud and the work we’re doing. I thought you understood that.”

  “It seems you’ve done the work of getting these children out; now you must do the work of helping to care for them, to see them safely through this war.”

  “That wasn’t why I brought them here,” Claire sputtered. “I never intended—”

  “Neither did I, but here we are.”

  Claire saw her mother’s grim mouth and resolute eyes in Aunt Miranda’s face. “That’s not fair.”

  “Life is rarely fair. But I think you need to reconsider what you’re calling ‘not fair.’”

  “Paris is overrun by Nazis. We can’t send Jewish children back to France.”

  “No one is suggesting that we should. I’m simply saying that you showed up on my doorstep with five children in need of food, shelter, and so much more. They’re not puppies to be deposited with new caregivers and left. You brought them, Claire. They’re your responsibility.”

  Claire felt her anger growing, her indignation ready to fly through the roots of her hair. “You don’t understand the importance of our work. I don’t even know if Arnaud is dead or alive. I can’t just up and not return.” She knew she should not throw the deaths of Aunt Miranda’s husband or son in her face, but she was desperate. “You must remember what it is like to love someone, surely . . . to not know if he’s alive, or if he desperately needs you, if he’s calling for you.”

  Aunt Miranda paled, her eyes flashing pain.

  Claire felt if she could just push a little harder, she might get through. “Imagine if—”

  But a knock came at the door, three sharp raps in quick succession.

  “Come,” Aunt Miranda said, her voice no longer strong and confident.

  The door pushed open and Nancy, the housemaid, slipped in, a paper in her hand. “Pardon me, your ladyship, but it’s a telegram come directly. The boy’s waiting by the door, in case a reply is wanted.”

  Claire knew telegrams rarely meant good news, especially in wartime. Despite her own building war with Aunt Miranda, she pitied her. What more bad news could one woman bear?

  Aunt Miranda stood, as if ready to march before a firing squad. She reached out her hand. “Give it to me.”

  Nancy looked between Aunt Miranda and Claire, confusion on her face. “Yes, your ladyship. But—but—”

  “But what?” Aunt Miranda asked, looking as if she very much needed to get whatever it was over with.

  “It’s for Miss Stewart.”

  Claire felt the world spin, slightly off-kilter. “Who would send me a telegram?”

  “Who knows you’re here?” Aunt Miranda looked as astonished as Claire felt.

  “I don’t know—I—” But there was one person, perhaps two or three. None of them could be sending good news . . . unless Arnaud was alive and well . . . unless he was on his way.

  It took but a moment for Claire to retrieve the envelope and rip it open.

  MUTUAL FRIEND SERIOUSLY WOUNDED—STOP—AUTHORITIES SEARCHING FOR ACCOMPLICE—STOP—DO NOT RETURN—STOP—J

  “Claire? Claire, what is it?”

  But Claire could not speak or stand. The telegram confirmed in block letters what she’d most feared but would not admit, not even to herself: Arnaud had been captured. He might die. And for her, there would be no going back.

  Chapter Seven

  CHICKEN POX had proven trial enough for Aimee. At least Dr. MacDonald had come to visit her every few days after her spots had bloomed. Aimee loved the doctor’s benevolent smile and the twinkle in his eye. She believed no grandfather could have been kinder.

  But just when it seemed that everything might turn right, Mademoiselle Claire had fallen ill again. At least, Aimee supposed she was ill. She’d kept to her room for almost a week, and Madame Langford was the only one, besides Nancy and Mrs. Newsome on occasion, allowed in and out her door.

  Aimee didn’t know what was wrong with Mademoiselle Claire and no one could tell her, or no one would.

  The little girl sighed as she pulled back the blackout curtain from her bedroom window, peeking out to the front lawn. It was barely nine o’clock and Gaston and Bertram were already out playing with the cricket bat and ball Lady Langford had given them, Gaston’s knees mottled green from the wet grass.

  Aimee shook her head and clucked her tongue. Mrs. Newsome wouldn’t like that and Nancy would scold. Nancy scolded about so many things, like the bed linens.

  Aimee was very careful to get out of bed the middle of each night and use the chamber pot, sometimes trying so often she barely slept, but Elise couldn’t seem to wake up. Although she and her sister, Jeanine, assured Nancy and Mrs. Newsome that Elise had never wet the bed at home—not for years—Elise could not seem to stop now. Each morning she woke crying over her shame, and each morning Nancy scolded. Finally one morning, in a fit of temper, Nancy smudged Elise’s nose into the sheets and made her sleep on a rubber mat that night. Elise had cried herself to sleep, and still wet the bed.

  Aimee had touched the rubber mat in the morning, and it gave her shivers—so cold and hard. She wouldn’t want to sleep on that.

  Elise stuck very close to Jeanine, like a shadow. Where the two went in the day or what they did, Aimee was not certain.

  Hours stretched between breakfast and luncheon, and the time loomed even longer until tea. Bedtime quickly followed. Mrs. Newsome insisted Aimee go to bed even before the sun had set.

  At home, in France, the evening meal was served late and Maman never made her go to bed early. It was always dark when her mother tucked her in, and the candles were lit, shining like stars in her bedroom window. Such good company, candles and stars, Aimee thought.

  But no candles shone in the windows of Bluebell Wood at night. Mrs. Newsome had explained that every window must be covered and blacked out. No candles could shine out and no stars could shine in.

  Aimee missed her mother and her home in France, especially at night. It was then that she would sneak the mezuzah from its hiding place beneath her mattress and kiss it. Her mother had pulled the treasure from the doorpost of home and told Aimee to keep it with her always—had sewn it into the hem of her dress, to help Aimee remember her home and her parents, and most of all to remind her that she must look to and love Adonai with all her heart, that He would watch over her. Mrs. Beardsley had found it the first night they’d come to her home but, after washing her dress, had sewn it back into the hem and given Aimee a kiss.

  Aimee wasn’t at all sure Nancy would do the same, so she’d torn the stitching from her hem and hidden the precious mezuzah beneath her mattress. Someday, her mother had said, she would live in a place that wanted her, a place glad to have the mezuzah posted by the door. Aimee was not certain Bluebell Wood was that place.

  So it was with more than a little delight that Aimee unexpectedly met Dr. MacDonald on the stairs late that morning.

  “Well then, and how’s my little mademoiselle today?” The big doctor leaned down, his silvery whiskered face very close to Aimee’s.

  “Very well, merci. No spots.”

  “No spots? At least, almost no spots. I’m very glad to hear it, to see it is so. And where are you off and about to this fine morning?”

  Aimee shrugged. She wasn’t off and about to anything, anywhere.

  The doctor stood and looked up the stairway, then down into the gallery below. “I saw the lads playing in the front garden, but where are the other children—Jeanine and Elise?”

  Aimee shrugged again.

  The doctor frowned. “So, you’ve no one to play with—for the moment.”

  It was a statement of fact, not so much of sympathy, but it pulled the tears from somewhere inside Aimee’s chest and up i
nto her eyes. They almost spilled over, but she wiped them away, lifted her chin, and shrugged once more.

  The doctor still frowned. Aimee hoped he wasn’t unhappy with her.

  He knelt down and placed his hand on her shoulder. “We must do something about this, you and I.”

  She nodded in agreement, though what he meant, she didn’t know.

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Leave it to me.” And then he took the stairs two at a time.

  Aimee felt a little better, hopeful, and followed Dr. MacDonald up the stairs. She knew he was bound for Mademoiselle Claire’s room, where Madame Langford had gone even before the doctor arrived. She also knew she would not be admitted.

  When she reached Mademoiselle Claire’s door, it was closed again. But she could hear Dr. MacDonald and Madame Langford inside.

  “What can you be thinking, leaving the child to roam the halls with no one and nothing to do?”

  “I have my hands full with the running of the estate, Raibeart. All our men, save poor Mr. Dunnagan, have either joined or been called up, and Mollie and Nancy are run off their feet. I thought to hire a nursery maid, but most of the local girls have signed up for war work. The children are housed and fed and well cared for. Under the circumstances, how can you expect more?”

  “You’ve given them a house, Miranda, and I applaud you for that, but they need a home. They’re children taken from their parents and they need love, affection—even chores would help. Don’t tell me you don’t know that. You lavished love on your own. Have you none to spare for these motherless children?”

  “I had a son, not daughters. What do I know about girls?” Lady Langford sounded defensive, and Aimee cringed. It was not a good thing when grown-ups got defensive. Aimee wrapped her arms around herself and scrunched down by the door, still listening.

  “Were you not a girl yourself once? And you, Miss Stewart: is it too much to ask that you get yourself out of this room and mind them—read them a story, take them for a walk, tell them a tale?”

  “That’s not quite fair, Raibeart. Claire’s received horrible news. It’s too soon—”

  “You’re both reading the worst possible into a few lines of text. That telegram did not say he was dead, woman, and even if he is, do you not think he’d want you to do your very best for these children, as he did? I canna understand either of you!”

  Aimee didn’t understand either—not the shouting or why she’d been brought here, or even what a war was, not really. Had her mother sent her away because she’d been naughty? She’d tried very, very hard to be good all the while she’d been with Mademoiselle Claire, and quiet as a mouse once they’d arrived at Bluebell Wood. Maman had cautioned her about not talking too much, about keeping herself clean and being respectful to those who took her in.

  Maman, I promise I will be good. Please, please let me come home!

  “I—I simply have no strength.” Mademoiselle Claire’s voice came through the door.

  “You have no strength because you’ve been lying about, letting your muscles atrophy and your will to live go to slaughter. There’s not a medical thing I can do for you, but to urge you to get yourself up and out that door and help those in need—the very ones you brought here. It’s the best medicine. ’Twould be the best medicine in the world for all of you.”

  “You’re pushing too hard, Raibeart. I agree Claire needs to rally herself and help with the children, but we’ve needed to give her a little time.”

  “Time, is it? Time is what you’ve taken, Maggie—a lifetime mooning over your loss of Gilbert. Now you’ve started a second stanza for Christopher. Has it served you well? Are widow’s weeds and a long face the life you want for your young niece here?” The doctor’s voice grew louder. Aimee knew he neared the door. She crept back, but stopped when he spoke again. “You might have left those wee folk in France if you’ve no heart to help them.”

  “That’s unfair. Claire may have saved their lives. The children are all old enough to take care of themselves for a time—to make their own entertainment.”

  “The wee one is not much more than a bairn, Maggie. I’m done talking. You may as well send them all to the woods to be raised by the animals. At least they’d give a sight more attention and communication.”

  The doorknob turned. Aimee scampered behind the long curtain in the hallway and climbed into the window seat, hoping she was quick enough not to be seen.

  The doctor paused outside the door, and Aimee heard him say, impatience in every word, “Yes, yes, I’ll stop in a week. I expect to see roses in those cheeks and a spring in your step, Miss Stewart. Do not take your grieving lessons from your aunt. She doesn’t know how to close one book, nor open another.” He shut the door, harder than Mrs. Newsome would possibly approve.

  After he’d gone, Aimee sat in the window seat a long time, looking out on the lawn and thinking. What had Dr. MacDonald said? Something about going to the woods to be raised by the animals and com—com-something. Aimee didn’t know the English word he’d used, but she understood that it meant talking. Animals talking. Aimee would very much like to see that.

  Going to the woods was another thing entirely. She’d never gone there alone, and Mr. Dunnagan had told her to plant her feet firmly in the gardens nearest the house and take not one step beyond. Mollie had said that bogles roamed the woods, looking for wee bairns to eat, so she must never go there.

  But if going into the woods meant that she could truly hear the animals speak, that they would want and welcome her . . . well, it was something to think about.

  Claire closed her eyes and rolled over after Dr. MacDonald and her aunt had gone from her room. She wanted only to sleep, to shut out the world. But Dr. MacDonald’s words frightened her. “Are widow’s weeds and a long face the life you want for your young niece?”

  Claire shivered beneath the covers, despite the heat of the fire set to ward off the unseasonably cool morning’s damp and chill. She could see how grief had possessed her aunt. She didn’t want to close herself off or hold herself aloof like that. She didn’t want to grow too soon old, or alone. She didn’t want to copy Aunt Miranda’s behaviors any more than she wanted to copy her mother’s.

  Arnaud, where are you? We had so many plans. Arnaud—so full of life, so bold and daring in your rescue exploits.

  Claire, in all her previously sheltered existence, had craved such a life, one she’d only ever imagined and lived through the pages of novels.

  Arnaud had laughed when she’d asked him if he wasn’t afraid, wasn’t terrified they’d be caught. “I live ready to meet my Maker at a moment’s notice, ma chérie. Why would I not laugh in the face of death? Until that time comes—” he’d shrugged—“I will live each day, each hour to the fullest.”

  And he had. Every moment had seemed filled with urgency when she was with him . . . urgent and beautiful and free.

  Why he’d been drawn to Claire, she didn’t know. She saw herself as a mouse of a person—a fearful mouse that dreamed of wearing cat’s boots and a sword, but had neither the gumption nor the confidence.

  All her daring to help the French Jews, and even her boldness to approach well-known writers visiting Shakespeare and Company, to pursue the writing of her dreams, had come from Arnaud’s zest for life, from his belief that anything was possible. She’d felt more alive working with Arnaud, running dangerous missions with the children, than she’d ever experienced.

  With him, she’d lived what she wanted to write—a life of adventure, rich in meaning. It was the kind of life Ernest Hemingway had spoken of casually over drinks when he’d talked of his time in the Great War . . . those late afternoons when he’d stopped by Shakespeare and Company to visit with Sylvia.

  It was Arnaud who’d made her believe in herself—not so much by what he’d said about her, or even her abilities, but by simply shrugging and invigorating her with his joie de vivre.

  Claire bit her lip. She’d never been honest with him, but had hidden her insecurities, certain h
e’d find them unattractive. By pretending—by playacting—she’d hoped to become more of who she wanted to be in his presence. Did he know?

  But Arnaud is not here. So now who will I be? What am I without him?

  Claire pushed back the eiderdown. Swinging her feet to the floor, she sat up in bed. She’d gone to Paris to pursue her long-nurtured dream that her father would welcome her as his family, and to pursue the literary life of the great writers of this age in the hope that one day, she too would write a great novel, the great American novel.

  Neither dream had come true. Her father had not wanted her, had sent her packing in no uncertain terms, pleading only that she not reveal herself to his family and almost threatening her if she did. And writing . . . What could she write without the avant-garde literary lights of Shakespeare and Company to emulate?

  Arnaud was gone—if not forever, for a long time. Life as she’d known it those few months in Paris was gone. What is left?

  A life of meaning, a purpose greater than your own.

  She straightened, not knowing where that thought came from. What did it mean? Helping these children, perhaps?

  Claire sighed and closed her eyes. What do I know of children?

  As if summoned from her muse, images from Charlotte Brontë’s novel Jane Eyre filtered through Claire’s brain. Jane tutoring the lively young French girl, Adèle. Jane doing whatever needed to be done, whether that meant “buckling down” to teach or investigating the cries of mad Bertha or even running away from it all. And then there was Mary Poppins, who’d made every chore for the children a lark, an adventure.

  Claire considered the possibilities, the challenge, and, pleased with the literary inspiration, opened her eyes. She doubted she could muster the courage or fortitude of Jane Eyre, or the creativity of Mary Poppins. Still, the adventure could begin only when she placed one foot firmly in front of the other. That was a position she knew Arnaud would expect and applaud.