In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  “Th-they rushed him back here in an ambulance but, uh, he didn’t make it.” Shifting his feet, he looked away but he couldn’t escape the image of her grief-stricken gaze.

  What have I done?

  “All soldiers must board now! Final call!” The colonel’s strident voice offered Malcolm a way out.

  “I have to go.” He kept his gaze downward as he retreated toward the train. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  AS HE LEFT THE QUAY, the wail that had been building up inside of her erupted—a ragged scream of searing pain that exploded with the force of a volcano. It was a hot, throbbing agony that pulsed at the bottom of her soul.

  Eleanor knew that Malcolm had continued speaking but only one word boomed in her mind. Dead. Will was dead. Dead.

  A roaring sound filled her ears, like the drone of a thousand warplanes swooping from the skies. In an instant, she was transported back to the decimated streets of the East End. She sifted through piles of dust and rubble. She tugged at a block of stone only to uncover her daughter’s crushed body beneath. Dead. They were all... dead.

  The world swirled around her, and she closed her eyes, oblivious to the sound of the armored train that left the depot as it chugged off to the Front. With just a few words, Malcolm had removed the axis on which her world revolved. The North Star had fallen from its place in the sky and she could no longer find her way.

  The roar grew louder and she swayed, then felt herself falling forward.

  I’ll die if I fall on the tracks.

  It was a dim reality that tugged at her fading consciousness. Veronica had said something, something important.

  What was it?

  Another train was coming.

  Yes, a medical convoy from the Front.

  If she fell on the tracks it would crush her as Abby had been crushed.

  Abby. Dead.

  But why live? The world no longer needed her.

  Abby. Will.

  Her hands flew out as she felt her knees give way beneath the grief that pressed down upon her. Dead.

  “Ugh!”

  The impact of the iron rails as they punched against her chest, forced the air from her lungs. The distant wail of a fast-approaching train tinged the fading edges of reality.

  I’m going to die.

  Then the darkness swallowed her.

  Part 2

  1915-1916

  “...without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins.” Hebrews 9:22 ESV

  Chapter 14

  Northshire, Great Britain. April 1915

  The gray lackluster Unic taxicab inched its way up the hill overlooking Northshire village, groaning like a man on his way to the grave. Bright moonlight spilled into its interior, revealing ragged leather seats and a floorboard with holes big enough for Leila to see the dirt road that hurtled by beneath her feet.

  “The war killed the taxi buithineth.” Her driver, an elderly man whose name she hadn’t bothered to remember, mumbled through a mouth that was missing its dentures. “All the factrieth are making gunth now, not carth.”

  Half of her mind replaced the lisping driver’s “th” with an “s” but the other half was lost in a whirlpool of memories. The last time she had driven up this path, it had not been in a dilapidated jalopy but in a sleek Rolls Royce. The driver had not been a toothless geezer but her young and virile lover. Malcolm.

  Her husband despised her now, preferring to court death on the battlefield than remain with the woman he had married. But she had caused that. At least in part.

  The shuddering vehicle finally crested the top of the hill and Leila caught her breath as she glimpsed the valley below. No lights shone in the village, but the moon bathed the entire area in light. Both Northshire village and the Estate itself, were swathed in an ethereal glow of moonlight.

  The combined scents of lilac and lily of the valley wafted up and washed over her, soaking her in an atmosphere of peace that was almost tangible. In this valley, the war that ravaged the globe seemed to be nothing more than an illusion, a figment that existed only in the minds of those condemned to the outside world.

  Leila’s heart twisted as she thought of the miniscule brown cylinder that lay concealed inside her corset. She had to send the message tonight. Once in Werner’s hands, the information it contained could lead to the destruction of the entire country, and more importantly, to Malcolm’s death. Hughes’s words, spoken almost a month ago, drummed through her mind without reprieve. Malcolm will face bullets. Real bullets from a real enemy.

  “You can stop here.” The weariness in her voice came as no surprise. Her love for Malcolm had battled for weeks against her love for her country and the conflict had wiped her clean of energy.

  “Here?” The cabbie gaped at her. “There’th nothing here.”

  Painting a smile on her lips, she pulled his fare from her purse. “My friend lives right around the corner, but her children are already asleep. I don’t want the car to wake them up.”

  The car slowed to a stop and she tugged on the handle, ignoring the driver’s grumbles. The door refused to open. She pulled again, harder.

  “Put thome effort into it.” He made a pumping motion with his bony arm. Sighing, she shook her head, then slammed her shoulder into the stubborn frame. The door flew open on the impact and Leila sailed out of the car, sprawling awkwardly on the dirt.

  “Don’t break my door now, you whipper thnapper!” His disgruntled voice reached her seconds before he leaned over and slammed the door shut.

  Leila scrambled to her feet, face burning. She was thankful none but the moon and the cabbie had witnessed her fall. Retrieving her purse, she waited until the cab was out of sight then glided toward the familiar flat-topped rock. Slipping her clammy hands beneath her clothes, she pulled the small brown cylinder free. You know how this works, Leila. The Fatherland comes first.

  Her mind flew through the encoded message that she had delayed sending for three weeks. Enemy planning assault near Ypres. They suspect gas attack but no preparations have been taken. Her hands trembled as she bent over the basket and attached the cylinder to the waiting pigeon’s holster.

  Her husband was marching with the army toward Ypres, the contested site near Belgium where her people—his enemy—waited to destroy him. Newspapers, hawked on London’s street corners, carried constant stories of the war’s atrocities, giving her nightmares of Malcolm’s chest being ripped open by a steel bayonet or punctured by a hail of flying bullets. If the gas plan worked, it could be a cloud of poison that snuffed out his life. And it would be her fault. He would die, rejected by his father and cursing her name.

  Remorse opened its mouth and swallowed her whole. She had delayed three weeks, hoping that her information would arrive too late to be of any use to Germany’s high command. Now, the loyal patriot in her rebelled. By not sending anything of use to her handler, Werner Jaëger, she was guilty of aiding the enemy.

  Staggering upright, Leila did something she had not done for years. “Keep him safe, God.” She looked up to the ebony sky, streaked with the light of the moon. Was it possible that beyond this veil of light and dark, a Force more powerful than human imagination could intervene in the affairs of mortals and remedy the dilemma that surrounded her? It could do no harm to try. “Please, bring him home God. Bring him back... to me.”

  Then she released the bird.

  SIR THOMAS STEELE STARED into the blazing fireplace and rubbed the back of his neck with his forefingers in a slow, rhythmic circle. Isabella, his late wife, had often remarked that he only did that when he forgot his name was Thomas and thought it was Atlas, the mythological god condemned to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Lately he found himself rubbing his neck often. He wasn’t only carrying the world’s problems; he was being crushed by them.

  “Tell me this, Greyson.” Thomas addressed his butler without turning around. “Love is a gift of God. Love is God.” He hesitated, trying to find the right way to voice his though
ts. “And yet... loving can hurt so much.”

  Greyson cleared his throat. “I have little experience with such matters, Your Lordship, as I am alone in this world. But I would venture to guess that it is the emotional risk that gives love its value. If the possibility of being hurt didn’t exist,” he paused, “then we would find little joy in the most meaningful moments of life. The law of pro and con, my father used to call it.”

  Thomas turned toward him with a heavy sigh.

  “Malcolm is out there now.” He gestured toward the large window at the far end of the study. “Shifting for himself, unwilling to accept how much I care for him. If he dies without reconciling...”

  Greyson tilted his head to one side. “Your Lordship remembers the story of the rebellious son... the prodigal?”

  “Of course.” Thomas eased into a plush divan and placed an elbow on its ornate mahogany trim. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about since Malcolm left.”

  “Then, forgive me my lord, but may I ask you a question?”

  “Go on.”

  “Which man are you? The prodigal or the father?”

  “Explain yourself.” Thomas’s brow furrowed.

  “I mean,” Greyson stepped forward, resting his thick fingers on an armchair across from him, “Are you the man who—in his own way—is running from the Father, or are you the man who is running toward his son?”

  Thomas didn’t reply and Greyson spoke again.

  “In my humble way of seeing things, it is easy to hide behind our prejudices, confident that we are righteous because we do not commit the more obvious sins. But there are only two main characters in that story: the one who sinned... and the Father who waited for him at the gate. Unless we are like the prodigal’s father—who ran toward his sinful son with open arms—we automatically become the prodigal himself, guilty of disobeying our heavenly Father’s will.”

  “If I recall correctly there was a brother in that parable.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship, but he also was rebuked for not sharing the father’s attitude. He proves my point. We are all either prodigals, wandering about in our own misery, or we are reflections of the Father, holding our arms out to those we love despite the pain they bring us.”

  Thomas steepled his fingers. “So... you’re saying that I was wrong to banish Malcolm.”

  “Did God expel Adam?”

  “Well, yes.” Thomas shifted in his seat. “Love causes us to make hard choices—you said that yourself.”

  “There are two sides to love, Your Lordship.”

  Thomas studied him carefully. Greyson had called him his lord but in truth, at this moment, it was his butler who was the real master in the room.

  “Greyson, you and I have known each other long enough to dispense with formalities in private. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes... Your Lordship.” Greyson’s lips twitched in a smile. Then he took the liberty of walking around the chair and sitting down across from his master. Thomas interpreted this as a sign that the man was about to suggest, in a tactful manner, that he change his approach in one way or another. Greyson always went out of his way to avoid making others feel patronized. Now, he spoke again. “God expelled Adam, yes, but what did Christ do on the cross?”

  “He... died.” The answer seemed obvious, but Thomas knew his servant well enough to understand that there was always a deeper meaning.

  “He died,” Greyson nodded, “but with his arms outstretched. He died reaching out to a world of prodigals who were guilty of rebelling against their Father’s love. His arms were stretched in an embrace, just like the prodigal’s father embraced his own son in the end.”

  Spreading his palms apart, he said, “Love made the Father expel us from his presence so that we could learn how empty life is without him. But love also compelled him to go after those who need it the most.”

  Greyson leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face.

  “You almost sound as if there’s a test coming; like you know something I don’t.” Thomas reached behind his head and began to rub his neck. “Are you saying that I should go after my son? That I should leave retirement and also go to war?”

  “Unless I am mistaken,” the corners of Greyson’s eyes crinkled, “the war will soon come to you.”

  A knock sounded on the other side of the door.

  “Enter!” Thomas frowned as his gaze shifted to a young footman who stepped inside the study.

  “Excuse me sir, but,” he avoided Thomas’s eyes, “a young woman has arrived. S-she wants to talk to you.”

  “A woman?” Thomas recoiled. “Unannounced in the dead of night?”

  The footman’s voice quavered. “Yes, um, well... it is highly irregular. I told her you were not to be disturbed but she refuses to leave unless she’s seen you.”

  “Well, does she have a name?”

  “She, um, refused to give one sir.”

  Thomas turned to Greyson. “What do you make of this?”

  The giant did not answer but rose to stand with head slightly bowed. “I will handle this,” he said to the footman. “Thank you.”

  Dipping his head, the young man backed out of the room.

  “Will you see her, my lord?” Greyson’s question was rhetorical and they both knew it.

  “It seems I have no choice,” Thomas said, rising. “I can’t have the servants gossiping about an unknown woman staying all night in my home, now can I? The only way to get her to leave is to see her myself. I’ll meet her at the grand staircase in just a few minutes.”

  “Very good.” With these words, his sagacious butler bowed and left Thomas alone, except for the thousand questions that whispered through his mind.

  LEILA’S STOMACH CHURNED as she waited at the base of a luxurious curved staircase that opened onto a wide landing only to branch off into two spacious passageways that were supported by a series of filigreed dark wood columns on the main floor. The steps were formed of white marble and the bowed railings that gracefully edged each side of the staircase matched the columns in both texture and color. It was the same staircase that she had descended a few months earlier when she and Malcolm had been expelled from Northshire.

  Perched atop a shoulder-height column at the base of the stairs was a mammoth eagle that fixated her with its wooden gaze. It was a smaller replica of a golden eagle that sat atop a marble pillar in the center of the cobblestone courtyard outside the main entrance. She placed her palm upon its gilded head, imagining that it would give her strength. Strength. She would need that.

  Her mind flitted through her plans. She had come to—to what? Beg Thomas’s forgiveness for loving his son? Never. Apologize for her part in an act of espionage that could kill his son? I’d be better off dead.

  Leila rested her forehead against the eagle’s beak and stared at the glistening white tiles beneath her feet. She would apologize for coming between father and son. That was it. Despite Thomas’s antiquated standards, she would swallow her pride and set the groundwork for Thomas to accept Malcolm if—when—he came back from the war. She owed her husband that much at least.

  Malcolm would never come back to her. Nothing short of a full confession could ever hope to earn his forgiveness and that was impossible. But he didn’t deserve to live the life of a vagabond when he could have wealth and power at his fingertips. That’s what he would’ve had, were it not for her.

  Lifting her head, Leila caught sight of her reflection in a mirror. At least Thomas won’t be able to complain about my appearance. She had taken extra pains to dress in a way that would please her saturnine father-in-law. Nothing would be gained by antagonizing him before she’d even opened her mouth.

  A brown woolen cap hung low around her ears, covering her mountain of blond hair. She wore no lipstick and her dark coat covered a somber brown shirt and matching skirt that swished around her ankles when she walked. She noticed that the top button of her shirt had come undone in the long trek from the village to the castle of Northshi
re and she quickly slipped it back into place.

  “I wondered what woman would be brazen enough to come unannounced to my home at night. I should have known that it could only be you.” Thomas’s voice, cold and distant, reached her from the main landing.

  Leila’s breath hung in her chest. Would he recognize her as Annabelle Durand, the maid from Hughes’s cleaning staff? Impossible. That woman had black hair, shuffled around in glasses and spoke with a Cockney accent. She was Leila Steele and she refused to be intimidated.

  “Good evening to you as well.” She folded her arms across her chest as she turned toward him. His eyes flashed, and she saw that her unspoken reprimand had hit home. Easy Leila.

  "Good evening." He bit off the words as though it took supreme effort to wish her well.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Leila pleated her fingers, holding her hands together in front of her. It would be best to start this conversation over.

  "Thank you for agreeing to see me." She took a few tentative steps toward him.

  Thomas remained immobile, glowering down at her from the main landing at the top of the stairs. Behind him, the immense portraits of his ancestors watched the unfolding scene with accusing eyes. She was on trial and they—the jury—already deemed her guilty. Guilty of tarnishing the family name. Guilty of wreaking havoc in Malcom’s life. Guilty of condemning him to a possible ignominious death on some unknown battlefield. And Thomas, the reticent father, was only too happy to be her judge. He probably wished he could be her executioner.

  "I had no choice." His unrelenting stare pinned her feet to the ground. "We hold high standards at Northshire. I can't allow the weed of gossip to sprout, now can I? "

  She bowed her head. "All the same, thank you."

  "What do you want?"

  Leila hesitated. Now that the moment had come, she didn’t know what to say. I want you to forgive me. No. Her pride could only bend so far. I want you to stop acting like an overbearing tyrant and allow your son to come home. Too blunt. Much too blunt. She had rehearsed every word of her speech during her walk from the village to the estate, but the fierceness of his gaze and the consequential nature of the moment dried up the words on her tongue.