A Name Unknown

by Roseanna M. White

  “Oh, no need. I borrowed it when I left that note for you. Which . . .” Her frown pointed out the one tugging at his brows. “Apparently I should not have done—do forgive me, Mr. Holstein. I am accustomed to having many siblings running about borrowing from each other. It didn’t occur to me that you would mind if I fetched it myself, having granted your permission.”

  And he shouldn’t let it bother him.

  But it bothered him. He cleared his throat and, hopefully, his face. “It’s n-nothing. Did you . . . did you start it yet?”

  He had to chuckle at the way she wrinkled up her nose. “Started and deemed it not to my liking. I abandoned it a page in and perused the shelves in the cottage instead. I got a few chapters into This Mad Caper last night. By that Hollow fellow who won’t sign your copy for you.”

  “D-Did you?” His stomach went sick, his palms damp. He never really spoke of his stories with people who were currently reading them—there were so many books in the world to discuss, after all, why would those few titles come up when he was around? This was another reason he preferred a nom de plume. He could only imagine how much worse he would react if people knew they were talking about his book. He had no desire to know what anyone thought about it. Not when looking at them, instead of at a lovely sheet of paper and some flat ink that blunted their words. No, he would just as soon remain oblivious to Miss Gresham’s opinions. “W-What do you think of it?”

  Blast. Unruly tongue. Since when did it speak when he didn’t want it to?

  Miss Gresham laughed and eased another step toward the library door. “It’s a far cry better than smelly whalers, that’s for sure. I’ll give you my full opinion after I’ve finished. Have you Hollow’s other titles as well? I only spotted that one in the cottage, but there are so many books there. . . .”

  Better than smelly whalers . . . what high praise. Though better than Melville was a happy—albeit untrue—way to interpret the statement. “They are . . . they are all there.”

  “Excellent. I shall get back to work then, and let you get back to . . . whatever it is you type all the day long.”

  If she was waiting for an explanation, she would be waiting for a long time. Peter smiled, nodded, and turned to his door. On the small table he kept beside it, the day’s post had been piled. He gathered it all up—no fewer than a dozen letters to promise him company this evening—and slipped into his study.

  A white rectangle of folded paper caught his gaze when he entered. It was just this side of the door to the library, as if she had slipped it underneath. She must have done, before lunch. He clicked his main door shut, dropped the pile of letters into an unruly heap upon his desk, and headed toward it. Bent, picked it up, flipped it open.

  A thanks for the paper. And an apology for her anger yesterday. Again, things she could have just said over lunch. But if she wanted to write them instead, who was he to argue? And she’d signed it Rosemary again—he was to blame for that. He’d realized it when he’d scratched out the note to put with the stationery and had caught himself signing Peter to the bottom. He’d managed to stop himself at the start of that first e, but he knew well he hadn’t on his first note. She was just following his lead. Had probably thought him forward.

  Habit, that was all. But he’d try to watch himself.

  He tossed the paper, folded again, into the cacophony that was his desktop and rounded the desk, eyes already on the typewriter. But when he’d sat down and put his fingers on those lovely circular keys, his mind refused to conjure up images of Amazonian forests and James family secrets.

  Holstein family secrets bludgeoned him instead. Or von Roth ones, perhaps. He had always thought he knew perfectly well who his family was—he had looked into their eyes and felt the love they gave so freely. He had learned how to live, how to trust in God, at their knees. He had been told, ever since he could remember, that they had been blessed indeed to find a home in a land that valued the sort of freedom the German emperors—and specifically Chancellor von Bismarck—sacrificed for the sake of a unified, imperial Germany.

  Opa had moved here before von Bismarck was chancellor, when he was just minister president of Prussia, and the German states were a loose coalition rather than a nation. He had seen the direction the minister was taking the land, the power he was seizing. It had taken a decade before Opa’s predictions happened, before von Bismarck curtailed religious freedom and launched the so-called Kulturkampf—the “culture war” against faith. The Catholic faith specifically, but it had made Protestants rally around their Catholic brethren in a way that probably hadn’t been much done since Luther had led the Reformation in their land three hundred years before.

  Because when a leader declared one faith an enemy, others wouldn’t be far behind.

  Peter leaned back in his chair and tilted his head until the ceiling swam before him. Who had his grandfather been in his youth? What had shaped him into a man who would leave his country as he had done? His early years were during the reign of King Frederick Wilhelm IV—years of art and culture and romanticism. Years of galleries and cathedrals and zoos.

  Then came the revolution in 1848. Opa had still been a boy then. He would have remembered the uprisings more clearly than the arts.

  Peter rubbed at his eyes and leaned forward again. He couldn’t dwell now on the history of the Hapsburgs, on Germany and Prussia and Frankfurt Parliaments. He would leave those questions—or rather, the one of what in the world the Holsteins and von Roths had to do with any of it—for another day. A day when his library was in order, his family history laid out in a row of neat journals to be read, and answers could actually be found.

  For now, he must concentrate on Locryn James and the mysterious Rosita currently leading him through the jungles. He unlocked and opened his manuscript drawer, pulling out the last few pages so he could remind himself of where he’d been before family history derailed him.

  Rosita, with her bony shoulders and pretty smile—she needed something to charm Locryn, after all, if she was going to be an effective false-romance—had just led Locryn back to the safety of the village, after a close call with angry natives who had not taken kindly to their intrusion upon the sacred caves. Peter’s lips twitched up. He may wish he had ventured out into the world more than he had done, but all things considered, he didn’t regret never having poisoned darts aimed at his chest. Rocks through windows were, frankly, preferable. If one were going to have enemies.

  So Locryn and Rosita had just slipped into the tavern that her uncle owned—the one Locryn had first inquired at early that day as to where he might find this series of caves. Peter hadn’t realized when he wrote that earlier scene that the barkeep’s niece was listening, of course. Nor that she had taken it upon herself to follow him. But he did like where it was going.

  Especially now. His characters had just stepped back into the bustling room, filled with Spanish and smoke and the spice of the food being served. And Locryn had spotted Thomas. Who . . . what? What had Peter meant him to do? He’d had a perfect line of dialogue in mind before that incessant rapping had sounded upon his door, knocking it straight out of his head.

  It would come back. He inserted his last sheet of paper back into his typewriter. Lined it up. Drew in a deep breath.

  Stared.

  He couldn’t remember. And blast it, but they were perfect words, and he didn’t want to use something else now and then just have to retype the whole page later when they came back to him.

  He grabbed his pen and a blank sheet of paper—sometimes those old friends were all he needed to get the words flowing again. But when he put nib to sheet, only shapes came out, no words. Random geometrical . . .

  No, not random. Blast it all, he was drawing that silly symbol, the one on Mr. Jasper’s ring. With an impatient growl, he balled up the page and pushed to his feet.

  Grabbing the stack of post, he flipped through the envelopes while he paced. A walk outside would probably be better, but rain kissed his windows again
. It hardly mattered. A few minutes to let his brain work out the question would suffice. He had only to let it turn it over while he did something else.

  His hands paused when the royal seal caught his eye. It was awfully soon after leaving London for him to be getting a letter from the king or Prince Edward. They must have written it while he was packing his bags. Curiosity—no, dread—curled up in his stomach. He tossed the rest of the stack back down and tore open the envelope.

  The king. And that curled-up dread unfurled into full-fledged anxiety as he read the words.

  I should not be writing this to you—I do so only because I know your heart is loyal and detest the underhanded workings of Jasper. You know, surely, that the Home Office is already making plans for the eventuality of war with Germany—what they shall do here if that comes to pass. I have just been informed of this particular portion of their plan, and while I do not like it, I cannot argue with the general wisdom.

  Any German or Austrian male between 18 and 50 living in Britain will be relocated for the duration of a war against their homeland. You are a British subject, so this ought not to apply to you—but that duplicitous Jasper was making noise this morning, when he heard you were leaving Town, that you are not, in fact, a British subject. Something about being born in Germany? That your father maintained a dual citizenship, as did you? This does not align with what I know of your family, but I highly suggest you request the records of your family’s naturalization from the National Archives, Peter. In this current political climate, you may be called upon to prove you are English and not German. I suggest you have your evidence ready to do so—from the Archives, or perhaps find the copies they surely had there at Kensey Manor. Even the deed may suffice, as they could not have bought the place had they still been German citizens, not in those days. It should be easy for you to prove—and I pray you can do so. I will do what I can for you, but we both know the danger just now of me taking sides with anything the public would deem German.

  God keep you, my friend, better than I can do.

  Peter swallowed. Or tried to. His throat was too dry, too tight, just as his fingers were too tightly curled around the paper.

  George should not have written such things to him, to be sure. But he was in the king’s debt for it.

  Except that there was just enough truth to the accusation to mean trouble, if he couldn’t prove everything with neatly printed forms and documents. His parents had only wanted options to be available, if Germany were to change her direction. But she hadn’t, and they had all—every last one of them—chosen England as the better homeland. Had chosen it legally and officially, just as Peter himself had done.

  So there were records. Here. Somewhere. Naturalization documents. Or as the king had mentioned, the deed to Kensey. Their family’s tenure here had begun as a lease, to be sure, but Father had purchased it at some point. Peter knew he had, for otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to will the property to Peter, just the lease. So the deed must be about too.

  Blast it all. Where? In the library somewhere? Or with the other important family documents filed in the attic? He would have to check. And he would also write a request to the Archives for a copy of their copy of the records.

  Later. Tossing the crumpled paper onto his desk, he rubbed at his temples. He must put this all aside for now. He would write that letter and look for the documents later, when his poking around the library or attic wouldn’t stir up any questions with the staff.

  Right now he must concentrate on his story.

  Thomas. He must put himself back into the mind of Thomas, and he paced again to do so. Thomas had just been on that voyage home. He had received a telegram en route, saying his father had died and the estate, now his, was in fine condition. Thomas, feeling the urging of the Lord, had immediately debarked when his ship put in for coal and had found another ship back to his friend.

  Thomas had finally found the village where Locryn had gone, only to discover that his friend had headed out into the jungle. Alone. Armed but with a machete and one sidearm.

  Thomas was furious. Thomas was concerned. Thomas, when he saw Locryn with Rosita, was suspicious. Thomas was—ouch.

  Peter’s arms flew out when his foot collided with the box. But windmill as he might, he still tipped forward. Struck his knee on the side table beside which he’d foolishly dropped said box. Knocked off the old oil lamp sitting on said side table. Winced at its crash.

  Three . . . two . . . one . . .

  “Mr. Holstein! Are you all right?”

  The voice hammered at the door to the library, but at least the door stayed shut. He cleared his throat. “F-Fine. Thank . . . you.”

  A moment’s pause. “Can I help you with anything?”

  His gaze tracked to the typewriter, its paper still positioned under the type guide, the drawer still opened to the stack of finished pages. “No n-need.” He would just have to call for Mrs. Teague, that was all. For now he would pick up all the broken glass and be thankful it had landed on the wood floor and not the rug. Surely he had something in here somewhere with which he could sop up the oil.

  He did, in fact, find an old towel stored in a cabinet—Mrs. Teague would probably scold him for using it on lamp oil, but it seemed a good idea to get the stuff up as quickly as possible. He took care of the mess as best he could, wiped his hands on the part of the towel still relatively clean, and went to put his manuscript page—and the crumpled letter from the king—in their respective drawers with their friends.

  As he turned from his desk toward the bell, his gaze locked on the blamed box. The mail from Branok Hollow’s readers. He had thought it perfectly safe to leave the thing there, sealed as it was, until he had the time to go through it. But apparently he had underestimated his own clumsiness. Best to put it now with the others in the . . .

  “No. No, no, no.” He charged to the library door and flung it open.

  Miss Gresham spun, gripping the book in her hands like a weapon. Then chuffed out a breath to make Father proud. “Mr. Holstein!”

  He had the feeling he had narrowly avoided having that tome of Latin verbs fly at his head. “C-Could you . . . could you please fetch Mrs. Teague? Or Kerensa? I’ve a . . . a b-bit of a mess.”

  If he could just get Miss Gresham out of here long enough to make sure the boxes of other reader mail were secure . . . He should have moved them before. Should have remembered that they were the bottom two of the stack he’d told her yesterday not to bother with. Already she had touched them, had moved them to the corner. What if one had come open? What if she had seen all of those missives addressed to Mr. Hollow?

  She hadn’t. If she had, she would have sounded something other than off-handed as she mentioned This Mad Caper. She had just moved the boxes. As he’d instructed. She had done her job and left it at that.

  And he would make dashed sure that was all she had the chance to do too. If she found him out, if she blabbed it, if the press got hold of it—if Mr. Jasper did—he would be ruined. Aspersions would be cast from every direction, words he had written in innocence years ago would be said to be rooted in German ideals. Branok Hollow would never sell another manuscript.

  Miss Gresham nodded, set down the book, and hurried toward the door to the hall. No doubt she expected him to spin back around and try to minimize the mess he’d mentioned. Instead, he waited for her to clear the threshold and then scurried to the corner where she’d moved his correspondence.

  Really, he ought to move it all. He disliked the idea of anyone nosing through his letters from friends as much as he did the one of them discovering his nom de plume. He lifted the first two boxes from the stack and wove his way back to his door. For now, they would just have to sit in his study. He would move them to the attic later, after Miss Gresham had retired for the night. Heaven knew he needed to rummage about up there anyway.

  He thumped them down in the hall-side corner of his study, where no one was likely to spot them from either open door. Hurried ba
ck in for the others. He had just put the newest one into place on the top of the stack when he heard feminine voices coming down the hall.

  “I am so deeply sorry, Mrs. Teague.” Miss Gresham sounded about as sorry as Locryn James when he bested a villain. “Next time our employer asks a favor of me, I shall first drill him with a thousand questions so that I can answer them for you, rather than simply doing as I’m told.”

  Mrs. Teague’s voice was a low Cornish murmur. Peter didn’t catch it all, but the few words he did hear made him wince on Miss Gresham’s behalf.

  They came into view as they rounded the corner. Miss Gresham was wearing that sickeningly sweet grin again. “You know who you remind me of? I’ve just figured it out—my uncle Pauly’s wife.”

  Mrs. Teague’s face reddened. “I am not your aunt, missy.”

  “Neither is she.” Head high, as if she had just delivered the most abusive of insults, Miss Gresham sailed into the library. And took the liberty, a moment later, of slamming shut the door to his study.

  Peter greeted the housekeeper with a steady look.

  She pressed her lips together. “Don’t you be looking at me like that, Master Peter. That girl is trouble. Mark my words.”

  He just shook his head and indicated the mess he’d made. “I b-bumped the table. Broke the . . . the lamp.”

  Her lips pressed tight again when she spotted the oil-soaked towel, but she assured him she’d have it taken care of in just a minute and vanished again to retrieve a dustbin.

  Peter was left to rub a hand over his face. To look out his window at the foggy, dreary day. And to wonder if his life would ever be put to rights again.

  Rosemary slipped into the cottage and reached for the light switch, breathing a sigh of relief as golden light spilled into the room. Dinner with Holstein hadn’t been as bad as she had feared, but she hadn’t much relished walking back here in the dark again. And it was a darkness she’d never experienced in the city, with all its streetlights and lamps in windows. This dark was thick and corporeal, so whole she knew no lantern could possibly dispel it.