A Name Unknown

by Roseanna M. White

  Grammy returned the smile, nodded, and patted Rosemary’s arm on her way by. Then left without another word. That was, apparently, all the goodwill Rosemary had earned.

  So be it. She would choose to believe that the woman would indeed say a prayer for Olivia, which was all she needed from her.

  Time to get to work. After sliding the note for Holstein under his door again, she decided to tackle first some of the heavy lifting she’d not had the energy for by the end of the day yesterday. She’d amassed stacks and stacks of books that needed to be moved out of the way, but at the moment they were still a haphazard jumble by the shelves, begging to be bumped and knocked over. Well, not today, thank you. Though the room still had a predawn spring chill, she shrugged out of her jacket, rolled up the sleeves of her shirtwaist, and prepared herself for some exertion.

  Since the stacks were a mess anyway, she needn’t worry with what order the tomes were in within them. She could load up her arms with those on the top, wind her way through the maze to the spot she’d designated for this subject, and just dump them on the top of a different stack. And when she forced herself to move at a quick pace, it soon resulted in a pleasant burn in her muscles and heat from within chasing away the cool of the room.

  “Here we are, dear.”

  She jumped at the voice but managed to keep from dropping her armload of books as Grammy bustled back in, a tray in hand. From it emanated the smell of tea. And something hot and sweet and yeasty. Rosemary deposited the books on top of their comrades. “Oh, you needn’t have, ma’am.” But the smell . . . it was a siren song.

  “Nonsense.” Grammy slid the tray onto the table without so much as a clatter of china. When she turned, her cheeks were flushed again. “I completely forgot your breakfast yesterday—I’m so sorry for that. My memory, sometimes . . . I didn’t realize it until I went back to get this for you.” Her smile was wavering, yet warm. She massaged the fingers of one hand with those of the other. “I hope you didn’t think it a slight. And in the future, should I forget anything, please just pop into the kitchen and tell me. You’re welcome in there any time, Miss Gresham. Any time.”

  “Thank you,” Rosemary whispered. The kindness nearly undid her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t even smile while Grammy stood there watching her, or she’d shatter.

  Perhaps the old woman knew that. With a nod and a sweet little smile, she showed herself out.

  Rosemary drew in a breath that bumped its way into her lungs and then moved over to the tray. Tea. Milk. Sugar. Some little bun thing gooey with icing and cinnamon that looked even more delectable than a hot cross bun. And a whole bowl of strawberries.

  She sank into a chair and let the tears come.

  The napkin tucked under the saucer on the tray volunteered itself as a handkerchief, which she put to use as she stirred delectable milk and precious sugar into the cup of steaming tea she poured from the small pot.

  She sipped, and she eyed the sugary bun. And she wished she could send one to little Liv at the hospital. And she sighed and looked to the corner of the room . . . and frowned.

  The boxes—they were missing. The ones she’d hauled into that corner first thing on her first day. Gone.

  Cup in hand, she got up to investigate, though they certainly hadn’t just gone on a promenade and left a trail of breadcrumbs in their wake. There was nothing there but a loudly empty spot where they’d been.

  Holstein must have gotten them out. He’d every right to do so—they were his correspondence after all. Maybe he’d decided they didn’t belong in the library.

  She stared at the wall, seeing that light aglow in the attic last night. Peter Holstein pacing the floor, a sheet of paper in hand.

  Blast it all. She was going to have to figure out a way to get up there and see what those letters contained, if he so wanted to hide them.

  Preferably during daylight hours.

  Peter finally stumbled from bed when morning was just about to give way to noon. He’d been up in the attic until nearly midnight, searching for his family’s naturalization documents or his father’s will. When that failed, he’d taken to reading through most of the letters from his readers. They represented the usual fare—much praise, ample criticism, and a few people who invited him to weddings and christenings and balls.

  Those always made him smile. He would never go, even if the world knew him as Branok Hollow. Such scenes always made him uneasy to a ridiculous degree. But it was nice to think that somewhere out there, beyond all the political adversaries and naysayers and villagers ready to destroy his home, there were people who considered him a friend.

  He’d stood up there in the sloping attic and thought too long about whether this was his answer. Whether, after proving to the world that he really was a British subject, he ought to legally change his name to Hollow and embrace the identity he’d already created for himself. Father and Opa would understand, wouldn’t they? After all, Opa had given up his homeland. Had moved here. He’d wanted to be an Englishman. Why would he mind if Peter made their name reflect it?

  But then all he could hear in his ears were Father’s words, spoken out of the blue one day after a trip to London. “All a man has is his name, son. The reputation we make with it. Whether it brings a smile or a frown, love or fear to those who hear it. All a man has is his name—that’s who he is before the Almighty.”

  Peter had come down to bed, wondering if he was his name. And which name. Wondering if, when he knelt before God, the Lord saw the stuttering fool or the novelist. The man who couldn’t make his neighbors like him, or the one who inspired adoring letters from complete strangers. Whether he was Peter or Branok, Holstein or Hollow, or some combination of the two.

  Whether he would ever be the man he’d created for himself.

  His ceiling had thrown his questions back at him. And the sheets had twisted them into new questions—less important but more easily answered ones. Questions of Locryn James’s past, his family, his questions of identity.

  He’d ended up down at his typewriter again, until the words had run dry and his eyes had been too heavy to hold open any longer at four o’clock.

  Peter shrugged into his clothes and glanced out the window, glad he employed no valet who would have tried to wake him at his normal hour. There was no way three hours of sleep would have been enough.

  Though to be sure, he’d regret his late night and later morning. He was in danger of missing his luncheon with Miss Gresham. And wouldn’t be anywhere near ready for bed again by his usual time to retire. These late-night writing sessions, when they struck, always fouled up his routine for days.

  But they were worth it. The pages had stacked up and up, and he was rather pleased with where the story was going.

  The sun was out today, more or less. The clouds were just white scuttling things passing before it and then running away. He could take a walk later. Through the heather toward the cliff, where he would see if there was a new collection of cigarette butts. Or through the wood. Perhaps to the Penroses for a visit.

  For now, to his study.

  He passed Kerensa on his way down, greeting her with a nod. He heard Grammy and Mrs. Teague’s voices as he turned down the hall but paid them no heed. Perhaps he’d ring for some coffee in a few minutes to fill the forty minutes until lunch. Or perhaps he’d just wait.

  His door opened with a greeting, and the light came on when he asked it to. His desk was more cluttered than ever after his frantic search for the answer to a research question at three in the morning. Peter grinned now to see it. He’d done good work last night. He hoped. He’d have to read through it again to be sure, of course.

  A white rectangle on the floor by the library door caught his eye. It was in nearly the exact same place as the note yesterday had been, though turned about thirty degrees. He scooped it up on his way to his desk and flipped it open as he sat, leaned back.

  He didn’t stay leaned back for long. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his desk and bro
ws knit more and more as he read. Her script degraded as it went down the page, but he could make out every heartrending word she’d written.

  He leapt from his chair, sped to the door, pulled it open. “M-Miss Gresham?”

  The library was a tomb. Silent books, a dozen unlit lamps. No librarian tromping from shelf to shelf. His gaze scanned the room, wondering if she’d stepped out.

  He spotted her at the table. Head on folded arms, eyes shut, shadows circling them, evident even through sleep. She looked terrible.

  The library, on the other hand, showed significant progress. He didn’t know when she’d arrived this morning, but it had to have been long before the nine o’clock they’d agreed on. And she must have been working with a proper fury.

  Understandable.

  Edging out of the room again, he closed the door with a soft click. Returned to his desk. Got out paper and a pen instead of his manuscript.

  The pen in his hand hovered over the paper without making a mark. What did one say to a woman in such obvious distress? He had limited experience with females. His mother had always been of a calm disposition, generous with her smiles but blessedly stingy with any display of negative emotion. The female staff certainly never came to him with tears or dismay. And Jenny . . . Gryff had told a few tales, of course. But Peter was never sure where reality stopped in them and exaggeration began.

  Well. The Lord was no respecter of gender, so Peter wouldn’t be either. He’d respond to her exactly as he would had this letter come from Gryff or King George or any other acquaintance. He whispered a prayer, as was his custom, for wisdom. And touched the pen to the page.

  First he prayed, there with iron gall and paper, for little Olivia. Gryff always thought it strange when he put a prayer down in a letter, but Peter thought better with a pen in his hand than with spoken words anyway. And when he wrote a prayer meant to be shared with someone else, then they could have no doubt he was actually praying as he’d said he would. To his mind, that meant something.

  He prayed for Olivia . . . and then he paused, looking at Miss Gresham’s words to him again. There was more there than desperation for her sister. There was a desperation to be heard. There, where she’d said, Perhaps God will listen to you. Silent but clear was the invisible because He never listens to me after it. She didn’t write those words—she didn’t have to. He saw them beneath the blur where a tear must have fallen, in the shaking, too-fast hand into which she had lapsed.

  And he ached. It wasn’t a fear that had ever possessed him, though heaven knew he had plenty of others. He had never doubted God heard him. The rest of the world—they were the ones who couldn’t make out his intent through his stammering tongue. But what must it feel like to doubt that basic truth? That God heard. God answered. God could be trusted.

  He drew in a long breath and bent over the page again. God will hear. He does not always answer in the way we want, but He always hears—and not just me. He hears anyone who comes to Him in humility. Anyone who is willing to let go the idea that they can fix it all on their own and instead submit to His will. That is when people see Him work. That is when miracles can happen. That is when lives are forever changed by His touch.

  More words poured out, until he’d filled the page. She probably had no desire to read all this. Gryff, if he saw it, would be ready yet again with that familiar quip: “If you want to deliver sermons, Pete, you should have joined the church.”

  As if he could ever stand behind a pulpit. No, he knew his path. And though he certainly never poured a whole sermon into his novels—that would hardly be right in an adventure story—the ideas still snuck in. Through the people Locryn met. The friends he made. In the wisdom he too-often ignored.

  But the readers got the message. Those letters in the attic assured him they did.

  Hopefully Miss Gresham would too, both through This Mad Caper and, perhaps, like this. After testing to make sure the ink had dried, he folded the page . . . and then sat there with his hand resting on it. Give her your peace, Lord. Your assurance. Awaken her heart to the truth of your love.

  He’d read that ache in her words too—she knew God was there. But she didn’t know He loved her.

  A knock came on the door to the hall. “Y-Yes?”

  Mrs. Teague peeked in. “Luncheon is ready, Mr. Holstein. But that girl is asleep on the job. Shall I wake her?”

  Peter sighed. “She has al—already put in . . . put in most of a d-day’s work. By the l-looks of it. Her sister is i-ill. She . . . she’s worried.”

  Mrs. Teague’s face didn’t soften much. “A ploy for affection, I’d wager. Grammy said she came in at the first crack of dawn. And now there are telegrams being delivered for her as if—”

  “T-Telegrams?” He shot to his feet. “Where? Did you . . . did you give it to her yet?”

  Lips pursed, the housekeeper pulled the familiar yellow paper from her pocket. “I would have, had she not been sleeping at the helm, as it were.”

  He had no words to convince Mrs. Teague to relax in her opinions of their guest. So he just held out his hand. “I . . . I’ll take it t-to her. I daresay . . . I daresay she’ll b-be happy to wake up . . . for this.”

  Mrs. Teague snorted. But handed over the sheet of paper.

  Perhaps if he ignored the attitude and continued to model a better one, she would relinquish her mysterious prejudice. With a nod, he turned back to the door to the library, knocking as he opened it solely so that it might rouse Miss Gresham.

  It apparently worked, or else their voices had done the job. She was even then pushing herself up, rubbing at the neck no doubt protesting her makeshift pillow. Her eyes, a clear brown with no spectacles to mask them, were fogged with disorientation. Until they latched upon that yellow paper in his hand. Then she sprang to her feet, gaze instantly alert.

  He held out the telegram, and she snatched it without a word of thanks. But with a little squeak that somehow sounded like one anyway.

  Had it been someone he knew better, he would have read the message over her shoulder. That hardly seemed appropriate now though, so he instead slipped back into his study to fetch the note he’d written.

  She didn’t even glance down at it as he set it on the table, but he could hardly blame her for that. She was reaching the end of the message—it must have been a rather long one or she’d read it twice—and she drew in a slow breath. Her nostrils flared.

  She didn’t look to be in danger of crying. She looked to be more in danger of throwing something. And there were far too many missiles handy.

  Peter cleared his throat. “Is she all . . . all right?”

  “No. She’s not all right. She has a broken leg, broken ribs, a concussion.”

  Injury, not illness. Her letter had assumed the opposite. Peter rested a hand on the back of the chair. “D-Did she . . . did she fall?”

  “With help, into the street. In front of a carriage.” Miss Gresham tossed the paper to the table and shoved away a few locks of hair that had slipped out during her nap. “A horse trampled her. She’s lucky to be alive.”

  Peter’s stomach went tight. “With h-help?”

  She picked up the book that had been beside her on the table, gripping it so tightly her knuckles went white. “Liv stumbled in front of a rich bloke. He kicked her out of his way. Into the street.”

  He would never understand some people, these everyday villains who saw only their own concerns. “Was he . . . was he held a-accountable?”

  Her snort said hardly. Her lips said nothing. She stomped to the corner of the room and slapped the book onto a stack.

  He had to wonder if it was the right stack or if she was just doing something to have something to do. “If you . . . if you need to go . . . your j-job here will . . . will be waiting when y-you . . . when you return.”

  She didn’t turn to face him again. Indeed, she turned more fully away. Her shoulders were still two blades against the crisp white of her shirtwaist. Her hair was a wreck, looking about to tu
mble down altogether. And the breath she drew in sounded about as steady as the last leaf of autumn clinging to a branch as a gale blew in. “Thank you, sir. But it’s best I stay.”

  He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it, and relaxed his fingers on the chair. No doubt her sister had a long convalescence ahead of her, and there would be bills from it all. They would need the income.

  But it wasn’t right. The man who’d kicked her ought to be responsible for these costs. Someone ought to find him and force him to do the right thing. To take responsibility for his actions. Someone ought to ram justice down his haughty throat.

  A sentiment more native to Locryn James than Peter Holstein . . . because Locryn wouldn’t hesitate to do the ramming.

  Peter would never. But there were quieter ways to see to things. He cleared his throat. “I believe it is . . . it is t-time for luncheon.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Holstein. I’m not really feeling up to it just now, and my questions will hold until later. Could we skip lunch?”

  He’d been hoping she would suggest it. “Of course. Later, then. And I . . . I will k-keep praying. For Olivia.”

  He turned and slipped back through the door connecting their spaces, closing it behind him. But he didn’t head to his desk and typewriter. He exited the room again into the hallway and hailed Mrs. Teague, who had quite obviously been listening at the library’s main doors.

  She didn’t look ashamed to be caught at it either. More put out at what she’d overheard. “I’ll have Kerensa put the second setting away then, shall I?”

  Guilt prickled at inconveniencing his staff—not that putting one place setting away was a terrible thing, but he’d been about to say he wouldn’t be taking luncheon either. Though really, he did need to eat. He might as well do so before he headed outside. With a nod, he put his greater plans on hold and went into the dining room.

  At least when he was alone, the meal was quick. He ate without paying much attention to what he put into his mouth, asked that his thanks and compliments be given to Grammy, and then beat a hasty retreat toward the front doors.