A Name Unknown

by Roseanna M. White

  “Four hundred acres?” A few choice words came to her tongue at that, though she bit them back. But really, who could afford four hundred acres? When she could scarcely afford four hundred square feet a month in London?

  Then came the question she knew Peter would ask—was this proof enough that his family owned the property? That his father had willed it to him? Would it suffice in place of a deed?

  She knew nothing about that side of the legal system, but she suspected the answer was no. Still, she’d put the will aside for him. Unless, of course, it had something in it of interest to Mr. V.

  She kept reading. It mentioned Kensey and its property, which was no surprise. All his funds, which were not enumerated, presumably because he wouldn’t know, when he’d drawn up this will, exactly what his worth would total. But he had a few exceptions that gave her a clue. She counted no fewer than six chunks of thousand-plus pounds to be donated to various churches and charities.

  She turned the page and sucked in a breath. To my son, Peter, I also bequeath the bulk of our remaining possessions in Germany, including . . .

  Her eyes bulged as she read. Peter Holstein owned considerable acreage in Germany. It wasn’t just whatever his German cousin’s grandmother apparently rented. He owned another house—no, two houses, one in the country and one in Berlin. He owned majority stock in a German steel mill she’d never heard of.

  No wonder Kensey wasn’t large, as manors went. The Holsteins had by no means relinquished their roots in Germany. They were still there. They were still earning them money. They were still . . .

  Blast. Her eyes went blurry, though it was only because of the dust, nothing more.

  Sniffling, she shoved the will back into the envelope and thumbed quickly through the rest of the documents with it. Nothing about naturalization. Nothing that she’d have to decide whether to hide or to present to him.

  A decision she didn’t want to make.

  She had to get out of this stuffy, dusty, godforsaken attic before it suffocated her. She slapped the envelope onto the floor for easy finding next time and shoved the rest of the box back onto its shelf.

  Perhaps she was quiet on her way down or perhaps she was loud. She couldn’t rightly say. She only cared about getting out. Out into the fresh air and the warm sunshine. Out into the birdsong and the blue skies. She stomped through the gardens, over the lawn, onto the path that wound through the heather. Away from the wood, the Penroses’ property, toward the cliffs.

  The waves crashed on the shore as she reached the clifftops. The sun beat down, as furious as the waves. And the wind whipped her, ruining her hair but soothing her face.

  Blast it all. Blighted man. She had . . . she must have begun to think him innocent of these charges. Hand in hand with the thoughts that it didn’t matter if he were loyal to Germany was that deeper, more foundational thought—that Mr. V was simply wrong. Because loyalty to one’s country was a virtue, and Peter Holstein was swimming in virtues. Therefore, Peter Holstein was loyal to his country. That he was a British subject as he insisted, that she’d find evidence of it eventually. He was a man who loved his country.

  But he had two countries. What was that thing he himself had quoted to her in a letter two weeks ago? A Bible verse, though she couldn’t have said from where in that intimidatingly large book it came. Somewhere in the new part, where Jesus spoke, she was fairly sure. Because it had been Jesus—who, Peter had pointed out, was just a poor carpenter by trade, friends with fishermen—who said it. Where your treasure is, there your heart is also.

  Peter Holstein’s treasure was still more in Germany than England. His heart was therefore, by his own admission, in Germany too.

  She sank to the cliff top, the muscles in her legs soaking up the warmth of the rock on which she perched, her gaze traveling out to sea, past the gulls circling and shouting at one another. Somewhere on the other side of that sea, beyond the ocean that swallowed a quarter of the globe, was a whole other continent. Somewhere, beyond where those waters circled around to the other side of England, was the Continent, filled with countries people talked about on the tube as if they were neighbors.

  She’d never go to any of them. That was all right. She’d never felt a need to travel, had never been away from London until this job. But people like Peter Holstein kept that world at their fingertips—he could go anywhere and travel in style. He could afford a leisurely tour of the Continent or a transatlantic crossing on some luxury ship to see the Colonies. He could go anywhere, he could do anything.

  Her fingers flexed against the rock, found a pebble, and gripped it. She would find the evidence Mr. V wanted, she would give it to him . . . but he didn’t really need to have Holstein arrested, did he? It would serve no purpose to imprison him or . . . what did they do to traitors?

  What if they weren’t just going to arrest him? What if they meant to kill him? The world would be a poorer place without Peter Holstein. She swallowed, or tried to, and blinked. She hadn’t considered it when she accepted this job—that by doing it successfully, she could be sentencing a man to death.

  She was a thief, not a killer. Why hadn’t she thought more deeply about what she was signing up for?

  Peter had admitted it was a man called Jasper in London who was out to prove him German. But it had to be Mr. V behind it all, didn’t it? Or working with the culprit. If she found evidence that he was, in fact, an English subject, no doubt Mr. V would want that too. Perhaps he meant to destroy it, to destroy Peter no matter what.

  But who said she had to let him? She would just leave Peter with copies of anything she found. A letter when she left. A letter warning him to leave too.

  The breath she dragged in tasted of sunshine and salt and a pervasive loneliness, and she tossed the pebble out as far as she could, until it fell to oblivion. Just like the thoughts she hadn’t realized were hopes. The prayers that would amount to little more than vapor.

  He could go back to Germany or into hiding somewhere else. She would go back to London. And that would be that. Her duty done. And this bizarre friendship relegated to the place it surely belonged.

  Into nothingness.

  Peter wandered into the dining room on Monday morning, his brain still working over the problem he’d realized existed in his plot yesterday evening, his tongue longing for his morning coffee. By rote, he looked around the room for Rosemary or for evidence that she’d been there. None. The cups were all still stacked on the sideboard, the toast and porridge obviously untouched.

  She only ate breakfast one day out of three—and barely touched her luncheon those days she did. But he’d at least finally convinced her that when she did partake, she could do so in here. There was no point in Grammy making up a tray when Rosemary could just come in and help herself.

  Mrs. Teague had pressed her lips against her displeasure when he’d informed everyone of that. But at least she’d not given voice to it.

  He poured his coffee, selected his toast and some fruit. And wished Rosemary were in here now. Her perspective always helped him work through these dratted plot problems, even though she had no idea that was what they were discussing. He’d simply pose his questions as if they dealt with real issues—issues from the news, perhaps. And then just let her chatter.

  Her chatter never failed to make him see things in whole new ways. Which meant Locryn was having his horizons expanded in unexpected ways too, thanks to Rosita.

  Peter smiled, sipped his coffee, and reached for the newspaper waiting by his plate. The smile died the moment he opened it up. No smile could persist in the face of that headline. ARCHDUKE FERDINAND ASSASSINATED!

  The words nearly blurred as he read through the article and then read it again. He flipped through the rest of the paper too, though precious few other articles dealt with this earthquake.

  His world shook though, without question. He felt the tremors. And they brought him to his feet, breakfast forgotten.

  He was running by the time he reached the
library. Rosemary sat at her table, window open at her side and book open before her. Unperturbed.

  Not for long. “It’s the archduke.” He had to pause for a breath. “Archduke Ferdinand of . . . of Austria-Hungary. He’s been k-killed.”

  Her lips were moving through whatever German text she read. She held up a finger.

  Peter chuffed. “Did you . . . not hear me?”

  “Sorry.” She looked over at him. Frowned. “Not really. The arch-what who of where has been what?”

  At least she was listening now. He leaned onto the end of her table. “Ferdinand. Killed.”

  She blinked.

  He chuffed again. “Heir to the . . . the Austro-Hungarian throne!”

  “Oh.” She slipped a marker into her page, but her face was all wrong. It showed simple, distant sorrow, not panic. Not urgency. “Well, that’s sad, isn’t it? Wasn’t he the one who married that poor aristocrat, even though no one approved?”

  “Sophie . . . yes. She was . . . was with him. And killed as well.”

  Her sorrow deepened, but it was still far too simple. “That is sad. Their poor children.”

  Peter shook his head. “More like the . . . the poor world.”

  She graced him with that lifted-brow look of hers that questioned his sanity. “Was he that good a leader? Or that good a man?”

  “It’s not that.” Breath leaking out, he pulled out a chair and slumped into it. Maybe it was the writer in him who saw dominoes falling from this. Maybe it was nothing but imagination. Maybe, God willing, there would be a simple reckoning. “It was . . . was Bosnians. With the Black Hand.”

  Now her brows drew down in that way that said she was trying to remember when and where she’d heard the name. “I thought the Black Hand is . . . Serbian, isn’t it? It was mentioned in one of these books somewhere . . .” She shuffled the tomes, her pages of notes.

  He stilled her hand with his. “Yes. Serbian—the organization is. Austria has . . . has already issued a statement. That Serbia must . . . take responsibility.”

  The rest of her went still along with her fingers. “Do you think they will?”

  Did he? No, though he would pray it would happen. Pray the Austrian demands were reasonable. Pray the Serbs could appease them. But he shook his head.

  She reclaimed her hand and rubbed it over her temple. “What happens if they don’t?”

  “I can’t . . . say with certainty.” But he had his suspicions. The more powerful Serbia grew, the more impatient Austria-Hungary grew with her. Tensions had been rising in that region for decades. How much would it really take to set off a powder keg? “I fear . . . I fear Austria may declare war. On Serbia.”

  Rosemary winced. “But Austria-Hungary is allied now with Germany, aren’t they? Would that mean, do you think . . . ?”

  He nodded. “It could. But Serbia . . . Serbia is allied with . . . with Russia.”

  Now she saw the dominoes—the panic of them settled in her eyes. “And Russia has entered into an agreement with Britain. Britain with France.”

  “The T-Triple Entente.” That was what they were calling it. Not a military pact by any means, but the whole purpose of it was to pledge support against Germany. Peter closed his eyes briefly against the headache ready to pound.

  He needed to pray about all this. He needed to pray for wisdom, because he knew without a doubt that a letter would be arriving in the next few days from King George.

  This one wouldn’t be warning him about his potential lot—the king had already stepped out on a limb to do that. It wouldn’t ask him for advice—he was no military or political counselor. But it would ask him for prayers. It would ask him if he had any spiritual insight.

  Would that he’d have something to give beyond I pray this isn’t as bad as I fear it could be.

  He pushed back to his feet. “I need a . . . a walk. Interested?”

  She sighed and surveyed the mess of books on her table. “I should really stay here and buckle down. The shelves are finished, and though I haven’t found those journals, I could possibly piece something together from all this, as many pages as your father and grandfather have marked. Then there’s the attic—the journals could be there. Or those documents you need, at least. I need to search the attic.”

  It would all be there still in an hour though. “Please?”

  She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, stared at the books a minute more. Then stood with a sigh. “All right. But remember you’re the one who pulled me away from it, though by all accounts this research just got a bit more pressing, don’t you think?”

  He could manage only half a smile. Perhaps a quarter. Because while it was good to have a friend so dedicated to helping him protect his name, it was terrible that it needed such protection. “I’ll . . . help you. Read.”

  “Oh?” She shot a glance toward his study door. Closed.

  She had a point. He had a deadline. But there was no way he could write today. None. Perhaps, if he focused today on these fears and on giving them to the Lord, then creativity would whisper back tomorrow. He shrugged. “It’ll . . . keep. A day.”

  Most days, she would have gotten that sly smile on her face, would have asked, “What will keep?” Today she apparently knew he was incapable of jesting. She simply nodded and reached for something on another chair. Her hat—she didn’t usually wear it for the short walk to the house, but it was Monday after all. She’d go straight to the village after she was done.

  She put it on as she followed him to the door. Once in the hall, when he offered his arm, she tucked her hand into its spot in the crook of his elbow.

  A sniff echoed down the hall. He didn’t have to turn to know Mrs. Teague was there, and she was glaring at them. Well, at Rosemary.

  Rosemary didn’t turn either. Just rolled her eyes and called over her shoulder, “And you have a lovely morning too, Mrs. Teague!”

  Another day, he may have chuckled over it. Today he just led her toward the rear exit, into the garden. And through it, toward the trees. He needed towering trunks and limbs today, to remind him that there was Someone always over and above him. Then perhaps later, the wild expanse of ocean to remind him that he was just one small part of this world. That his country was just one small island. That all these men who thought they controlled the tides of nations were subject to the tides of nature, set in place by One far more powerful than any archduke or king.

  “Have you . . . have you had any luck? With my family . . . history?”

  She sighed. “I have established that both your father and grandfather had more than a passing acquaintance with England’s royal family. But the books don’t tell me why. Or why your father returned to Germany for his bride. And they certainly don’t mention Holstein citizenship.”

  And those were, of course, the crucial questions. “Their . . . journals. Have to be there . . . somewhere.”

  “Well, until we find them . . .” She looked up at him, her brow creased. “I did find your father’s will, in the attic. Though I doubt it would suffice.”

  He doubted it too, so said nothing.

  The breeze stirred as they put their feet to the wooded path. Peter pulled Rosemary to a halt. “Do you . . . do you smell that?” Cigarette smoke. Again.

  She waved it away. “I often do. Rather unpleasant compared to the scents of nature, I grant you.”

  “It’s not . . . not any of our people.” At this time of day he knew exactly where all his employees were—he could in fact look over his shoulder and see all the men not employed in the house in the paddock, exercising the horses, or there in the garden with Mr. Teague.

  It wasn’t one of his people. But whoever it was, they were out here—now. And close—the smell was a sharp sting rather than a faint brush.

  Rosemary frowned. “That bloke you pointed out in the village, do you think? The one in the bowler? I looked for him last Monday, but I didn’t see him. Does he smoke?”

  “I don’t . . . know.” He removed Rosemary’
s hand from his arm. “Stay . . . stay here.”

  “Oh, don’t be an idiot.” Rather than move behind, she pushed in front, turning into the wind, into the smell.

  A second later he heard a strange twang. And then her sharp, infuriated scream blistered him.

  Eighteen

  When she staggered back, Peter saw what had elicited the scream, though it took his befuddled brain a long moment to make sense of the lengthy, slender stick that seemed to have attached itself to her shoulder.

  An arrow. He was seeing the shaft of an arrow. She’d been shot. “Rosemary!” He reached to catch her as she stumbled into him, but her feet tangled with the roots. The only thing he could do was break her fall, make sure she eased down rather than crashing upon the thing and making it worse.

  She loosed another scream, but it didn’t sound simply pained. It sounded absolutely furious. “Come out and face us like a man, you coward!” Her fingers curled around the shaft—it was only then he noticed the fluttering white rectangle the thing had pinned to her body—and pulled.

  Pulled. As if she’d just yank the thing directly from her own shoulder. Which might be the right thing to do, but how were they to know? He’d never studied how to treat an arrow wound. It hadn’t ever seemed relevant. “S-Stop.” He covered her hand with his. The white crinkled under their hands.

  Paper.

  Crunch. Swish. They both looked up, but the figure beating a hasty retreat through the woods was nothing but dark pants and a white shirt and trees getting in the way. But dark hair—not the grey of Jasper’s man. Why did that make terrible dread curl up in his belly?

  Not Jasper’s man. Just like the fire. A local then, most likely.

  “Stop! Get back here, you blighted coward, and look me in the eye!” Rosemary struggled to stand.

  Peter held her down. “Don’t b-be an idiot!” And here he was calling a young woman, a friend, an idiot. His mother would box his ears. But it was a valid accusation just now.