A Name Unknown

by Roseanna M. White

  That wouldn’t do. She turned from the window, straightened, and fastened her gaze on the shelves. They were ordered now, and she’d done a fine job of it, if she did say so herself. There was something rather alluring about that many books marching across the shelves in neat lines, their spines all ordered and even.

  Mostly even. She frowned as she viewed the books in the middle shelf of the third case. From this angle, they looked as if they stuck out farther than the books above and below, though they were all part of the same set. Matching spines, identical dimensions. Why then were they out a full half-inch more?

  Perhaps she’d left something behind them on the shelf? She pursed her lips and strode that direction. Pushed on the spines.

  Flush with the back of the bookcase. So why . . . ?

  It must be the back of the case itself that was uneven. But that made precious little sense. The whole unit was built as one, flush against the wall. Unless . . . unless.

  Her hands shook as she pulled the books off the shelf—careful to keep them in the correct order—and then ran her hands over the wooden back. It lined up perfectly, as all the others did. It surely didn’t have—

  It did. Her fingernails could just catch under the edge of the wood, though by rights it shouldn’t have been a separate panel back there. It should have been one with the rest of the backing. But it wasn’t. And as she prodded at it, that piece of wood popped easily, smoothly out.

  Her breath caught. She pulled the piece of wood away.

  The small door of a safe stared back at her. It had no combination, just a key hole. She would need the picks in the bottom of her bag—no, she wouldn’t. No need to pick what she had a key for. Her breath coming fast, she dashed to that low shelf, the one on which she’d sat a few miscellaneous items. The book on library organization. A few slips of paper that she’d have to give to Peter to file away somewhere. And that small silver key.

  A few seconds later, she found it to be a perfect fit. And a few seconds after that, she was staring at what Peter would call treasure. Two stacks of four journals, leather-bound and aging. Feeling a bit like Locryn James had when he pulled out that missing artifact from a hidden tomb in the Orient, Rosemary reached in and slid them out.

  She held answers in her hands. Though flipping them open made her excitement turn to exasperation. It was written in that gibberish—the same as those notes she’d found. What was it? And how was she to read it?

  She wasn’t. But in this case, she had reason to ask Peter to explain. Two of the journals clasped to her chest, she dashed to the door connecting their rooms and pounded upon it.

  When he didn’t answer straightaway, she knocked again. And again. Then gave up for a while and went back to the journals. Surely some of it was in English or German. Surely. But much as she searched the tomes, she found precious little she could interpret herself. A few words or sentences here and there.

  And time was ticking away. Back and forth she went, from door to table, until the clock on the mantel told her she had no more time to indulge him.

  Rosemary gave in to the urge to tap her foot. Just once, before it occurred to her that it was something Mrs. Teague would have done. She shifted the stack of leather-bound books to her other arm—the one that had been shot was mostly healed after two weeks, but it couldn’t quite hold the same weight as her good arm for long periods of time. And glanced at the clock.

  The Penroses would be here for dinner in twenty minutes. If Peter didn’t open that door soon . . .

  Her fingers rapped on the wood again, pounding.

  Still no blasted answer. Though there was no click-clack-ding coming from his study. Hadn’t been for the past hour, but would the man answer her? No. She’d think him not in there, if she hadn’t heard him sneeze two minutes ago.

  This time she slapped the door with her palm. “Peter Holstein! Open the blighted door!”

  Still no answer. Then a faint, “Quiet . . . please.”

  “Love to, but there’s no time. And you’ll want to see this.” A moment. Two. Tick. Tock. She slapped the door again. “Peter!”

  Nothing.

  A growl formed in her throat. “Peter, I am coming in, so if you need to hide any treasure maps or stolen relics or whatnot, I suggest you do so now. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.” She opened the door, half-expecting a landmine to explode when she stepped inside. Or at the very least, for something to be thrown at her.

  He didn’t even look up. He was at his desk, hunched in a way that was sure to put a crick in his neck, bent over a page of cream-colored stationery on his desk. Tapping his pen against it. “I don’t . . . I don’t know w-what to . . . to tell him.”

  She frowned. Not just because he could have opened the blasted door a blasted hour ago if he’d just been staring at a sheet of quarter-filled paper the whole time. But also because she’d scarcely heard him stutter in recent weeks. She eased into the room and slipped the journals onto the corner of his desk. “Who?”

  “King George.” He said it on a sigh. Shook his head. And folded up the piece of paper he’d been writing upon, slipping it then into his pocket. Finally he looked up at her. And scowled. “Did you come . . . come in without knocking?”

  “Do you exist on the same planet as the rest of mankind?” She motioned to the tall case clock in the corner. “I’ve been knocking for an hour. You’re going to be late for dinner if you don’t get up, and I have a surprise to show you before the Penroses arrive, if you can emerge from your own little world long enough to see it.”

  “Sorry.” Scowl erased, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his forehead. “What . . . is it?”

  She waved a hand at the journals. “See for yourself.”

  His eyes went wide. “Ah!” He reached for one of the books. “The . . . journals?”

  “The journals—though I can’t read a one of them. They seem to be in some sort of shorthand.”

  His brow furrowed as he paged through them. “This will take . . . take forever to decode.”

  Her heart sank—it must not be the same gibberish. But it had looked it to her eyes.

  His gaze latched on the clock. “Where did . . . the afternoon go? You should have . . . interrupted me sooner. We could . . . could be late.”

  Rosemary breathed a laugh. “Why didn’t I think of that, I wonder, and start knocking an hour ago?”

  He rounded the desk and paused beside her, resting the journal he’d picked up back on its brother. “Where were they?”

  She smiled. “Hidden behind a false back to a shelf.” She would have to put it to rights tomorrow.

  He wore a smile in his eyes, though his lips remained neutral. He motioned to the door. “Good work. I can’t . . . can’t wait to study them, but . . . it must wait, I suppose. We’d . . . better hurry if we don’t want . . . to be late. If you weren’t so . . . so oblivious to the time . . .” A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth now.

  Rosemary sent her gaze heavenward, exaggerated, and waved him on. “You go ahead. I need to make a quick note first.” She hefted the books again and scurried back into the library. She set these few journals beside the stack of others on her table and then turned back to his study.

  He’d gone already. But had left both his doors open, which generally meant that the room was due for a cleaning. Which she should have known when she saw that his desk was tidier than usual.

  Though he’d left the stack of stationery out upon it. Her gaze snagged on that, and her breath quickened. Messy as he was, he was always meticulous in the extreme about what he left out for eyes other than his own to see. She’d yet to catch any correspondence on his desk, or anything typewritten. Certainly she hadn’t a clue what King George had written to him to require a response that stymied him so.

  But he’d left the paper out. Or rather, hadn’t thought to move the piece he was writing upon off the stack beneath it. There would be imprints from his pen. Perhaps not strong enough to discern every w
ord, but there could be something of import there.

  After glancing at the door to make sure neither Peter nor Kerensa nor the ever-scowling Mrs. Teague lurked in the hallway, she slunk over, lifted the blank sheet off the stack, and then slipped back into the library, silent as a cat, just as the housekeeper’s heavy step entered the hallway.

  She didn’t dare do a rubbing here, where anyone could see her. But she had a pencil in the cottage. So she folded the sheet of paper and slid it into the novel she’d been carrying back and forth with her this week. She had only a chapter left and had thought to finish it today during a break, but hadn’t felt like reading. Which worked well enough for her now.

  No one so much as passed her as she rushed out of the manor house and nearly ran to the cottage, and no one would have thought anything of her hurry, given the time. To be sure, she had no idea how she would get ready before the Penroses arrived. But her primary purpose here wasn’t to enjoy dinner with the neighbors. It was to do her job as outlined by Mr. V.

  She told herself this every day. It didn’t calm that wiggle inside.

  The cottage was summer-warm and welcoming, the small kitchen smelling of the fruit Grammy must have sent over for her. Rosemary’s lips twitched. She’d asked for some four days ago. Apparently the cook had just remembered.

  Dumping The Poison Belt onto the table, Rosemary took the blank sheet from it and ran to the bedroom she’d been using as a makeshift study when doing any work over here. On the desk she had a variety of writing instruments, and she selected a pencil. Held it as much to the side as possible and rubbed.

  Words began to appear. Faint traces of white against the grey-black of the pencil. The date, the greeting. Dear George . . .

  George. She still couldn’t fathom simply writing to the king and using only his first name. She kept her strokes light and steady, and more words appeared.

  I have been praying for a fortnight for wisdom. For myself, so that I might give you whatever words you need—and deal with my own troubles, of course. But mostly for you, as you wait and weigh your decisions, which are by all accounts far larger than anything I could face. I know how difficult this is for you. Kaiser Wilhelm is family. I know you wish, as I do, that enmity could simply be avoided.

  But the world does not rotate around our wishes. In this world, there is always trouble. There is always war. There is always strife and tragedy and cruelty. You do not need me advising you on what political course to take, I know. And I would not know what to tell you on that score.

  What I can tell you, after these weeks of prayer, is this.

  Here the words ceased. Rosemary set down her pencil and frowned at the page. Apparently even after a fortnight of prayer, Peter hadn’t the words. Not that she would have either, but he didn’t usually suffer such a lack when it came to prayer. She highly doubted he agonized every night over what to write to her. But his prayers, scrawled in that familiar script, were always strangely right. And his insight, when he answered the questions she asked about this strange thing he called faith, always made perfect sense.

  She picked up the page, carrying it with her to her bedchamber. It would have to be included in her packet for Mr. V. She stored it with the other notes she’d accrued, in a slender folder under her mattress. And then pulled out the evening dress she’d decided on—another of Jenny’s old things, done over.

  Peter had used it as an example in one of his notes this week. That giving one’s life to God was very much like what she’d done with those dresses of Jenny’s. It was still the same fabric—still the same basic person. But just as she’d changed the shape and the drape and the seams, God remade the old man into a new one. But unlike the dress, which had no say, people had to choose to put themselves in God’s hands. He wouldn’t start snipping and sewing against their will.

  What he hadn’t asked, but which she’d read between his words anyway, was the question underlying his explanation: Did she trust Him enough to be fabric in His hands?

  She slipped the satin over her head and watched it drape her in the mirror. And was none too sure. “It’s nothing personal, God,” she whispered to the mysteries that lived beyond the looking glass. And then frowned at her reflection. “Maybe it is. If you’re really there, what’s your excuse, huh? What kind of Father leaves His children to the streets?”

  She shook her head, shook the questions away, and went to the dressing table to repin her hair. She hadn’t the time for any fancy arrangement. A simple chignon would have to suffice, though she added the beaded headband to dress it up a bit more.

  And that would have to do. She slipped her evening shoes on, opted for leaving her handbag since she was only going to the big house, and was back out the door.

  The Penrose automobile was already parked in the circle before the house, empty. And Peter was likely staring into that netherworld of his mind in his room upstairs, having forgotten again that his friends were coming, or perhaps he had given in to the allure of those journals and was poring over them instead of playing host. It would rest on her to entertain them until he shook himself from it, most likely. Not that the Penroses needed to be entertained, precisely. They were arguably more at home here than Rosemary would ever be.

  She found them in the drawing room—along with a feeling of rather amused guilt for false assumptions. Peter was there already too, head bent over papers that Penrose still held. The lawyer was pointing to something or another.

  Jenny stood at the window but wasn’t looking out it. She was frowning at the men. Usually she would be chiding them for focusing on work when it was time for relaxation. And indeed, she opened her mouth. But only said, “Are you quite sure you mean to do this, Peter?”

  Do this? Rosemary edged into the room, expecting to go unnoticed, so intent were they all upon whatever Penrose held.

  Jenny half-smiled a greeting though, and the men looked up too. Briefly.

  Peter’s jaw was set in firm lines. “As . . . as sure as I was s-six months ago. M-More.”

  Rosemary’s neck went tight. He was stuttering again. She wanted to ask what they were discussing, but it seemed unnecessary. So she just slid nearer to Jenny.

  Jenny’s face was pained. “It’s only that I want you to have options, just as your parents always did. Not that we’d ever want to see you use them, but if the actions against you here don’t let up . . .”

  “You th—think it would . . . would be b-better there?” Peter shook his head and took the papers from Penrose’s hand. “I am not . . . I am not German. I made my . . . my decision when I was eighteen. I am . . . English. I n-neither need nor . . . nor want this p-property. I just . . . I will not s-sell to just . . . anyone. My c-cousins are concerned. About potential . . . buyers.”

  Property. The German property? Rosemary sank onto a chair, scarcely even noting which one.

  Penrose pursed his lips. “I understand, old boy. You know I do—but you must also entertain the notion that your cousins are only looking out for their own best interest, not yours. Certainly not England’s. This other stockholder—AGD, apparently—has been up-front about their aims and has, you’ll see there on page two, made a most generous offer for your share of the stocks.”

  Peter’s nostrils flared. “That would give them . . . more than a c-controlling share. It would give them nine . . . ninety percent. N-No one else would have any say. My cousins . . . They could be ousted.”

  Sighing, Penrose leaned back against his seat. “But your cousins cannot pay fair market price for your shares, Peter. I know you want to be rid of these ties, I know you want to handle it responsibly—but it’s still business, and a business in high demand, as one of the only steel mills in Germany not already completely privately owned. You must make the decision based on numbers, not on emotion. Then you can do whatever you like with the money—give it all away, as you’ve been doing with the profits from it in any case. Fund another orphanage. Build another hospital. Whatever you like—but be smart.”

 
Pushing to his feet, Peter flipped the papers in his hand. She expected him to just pace with them. But his steps were more focused than meandering. He headed straight for her and passed her the first sheet while he looked at the second. “What do . . . what do you think, Rosemary?”

  For a moment she could only stare at it. He wasn’t objecting to her presence during the discussion but actually inviting her into it? “Oh. Well . . . I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”

  Penrose hooked an ankle over the opposite knee and waved a hand. “Peter still owns the family property in Germany, including two houses—one on a rather large plot of ground—and the pièce de résistance, controlling shares of a steel mill.”

  “He has wanted to sell them ever since he realized he owned them, when Aksel died.” Jenny’s smile was that of an indulgent sister. “But couldn’t find the paperwork.”

  At that Rosemary could hardly resist a snort of laughter. Or deny the relief that settled through her. “I am utterly shocked.”

  “Be nice.” Leaning against the back of her chair, Peter shuffled another page. “I found . . . found them eventually. As I will find . . . the ones for Kensey. And the naturalization documents.”

  “And it only took him three and a half years.” Penrose folded his arms over his chest. “At which point he asked me to assist him in divesting himself of the properties. But during the process, his cousins began telling him of another stockholder buying up shares, which they found quite concerning. Their fear, I believe, is that it’s a group aligned with one of the other combined business concerns—the Krupp Company or GHH—that means to incorporate their mill into another in the region and replace all current management with their own. I maintain, however, that this is nothing Peter needs to worry over.”

  “They are . . . entirely dependent upon it. What . . . what would they do if I . . . sold it out from . . . from under them? If they were forced out?”

  Gracious, but he was a good man. He had no business being so good—no one did. Did he never think of himself? Rosemary shook her head and read through the page he’d handed her, though it largely just summed up the situation. Then she answered Peter’s question. “Work for someone else, I should say.”