A Name Unknown

by Roseanna M. White

She pulled out the one she’d just reread yesterday and fell into the armchair while she flipped it open. While her gaze found so easily the words Peter had written for her after the Tim and Betty incident.

  Sometimes the price of our faith is the loss of esteem. I’ve always known that—now, it seems, the world is proving it. Jesus tells us that if we follow Him, it may cost us our family. Our friends. Turn brothers and parents against us. But some things are worth the sacrifice. My Lord is one of those things.

  Perhaps my neighbors will never like or respect me. But I’ll do what He asks anyway. Because to do any less would mean I’m not really His follower. And if I’m not His follower . . . I’m nothing.

  My father once told me that all a man has is his name. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, as you can well imagine. And I’ve realized . . . I’ve realized there’s only one name that matters. And it’s Christian. Christ-follower. If I am that, then I am all I need to be. And if I’m not . . . then all the respect of all the men in all the world will avail me nothing.

  She touched a finger to the words and let her gaze wander, unseeing, over the room. She didn’t know Jesus like Peter did. She was no Christ-follower. But she knew He ate with sinners and hung on a cross beside a robber, and He promised that thief Paradise. She knew He forgave, if one asked Him to do so.

  All He seemed to ask in return was that one repent. That one change. That one go and sin no more.

  She let her eyes slide shut again. If Willa was right, that was an impossible request. And just now, it felt it.

  Twenty-Two

  Three days, by his estimation. Three more days of solid writing and Peter could finish his manuscript. It would need to be reread, parts of it no doubt retyped as he corrected and changed. But still. He was within sight of the finish line.

  But he was looking now—not at his typewriter or his growing stack of completed pages or the dwindling stack of fresh sheets of paper—at the table in the library, completely covered with books, all opened to marked pages.

  It was going to take all day. All day, and perhaps then some, to go through it all.

  He chuffed. “Can’t you just . . . just summarize it for me?”

  Rosemary didn’t even look over at him as she added one more book to the table. “If you like.”

  Come to think of it, she hadn’t looked at him all morning. Not when she came in to the dining room for a cup of tea. Not when she’d asked him if today was good for him to look over her findings. Not when he’d entered.

  She had that stiff look about her. And circles under her eyes again like he hadn’t seen since that first week after Olivia’s accident. She wore a dress in a green that usually put roses in her cheeks, the one with the lacy under-layer in a cream that perfectly set off her skin.

  “I’m . . . only teasing. I want . . . I want to go through it all.”

  She still didn’t look at him. “Very well. Sit down then, Mr. Holstein.”

  Mr. Holstein? She hadn’t called him that in weeks, not since the arrow had struck her. He’d been Peter, just as she’d been Rosemary.

  He reached out when she would have breezed past him for another book, and caught her hand. Mrs. Teague had told him that Willa had stormed off yesterday, valise in hand, but Rosemary hadn’t returned to the house. He’d given her space, figured she’d tell him what had happened when she was ready.

  But maybe he should have sought her out last evening. “Rosemary. Are you all right?”

  For a moment she was a statue, still and stony. Then she let out a breath, and her shoulders relaxed from their blades, and she almost, nearly, looked at him. “Just a bit of a squabble with Willa, that’s all. Nothing unusual. We fight as often as we don’t. Sisters, you know.”

  “Not . . . not really. Never had any. Just Gryff.”

  Her lips quirked up. “I’m going to tell him you likened him to a sister.”

  Peter chuckled and tugged her closer. “Sit. You look . . . tired.”

  “I spent most of the night searching the attic. For those documents you need.” She let out a long, defeated breath. “Nothing, thus far. But they’re there somewhere, the journals said they were. I’ll find them for you.”

  She would, he had no doubt of that. Though they should have organized their efforts, for he’d been going through the attic as well. They could have been looking through all the same boxes, for all he knew.

  Or . . . what if she’d found where he’d hidden the letters from his readers? Could that be why she wouldn’t meet his eye?

  He waited for the panic, the fear to strike—it didn’t. Instead . . . instead he almost, strangely hoped she had found them. That his secret was secret no longer from her.

  He cleared his throat. “Did you . . . did you find anything of interest?”

  She offered a tired, halfhearted smile. “Only that you write to far too many people.”

  “Hmm.” He nudged her into a chair. It was for the best. If he were ever to tell her who he really was, then he should tell her, not let a bunch of letters do it for him. “I’ll get the . . . the rest of the books.”

  It took only a moment to grab the remaining volumes she’d had sitting before the neat stacks. Though when he turned back to the table with books in hand, she was poring over one already.

  “We’ve already established the Holsteins have long had a firm connection to the Saxe-Coburgs—ever since, apparently, your grandfather came here with dire predictions about von Bismarck. He shared them with Queen Victoria, and that appears to have been the start of generations of friendship. I think today we need to begin with your mother’s side. The von Roths had a few surprises up their sleeves.”

  He slid the books onto the edge of the table and took the chair beside hers. Maybe it was just the late night in his attic that had painted such circles under her eyes. Or maybe it was something more. “What did you . . . you and your sister squabble about?”

  Usually he wouldn’t have asked. But it was Rosemary, and she was obviously upset.

  She tapped a finger to the book in front of her. “Your maternal grandfather wasn’t so quiet in his life as your mother apparently made it seem. He was, in fact, often traveling with a rather interesting contingent of high-class blokes.”

  His lips twitched. High-class and blokes weren’t usually put together. “Did I . . . did I offend her somehow?” He wouldn’t put it past himself—he seemed able to offend half the country by merely existing.

  Rosemary flipped the page. “You remember that I asked you whether your maternal grandfather’s second wife—the Russian—knew the Duchess of Edinburgh?” She pulled another tome forward. This one was in English. “Well, she did, without question.”

  The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh were part of the English royal family—the duke was a prince by birth, King George’s uncle. The duchess, a Russian princess. Perhaps she had known Peter’s own step-grandmother from school or some such? A strange coincidence. “Willa seemed . . . a bit put out that I knew about . . . about Olivia.”

  Rosemary cleared her throat. “Did you know that the duke spent much of his time in Malta and Coburg?”

  Well, that only made sense. The Saxe-Coburg family obviously had ties to Coburg. “I’m sorry if . . . if I upset her. By asking after Olivia.”

  Sighing, Rosemary finally looked at him. “It isn’t your fault, Peter. You were being you—thoughtful and considerate and all other things polite and good. We fought because we fight. Because she’s afraid that I’m growing spoiled by your lovely house and unending generosity, and she wouldn’t believe me when I assured her I’m not. But she’ll see, won’t she, when I go home. It’s nothing.”

  Nothing? It felt like an arrow through his middle, with a white page fluttering from the shaft, proclaiming him alone.

  Of course she would go home though. She had family. He, of all people, could appreciate that.

  She turned back to the pages. “Right. Coburg. The thing with Coburg is . . .”

  “Can’t you stay?”
Blast. That wasn’t exactly an eloquent—nor thoughtful—request. He flushed when she looked over at him so quickly, as if hearing something in the words beyond the short ones he’d spoken. And why shouldn’t she? A gentleman didn’t just go making such requests. He cleared his throat. “I mean . . . ah, drat.” He tried for a grin. “You know I . . . I detest change. I’ve only just got . . . got used to you.”

  Her smile was exactly like Rosita’s. Slow and warm and charming. “Your library is neat as a pin now, Peter.”

  His grin went crooked. “I could mess it up again in . . . in a blink.”

  Now she laughed, tilting her head back with it, exposing her slender neck where it peeked from the cream lace. “That you could. In half a blink.”

  “It’s . . . a talent.”

  “And you are the master of it. Even so.” She leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table. “I’ve got your library organized. Found the journals for you. I’ll find those documents before I go, I swear it. But that’s all I can do.”

  “All right.” It wasn’t, but what was he supposed to do? Maybe . . . maybe he should have let her find those boxes of reader mail. Maybe, somehow, it would make him grow in her eyes. Make her want to stay a little longer to help him with his stories. Maybe she would decide she couldn’t well let Jasper and his man and whatever villagers hated him ruin all he’d worked for.

  Maybe he should just tell her. Tell her he needed her. Tell her why.

  He leaned forward too and reached in front of her to tap her page. “Coburg.”

  “Coburg.” She looked at him rather than at the book. “The von Roths had a house there.”

  He hadn’t known that . . . had he? But they had taken that one trip to Malta and Coburg when he was a boy. To visit Mother’s family. “Is this . . . significant?”

  “Rather.” She reached for another book, one in the center of the table, and pulled it forward, setting it on top of the others. It was open to a photograph.

  Mother. He recognized her right away, though she was young in the photo—perhaps fourteen or fifteen. His gaze traced the familiar features, too long unseen. He could see a bit of himself in her, here and there. And he could see her. The gracious, loving woman one couldn’t know without adoring.

  It took him a minute to realize there were other figures of note in the picture as well, including a little girl on her knee who bore more of a resemblance to the dark-haired people in the photo than to Mother’s fair family. He had to read the caption to identify those. And sucked in a breath when he did. “The Duke of Ed . . . Edinburgh.”

  “And his wife and children, ‘on holiday with friends in Coburg.’”

  “Friends.” Through this second wife of his grandfather’s, who had known the duchess. Mother’s half-siblings—all a great deal younger than her—were in the photo too, and looked to be of similar ages to the children of the duke and duchess.

  But studying the picture didn’t answer the questions. “So M-Mother knew the . . . the royal family?”

  “That branch of it, it seems. This is where it gets interesting. Where we answer a few of the real questions.” She pulled forward one of Father’s journals. “If I’m reading this right—and you’ll want to double-check my translation of this gibberish—your father didn’t go back to Germany for his wife at all. He met her in Scotland.”

  “Scotland.” They’d never mentioned that, neither of them. They’d never mentioned anything about how they met. “How?”

  She tapped the photo with the Edinburghs again. “The von Roths were on holiday with the duke’s family. Your father was on holiday with King Edward’s.”

  Peter had to sit back. Yes, he knew Father had an acquaintance with the late king—but enough of one to holiday with him? “To . . . to Scotland?”

  “Exactly. They met there. In Scotland. With the royals.”

  Peter sat back in his chair, trying to remember anything Mother had said about her stepmother. They had gotten along well enough, he knew. But Mother had never felt particularly close to her. Perhaps because she was already eight when her father remarried, and her new stepmother was soon doting on her own children. And, apparently, still seeking the company of her old friends.

  But why would Mother have always claimed the von Roths lived a quiet country life?

  “That makes sense with all she said, doesn’t it? It wasn’t the von Roths with any connection to anyone, really. It was her stepmother.” Rosemary sifted through her notes.

  Peter pulled another book forward when another photograph caught his eye. “This is . . . is George.”

  “Mm.” Apparently abandoning whatever search she’d been on, Rosemary tapped the photograph. “With Princess Marie—eldest daughter of the duke and duchess. Who happens to be the little one on your mother’s knee in that other photo. All grown up.”

  Peter hummed as he studied the image of his friend. George was young in it, and in naval uniform. Peter hadn’t known him in those days, of course, having been only a boy. But that was before George had married Mary, when Victoria was still queen and ruling with an iron fist.

  “You probably know this history too, but I didn’t. He wanted to marry her—George and Marie. He proposed even, the books say, and she turned him down. Because her mother told her she ought. The duchess always resented being below the Princess of Wales—George’s mother—in status.”

  Politics, even within family. Peter shook his head. “It’s . . . it’s hard to imagine. George and Mary are . . . are completely devoted to each other.”

  “Well, according to this one”—she indicated another book—“George’s mother was none too keen on that other match either, claiming, and I quote . . .” She picked up a sheet of paper and cleared her throat. “‘The Edinburgh family was too closely aligned with Germany.’”

  “Interesting.”

  “Not as interesting as it’s about to be.” She shuffled a few books and came up with another of Father’s journals. But then went silent. So silent that he had to look up, had to meet her clear brown eyes, had to wonder why she said nothing.

  For one moment dread possessed him. Until he remembered that she couldn’t have found evidence of loyalty to Germany—she couldn’t have found that, because they weren’t loyal to Germany.

  She moistened her lips and leaned just a bit closer. “There’s more to this than their loyalty, Peter. Much more.”

  Silence had been walking with them for the last half a mile, and today Rosemary found she appreciated its company. Silence was a lot like a sibling, she’d decided—sometimes you didn’t want it hanging about, getting in the way. And other times it was the best companion imaginable.

  Her hand was warm in the crook of Peter’s elbow, and the rest of her was warm simply because the summer sun beat down upon her. She glanced up at his noble-looking profile and wondered, not for the first time in the last half mile, what wheels were turning in that who-cared-if-it-was-handsome head of his.

  They rounded a bend, and the village came into view. With it came a long sigh from Peter. “No one would . . . would believe it.”

  It was a bit hard to believe, at that. But the evidence had all been there. Evidence that Peter was the third generation of Holstein men to claim a friendship with the British monarchy. That the relationship the Holsteins had forged with Victoria and then Edward to warn them of von Bismarck’s politics had been what had introduced Aksel to his wife. And that that connection with the Edinburgh side of the family—the Edinburghs, who were far “too chummy” with the German rulers, as Aksel’s journal had put it—had led the aging Queen Victoria to ask a strange favor of them.

  It had been there, in detail. The records of his parents’ trip to Malta. Receipts, even, from the hotel at which they’d stayed while there—the very same week that George had been there, proposing to his cousin, the daughter of the Edinburghs.

  Peter had been there too, in Malta. While his mother called on the girl she’d once bounced upon her knee and read bedtime stories to, an
d set about convincing her to listen to her mother rather than her heart. To refuse to marry the cousin she loved.

  To keep the man third in line to the English throne from a marriage that would have meant a stronger alliance with Germany.

  Critics would scoff and ask why they went to such trouble, when George hadn’t even been the heir at the time—his elder brother had yet lived. His father had yet lived, and Victoria still reigned. Why bother with him?

  It was, Aksel had written, a matter of thoroughness. Neither Victoria nor her son wanted the royal house to enter into a stronger alliance with Germany. And if by chance George’s older brother died—which he had—and left George the heir . . .

  At the time, George’s older brother had been betrothed to Mary. When he’d died of pneumonia in 1892, she and George had begun to write to each other, to try to get each other through the grief. They’d fallen in love. And she had already been fully approved by the queen. And had no ties to von Bismarck’s Germany.

  And now King George, who once looked up to Aksel—never realizing he and his wife had helped prevent the marriage to his first love—sought the advice of Peter. Even though Peter hadn’t quite known why.

  Peter sighed. “Do you think that . . . that’s why he first in—invited me to tea? Because he . . . he expected me to be like Father?”

  Rosemary looped her other hand around his arm too. “Probably. At first. But it’s no reason for him to have continued to do so. You’re his friend, Peter.”

  Peter sighed again. A chuff this time. “I’m no . . . no political advisor.”

  “No. Thank heavens.” She laughed at the sharp look he sent her. “Well, that would be utterly boring, Peter Holstein. I know you say your father and grandfather were quite interesting, but I’m suddenly doubting you now. Knowing they did talk so much about politics.”

  His smile was fleeting, and his gaze was soon back on the ever-growing village. “But they . . . they didn’t. Not t-to me.”

  She rubbed her hand over his arm. His father, she suspected, would chide himself if he knew he was making his son stutter. Even though in the final journal, Aksel’s reasons for his silence were clear.