Until We Find Home

by Cathy Gohlke

  Claire was at last ready to give up her fancy and return too. But as she turned, she saw on the tree from which the bird took flight another sign—another board awkwardly nailed to its trunk.

  She stepped closer, parting the tangle of wild vines wound round the tree. The words, painted in the familiar childish script, had long faded, but were still legible: Christopher’s Secret Place—KEEP OUT—THAT MEANS YOU.

  Claire’s breath caught. The moment was like walking over her cousin’s grave again. She glanced round as if afraid of being caught breaching the sign’s security. Silly, she thought, knowing she was the only one in the walled garden.

  Just above the sign hung an old rope, thick and pinned to the tree by more wisteria vines. It took all of Claire’s strength to yank it free. It appeared to be tied from the lowest sturdy limb—barely eight feet off the ground. Knotted every ten inches to a foot, the rope appeared intended for climbing. She walked round the tree and looked up. Just above the sturdy limb was another board, smaller and more evenly nailed, and another above that. The tree’s leaves had shed enough to see that much, but no more. What more could there be? Her curiosity was too great to let her walk away.

  Claire glanced over her shoulder once more and pulled with all her weight on the rope. Despite its apparent age, it didn’t seem the worse for wear—certainly not frayed or likely to break. She hiked her skirt into her belt and slipped her aunt’s loaned Wellingtons from her feet.

  Thankful she’d worn thick and double socks for her trudging, she climbed the rope, one challenging knot at a time. Claire grunted from the effort. Her strength was not in her arms.

  When she reached the second board, she discovered more, leading high into the tree. She pulled the vines to the side and climbed, the going easier. Just above the wisteria canopy, the tree’s branches thrust open—far and wide to all points of the compass. In that great, thick neck between the tree’s head and shoulders and multitudinous arms sat a lean-to—a wide, flat board overhanging thick branches, creating a sturdy floor to sit upon. Overhead, another board, placed across higher branches, sheltered the occupant from rain.

  Claire climbed onto the board, astonished by such a find. She leaned against the thick tree trunk. From her hidden perch she peeked between the branches, and nearly the entire estate—the grand house, the maze of gardens and outbuildings, the topiaries in the front—spread before her.

  From her perch she realized that the topiaries, though not chessmen, had been laid out like figures on a chessboard. How clever! How ingenious! It was something she’d never have known had she not climbed so high and found her aerial view.

  A person could be truly alone here, with her thoughts. She could think things and write things that no one would ever know. The idea surprised her—surprised her that she’d thought it, as if it was something she desired.

  This must have been my cousin’s favorite place as a boy—his hidden, secret cove. She wondered if he’d come here as a grown man. She’d no idea how long it took wisteria vines to grow, to pin such a rope to a tree, but she imagined it had been many years since anyone had climbed to the nest.

  Claire sat on the board until the sun lowered itself in the sky. Convinced it must be past time for tea, she gave her bird’s-eye view one more search and reluctantly climbed down, careful to cover each of the footboards and tuck the knotted rope into the vine as high as she could reach. She covered Christopher’s handwritten sign and pulled a bit of brush back onto the path she’d plowed in getting to the tree.

  Exactly why she did this, she couldn’t say. No one knew it was here.

  But she wanted to save this place. She didn’t want the children, as much as she wished Bluebell Wood to be their home for the war’s duration, to know about it, to desecrate it. It belonged to Christopher, and now it belongs to me. Claire gasped at her own presumption, but it fit, and was precisely what she meant.

  Chapter Eleven

  NOVEMBER BROUGHT STARK TREES, thunderous skies, and ever more chill and pelting rain to Bluebell Wood.

  Life seemed gray enough to Miranda without adding the news that the Germans had nearly flattened beautiful Coventry in nonstop bombing raids. More than 550 people lay dead, 1,200 injured, more left homeless, and their magnificent old cathedral all but obliterated.

  Closer to home was the one-year anniversary of Christopher’s death. All that day Miranda kept to her room, kept the blackout curtains drawn, and refused to eat.

  She sent word, asking that Claire and Mrs. Newsome handle the children from dawn to dusk. Every member of the household walked on tiptoe, including Gaston and Josef, respecting the terrible grief of Lady Langford for her son and mourning, with Mrs. Newsome and Mrs. Creedle, the decimation of their beloved Coventry.

  But when the dark night passed, Miranda washed her face and sleepless eyes, packed away her mourning garments, and brought out a deep-green dress, seamed and belted, if a little loose. It wasn’t so much that the year had turned over on itself, that the time of mourning had officially ended. What did Miranda care for conventions such as that? It was more that the anniversary marked a turning of her heart.

  Sitting in front of her dressing table, she closed her eyes. She imagined for a moment that Christopher stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder, saying, “It’s all right, Mother. The children here need you. It’s time.”

  Twin tears escaped the corners of her eyes as she reached for the hand upon her shoulder, but the precious grasp wasn’t there. Miranda swiped at the rivulets on her cheeks and blew her nose. A moment later she caressed an old and favorite gold brooch at her neck, given her by her late husband, then stood, smoothing her skirt. Five minutes later she astonished her new and makeshift family at breakfast.

  “Praise God,” Mrs. Newsome whispered, barely able to hold on to the bowl of porridge she carried to the sideboard.

  “What’s that, Mrs. Newsome?” Miranda asked, taking her seat.

  “I said you look lovely, my lady. Somehow, that color makes the horrible war news and even our rationing of everything from bacon to butter more bearable.” Mrs. Newsome bent to check the milk pitcher on the sideboard. “Thank heaven for our faithful cow and Mr. Dunnagan here to milk her.”

  “What would we do without either of them?”

  “I’ve no idea, my lady. With all these children, the milk, the cream, and the extra butter make for blessing beyond blessings.”

  “We do have much to be thankful for, don’t we, Mrs. Newsome?” Miranda smiled tentatively.

  “That we do.” Mrs. Newsome’s kindly face bolstered Miranda’s courage.

  “Green is my favorite color,” Gaston announced, breaking the awkwardness as no one could.

  “I’m very glad it is,” Miranda approved. “It was my son’s favorite color too.”

  A hush fell across the table, one Miranda had not intended. She looked to Mrs. Newsome for support.

  “We’ve a guest coming soon, I believe you said, my lady—an American, is it?”

  “Yes.” Miranda had nearly forgotten, though she was astonished she could do so when David Campbell’s plans had raised such unexpected ire in Raibeart MacDonald. She realized now she should have known. Nearly two hundred and fifty years was clearly not enough time to erase the Scottish feud or the stench of the massacring Campbell clan from the nostrils of the unsuspecting MacDonalds.

  “An American?” Claire dropped her spoon.

  Miranda smoothed her napkin over her lap. Now was as good a time as any to make the announcement. “Mr. David Campbell, from West Virginia, though lately from Edinburgh. He’s an engineer of sorts and has some war work to do in the area for a time.”

  “He’s staying? As in, he’s going to live here?” Claire’s astonishment was reflected in the faces of the children.

  “For the time being,” Miranda conceded. “He needs a billet. The request came from the War Office, so I really can’t refuse.”

  “Aren’t we full up?”

  Claire’s impertinence anno
yed Miranda. Bluebell Wood wasn’t her niece’s house, though she’d certainly started a parade of her own guests traipsing through.

  “We don’t know how long he’ll be with us, but we’ll all work to make him welcome.” She looked pointedly at Claire. “It will be good to have one of our countrymen among us.”

  After breakfast, Claire cornered her in the hallway. “He’s coming here because no one else will take him.”

  “We Americans are not tremendously popular among the British at the moment. You’ve experienced that in the village, surely.”

  “Bringing another American here won’t help. We’ve just settled the German kids in school; the village is angry enough about that. Can’t he stay somewhere else?”

  “I rather think that’s why I was asked to take him. Well, not exactly ‘asked.’ I thought you’d be glad of a fellow Yank for company.”

  “It’s not helpful—in the village or here. The children are just getting adjusted to one another. Things will change now that Mr. Roosevelt’s been reelected. He’ll push to enter the war; I’m sure of it. But we ought not rub the village noses the wrong way now,” Claire challenged as if her concerns were all political. What lay at the heart of her niece’s outburst, Miranda couldn’t imagine, but she had no time and little patience for Claire’s behavior.

  “I hope Mr. Roosevelt does come to Britain’s aid. But that’s not our affair. Hospitality in this situation is, and I expect you to be a gracious host.” Miranda prayed they all would, if only she could keep David Campbell and Raibeart MacDonald from killing one another.

  Four days later, Mrs. Newsome vowed that of all times for Mrs. Creedle and Nancy to fall ill, this was the worst. It was already six fifteen. Despite her own splitting headache, she hurried up the stairs to Claire’s room and rapped on the door. At least it’s a Thursday and not much going on until after tea.

  A sleepy “Yes?” responded.

  “It’s Mrs. Newsome, Miss Claire. I need your help. May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Mrs. Newsome didn’t give Claire a chance to sit up or wipe the sleep from her eyes. “I’m sorry to call you so early, but we’re in desperate straits. Mrs. Creedle and Nancy have both come down with influenza in the night. I’ve been nursing them back and forth since the wee hours, and a right mess it is, too.”

  “Oh no. Does Aunt Miranda know? Have you telephoned Dr. MacDonald?”

  “Yes, on both counts. It seems it’s spreading through the village like brush fire.”

  “That means we’re all at risk.”

  “That it does, and we’re without cook or kitchen help. Even Mollie’s looking poorly; she may not be far behind. You understand what this means.”

  “It means we must be very careful not to spread germs.”

  “It means you and I are the last defense against starvation for a household of hungry youngsters. Do you know how to cook, Miss Claire?”

  “Cook?” Claire looked as bewildered as Mrs. Newsome feared she might.

  “Can you prepare anything at all?”

  “I—I made pancakes once.”

  “That will have to do for luncheon, then. Perhaps you can fry up some rashers to round it out. I’ll get together some porridge and toast and coffee for breakfast. You wake the children and see that they’re dressed and downstairs for eight.”

  “All of them?”

  Mrs. Newsome thought she might collapse from weariness. “You’ll have to get Bertram and Peter to carry up some coal and stoke the heaters. Josef and Gaston can fetch firewood for the library—it’s a damp day; we might as well have the extra heat. It won’t hurt them to help and they’re certainly strong enough. I don’t know why we’ve not had them help more before.” She was nearly out the door, leaving a wide-eyed Claire, when she stopped. “If Aimee has that rabbit hidden amongst her bedsheets, you’ll need to put them to soak, no doubt, and insist she take it outdoors to feed it.”

  “A rabbit in her bed?”

  “You didn’t know? She’s been sleeping with it ever since our trip to Mrs. Heelis’s.” That Claire knew so little of the child annoyed Mrs. Newsome more than she could say. “Have the girls lay the table . . . and tell them to be quick about it—please.” Mrs. Newsome closed the door behind her, exhausted, but with a satisfaction she hadn’t known before. They should all be helping. We’re not a house as we were before the war; we’re a makeshift family. Well, we should makeshift the work and share it, too. I’ll speak to Lady Miranda about that as soon as things settle down. In the meantime, I suppose we’ll all see what we’re made of.

  It was one thing to tuck children into bed at night, but Claire had never overseen their morning washing and dressing. Even through those first dark days in the Beardsleys’ attic, Mrs. Beardsley had done that with the pleasure of a storybook grandmother.

  Claire knew nothing of tearful children who accused her of heartlessness while clinging to frightened rabbits who’d messed the bed. Her mother had never allowed a pet in the house, let alone one intended for food. Heaven help us all the day Mrs. Creedle serves rabbit pie!

  And Claire had never cooked a meal for a crowd. The pancakes she’d made—once—were enough for her mother and her; they’d come out soggy, a fact she’d failed to share with Mrs. Newsome. Even in Paris, Josephine had cooked every meal in their flat. Claire had washed the dishes, pots, and pans, but that was the extent of her housekeeping knowledge.

  Midway through the morning, Aunt Miranda excused Claire from lessons with the children. “I’ll take charge here now. You’ll want to familiarize yourself with the kitchen, Claire, and make sure you have whatever you need for the meal. Mrs. Newsome said Mrs. Creedle wasn’t able to do her normal shopping yesterday. I suppose she was already feeling poorly but didn’t realize what she was coming down with.”

  Claire made her way downstairs and stood in the midst of Mrs. Creedle’s vast and spotless kitchen. She knew enough of Mrs. Creedle to know she dared not create a disturbance or smudge she couldn’t erase before that lady’s return to duty. Let it be soon!

  “This is a project,” Claire said aloud to the kitchen, bolstering her confidence. “I must look at this as a great adventure . . . a wartime assignment.” She plopped a canister of flour on the worktable and removed the lid, pulled a bowl of fresh eggs from the pantry, no matter that Mrs. Creedle had insisted they should be carefully rationed, and laid out the rashers Mrs. Newsome had told her to use. What to do next, Claire wasn’t entirely certain, but she squared her shoulders. “I’ll not be intimidated by pancakes. I won’t.”

  At that moment Aimee’s brown rabbit, Mr. Cottontail, tore through the silent kitchen, so close to Claire’s feet that she screamed and jumped, knocking the canister of flour from the table and covering her skirt, her shoes, and the spotless kitchen floor in a thick layer of powdery snow.

  Twenty minutes later Claire had retrieved what she dared and swept the rest of the precious but useless flour into the waste bin. She opened a new flour sack, Mrs. Creedle’s predicted tirade ringing in her head: “Wasteful! Wasteful!”

  There was no time to mop the floor. Claire’s floury footprints accompanied her every move.

  At long last she covered sizzling rashers in a skillet heavy enough to rival cannons. She whisked eggs as she’d seen Mrs. Beardsley do, pulling bits of shell away. She knew the lady had added salt and pepper, perhaps even a little milk?

  Claire couldn’t remember the recipe for pancakes, and Mrs. Creedle apparently worked without a book or recipe file of any sort, so she guessed. “Eggs, milk, flour, salt, maybe some baking powder and soda and butter . . . What more could there be?” Claire had no idea, so she dumped all that together and mixed it up.

  She heated another skillet, ladling the hefty batter in dollops, hoping the puddles would expand and do what they must to look like thin pancakes. But they expanded very little, and bubbled to a height Claire knew no pancake should, then fell like rocks. What had she done wrong? The clock ticked ever closer to no
on. Luncheon could not be late or the children would miss school. Having them all home the full day loomed worse than one questionable meal. Claire cooked the eggs to a rubber shine.

  “Mademoiselle?” Jeanine, Marlene, and Ingrid appeared in the kitchen doorway, their mouths open wide.

  Claire looked up, trying to see what they saw, what it was that they tried so hard to hide in their faces. Her apron was covered in flour and smears of batter; the flour on the swept floor still looked like marble dust. Claire squared her shoulders once more, trying to appear as if she had everything under control.

  “Madame Newsome sent us to carry the meal upstairs,” Jeanine offered.

  “Well then, just as soon as I dish up the eggs, we’ll be ready.”

  Ingrid sniffed. “What is that strange smell?”

  Marlene elbowed her.

  “The bacon!” Claire grabbed a tea towel, wrapped the skillet handle, and pulled the blistering pan from the stove onto the wooden worktable. She yanked off the lid. Black smoke billowed to the ceiling.

  “Ohhhh,” all three girls lamented.

  “It’s just a little over-browned, a little well done,” Claire affirmed. “It will be all right. Everything will be all right.”

  The girls glanced at one another as if they didn’t believe her.

  “Stop standing there! Jeanine, carry up the pancakes,” Claire sputtered, pushing damp hairs from her forehead. “Ingrid, take the eggs. Marlene, carry that tray with butter and marmalade. I’ll see if I can find some honey or syrup.”

  “What about the milk, the tea?” The girls looked around the room.

  Claire’s heart stopped. She’d forgotten to put the kettle on or bring Mr. Dunnagan’s new milk jug in from the cooler. “We’re not drinking with our meal today.”

  “Nein?” Ingrid gaped in disbelief.

  “No, it’s common with this meal. Now, go along. I’ll bring the meat platter when I come.” Claire waited until the girls left to address the burned rashers. A pound and a half of ruined meat! What will Mrs. Newsome say? What will Aunt Miranda say? Claire swiped a tear of frustration from her eye. Well, they shouldn’t have had me do it. I know nothing about cooking.