by Cathy Gohlke
What do you know about?
Claire had no idea where that thought came from. If it was God—if He was really there—then His timing was bad. She couldn’t have felt worse than she did. Claire bit her lip and speared the burned meat onto a platter with a vengeance. It’s a little extra chewy today; that’s what I’ll tell them. American bacon cooked like this is called crispy. This is the British version of crispy. She sighed. She doubted even the children would fall for that. She knew her aunt and Mrs. Newsome would not.
Claire wiped her hands on the ruined tea towel, untied her apron, and smoothed her hair as best she could. The clock struck twelve. “It’s now or never,” she said aloud and, hefting the platter, headed for the stairs.
Miranda didn’t know how she could have misunderstood Mr. Campbell. He’d said his train should arrive in Windermere in time for him to make dinner at Bluebell Wood on Thursday, November 21. She’d been certain that meant the evening meal. But as he was standing in the foyer before her, she remembered the American Southerners she’d known in her youth. Many of them spoke of their noon meal as dinner and their evening meal as supper, a holdover from days gone by. She prayed that whatever Claire was preparing would pleasantly astonish them all.
“Mr. Campbell, we’re delighted you’re here, but must ask your indulgence. We’re a little at sixes and sevens at the moment, you see.”
“Oh? Is my arrival inconvenient?” He set his cases to the side of the stairway.
“No, not at all. Of course we were expecting you. But our cook and her assistant are unwell today, and we’re rather more short-staffed than usual. As a matter of fact, my niece has stepped into the kitchen to prepare luncheon.”
“That’s fantastic!” Mr. Campbell smiled, not the least bit discerning of Miranda’s worries. “You said your niece is American, so this is her day, after all.”
She smiled, not sure what he meant, but hoping it would be wonderful. The looks on Jeanine’s and Ingrid’s faces as she’d passed them carrying covered platters and bowls to the dining room looked more frozen than anything. She’d heard no gong or bell but supposed Claire might not think of that, handling so many new things on her own.
She took Mr. Campbell’s coat and laid it across the banister. “We’ll show you to your room after luncheon. With things as they are, I need to make certain your room is ready.”
“You’ll find me very adaptable, Lady Langford. I appreciate your taking me on—or in, as the case is.”
Miranda relaxed a little. She’d forgotten how easygoing young American men could be. “We’ll go through, shall we? I’m sure luncheon won’t be long.” She thought she’d best prepare him. Even if the children were on their best behavior, they were an unusual lot. “Adaptable is precisely what we require, as you’ll soon see. I think I mentioned to you that we’ve taken in a number of refugees. Five of our charges are German children, three of whom arrived on an earlier Kindertransport and two smuggled into the country more recently. Five more are French Jewish children my niece rescued just before the invasion—quite an adventurous story.”
“Admirable indeed—my curiosity grows. I’ll be happy to help, in my spare time, in any way I can.”
From the peals of laughter and ungentlemanly snorts coming from the dining room, Miranda was afraid his admiration was mislaid. She laughed. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Before she could open the door, she heard Claire’s shrill command of “Put down that rasher now—before I thrash you with it!”
Opening the door didn’t help. The children were seated—barely—at the long table, poorly set, while Josef gleefully shot what appeared to be strips of blackened shoe leather across the table toward Gaston, who batted them back with the energy of a grouse-shooting bush beater. Elise and Ingrid twirled stiff, round discs from their forks and giggled uncontrollably.
“Did you hear me?” Claire’s voice reverberated from the corners as she shook a threatening serving spoon in midair. Wide-eyed and pale, Aimee crawled beneath the table.
Miranda coughed as she entered the room. Peter and Bertram stood immediately, each doing his best to harness his younger brother. Jeanine pulled Elise’s hair, sending up a yowl until she turned to meet Miranda’s eye. Aimee peeked over the table’s edge.
Miranda realized that Claire, her back to the door, mistakenly took the calm to mean that the children respected or at least feared her. “That’s better. Now you’ll all sit in your seats and eat this meal, and you will like it!”
“Claire,” Miranda whispered, mortified.
But Mr. Campbell clapped. “Hear, hear! Lady Langford, I applaud you. You’re lucky to have a sergeant major at the helm of this unruly lot.”
Claire, her face still livid, whirled to meet her aunt’s frown and the deep-brown twinkle of David Campbell’s eyes. Miranda saw the connection in a flash and knew those eyes and that grin were her niece’s undoing. For that she was grateful. Claire sank dumbstruck into her chair.
Miranda knew she must deal with the disruption and its cause sometime, but for now she chose to rise above it and focus on their newest member. Perhaps she could salvage something of her own dignity, if not her niece’s. “Claire, and children, I would like you to meet Mr. Campbell. He comes to us from Edinburgh most recently, and from the United States before that.”
“Like you and Fräulein Claire,” Josef enthused.
Miranda smiled. “Yes, like Fräulein Claire and me.”
“Bonjour!” Gaston bowed, clearly not to be outdone by Josef. “Welcome to our table.”
“Well, bonjour,” Mr. Campbell intoned in a truly Southern Appalachian accent, “and I thank you. I’m pleased to join such grand company.”
Miranda sighed. “You’re very kind and gracious, Mr. Campbell.”
“Please call me David.”
“Monsieur David,” Gaston offered.
“All right then, children, you have permission. Let’s have our prayer, and while we eat you may each introduce yourself to Mr. David.”
“May I offer thanks on our behalf, Lady Langford?” David Campbell seemed not a mite perturbed.
“Please, and thank you very much.” Miranda could not be more relieved.
“Shall we bow our heads? Dear heavenly Father, we come before You with joy and great thanksgiving for this feast lovingly prepared, for this company gratefully gathered, and with deep appreciation for our safety in the year that is past. It’s been a hard year for most of us in one way or another, and we know that the days ahead are likely to test our mettle, to test the strength of our character as well as the safety of our families. We stand ready to do and be what You will, by your grace and strength, Father. We know we can’t do it alone. We need each other, and most of all we need You. On this Thanksgiving Day, we remember those who have gone before and the strong examples they set in forging a new life in a new land. We ask for that strength and that fortitude now. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen.”
The silence around the table belied the presence of ten children. Miranda wasn’t sure whether it was awe for David’s prayer or discomfort on the part of the Jewish children that he so clearly called upon Christ Jesus in faith.
She could not believe she hadn’t realized the day. She glanced at Claire and one look told her that it had not occurred to her niece, either.
“Happy Thanksgiving.” David smiled at her.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Miranda replied.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Miss Claire,” he said.
Claire looked too upset to respond. Even so, the children took up the enthusiastic chant.
“Is this the meal you always celebrate for your Thanksgiving Day in America?” Josef wanted to know as he tapped the table with his solid pancake.
Miranda saw that Claire was ready to burst into tears. “Not every family celebrates in the same way, Josef. Now, please, eat your lunch and, beginning with Jeanine, stand and share your name with Mr. Campbell.”
“Oui, madame.”
&nb
sp; The children stood with respect to make their introductions. David Campbell seemed genuinely interested. When the introductions came round to Claire, Miranda wondered if she’d need to speak for her niece, but Claire surprised her again.
“I apologize for the scene you witnessed when you arrived, Mr. Campbell.”
“Call me David, please.”
Claire nodded. “And I’m Claire. Cooking is not my—my normal—”
“No, I understand you are a rescuer of children, something I greatly admire. Lady Langford explained you are short-staffed at the moment. If you’ll allow me, I can help out by roasting a few sausages over an open fire. I can even whip up a pot of Scottish porridge or a hearty fish chowder—a bit of Cullen skink, if you like. What I can’t do is come close to claiming the important thing, the lifesaving thing you’ve already done.”
Miranda was as speechless as Claire, and the children turned to view Claire with new respect.
“It is true, Monsieur David. Mademoiselle Claire saved us from the Germans. She has been most brave.” Jeanine wrapped her arm around her sister beside her. “I do not know what would have become of us had she not.”
Silence followed, interrupted shortly by the ringing of the telephone in the hallway. Claire, her face already flushed, jumped up. “I’ll get it.”
Miranda thought that the best exit possible. While Claire was out of the room, Aimee whispered, “I don’t think I can eat this, madame.”
Miranda nodded. “No, it’s all right, Aimee. We’ll have something hearty for an early tea. You children may prepare for school now. We’ll—”
But Claire burst in before Miranda could finish. “That was Dr. MacDonald. He said the influenza is everywhere in the village. The school’s been closed for the remainder of the month to help stop the spread.”
Miranda thought she might faint.
Chapter Twelve
AIMEE WENT TO BED happy that night, despite Mademoiselle Claire’s insistence that Mr. Cottontail sleep outside. Tonight, all Aimee’s thoughts were of Monsieur David. She considered Monsieur David a most beautiful man—nearly as beautiful as her father. A man of great understanding and appreciation for lovely things . . . like her sweet rabbit. He’d understood completely when she had introduced him to her furry Mr. Cottontail and whispered that the bunny slept with her. Of course, she’d told him, he must keep her secret; she could only slip him upstairs after Mademoiselle Claire thought her fast asleep. Mr. Dunnagan was her cohort and had agreed to leave the bunny in the mudroom. Mademoiselle Claire did not approve of bunnies in bed.
Monsieur David had crossed his heart, promising that he would never tell, and confided that he’d had just such a bunny when he was a boy. It was his best friend.
Aimee pulled the mezuzah from beneath her mattress as she did every night, kissed it, and rubbed the familiar lines of its engraving with her thumb. She turned over and sighed in great contentment. Monsieur David was a man that Maman and Papa would approve. Perhaps, if he would wait until she grew up, Aimee would marry him . . . if she didn’t marry Papa or Dr. MacDonald first.
Not only had David Campbell brought order to their miserable luncheon table, he’d helped with arithmetic lessons all afternoon, much to the delight of each of the children he’d worked with. He’d stepped in and organized the older boys to whip together a heavy tea of fish chowder and grilled cheese bread, satisfying even Mr. Dunnagan’s voracious appetite.
But Claire discovered his most astonishing accomplishment after she’d tucked Aimee into bed and come down the stairs. She had heard of hamboning but had never seen it performed until now. The older children sat in a horseshoe, delighted and mesmerized by his rhythmic knee and body slapping while stomping to Appalachian mountain music sung in a high, lonesome tenor, sometimes through long nasal tones and interspersed with yodels.
“He could be our Alpine yodler!” Peter laughed.
“He is our Alpine yodler!” Josef crowed.
“Non! Non! He dances with the joy of the French!” Bertram asserted.
“Joie de vivre!” Gaston cheered.
Claire edged closer to her aunt and whispered, “He’s a one-man circus!”
Aunt Miranda laughed. “He’s a godsend.”
Claire looked at her aunt. She wasn’t eyeing David as she might a prospective suitor. He was too young for that—more Claire’s own age. She was embarrassed now that she’d pictured some middle-aged American who would be smitten with Aunt Miranda’s beauty and wealth—and she possessed both in spades—leaving Claire abandoned yet again.
It was good to see her aunt laugh. It was good to see the children laugh. It was amazing to feel that urge bubble up within herself. And yet, how could she? Merriment felt disloyal to Arnaud—not knowing where he was, if he was alive. It was disloyal, wasn’t it?
After the children said their good-nights and had been tucked into bed, Aunt Miranda invited David and Claire into the library for a drink, something Claire and her aunt had never done. Claire hesitated, tempted to refuse. Even a small glass of wine reminded her of her mother’s addiction, though she would never say that.
“I think it’s only appropriate that we offer you a toast, David. You’ve put in a full day’s work that I’m sure you never bargained for—one surely more taxing than engineering. We can’t thank you enough. You’ve brought joy and order to our chaos, and we’ve not even shown you your room.”
David laughed. Claire found the creases by the corners of his eyes most attractive, a thing as disturbing as the wine. “It was my pleasure. I don’t know when I’ve had such a good time. Not since the war started, that’s certain. They’re a great bunch of kids.”
“They are,” Claire agreed, then sobered, closing her eyes. “I can’t believe we didn’t realize that today is Thanksgiving. It never even occurred to me. I must be turning into a real Brit.”
David’s smile faded a little. “Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday back home when I was their age. I guess it’s a thoroughly American holiday . . . no British version here.”
“Not precisely,” Aunt Miranda agreed, “although there are harvest celebrations and days of thanksgiving offered through the church. I remember as a child in New Jersey we’d celebrate with turkey and cranberry sauce and my mother’s apple and pumpkin pies.”
“I remember those recipes.” Claire was glad for the family connection with her aunt. “Mother always said they were Grandmother’s, though it was our cook who made them.”
Aunt Miranda nodded, a little wistfully, Claire thought. To change the subject, Claire asked David, “What traditions does your family keep for Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, it’s been quite some years since I’ve lived in America. That’s why I’m here now. I’ve been living in Scotland with my uncle since I was a boy—first school and then work. But I remember, before my dad passed, that we’d go around the table, and he’d ask everybody what we were most thankful for.”
Aunt Miranda stared into her wineglass. Claire swallowed, not certain how to respond to that.
“Maybe we can do that now,” David continued. “I’ll start. I’m thankful to be here, to be with Americans again and new friends while I do the work I’m assigned. And I’m thankful to find myself in a house full of young people. That’s quite a change for me.” He grinned. Claire thought she’d never seen such white teeth or such deep dimples in a man’s cheeks. “It’s an unexpected blessing and one I don’t take for granted.”
He waited, Claire knew, for her or Aunt Miranda to speak. A minute passed. The fire Bertram had lit for them to chase the chill fell low in the grate. Little sparks flew upward.
“I’m afraid I haven’t expressed thanksgiving for some long while now. I’m a bit out of practice.” Aunt Miranda set her glass on the table beside her chair.
David nodded. “I understand that better than you might realize.”
Aunt Miranda tilted her head. “That surprises me. But I rather think you’re full of surprises, Mr. Campbell. Cheerfulness and thank
sgiving seem to be easy habits with you.”
He sighed. “If only that were so, Lady Langford.”
Aunt Miranda looked about to speak, possibly to ask more, Claire thought, but he turned to Claire. “And what about you? You’ve saved five French children and are helping your aunt keep open a house full of refugees. Life must be very satisfying.”
Claire started. No one had ever summarized her life in that way. She wouldn’t have. “Life is . . . uncertain.” She could say no more. He was a stranger, after all.
Aunt Miranda stood. “I think it’s time we all said good night. Tomorrow will come earlier than we wish. Neither Mrs. Creedle nor Nancy will be up to working, and Mrs. Newsome’s come down with it now.”
“I can take the breakfast shift if you like,” offered David, “and can help with the other meals, if I’m not in the way. I won’t be starting my work here for a couple of days.”
“Bless you,” Claire said, and meant it. He grinned again.
Aunt Miranda turned off the lamp. “I’ll check on Mrs. Newsome before I go up. Claire, would you show David to his room? I asked Peter to ready it for him. Make certain there are towels, and show him the bathroom on that floor. I’ll see you both in the morning.”
David stood. “Thank you, Lady Langford, and good night.”
Aunt Miranda, tired around the eyes but still the gracious hostess, left the library.
“I’ll get my bags.” David was quick to head for the stairs as well. Claire couldn’t blame him. He must be as exhausted as she, and the wine had made her sleepier still.
“What can I carry?” she offered.
“How about my briefcase?”
She didn’t argue. His suitcases looked formidable, and the briefcase must have contained a load of books, heavy as it was.
Aunt Miranda had stationed him on the third floor, west wing, near the boys’ room. The girls and Claire were on the second floor, east wing.