by Cathy Gohlke
“The bathroom is through here, second door on the left from your room. I’d advise you to make good use of the lock. Neither Josef nor Gaston is likely to spend time knocking.”
“Sounds like normal boys.” David smiled, and his smile weakened her knees, annoying Claire more than pleasing her.
“This is your room.” She opened the door. “Be careful with the blackout curtains. But you know that.”
He nodded.
“Well, the room looks fine; the boys did right by you.” She set his briefcase on the writing desk by the window. As she did so the latch flipped open and several books slipped out and to the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. That latch is weak.”
Still, Claire felt embarrassed as she bent to pick up the books. “The Holy Bible, The Problem of Pain—some light reading?” she tried to joke.
“I guess you can never get enough Scripture. This one is a new author to me—C. S. Lewis, an Irish transplant to England. He says he was inspired by one of my fellow Scotsmen, George MacDonald, who has long been a favorite.” David shrugged. “Thought I’d give him a try.” He took the books from her but hesitated. “My guess is we all have some kind of pain . . . don’t we?”
His empathy almost undid her. To hide that, she replied, almost flippantly, “Pain’s a problem; that’s for sure.” It was hard for her to imagine that a man who smiled so much knew anything of pain. “Good night, David.” She crossed the room without waiting for him to reply.
Claire took the stairs down to her floor, eager to close the door on David Campbell and this long day. Arnaud was her love, the threat of his loss the rip in her heart. And yet she realized, as she clicked the latch on her bedroom door, life held a new concern.
David Campbell is an enigma. A handsome, insightful, and charming enigma . . . and therefore a potential problem. She bit her lip, determined not to let him become her problem.
Chapter Thirteen
THE AIR-RAID SIREN WAILED just before midnight, the first week of December.
“Out! Out, and down the stairs to the cellar!” Miranda burst through the door of the boys’ room first, jerking blankets from the beds of five sleepyheads. David was at her side in a moment, hustling the boys from the room.
Miranda tore down the stairs to Claire’s room and the girls’ dormitory. She knew Mrs. Newsome would rouse the staff. “Hurry, girls! Leave your things. There’s not a moment to lose!”
Mrs. Newsome met the troops at the bottom of the stairs, holding her lantern high. Miranda shone her torch over the stairs, praying none of the children would trip in the dark.
Aimee whimpered, but Claire grabbed the little girl’s hand and did her best to shush her.
“We’ll all be safe and snug downstairs in a moment. Follow Mrs. Newsome.” If only Miranda could keep her voice from quavering so she might not frighten the children.
The German children were down the stairs in record time, their training and experience from previously bombed sites apparent. The French children cowered together. Miranda and Claire pushed them forward.
“I don’t want to go into the cellar!” Aimee cried. “It’s dark—it’s a hole, like—like . . .”
“We must go!” Miranda had no time for this.
“She’s afraid, madame,” Gaston insisted. “It’s a hole—like the grave she fell into.”
Miranda’s nerves stretched taut, nearly to the breaking point. “Get downstairs, now!” Far worse than the fear of open graves, she feared the house, if bombed, would bury them all.
Once they made their way to the cellar, Miranda lined the children against the wall, the place both she and David deemed safest, and drew Aimee onto her lap. “It’s all right, my dear. It’s all right. I didn’t mean to scold, but we needed to get downstairs quickly. Whenever you hear that sound, run to the cellar.”
The screaming siren finally stopped, but there was no return siren for the all clear. Even beneath the earth they could hear the droning of German planes far above.
“Best turn off your torches,” David ordered. “Save the batteries.”
“Keep the lantern!” Claire insisted.
“Of course.” David’s voice came calm. Miranda breathed a sigh of gratitude.
“In London, in the Underground station, we sang songs during air raids,” Ingrid offered.
“That’s a splendid idea.” Mrs. Newsome’s cheer sounded forced. “Who will begin?”
But no one volunteered.
“Should have pocketed my harmonica,” David mumbled.
“That would have been just the ticket, Mr. David,” Mrs. Newsome agreed. “Next time.”
The French children looked at her in horror.
“There will be a next time?” cried Elise.
“You know nothing of war,” Josef chided. “By the docks there were raids every night . . . nearly every night, and bombings and explosions—and fires! This is nothing but planes.”
Franz pushed Josef. “Be quiet! You tempt fate!”
“Josef might be right.” David nodded. “They might just be returning from delivering their loads south.”
“We can go upstairs now!” Aimee sniffled.
“No, not until we hear the all clear, dear.” Miranda stroked the little girl’s hair. “Then we’ll know it’s safe.”
Aimee moved her hands nervously in front of her face, making shapes.
“What is it, darling?”
“I’m making shadow puppets. Maman told me to do that whenever I’m afraid. Can you make shadow puppets, madame?”
“Oh, my.” Miranda tried to laugh. “If I’ve not forgotten how.”
“Make them in front of the lantern,” Gaston insisted. “They’ll make shadows on the wall.”
“Gaston, you and Bertram show us how,” Mrs. Newsome urged.
Josef turned away, as if watching Gaston do anything to entertain Aimee might smack of approval.
Miranda smiled a thank-you to Mrs. Newsome and settled in for a long night. At last, Aimee’s eyelashes fluttered closed, and she whispered, just before falling asleep, “They’re friendly shadows.”
“Yes.” Miranda nestled the girl closer yet. “Yes, they are.”
Mrs. Newsome thanked the Lord that the weeks of December passed with no direct bombing of the Lake District. Plenty of planes overhead at night, and too many trips to the dark, dank cellar, “just in case.” The children hated hiding in the dark, nearly as much as she. Elise began wetting the bed again, though not every night. Gaston, despite his daytime bravado, jumped at sudden noises—mischief Josef gleefully precipitated and exploited. For Mrs. Newsome, it brought back too many memories of the Great War, a thing she hated most of all.
“But we’ve still body and soul together, unlike those poor, poor people in London. I mustn’t complain,” she muttered as she walked to the Heelis farm. “We’re all healthy and we’ve everything we need.”
Still, they weren’t without their sorrows. Dr. MacDonald had not been to a meal at Bluebell Wood since David Campbell had crossed its threshold. Mrs. Newsome missed the good doctor and knew her ladyship missed his companionship.
Mrs. Newsome considered grudges, particularly carrying the grudges of forebears, a terrible waste. Especially so now, since she could count on one hand the evening meals David Campbell attended. He was out long and late with his war business, whatever that was. Lady Miranda said it was all most hush-hush. But Mrs. Newsome learned the lay of the land from her niece Ruby over tea that Saturday while Mrs. Heelis was out.
“They’re wantin’ to put in a flying boat factory, that’s what—make airplanes that can land on water and take off from the very same!” Ruby gushed. “The Germans already have them, so we must too. There’s a factory in Rochester, nearly bombed—the Jerries missed it by a quarter of a mile, so I’m guessing Mr. Churchill’s not wanting to put all our eggs in one basket now. Anyhow, it’s a grand deal—factory and hangars and such, and there’s to be housing for the workers and their fam
ilies, a canteen, a hall for meetings. The locals hope for dances and concerts and lectures, even a store. They’ll build a proper little town. That’s what Mrs. Heelis is up in arms about, her and all the local conservationists. They say those poorly built sheds will spoil the beauty of the Lake District.”
“Slow down, Ruby. Come up for air, dear!”
“Well, I’m that vexed about it because Mrs. Heelis comes home in such a state after every one of those meetings—and she takes it out on me and everything I cook. And it’s your Mr. Campbell what’s workin’ betwixt Short Brothers’ Sunderland flying boat factory and the government, overseeing the surveying of the land and setting up the building and such. She’s not got a kind thing to say of the man, that determined for the cause, he is. If she knew he was staying at Bluebell Wood there’d be the devil to pay.”
“I don’t think she or the villagers would want an American anywhere closer, do you?”
“No, not unless that Mr. Roosevelt gets off his fat—I’m sorry, Aunt Florence; I’m not myself.”
“Let me make you a cup of tea, Ruby.” Mrs. Newsome was concerned for her niece’s blood pressure but glad to know that the young man had not been stepping out with local girls. Hard at work for the good of Britain and the war; that’s just what she’d expect of him. She smiled. She might just let that slip to Miss Claire, who seemed to have taken a particular interest in him, despite her wish to pretend she had not.
“Thousands of incendiary bombs dropped over London again last night, the paper says. Those poor, dear people. How do they stand it?” Miranda waved away Mrs. Newsome and poured her own morning coffee. It wasn’t like her to share war news first thing in the morning, but the knowledge of relentless bombing troubled her heart and had kept her awake that night.
“Not all do stand it,” David replied, setting his spoon down. “I read that there’s more pouring out of the cities every day.”
“More homeless than ever we could have imagined.” Mrs. Newsome clucked.
“The worst is the planes overhead at night,” Ingrid spoke up, standing suddenly in the doorway. “I’m afraid they’ll drop bombs right on our heads.”
“They’ve only been dropping them over the fields and fells so far,” Gaston asserted, pushing past her to the dining room table.
“But how do they know where fields and fells are, and no houses—especially in the dark? It is only—how do you say it—luck that they’ve not hit us,” Ingrid retorted.
Miranda broke in. “You needn’t worry, my dear. We have the cellar, and it’s well equipped. The moment we hear the air-raid siren we’ll be down those steps—as always.”
“I was thinking,” David offered, “that perhaps we could—I could—help make that a bit more cheerful . . . add an electric light or two. It would be easy to run from the upstairs. And maybe bring some of the children’s books and games in to play. Maybe store some tea biscuits or—”
“Rats!” interjected Josef. “The rats would eat them.”
“Mice,” Mrs. Newsome corrected. “We’ve not got rats, just field mice, as any great house would have in their cellar.”
Miranda clamped her lips, though she knew full well there were rats, also as in the cellar of any great house—country or town.
“Mr. David is right,” Mrs. Newsome conceded. “We could store some there—in a tin, so no worries about vermin. The vermin I’m more concerned with eating them are you and Gaston!”
The boys grinned wickedly and kicked each other beneath the table.
“I was wondering, Lady Langford,” David spoke quietly, “if you have a wireless I might listen to. I need to stay abreast of the news.”
Miranda shifted in her seat, not certain she wanted to bring the war into her home by live broadcast.
“If you don’t, I’ll see about sending for one.”
“It’s in the drawing room, behind the door,” Gaston offered.
Miranda sat up. “How do you know that, Gaston?”
Now Bertram kicked his younger brother, who kicked him back.
“You might as well tell her,” Peter said.
“Tell me what?”
Jeanine spoke up. “At night, after you have all gone to bed, madame, we come downstairs and listen.”
“What?” Miranda gasped.
“We must know what is happening in the war, in France—and in Germany. What becomes of our families,” Bertram defended.
“You sneak downstairs in the middle of the night?” Claire set down her fork.
“Oui!” Gaston boasted. “Like the Resistance, we are very quiet, and no one knows we are there.”
“We do not mean to offend, madame,” Jeanine pleaded, “but we are desperate to know what is happening . . . and you do not tell us.”
“I was trying to protect you—all of you. Listening to the news each night brings the war home, makes it come alive again and again. You don’t know what you’re playing with, what it is to lose someone in this war . . . the nightmares.”
“Begging madame’s pardon,” Peter spoke quietly but without reservation, “we know.” He glanced quickly round the table at each of the children, resting his eyes on Claire. “We all know.”
“I hardly know what to say,” Miranda began. “But you can’t all be tripping down the stairs in the middle of the night. That’s unthinkable.”
Claire looked as if she were to blame for the children’s presumption. “I’m sorry, Aunt Miranda. I had no idea.”
“You are right, Fräulein.” Peter looked at Claire squarely. “You have perhaps lost your lover, but you have no idea what it is to fear for your mother, your father, your grandparents, your brothers and sisters—everyone you’ve known in life.”
Claire’s face flamed.
Out of the mouths of babes, Miranda thought.
“No wonder you’re all so difficult to rouse come morning,” Mrs. Newsome interjected.
“May I make a suggestion?” David offered. “Since several of us feel the need to listen, may those who wish gather for the earlier broadcast? I could tune the radio. If we hear difficult news, at least we’d be together to help one another through it. Sometimes,” he added more quietly, “not knowing and imagining the worst is worse than knowing the truth.”
“Oui,” Jeanine whispered, “this is so. Please, madame.”
Miranda thought her heart might break for the desperate hearts and worried minds of the children—a need she’d recognized too little. Thank You, Lord, for David. He’s a level head with eyes wide open . . . a skill I’m sorely lacking these days.
Claire hurried down the stairs, lesson books in hand. Now that the village school had reopened and all signs of influenza had been swept away with the bitter December cold, she looked forward to her first free afternoon in nearly a month. The difficult breakfast discussion and Peter’s accusation that she understood so little had settled her plans in her mind.
Preoccupied, she bumped into David as she rounded the banister at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m so sorry!”
“No harm done.” He smiled. “You’re in a hurry this morning.”
“On a mission.” She smiled as best she could, on her way once again.
“By the way,” he called after her, “I have some time off this afternoon. I wondered if you’d like to take a walk. I haven’t seen the grounds and thought I’d go exploring. Mrs. Newsome says the mazes and trails are enough to intrigue Sherlock Holmes.”
Claire’s heart skipped a beat, but she wasn’t about to go off walking with David Campbell. It would be disloyal to Arnaud. Besides, she had her own plans and wouldn’t share them with anyone. “I’m sorry. I’ve got my hands full.” She held up her lesson plans to plead her case.
The nearly imperceptible slump in David’s shoulders spoke rejection. “Understood.” He turned to go.
Claire had meant to reject him, but contrarily didn’t want to leave that impression. “I just want to say . . .”
“Yes?” He stopped, apparent
ly eager to hear anything she might say.
“What you did, what you offered for the children this morning about the radio—the wireless—was very kind of you, a good thing. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t know what they were up to in the dark of night. Sounds like they pulled the wool over everybody’s eyes.”
“But I didn’t understand their need, and . . .” She didn’t know how to continue.
“And that worries you?”
She nodded, a confession. “You have a way with them, and I might as well say I admire that.”
“They just want to live in the real world, to know what’s happening to their families.”
“But you understood that, and you’re nearly a stranger to them. I’ve been with them for months, at least with the French children.”
“Guess I have something more in common with them.”
“What?” Claire didn’t understand. A need for European news? “Your family’s in America. They’re safe. Nothing can happen to them there.”
David blinked and turned away. “I’m going for a walk. Tell Mrs. Newsome I won’t be back for lunch.”
Claire didn’t know what she’d said to offend David. It niggled at the back of her mind, but she forced it aside through the morning routine.
Bertram and Peter had promised to make sure the younger students reached school in time and to keep Josef and Gaston from torturing each other, which meant that Claire was free even sooner than she’d expected. Four glorious afternoon hours spread before her.
Under her trench coat, she layered on an extra vest Mrs. Newsome loaned her, wrapped a thick muffler round her throat, and pulled on her aunt’s Wellingtons over double wool socks. Claire had just opened the front door to make her escape when she met the elderly postman on the doorstep.
“Deliveries, miss. Fine day it is—cold, but fine.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you, Mr. Kendall!” Claire took the mail but did not stop for small talk. She threw the bundle of letters to the receiving table in the foyer, pulled her gloves over her fingers, and nearly beat the postman to the drive. She cut through the maze trail and off toward the gardens.