by Cathy Gohlke
Chapter Eighteen
CLAIRE COUNTED THE SOBER, sleepy heads of ten children at breakfast. She wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d slept in, if last night’s news had kept them awake until the wee hours. But they were all there, as much because they needed one another more than ever as because they needed sustenance, she thought.
Only Aimee seemed animated and hungry beyond her usual self. Claire was glad the little girl knew nothing of last night’s broadcast. Whether Aimee’s parents were French or foreign Jews, life in France these days did not bode well for them. It was not something for one so young to know or worry over. There was nothing any of them could do. The truth would out in time, and they would face it then.
It wasn’t until luncheon that Aimee was missed.
“I’ve no idea where she’s gone,” Mrs. Newsome confessed to Claire. “She asked for a tea party for the dolly I made her and said she’d like to play in the orchard this morning. I was glad for her to be out in the sunshine, and in truth, it gave me a moment’s peace.”
“I can’t imagine she’d miss lunch with the other children, even so. She must have heard the outdoor bell.” Claire felt more annoyed than worried. Aimee had never wandered far.
“I will see if she is in our room,” Jeanine offered.
“She’s not,” Elise said.
“How do you know?”
“I just came down from there. I saw her go out soon after breakfast. I think she might have run away.”
“What?”
Elise shrugged. “I’ve heard her talking about it with her doll for ages. But I didn’t think much of it. We’ve all run away, haven’t we? She’ll come back when she’s hungry. I did.”
Claire looked at her aunt, helpless. Do all children run away? Where would she go? Will she know her way back?
Aunt Miranda set down her teacup, which had frozen in midair all the while Elise spoke so philosophically. “I think, just as soon as we’ve eaten—as quickly as we can—that we should all search for Aimee. She’s too young to be wandering around unchaperoned.”
“Oui, madame!” Gaston asserted. “We will miss the school today and form a search party! Not a problem, as Monsieur David says.”
Claire and her aunt made eye contact again. Claire feared turning Gaston and Josef loose to search posed a greater threat than Aimee’s disappearance. “No, I’m sure that’s not necessary, Gaston. We’ll find Aimee and make sure she’s safely home before you return. You can all keep an eye out for her on the way to the village. If you see her, bring her directly home. In the meantime, we’ll look here. Before you go, each of you search your room.”
“Bertram—” Lady Langford took the reins—“if you will, please check with Mr. Dunnagan. See if he’s seen her about the stables or gardens, or if she’s been in the orchard this morning.”
“Oui, madame.”
“Look under the beds,” Josef dictated. “That’s where I go when I want to be alone.”
“A very good idea,” Gaston approved. “You should stay there.”
Bertram rolled his eyes and punched his younger brother’s arm.
Franz stood. “I’ll check the north tower.”
“She’d never have returned there.” Claire was certain. But Franz shrugged, as if to say, You never know. Claire nodded, thankful others were thinking too. She’d have to give Aimee a talking-to when she found the little girl. She couldn’t be running off and worrying everyone. There wasn’t time or manpower for this.
Later Claire wished she’d kept the children home from school and enlisted their help. Afternoon teatime neared and Aimee had not been found. Every member of the household, upstairs and down, had been put on high alert and freed from their duties to search. The grounds had been covered and searched again. Claire had even gone to the secret garden and climbed Christopher’s tree to get a better view of the landscape. No Aimee. Where can she be?
“There are only two more hours of daylight. The temperature is dropping and a storm is brewing,” Aunt Miranda whispered to Claire and Mrs. Newsome when they’d gathered with the children for tea in the drawing room. “I need to telephone the constable.”
“And the vicarage,” Mrs. Newsome suggested. “The vicar can call together a search party in no time. They’ll all come for him. And Dr. MacDonald. Perhaps he’s seen her on his rounds.”
“Yes, yes.” Aunt Miranda nodded. “Raibeart might have some ideas.”
“And David,” offered Claire. “Aimee’s fond of him. She might have confided in him.”
“Where is David? He’s usually home by now.”
She thinks of this as David’s home. He’s won his way into her heart. Claire bit her lip. He’d crept into her heart too. “I don’t know. Probably still at the factory. He’s there so much now.”
“Shall I telephone, my lady?” Mrs. Newsome asked, clearly wanting to move things along.
“No, I’ll do it. You and Claire see that the children are fed and that they stay in the house. I don’t want to lose any more.”
“I need to search, Aunt Miranda. I can’t stay home and do nothing.”
“I’ll mind the young ones,” Mrs. Newsome offered. “I think Bertram and Peter might be of help to you.”
Josef broke between them. “I want to search for Aimee. She is small and needs our help.”
You are also small and need our help, Claire thought. Before she could say so, Aunt Miranda replied, “I need you and Gaston and Franz to man the front lawn and gardens for me until dark. You can post yourselves beneath the folly canopy in case the storm breaks. If Aimee comes back, you must ring the outdoor bell three times so that those searching will hear it and return. This is important work. Can we count on you boys?”
Josef narrowed his eyes, as if he guessed he was being sidelined, but pushed back his shoulders. “Ja, Frau Langford. You can count on me.”
“And me,” seconded Gaston, his cheeks bulging with soda bread.
Franz nodded vigorously.
Mrs. Newsome made certain the children were well fed and that those continuing the search were clad in mackintoshes and Wellingtons. It was the only practical thing she knew to do, and the supplying kept them all busy for a few minutes.
She’d racked her brain and grilled each of them for anything Aimee could have said or implied that might give a clue as to where the child had gone. All the little girl’s associations were either in the house with the family or out among the growing things—gardens, orchards, woods, or sheep on the nearby fell. Even the depths of the little fishing pond had been prodded by Mr. Dunnagan, though Mrs. Newsome’s heart leapt to her throat with every swish of his pole and net. No Aimee.
As a last resort she telephoned her niece Ruby at the Heelis farm. Auld Mother Heelis wouldn’t like her serving girl getting a phone call in the evening, but perhaps Ruby could remember if Aimee had said anything—or even if Mrs. Heelis had any notion of where the child might have gone. Aimee nearly worshipped Mrs. Heelis and her paintings and stories, though the old lady barely gave her the time of day.
“What is it, Aunt Florence? You know I’m not to be taking telephone calls.”
“I know, dear. You can apologize to Mrs. Heelis for me. But it’s Aimee—she’s disappeared. Run away, most likely. She’s taken her best dress and dolly, and her pillowslip’s missing. I can’t think where she’s gone but she’s away since midmorning, and we’ve no way of knowing if someone picked her up or what might have happened to her since. Have you seen her, or do you remember anything at all she might have said about going away?” Mrs. Newsome was breathless, but she might as well get it all out in one go.
“No! Well, no, I’ve no idea at all, Aunt. Poor little mite, and on a night like this! The wind’s up and howling and the rain’s sweepin’ down the fells in sheets! She’s like to freeze or drown, no matter that it’s May!”
As if I don’t know! As if my heart’s not breaking already! “If you hear or see anything at all, you’ll telephone, no matter what Mrs. Heelis
says about usin’ the phone?”
“Of course I will, Aunt. I’ll explain it all to her. She’ll understand, though I’ve nothing to suggest. I’m that sorry.”
“Not so sorry as I.” Mrs. Newsome hung up. Ruby had been her last hope.
Raibeart hated that Maggie’s hopes soared when she heard his voice on the other end of the line, then fell just as far when he revealed that he was only calling to see if Aimee had been found.
“No, nothing, no news at all. The vicar and the constable and half a dozen men were out looking for her, but there’s been no word. With the rain and the blackout, they’ve called the search off until morning. They can’t see a thing in the dark. Oh, Raibeart, I’m frantic!”
The telephone click-clicked, click-clicked, and the operator came on. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but there’s an emergency call coming through for Bluebell Wood. Will you hang up, sir?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And will you accept the call, madam, for Bluebell Wood?”
“Yes! I’ll call you back right away, Raibeart.”
“I’ve stopped at Harris’s to telephone. The operator will give you the number.”
The doctor waited by the phone, never touching the steaming cup of tea Mrs. Harris pushed upon him.
“Have a bite while you’re here, Doc. It won’t hurt to keep up your nourishment, ’specially on a night like this.” Randolph Harris urged the doctor to accept the plate of bread and jam his missus had brought near the phone.
But Dr. MacDonald shook his head. “That’s kind of you, but I’ve no stomach for anythin’ but findin’ the wee one.” Truth be told, the doctor had had time to think. He had no doubt why the child had run away. She believed she wasn’t wanted. He’d seen it in her sad little face each time he’d visited. Those enormous blue orbs swelled in gratitude whenever he tweaked her cheek or took a bit of time to talk with her. She wasn’t like the older children, off to school and making friends. She needed mothering, and she needed it badly.
He wished he’d never set eyes on Claire Stewart. She’d been nothing but trouble for her aunt since she’d stepped foot in Bluebell Wood. His railing had done nothing to help Claire become the motherly figure she was not, perhaps could not be. The girl simply didn’t see life staring her in the face. She was a dreamer and a chaser of dreams, just as her aunt had been at that age. Maggie hadn’t seen him, no matter that he’d have given her the world if she’d looked his way. Perhaps that reminder, that memory, was what angered him most about Claire, and it wasn’t even the girl’s fault.
Raibeart pushed the damp hair from his forehead and ran his hands through his thick mop in frustration.
Rrrrrinnng! Rrrrrinnng!
The doctor didn’t wait for Harris, but grabbed the receiver. “Maggie?”
“It was Ruby, from Mrs. Heelis’s. Mrs. Heelis remembered telling Aimee about a fairy caravan, something about the high buildings being a good place to shelter in a wild rainstorm. She said that Aimee was certain that was the place animals could talk.”
“Talking animals?”
“Ruby said Aimee is convinced animals talk, that you told her so.”
“I?” Dr. MacDonald had no idea what she meant but knew enough to know that didn’t matter. “Where on God’s green earth is the shelter for the fairy caravan?”
“There isn’t one, of course, but Mrs. Heelis thinks that Aimee might believe it’s near her—in those blue-green hills above her farm, near Troutbeck. There are shepherds’ shelters there. I can’t imagine Aimee could make it that far, but she does know the way to the Heelis farm.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll phone you the min—”
“No—David’s returned. He and Claire have gone to search. But if she’s hurt or sick, we might need you here.”
“Neither of them knows the fells. They’re dangerous enough in good weather and daylight.”
“But, Raibeart—”
“I know those paths like the back of my hand; I’m on my way. If she’s there, we’ll get her home to you. Rest assured, Maggie.”
He hung up the phone before she responded, before she fussed that he was too old to be traipsing slippery, rocky fells in a thunderstorm. He pulled his collar up the back of his neck, shoved his hat over his forehead, and headed into the night.
Claire had never pushed through the heart of such a storm. Even the night they’d struggled across the Channel from Calais was nothing compared to this relentless beating of wind and rain. The temperature had sharply dropped, and she was certain ice prickled her cheeks.
Poor Aimee! Oh, please, God, if You’re there, help her, shelter her! Let us find her!
David pulled Claire along, having given up his insistence that she stay in the car. They both carried torches, their lights shielded by cheesecloth. Dim light was better than no light.
“Aimee! Aimeeeee!” David called into the wind.
“Aimeeee! Aimee, dear!” Claire echoed, begging. “Answer us, Aimee! We want you to come home! Aimee, please!”
David gripped her hand all the tighter and pulled Claire up the hillside, both of them slipping and stumbling over wet moss and slick rocks.
Brakes squealed and a motor gunned in the valley below. Another torchlight emerged. “Aimee!” a voice called.
“Dr. MacDonald! We’re searching this side. Can you take the distant path? Mrs. Heelis said there are two!” David shouted through the rain.
There was no answer, but the soft light bobbed quickly in the opposite direction, making its way across the bottom of the fell and gradually up the other access to the shepherds’ path.
Claire could barely see, was frozen to the bone, her teeth chattering so she could hardly speak, let alone call out anymore. How could Aimee have come so far, and all alone? We don’t even know if she did, if she’s here. She could be anywhere. She could have gone to the lake. She could have drowned in the stream or stumbled off the cliff in the dark. She could have—
“Aidez moi!” the plaintive cry came from above.
“Aimee!” David called. “We hear you! Where are you? Call again!”
There was no sound but the wind and rising storm.
“Aimee!” Claire called. “It’s Claire—and David! We want you to come home. Please tell us where you are!”
Still no answer came.
Lightning crackled across the sky, splitting an oak on the fell and shooting sparks, streams of fire, upward into the dark.
A terrified scream rent the storm, and in the moment before the light from the burning tree died, Claire glimpsed a sodden waif cowering on the cliff above them.
“David! There! There she is!” But it was too late; the light had died.
“Where?”
Claire pointed her light, ripping the cloth from the torch. No blackout could keep her from getting to the child. She pushed past David and groped her way up the hillside, slipping, falling, clawing upward.
By the time she reached the ledge, Aimee’s screams had stopped, replaced by heaving sobs.
“We’re coming, Aimee. I’m almost there.”
“Help me!” the child cried.
Claire slipped again just as she reached Aimee, and they both fell to the ground, a tangle of arms and legs. David scooped Aimee up, and steadied Claire as she stood, reaching out to his precious load.
Claire’s tears came as fast as the soaking rain. It was her natural inclination to scold the child, and from terror and genuine relief combined she nearly did.
“She’s freezing, Claire. We’ve got to get her home and out of these wet things. Signal to Dr. MacDonald. We’ll need him.” David swept past her, leaving her to make her way down the path in the dark.
Claire felt as if someone had slapped her awake. What was she thinking? Aimee was found, but far from danger. She waved her torch toward the faint light making its way up the hillside, and called, “We found her!”
The light opposite stopped. Claire called again, “We found her! Meet us at Bluebell Wood!”
Chapter Nineteen
MIRANDA HAD THE BOYS build a roaring fire in the library fireplace, hoping as much to chase the raw chill of fear as the damp edge of night. All the children had gathered and remained long past their bedtime. Between the horrific news from France and the terrifying loss and final recovery of Aimee, no one wanted to be alone. Miranda couldn’t blame them. Aimee was off the mountain but not out of the woods.
Dr. MacDonald had been with the child this past hour, insisting that Miranda sit by the fire and calm herself, stay warm. His solicitude nearly drove her mad. She would much have preferred to be by Aimee’s side, holding the little girl’s hand, stroking her brow—anything, rather than be left outside the sickroom door.
Claire and David had changed their clothes, and David had sent a dry set to Dr. MacDonald, insisting that it would do none of them any good if he came down with pneumonia.
Ever the pragmatist. What would we do without him? What will Claire do without him? That last was a new thought to Miranda, but she didn’t dismiss it. The two seemed as natural together as peas in a pod, and yet at times as unlikely to mix as oil and water. So much like Raibeart and me . . . too much like us. I hope Claire doesn’t make the same mistakes I have, waiting for someone who will never return.
Why she was thinking of this now, Miranda didn’t even know. She needed, intended, to focus on Aimee, and vowed to do so fully, if the little girl survived her ordeal.
Mrs. Newsome handed Miranda a warm brandy, barely two swallows in the bottom of a teacup. “Drink this down. You know the doctor would order it.”
Miranda smiled. What would she do without Mrs. Newsome?
But Mrs. Newsome voiced her worry too. “It fair took my breath away when David carried that child over the threshold. White as a sheet, she was, and barely breathing.”