Until We Find Home

by Cathy Gohlke

  “And have you turn me in? I think not. I have all I need from—”

  Aboveground the trapdoor opened. A woman’s voice called, “Josef? Josef, are you there?”

  The prisoner flicked off the torch, dropping it on the ground, and grabbed Josef, holding the knife to his throat.

  “Josef? I saw that light! Is Aimee with you?”

  From the darkness a sleepy voice cried feebly, “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle Claire! I want to go home.”

  “Aimee!” Fräulein Claire’s voice spoke deep relief. “We’ve been so worried about you. Both of you come up here, right away!”

  “Tell her to come down here,” the prisoner whispered in Josef’s ear. “Tell her, or I will slit your throat and the girl’s.”

  Josef’s heart beat madly against his rib cage. What is she doing here? Where is Herr David? He could not risk Fräulein Claire. But he could not risk Aimee either. Adonai! What have I done? Help me!

  The man thrust his arm against Josef’s chest, emphasizing his threat. Josef could not speak. He could not bring her to this pit. “Tell her you’ve broken your leg, that you can’t climb up!” the man hissed. “Tell her!”

  “It’s dark, mademoiselle! I want to come, but I can’t see the ladder,” Aimee pleaded from the darkness, her tearful voice filled with hope.

  “I have a torch; I’ll bring it down and help you up,” Claire called.

  The man reached for the torch at his feet, momentarily loosening his grip on Josef.

  “No, Fräulein!” Josef gasped, kicking the man’s hand as it grasped the torch.

  He heard the knife hit the earthen floor, but the man grabbed his leg just as Josef lunged away.

  “What’s going on down there?” Claire called. “Is there someone with you?”

  Silence.

  “A bad man took us, mademoiselle! He’s hurting Josef!” Aimee’s voice quavered, but she called out bravely.

  “If you value the lives of these children, Fräulein, come down here now, slowly. Are you alone?”

  There was no response.

  “Bring whoever is with you, or I will cut this boy’s throat, and then the girl’s!”

  “We’re coming. We’re coming now! Don’t hurt them. Please, don’t hurt them!”

  Josef’s heart sank in defeat and rose in love for Fräulein Claire. Hot tears filled his eyes. He’d done all he could to protect her and Aimee, and now they were both in the clutches of the enemy.

  In the bobbing of Fräulein Claire’s torchlight, the prisoner grabbed his own torch. Her sturdy shoes stepped down the ladder, followed by shapely calves and the swish of her skirt. Josef could feel a change in the man’s grip across his chest and knew her beauty sparked his interest. He hated him for that. Such a man had no right to look at Fräulein Claire in this way.

  “Well, well, Fräulein,” the man smirked.

  But then a pair of boots and long pant legs appeared on the ladder. Josef dared to hope it was Herr David, that he’d come with Fräulein and together they would—“Peter!” Josef’s relief at seeing his older brother was swallowed in his remorse that even Peter might be killed for his folly. But he sensed a panic in the prisoner.

  “Who else is there?” he demanded.

  Claire reached immediately for Aimee, who clung to her. “Who are you and what are you doing with these children?” Claire’s brave face didn’t fool even Josef.

  “Let go of my brother,” Peter insisted, walking forward.

  Josef felt a slight shift in the prisoner’s stance and tried to pull away, but the prisoner clutched him all the tighter.

  “Stand back!” He held the knife against Josef’s chest once more.

  Peter stopped. The man’s knife made all the difference in their confidence. But Josef also knew there was strength in numbers. His eyes slowly swept the group and looked up to the prisoner, then landed on Peter.

  Peter blinked in understanding and stepped to the side.

  “What are you doing? Get over there—with them!” the man commanded.

  “Why? What will you do? Will you kill all of us? And what of those who are coming behind us? Will you kill them, too?”

  Peter’s simple questions, as if he wasn’t afraid, seemed to infuse strength in Claire, who stepped in the opposite direction. “Do you intend to add the murder of children to your war crimes? At least that will ensure you will not rot in jail. You will hang, and even your countrymen will despise you for your cowardice and cruelty.”

  Josef sensed the momentary uncertainty in the prisoner.

  “We could let him go,” Josef offered quietly, as if the tables had shifted, as if they possessed any power.

  “Why would we do that?” Peter asked. “Others are on their way, even now. He will be apprehended and prosecuted.”

  “Kidnapping carries a heavy weight,” Claire said, holding Aimee behind her.

  “Then I have little to lose.” The prisoner twisted Josef’s arm behind him, enough to make him cry out. “Stand back! You will stay here.”

  “A wise choice,” Claire said.

  “But this wily one will go with me. If I am followed, I will kill him.”

  “He’s young. He will slow you down,” Peter spoke quickly, his German accent thick. “Leave him. Take me. I can guide you.”

  “Nein. This one is a compass. Stand back.” The man pushed Josef to the ladder. “Up, slowly.” He kept one hand on the ladder and the other on Josef’s leg, turning only long enough to threaten the others with his knife. Josef climbed up the ladder, frightened but relieved to bring the man out into the open. Without the others at risk, he would have a better chance of escape.

  Josef’s head had just cleared the trapdoor when he felt the man yank his leg with a mighty jerk. Josef fell down the ladder, his head slapping against the rock, the earth, the ladder rungs, and into sudden blackout.

  Claire could not let Josef disappear again, could not allow him to be taken. The second the prisoner’s head had vanished into the upward tunnel she and Peter both lunged for his legs, wrenching him downward, beating his back, bringing Josef on top of them all.

  But neither Claire nor Peter was a match for the man’s brute strength or training. He turned on them in a moment, slicing the air near them with his knife. In the process he nicked Aimee’s arm. The little girl wailed.

  Claire, in fear and fury, flew at the man, screaming like a banshee. Peter yanked her back, but the knife found its target too soon. Astonished, Claire fell backward. Aimee screamed. Peter caught her, and the man disappeared up the ladder.

  “Go for help!” Claire pleaded with Peter. “Make all the noise you can. Rouse the neighbors—anyone who can . . .” But the darkness overtook her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  CLAIRE WOKE in her bed at Bluebell Wood to find Dr. MacDonald standing over her, his weathered face wreathed in a benevolent smile. “You gave us quite a scare, lassie.”

  Claire’s mouth tasted like gruel paste, her throat dry as old corn husks. It took her several moments to piece together all she remembered. “Aimee? Josef? Peter? Gaston? Are they safe?”

  “Fine, lass, right as spring rain. They’re downstairs now, nailing Aimee’s mezuzah to Miranda’s front doorpost. Seems the girl carried it with her from France and has been waiting for a home to attach it. Never mind, you’ll hear all about that later. You’ve been out these two days. Josef got a nasty bump on the head but came round in no time. The others are none the worse for wear, only eager to know the moment their lady fair is awake. Quite the Joan of Arc you’ve become to them, I daresay.”

  Claire closed her eyes. “Hardly that. If I hadn’t . . . Please, tell me what happened. I can’t remember—Owww!” She’d tried to hoist herself to a sitting position, but violent pain wrenched her stomach.

  “None of that, now. The devil plunged you with his lance, by all accounts. You’ll need to lie still a few days yet and take life slowly for a time, let those stitches do their work. A nasty knife gouge, that, and none too cle
an, though no major organs damaged. I’m watching for any sign of infection. So far, all seems well.”

  “Is he still at large?”

  “Ho, no! Well, of course you’ve not heard. Your Sir David’s quite the hero. He’d gotten old Dunnagan’s dogs in the dead of night and tracked the devil round the lake, met Gaston first and then the fiend head-on not long after he’d come out of that tunnel.

  “The Campbell tackled the brute to the ground and knocked him unconscious. Young Peter heard the ruckus and together they tied him up. David carried you up the ladder of the Home Guard’s tunnel himself. By the time Sergeant Foley and his men got there it was all over—crabbit they are that all the district knows of their secret tunnel! Had a few choice words for Josef and Gaston.” The doctor laughed. “You young Americans are alike—impulsive, won’t wait for anything or anyone. Foolhardy actions on your part, but brave; I’ll give you that.”

  “David carried me up the ladder?” Claire felt herself warm and wonder at the imagination.

  “Aye.” He smiled. “And all the way back to the car, then home to Bluebell Wood, stanching your wound with his shirt—which is likely what kept you in the land of the living. Quite the gallant knight, he was, and been worried sick for you. Wouldn’t let another spare him a step. I’ve only just convinced him to leave your side for a needed shave and a rest. Says he must speak with you the moment you open your eyes. He’ll be furious that you woke without him here.” Dr. MacDonald chuckled. “He’ll get over it, I’ll wager, as long as you mend. And you will mend, provided you don’t overdo and break open that wound. It’s that serious; do you understand me, Claire?”

  “Yes.” Claire sighed, content, now that everyone was safe at last, to lie back on her pillow. “I’ll be good, good as gold.” In truth, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Deep weariness pulled at her bones and weighted her eyelids.

  She was just drifting off when she heard David’s voice. “She’s awake! Claire! Claire—”

  But Dr. MacDonald shushed him, insisting, “Everything you have to say can be said later. There’ll be all the time in the world for sweet nothings. She’s going to make it.”

  “But I want—I need to tell her that—”

  “Tell her later, when she’s rested enough to know you’re talking to her.”

  Claire’s heart fluttered and she wondered what David wanted to tell her, what seemed so joyfully, manfully urgent. Somehow, even near sleep, she thought she knew. But sleep beckoned, and she slipped into dreamland, knowing that two men, good men who cared for her, watched over her.

  When Claire woke again, her head felt thick and her mind cloudy, her vision unfocused. It was daylight, and the blackout curtain had been drawn aside. Still, the room lay dim, indicating late afternoon. Claire drew a deep breath and noted that the pain in her stomach no longer pierced, but sat dull and unmoving. A good sign, I think.

  She squinted, then opened wide her eyes, taking in the familiarity of the room, wondering how long she’d slept, what day it was, what more had happened in her absence.

  The last she’d known, Dr. MacDonald and David were in the room. She smiled, remembering Dr. MacDonald’s words. What was it that David had so urgently wanted to tell her? David, who’d rescued her. David, who’d carried her home and sat by her bed until she regained consciousness. A small smile reached her lips, her heart imagining, hoping what he might say.

  Her door opened, and in walked Aunt Miranda.

  “Claire, darling!” Aunt Miranda smiled, her clouded eyes shining. “It’s so good to see you awake!”

  “Aunt Miranda.” Claire, quickly past the disappointment of not seeing David first, hardly knew what to say. Her aunt looked as if she’d aged five years. Could she have been that worried for her, or was this the evidence of Dr. MacDonald’s weeks of concern?

  “Raibeart said you were out of the woods, but that we should let you sleep as long as possible. I just needed to see you—to know you’re all right, and to give you a message from David.”

  Claire’s heart flipped.

  “He’s been called away—government orders.”

  Her heart plummeted. “When will he be back?”

  Her aunt sat on the edge of the bed and looked as if she might reach for Claire’s arm, but pulled back. “We don’t know. He didn’t know, but thought, from whatever his superior said, that it might be some weeks. He said he’d hoped to talk with you before going, but Raibeart ordered that we not wake you. I hope I didn’t wake you now.”

  “No, not at all.” Claire swallowed her disappointment. She also tried not to stare at her aunt’s hollowed eyes and cheeks, but pulled herself to a semi-sitting position.

  “Be careful of those stitches. Raibeart said you mustn’t pull.” Her aunt braced the pillow behind Claire’s back.

  “It’s better than I thought, though I’m not ready to run any races.” Claire grimaced.

  “I shouldn’t think so. Healing will take some time. You’ll have to be patient, even if that’s a bit foreign to you.” Her aunt half smiled.

  “I’ll mend. Dr. MacDonald said so.” Claire couldn’t keep her worries inside any longer. “But you . . . What’s going on? What does Dr. MacDonald say about you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She laughed but paled. Claire waited. “Has our good doctor been speaking out of turn?”

  Whether her aunt was miffed or not, Claire would not let the moment slide. “Something’s wrong, Aunt Miranda; it’s clear to all of us. I want to know what it is.” When her aunt pulled her shoulders back, Claire knew the conversation was not going to be easy.

  “I’m just a little tired; that’s all. Nothing that won’t ease now that you’re doing better.”

  “Don’t lay this at my door. You look terrible, and have for a month or more. You’re getting thinner by the week.” Claire could be just as demanding as her aunt.

  “Well, no one can say you’re free with your compliments.” But uncertainty swept Miranda’s eyes, and Claire knew her aunt was trying to decide how much to share.

  “Please . . . please tell me. Nothing can be worse than not knowing.” Claire reached for her aunt’s hand. This time Miranda hung on tight.

  “Can’t it?”

  “Whatever it is, please let me help you. We’ll face it together.”

  Miranda raised her eyebrows but would not meet Claire’s probing eyes. “I’m not sure I can be helped.”

  “Did Dr. MacDonald say that?” Claire felt as if an anvil had been placed on her chest.

  “No.” Miranda stood and walked toward the window, her back to Claire. “He wants me to go for tests . . . and possibly treatment. He wants me to go to London, to a colleague he believes might help me.”

  “You’re going . . . right?” But her aunt didn’t respond. “Please say you’re going.”

  “It’s not so simple, you see.”

  “No, I don’t see.”

  Her aunt’s shoulders heaved. She turned, knotting and unknotting her hands. “There are things I must do, things I must take care of here.”

  “What? Tell me. I’ll do them!”

  “You’re not to get out of bed—doctor’s orders!”

  “Promise me, the minute I get out of bed, you’ll go.”

  “There are no guarantees that he can help me.”

  “There are no guarantees about anything in this life except that it will end,” Claire pushed.

  “Precisely.”

  “But it doesn’t have to end now. Not unless that’s what you want.”

  Her aunt did not answer, but the uncertainty in her eyes frightened Claire beyond anything she could remember.

  “Please . . . please, Aunt Miranda. I love you. I need you. We all do. Promise me!”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  NOVEMBER’S WINDS swept the fells and lakes, bringing turbulent swells to the water’s surface. Robust clouds purpled the skies with sheets of cold rain. Autumn’s brilliant leaves turned rich auburn and deep, maternal gold. As the las
t leaves fell, swirling in snow-globe leaf showers, Remembrance Day came.

  Mrs. Newsome handed round the poppies for each member of the household and staff to wear to services. Claire must remain home in bed.

  But Lady Langford insisted on walking to the village church with the staff and family. She’d confided to Mrs. Newsome that though she’d not darkened its door since Christopher’s funeral, she wanted to go to church now. This, she said, might prove her last opportunity to stand for her beloved husband’s and son’s memory. She would not miss the somber service, would not forgo this opportunity to honor Gilbert and Christopher within her community.

  Mrs. Newsome understood, but such exertion on the part of her ladyship worried her. Claire had confided her conversation with her aunt, and Mrs. Newsome saw in Dr. MacDonald’s eyes that every day delayed drew his love closer to danger’s door. He’d begged and cajoled his Maggie to get on with the tests prescribed and pursue treatment. But it was Claire’s begging of her aunt to do all she could to live a long and healthy life that had at last turned the tide. She could not refuse the niece who’d nearly died protecting them all, who lived and breathed in her image.

  “I’ll go the Monday after Thanksgiving—wherever Raibeart recommends—if Claire is well enough,” Lady Langford had promised. Mrs. Newsome intended to hold her to it, and she knew Miss Claire would.

  All the children attended church that morning with both the vicar’s and the rabbi’s blessing, each kissing their fingers and touching Aimee’s mezuzah as they marched out and in the front door of Bluebell Wood—their own house of blessing. It was a day for unity, a day to remember those who’d fallen in battle for freedom, and a day to renew resolve for an uncertain future.

  Dr. MacDonald forwent his own pew to support the ever-thinning Lady Langford in Bluebell Wood’s pew, helping her stand, refusing to leave her side.