by Cathy Gohlke
Of all the gifts Bluebell Wood brings and of all the secrets it holds, the secret garden is my most precious offering. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know you found it in the first months you came.
Once I was miffed that you’d discovered my private sanctuary, but then I saw it as the natural order of things. Now, I am so glad to know it has proven a sanctuary for you, too.
While I’m able, I want to share its history with you.
The garden belonged to Gilbert’s parents. They cultivated it and built the walls around it in the last century. It was their private family joy. Sadly, I never knew them. By the time Gilbert and I married, they were gone. Gilbert introduced me to the garden as a new bride. It was our bower all the months he was home, and I named it our Secret Garden.
It was the first place Christopher’s baby eyes saw of the grounds at Bluebell Wood. We spent part of every day there that weather allowed, and each day I told my baby boy more about his father—every detail I could summon.
When word came of Gilbert’s death, the garden became my refuge. Sometimes the joy and beauty of the place, the intense memories of the love Gilbert and I had shared there, were like the ripping open of a raw wound. So I locked the world and everyone in it from the garden, and in so many ways, from my heart. There were times I was tempted to close and lock the garden altogether—even from Christopher and myself—but Christopher loved it so, I couldn’t bear to keep him from it. We kept it open until he went to Eton, at thirteen. And then I let the ivy grow over its walls and rarely visited.
I know Christopher found and created special places within the garden as a boy, just as I did over the years. You’ve discovered his tree. It’s good to know that the joy of something he loved so well goes on. How I wish you could have known him! You would have loved each other dearly.
No matter what happens in the days ahead, my dear niece, the garden is yours now—forever and always. You know where the key is. You may do with it as you wish. Know that it comes with my blessing, precious Claire.
All my love,
Aunt Miranda
Two days later, before Claire could absorb the gift of the garden and the love she’d so lavishly received, Dr. MacDonald telephoned from London. Claire, in turn, reported the news to the children at breakfast.
“Dr. MacDonald said that the surgery did not altogether stop the progress of Aunt Miranda’s cancer. Radiation therapy is needed—required—if there is to be any hope at all.”
“And will this—this radiation therapy save her life?” asked Peter, ever insistent to pin down details.
Claire knew they’d all learned to cope without Aunt Miranda, but more than ever each one wanted her returned to them. She desperately wished that she could sugarcoat the truth, that she could change the truth. Still, these were brave children, what Mr. Dunnagan called salt. She must not deceive them. “We don’t know. No one knows, and there are severe side effects from the prolonged exposure, especially since she’s now so weak. Dr. MacDonald said there are experiments being done with new drugs that might help, but they’re not well tested, and they hold great risk. He believes the radiation therapy in short bursts—shorter than the radiation doctor would prefer—is her best chance.”
“Then she must do it,” Gaston said stoutly.
“Will she?” Jeanine asked.
Claire saw the understanding in Jeanine’s eyes that Aunt Miranda may not want to live more of this hard life, not enough to risk more pain, more treatments, or the questionable results. She hesitated.
“She must!” Gaston insisted.
“The decision is hers, Gaston, not ours.”
“But she will do it for us, n’est-ce pas? She will do it because she loves us, because we love her!”
Claire hoped with all her heart that was true.
It was late. The children had hours earlier tumbled into bed, had been prayed over and tucked in for the night, and all who allowed it had been kissed on the forehead.
Claire waited up to listen alone to the wireless broadcast by President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill, as together they addressed the world from Washington, DC. She agreed with both men as they encouraged the celebration of Christmas as a day of happiness and laughter, especially for the sake of children in a “world of storm.” The prime minister implored listeners to “share in their unstinted pleasures before we turn again to the stern task and the formidable years that lie before us, resolved that, by our sacrifice and daring, these same children shall not be robbed of their inheritance or denied their right to live in a free and decent world.”
Claire turned off the dial and sighed. The year ahead certainly loomed formidable, and the futures of the children uncertain.
She pushed aside the sashes and hair ribbons she’d spent the last hour braiding for Aimee and Elise’s Christmas gifts. So little for each child this year, and all made from bits and pieces and scraps.
The shops were nearly bereft of gift items. Everything of practical use—from cardigans to writing paper—had been severely rationed. Food and goods had grown exorbitant in price, though having money wasn’t really the issue. Unless you were willing to buy on the black market, so many goods were simply not to be found.
Coping with the children and their growing fears for Aunt Miranda was difficult enough. Claire held her own desperate worries close to her heart, doing her best to maintain a brave face.
Letters from faithful Dr. MacDonald, who shared loving messages from Aunt Miranda, helped. Aunt Miranda had grown too weak to write since the surgery, which made her gift of the garden letter, written over many days, all the more precious.
David had been gone for weeks, sent off by the Sunderland flying boat factory who knew where . . . all covert in wartime secrets. She’d not seen or heard a word from him since just after Guy Fawkes Day, the day of his wonderful rescue of her, even though she hoped he knew Aunt Miranda lay in hospital from her letters sent in care of the factory.
She missed him, much more than she could ever have imagined. She wondered if he was too busy to write, or perhaps restricted from writing personal letters for security’s sake, or if he had formed some other attachment.
Claire swallowed. What if he has? What if David has found another to woo and love? As Arnaud turned to Josephine? She couldn’t blame him if he had. She’d never encouraged David, not enough to let him know how she felt. Love was such a frightening thing, such a surrender of control, such a baring of the heart.
Claire had survived the pain of losing Arnaud, had survived the betrayal of her friend Josephine, had even survived the rejection of her own father and the neglect of her mother. Now, with Aunt Miranda standing on the brink of eternity, Claire did not think she could face the loss of David, too.
And yet she had no control over this. None. Once, David had asked about her greatest fear and her greatest desire. Though she hadn’t formed the fear into words then, life without love, Claire now realized, was her greatest fear. Love and a place within a family were her greatest desires, had always been her greatest desires. And now she knew she wanted that with David, but was it too late?
She envisioned the years to come and saw herself standing gray-haired and alone—a perfect Miss Havisham from Great Expectations—in the midst of her secret garden, the door of her private sanctuary locked from the inside. The image made Claire shudder. The garden in every season was lovely, but standing in it, aging in it alone, was not the future she wanted.
According to Mr. Lewis, there was only One who could direct any real change in her life, in her being. According to him, she had important business to attend to before she could freely love others or freely receive their love. She pulled the letter from her skirt pocket—the letter she’d been thrilled to finally receive three days ago. She’d read and reread it, re-creasing its folds, keeping it close by, thinking about each and every line.
She’d asked Mr. Lewis about love and about Jesus laying down His life as a ransom for sin. That He
loved made sense to her, based on what she’d read in the Bible Aunt Miranda had given her, but could it really and truly apply to her? Could Jesus have died for her, could He love her in that way? Or was that exclusively some corporate and economical payment of justice—a life for a life? Would He include her in His sacrifice, in His love, if He really knew her? Didn’t she need to become better first?
Mr. Lewis had written as if there were no debate in the matter.
I think every one who has some vague belief in God, until he becomes a Christian, has the idea of an exam, or of a bargain in his mind. The first result of real Christianity is to blow that idea into bits. God has been waiting for the moment at which you discover that there is no question of earning a pass mark in this exam, or putting Him in your debt.
Such an awakened individual discovers his bankruptcy, and so says to God: “You must do this. I can’t.” Christ offers something for nothing.
We can’t do anything to deserve such astonishing happiness. All the initiative has been on God’s side; all has been free, unbounded grace. Our own puny and ridiculous efforts are as helpless to retain the joy as they were to achieve it in the first place. Bliss is not for sale, cannot be earned. Works have no merit, though of course faith, inevitably, even unconsciously, flows out into works of love at once. We are not saved because we perform works of love; we do works of love because we are saved. It is faith in Christ alone that saves us; faith bestowed by sheer gift.
The great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference. God loves us because we are a self, because He is love and that love pours out onto us . . . lavishly, as though God can’t help but love us—His creatures—and delight, despite our own worst selves.
Could that be true? It was easy to see how He would—could—love the children or David or Mrs. Newsome or Aunt Miranda. They were lovable. But Claire? And if He really did love her, why didn’t she know it, feel it?
At length Claire climbed the stairs, dressed for bed, and turned off the light, slipping beneath the covers of her bed. She stared into the blacked-out room, thinking more than praying. She wanted to sleep, to still the hammering questions and swirling storm of emotion. The clock in the downstairs foyer bonged one, then two. She listened to her own breathing.
In time, the surrounding darkness faded. In time, the outlines of furniture, barely visible, disappeared. In place of her room, she saw a pale-blue light reflected off of dense fog. A bell rang from some distant shore. She tasted salt air. Slowly, the fog dissipated.
Claire felt a slow movement beneath her, a movement that built to a sudden pitch. Her stomach rolled and flipped. Her fingers gripped like claws, intending to grasp the sheets of her bed, but the sheets had disappeared. Her bed became a small craft on a swollen sea—the craft smaller than Captain Beardsley’s fishing boat, the sea far more treacherous. Lightning flashed across the water. A stiff breeze blew from the west, rising to a turbulent wind—sweeping, tossing her higher, higher, then crashing her tiny craft down again into roiling waves.
Claire’s heart slammed against the walls of her chest. She and her craft took on water, began to sink, and she knew in her depths that her little boat, like all of her life, was out of control. In fear and desperation she cried out to the Lord. She cried, and He appeared.
Jesus stood at the helm of her small ship, both hands firmly grasping the wheel. He turned to face her and commanded, “Peace. Be still.”
And it was. The winds and the waves stilled. The boat steadied and the storm in Claire’s soul ceased.
Jesus gazed at her. He did not shift or flinch, did not turn away in disgust or indifference. And in those eyes, those wondrous eyes, she saw that He fully, truly loved her. Broken, fearful, angry, and despicable though she was—He loved her, and had died for her, too.
When Claire opened her eyes in the morning, her pillowslip was covered in tears—tears of relief and joy that had washed away stains and darkness and every form of despair she’d known.
Her circumstances had not changed one whit. Aunt Miranda still stood on the precipice between life and death. David was still far away, his feelings toward her unspoken and therefore unknown. The children stood in relentless need; there was no word regarding the fate of any of their parents. She knew nothing more of her father or even of her mother. Arnaud was dead, and Josephine—she knew nothing of Josephine. Claire had no idea how she and Mrs. Newsome would manage the children in the days and weeks and possibly years ahead. There was no end of the war in sight.
Her circumstances had not changed, but she had changed. Her mind, her heart had been transformed. She was free, unafraid, washed clean as never before. The words of a Scripture Lewis had written her came to mind: “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment.”
She’d long known that torment. But no fear in love? “No fear . . . I am loved.” Claire repeated the words aloud, noticing how they tasted on her tongue—like honey, or the freshness of spring’s first mint, or summer’s honeysuckle.
Claire thought of her parents, of Josephine, of all the burdens Aunt Miranda had carried these many years. How she wished for them the joy and lightness she felt this morning. How she wished they could see the love and peace and complete freedom she’d seen in her Savior’s eyes when He’d gazed into her own and taken control of her little ship, of her life.
Claire pushed the hair from her eyes and her eiderdown to the side. She planted her feet firmly on the floor and pulled aside the blackout curtain, allowing the sunshine of Christmas morning to pour into her room. She pulled out her best writing paper and took up her pen. There were important letters to write.
The first one began, Dear Mother. The second began, Dear David. The third began, Dearest Josephine, and the last, My beloved Aunt Miranda.
There was so much to tell, so much to share, so much to ask forgiveness for. There was even some to forgive. Beyond that, there was no time to lose, and none like the present.
Claire smiled, feeling a strong kinship to the reformed Ebenezer Scrooge on his first real Christmas morning. Her smile grew as she thought that someday all that had happened and would yet happen might make her own very good story, a great book.
Chapter Thirty-Five
MRS. NEWSOME poured the last of the precious cocoa and cream into Aimee’s breakfast cup, much to the astonished delight of the little girl. If Christmas Day was not the day to splurge on young ones, she didn’t know when it was.
Mrs. Newsome and Mrs. Creedle had done all they could to make Christmas as happy as possible for Claire and the children despite the incessant and ever-more-stringent rationing. Mrs. Newsome knew her ladyship would want that. Even so, it was difficult not to be a trifle vexed with all the comings and goings and secrets running rampant throughout the household.
Miss Claire seemed in a highly excitable and happy state when she’d shouted from the upstairs banister that she would not be down to breakfast. Mr. Dunnagan had stomped through the kitchen—most unprecedented—at an unearthly hour and claimed double his breakfast plus a thermos of tea. According to Mrs. Creedle, he’d wanted it all packed in a sack to take away like a picnic lunch—a breakfast picnic by himself on Christmas Day!
Mr. David had telephoned at the crack of dawn, saying he was back in the area and asking if he might join the day’s festivities, but please don’t tell Claire. And Dr. MacDonald—well, she could make neither hide nor hair of his cryptic telephone message, only that he might arrive at Bluebell Wood in time for the noon meal.
“The children remain the most orderly of the lot—and that is a highly unusual state of affairs!” she remarked to Mrs. Creedle, who was beside herself with trying to “knit together a Christmas banquet from a sow’s ear.” Both women threw up their hands and went back to work.
Shortly before breakfast ended, Claire appeared in the dining room, wrapped in her coat and muffler, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked
, with a smile ready to take on the world. Mrs. Newsome could tell she’d been crying, but they appeared to be happy tears. She couldn’t fathom what Miss Claire had to be so exuberant about, but it was a welcome change.
“Merry Christmas!” Claire cried, throwing wide her arms, as if to greet the day, the season, and all of life.
“Merry Christmas!” they all returned, glad in their faces to see Claire so cheerful, but clearly wondering at the mental state of their teacher and friend.
“I’ve a Christmas surprise for you.”
“Presents on the tree!” Aimee guessed.
Claire laughed. “Yes, there are treats hanging from the tree, but we’ll see those later. Don’t expect too much,” she cautioned. “War and hard times, and all that, you know. This is something else, something special, something lasting.”
The children laughed, surprised by her enthusiasm, her good humor.
“As soon as you’ve finished eating, put on your coats and boots—wrap up warm in mufflers and gloves! It’s freezing outside and we’re in for a march!”
“You’re taking these children hiking—this morning?” Mrs. Newsome gasped, horrified.
“The sun is shining, Mrs. Newsome. It’s a brilliant morning!”
“Six inches of snow fell last night. Most don’t have proper galoshes. Really, Miss Claire, I don’t think you ought—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Newsome. We won’t be gone long, and when we get back we’ll all snuggle up in the library by the fire. It’s well worth the trek; I promise.”
Claire breathed a prayer of thanksgiving as she kissed her fingers and ran them over Aimee’s mezuzah on the front doorpost—the first time she’d thanked God in full confidence for His love, His abiding care and blessing. Clasping Aimee’s hand, she led her merry troop over freshly fallen snow and toward the maze. Icicles hung from the eaves of the house behind them, sun glistened off the snow-covered treetops, and heavy frost draped the looming topiaries in an air of grandeur.