“Yes, we decided it might be best to remove my great-aunt from London for the time being.”
His lips stretched in a sympathetic smile before his gaze dipped to the cup of tea he clutched in his hands. “I’ve been thinking of retiring from London myself.”
“To Nettlestone?” I asked, mentioning his manor at the seat of his earldom on the Isle of Wight.
He nodded.
I hated to think of him alone and so far away, but then I remembered he had family who lived nearby. “Will you spend the upcoming holidays with your sister and her children?”
His eyes flooded with fondness. “Yes, I’ve missed them.”
I thought of the bright orange streamers he, as a fond uncle, had attached to his Rolls-Royce’s hood ornament. How in a way they had brought us together. Someday I hoped to actually meet that niece who had such a decorative flare, as well as her brother.
“I should apologize for last night,” he declared, the warmth suffusing his features fading to contrition.
“No, you shouldn’t,” I replied before he could say more. “You’re not the first chap to ever become inebriated.” I glanced at my husband. “And I imagine Sidney and I have both passed our fair share of nights zozzled. At least you had good reason to be.” I leaned forward to touch his sleeve gently. “But I do wish you’d shared how you were feeling. I know you men hate that rot—emotions and sentiments and whatnot. And I know we should have suspected you might be more unsettled than you let on. But I still wish you’d said something.”
Max reached out to set his cup on the table beside him. “Yes, well, I thought I was managing it. Until clearly I wasn’t.” His lips twisted self-deprecatingly. “That’s why I decided it would be best if I left London for a time. I doubt Ardmore is coming after me at the moment.”
My elusive nemesis had been quiet these past few weeks. Which only served to make me nervous. Perhaps that was his goal.
“Well, be careful anyway,” I cautioned him. “He has a habit of causing trouble where we least expect it.”
“I will. And thank you for collecting me last night.”
I brushed this aside. “If there’s anyone you need to thank, it would be Miss Lorraine. As I understand it, she saved you from being saddled with Lilah Turnbull as a wife.”
He winced. “I thought perhaps I’d imagined that.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then I shall send her a large bouquet.”
“Send her something more unique. She receives dozens of bouquets from her admirers every week. She already doesn’t know what to do with them.”
“Any suggestions?”
I considered the matter. “A book. I know she’s an avid reader of poetry. And she recently read and enjoyed The Scarlet Pimpernel. So perhaps the sequel. She mentioned wanting to read it before she saw the film.”
“If only her swains realized the key to Miss Lorraine’s heart is through verse and not roses,” Sidney jested.
“Oh, she receives plenty of poetry.” I scoffed. “Pages and pages of doggerel from young men who think themselves clever.” It was all I could do not to roll my eyes. More soberly, I turned back to Max. “You’ll contact us if you need anything, or if Ardmore gives you any trouble? I’ll leave you my parents’ information.”
“Yes, and I expect you to do the same.”
As we departed, I embraced him more tightly than when I’d arrived. I couldn’t halt the worrying sensation that I shouldn’t let him out of my sight. But he was a grown man, perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Most of the time. He wouldn’t thank me for it if he found out, but perhaps I should send his sister a letter and ask her to keep an eye on him.
Sidney followed me from the house, and we both turned our steps east on Curzon Street. “Back there, you sounded as if you had experience with such doggerel.” A teasing light had entered his eyes. “Did the young swains of Upper Wensleydale write you verse?”
“Only once. But I laughed at them and told them to send their poetry to Nellie May Sutton instead.” I grinned ruefully. “I’m afraid I wasn’t a very compassionate fourteen-year-old. None of the local boys tried it after that. But the lads in Malvern were a little more determined. There was a bit of a longstanding competition at Everleigh Court as to which girl could collect the most poems from her eager admirers.”
Everleigh Court was the distinguished finishing school located in the Malvern Hills where my parents had sent me to complete my education and attain a bit of a social polish. Tante Ilse had wanted me to go to the finishing school in Switzerland where the Rickenberg branch of my father’s family had attended for generations, but my mother had insisted upon Everleigh. It was where she had gone, and her mother before her. So she had decided that if it was good enough for them, then it was good enough for me and now my younger sister. At least then she could rely on a proper English curriculum.
Sidney jostled me playfully in the shoulder. “And you participated?”
I flushed. “I admit that at first I got a bit carried away.” The competitive streak in me had reared its ugly head, making me determined to trounce all the others. “But by my third year, it had all grown rather tedious and annoying.” I shook my head in bewilderment. “Except my sudden indifference only seemed to make the young men more eager. And no amount of rebuffing or small insults would put them off.”
He pulled my arm through his and leaned close to banter. “You won, didn’t you?” His eyes twinkled as if we were sharing a secret.
My nose wrinkled in aggravation. He was right. I had won. But I wasn’t about to admit it. “Men are strange.”
He merely grinned wider. “That we are. That we are.”
“Are you returning to the flat?” I asked as we approached the intersection with Queen Street.
“No, I’ve still a few matters to take care of. But I’ll be back in time to escort you and Frau Vischering to the cinema, as promised.”
“You know she’s asked you to call her Tante Ilse,” I needled good-naturedly.
“Tante Ilse, then,” he conceded with grace.
“Then I shall part with you here.”
We paused at the corner, and I arched up on my toes to buss his cheek.
“I’ll compose you some verse as I stroll,” he whispered into my ear.
I shoved him lightly and he laughed, backing away several steps as I shook my head. Then we strolled off in our separate directions, smiles stretching both of our faces, I imagined.
The day being a fine one, if a bit blustery, I elected to dawdle a short while in the garden at the center of Berkeley Square. But after ten minutes sitting on a bench in the weak sunshine, the chill drove me back to my feet.
I crossed to the north side of the square toward our building of luxury flats with Portland stone elevations, Neo-Grec detailing, and Parisian-style ironwork, only to be brought up short at the sight of my great-aunt’s maid speaking to a man on the pavement outside. She looked flustered and angry, her shoulders scrunched high around her ears and her arms crossed over her chest. At my appearance, the man ducked his head, preventing me from getting a good look at his features beyond his light hair and hat, and hurried away.
“Miss Bauer,” I murmured, careful not to draw undo attention to her being German by calling her Fräulein.
She spun about to face me with wide eyes that glistened with what seemed to be fright.
“Are you all right? Did that man hurt you?” I coaxed carefully. “Verletzen?” I translated in a soft voice.
She shook her head before speaking in halting English. “No, I goes good. I am not hurt.”
I glanced in the direction the man had retreated. “Did that man approach you? Was he pestering you? Belästigen?”
She didn’t seem to know how to answer this and so shrugged with one shoulder uncertainly.
I nodded, offering her an empathetic smile, and then gestured for her to follow me inside. She was a lovely girl, and I couldn’t imagine this was the first time she’d been im
portuned by a man, but it was likely the first time it had happened in a foreign country where the man spoke a different language than she did. And a foreign country that was decidedly hostile to people of her nationality.
I greeted Sal, our doorman, and the new man working as the lift operator—a former soldier from the looks of him. But of course, most men under a certain age were now former soldiers, so that was almost a given. I waited until we reached the corridor outside our flat before turning to the maid. “If that ever happens again, don’t try to talk to the man, just turn and walk away as quickly as you can. And if he won’t leave you alone, walk toward other people and yell, ‘Police!’ Do you understand?”
“Police,” she repeated, nodding.
“Yes, usually the word alone will scare them off.”
She nodded again, her amber eyes solemn behind her fringe of long eyelashes.
I wasn’t certain she understood entirely, but it seemed she comprehended enough. In any case, if she was going to remain here with my great-aunt, she was going to have to become more fluent in English.
Mrs. Yarrow opened the door to our flat then, probably having heard my voice in the corridor. Her gaze shifted from me to Bauer, hardening. I crossed to the bureau to set down my clutch and remove my gloves while I observed the two women. Bauer dipped her head and hurried past Mrs. Yarrow, whose spine was as stiff as the pikes on Tower Hill.
After shutting the door with a decisive click while her eyes remained trained on Bauer’s retreating back, Mrs. Yarrow turned to face me. “You need to keep an eye on that one.”
I set one wine leather glove down and began to work my fingers out of the other. “Because she’s German?” I replied coolly.
“That, and she has shifty eyes.”
“Shifty eyes?” Skepticism tinted my voice.
“Yes, I can tell she’s not telling the truth.”
“About what?” I asked, my patience growing thin.
“I don’t know.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not yet.”
“Mrs. Yarrow,” I stated, moving a step closer to her and lowering my voice. “I realize you find it difficult to . . . associate with Germans, especially since you’re still grieving for your husband. But in time you will come to understand that they have suffered just as much as we have from this war.”
A militant light flashed in her eyes, and I held up my hand to stop her before she could speak.
“I cannot rid you of your grief and anger any more than I can convince you of something you do not wish to be convinced of. And I certainly cannot make you like Miss Bauer. But I can demand that you be civil to her.” I knew she would never dare slight Tante Ilse, no matter her feelings about her. She was too good of a retainer for that. But Bauer was a different matter, being a fellow servant and a member of her own class.
Mrs. Yarrow’s face was flushed, her lips pressed so tightly together that they were turning white.
“We leave for Yorkshire tomorrow. You have but one more day to tolerate her.”
Her shoulders lowered, and some of the color drained from her cheeks at this reminder. But her outrage had not been assuaged entirely. “And after the holidays? What then? Will they be returning here?”
I frowned, my remaining tolerance of her feelings on the matter running thin. “I do not know, Mrs. Yarrow. We shall confront that later. In the meantime, the care and maintenance of the flat shall be your sole provision. Take a few days leave whenever you wish during the holidays. Just please, let me know when you decide to do so. That way we won’t be expecting you here. I’ve left my parents’ information in the top drawer of the bureau so that you can telephone if any messages or other matters arise that we must attend to. I’ve also left your holiday gifts there. You needn’t wait until Boxing Day if you wish to open them sooner.”
The last of her fury abated at this pronouncement. Perhaps it had been rather underhanded to mention the gifts now, but if she had checked the bureau drawer, she would have seen them anyway.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” she replied in her typically meek voice.
Which contrarily only served to irritate me more. Swallowing my aggravation, I sought some sort of smooth escape. “Have any of this morning’s purchases arrived?”
“Yes, I put them in your bedchamber.”
I nodded shortly and left her standing in the entry as I escaped to the refuge of my bedchamber. One glance into the drawing room as I strode by told me it was empty, so I assumed Tante Ilse must be resting. However, when I paused in the doorway to my bedroom, I found her lifting the packages from the counterpane, some of them wrapped in beautiful paper with colorful ribbons, and holding them up to her ear to shake them. Though by rights I should have been equally as exasperated with her, I found myself charmed and humored instead. How could anyone feel otherwise at the sight of a seventy-nine-year-old woman snooping in the Christmas presents?
When she looked up to find me watching her, she didn’t even have the grace to blush guiltily, but instead laughed. “I could never resist a pretty package with a bow.”
“Neither can Mother,” I replied, crossing toward my vanity, where I set my cloche hat. “Though she will strenuously deny it should anyone ever dare suggest such a thing.”
Tante Ilse smiled brighter. “I have always suspected that Sarah has a more playful side she is determined to crush.” She tilted her head to the side. “It is sad, really.”
I contemplated this as I shook my head and fluffed my hair to remove the crease from my bobbed curls caused by my hat. A dull ache began below my breastbone to think of my mother thusly.
“I like your hair so,” my great-aunt declared before reaching up to touch her own tightly restrained long white tresses. “Maybe I should cut mine.”
I smiled, crossing to the bed and pushing away some of the packages to sit beside her. “It is rather freeing not to have to contend with so much hair. And this new style of hat fits so much better.”
She reached up to touch my auburn curls, examining them in the sunlight streaming through the window. “Yes, I imagine it does.”
“If you’re serious, it would be better to have it done here in London rather than in the wilds of Yorkshire. I doubt the hairdressers in Hawes, or even Ripon or Kendal, are very skilled at bobs.”
When she didn’t reply, but instead seemed lost in her scrutiny of my hair, I thought perhaps she wished to ignore the suggestion. But then she grinned. “Yes, let’s do it. Is there still time?”
“I can telephone my hairdresser and find out if he can see you after the cinema.”
“Oh, yes! The motion picture.” Tante Ilse clasped her hands together. “I very much look forward to it.”
I felt a twinge of surprise at the tone of her voice. It was almost as if she’d forgotten our plans for the afternoon. But then I brushed it aside. It wasn’t as if in my own excitement I hadn’t ever momentarily forgotten something.
However, when we departed the cinema and I mentioned the hair appointment I’d managed to inveigle from Monsieur Brodeur, convincing him to squeeze my great-aunt into his busy schedule, she balked.
“Haircut? Oh, no, no. Of course, I cannot do that.”
“But Tante Ilse, earlier this afternoon you told me you wanted to bob your hair. You asked me to schedule the appointment.”
“Oh, no. I am sure I did not ask you to do that.” She seemed affronted by the suggestion. “Your hair is naturally charming, mein Liebchen. But I cannot cut mine. No.”
I glanced at Sidney in bewilderment. “Of course, if you’ve changed your mind . . .” I began more gently, but she cut me off, reverting to German.
“There is no mind-changing about it. I never said I wished to cut my hair, and that is that.”
I blinked in astonishment at the harsh tone of her voice while Sidney ushered us into a cab. It was then that I began to wonder whether my great-aunt’s mind was as reliable as it had always been, whether her memory was slipping. I wanted to push away the ugly thought, the dread it churned u
p inside me that she might be forgetting. Like my great-grandfather had—my mother’s grandfather. I had been twelve when he died, old enough to recall his anger and confusion, and the pain it had caused everyone else.
Sidney’s hand stole into mine, squeezing, and I welcomed the comfort, the clarity it gave me. There was no use jumping to conclusions. Perhaps Tante Ilse had merely felt embarrassed by her change of heart, and worried she would appear cowardly. Or maybe the weeks of travel in her already weakened state, and the chaos of London, had overset her.
Whatever the case, I was glad we were leaving for Yorkshire. If any place could soothe and steady my great-aunt, it was the quiet and bucolic beauty of the Dales. After all, she had no ghosts waiting there for her. Not like me.
CHAPTER 8
I had been battling a rising sense of dread since we departed the railway station at Garsdale in Sidney’s prized carmine-red Pierce-Arrow roadster, which he’d insisted be transported with us to Yorkshire. Sidney and Tante Ilse kept up a steady stream of chatter, but the nearer we drew to Brock House, the harder it became for me to focus on the conversation, let alone contribute. My mind was too preoccupied with surveying our surroundings, and beating back the memories that seemed to infuse every square inch of ground.
Late afternoon sunlight bathed the hills in soft light, both the bright greens of the lower slopes cultivated by the farmers, and the dark green heather at the summits of the fells. Dry stone walls bordered the road, just as they did everywhere in the Dales, crisscrossing their way over the landscape and up and down the uplands, sometimes in indecipherable patterns. Behind them, sheep lazily grazed on the hillsides. Here and there stood a gray farmhouse, or merely one of the distinctive field barns that dotted the landscape, stolid and grim. But for the most part there was nothing but hill and vale.
At the fork in the road, Sidney remembered to turn north without my prodding, taking the shortcut around the village of Hawes on the narrow lane that skirted Bellow Hill. The road climbed steadily higher, clinging to the slope above the River Ure, before the land evened out and we entered the hamlet of Hardraw. Here, Sidney had to check his speed and patiently wait for a hay wagon rattling toward us over the single-lane stone bridge that spanned Hardraw Beck. A pretty little stone church stood next to the beck amidst trees still adorned with a few late golden autumn leaves. Next to the church’s weathered lychgate, abutting the road, sat the unremarkable façade of the Green Dragon Inn.
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