Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  “Please allow me to make some amends. For Alison’s sake.”

  “Do you have the power to bring Göring to justice?” Hendrik threw the words over his shoulder, a challenge that Theodor didn’t have the power to accept.

  “The painting needs repair. Allow me to arrange it.” He moved closer to Hendrik. “As my gift to Alison.”

  Hendrik turned, his bristling glare fixed on Theodor and his voice rising in anger. “That painting is a Van Schuyler. And only a Van Schuyler will restore it.”

  Theodor stepped backward as the swirling tension in his stomach hardened into a tight ball. He swallowed his own anger, vowing to remain polite despite Hendrik’s stubborn insistence on blaming him for Göring’s actions. “I meant no disrespect. If you will excuse me, I’ll take my leave now.”

  Hesitating in front of the parlor door, Theodor glanced at Hendrik, who faced the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “She will recover?”

  “Yes,” Hendrik said, bowing his head as if in prayer.

  Theodor nodded, though he didn’t know to whom. Grabbing his hat from the foyer table, he quickly left the house. Once outside, he gazed up at the second floor and wondered if any of the front windows belonged to Alison’s room. Somehow he had to find a way to see her, to let her know how much he loved her. Hendrik couldn’t keep her away from him forever.

  He climbed into the backseat of his Mercedes and instructed the chauffeur to drive to Amsterdam. As the car carried him past vegetable farms and emerald-green meadows, he leaned back and closed his eyes, suddenly tired of the intrigues and falsities thrust upon him by his position and his ambitions. If only he could persuade Alison to run away with him, perhaps to a secluded villa in Italy or a quiet Greek village. He shook his head slightly. Such daydreams were not for him. His birthright determined his destiny, and he would gain the power he craved, whatever the cost.

  A week ago, he had admired a Rembrandt landscape at a gallery located in the historic heart of Amsterdam. A perfect gift for Göring, who—Theodor huffed—at least knew that artist. Such extravagance should smooth over any lingering doubts in Göring’s mind as to Theodor’s allegiance. If he could persuade Hendrik to sell him Diana the Huntress, then he would give it to Göring too. Let Göring think it came from the Van Schuylers as a gesture of peace and goodwill. Neither Hendrik nor Alison need ever know.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The tinkling music box notes filtered through the fading darkness of Alison’s consciousness, inviting her to leisurely wakefulness. She lay still, eyes closed, till the tender melody ended. Blinking several times, she fought against the heaviness of her lids. As she struggled to keep her eyes open, the shadows of the dim room sharpened into her dresser, her cheval mirror. She glanced at the miniature lighthouse on her nightstand. “Remember me.” The words flashed into her memory, followed closely by an onslaught of images. A soldier and a boy. Cherry scones. A fountain in a park. Her heart breaking as she waved good-bye. Ian.

  “Play it again,” she whispered.

  “Hello, dear.” Her great-aunt’s soft voice cradled her in warmth. A cold compress settled on her forehead.

  “Tante Meg,” she said, sounding hoarse. “When did you get here?”

  “The day before yesterday.” Margarite Van Schuyler sat on the edge of her niece’s bed, clasping Alison’s hand in her own. “We’ve nicknamed you Sleeping Beauty.”

  The corners of Alison’s mouth turned up in a slight smile that stretched her chapped lips. “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday.” Meg dipped a cotton cloth into a tumbler of water and patted Alison’s mouth. “Do you feel like sitting up? Just enough to sip some water?”

  “I’m not sure.” She pressed her fingers against her aching head and felt stiff bandages. Her eyes closed against a rush of disjointed impressions, and her body jerked as she relived the bursting glare and searing heat that had driven her into darkness. But not before she had seen a scarred birch tree, a slashed figure.

  “Papa’s painting?” With a deep sigh, she opened her eyes and searched Tante Meg’s gently wrinkled face for an answer.

  Meg shook her head, but her gaze stayed steady. “Time enough later to worry about that painting. Now’s the time for you to get well.”

  “Theodor tried to stop me.”

  “A good thing, too.” Meg’s voice betrayed a rare flash of anger. “You must promise me that you will never do anything so foolish again.”

  “Does Papa know?”

  “Your grandfather is trying to locate him.”

  “The news will break his heart. All over again.”

  “You little darling.” Meg smiled affectionately. “Your father will want to know about you, not his garden girl.”

  Alison nodded agreement, but in a secret place deep in her heart she wondered if that was true. Her father would die to protect his masterpiece; how could she do anything less? A century from now, their lives might be forgotten. But not The Girl in the Garden. She would live forever upon her canvas, smiling at her admirers, wordlessly inviting them into her world.

  “Theodor comes almost every day. The flowers are from him.” Tante Meg pulled back the drapes and the afternoon sun brightened the room. Alison’s eyes widened at the colorful bouquets of lilies, tulips, and roses that adorned practically every surface. “Your grandfather didn’t want you to have them. He’s quite angry with the count. But I overruled him. Do you mind?”

  “No.” Alison shivered as the memory washed over her again. “He couldn’t have known this would happen.”

  “Of course not.” Meg gazed out the window, deep in thought, then seemed to make up her mind. “There’s something else.” She slid a yellow piece of paper from Alison’s nightstand and handed it to her. “A telegram. It arrived Saturday afternoon.”

  Alison’s heart raced as she quickly read the brief message.

  Alison, must know whether all is well with you. Yours, Ian.

  “Did you send a reply?”

  Meg shook her head. “How could we, not knowing the circumstances? He’s a stranger to us.” She picked up another item from Alison’s table, a smoothed-out napkin. “Though I’m guessing this is a good likeness.”

  Alison’s cheeks warmed as she took the sketch from her aunt and traced the penciled outlines with her finger. “We met last Thursday in London. At the train station.”

  “What would you like me to tell him?”

  “Nothing. I . . . I can’t.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “You know why not.” Alison spoke as if each word were a delicate thing, easily broken. She stared at the miniature lighthouse, her eyes clouded with unshed tears.

  Meg followed her gaze and picked it up. “He gave it to you?”

  “Yes.”

  Meg pressed the recessed button and smiled slightly as the music played again. Handing the lighthouse to Alison, she softly exhaled. “He is the one.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Alison nodded anyway, her eyes downcast.

  Meg’s cool fingers lifted Alison’s chin so their eyes met. “You should sleep. I’ll tell your grandfather you’ve awakened and ask Mrs. Brant to prepare a broth for you.” She walked toward the door.

  “I won’t see him again.”

  Her aunt turned back. “Sleep now, Alison. We’ll talk later.”

  After the door closed, Alison read the telegram again. Ian had sent it Saturday afternoon, just hours after the incident. How could he have known? She twisted the bedcovers, clenching her hands until her knuckles turned white. How could he possibly have known?

  * * *

  Mud splattered Ian’s face as he belly-crawled under multiple strands of low-hung barbed wire. After a strenuous run across the Army base’s rugged landscape, he almost enjoyed this part of the obstacle course. Except for the mud in his eyes. And the burn in his legs.

  After clearing the last row of wire, he scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the final hurdle, a trio of knotted ropes against a high wooden wal
l. He grabbed the middle rope and climbed hand over hand, his boots rhythmically hitting the boards. At the top, he pulled himself over and dropped to the ground. Pausing just long enough to take a deep breath, he raced toward the flagged pylons marking the finish line.

  “Move it, Dev!” Captain Mark Manning held a stopwatch and paced next to the pylons. His khaki cap covered ginger hair and shaded serious green eyes. The instant Ian ran across the line, Mark clicked the watch.

  Hands on his hips and breathing heavily, Ian headed back toward Manning, both his commanding officer and brother-in-law. “Well?”

  Mark frowned. “Next time, I’ll take the long weekend pass, and you can stay here and train.”

  “It couldn’t have been that bad.” Ian snatched the watch and read the time. Almost five minutes shy of his record. Without a word, he handed back the watch and began the long walk to the barracks.

  “You can ride with me.”

  “I’m a muddy mess.” Ian flung the words over his shoulder without breaking his stride. A motor revved, and a moment later Mark pulled alongside in his Scout, slowing to a crawl.

  “Get in, Dev.”

  Ian ignored him, even though his limbs ached. Sweat dripped from his forehead, trickling streaks of mud into his burning eyes. The walk would be a self-imposed punishment for his poor performance. He kicked a stone and watched it skitter in front of him.

  Tires squealed and Ian stopped short as Mark sharply turned the Scout and braked in front of him. “I gave you an order, Lieutenant.”

  For a long moment, the two men stared at each other.

  Ian glanced away first, the glint in Mark’s eyes suddenly reminding him of that long-ago day in the caves—the day his older brother had disappeared within an eddy and Ian dove headlong into the pool after him. Mark, recognizing the danger—and the futility—of attempting a rescue, dove in too, and pulled Ian out. “Go get help,” Mark had shouted above Ian’s thrashing sobs, pinning him to the cave floor. “You go. I’ll search for Steven.”

  Back then, the fierce glint in Mark’s eyes had compelled Ian to obey. Ever since that tragedy, Ian had claimed his brother’s best friend as his own. But he hadn’t told Mark about Alison. Not yet. With each day that passed, their time in London felt more like something he had dreamed. If only she would answer his telegram.

  Without looking at Mark, he climbed into the Scout.

  Mark shifted and punched the accelerator. “What’s bothering you, Dev?”

  “I’ve had better days, that’s all.”

  “Agreed.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, with Ian chastising himself for allowing his concern about Alison to interfere with his duty. Losing a few minutes on a military obstacle course was inexcusable, but wouldn’t get him killed. A lack of concentration in the heat of battle, though—that could be deadly. His men deserved his best, and he’d let them down by not giving his full attention to the task at hand. It wouldn’t happen again.

  Mark parked the Scout and Ian opened the latch, then hesitated. “I’ll run it again tomorrow,” he said. “Ahead of my squad.”

  “The squad is scheduled for 0700.”

  “Then I’ll be there at 0600.”

  “Find yourself another timekeeper.”

  “You’ll be there.” Ian gave him a sidelong glance. “You always are.”

  Mark let out an exaggerated sigh. “Then 0600 it is. Now go clean yourself up and get this mud out of my Scout.” His slight smile undercut his stern expression. “That’s an order, Dev.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ian performed a quick salute and headed for his quarters.

  He was almost to the door when someone shouted his name. He turned to see Browning, the unit’s pale, gangly clerk, waving at him from the administration hut.

  “Special delivery package for you, sir. You need to sign for it.”

  Ian’s heart quickened, but he quickly squelched the hope that the package was from Alison. At least, he tried. Hope bubbled up despite his best efforts. He jogged to the hut, his legs miraculously healed from their earlier agony.

  After he scrawled his name on the mail log, Browning handed him a square parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Ian eagerly scanned the return address and his heart sank, then lifted again with curiosity. Abraham Talbert, Esquire. It could only be Josef’s uncle. Ian smiled to himself, remembering the young violinist and his impromptu concert. Which carried his thoughts once more to Alison. If not for Josef, Ian wouldn’t have met her. “I owe you one, little man,” he murmured.

  “Excuse me, sir?” said Browning.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Ian said sheepishly. “Just talking to myself.” He was almost to the door when he remembered something and turned back. “Captain Manning’s Scout needs cleaned. Especially the passenger seat. Take care of it, will you?”

  “Me, sir?” Browning practically squeaked.

  “I don’t see anyone else in here.” Ian gave a jaunty salute. “That’s an order, Browning.”

  * * *

  After a hot shower, mostly spent scrubbing the mud out of his hair and ears, Ian put on a pressed uniform and sat on his bunk with the package. It had been sent to Kenniston Hall, then forwarded to him here. He cut the parcel’s string with his pocketknife and removed the thick brown paper. Inside the box, he found a collection of homemade biscuits, assorted Swiss chocolates, and an ivory envelope affixed to a smaller package. He popped a chocolate in his mouth and slit open the envelope.

  The letter, typed on matching stationery and bearing the letterhead of the Talbert law firm, thanked Ian for his “kind service” on Josef’s behalf and asked him to accept the package as a small token of the Talbert family’s gratitude.

  The sketch of you and Josef at the train station is now framed and hangs beside his bed. He prays for you and the “lady artist” every night. Please do us the favor of expressing our gratitude to her as we lack the means to do so ourselves.

  We trust you will do us the kindness of accepting our services on your behalf should an opportunity arise in the future.

  May God keep you and protect you.

  With warmest regards,

  A distinctive hand had signed the letter in broad strokes. It seemed that Josef had found a safe and loving refuge away from his home. Ian opened the second sheet of paper and chuckled. Josef’s drawing showed a boy waving good-bye from a train window. On the platform, two figures waved at the boy. His signature and the date filled the lower right-hand corner.

  The package contained two slender boxes. Ian’s name was inscribed on the one wrapped in gold, and Alison’s name adorned the silver-wrapped box. Unwrapping his present, he found a gold Montblanc fountain pen, monogrammed with his initials. He twisted the barrel to reveal the nib and wrote his name on a scrap of paper. The ink flowed across the page as he wrote Alison’s name beside his own.

  Without knowing it, Abraham Talbert had performed a great service for Ian by sending Alison’s gift to him. Now he had another excuse—no, not an excuse, a reason—to get in touch with her. Not that it did much good if she didn’t reply.

  Ian spent the next several minutes writing letters to Josef and Abraham Talbert. With those ready to post, he dated a clean sheet of stationery.

  Twenty minutes later, Mark appeared at his door. “Ready for supper?”

  “I suppose so.” Ian glanced at his letter. Dear Alison was as far as he had gotten. He put the writing materials away and straightened his bunk. Grabbing his hat, he and Mark headed for the mess hall.

  “The Scout looks great,” Mark said. “Better than I expected. Thanks.”

  Ian grinned broadly. “Anything for you, Captain.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alison’s mouth watered as she inhaled the soothing aroma of the hot beef broth. Bits of celery and carrots floated in the delft-blue soup bowl. She blew on a spoonful, then let its flavor warm her throat. “It’s delicious.”

  “Mrs. Brant will be pleased.” Meg drew the armchair closer to the
bed and settled into its cushions. “All our menus for the next several days revolve around ‘Miss Alison’s’ favorites.”

  “Good. I’m hungry.” And tired, but she didn’t want Meg to know that. Hendrik and the doctor had awakened her about an hour earlier. The doctor had left after examining Alison’s wound and applying a fresh dressing, but eventually Meg had to shoo the pacing Hendrik out the door. Then both Mr. and Mrs. Brant had popped in to fuss over their “little miss.”

  Meg entertained with idle chatter while Alison ate her broth. She scooped the last bit of carrot and swallowed the final spoonful, then leaned back into her pillows with a satisfied sigh. The sharp ache in her head had lessened, and the new bandage felt lighter against her skull. The bullet had grazed her temple, the doctor had explained, leaving unsaid how fortunate she was to have lost only a narrow swath of hair.

  “How did you meet him?” Meg’s quiet voice floated in the space between them.

  Alison concentrated on the soup bowl’s pattern, utterly fascinated by the scene depicted within.

  “Please tell me.”

  “There was a boy. At the train station.” Alison exhaled, then related the whole story, growing more animated as she told her aunt about how Ian had stood up to the railroad official and how she had missed her train, about tea at Minivers and the secluded park.

  “He sounds like a fine young man.”

  “The finest.” Alison blushed and glanced at her aunt with a sheepish smile.

  “I’m sure he is.” Meg picked up the sketched napkin. “He’s obviously concerned about you. Won’t you answer his telegram?”

  “I can’t take the chance.” Alison focused her attention on the twilight sky outside her window. The sun had already passed below her vision, but it colored the early-evening sky in pinks and yellows.

  “You’re worried about the fate.”

  Alison nodded, unable to speak past the growing lump in her throat.