Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  “You can’t let it control your life. Don’t you see? It’s nothing but a superstition.”

  Alison stiffened. “A superstition? How can you dismiss it like that?”

  “Because I trust in God. He’s in control of our lives.”

  “I trust in God too.”

  “But?”

  Alison bowed her head and picked at a loose thread on her blanket. “I have no mother, no grandmother. And it was the same for you.”

  “Sometimes tragic things happen,” Meg insisted. “But we have long marriages in our genealogy too. Our family is not cursed.”

  “No.” Alison spat the word. “Not cursed. Only fated to live with broken hearts.”

  Meg sat ramrod straight in the chair, as if summoning resolve from a deep, internal well. “Even if the fate is true, you have already broken it. For the first time in three hundred years, the firstborn child in our line has not been a son. Unless your father marries again, the Van Schuyler line ends with him.” She looked down at her hands, as if unwilling to see Alison’s reaction to her next words. “In a way, it already ended with Hendrik, since your father changed his name.”

  Alison wished she could accept Meg’s rationale. What she said was true. For generations, the not-very-prolific Van Schuyler men had loved their women with a fervent passion that somehow cost many of those women their lives. But not until they had given birth to an heir, a blond-haired, gray-and-blue-eyed boy to carry on the family name.

  Her own grandmother, Hendrik’s wife, had died in childbirth. Adding to the tragedy, Hendrik had inexplicably placed the blame for his loss on the tiny shoulders of his newborn son, Pieter.

  Pieter crossed an ocean to escape the fate, and thought he had when his young wife surprised him with a daughter instead of a son. But even then, God had allowed the fate to snare him, leaving him a widower at too young an age.

  “She shall rejoice in time to come.” The ending of her Proverbs 31 verse slid into her mind, but she dismissed it. Weighed down with the tragic knowledge of her family tree, Alison couldn’t take the chance that she might be a rare exception. Not with Ian. For reasons beyond her understanding, he had entered her heart, and he’d always be there. But a life with him would only bring sorrow. She brushed an errant tear from her cheek.

  “I have something to show you,” said Meg, leaning forward. “If you’d like to see it.”

  Alison faced her aunt, intrigued by an unusual tone in her voice. “Of course.”

  Meg unclasped her gold necklace and fingered the delicately painted ivory pendant framed in gold filigree. She wore it often, though Alison had noticed that frequently only the chain remained visible against the back of Meg’s neck.

  “You’ve seen this before, I know,” said Meg. “But there’s something special about it. A secret.”

  “Tell me.”

  Meg slid the ivory sideways from its golden frame to reveal a miniature portrait and handed it to Alison. A dark-haired man with chiseled features stared back at her, his dark eyes shining with intelligence and charm.

  “Who is he?”

  “Someone I once knew. And loved.”

  Alison stared at her aunt, understanding flowing between them. “You gave him up.”

  “Yes.” Meg reached for the pendant. Her still-elegant features softened as she studied the portrait. “Because I was afraid for him.”

  “What happened?”

  Meg laughed strangely and looked toward the ceiling, then turned her attention to Alison. “He died. Sick and alone.” Tears glistened in her pale-blue eyes. “I didn’t save him from anything.”

  A giant knot pressed against Alison’s throat. She clasped her aunt’s frail hands. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

  Meg dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief and smiled weakly. “I advise you not to dismiss your lieutenant too quickly, Alison. Your heart will not allow it. Don’t you see this may have nothing to do with the fate? This could be God’s will for you.”

  Pained by her aunt’s question, Alison looked away and found her attention caught by a sepia-tone snapshot of her father as a young boy that she kept on her dresser. It showed him in a small rowboat on the canal behind the house, smiling brightly as he pushed forward on the oars. She’d found it in a neglected family album shortly after her arrival in Rotterdam. It comforted her to know he had once been happy.

  She glanced from the photo to her aunt and back again, sorting out her thoughts. Two paths lay before her. If she followed her heart, she risked enduring the heartbreak that had crippled her father, turning him into a grief-stricken widower who had pretended all was well for her sake until the sorrow grew too great and he fled. Or she could hide from her heart’s desire, as Tante Meg had done, and endure the sting of regret in her old age.

  She closed her eyes against a future fraught with loneliness. “I’m afraid,” she murmured.

  “I know,” Meg said gently. “But you mustn’t let fear rule your life.” She squeezed Alison’s hand. “Won’t you write to your young man? Let him know you’re all right?”

  Sorrow and exhaustion pressed against Alison’s chest, and the ache in her head spread across her temples.

  Not knowing what to do, it was best to do nothing. Alison shook her head. “I’m tired,” she said, easing beneath the covers.

  “I’ll leave you then.” Meg kissed Alison’s forehead and gathered the tray. “Sleep well, my darling.”

  Her eyes barely open, Alison watched her aunt leave the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

  She glanced at her father’s boyhood photo, then shifted her focus to the bouquet beside it. More roses from Theodor, she supposed.

  A third path suddenly opened in front of her. A safe path. Theodor.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SEPTEMBER 1939

  A couple of days later, Alison rested in the garden behind the house, a new sketch pad in her lap. A thick hedge bordered both sides of the narrow lawn, which sloped down to one of the wide canals that protected the city from flooding. The morning rays cast sunpennies upon the clear water. Her father’s boyhood rowboat, weathered gray by time and neglect, bobbed gently beside its narrow dock. She drew two jagged parallel lines, the banks of the canal, before dropping her hand to the paper, too lethargic to do any more.

  She had settled into a dull routine, finding respite from her troubled thoughts in long hours of restless sleep. When Theodor called, asking to see her before his return to Germany, she almost said yes. Though half-convinced that only he could provide her with a safe future, her heart held on to other hopes. She’d told Tante Meg that she was embarrassed for him to see her bandaged head. But the truth was much more complicated.

  At her insistence, Hendrik had placed the damaged Girl in the Garden on an easel in the parlor. Reclining on the couch the day before, she had stared at the injured painting. Its wound festered deep within her, tearing the scabs off long-ago pain of Mama’s death, Papa’s abandonment.

  Pushing aside her heartaches, she gripped the pencil, moving it first hesitantly, then feverishly across the page, shading a strong jaw and giving life to pale eyes.

  A sob caught in her throat as she stared at the finished sketch, and she scribbled heavy lines across the drawing.

  “Oh, Papa,” she murmured. “Where are you?”

  * * *

  Meg crossed the lawn to the wicker seating arranged near a trio of slender poplars. The sun glinted off the diamonds in her bracelet as she perched in a chair next to Alison. “Dr. Meijer is here to see you. He’s waiting with your grandfather in the parlor.”

  With a nod, Alison laid her drawing materials on the table between the chairs and started to rise, then fell back into her seat. Meg reached toward her. “Are you all right? I’ll get Dr. Meijer to come out here.”

  “No!”

  Stunned, Meg pulled back. Her hands fluttered, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her dove-gray skirt.

  “I’m sorry.” Alison met Meg’s shocked gaze, t
hen glanced quickly away. But not fast enough to hide a dark edginess in her eyes that Meg had never seen before.

  “I just felt a little dizzy; that’s all,” Alison said, clipping her words. “I’m all right now.”

  As if to prove her words true, she stood and smiled without warmth. “I don’t need any help.”

  Meg watched Alison until she disappeared into the house, then eased into the cushioned chair. Dr. Meijer, who came every day to examine Alison’s wound—and to sample Mrs. Brant’s freshly baked pastry over coffee with Hendrik—had reassured them that the gash was healing nicely.

  If only he could pull a cure for an injured heart out of that black bag of his. Meg sighed and picked up Alison’s sketch pad. She lifted the cover, expecting to see a new rendering of the handsome lieutenant. Instead, heavy black scratches marred Pieter’s likeness. Meg covered her mouth in shocked sorrow.

  In the past ten years, she had seen hundreds of Alison’s sketchings. But nothing like the raw outrage unleashed on this page.

  A wisp of anger curled within her. If she could get her hands on her nephew, she’d give him a tongue-lashing he’d never forget. How dare Pieter treasure his heartaches more than his own daughter?

  Hendrik had sent messages attempting to find his son. One to Geneva, where Pieter’s last postcard had come from, others to places he was known to frequent. But no one had any news of his whereabouts. The ungrateful scoundrel.

  They might not be able to find Pieter, but he wasn’t the only one who could lift Alison’s spirits. Meg turned to a clean page and, after a moment’s thought, wrote a message in her flowery hand. She found Brant in the garage, working over some kind of diagram, and hurried him to the telegraph office.

  With a self-satisfied smile, Meg made her way to the parlor. She opened the door and had the strange feeling of intruding upon a tableau. Alison sat in a corner of the couch, her feet tucked beneath her, while Hendrik and Dr. Meijer occupied the chairs. Both men resembled stone statues as they listened to the console radio.

  “What is it?” Meg demanded.

  Hendrik turned toward his sister, his expression grave. “Germany has invaded Poland.”

  * * *

  Mark slid the latest edition of the Daily Telegraph across his desk to Ian. “It’s begun.”

  Ian scanned the story, though it didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. The base commander had announced the grim news at morning roll call. Last night, according to German officials, Polish saboteurs had attacked a German radio station near the two countries’ shared border and broadcast a threatening message. Citing other border incidents, the German government claimed it was duty-bound to protect its citizens who lived in Poland by taking defensive measures.

  “Do you think Hitler was behind this?”

  “We may never know.” His brother-in-law shook his head. “I’m not sure it matters.”

  “Of course it matters.”

  “Only to the historians.” Mark leaned back in his swivel chair, hands clasped behind his head. He appeared relaxed, but deep lines puckered the corners of his eyes. “The consequences for this battalion won’t change. If Chamberlain keeps his promise to Poland, we’ll join the British Expeditionary Force. My guess is that our days here at the base are numbered.”

  Both the British and French governments had pledged support to the Polish Second Republic several months ago, after Hitler defied the Munich Agreement and invaded Czechoslovakia. Neville Chamberlain, the British prime minister, had signed the Polish-British Common Defense Pact only the week before, just two days after Hitler and Stalin formed their Nazi-Soviet Pact.

  Ian wandered to the window and spotted Browning leaving the administration hut. He faced Mark again. “Any guesses where we’ll be going?”

  “I imagine we’ll know in a day or two.”

  “You should send for Trish.”

  “I’d like to.” Mark took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. “But I’m not the only soldier here with a sweetheart he’s left behind.”

  “No special privileges for the brass?”

  Before Mark could answer, Browning appeared at the open door and held a slip of paper toward Ian. “A telegram for you, Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks.” Ian’s facial muscles tensed as he scanned the message, then read it a second time.

  Alison recovering from injury. Please visit us soon.

  Margarite Van Schuyler

  “From Trish?” Mark asked, his voice overcome with worry.

  “No, not Trish,” Ian said absentmindedly, studying the telegram again. His mind raced as he puzzled over the cryptic message. Margarite Van Schuyler, he reasoned, must be Alison’s great-aunt, the one she left behind in Paris. If her aunt was now in Rotterdam, then Alison . . . He refused to finish the thought. Whatever had happened to Alison, she was recovering.

  “What is it, Dev?”

  Ian stared at Mark for a moment, then blurted, “I need a pass.”

  “You just had a pass.”

  “It’s important,” Ian pleaded. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

  “We’re on the eve of war, Dev. Nobody gets a pass.” Mark rose from his chair and leaned against the front of his desk. “It’s the girl, isn’t it? The one on the train.”

  “Trish told you?”

  Mark gave a slight nod. “In that letter she sent back with you. I’m supposed to find out everything I can about her and send Trish a report.”

  The corners of Ian’s mouth lifted in a slight smile. That sounded just like his nosy little sister. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told her more about Alison when they were together at the estate. It was the not knowing, he decided. Not knowing if he would ever see Alison again, and wanting to keep her to himself for as long as possible.

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant.” Browning interrupted Ian’s thoughts. “The messenger is waiting in my office in case you want to send a reply.”

  Ian looked hopefully at Mark, who shook his head. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Something’s happened to her.” He handed over the message. “It’s from her aunt. Great-aunt, actually.”

  Mark examined the telegram. “Maybe you could call her. Browning, you can set up a call to Rotterdam, can’t you?”

  “Twenty-four hours,” Ian cut in. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  “You’re asking the impossible.”

  “Maybe not, sir,” Browning said nervously.

  Mark glared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Lieutenant Devlin could volunteer for diplomatic courier duty. A packet for our embassy in The Hague is on its way here now from London.”

  “How far is it from The Hague to Rotterdam?” asked Ian.

  Browning tilted his head in thought. “Twenty-five to thirty kilometers.”

  Ian snapped to attention. “Permission to volunteer, Captain.”

  Mark feigned irritation. “Who’s in charge of this mission, Browning?”

  “Major Ashcroft, sir.”

  “Permission granted,” Mark said, “on one condition.”

  “What’s that?” Ian asked, ready to agree to anything.

  “You tell me about this girl.”

  Ian grinned. “She’s beautiful.”

  “I assumed that.” Mark playfully punched Ian’s shoulder. “You realize that just because you make it to The Hague doesn’t mean you’ll get to Rotterdam.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  Mark reached for his hat. “Let’s go see the major, then.” He headed out the door, leaving the others to follow him.

  “Thanks, Browning,” Ian said, as they exited the office. “I owe you one.”

  “I just hope the major agrees, sir.” Browning’s face turned a slight shade of green. “Otherwise I’ll have to go. And I really don’t like to fly. Sir.”

  Ian chuckled and clapped the clerk on his back. He almost felt guilty that he had ordered Browning to clean Mark’s Scout. Almost.

  * * *

&nbs
p; Meg pushed the slender embroidery needle through the stiff tapestry, forming crimson petals from the silk thread. She had taken up needlework only a few years ago, to keep her fingers nimble, and found she had a talent for combining the colored threads to create subtle depth and texture in her completed pieces. Not that she was surprised. She was a Van Schuyler, after all, though more interested in fashion and textiles than in musty Old Masters.

  Afraid of missing any news updates, particularly on the British response to Germany’s aggression, she had the console radio tuned to London’s BBC station. The current program played a selection of classical music that she found soothing on this long and difficult day. Dr. Meijer had left hours ago and Hendrik had disappeared with Brant after a quick lunch, leaving the gallery in Monsieur Duret’s capable hands. Alison, her anger seemingly softened by worry, either napped on the couch or stared out the window. She slept now, but fitfully, as if disturbed by her dreams.

  The telegram, addressed to Miss Margarite Van Schuyler, arrived shortly before dinner. Meg feared Ian couldn’t come see Alison, not after the morning’s disastrous news. But she hoped that his telegram would somehow ease her niece’s troubled spirit. Her hands shook as she removed the thin, folded paper from its envelope.

  Reading the short message, Meg gasped with surprised delight. Unless his superiors ordered him otherwise, Ian hoped to be in Rotterdam late tomorrow afternoon. Meg arranged to send a welcoming reply before settling once more with her needlework, the telegram carefully folded and tucked in her embroidery bag. A secret from Alison, in case Ian’s plans changed and he couldn’t come.

  On the couch, Alison stirred and her eyelids twitched, but she didn’t awaken. Meg glanced from her niece to the painting on the easel. Pieter’s masterpiece. A fine painting to be sure, but Meg had never liked The Girl in the Garden. To her, it symbolized Pieter’s wanderlust, first to America and now to wherever his feet took him. And her own role in his heart’s tragedy.

  Gazing at the portrait with its gaping wound, Meg understood why the damage affected Alison so deeply. The bullet had killed her beautiful mother all over again.