MAY 1944
Alison stood on the chalet balcony outside her bedroom, watching the swans floating serenely beyond the tall reeds of the crystal-blue lake. How graceful they were. How free. While she was trapped, a pampered bird in a gilded cage.
Through the long winter, she had grown accustomed to the boundaries that barred her escape. The snow-blanketed mountain slopes, the ice-encrusted lake, the bone-chilling cold. Nature itself conspired against her.
Hearing a motor, she looked toward the winding drive that snaked between stands of firs. A flash of metal appeared as the vehicle maneuvered up the long road. Theodor was returning to the chalet, just as he promised.
Her nerves tingled with unease, and she caressed her rounded stomach as another contraction seized her. The baby wasn’t due for another two weeks and the pain, squeezing her abdominal muscles with a fierce compulsion, frightened her. When it ceased, she returned to her room. Sinking into an upholstered chair, she lifted her swollen feet onto the matching stool.
If only she were home, in the brownstone with Ian and Libby. She envisioned them reading together after dinner and Ian tucking Libby into bed at night. At the end of June, Libby would celebrate her seventh birthday. She must be getting taller, losing her baby teeth, speaking better English. And Alison was missing all of it.
A few weeks after her arrival, Theodor had given her the London newspaper announcing her tragic death. “The Brit believes you’re dead,” Theodor had said, unwilling ever to refer to Ian either by name or as her husband. “He will mourn you, and then he will meet someone new. But I will always be here for you, Alison. We will be together, as we were always meant to be.”
She had railed, threatened, even kicked and thrown things in those first days while Theodor stood calmly by, waiting for the storm to end. Eventually, they settled into a routine. He provided Alison everything she needed to restore The Girl in the Garden and now it proudly hung in the chalet’s main parlor, lit by gold sconces specially placed to highlight the painting’s playful subject and the vibrant colors of the flowers at her feet.
The studio he made for her was an artist’s dream and, after covering dozens of canvases with dark oils and angry shapes, she had returned to painting the light, bright watercolors she loved. Even in the midst of winter, she had sometimes bundled up and sat on her balcony with her easel and paints, delighting in the breathtaking scenery that surrounded her.
As the tides of war turned against Germany, Theodor’s absences had grown more frequent. Though she couldn’t pinpoint when it happened, she eventually realized she missed him when he was gone—and hated herself for it.
Another contraction squeezed her, and her heart seemed to beat in rhythm with the labor. She took deep breaths to ease the intensifying pain, refusing to cry out her distress. A strange kind of pop released a warm oozing against her legs.
Leaning forward, she tried and failed to push herself from the chair. Catching her breath, she tried again and took one cautious step after another to the bell pull. She yanked it, hard as she could, then sank to the floor as the most intense contraction she had yet experienced gripped her body. An anguished cry escaped her lips as the seconds slowed and she prayed for the pain to cease.
When the agony receded, her ragged breathing returned to normal, but another contraction followed close behind, a giant hand gripping her abdomen. The rhythm continued until, as she prepared for another onslaught of pain, her door opened. She moaned and footsteps hurried toward her.
“Alison!” Theodor knelt beside her and brushed her sweat-dampened hair from her face.
“The baby.”
“Go for the midwife,” he ordered the housekeeper who hovered behind him. She hurried out as he lifted Alison and carried her to her bed.
“Everything will be fine,” he said, but Alison heard the worry in his voice. The room shimmered in front of her eyes, a dizzying assault that threatened her with its mirage-like appearance.
“Ian,” she said, her breath expelling in a final burst before she closed her eyes to pain and sadness.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Ian shoved the chairs that usually flanked his fireplace against the hearth. “Your stage.” He gestured with a flourish toward the bare space in the center of the room.
“Perfect.” Marie Wyatt, as beautiful as her photograph, handed him a copy of the script for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “I appreciate this so much.”
“Glad to do it. So far, this has been one of the easiest assignments I’ve ever had.”
“Me too. So far.” She grimaced, and Ian knew what she was thinking. Only a week before, he had escorted her to a benefit ball where she had attracted the Spanish official’s attention, then coyly inflamed his interest by refusing to dance with him a second time. The Spaniard had sent her a dozen pink roses the next morning. Ian hoped she could slip into the part of mercenary ingénue as skillfully as she did Shakespeare’s Titania. For the vital role of temptress, she would have no rehearsals.
They had gone through several pages when a knock sounded at the door. Marie dropped her fairy queen persona and glanced at Ian, sitting at a small table near the flat’s window. “Should I get it?”
“No, you take a break.”
“Mind if I get some juice?” she asked, heading for the kitchen alcove.
“Help yourself.” He crossed to the door and opened it. Trish stood in the hallway, a forced smile on her face. Surprised that she had come to town without letting him know her plans, Ian felt his heart skip a fearful beat. “Is something wrong?” He looked past her. “Where’s Libby?”
“Nothing’s wrong, and Libby is at the estate. I just came up to see how you are.” She entered the flat and looked curiously at the pushed-back furniture. “What are you doing?”
“Rehearsal.” Ian glanced at Marie, her dark curls clasped at her slender neck, as lovely as ever. He had hoped to make it through this assignment without lying to Trish. With a deep breath, he held his hand out to Marie. “I want you to meet someone. This is Marie Wyatt. My sister, Trish Manning.”
Marie smiled warmly. “Ian has told me so many stories about the two of you. I feel like I know you already.”
Trish pressed her lips in a tight smile. “I wish I could say the same. Apparently my brother decided to keep you a secret.”
“Not a secret,” Ian said, trying to sound sheepish. “Just waiting for the right time.” He exchanged a quick glance with Marie.
“I should go,” she said, retrieving her purse and jacket from the coat tree. “Give you two a chance to catch up.”
“Will I see you later?” Ian asked.
“If you’re free.” She smiled at Trish. “It was nice meeting you.”
“You too.”
Under Trish’s glare, Ian gave Marie an awkward peck on the cheek. “I’ll call you,” he said as she left the flat.
Once in the hallway, Marie turned to him and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” He gave a slight shrug before closing the door and turning to Trish.
“You weren’t very polite.”
“I’m astounded, that’s all.” She pulled at her gloves. “What about Alison?”
Her words strangled his heart, and he scraped the wooden floor as he moved a chair to its proper place.
“Would you watch what you’re doing?” Trish grabbed the chair and shifted it slightly, causing another scratch.
“And would you leave Alison out of this?” He clutched the back of the other chair, intending to move it, too. But instead he simply stood behind it, fighting the waves of emotion that threatened to drown him.
“It just seems so soon,” she said softly.
“We’re not getting married, Trish. We’re just spending time together.” At least that wasn’t a lie.
“A wartime romance?”
“Maybe.” He moved away from her and plopped into the chair. “War affects everything.”
“It won’t last forever.”
“It already has.” That wasn’t a lie either. Peace could come
tomorrow, but a treaty wouldn’t bring Alison back.
“I’m sorry, Ian. It’s just hard seeing you with someone else. You’d feel the same if something happened to Mark and I showed up with a new man.”
“Probably,” he admitted. “But I wouldn’t want you to grieve forever. Or to never laugh again. You don’t know what it’s like to walk around with a heart that keeps beating because it doesn’t know it’s dead.”
Trish bent her head, and Ian stared into the empty fireplace. The mantel clock ticked off the seconds that stretched into eternity before he could speak past the lump in his throat. “Marie gives me life, Trish.”
“Do you love her?”
“I care about her. Very much.” And he wasn’t lying.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Waves of light and muted voices accompanied Alison’s return to consciousness. Dreamlike visions floated before her, vague memories of piercing screams, a calm voice urging her to relax, to breathe. Her parched throat scratched and her abdomen ached, but the agonizing contractions no longer gripped her. Burning with fever, she kicked at the sheets imprisoning her legs.
“Now, dearie,” said a soft voice with a heavy German accent. “Don’t want to catch a chill, do we?”
Alison forced her eyes open and saw Frau Mueller, her housekeeper, cook, and jailer.
“You want water, yes?” She offered Alison a glass and helped her sip the cool liquid, easing the dryness in her mouth and throat.
“Where’s my baby?” Alison asked, her voice weak and hesitant.
“I am sorry,” Frau Mueller whispered.
“I want to see my baby.”
Shaking her head, the housekeeper walked out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
The click of the latch sounded ominous in the silent room. Alison strained her ears, listening for an infant’s mewling cry. But she heard only the sound of the wind rustling through the alpine trees, the distant honk of a flock of geese.
Then the murmur of voices in the hallway.
With herculean effort, she freed her legs from the covers and eased her feet to the floor. Her entire body protested, and she braced herself against the headboard, willing the weakness to go away.
The door opened, and Theodor entered. The blood seemed to drain from his face, and he quickly reached her side and grasped her arms. “You mustn’t get up, Alison. It’s too soon.”
She flinched from his touch. “Where’s my baby?”
“Please. Get back in bed.”
“Not until you give me my baby.”
“Alison,” he said softly, gently. “There were complications. The baby . . . we couldn’t save him.”
The pain in her abdomen paled as Theodor’s words wrenched her heart. Her eyes pooled with hot tears. “Him?”
“Yes.”
Her son. She swiped at her eyes, her spirit turning to stone as she faced this latest sorrow. Was it not enough that her entire family had been taken from her? That her own husband believed she was dead?
Could she not have been given this one gift, the joy of holding her infant to her breast, to examine tiny fingers and toes, to love as she had never loved before?
“Where is he?” She tried to move past Theodor, but he held her arms. “I want to see him.”
“It’s too late. The midwife took him away.”
“If you had left me alone, taken me back to London . . .” She pushed against him, hitting his chest, wanting to hurt him. “I hate you. I’ll always hate you.”
“Alison, please. You’ll injure yourself,” he whispered, absorbing her anger until her heaving sobs caused her to collapse against him. He lifted her and laid her on the bed. Turning away from him, she curled up within herself.
He touched her shoulder, and she swiped at his hand. “Leave me alone,” she said between sobs. “Let me grieve for my son in peace.”
“Sleep, Alison.”
She barely noticed the muffled sound of his boots on the thick carpet as he left the room, closing the door behind him. Finally alone with her sorrow, her cries turned to an anguished prayer. Didn’t God know that she had renounced the Van Schuyler fate, banishing it as a superstition and trusting her future to Him? Was this the price she had to pay for loving Ian? For marrying him?
Not only had she been taken from her husband, but now her baby had been taken from her. Before she could even hold him in her arms, gaze upon his tiny face.
The cruelty was more than she could bear.
As hot tears swarmed down her cheeks and another sob tore from her throat, she pounded the mattress with her fist.
No more, God, her heart cried. No more.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
JULY 1944
Theodor bounded up the veranda steps, but Frau Mueller had the front door open before he reached it. “Where is she?” he asked, handing the housekeeper his hat and gloves.
“On the west balcony, sir.”
“Has she been eating?”
“Like a bird. I was about to serve the tea.”
“Give me a few minutes first.”
“Very good, sir.” She disappeared into the rear of the house.
Theodor entered the main sitting room and stared out the French doors leading to the balcony. From his vantage point, he could see Alison half-reclining on a chaise longue, her forearm over her eyes to keep out the afternoon sun. She wore a turquoise satin robe and a lightweight afghan covered her feet. Her blonde hair fell in ratty tangles below her shoulders.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She needed time to grieve, to get over the loss of the baby, but he hadn’t expected this kind of decline. For a moment, he was tempted to tell her the truth, but he waved the thought away. The baby was part of another life, her life with that British cretin who had stolen her away.
If only this war would end. The Allied invasion of Normandy last month had caught Hitler and his cronies by surprise. Heads had rolled, and Theodor enjoyed a stronger position than ever within the Nazi leadership.
Time. He just needed to be patient. Germany’s victory would come. And Alison would willingly join him at the top of the elite ruling class. Especially after he showed her the London newspaper he carried under his arm. A smart move on his part to have the dailies monitored for any mention of Captain Ian Devlin, the heir to Kenniston Hall. As if that lordship could begin to compare to Theodor’s own vast holdings. What was Alison thinking?
Hearing a rattling behind him, he turned. Frau Mueller, pushing the tea cart, hesitated.
“Bring it.” Theodor motioned, then opened the French doors and pasted a smile on his face.
Alison peered at him from beneath her forearm and slowly sat up.
“How are you?” he asked. “I hear you haven’t been eating.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said coldly.
“Frau Mueller is bringing the tea.” He turned as the housekeeper pushed the cart onto the balcony. “Come, Alison. Let’s sit at the table. I have something for you.”
She kicked away the afghan, and he noticed her feet were bare. He pulled out a chair for her and she plopped into it without looking at him. It was as if a troll had snuck in during his absence and replaced his lovely, well-mannered Alison with a common peasant.
Sitting across from her, he followed her gaze to the panoramic view. The breeze kicked up gentle whitecaps, and the graceful swans floated near the shore. He almost envied them their freedom from such cares as love and war.
After Frau Mueller poured the tea and disappeared into the chalet, he laid the precisely folded newspaper beside Alison’s dessert plate. “News from London,” he said, watching her eyes flicker with interest before she turned away.
“About the invasion?” The superior tone in her voice grated on his nerves, but he chose to ignore it. Let her have her moment. It would be brief.
“This edition came out before the invasion. Times of London. Saturday, May 20, 1944.”
She picked up the paper and read the headline. “‘America
n Actress to Debut as Titania.’ What does this have to do with me?”
“I thought you might be interested in her photograph,” he said carelessly, adding blackberry preserves to a freshly baked roll. He endured Alison’s irritated sigh and watched her unfold the paper, revealing the photograph of her husband with his arm around the beautiful, vivacious actress. Alison covered her mouth as she stared, seemingly unable to take her eyes from the picture.
“He was never good enough for you. This proves it.” Theodor reached for the paper, taking it from her shaking hand. “You’re upset. Let me read the caption for you.”
Glancing at the photo, he cleared his throat. “‘Miss Marie Wyatt, American actress, escorted by British Army captain Ian Devlin, starred at last night’s Moonlight Serenade Ball. The lovely actress and her handsome officer danced the entire evening together. We predict wedding bells will ring soon.’”
Alison folded her arms across her chest as if to shelter her troubled heart. Her lower lip trembled.
“You aren’t angry?”
“It’s been nine months,” she said, struggling to control her voice. “I can’t expect him to grieve for me the rest of his life.”
Her sadness tore at his heart, but he couldn’t let up now. Not if he wanted to break her ties with that Anglo-Saxon usurper.
“I believe a year is the customary mourning period.” He shrugged. “She has clearly enchanted your husband with her charms.”
“If he knew I was still alive, he’d have nothing to do with her.”
Gratified by the spark of anger heating her voice, Theodor thrust his blade into the Brit’s marital coffin. “Perhaps. But he may marry her.”
“That would be bigamy.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
“When I get home, he’ll know it.”
Theodor found her determination adorable, though misplaced. “And then he will have to choose.” He twisted the knife, wishing the blade was deep within the Brit’s flesh. “The wife he has mourned or the wife who now shares his bed. A difficult choice for any man.”
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