“And, Penn?”
Her friend turned on her heel and quietly said, “Yeah, Sera.”
“Tell them he’s innocent. They’ll want to know that.”
It hurt now to recollect the doubt that was so quick to overtake Penny’s features. She’d looked sorry, almost sad that Sera had made a mistake in marrying William. But she didn’t think of it that way. Sera had doubted once, when they’d found the painting that was the key to his family’s inheritance. Her heart hurt now to admit that she’d doubted him before and she’d been wrong. So wrong. She couldn’t do that to him a second time.
Sera pushed the memories away.
No. We can’t focus on the worst-case scenario.
Her thoughts had been laced with prayers, all night even, as she made phone calls and waited to hear confirmation that he’d be released. But the call never came. One night stretched into two. Then three. And while William’s lawyers fought to get him released on bail, his family was pulled into a bond hearing.
Sera had been forced to watch as her husband was led into court the next Monday morning, shackled and in an orange prison uniform, to answer the charges brought against him. It was like a dream, as if she were living someone else’s life. And she’d held her breath for the longest of moments after the innocent plea was entered, waiting to hear whether the judge would rule Will would come home.
And so she waited now, with every muscle tensed, when the back doors moved. They parted in the center and finally opened. The tension eased ever so slightly on a sigh of relief. William’s tall form emerged in a wrinkled suit, his oxford unbuttoned at the collar and the jacket swung over his shoulder.
The instant she saw him trotting down the concrete steps, Sera burst from the vehicle and ran up to meet him. He dropped his suit jacket to the ground as she jumped up and threw her arms around his neck. Sera couldn’t care less if someone did catch a glimpse of their reunion; it was enough just to know she could hold him.
William looked down at her jeans, Converse sneakers, and white cotton tee and whispered, “The last time I saw you, you were in a beautiful dress.”
Sera shrugged. “Who needs a wedding dress at the courthouse except a bride?” She lifted up on her toes to plant a welcome kiss on his lips. “Me? I’m already happily married.”
“Happily?” he chided, and looked around them. “Here?”
She joined him in looking around at the buildings, still partially hidden by early-morning shadows. “Well, I admit I’d have thought of a dozen more charming places to spend a honeymoon. But at least here I’m not alone.”
They looked at each other then.
It was a quiet, breezy morning. And though making light of the circumstances didn’t seem the best thing, they’d hastened to reach each other so quickly that now, in the midst of the stillness, they didn’t exactly know what to do except stand together, embracing, without the necessity of words.
“You’re not alone, Sera. And you never will be again—not if I can help it.”
“I know, Will.” She ran a hand over the collar of his shirt, absently trying to press some of the wrinkles out. He caught her hand, cradling it in his own.
“Sera.” He closed his eyes for a moment and inclined his head toward hers, meeting her forehead with his. “You have no idea how sorry I am.”
“You don’t have to be,” she countered, shaking her head against his. “It wasn’t your fault. We knew this could happen. Your lawyers had already warned us that an indictment could be handed down. I just wish I’d gone to law school instead of spending so much of my college years trekking around museums. Maybe then I’ve have a clue as to what they’re talking about with these charges.”
“But you should have had better for your wedding,” he added. “For your life. You don’t deserve any of this.”
Sera cupped her hands on the sides of his cheeks and looked him in the eyes. They were dark blue and cloudy. Ashamed maybe, but full of vulnerability nonetheless. She felt compassion that the events of the last few days had knocked him to his knees. It was there, in his eyes, in the concern melted over his features.
“And you don’t deserve it either. We’ll fight this, okay?”
William nodded, albeit reluctantly, then stooped to pick up his jacket from the ground. Sera took it from him, brushed off the fabric and swung it over one arm, then laced her fingers with his.
“Lincoln called me with an update right after the bond hearing to let me know when you’d be released. He’s been working on the case personally since you were brought in. I don’t even think he’s slept.”
William raised his eyebrows. “Old Stahlworth called you himself?”
“Even in the middle of the night when he’s had to.”
“You wouldn’t think a partner would keep such hours.”
“He said you’re his most important client.”
A mocking chuckle escaped his lips. “That’s because his most important client is almost always the one who finds himself in the most trouble. And I think the temperature of the water under my feet is set to boil at present.”
“I was so relieved the bail hearing went in our favor, especially after they read over the list of charges. I wondered if he was having doubts that it would go our way.”
William shook his head. “Not a chance. Lincoln Stahlworth is worth his weight in gold. He’s one of the only men I’ve ever met who could outwit both my father and my grandfather. If there’s a challenge out there to be met, I assure you—he’s first in line to conquer it. He’s assured me we have a good case.”
“At least he’s on our side and you’re coming home because of it.” Sera leaned into him, laying her head on his shoulder as they walked back to the car. “So what comes next?”
“Let’s forget it for now.” Will looked at the golden signs of dawn that peeked through the early-morning clouds. “Let’s have one morning together where we don’t have to think about this. I’d like to get a good, strong cup of coffee and blot the last few days from my memory if I can.”
“Are you sure? We have to start planning your defense.”
He shook his head. “Not today. Not on the first day we’re together as husband and wife.” He lifted her hand still laced with his and kissed the inside of her wrist. “The charges will keep. I assure you—this mess will still be here tomorrow, and the day after that until we’re back in court.”
“But you’re innocent. I can’t believe anyone would suspect you of something like this. How can they possibly think to pin this on you?”
“I should have gotten out of this company long ago,” he mumbled, raking his hand through his hair. “And I have a sinking feeling that your husband may have been a rather trusting fool when he stepped into the shoes of the former CEO.”
She stopped and stared back in his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“There’s only one man on the planet who can make heads or tails of this,” he offered on a frustrated sigh. “He may be estranged from the family, but the lawyers are going to insist that I speak with my father.”
CHAPTER FOUR
April 15, 1940
The Daily Telegraph
Fleet Street, London
I’m looking for a . . .” A gentleman entered the room, glanced down at a scrap of paper in his hand, and looked back at the few ladies sitting in the waiting area. “Miss Kateřina Makovský?”
Kája looked up, summoned from the copy of Vogue magazine she’d been mindlessly leafing through for the last hour. She raised her hand.
“Yes, I’m here.”
The man was tall, with blue eyes that smiled in greeting when he spotted her from across the room. He shoved the scrap of paper in his pocket and nodded.
“Good. We found you.”
He was more casually dressed than she expected for an office environment; no tie, unbuttoned gray pin-striped vest, and white shirt sleeves rolled up on his forearms. His hair was even mussed a bit, having curled around the ears instead of being parted and
combed back like she was used to seeing on the men of London.
Kája stole a look down at her prim navy suit, wondering if that and the pearls she’d worn would have her sorely overdressed for her first day on the job. But if she’d be out of place, he didn’t seem to notice. She dropped the magazine on the chair opposite her and stood, then did a quick sweep to press the wrinkles out of her navy skirt as she crossed the room. She stopped in front of him, accepting the hand he extended in greeting.
“Not waiting too long, I hope?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
He inclined his head toward the newsroom and held the door wide so she could step through.
“Follow me then.”
Kája did and found a stark contrast to the quiet waiting area she’d been sitting in for the last hour. The other side of the door boasted a flurry of activity. Typewriter keys hummed. Phones rang incessantly, over one another. People passed by every which way—gentlemen in suits, ladies in dresses—all chattering on and seemingly without notice that a new employee had been brought into their midst. It was business as usual—a chaotic busy they all seemed quite used to.
He ushered her through the crowded hall, talking loudly over the noise.
“I’m Liam Marshall—one of the reporters assigned to the war beat, whom you’ll be supporting.”
Kája followed along behind him, taking in the bustle of the scene as they walked.
“I admit I’m not the usual candidate for an office tour guide, but we find ourselves down several secretaries at the moment, so there you have it. It was either I show you about or make you wait another hour or so. I know it’s stuffy in that waiting room—at least they open the windows on pleasant days like this, right?”
“It was quite all right, sir. Thank you.”
Mr. Marshall ducked past a young man with speed in his feet and a rather large stack of files teetering in his arms. He placed a hand out to move her to the side, then continued walking when the young man had scurried past them.
“Don’t worry about the ‘sir.’ Liam suits me fine around here. We don’t hold many pretenses, as you can see. Everyone rolls up their sleeves when there’s a newspaper to get to print. Remember that we’re all in this together and you’ll get along smashingly.”
Kája hated to imagine what her mother would say if she were to dare address a man by his Christian name, and possibly, he by hers. It wasn’t at all proper, at least not in the way she’d been brought up. Kája made a mental note to call him Mr. Marshall instead of Liam, and to try to be casual about it when doing so.
“And you come to us from where?”
“Oxford,” she said, stopping short of adding her habitual “sir” at the end. It was going to take some effort to break herself of her mother’s long-ingrained habit.
“I’m sorry?” he nearly shouted behind the shrill ringing of a telephone nearby. He leaned in closer.
“Oxford,” she repeated, lifting up on her toes to raise her voice to his ear. “I transferred there to finish up the last year of my master’s studies in English.”
“Did you now? Well done.” He paused, tilting his head to the side as if his interest was piqued. “Do forgive me, but that’s not an Oxford accent I hear, is it?”
“No,” she answered, surprised by his casual tone, and notched her chin a shade. “It’s not.”
“So you come to us by way of . . . ?”
“Prague, originally.”
“Prague? My goodness. You are far from home. But you must have family in England?”
She shook her head. “No. I stayed with family in Palestine last summer before continuing my studies in England. I’m just here until—” She stopped herself from blurting out, “Until I can find a way back home to Prague.”
Thank goodness. That could have been disastrous.
She thought it better to avoid familiarities about the fact this job may only be temporary for her. England, and The Daily Telegraph with it, was simply a means to an end that would take her home. She glossed over the fact that she’d spent the last year separated from her parents, who were still back in Prague, and Hannah and Jacob, who’d managed to stay with family in Palestine.
The topic of her Jewish heritage was left out altogether.
“Well, that is . . . with things so uncertain back east, it’s not easy for a writer to secure a steady position. I’d hoped to find something at home but it just wasn’t possible.” She cleared her throat and continued only after she felt sure she’d given a somewhat sturdy answer. It was believable, but barely. “So here I am.”
“But there’s a war going on back east, isn’t there?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“And yet you find yourself here, where war looms as well.”
Up to that point, he’d seemed only casually interested. But her one-word answer seemed to have stirred up something other than the anonymity she’d hoped. He nodded. And smiled, as if sated for the moment.
“We are fortunate, then, to have such an academic in our midst. No doubt you shall give the rest of the office chaps a run for their intellectual money.”
“I’m not certain I wish to run against anyone, sir.”
She almost winced when the formality of the final word popped out of her mouth like clockwork.
“Is that so?” A smile tipped the corners of his mouth. He didn’t comment further, but he looked as though the retort had struck a nerve somewhere.
“I know I haven’t quite got the knack for a British accent just yet, but I’ll keep working on it.”
“Fair enough,” he added, and held out a hand to the hallway ahead of them. “After you, of course.”
The moments that followed passed by in a whirlwind.
They breezed through the newsroom at a feverish pace. Kája’s heels clicked along behind him as they wove around desks, passing by endless file cabinets and too many bustling office boys to count. He took her to a smoke-laden switchboard closet and introduced her to a bevy of ladies, most of whom seemed to show passing curiosity for a new girl until they received their next inbound call. He then took her to the mail room and for a turn past the office kitchenette (should she require a mid-day cup of tea). Their tour finally came to a stop in the back of the large newsroom, behind a sea of desks occupied by the paper’s bustling reporters.
“And your desk is right here.”
Liam paused long enough to clear an armful of folders and papers that had been strewn across the desk. It looked like a stack of crossword puzzles, of all things. He swept them up in his arms, used his elbow to rub at a cup ring on the oak surface and, with a smile, presented it to her.
“Sorry about that. I’d been using the empty space,” he offered. “But then, here we are. Your new home at The Daily Telegraph.”
Kája looked over the desk.
It was oversized and made of sturdy oak. There was a desk lamp, the kind with a wide brass base and double shade of green porcelain. The desk boasted drawers that appeared deep for filing and the overhead lighting was surprisingly bright. And for how the newsroom bustled with the endless cadence of typewriter keys and ringing phones in the background, it appeared a rather quiet corner of the office. It could be called charming even, with a large wall of oversized windows that allowed the sun to bathe the area from mere steps away.
Kája felt a smile press over her lips.
“It’s all right, then?”
“Yes.” She nodded, genuinely grateful. “Dobře. It’s good, thank you.”
In fact, it was better than good; it was near picture perfect.
“Oh, if you’re wondering about a typewriter,” he added, tucking the files under his arm. He turned back to her. “They’ve ordered one for you. It should be here straightaway. If I know Edmunton, he won’t want his secretary to go without one for long.”
Any smile generated by the pleasant desk dropped off her lips immediately.
Secretary.
The word burned at the writer in Kája’s heart.
“I’m sorry? Did you say ‘secretary’?”
“Yes.” He tilted his head slightly, eyeing her with an eyebrow raised. “Is there a problem?”
“No. Not at all,” she rushed out, holding up a hand in caution. With office jobs scarce, the last thing Kája wanted to do was appear ungrateful for any opportunity, even if there was a mix-up in the hiring process. She had to admit she’d felt an immediate letdown though, when she considered the likely level of pay for a secretary. “It’s just—I’d interviewed for and been taken on as a copy-editor. I was told to report here today. Am I in the wrong place? On the wrong floor, perhaps?”
“Classic,” Mr. Marshall mumbled, giving a hint of an apologetic smile, and shoved his hands down in his pockets. “Then they didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what, exactly?”
“Not only are you in the right place, Miss Makovský, but you’re looking at all we’ve got as far as an opening is concerned. The job is for a secretary to our rather stodgy old senior editor,” he said, and inclined his head toward the glass-walled office opposite them.
A middle-aged man was shut up inside it, quietly it seemed, until he picked up a phone and yelled something to the poor soul on the other end of the line.
Kája flinched.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but that would be Herbert Edmunton. Your new boss.”
She didn’t move for a moment.
“I think there’s been some mistake.”
“Quite right.” He stood tall, arms folded and files tucked against his chest, looking back at her with regret evident upon his face. He nodded agreement. “I can see how this might be distressing to you. I, for one, wouldn’t blame you in the least if you saw fit to walk out that door at this very moment. You wouldn’t be the first secretary to do that after one day.”
Kája swallowed hard. “The last secretary quit after one day?”
“Secretaries. And it was within a week.” He grimaced. “But what does it matter? We have a copy-editor from Oxford here now. And given the fact that she’s already had the grand tour and her desk is cleared off and everything . . .” He pulled out the wooden swivel chair and patted the back with his palms. “Why not give it a try? What’s the worst that could happen?”
A Sparrow in Terezin Page 5