Heathersleigh Homecoming

by Michael Phillips

  “Don’t worry,” said Gretchen cheerily. “You will understand in time.”

  Amanda didn’t understand yet. But if she had decided to trust this woman, she would do so immediately.

  Ramsay ran into the waiting area of the Milan station.

  A quick glance about revealed no sign of Amanda. He ran to the ticket window.

  “I just arrived from Verona,” he said. “When was the last departure west?”

  “The westbound to Turin has not left yet,” the man answered. “The two trains join here in Milan.”

  “When does it leave?”

  “Not for another thirty minutes—on platform four.”

  Already Ramsay was making for the train. Within minutes he had talked the conductor into allowing him on board.

  A thorough search of every coach, however, did not turn up Amanda anywhere. He descended back onto the platform, now more confused than angry. What could have happened to her?

  He would keep watch, he thought. She must be hiding somewhere, waiting for the last moment to board.

  Behind him on an adjacent track, the northbound train for Switzerland ground into motion and began to pull out. Absently Ramsay turned and glanced toward it. For a fleeting moment the horrifying idea struck him that maybe he was mistaken about Amanda’s destination.

  Just as quickly he dismissed the thought. He turned around again, wondering if he should search the Turin express again.

  In one of the windows of the northbound behind him sat a certain Swiss woman on her way home from a visit to her sister in Milan. Had she observed the young man stewing about on the platform trying to decide what to do, she would have had no idea that he was searching for the very one she was now doing her best to make comfortable beside her.

  Spread out on the seat between them were a few simple sandwiches, which looked to Amanda like the very bread of heaven. For once in these last two days Amanda’s attention was not drawn outside. Neither of them ever knew, in those few fateful moments, how close to each other they had been.

  Seconds later the northbound was gone.

  Ramsay Halifax, meanwhile, stood alone in Milan on platform four more mystified than ever.

  By the time he began walking back into the station, however, the temporary detour of his mood into perplexity was well on its way back toward rage once again.

  12

  Alpine Waking

  Amanda awoke to bright sunlight streaming through the window. Outside she heard birds chirping and someone singing in the distance.

  She lay for a long time warm and contented, not eager to creep out from the depths of the heavy feather bed. The cold on her face told her that to rise meant leaving this pleasant warmth for an icebox. And inside the bed, it could not have been cozier. How long was it since she had felt such a sense of comfort and safety?

  At last she rose, quickly put on the thick robe and slippers from the stool beside the bed, and walked to the window. The sight that greeted her eyes was something no amount of preparation or foresight could have led her to expect. Spread out and sloping nearly straight up before her stood the most spectacular peaks of grandeur imaginable, dazzled with the purest white and reflecting the morning’s sun here and there with blinding shafts of brilliance. She stood awestruck for several long moments.

  She had known they were going to Switzerland. In some vague way she supposed there would be mountains. But she had been too exhausted to conjecture about the matter further.

  She had, of course, heard of the Swiss Alps all her life. She knew they were rugged and topped with snow. She had even seen photographs. But nothing could have readied her for the fantastic reality of seeing them so quiet, so white, so solemn, so powerful—and so close she could almost reach out and touch them!

  Two or three women were outside working and walking about. Amanda watched for several minutes, beginning to wonder what kind of place she had landed in.

  Slowly she dressed with the clothes that had been given her the night before and put on a shawl, a deepening sense of wonder stealing over her, reflecting back on last evening’s arrival. Dusk had descended as they rode by wagon the last thirty minutes up a steep, winding road. If the mountains had been visible as they went, she had not noticed them. After their arrival she met several women whose names she had already forgotten. It quickly became a blur . . . the light meal, the kindly reception, the hot bath, the fresh warmed nightgown, and finally losing herself in the depths of the wonderful bed.

  Not sure what to expect, she left the room and timidly went downstairs.

  “Good morning, Amanda!” sounded Gretchen Reinhardt’s voice.

  Amanda turned to see her new friend from yesterday approaching from the large fireplace.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes . . . yes, actually I slept very well,” replied Amanda. “I feel like I slept through half the morning.”

  “Not quite,” laughed Gretchen. “It is only a little after eight. Are you ready for some breakfast?”

  “That sounds good—thank you.”

  The woman who had befriended her in Milan led her across the expansive room into the adjoining kitchen area where heat from the cookstove turned the kitchen into an oasis of warmth in the middle of the chilly morning. Another woman was working at the bread counter kneading a large batch of dark brown dough.

  “You remember Sister Hope,” said Gretchen.

  “Oh . . . yes—hello,” said Amanda.

  “Good morning, Amanda,” replied the other, turning to face them. “We are delighted to have you with us. Let me welcome you again. You looked so tired last night, I doubt you remember much of what was said.”

  The friendly woman cast Amanda a warm smile that seemed to come from her very heart. She was an inch or two taller than Gretchen and several years older. Her thick black hair, tending somewhat to disorder simply from its mass and quantity, was now about half grey and fell loosely from her head almost to the shoulders. The somewhat long face framed by it was accented by pronounced high cheekbones and a solid, angular chin. Overall it was a look of strength, though the eyes of dark grey hinted at reservoirs of sadness which might be capable of overflowing in tears. The smile, however, dominated the rest of the face’s features, radiating the joy that comes from having encountered life’s hardships and emerged a victor in the contest. One able to perceive beauty in age might have called her look graceful, perhaps even stately, though not brought about by earthly circumstance. A few wrinkles graced the edges of eyes and mouth, adding a luster of maturity to the overall countenance. Her frame, though not bulging, was solid, even rugged, and was clearly acquainted with hard work.

  She approached. “Excuse my hands—I’ll try not to get flour on you.” She embraced Amanda in a warm hug, energetic yet gentle.

  “Sit down, Amanda,” said Gretchen. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, please . . . thank you.”

  Several minutes later the two who called each other Sister Gretchen and Sister Hope sat down with Amanda at the large table. In their midst had been set several platters containing all the thick brown bread any of them could possibly eat, fresh butter and cream, cheeses and jams, some crackers, a variety of sliced meats, a large bowl of yogurt, with a steaming pot of tea and soft-boiled eggs on their way.

  Amanda ate more than she would have thought possible and drank three cups of tea. It was so relaxing and the food so simple and wholesome that she found her appetite greater than she realized. Conversation flowed freely, and Amanda found herself quickly at ease with the two women.

  “Sister Gretchen has told me a little of your story,” said the older of the two, whom Amanda had by now begun to assume was in charge of this place, whatever it was. “She said you were trying to get out of Italy so that you might return to England.”

  Amanda nodded as she set down her cup of tea.

  “I am embarrassed to say,” she replied, “that I got myself involved with some people I shouldn’t have. They called themselves
the Fountain of Light, but it took me some time to realize that light was the last word I would use to describe their influence on me.”

  “There are many who use words such as light and truth,” remarked Sister Hope thoughtfully, “but not nearly so many who live by their principles.”

  “I came to the Continent this past spring,” Amanda went on, “having no idea what was going to happen. I thought I was just going on holiday, accompanying an older lady as her companion. As it turned out, I did not go back to England with her as I had planned. I really wasn’t thinking very clearly, because these people, I learned only recently, turned out to be a spy network. Unfortunately, by then—”

  Amanda stopped abruptly and glanced away. She wasn’t ready to go so far with personal honesty and self-exposure yet as to tell them about Ramsay. She didn’t want to talk about him. She didn’t even want to think about him.

  “Let me just say,” she continued after taking a deep breath, “that when I finally woke up to what I had allowed myself to become involved in, Europe was at war and I was in Austria. I realized I was in danger and suddenly was very afraid. So I looked for an opportunity, and when it came I ran away from the house where these people had their headquarters, or so I assume, and took the first train out of Vienna that wasn’t going to Germany.”

  Amanda fell silent. It seemed like such a long time had passed. In fact, she had only escaped from the house on Ebendorfer Strasse three days ago.

  “Where did you go?” asked Sister Hope after a moment. “Vienna is some distance from Milan.”

  “Trieste,” replied Amanda. “From there I managed to get into Italy. That’s also where I realized I had been followed, and I was terrified all over again. I don’t know what I would have done if Gretchen hadn’t befriended me,” she added, glancing toward her savior of the day before with an uneasy smile.

  Why was she being so talkative all of a sudden? Amanda wondered to herself. And with almost total strangers? Yet there was such a difference here from the house in Vienna. She had felt it immediately last night, though they had arrived after dark. Everything about the place seemed to exude openness and acceptance.

  And, strange to say, light.

  The house on Ebendorfer Strasse, where they talked about light, was so filled with darkness. Even as she thought back to Vienna now, the house itself, with its long interior corridors and pulled drapes and hushed conversations and unfriendly looks, was chilly and foreboding.

  The moment the sun came up this morning, blazing into her window off the snowy mountains, she knew she had come to a place of light indeed.

  She hadn’t been able to define it back then. But the moment she and Mrs. Thorndike had arrived in Vienna she felt like a stranger in the midst of strangers. It was a peculiar, dark, ominous place. Ramsay’s mother had told her to think of it as her home. How could she have been so foolish and blind? What in the world had she been thinking? Or had she been thinking at all! After being gone from Ebendorfer Strasse only a few days, the whole bleak experience was already beginning to fade into a fuzzy blur of nonreality.

  She felt more at home here after less than twelve hours than she had ever felt there. Or than she had felt during her three years with the Pankhursts in London, for that matter. Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughters had warmly welcomed Amanda into their home, but Amanda had eventually realized that their kindness had far more to do with her value to them in promoting their cause of women’s suffrage than in what she meant to them personally. Disillusioned by the women’s movement, and feeling used and betrayed by the Pankhursts, she had left their home two years ago and had had no contact with them since. Somehow this quiet place in the Alps was different. She knew she could trust these women. She knew she was among friends. She felt more at home here than anywhere but—

  Again she stopped herself. That was another avenue of thought she was not anxious to explore at present. Sister Hope’s voice interrupted Amanda’s thoughts.

  “Well, my dear, you are welcome to stay with us as long as you like,” she said. “Many people have discovered themselves refreshed and invigorated for life’s battles here among the Alps. I pray it will be such a time for you. Some stay for a day, others for a week, still others a year. However we can be of help and encouragement, it will be our privilege to do so. When the time comes that you feel you should continue on, we will do all we are able to help you get back to England. Our one desire and prayer is to serve you.”

  “I . . . thank you,” replied Amanda, taken aback by the forthright statement. “I don’t know what to say. Nobody has ever said anything quite like that to me before.”

  Sister Hope smiled. “Perhaps not,” she said.

  “What do you mean . . . serve me. Serve me . . . how?”

  “We all have needs that the Lord wants to attend to within us. To the meeting of that need—and whatever ministry of service it involves—we are dedicated.”

  “But . . . what a remarkable thing,” said Amanda slowly, in almost a bewildered tone. In truth, she was barely able to make much sense out of the words.

  “Such is the purpose of the chalet,” added Sister Hope.

  “Is . . . is there a cost for my staying?” said Amanda. “Is this . . . some kind of hotel or guesthouse? I’m afraid I have very little money.”

  Both women laughed with delight. It was a laugh of pure pleasure with which Amanda took not the slightest offense. How could she? The laughter was so merry and gay that after a second or two she found herself joining in at her own unintentional joke.

  “No, my dear Amanda,” replied Sister Hope after a moment. “This is just our home, isn’t it, Sister Gretchen?”

  “Are you really all sisters?”

  Again laughter filled the kitchen.

  “Only in the Lord,” replied Sister Hope. “Every one of us came here originally without the slightest thought of making it our home. Now we are pleased to be able to offer our hospitality to all who come, even as many of us arrived originally, as strangers. Our guests are truly our guests. There is no cost.”

  “But how do you . . .”

  “How do we afford to open our home in this way?”

  Amanda nodded.

  “The Lord makes provision.”

  “Do you have . . . jobs?”

  “We make things. We sell cheese. And as I say, the Lord makes provision.”

  Amanda reflected for a moment.

  “I still don’t know what to say,” she said at length, “other than thank you. You are very kind and generous.”

  11

  Messrs. Crumholtz, Sutclyff, Stonehaugh, & Crumholtz

  The morning’s light drizzle had gradually turned into something heavier.

  As Bradbury Crumholtz walked along the cobbled avenue under his black umbrella back toward his office, the gentle rain falling on the cloth-domed roof above him made him pensive, as it often did. Solicitors dealt in facts, of course. His profession had forced him to be more pragmatist than philosopher. Yet his was a far more reflective nature than either father or uncle, from whose combined shares he had inherited sixty-three percent of the firm that twice bore his name, appearing as bookends on the sign painted in black and gold on the window looking out upon the heart of Exeter’s business district.

  The will he had just read—to the silent stares and sniffles of a small room of black-clad mourning nephews and cousins and aunts and one very aged great-great-grandmother—had put him in an even more somber mood than usual. He did not know the family, longtime residents of the city. Yet the mere setting unnerved him.

  He did not like reading wills. It was an aspect of his duty he would just as soon do without. Probably not unlike officiating funeral services for those of the clerical profession, he mused. He wondered if ministers and vicars and priests enjoyed their death-business any better than he did his. He ought to ask one sometime.

  The two ideas—the will executed by his firm, and curiosity concerning thoughts of ecclesiastics at funerals—gradually merged in
his mind as he turned onto High Street. How exactly the progression of ideas followed one upon the other he could not have said. But before long he found himself thinking about the old woman from the country who had visited him several days ago with her strange business.

  He had drawn up a will for her too, although he yet had a little more research to do into the legalities of the terms specified on the deed, to see whether she indeed possessed legal right of bequeathal in the peculiar affair. He had thought of her on and off ever since and had not been quite able to get her out of his mind.

  Why did memory of her visit strike a clerical chord of recognition in his brain? Something had been gnawing at him, something he seemed to be forgetting out of the distant past . . . something important.

  The old deed with its peculiar terms . . . yes, there was a bishop involved. That must be the connection between clerics and wills that set him off on today’s rainy, philosophical ramble.

  Clerics and wills . . . hmm . . .

  No, something else was pricking at his brain, from farther back in memory. The fellow’s name from the woman’s deed . . . what was it . . . somehow it rang a faint bell . . . but from where? Clerics and wills . . . what was the connection?

  Crumholtz reached the front door to his office when suddenly a flash of mental light stopped him in his tracks.

  Crompton!

  Of course! It was the name on that envelope from years ago that his uncle had been given, to be opened on some occasion or another. He remembered his uncle’s instructions when he told him about it. An altogether peculiar business.

  He stepped under the awning, lowered his umbrella, and hurried past his secretary and into his office, his curiosity now aroused. He went straight to the safe containing such unique documents for which the firm was responsible and proceeded to open it.

  Five minutes later he sat with the three documents in his hands, the will he had been asked to draw up, and the two sealed letters. He had been puzzling over them for several minutes. Strange that after all this time, suddenly into his office would walk the very heir that the instructions concerning the old document from 1856 had apparently foretold. Whatever contents this sealed envelope held, he remained legally bound, as had been his uncle and father before him, not to open it until the prescribed conditions were fulfilled, if such a time ever came at all. That it now seemed to be approaching with that very woman’s advancing years, he was all but certain.