Heathersleigh Homecoming

by Michael Phillips

  Most travel in the war zone had been curtailed, though his Austrian passport and high connections made the transfer out of France into German-occupied Belgium easy enough.

  A stooped woman dressed in black from head to foot with a black scarf around her neck shuffled down the aisle with a limp and brushed rudely past him, knocking his elbow from its armrest.

  “Watch yourself, old woman,” he said irritably, half glancing toward the figure.

  A surly grunt of response sounded. She continued on and sat down two seats behind him.

  Paying her little heed, his thoughts returned to the approaching journey which had become necessary across the Channel. He didn’t like this business of returning to the land of his birth. Too many thoughts and reminders of the past filled him. In his deepest heart he was a man haunted by a host of private fears. He was able to exude confidence and impose his will on others when in comfortable surroundings of his own choosing, and when bolstered by the presence of his loyal subjects. But if challenged man to man in the absence of such, he might wilt like a schoolboy threatened by the class bully. Though he did his best to hide it, he was actually a timid man hounded by guilt for a past he could not face even in the privacy of his innermost heart. That guilt had in no way been assuaged by the betrayal of his native homeland, and he was not especially anxious to set foot on its soil again. He had at one time been a man of relatively high profile and could not help being nervous that he might be in more jeopardy than he realized.

  The train had filled as they neared Brussels. Gradually the seating grew crowded. Barclay did his best to keep to himself but found the press of disgusting and smelly human flesh repulsive.

  Behind him a loudmouthed Belgian, who had apparently had too much to drink before boarding, was attempting to strike up a conversation with his neighbor, who was not inclined in the least to engage with him in dialog.

  “What’s your problem, old woman? Cat got your tongue, or are you deaf!” he said after she had said nothing in response to a string of loud questions and attempted off-color anecdotes. “Can’t you see I’m talking to you?”

  The woman continued not to reply, trying yet again to turn away, an attempt made difficult by the fact that they were seated beside each other, and she had only the window on her other side to keep her company.

  “What’s the matter,” he said, “am I not good enough for the likes of you?”

  His attempts grew louder and louder, gradually filling the entire coach. Unconsciously Barclay turned around and looked to see what sort of fool was causing the ruckus. His gaze, however, was diverted toward the old woman in black who was the object of the drunken man’s abuse. Though he could only see one side of it, for she was facing the window, her aspect and complexion seemed remarkably youthful for a woman who otherwise appeared sixty or more. Not only that, though he couldn’t quite place it, there was an uncannily familiar—

  “Brussels, five minutes!” called out the conductor, coming through the coach. “Next stop . . . Brussels.”

  Barclay turned back around at the sound. The train immediately began to slow. Now commotion filled the coach as bustling passengers began gathering up suitcases and bags, parcels and umbrellas, and putting on coats. One by one they stood and some began moving toward the doors. Whatever became of the loud man’s further efforts with his unfriendly neighbor, they were drowned out in the hubbub occasioned by their arrival in the station.

  Barclay himself stood as the passengers made their way down the aisles to exit the train. Once the coach was mostly empty, he eased into the aisle, glancing around for one last look at the curious old woman. She still sat unmoving, her face turned away. He stared at her another moment or two. As he did his gaze narrowed slightly and he took a step toward her, his brain trying to place what it was about her that seemed to draw his eyes.

  All at once the bothersome man who had been beside her came lumbering up the aisle, bumped straight into him as he proceeded toward the exit, nearly knocking Barclay off his feet.

  “Get going, man!” he shouted, his foul drunken breath nearly causing Barclay to swoon. “Didn’t you hear the conductor? We’re in the station. Get moving . . . you’re in my way.”

  Barclay stepped aside, let the belligerent fellow by, then followed him out and into the station.

  Behind him, a minute or two later, the silent old woman in black slowly stepped out of the train, glanced about cautiously, then ambled off after Barclay’s retreating form.

  78

  A Visitor to Heathersleigh

  It was Jocelyn who opened the door to the visitor who arrived at Heathersleigh Hall.

  “Stirling!” she said, greeting him warmly. “How nice to see you.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Rutherford. I wanted to stop in for a visit sooner, but my holiday from university has gone by more quickly than I could have imagined.”

  “You’ve been busy, then?”

  “My father and I have been building an addition to our barn. The work goes quickly with two. I’m enjoying being home and working with him on it. But every day has gone by so fast I’ve hardly done anything else. We should finish tomorrow.”

  “Can you come in—do you have time for some tea with us?”

  Stirling smiled. It wasn’t the timid smile of the boy, but the playful smile of a confident young man. “I was hoping you might ask, ma’am,” he said.

  “You just make yourself comfortable while I go tell Sarah to add some of those cakes you like to the tea tray. Then I’ll fetch Catharine from the library.”

  “Always in the library,” laughed Stirling. “What do you say about my fetching Catharine while you’re talking with Sarah?”

  “An even better plan,” rejoined Jocelyn. “The two of you just stay up in the library, then, and I’ll join you. We’ll have Sarah bring the tea there.”

  They parted for their separate destinations, Jocelyn for the kitchen, young Blakeley limping toward the stairs.

  Jocelyn entered the library a few minutes later to find the two young people poring over an atlas lying open on the table.

  “What are you looking at?” she said as she approached.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rutherford,” answered Stirling. “I hope you don’t mind. I asked Catharine to show me where Amanda was living.”

  “Not at all, Stirling. That’s why the atlas is on the table. We’ve been following the travels of the rest of our family. Charles and George were on their way to the Mediterranean the last we heard, though there has been no mail for some time. It’s very difficult. Somehow the maps help a bit.”

  She stopped briefly, shaking off the mood that threatened. “So, did you see where Amanda is?”

  “Actually,” said Catharine, “we don’t know that she is in Vienna. That was the postmark on the last letter we received after she left. You remember, don’t you, when she visited a year ago?”

  Stirling nodded. “The whole village was abuzz with it. I was away at the time, but Mum told me all about it. I had hoped she would stay long enough for me to see her again, but then Mum said she was gone again within a few days.”

  Jocelyn’s eyes began to fill. Catharine quickly offered the platter of cakes and breads to their guest. Soon the three were laughing and drinking their tea as Stirling told one escapade after another about the young men he was with at Oxford.

  “I hope the young ladies are not so rowdy,” said Jocelyn.

  “If not, they’re sure to be once Catharine arrives,” joked Stirling.

  “What!” exclaimed Catharine. “Stirling Blakeley, how can you say such a thing?”

  “I remember plenty of scrapes you led George and me into, and not so very long ago either.”

  “I did not!” laughed Catharine.

  “You did, and you know it.”

  “Well . . . I just had to make sure you two didn’t leave me out because I was a girl.”

  The conversation continued gay and lively, and the afternoon passed quickly. Gradually shadows brought an end to th
e visit.

  “I need to be going,” said Stirling. “Father and I agreed to take a break from the barn this afternoon, but if I know him, he is probably back at work. And I want to go home through the wood so I can stop by briefly to see Maggie.”

  He rose, stretched his bad leg a moment or two, then turned toward the door.

  “Thank you so much,” he said. “This has been a lovely visit.”

  Jocelyn rose to accompany him. “I’ll go with you to the edge of the woods, Stirling. Just wait for me at the bottom of the stairs while I get my shawl.”

  Jocelyn left the library and walked down to her room. When she returned a minute later, however, she heard Stirling’s voice still coming from the library. She went back up the flight of stairs to the second floor. There were the two young people, both leaning against opposite sides of the doorframe into the library, chatting easily and freely.

  “Why don’t you join us, Catharine?” asked Stirling.

  “I’m ready to go back to my book,” she replied. “Rebecca is being tried by the Knights Templar and has called for a champion to save her. I must find out if it is to be Ivanhoe, Robin of Locksley, or King Richard.”

  “Maybe it will be none of them,” said Stirling with a sly smile.

  “No, no—don’t tell me! I have to find out for myself,” laughed Catharine, covering her ears and running back into the library to the window seat where the copy of Ivanhoe awaited her.

  79

  Jocelyn and Stirling Blakeley

  Jocelyn and Stirling walked down the stairs and left the house through the rear doors. When they were beyond the trim lawn northeast of the Hall and were starting across the wide expanse of grassy meadow between it and the wood where lay the McFee cottage, Stirling spoke in a more serious tone than before.

  “I am so sorry about Amanda, Mrs. Rutherford,” he said. “I think of her often at university.”

  Surprised, Jocelyn turned her face toward him questioningly.

  “You are wondering why I would think about Amanda?”

  “Yes,” replied Jocelyn, “I admit, that is what I was thinking.”

  “You see,” said Stirling, “it seems that so many of the young men in the lodgings where I live in Oxford complain about their parents, how they don’t send them as much money as they want, or that they pester them about not studying hard enough. But mostly they just complain about what seem to me trivial matters. It reminds me of some of the terrible things I have heard Amanda say about you and Sir Charles. And yet people who live in the village, especially such as myself and my parents, see you in a completely different light. It seems to me that you have given your three children nothing but love, just as you have shown to all the rest of us. I can’t imagine any two people being more loved than you and Sir Charles. And it is because you always give so much of yourselves.”

  “Thank you, Stirling,” replied Jocelyn as they walked slowly along. “You cannot imagine how much your words mean to me.”

  They walked awhile longer, when the young man broke the silence again.

  “Mrs. Rutherford,” he said, “do you remember the day when Amanda tried to come to my rescue in the village? It was a day when Papa had been drinking.”

  “Yes, I remember, Stirling. It seems that is when Amanda began to despise me. I am afraid it is not a good memory.”

  “That is too bad—I’m sorry. It is a good memory for me. She seemed like an angel. I’ll never forget how she threw herself between Papa and me to try to protect me from his blows. It wasn’t long after that when he stopped drinking—thanks even more to Sir Charles than Amanda.”

  Jocelyn smiled and nodded.

  “It puzzles me how Amanda can be like an angel in my memory, and yet have become so hurtful and critical toward you. I find myself wondering what made her change. And that makes me wonder what the young men at school would think if they knew how my papa had once behaved toward me. Yet now I love him more, it seems, than they love their own fathers, who never did anything like what Papa did when he was drinking. It is all very puzzling.”

  Again Jocelyn nodded.

  “It is interesting, is it not, Stirling,” she said, “how people view things so differently? That day you speak of was a very hard one for me. Amanda was furious with me for not stepping in and stopping your father from hitting you. She said when she got older she would stand up for people’s rights more than I did. I think that’s why the suffragette movement so appealed to her. But I knew anything I did to come between you and your father might interfere with the relationship Charles was trying to establish with your father.”

  She paused thoughtfully.

  “I suppose, as I look back now,” she went on, “it may be that we were too strict in some ways. But at the time you never know exactly where the balance lies. You do the best you can, trying to weigh the constantly shifting needs of leniency and discipline. You’ll find out just how hard that balance is when you’re a father, Stirling.”

  He laughed. “That’s hard to imagine, Mrs. Rutherford,” he said. “I’m barely old enough to figure out how to be a grown-up. I can’t envision myself as a parent.”

  “How old are you now, Stirling?”

  “Twenty-four, ma’am.”

  “Hmm . . . the same as Amanda—though she will be turning twenty-five this spring. But the years will go by faster than you realize, Stirling, and one day before you know it you may just have a family of your own.”

  “If you say so, Mrs. Rutherford,” laughed Stirling.

  “Well, we are to the edge of the wood—here is where I will turn around,” said Jocelyn. “It has been wonderful to see you, Stirling. Give my love to your parents.”

  “I will, Mrs. Rutherford. And—”

  He paused and glanced away briefly.

  “And if I could just say, ma’am,” he said after a moment, looking back into Jocelyn’s face, “thank you for being such a friend to my mother. I know you mean a great deal to her, in the same way Sir Charles does to my father.”

  “Of course, Stirling—thank you.”

  They shook hands, then Stirling turned and limped off a few steps, then turned back once more.

  “I still pray for her,” he said. “Amanda, I mean.”

  “Thank you, Stirling.”

  He continued on in the direction of the cottage in the descending dusk and was soon lost to Jocelyn’s sight.

  A remarkable young man for all he has been through, thought Jocelyn.

  She turned and began making her way back to the Hall, whose windows were lit in the distance across the meadow.

  “I still pray for her too,” she whispered with a smile as she went. “I still pray for her too.”

  80

  Missing Clue

  Antwerp was not high on the list of places Hartwell Barclay would have desired to visit.

  Especially tonight. It was miserably cold and a light rain had begun to fall. A storm appeared likely, and he did not relish what lay ahead—an underwater channel crossing beneath a turbulent sea.

  He pulled his coat up tightly around his neck, walked across the street from the hotel, and lit a cigarette as best he could in this drizzle. They ought to have thought of some better signal.

  Behind him a black stooped figure exited the same hotel he had just left.

  An impulse caused Barclay to glance back.

  What was that old woman there about? It couldn’t . . .

  But it looked uncannily like the old hag he had seen in the train a day and a half ago. Come to think of it, he had seen a remarkably similar woman even before that . . . all the way back in Paris. It couldn’t possibly be the same woman, although . . .

  As he looked, the striking similarity seemed more and more than could be accounted for by mere coincidence. What in blazes could she be doing in a first-class hotel like this!

  The sound of an automobile approaching interrupted his thoughts. He spun around. He had apparently been seen. There was no more use for the cigarette. He threw it int
o the street. The auto slowed and stopped in front of him. The back door opened. He got in, and the car sped off.

  “I take it you are Barclay,” said a figure out of the blackness.

  He nodded.

  “I am Wolfrik. Are the arrangements made?”

  “We will depart within the hour. Tell the driver to take us to the south harbor.”

  The remainder of the twenty-minute ride was silent. When the car stopped again, Barclay got out, followed by the man called Wolfrik, then another. Barclay glanced warily at the silent man, who was apparently accompanying the Prussian, short of stature and slightly balding. He did not look physically imposing, but the glint in his eye was menacing.

  “I was told to arrange transport for one other than myself,” said Barclay.

  “He is with me,” replied Wolfrik. “One extra man will change nothing. It would not be advisable to leave him behind.”

  Barclay took in the words with silent annoyance. He did not like being left out of a change of plans like this, but judged it better to say nothing further.

  They walked toward the docks in silence. The rain had by now begun to come down in earnest. There was no wind, however, and in the quietness of the night their voices carried farther and with greater clarity than they might have expected had they paused to consider the possibility that someone might be listening. The engine of another automobile sounded somewhere a block or two away, but they paid little attention, nor to the footsteps coming their way in the shadows a few moments later from the same direction.

  “Has Colonel Spengler been apprehended?” asked Barclay at length.

  “Not yet,” replied Wolfrik, “but the trap is set. It is vital we get across the Channel ahead of the Dauntless.”

  Barclay stopped and glanced about. They were at the edge of the quay. He had to get his bearings briefly to see which pier was the one he had been told. A few silent ships were about and hundreds of fishing vessels were moored nearby, but this was not the main section of the Antwerp harbor where most larger oceangoing vessels and naval ships docked. It was nearly entirely deserted at this time of night.