by A W Hartoin
“How long have you been here?” asked Stella.
“Two years, ma’am.”
“Do you like it here?”
“Very much and I was lucky to get the place. Not many estates have ladies’ maids anymore.” Lizzie finished putting a linen napkin on Stella’s lap and then hesitated at the foot of the bed.
“Is something wrong?” Stella smiled at her. “Am I holding my cup incorrectly?”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no. You’re doing it perfectly, just like her ladyship. It’s just that…”
Stella raised her eyebrows.
“Her ladyship said you came from the continent.” Lizzie twisted her apron. Then she caught herself doing it and smoothed it aggressively.
“I did. Why? Are you worried about the war?”
Lizzie twisted her apron again. “So it’s true then? There will be a war. The earl has said so for a long time, but the prime minister said that we have peace for our time. There’s a treaty, isn’t there?”
Stella sipped her coffee to distract from the images racing through her head. “The earl is right. In my experience, the Nazis are relentless. They won’t stop because of any treaty.”
Lizzie slumped and smoothed her apron again.
“I’m sorry to tell you that, but I was in Germany and Austria. It’s coming. I wish I could tell you something different.”
“I thought you would say that, but I was hoping.” She smiled tearfully. “My mother always says I have too much hope and not enough reality.”
“I used to be like that. I wish I still was,” said Stella.
“No, she’s right. My brothers are going to sign up as soon as it happens. I just keep hoping that it won’t.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Stella. “I think all the world will be drawn in.”
“All the world?”
“We were in Italy. It’s starting there, too.”
“Will Mr. Lawrence volunteer?” asked Lizzie.
Stella hadn’t thought about that before. The States were so far away from Europe, but, of course, their allies were right next door to Germany. She nodded. “If America fights, I imagine he will. I can’t bear to think about it.”
“You don’t think…that the viscount will go, do you?” asked Lizzie in a tremulous voice, avoiding Stella’s eyes.
“I’m sure you would know better than I.”
“Oh, no. We’re barely acquainted.”
Stella bent over her cup to keep from smiling.
“It’s just that he’s the heir and it’s important to the family,” said Lizzie quickly.
“Of course. Do you know his friend, Abel, by any chance?”
Lizzie clasped her hands together. “Oh, yes. He’s a lovely person. The family has been worried sick. Was he really arrested? I can’t imagine that he would do anything wrong or illegal.”
“He was, but he didn’t do anything wrong.” Stella’s heart began to hurt and the coffee didn’t ward it off.
“The earl thinks we will find out where he is today.”
“I hope so. Does Abel have any family that you know of? He told us his parents were gone, but maybe there’s someone we don’t know about,” asked Stella.
Lizzie shook her head sadly. “I don’t think so. Albert, I mean the viscount, always says we’re all he has.” She blushed again and practically ran out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Stella sipped her coffee but couldn’t make herself eat anything. Where was Uncle Josiah? The earl brushed off the delay, but she could see he was as worried as she was. The last telegram he’d sent was from Munich, saying he was coming to Bickford immediately. That telegram was sent the day they left Naples. Three days ago and he was coming by train and ferry. He should’ve beat them by a day.
She set the tray aside and slid out of bed. It was taking too long. She couldn’t wait anymore. Lizzie had laid out her clothes the night before and she quickly started dressing in her blue suit. If she had to go back to London, she wanted to be ready.
In the bathroom, she pushed her cosmetics aside and grabbed her brush. She’d gone to bed with a wet head and it had dried half flat and half in ringlets.
“Going somewhere?” Nicky appeared in the mirror behind her.
“I couldn’t wait. What happened?” she asked with her brush pressed to her chest.
“Nothing. No word from Josiah.”
“Why are you up here then? What did London say?”
“There’s no news yet. I couldn’t eat and found I wanted to be with you,” said Nicky.
Stella spun around and pinned her hair back from her face so it would be ready for a hat.
“There’s nothing for you to do,” he said.
“You never know.” She looked at him for confirmation and found him looking at her rather fearfully.
“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about Uncle Josiah?” she asked.
“I don’t.”
“The Sorkines then.”
“No. Nothing there either.”
“Then what?”
He held out his hand and pulled her into the bedroom. “I have to talk to you about something.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and waited.
“When Josiah comes, I want you to go back home with him,” said Nicky.
“Where are you going to be?”
He blew out a breath and she could see him forcing himself to act casual. It wasn’t working so well. “Here.”
“Bickford? Why?”
It took a minute, but then he said, “I’m staying in England. I’m volunteering.”
“Did Bast talk to you?” she asked.
“Bast?” he asked, frowning. “No. He’s a spy of some sort. I’m joining the military.”
Stella walked to the window and looked out at the lake. A man walked across the bridge in the beautiful sunshine. The lake was serene with swans gliding over placid water. There wasn’t a war out there, only inside.
“Stella? Did you hear me?” he asked.
“I heard you.”
“What are you thinking?”
She wasn’t surprised, that much she knew, but she kept checking to make sure of it. No, no, she wasn’t. When he’d come back from the club car he’d been so calm and settled. He’d decided then. He just didn’t tell her and she was glad of it. The journey had been hard enough without that hanging on her heart.
Stella thought of Lizzie’s face when she spoke of Albert and her brothers and wondered if her face looked like that now. “When?”
“As soon as it can be arranged,” he said. “The earl will make some calls.”
“Will they let you join their military? I didn’t know Americans could do that.”
He took her hand and grinned at her. “You forget. I’m Canadian.”
“Be serious.” Stella looked back out at the man, who’d gone off the road and headed to the edge of the lake.
“I am. I’ll change my citizenship to Canadian.”
She didn’t know why that hurt her, but it did. They were Americans and she liked being who she was.
Nicky wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. “It’s the right thing, Stella.”
“Is it for the Sorkines?”
“It’s for me. I want to.”
The man had stumbled into the water and then back up on the bank. The swans were racing over and not in a friendly way. Stella had always heard that swans were mean and watching them chase the man around the lake proved it was true.
Nicky chuckled. “Those swans sure hate him.”
The man weaved back and forth, but he was too slow. The swans were right on his heels with their long necks outstretched, wings flapping.
Nicky squeezed her, beginning to laugh. “That fool better get it together.”
The man jolted to the right and ran into the lake, slowing him down considerably.
“What in the world is wrong with him?”
The man made it out of the lake and ran
full out toward Bickford House. His hat flew off and the sun glinted on dark brown hair. A jolt went through Stella. “It’s Uncle Josiah!”
“It’s a man from the village. Josiah will come by—oh, for Christ’s sake!”
The man ran past their window and looked up. It was Josiah Bled, war hero and millionaire playboy, running from a bevy of swans.
Nicky grabbed her hand and they ran out of the bedroom, only to crash into Aggie.
“Your uncle!”
“We know,” said Stella.
They ran down the long stairs in time to see the footmen race out the front door armed with canes. They had to chase Josiah and the swans almost halfway around the lake before they caught up and gave the irate birds a few whacks and flung some bread into the lake.
“Those birds are a menace,” said Aggie. “If I had my way, we’d have them for dinner.”
“Why don’t you?” asked Nicky.
“Tradition. There have been swans here since Bickford was built. I’m going to have to put up warning signs. They’re getting worse. This happens at least once a week.”
Stella watched as Uncle Josiah scooped up his hat, nearly falling on his face in the process. “Signs wouldn’t help in this case,” she said.
“Why not?”
“He’s drunk.”
Josiah Bled was drunk, but, in his defense, he’d stopped drinking at two in the morning and he thought that rather impressive. He got a lot of mileage out of his whiskey.
“I thought the walk would sober me up,” he said, stretching out his muddy legs on the wide stone steps of Bickford House.
“When did you get to the village?” asked Aggie.
Uncle Josiah looked up at the countess sheepishly, a lock of wavy brown hair falling over one pale blue eye. “Noon. Yesterday.”
“Noon?” burst out Stella. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.”
He chuckled. “You sound just like Francesqua.”
Stella might’ve sounded like her mother, but she felt like no one she recognized. She wanted to cry, or scream, or throw a two-year-old’s tantrum. Maybe all three at once.
Nicky came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her chest, probably fearing that she would smack her own uncle. It was a reasonable fear.
“What have you been doing?” he asked.
“I stopped for a drink at the pub,” he said.
“Which one?” asked Aggie. The large lady was somewhere between enraged and amused. It was hard to say which way she’d go.
“How many are there?” asked Uncle Josiah and he fell over on the steps.
Aggie threw up her hands and went with amused. “You’re a ridiculous creature. What are we going to do with you?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered with his handsome face squashed against the stone. “Ask Stella.”
Everyone looked at her, including the footmen with their swan-smacking canes.
When she was sure she wasn’t going to scream or hit, she peeled Nicky’s arms off her and yanked her wayward uncle upright. He blinked at her bleary-eyed and burped. She’d seen him like that plenty of times, usually in times of celebration, not stress, but she’d never been the one to sober him up. That was her mother’s department or Florence’s.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He took her hand and pulled her down to the steps beside him. “It was a hard trip.”
“I know all about hard trips,” said Stella.
Aggie told the footmen to go back inside and tell the earl that Josiah Bled had arrived, but not to disturb the viscount.
When the young men’s footsteps faded away and the doors closed, Uncle Josiah put his head in his hands and Stella put her hands over her heart. “Where’s Abel?”
“I wasn’t ready to come out here. Then a man recognized me. Bought me a drink.”
“Did you find Abel?” asked Stella.
“I shouldn’t have drank so much. I knew you were waiting. I couldn’t…”
She pressed her heart so hard it hurt. “So you found him then.”
He nodded.
“In Dachau?”
“Yes.”
Aggie gasped and pressed her hands to her mouth. Nicky turned around and looked out over the lake. Only Stella looked at Josiah. “Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
Aggie ran past them on the stairs and into the house, slamming the door behind her. A high-pitched wail came through the many windows, but Stella didn’t join in. She didn’t want to wail or scream or throw things. She was so angry she felt frozen in flames.
“Were you with him when it happened?”
Uncle Josiah looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed. “No. He was already dead by the time I got there.”
“What happened?” asked Nicky without turning around.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re wrong. It does.”
Uncle Josiah told them what he knew. Abel had died on the train to Dachau. He never made it inside the prison. He’d been beaten terribly and died of his injuries.
“Did you see the body?” asked Stella.
He pulled a knapsack off his back and opened it. “No. They’d already cremated him.”
Stella looked inside the knapsack and saw a plain metal urn.
“I had to pay for his ashes and this crappy urn, if you can believe that,” he said.
Nicky finally turned around, his face inscrutable. “How do you know it’s him?”
Uncle Josiah told them that he didn’t believe it at first. Abel was young and healthy. Why should he die? Uncle Josiah had seen plenty of men survive things that shouldn’t be survived. Then the camp commandant produced Abel’s wallet, passport, and two pictures he had with him. They had dried blood on them, but he still didn’t believe it. Then the commandant had several prisoners brought in. They told him that Abel had died on the train and were clearly confused about why he was asking. Uncle Josiah didn’t think they were lying. He believed them, not the commandant.
“Do you have Abel’s things?” asked Stella. She didn’t know why she asked. She didn’t want to see Abel’s blood.
Uncle Josiah pulled the wallet, passport, and the blood-stained photographs from the knapsack and gave them to her with shaking hands. The first picture was of her, sitting at a Parisian cafe, holding a glass of champagne and laughing. Stella couldn’t remember that picture being taken, where they were or why she was laughing. That girl was so different from the one she now saw in the mirror, she wouldn’t have recognized herself if it weren’t for her great grandmother’s hatpin piercing an outlandishly fashionable hat covered in frilly feathers. The other photo was a wedding photo, taken before the war, she recognized the couple and two of the people with them.
“They’re his parents,” said Josiah. “The names are on the back.”
“And the Sorkines,” said Stella, her fingers touching Abel’s blood where it had stained the face of his mother. She was the pretty girl with the long braids in the picture Stella had upstairs. “They’re dead, too.”
Uncle Josiah put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart.”
“I know exactly whose fault it is.” With that, Stella stood up and went into the house.
Stella hadn’t cried yet and she didn’t think she would. The anger was too great. Abel’s life was over. He died alone in horrible pain because he had something the Nazis wanted. They went after what they wanted. It didn’t matter if it was Gutenberg’s diary or the Ripley scroll. And it would never be enough. They would always want more. They wanted everything.
She’d wandered around the formal gardens, walking through the French designs in the low hedges of hearts, arrows, flames, and tears. She got lost in the hedge maze and found her way out again. Got lost a second time and ended up by the center fountain. It would’ve rivaled Versailles’ if it hadn’t been drained for winter. She stood beside it, chilled to the bone, and the sight of the icy mermaids and seahorses made her colder.
Stella felt the temperature
dropping as the sun dipped below the horizon and a few lazy snowflakes floated down to stick to the gravel. She should return to the house with its roaring fires and lap blankets. But she wanted to be cold. Maybe that could stop the painful burning inside.
Just as the snow picked up, she heard the sound of wheels on gravel. She turned and saw Albert in his wheelchair. He was slumped to the side and had Abel’s urn resting on his red tartan lap blanket. Lizzie pushed the high wicker back, but her eyes were so swollen from crying it was a wonder she could see where they were going.
They stopped next to her and Albert put up his good hand. Lizzie took it and gave it a squeeze before dashing back to the house with fresh tears.
“I was thinking about putting him here,” said Albert. “But I forgot that the water’s gone. I had thought the lake, but those swans. They always chased him.”
Stella couldn’t think of anything to say and remained silent.
“Perhaps I should put him on the mantel in the library. He loved books. That’s how we met, you know.”
She swallowed and managed to say, “I didn’t know.”
“It was at Oxford in the Bodleian library. He was sitting at a table with the tallest stacks of books of anyone there. He was writing a paper on Hadrian’s Wall. Construction and consequences, I believe. He had a book I needed and we struck up a conversation on building techniques. The librarian yelled at us.” He smiled. “The first of many times. He was my closest friend. My only friend, besides my brothers.”
For a second, Stella thought she might cry. She didn’t, but the pain grew hotter.
“I think I’ll put him in the library. He does have some family left and they might have an opinion on the lake or fountain. His cousin, Gaspard, is in Greece. He’s only a distant cousin, but that's better than nothing. And Lucienne Sorkine. Maybe we can find out what happened to her.”
Stella could feel him looking at her, but she couldn’t look back. Not yet.
Albert took her hand. “What is your opinion?”
“I don’t think I get to have one,” she said.
“He was in love with you. Did you know that?”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “I think I did.”
Albert squeezed her hand and then let go. She looked down and he had the urn nestled against his cast, tears were dripping down the metal. He was paying for the Nazis’ greed and it made her more angry than ever.