A Refuge at Highland Hall (16 page)

Lydia couldn't agree more.

“Can you imagine,” Helen continued, “complaining about the children before she's even stepped into the house?”

Lydia shook her head. “I'm thinking our job just got a lot harder.”

The family followed Agatha inside, and Mr. Lawrence instructed Patrick and Hardy to bring in the cases.

Millie and Abigail started for the door, but Lydia held out her hand and stopped them. “Let's wait a minute and give them a chance to take Mr. Dalton's aunt up to her room.”

Millie glanced toward the door, doubt shadowing her young eyes. “She doesn't seem very fond of children.”

She patted Millie's shoulder. “Never you mind about that.” But a slow-creeping vine of worry wrapped around Lydia's heart. Managing the children was hard enough most days. How would she handle pleasing a fussy old woman as well?

L
ydia hurried down the servants' stairs with the message from Mrs. Kate in her pocket. Her mistress finally seemed to have an appetite, and she'd written down her requests for Chef Lagarde and Mrs. Murdock. When she was halfway down the steps, Mr. Lawrence strode around the corner in the lower hallway.

He met Patrick coming out of the kitchen. “Patrick, I need you to go upstairs and collect Sir William's cases and take them out to the motorcar. Then check with Mr. Dalton and see if he requires any assistance.” Mr. Lawrence took his watch from his pocket and checked the time. “They need to leave in fifteen minutes if they are going to catch the eleven forty-five train to London.”

“Yes, Mr. Lawrence.” Patrick hustled up the stairs, sending Lydia a brief smile as he passed.

The butler looked up at her. “Did you need something, Lydia?”

“Oh, no, sir. I'm just on my way to deliver a message to the kitchen.”

His dark eyebrows rose. “Is it from Mr. Dalton's aunt?” The woman had complained about every meal she'd been served, and they were all flustered, trying to please her.

“No, sir. It's from Mrs. Kate.”

He gave a solemn nod. “Very good.”

Mrs. Dalton stepped into the hall wearing her dark-blue coat and hat and started toward them. “Ah, Lydia, I'm glad you're here.”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“I've asked Ruby to sit with Agatha, while Sarah and I go to see Clark off at the station, but would you mind looking in on her? You know how timid Ruby can be, but she's the only maid I can spare this morning.”

“Of course, ma'am.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Dalton reached up and adjusted her small hat. “Well, I should go upstairs and see if everyone is ready to go.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She pressed her lips into a firm line and looked away.

Mr. Lawrence's usually stern expression softened. “Don't worry. We'll manage things here.”

Lydia's throat tightened. Mrs. Dalton wasn't worried about them managing the house. She was teary eyed because she'd be saying good-bye to her son, Clark, and sending him off to war. She'd already lost one son, and now she might lose another. She could imagine it would be a very painful parting for Mrs. Dalton, and her heart went out to the kind housekeeper. Impulsively, she reached out and laid her hand on Mrs. Dalton's arm. “I'll be thinking of you today, and praying for Clark as well.”

Mrs. Dalton blinked as she took a handkerchief from her coat pocket and dabbed her nose. “Thank you, Lydia. That's good of you to say.”

“It's no trouble, ma'am. We're all fond of Clark. He's a fine man. And we're proud of him.”

Her eyes grew misty again. “So am I.” She pulled in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and slipped her handkerchief back in her pocket. Then she nodded to Mr. Lawrence and climbed the stairs.

Mr. Lawrence watched her with a touch of tenderness in his eyes. He could be gruff at times, but underneath he had a good, kind heart.

The scent of roasting chicken and freshly baked bread greeted her as she stepped through the kitchen doorway.

Chef Lagarde stood at the side of the large table in the center of the room, holding out a bunch of leeks to Mrs. Murdock. “I want you to add
zees
to
ze
soup!”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she placed her hands on her hips. “I never put leeks in my chicken soup, and I don't intend to start now.”

“But the flavor of
ze
leeks is better
zan
ze
onions.”

Lydia had to strain to understand the chef past his strong French accent.

“I don't think so!”

His eyes flashed. “Well, I am
ze
chef and
zees
is my kitchen. If I say we add leeks to
ze
soup,
zen
you will do as I say.”

“You may be the chef, but I'm the one making this pot of soup, and I don't need you or anyone else telling me how to change my recipe.”

His face turned blotchy red. He lifted his hand and spouted a string of French.

Lydia might not understand the words, but the emotion behind them was as clear as day.

Mrs. Murdock pulled back, her eyes wide. “Don't you use that kind of language around me! I know what you're saying, even if it is French!”

“You will do as I say, or I will speak to Sir William.”

“Fine! Go ahead and speak to him. I take orders from Mrs. Kate. She's the one who pays my wages.”

The chef whacked the leeks down on the table, spun around, then strode toward the doorway.

Lydia opened her mouth as he passed, then thought better of saying anything. He was in no mood to take a special request from Mrs. Kate. She'd best speak to Mrs. Murdock and give her Mrs. Kate's note.

“Well, don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open.” Mrs. Murdock glared at Lydia as though she were the one who caused the argument.

Lydia snapped her mouth closed, then pulled the note from her pocket. “Mrs. Kate is feeling a bit better, and she wanted me to bring down this note.” She passed Mrs. Murdock the folded paper.

The cook pushed her wire-framed glasses up her nose and scanned the note. A smile broke across her face. “Chicken soup!” She lifted her hand to her mouth and chuckled. “She asked for my chicken soup.”

Lydia nodded and smiled. “Yes, she did.”

“Then that's just what she'll have.” She turned back to the stove and looked over her shoulder. “You can tell Mrs. Kate I'll send up a bowl as soon as it's ready.

The two kitchen maids looked up and grinned. Lydia returned the same, then walked out of the kitchen. Mrs. Murdock had a temper, but she didn't let Chef Lagarde or anyone else break her spirit.

As she climbed the stairs, Lydia glanced out the window overlooking the front drive. The motorcar stood waiting by the door, while Patrick secured Sir William's cases on the back. Sir William and Clark Dalton were taking the same train today. Clark would go on to his training camp, and Sir William would be staying in London for some time.

Lydia stopped on the landing and gazed out the window, taking in the scene. Clark and Sarah Dalton stood together by the front entrance, speaking to Sir William and Lady Julia. Mrs. Dalton walked outside and joined them. Even from this distance, Lydia could read the love and concern on Mrs. Dalton's face as she looked up at her son.

A lump rose in Lydia's throat. Clark was a grown man now, with a wife of his own, but his mother's heart was breaking, thinking of him going off to war to face dangers they couldn't even imagine.

Her heart ached for them all.
Watch over Clark, Father. Guard his steps and bring him back home to his wife and mother. We're all counting on You to keep him safe.

Her gaze shifted to Julia. She stood close to Sir William, her hand clasped tightly in his. She wore a brave expression, but Lydia could read the strain in the slope of her shoulders and the way she looked up at her husband. Sir William's work in London didn't seem nearly as dangerous as what Clark would face in France or wherever he was sent, but there was the possibility of bombing in London, and time apart from his family would be hard.

Lydia sighed and turned away. Now Lady Julia would have to make all the decisions about the family and run Highland. Mr. Lawrence would manage the staff, and Mr. McTavish would oversee the estate's tenants and property. Mrs. Kate and Miss Penny would help Lady Julia as much as they could, but in the end, it would come down to Lady Julia to keep everything going.

That would be a heavy load for her to bear. Too much for a woman to carry on her own.

Lift her up, Lord. Help her carry this burden, and help us all do our part.

Alex hiked a quarter mile from the airfield and climbed the high, sandy bluff overlooking the ocean. The day was warm, but a strong wind swept his hair back from his face and whistled around his ears. Below, the gray-green water churned, and waves crashed on the narrow beach.

He stared out across the Channel. On a clear day he might be able to see the low, shadowed coastline of England. But today, gray clouds hovered on the horizon, blocking his view.

Only twenty-five miles separated him from those shores, but it might as well be one hundred. There was no way he could cross the great divide between war and peace.

He pulled in a deep breath. Fresh, salty air filled his lungs, but it couldn't extinguish the ache in his chest or soothe the longing for familiar people and places and most of all…for an end to this war.

He'd lost another friend today.

Closing his stinging eyes, he swallowed hard. If only he could erase those images from his mind, but it was impossible.

He and Jackson had flown off this morning just before eight o'clock to patrol the coast to the north. Jackson flew a new Sopwith Tabloid, and Alex piloted his second Morane-Saulnier. The weather was calm, and the first twenty minutes had been uneventful. But just before they reached Nieuport, Jackson's plane suddenly jerked and tilted to the right.

Alex gripped his own controls and flew as close to Jackson as he could, yelling at him, urging him to take control of the plane. But Alex's shouts were lost in the wind and roar of his engine.

Jackson frantically fought with his controls, but his engine died. Panic flashed across the young pilot's face, and the plane plunged toward the rocky coastline.

Alex clenched his jaw and pounded his fist against his thigh. It wasn't right. It shouldn't have happened. Why didn't Jackson take control, glide down, and bring the plane in safely as they'd been taught? Was it the rough coastal winds, or had his friend lost his nerve and, in his panic, forgotten his training?

Whatever the reason, it had cost Jackson his life…and there was nothing Alex could have done to save him.

He sank down on the rough sea grass and lowered his head into his hands. Weary waves of sorrow washed over him, burning his throat and sapping his strength.

Why, God? Jackson was only twenty-three. He has a wife and son back in Yorkshire, waiting for him. What will they do when they hear the news? How will they carry on without a husband and father to provide for them?

If You are so powerful and able to do anything, why didn't You save him as You've saved me, and so many others, time and time again?

He looked up at the gray sky, searching for an answer to his plea, but the only reply was the low moaning of the wind rushing up the cliff. The mournful sound tore away his reserve and broke through the wall he'd kept around his heart to protect himself from the pain and losses.

Is that all the future holds for me? Will I crash into the ocean or be shot down out of the sky? Do I only have days or weeks left to live? And if I die, has my life mattered at all…to anyone? Have I done anything that makes a difference?

He swallowed hard again, but he couldn't hold back the painful cry that rose in his throat and finally broke free.

He laid his head in his arms and wept, for his friend and all the hopes and dreams he would never see fulfilled. For himself and all he feared would never be his.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, releasing the storm that had been building inside since he'd come to St. Pol. Finally, he lifted his head, weary and spent, and looked across the Channel again toward England.

A slight break in the clouds revealed a small patch of blue sky. From that opening, a brilliant beam of sunlight shone down on the water. The ocean swelled and sparkled in that small circle of light. And a tiny flame of hope flickered to life within him.

He might not understand why God had spared his life and taken his friend, but that didn't give him an excuse to stop fighting for what he believed was right. His father taught him the importance of honor and duty. He'd promised to defend his country and protect those he loved. And that was a promise he would keep, even if it cost him his life.