Gift from the Sea (11 page)

He wrote until Sean came to get him back into bed for the night. Then, when the house was quiet, he eased himself to the floor, crawled to the table, took down the pen, ink and papers and continued to write until he heard the first stirrings in the bedroom above him.

“Another restless night?” Maggie asked as she took his temperature and pulse the following morning.

Sarah had given her report as she and Maggie exchanged places for the day. “You must have the doctor look at his fingers. He wanted to write something—I thought perhaps letters to loved ones should he…well,
once he’s given over to the military. I was sure there was no harm in it, but now his left hand—it’s just awful.”

“You did no harm,” Maggie assured the woman. But the minute she entered his room, she came straight to his bedside and lifted his left hand. She saw that his fingers were stained with ink but also purple from the swelling and overuse. “What was so urgent that you had to risk setting yourself back by days—or was that the intent?”

“No,” he protested wearily. “I am not deliberately trying to worsen my condition in spite of what you may think.”

“Then why?”

“To ask you to open your mind to the possibility I am telling the truth. I didn’t know how much time I might have or if you would listen.”

“I have listened,” she protested.

“Then please read this and keep the sealed envelope safe.” He reached under one of his pillows and handed her several folded pages and a sealed envelope. “Please?”

She considered the papers covered on both sides with his small, shaky script and then read the inscription on the envelope:
To be opened in the event of my imprisonment, deportation or death.

She saw a glimmer of hope in the way he watched her, so she folded the sheets around the envelope and placed both in the pocket of her apron. “The doctor will be here soon,” she said and left the room.

Dr. Williams left instructions for reducing the swelling in his hand and observed Maggie as she assisted Stefan to stand. “Once he is steady enough, take a few steps with him. Have Sean help you. We must keep moving forward. This weather is improving steadily.” He did not need to add that it was only the unusually cold and bitter winter
that was keeping people from making the usual neighborly visits.

“Yes, Doctor,” Maggie said as she saw him to the door.

“The wheelchair is a good idea, Maggie.” The doctor lowered his voice. “Perhaps sitting up in that for an hour or so in the afternoon, but take care that he does not move beyond that room. You must always remember that he has one goal and that is to avoid becoming a real prisoner of war. He knows the fate that awaits him, and you must understand that he will do anything to avoid that fate.” He studied her for a long moment. “In fact, I believe I will speak to your father. The stronger our guest becomes, the less prudent it is for you to be alone with him, even with Sean nearby.”

Maggie placed a protective hand over the papers in her pocket. “I have an errand in town. If it would be all right, I’ll have Mr. Chadwick stay with our patient for a few hours at lunch.”

The doctor was already climbing onto his sleigh. “You’re going out?”

“It’s something that can’t be postponed,” she replied.

“Very well, but take care. The road into town is foggy,” he called and snapped the reins.

Maggie waved and returned to the house. Uneasily she glanced at the partially closed door. Had she lost her senses? The doctor was right. It was madness to go off on what was surely another wild-goose chase, and yet she had to know. She had to be sure that Stefan Witte was lying to them. Only then did she feel she would regain her bearings, know right from wrong, black from white.

“Dr. Williams says you may sit in the wheelchair for a few hours this afternoon,” she announced. “I’ve asked Sean to come and help with your standing and walking.”

“That would be good,” he replied, watching her with a curious expression. He sat forward and she took a step back. “You read my pages?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

She kept her distance through the whole of the morning’s routine. She even devised a method for placing his medicines on a tray and passing that to him when before she would simply have handed him the pill or potion and the water glass and stood guard to make sure that he swallowed. Following her instructions, Sean helped him stand and balance and then walk the short distance from the bed to the dresser and back again. She kept the wheelchair between herself and him every step of that journey, telling both men that if Stefan felt pain or weakness, he could simply sit in the chair.

Once Sean had settled him into the wheelchair and gone to the attic to find the tray that attached to the chair’s arms, Maggie straightened his bed linens.

“That was quite good work,” she said. “Before you know it, you’ll be back to full strength. Now that you can sit in the wheelchair for a time each day, you can have your meals there. Perhaps you’d prefer to be closer to the window? It’s going to be a nice day as soon as the fog lifts—cold, to be sure, but sunny and clear.”

She was well aware that she was chattering on. Rarely did she squander words for describing the weather or handing out compliments, and here she was doing both without ceasing.

“Why are you suddenly afraid of me? I thought that yesterday we made progress together.”

She gave him an impersonal smile. “Of course. You stood on your own.”

“I am not speaking of my health,” he snapped, then saw that she rested one hand on the pocket where she’d put his letter. “I need you to read what I have written. In those words I have asked that you go to your father and persuade him to go to the docks. It’s the last day,” he pleaded.

“I don’t need to read your pages, because I have decided I will go myself,” she said without looking at him. “As for your letter, I will read it later.”

“You cannot go. I won’t allow it.”

Her eyes flitted about the room as if seeking another bed to be made, another patient’s needs to occupy her. “I cannot convince my father if you refuse to tell me everything you know. Besides, wasn’t the intent of telling me Uma’s story to win my sympathies, to show me how similar your sister and I are?”

“My intent was to ask you to speak with your father.”

“And tell him what? That I believe you in spite of the fact I know nothing new? My going to the dock is not something you get to decide, Stefan.”

“Your father will be angry and…”

“Ah, Sean has found the tray,” she said, her voice rising with relief. “Here, Sean, let me give that a proper wash.”

By the time Sean had installed the tray, Maggie had brought his food. She passed the dishes from the tray to Sean to Stefan. She could see that Sean was as mystified by this as Stefan was, but he was accustomed to doing what others asked of him, so he made no protest.

“If there’s nothing else, Maggie,” he said softly once the food delivery was completed and Stefan had started to eat.

“Would you mind staying with our patient for an hour or so after lunch? I have something I need to do in town.”

“Very well.” Sean obviously answered with surprise.
Maggie could see his mouth working as if he wanted to say more, but all he said was, “Would you like me to hitch up the cutter for you?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Sean nodded to Stefan and left.

Maggie started to follow, but Stefan stopped her with a single request: “Tell me about your fiancé.”

Instantly she felt her features shift to stone. “No.”

“Why not?”

She sucked in a long breath and let it out slowly, leveling him with a look of cold fury. “You are only trying to prevent me from going.”

“Tell me.”

“He died. I do not wish to say more than that.” Once again she turned to go.

“I do not wish to hear of his death, Maggie. I wish to know of his life, the kind of man he was. I know of his father and I know of his friend, the fisherman’s son. And I know a little of you. This man must have been very special, for he was most fortunate in those who cared about him.”

She chewed her bottom lip and hesitated. In all the long months since Michael had died, no one had thought to talk about his life. She leaned against the frame of the door in need of its support. She felt as if all the restless energy she’d displayed earlier had been squeezed out of her. She rested the side of her head against the door.

“Why would you possibly care?”

“Because yesterday when I told you about my sister, you cared. You cared very much. I saw it in your eyes, heard it in the way you questioned, felt it in the very air between us. Now I would like to know of your Michael.”

“It won’t stop me from going to the docks.”

“Perhaps not, but it will give us a better understanding of one another and is that not the first small step toward a peaceful coexistence? To find the things we share in common rather than dwelling on the differences?”

“Someone on your side killed Michael. Someone on our side set things in motion that ended in the deaths of your sister and nephew. Our countries are at war,” she reminded him.

“But I did not kill Michael, and you did not starve Uma or Klaus. You and I are not at war, Maggie,” he replied.

She looked at him with the cynicism that had become almost second nature to her this last year. When had she lost her wonder? Her trust of others? Her belief that things happened for a reason? And why did the most minute interaction with this German make her feel that perhaps one day there could come an end to it, the pain and grief that they had both suffered?

She made a lunch for herself as well as Stefan and returned to sit with him.

“He was to be a doctor like his father,” she said, taking a seat in the rocker on the far side of the room. “He volunteered, he and George, the day that America entered the war. Michael volunteered as a medic. He was so certain that it would all end quickly even though it had already gone on for years.”

“Is that when you became a nurse?”

“I was determined to follow him, as far as possible.”

“Why would you place yourself in such danger?”

“If he would not listen to reason and stay here where it was safe, then I would go with him. We had always done that since we were children. If one did something the other followed.”

“He would allow such a thing?” Stefan saw the look she gave him and amended the question. “That is, he was in agreement with this plan?”

“He knew nothing of it—nor did my parents.” Then she looked away. “Not that any of that matters now.”

“You loved him very much.”

“I loved him,” she replied, but her voice was oddly uncertain. She blushed at the realization that sometimes she doubted that love and had nearly admitted as much aloud.

I am questioning my love for Michael. I have doubted the reality of a loving God. Could this man be right that such questions can only be born of faith?

She stood up and took her tray. “So, now you know about Michael. We have both suffered terrible losses, but we are still of different minds when it comes to this war.”

“Are we?”

“I see what you are doing, and it will not work with me, Stefan Witte. I am sorry for your loss, and I believe that you are truly sorry for mine, but there it ends.” She balanced her tray and then picked up his with her free hand.

“And what if I could convince you otherwise?”

“Please don’t do this,” she said, her tone weary, almost defeated.

“Do what, Maggie?”

“Make me question what I cannot change.”

“We only live this single moment in time, Maggie. How we spend it is up to us.”

“I know that,” she replied irritably.

“But?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “But one woman on Nantucket cannot possibly change the outcome of a war between nations around the world. One so-called transla
tor, regardless of how compelling his message may be, cannot hope to do that, either.”

“Why not?”

She looked at him as if he had just sprouted a second head. Her lips moved but no words came out.

“What if you had the potential to make a difference—no matter how small? Wouldn’t you want to at least try?”

She sighed heavily and turned to him. “We are simple people, Stefan, people who have already risked a great deal on your behalf. I will go to the docks and, assuming this contact of yours is there, I will deliver your message. But if, as I suspect, there is no contact to be made, then you owe us the courtesy of accepting your fate whatever it may be without further involving—or endangering—my family.”

The steamer was delayed for over an hour because of the fog that had crept over the harbor like a thick, impenetrable shadow, and the waiting room was more crowded than usual. Maggie pulled up the collar of her coat and kept the brim of her felt hat at a low angle as she burrowed her gloved hands in her sleeves and waited for the steamship to arrive. In the meantime, she watched carefully for the infamous contact in blue scarf with umbrella. No such person appeared.

She found herself thinking of Michael and realized that the relationship they had shared since childhood seemed a little unreal, like something one might read in a novel. Had she loved him? Of course. He had been her best friend, her closest ally. Everyone had assumed they would marry. Had she assumed it, as well? And what of the fact that it was shortly before they were to celebrate their engagement that Michael had declared his intent to volunteer? What was it he had said that day she’d seen him off?