Gift from the Sea (12 page)

“I just have to do this, Maggie. We’ll have the rest of our lives together, but understand that I need to do this.”

That day she had been so overcome with tears that she had nodded and accepted his quick kiss before he ran up the gangplank and onto the ship that would take him away from her. But now as she sat staring out into the gray emptiness of the Sound, she recalled something more. Michael had not looked back. He had stood at the railing of the ship and looked out to sea, and he had been smiling, leaning forward like a figurehead, as if he couldn’t wait to begin this new adventure.

“Freedom,” she murmured, understanding for the first time that what he had been trying to tell her was that before he settled into the routine of the life as doctor, husband and father that his father and grandfather before him had lived, he wanted this one grand adventure. Of course. As children they had both fantasized about the day when they would be old enough to be out on their own. As children they had shared their dreams of grand adventures. She had talked of following in Jeanne’s footsteps. She would find her true calling in New York or perhaps Paris. Michael had dreamed of the West and the ranch he would have, the horses he would raise.

But then they had become teenagers. Maggie had taken on more responsibility at the inn, while Michael had assisted his father at the hospital and applied to medical school in Boston. They had attended every church or community event together, inseparable as they had always been. And gradually they had begun to believe what the adults around them believed, that they were destined to be together.

Had she loved him? Had he loved her? Of course. His death had been like losing half of herself. Who was she
without Michael? With him her destiny had seemed so clearly mapped out until Michael had volunteered. She realized now that all those hours she had spent in the cupola above the inn had not been about grieving. They had been about seething over the unfairness of it all. They had played by all the rules, she and Michael. They had done what was expected of them without rebellion. So why?

A flash of blue silk caught her eye, and she shook off her ruminations and turned quickly. Jeanne and Frederick had just entered the waiting room. Frederick closed the umbrella he always used to protect Jeanne from the elements and shook it out as Jeanne looked around the crowded room.

I can’t have them see me, Maggie thought as she pulled her scarf up to cover her hair and half her face and turned away. From the corner of her eye she saw Jeanne say something to Frederick. Maggie took advantage of the moment to make her escape out the side door and practically collided with Eleanor Pritchard.

“Why, Maggie Hunter! Whatever are you doing in town, and here at the dock at that?” Mrs. Pritchard prided herself on knowing everything that went on with the population of Nantucket. She considered herself the island’s matriarch, coming as she did from one of its oldest and most respected families.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pritchard,” Maggie said, ignoring the question. “It’s so lovely to see you. How are you?”

The thing about Eleanor Pritchard was that if you asked after her health, she assumed you truly wanted a report. “Oh, my dear, this damp weather has just played havoc with my rheumatism. Well, you’re a nurse. You of all people understand such things. I have asked Tom Williams any number
of times if there isn’t some new medicine or treatment we could try, but he just pooh-poohs the whole matter.”

“Now, Mrs. Pritchard, I’m sure that Dr. Williams is sympathetic. It’s just that for these last weeks we’ve been so busy at the hospital. The influenza epidemic on the mainland has everyone here on the island suspecting the tiniest symptom of a common cold to be the dread disease.”

Mrs. Pritchard eyed her more closely. “Yes, I had heard that Tom moved some of his noninfected patients into private homes. You have such a patient at the inn, I believe?”

“Yes ma’am.” Maggie did not like the way the conversation was going and searched her brain for a topic that might distract the woman. “Have you had word from Benny?”

Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes filled with tears, and she pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her fur muff to dab at them. “He writes me daily from his post in Washington. He’s quite involved in the War Department, you know. Why, the president himself has commended him for his work.”

“And it’s well deserved, I’m sure,” Maggie said, placing her hand on Mrs. Pritchard’s arm in a gesture of sympathy before turning to go. “Well, it was so nice running into you….”

“I should call on your patient,” Mrs. Pritchard announced. “Yes, I’ll bring by some of my Russian tea and a tin of my homemade ginger cookies. Benny has so often reminded me of how important it is to do everything possible to raise the spirits of those in pain, be they soldiers or not. Perhaps I should visit with our prayer circle. Yes, I’ll call Reverend McAllister today.” She turned to go, then turned back. “I mean your patient is not contagious or anything?”

“We aren’t really sure how his recovery will progress,” Maggie said. “I’ll be sure to tell him of your kind offer.”

Mrs. Pritchard frowned as if something unpleasant had just struck her. “Are you alone with this man, Maggie?”

“I am his nurse.”

“Nursing in the hospital is one thing, but as I understand it…Oh my, is that the duchess?” In an instant the woman was off. “Yoo-hoo! Your Grace,” she called in a voice that caused passers-by to turn and smile.

Glad for the unwitting rescue yet not really wanting to explain her presence in town to Jeanne, Maggie didn’t know whether to remain where she was or walk away. But apparently Jeanne was no more anxious to encounter Mrs. Pritchard than Maggie was to have Jeanne and Frederick spot her. Ignoring Mrs. Pritchard’s cries, Jeanne took Frederick’s arm, and the two of them boarded the tram taking steamer passengers to one of the local hotels.

Stefan checked the clock on the mantel numerous times throughout the afternoon. Was it a good sign that she was taking so long? His heart soared with the hope that the contact had been made and even now Maggie was bringing news that would allow him to deliver his information to the proper authorities in Washington. He was so filled with thoughts of what might happen next that he failed to realize she had returned until he heard her voice in the hall outside his door.

“Yes, thank you, Sean. I’ll stay with him until Sarah comes.”

It seemed an eternity between the thud of the outside door and the click of the knob to his room. Then the minute he saw her, he knew.

“No one came.”

“I can’t be absolutely sure,” she said as she pulled the rocking chair close to his wheelchair so she could speak
in low tones in case Sean came back. “The ship was late and before it docked, our guests, the duchess and her companion, came to the docks unexpectedly. I couldn’t let them see me there. It would have raised so many questions. Then I ran into a woman from the church, Mrs. Pritchard. She’s very much the busybody and has a knack for smelling something amiss. I had to leave.”

“Thank you for going,” Stefan said as he tried to deal with the full impact of her news.

“I went to the next wharf and stayed until the arriving passengers disembarked,” she said. “No one was wearing a blue scarf that I could see.” When Stefan remained silent, she added softly, “I’m truly sorry.”

“I don’t understand. The contact was to come every day because there was no certainty to when I might reach the island. Surely on this final day…”

“Perhaps you misunderstood the instructions,” she suggested sympathetically.

Stefan looked up at her and smiled. “Does this mean you have had a change of heart, Nurse Hunter? That you believe me?” He cupped her cheek with one hand.

“I…there are parts of your story that have touched my heart,” she admitted as she savored the warmth of his touch. Then she came to her senses and pulled back. “But I would remind you that your government has sent its army to occupy lands that had no quarrel with them.”

“Governments and their armies are not countries, Maggie.” He reached out to her again, his fingers finding a strand of hair that had escaped when she removed her hat. “You are very brave, Maggie. And very kind,” he added, his voice husky as he concentrated on twisting the curl around his finger.

He leaned closer as if he would share a secret and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “In spite of your doubt, you have done as much as anyone could have asked—and more. Thank you.” It was the voice of a condemned man.

Maggie pressed her fingertips to the place where his lips had touched her cheek so lightly that she might have thought she had imagined it were he not right there, a breath away. “Sarah will be here soon to give you your supper.”

When she stood up, he brushed her hand with the backs of his fingers and she felt an enormous desire to surrender to that touch. Not in a sensual way; it was more that she had so wanted to believe in something again. Over the long months since Michael’s death, her anger and depression had found no real target. Somehow Stefan Witte seemed to know not only whom he was fighting but why. She envied him that.

They both heard Sean’s step in the hall—the stamping of his boots followed by the slamming of the outer door intruded on the moment. Maggie focused on Stefan’s hands, strong and nearly whole again now. She thought of the times when she had laid impersonal fingers on his throat to be sure the pill went down. Only now she recalled the touch in detail—skin roughened by the elements and the stubble of his golden whiskers but so alive with the strength and fervor of a man bent on completing his mission. And always the glint of that small gold cross, this beacon in the darkness he must surely face.

Even as they heard Sean call to her, she did not move away. Rather she lifted Stefan’s hand in hers and stroked his palm with her thumb. Then, as Sean stepped through the door, she found Stefan’s racing pulse and counted its rhythm to her own while focusing blindly on the small watch she wore around her neck.

T
hat evening it seemed forever before Maggie was able to escape to her room and retrieve the folded sheets of paper Stefan had given her. Through the long ordeal of dinner, she had thought of little other than those pages and the sealed envelope she’d left in her room. But Jeanne had insisted on giving them all the information she and Frederick had gathered that day about possible houses for sale on the island. She described each one they had visited in minute detail, laying out the features that she found attractive, while Frederick gave a more realistic picture of each house’s problems.

“That one will need constant upkeep,” he declared after Jeanne had gone on for several minutes about the charm and quaintness of a three-story Greek Revival mansion just off Main Street. “The gardens alone will cost a small fortune to maintain.”

“Well, Freddie, I happen to have a not-so-small fortune,” Jeanne had replied snappishly. “One, I might add, that at the moment is doing little good for anyone.”

Frederick had reached over and taken her hand. “One
must be realistic,” he said quietly, and everyone was relieved when Jeanne’s normal good spirits were immediately restored.

“Yes, one must,” she agreed with a smile and a light touch of his cheek. “Which is the very reason I treasure having you with me to decide these matters.”

From there the discussion had gone back and forth, the women rhapsodizing over the charms of each house, while the men continued to try to interject a note of common sense into the discussion. At last Jeanne had stood. “Well, no decision need be made tonight,” she said, taking them all under the sunshine of her smile. “And frankly, house hunting can be quite tiring, so I will bid you all a good-night.”

Frederick and Gabe remained standing until she had kissed every cheek and left the room. Maggie was relieved that Frederick soon followed Jeanne’s lead, opening the way for Maggie herself to protest that she had to be up early.

“How did things go today—with his standing?” her father asked in a low voice after checking to be sure both Jeanne and Frederick were out of earshot.

“He did well,” Maggie replied. “He’s not yet to the point of running a race, but—”

“You went into town today?” her father asked.

“I had an errand.” Maggie met her father’s questioning gaze but said only, “Good night, Papa, Mama.”

In her room Maggie changed into her nightgown. She wrapped herself in her robe and the blue-and-white log cabin–patterned quilt Grandma Emma had made for her sixteenth birthday. As anxious as she had been to read the pages, she now felt a reluctance to do so. Whatever they contained was likely to create more questions, questions she had not permitted herself to consider since Michael’s
death. Questions that haunted her anew after she’d heard the story of Uma’s tragic end. Questions that her mother would surely consider blasphemy. Questions about God.

She settled herself against the painted iron headboard and unfolded the pages. As expected, the letter began with a plea for her to talk to her father, but there was so much more.

“Princess Mary,” Maggie murmured and continued reading, caught up now in the incredible story of soldiers at war so close to each other’s front line that they could actually speak to their enemy.

Maggie let the last page fall to the floor next to her bed. She pulled the quilt high around her shoulders and covered her ears. Anything to turn off the images in her head. Michael, with his face uplifted to the horizon, his hands braced on the railing and everything about him saying, “I am free.” Uma and her son staring at the camera, smiling and confident. Stefan challenging her with questions she had refused to raise, questions about faith that she had suppressed for these long months.

She gathered the pages of his letter and stacked them impatiently. How could this German for one minute have dared to think that she would lift a finger to help him? And yet she had. She had gone to the docks in spite of the fact that she knew her parents would not approve. She had studied every waiting and arriving passenger, and although there had been no contact there, she could not deny that she had believed him. That she still believed him.

She closed her eyes and saw his face, clean-shaven now, the green eyes bright with the truth of his beliefs and alive with the confidence that God had brought them together. To what end? What possible good could come of it? He is a condemned man.

But what if he could make a difference, however small, in the outcome of this tragic war? What if she could be a
part of that? Might that not give her life some meaning and purpose? Might that not be the first step on the road to re-discovering herself?

Stefan sat on the side of the bed and pounded his fists on his useless legs. Impatiently he had waited for the Chadwicks to retire for the night and then worked his way out of the bed to practice standing. He had even managed a few steps toward the window, where he’d seen the tower lamp glowing like a lighthouse across the snowy yard. Was she reading his letter?

To pass the time he repeatedly made his way around three sides of the bed and back again, managing only one or two steps while standing free of the bed. At this rate he would not be able to walk properly for weeks. He didn’t have weeks—he might not even have days. On his fifth trip back around the bed and back to the window, he saw that the lamp had gone out. All was dark except for the long moonlit shadows of the trees and outbuildings stretched out across the snow.

He slumped against the side of the bed, his breathing shallow from the exertion of his exercise and from the emotional toll of accepting the reality that after everything he had been through, all might be lost.

Maggie, I need you to believe in me if I am to face what I must clearly endure.

The one thing he was certain of was that he had not misread her anger, her rage at the injustice of this war. When she had confessed her original plan to gain her nurse’s training in order to follow Michael to the front, he had seen it in her eyes. Maggie would not go to fight for some polit
ical cause, but she would do whatever she could to protect anyone she truly cared about. And did she care about him?

When he had kissed her cheek, he had intended a chaste gesture of gratitude. But the smoothness of her skin, the whisper of her hair feathering against his finger, had changed all of that. In another time, another place, they might have come to mean so much more to each other than patient and nurse. If they had met before the war, when they were both free of the political restraints created by their governments, they might have had the freedom to truly come to care for each other. If she had not been with Michael—if he had not lived an ocean away…

She had been determined to follow Michael to the battlefields of Europe. He hoped that this man had realized how fortunate he was to have found such a woman. A woman who would consider leaving her family to follow her beloved to another continent—a continent at war. Such a woman had the will and the spirit to want that loved one’s death not to have been in vain. Stefan felt a twinge of hope.

He smiled as he imagined her arriving the following morning, the silly nurse’s cap propped on top of her raven curls, her eyes considering him for a long moment before she spoke. “Good morning,” she would say as she had every morning, an impersonal greeting of nurse to patient.

And then?

Stefan closed his eyes and fell back onto the bed. Then she would say, “I read your pages.”

And?

“Tell me how I can help.”

“Do you believe in me?” he would ask.

“Yes.”

“Then that is all I need.”

Yes, it would be like that.

Energized by his fantasy, Stefan pushed himself to his feet and worked his way back to the window. He scanned the darkness, memorizing his surroundings. A barn several yards from the cottage and beyond that a pond, frozen now. No forest that he could see, only snow-covered fields of shrubs and grasses. This was disappointing. He swiveled his vision in the other direction. On a bluff sat the inn. Of course, it would have the better view for guests. It would overlook both the ocean and the harbor on the opposite side.

He considered each route for escape. The barn would stable the horses. The fields beyond the pond might lead to a road that would eventually take him down to the harbor. That would be the best route, the most likely place to find a boat. The weather indeed had warmed, as indicated by the patches of bare ground in the snow. At night he could hear the steady drip of icicles as he lay awake in the silent cottage. But if his way to the harbor was blocked, there was always the sea.

The obstacle between him and the ocean was, of course, the inn. More precisely the people inside the inn. The danger of being seen and apprehended was far greater. And he was quite certain that Maggie’s father would not be sympathetic.

He turned his gaze back to the darkened window. Maggie. Stefan closed his eyes as the sensation of her small warm hands gripping his washed over him. He thought of the way the lamplight caught the blue-black richness of her hair on gloomy winter afternoons. He thought of her eyes, the way she watched him, first with suspicion and aversion but more recently with curiosity and interest. The same way he watched her. And he thought of
the kiss and how much he had wanted to shift his lips that small distance until they met hers.