Gift from the Sea (15 page)

“So he keeps saying. Were he inclined to offer information, he would have spoken up before now. He’s desperate,
Maggie. He knows that his time here is at an end. He’s likely to do or say anything to try to get you to help him stay.”

Maggie felt her mother’s eyes on her and turned to her for help. “Mama.”

“Tell me why this change of heart, Maggie? We had to practically beg you to nurse the man. I would think you’d be relieved to know he will finally be gone.”

“It’s not him,” Maggie said, knowing deep in her heart that indeed it was him. “It’s his sister and her child who have touched me.”

“And what if he made up that tale?” Papa said.

“No, the story is real,” Mama said. “Why, the newspapers report horrible conditions and the duchess confirms them. It’s one of the reasons she left Europe.”

“Still,” Papa said, and Maggie saw the opportunity to seize the moment.

“Let me return to the cottage today,” she begged. “I will know if he is lying, for he believes he has won my trust and his guard will be down. You’ve always said I was a good judge of people, Papa.”

“It can do no harm,” Mama said, “and I could use Sarah here. There is so much to be done to ready the inn for the season.”

Papa frowned. “Very well, but take care. He is stronger than he lets on, and while I don’t think he would harm you, neither can we forget that his future is—”

Maggie hurried to his side and kissed her father’s cheek. “Thank you, Papa. I promise I’ll be careful.”

In her wildest dreams she had never dared to hope her father would give his permission. Mama, however, was always the softer touch, and Maggie congratulated herself on making sure that both parents were present when she
pleaded her case. And then as she passed their bedroom after gathering her coat and gloves, she heard the real reason her mother had taken her side.

“I think that God has touched her heart at last,” Mama was saying. “Oh, Gabe, can’t you see? Somehow God has sent us this man to give us back our Maggie.”

Maggie froze.

“You truly believe that?” Papa asked.

“He’s a Christian, Gabe. Whatever he may believe his true purpose to be, it seems to me that God’s hand is in all of this.”

Maggie stood at the top of the stairs and allowed her mother’s words to sink in. Lucie Hunter was a romantic as well as a devout Christian woman. Of course, she would see God’s hand in this as she saw His hand in everything that happened. Hadn’t it been Mama who had assured Maggie that Michael’s death would not be in vain, that God had taken him from her for some greater purpose?

“Maggie?”

Maggie glanced around and saw Jeanne coming out of her room.

“How are you this beautiful morning?” she asked as she greeted Maggie with a kiss to each cheek. “More to the point, you were gone for some time last night and raced off to your room with barely a good-night. So, how is that young man of yours?” She held Maggie by the shoulders for a long moment. “Perhaps the real question is
who
is your young man?”

Maggie felt herself blush a deep scarlet, and Jeanne laughed. “Come,” she said, pulling Maggie into her room—the room where they had first brought Stefan, the room
Maggie would never again be able to look at in the same way. “It’s high time you and I had a little talk.”

Jeanne reclined on the chaise and patted the space at its foot. “Sit,” she invited. “Tell me all about him.”

Maggie perched on the edge of the chaise and folded her hands primly in her lap. How she longed to confide in this worldly woman!

“Let me guess,” Jeanne said, “you are feeling guilty. You think that any attraction to another man is a betrayal of Michael.”

“How did you know?” It was a relief to have her feelings recognized and expressed openly.

Jeanne sat up and took Maggie’s hand in hers. “I know because I have felt exactly what you are feeling, my darling. I am sure you have noticed that my feelings for Frederick run quite deep—and that those feelings are returned?”

Maggie smiled.

“Would it surprise you to know that I have wasted so much precious time denying those feelings?”

“You were in mourning,” Maggie protested.

Jeanne shrugged. “Ask yourself one question, Maggie. Ask yourself if Michael would want you to deny yourself a life of love and family. He died.” She leaned forward and placed her forefinger under Maggie’s chin. “But you didn’t die, Maggie.”

“But…”

“You must live, Maggie, as I must. Frederick wants us to marry, and I truly believe that the duke would approve that at last I am moving forward with my life.”

“Still, this man…”

“If God has seen fit to bring this man into your life, do not turn your back on that. You believe that your faith died
the day Michael did. Perhaps you might reconsider that decision, for if there’s one thing I have learned, my darling girl, it is that faith and love go hand in hand.”

Faith, hope and love, Maggie thought, but the greatest of these is love.

Stefan had just finished dressing and positioned himself in the wheelchair when he heard the unmistakable sound of Maggie’s laughter. She greeted the Chadwicks with more enthusiasm than he ever recalled hearing from her. And when she burst through the door to his room, her cheeks were rosy with the cold and tendrils of her hair had been pulled free by the wind. She was not wearing her nurse’s cap and her beauty was all the more evident.

“I
am glad you are here,” Stefan began, but Maggie cut him off.

“Your walking has improved a great deal,” she said, speaking in a voice that was a little too loud. “Sean tells us that you have made remarkable progress.”

“Yes,” Stefan replied, watching her steadily, her arms folded now across her chest as she studied him in return.

“If you wanted to do so, you could surely escape today. After all, I have things to attend to, in the kitchen, perhaps even upstairs.”

Stefan frowned. What game was this? Had she been sent by her father and the doctor to test him?

“There’s a heavy coat and boots of Sean’s by the back door,” she continued. “They would serve you well.”

Her attitude confused him. Hadn’t she promised to help him?
We must find another way.
Was this her idea of helping? To have him make a run for it? “You are testing me,” he said irritably.

She lowered her voice. “Not at all. I am simply trying to warn you of the obvious choices that could trap you.”

“What choice is there in taking your hints and acting on them only to find the fisherman waiting to shoot me as I run?”

“Ah, you can not only walk but also you can now run?” She grinned at him. “That is indeed amazing progress.”

“I don’t understand you,” he grumbled and turned the chair away from her.

She crossed the room in half a dozen steps and leaned her weight on the arms of the wheelchair. “Here is all you must understand, Stefan Witte,” she whispered. “If we are to do this, then I must know everything.”

“I have told you that I was to make contact with someone on this side.”

“Yes, you have this information that could turn the tide of this war.”

“Do not mock me,” he growled. “It’s all there. You have but to open the envelope and read it for yourself. The language is technical, but you are very intelligent and in time could translate its meaning.”

Silence reigned as she turned to stare out the window. Outside Sean moved back and forth, laying out his nets over the thawed yard as he checked them for needed repairs.

“We are alone so just tell me,” she begged without looking at him. “I want to help, but how can I if I can’t understand?”

It was a moment of truth and one that required an act of pure faith. Stefan took a deep breath. “All right. There was a meeting in Munich,” he said softly. “I was called there because a document had fallen into the hands of the high command—a communication between the French and British generals. I was there to translate the document.”

Several more beats of silence passed until Maggie said quietly, “Go on.”

“In the communication the French were asking the
British to assume control over a section of the trenches near the North Sea.”

“The British already control that part of Europe,” Maggie said and, when she saw Stefan’s surprise at her knowledge of this, added, “The newspaper publishes the lines of battle each week.”

“Yes, but the French wanted the British to also take on responsibility for another twenty-five kilometers to the south.”

“All right, suppose they did, how is it important whether that little part of the line is controlled by French or British soldiers?”

Stefan reached out and took her hand and she turned to him. “It’s important because the British are already overextended. Their men are exhausted and shorthanded.”

“So, why agree? The French—”

“Are also shorthanded and exhausted. The two sides have not worked well together, and there is the risk that the French will simply abandon that part of the line.”

“But the Americans—”

“Are not yet up to the job,” he explained. “By the time they get enough troops trained and in place, it could be too late.”

“Very well, but the British have such a powerful fighting force,” she argued.

Stefan shrugged. “In places, yes, but the general in charge of this area is known to be dull and uninspiring. He’s already suffered many defeats.”

“Then surely he will be replaced,” Maggie protested.

Stefan smiled. “No doubt but perhaps not before it’s too late.”

“What are you saying?” Her eyes flashed with fear.

“Quartermaster General Erich Ludendorff has been given the task of building a series of spring offensives to
sever the line held by the Allies before you Americans can provide the necessary fresh troops and artillery. He had been considering where to launch this offensive when this document fell into his hands. It was a gift.”

“How so?”

“It recommends the best point for launching the attack—this twenty-five-kilometer link between British- and French-controlled territory. The line will be weakest there.”

“Then it is already too late,” Maggie said, her voice low with dread.

“No. The attack was delayed until this spring because Ludendorff needed time to amass his forces and artillery. Some 800,000 men are to be brought, along with tanks, ammunition supplies and the like. All of this takes time, and there is the weather to consider.”

“Then what?”

“The master plan is to defeat the British, the theory being that the French will then surrender and you Americans will have no cause to fight. The war will be over, and Germany will control all of Europe.”

The clock in the parlor chimed the quarter hour as Maggie digested all she had heard. “Perhaps you would like that,” she said as the clock fell silent, her eyes locked on his even as she pulled her hand free of his. “Your country would be the victor.”

“Maggie, how can you think that? I have risked everything to bring word of this to the Americans. Only your government can possibly change the course of this matter.”

“So why not tell my father or Dr. Williams your story from the start? Why waste all this time? I don’t understand you at all.”

“They would not have believed me. I wanted to tell
them but decided to follow the plan. My hopes were high when your father agreed to meet the contact at the docks, but when no contact was made, I saw that he had never believed me, had meant only to humor me. The information I have is far too important to hand over to people like your father who already have doubts.”

“My father is an honorable man,” Maggie protested. “If you…”

“Ludendorff is planning a massacre. Thousands will be slaughtered and irrevocably maimed. I am telling you that there is no thought of the human toll, only victory.”

“But this would end with victory for Germany, your homeland.”

“At what cost? Are we forever to be known as barbarians? For those men in that room the enemy was nothing more than an enormous, faceless beast to be utterly destroyed. They thought nothing of the lost lives, the lost youth, the lost sons and husbands and fathers. Every soldier wearing the opposing uniform was nothing more than a lifeless dummy to them.”

“And for you? Who is the enemy?”

“The enemy is power and politics—not people. I see your face, Uma’s, Klaus’s. I see the faces of the men, boys really, that I served with on the U-boat. I see the faces of the Belgian chemist and the fellow seaman coming here who was my contact. I ask myself, why are we working toward this senseless destruction?”

Maggie’s violet eyes burned with her desire to believe him, believe in him. “It’s all so far-fetched,” she said. “Coincidences that took you to Munich and then, instead of to the North Sea, here to Nantucket.”

Stefan ran his hand through his hair. “Yes, I can see that
this is how it appears. But you must believe me that the resistance is very well organized, very well connected. They arranged everything.”

“You expect me to believe that a Belgian chemist had such connections when he was himself hiding out?”

“I can offer you only the truth, Maggie,” Stefan said wearily. “Believe what you will. I have not lied to you.”

Maggie watched Sean working on his nets. She saw the weaving and thought of the web of underground connections Stefan wanted her to accept. “I don’t know what to believe,” she whispered.

Stefan pushed himself out of the wheelchair and stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. “I can only tell you what I believe, Maggie,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

She waited.

“I believe that you are the reason I was brought here. Whatever I must face, God has given me this time with you, Maggie Hunter, and my life is far richer for it.”

Maggie reached up and crossed her hands over her chest, holding onto his. She closed her eyes. “Stefan,” she murmured and allowed her head to rest against his shoulder.

A sound from the yard brought them both back to reality.

“Someone’s coming,” Maggie said softly, then added with more alarm, “It’s Reverend McAllister.”

“To your father’s inn?”

“No, here.”

They both heard the sound of carriage wheels stopping outside the cottage, then Sean’s quiet voice. “Reverend.”

“I have come to call on the patient,” they heard the minister announce in a voice that defied Sean to debate his purpose.

“He is sleeping,” Sean replied.

“Then I will sit with him and pray for him to recover.”

Maggie and Stefan heard the minister’s heavy step on the front porch.

“Get back into bed,” Maggie ordered. “Hurry.”

Stefan did as she instructed, pausing only long enough to discard the slippers.

Maggie pulled the covers high over his shoulders and around his neck. “Close your eyes and whatever happens, do not speak.”

Stefan turned on his side and forced his breathing to a steady beat, while Maggie sat across from him in the rocker, a book open on her lap. Seconds later there was a light tap on the bedroom door, and without waiting to be invited, the minister entered the room.

“Reverend McAllister,” Maggie said in a hushed tone that nevertheless expressed surprise at his visit.

Without a word the minister crossed the room to Stefan’s bedside. He frowned. “The day is quite mild, Miss Hunter. Does your patient have chills? A fever?”

“On the contrary, he is doing much better,” Maggie assured him.

“So many covers,” he replied as he folded his hands and bowed his head.

Maggie watched as he prayed silently, his lips moving without sound, his eyes open and studying Stefan. She held her breath.

“In the name of the Father…” Reverend McAllister said aloud, and Maggie quickly bowed her head as he pronounced the benediction.

“It was kind of you to call,” she said, speaking in the hushed tones of the sickroom. “Will you stop at the inn? I’m sure that Mother would want you to stay for tea before…”

He sat down in the rocker Maggie had vacated at his entrance. “I will stay until he has awakened,” he announced. “His name again?”

You have not been told his name, Maggie thought. “Steven,” she said softly and, at the raised and disapproving look the preacher cast her way, added quickly, “Steven Wit.”

“Wit? I don’t believe I’ve heard of that name here on the island.”

Do not force me to lie to you, Maggie begged silently. Just then Stefan moaned and turned to his other side, away from the minister and facing Maggie. His eyes were open and under the dual questioning gaze of both the minister and Stefan, she faltered for words.

“He’s not from Nantucket,” she whispered. “Begging your pardon, Reverend, but my patient needs his rest. Could we talk in the parlor?”

The minister pulled a Bible from his coat pocket and opened it. “Please go about your duties, Miss Hunter. I will sit with Mr. Wit—is it?”

Stefan cast her a pleading look but what could she do?

“May I get you a cup of tea, Reverend?”

“Very kind of you. Two sugars, please.”

She left the door ajar and stepped into the hallway where Sean hovered near the door. He jerked his head in the direction of the inn. “Shall I go for Gabe?” he mouthed and Maggie nodded.

In the kitchen she put the kettle on and tried to think what to do. At some point Stefan would have to “awake” and the minister would expect conversation. She drummed her fingers on the table, willing the kettle to boil more quickly. She cast her eyes over the kitchen shelves, seeking inspi
ration. And then she spotted the canister of dry mustard next to a basket filled with garlic bulbs.

“A poultice,” she murmured. “If Stefan cannot speak…”

She hurried to gather mustard, garlic and some of the bacon grease Sarah kept in a closed jar near the stove. Using a mortar and pestle to grind the ingredients into a foul-smelling paste, she then spread the mixture on a towel she had soaked in strong vinegar and folded lengthwise.

All her life Mama had taught her that in hard times there was always a choice—to act or not, and choosing to do nothing was in itself a choice. Well, she was now choosing to act. It was true. Faced with the danger that could accompany the minister’s visit, she had made her choice. She pounded more of the poultice ingredients into a smooth paste and added the second batch on top of the first. The kettle whistled shrilly as she rolled the towel and placed it on the tray next to the cup and sugar bowl she had prepared for the minister. She poured water over the tea leaves and smiled.