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Authors: Anna Schmidt

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BOOK: Gift from the Sea
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After a few minutes the man drew in a shuddering breath and let it out without coughing. He nodded and she allowed his weight to collapse onto the pillows. Maggie felt a chill as if the absence of his warmth had suddenly changed the temperature in the room.

“I’m going to get you some tea with honey to ease the rawness in your throat. Understand?”

He nodded.

“Stay where you are,” she warned.

The German gave her a weak salute. Nonplussed by his obvious attempt at humor under such circumstances, Maggie fled the room. When she returned with the tea, he was once again asleep and she breathed a sigh of relief. She could handle him when he slept, but when he was awake, those piercing green eyes seemed to follow her with the same curiosity that she could not deny every time she was in his presence.

By the end of the day Maggie was so exhausted it was all she could do to make a grand show of delight at seeing Jeanne. Unsettled by being cooped up in the cottage with a man who was now awake and following her every move when she was within his range of vision, she had scrubbed the kitchen floor, wiped down the cabinets, washed all the dishes and put fresh linens on the upstairs beds.

“Look at you,” Jeanne exclaimed while holding both of Maggie’s hands as she looked her up and down. “I go away for a few short months and you’ve blossomed into a woman.”

Maggie blushed with pleasure. “I am tired and hungry,” she said, brushing aside the compliment.

“No, no, no,” Jeanne instructed, wagging her forefinger like a schoolteacher. “The correct reply is, ‘Why, how kind of you to say so.’ Go on, we’re all waiting.”

Maggie dropped into a curtsy and murmured, “Why, how kind of you to say so, your Grace.”

“Stop that,” Jeanne scolded, but she was laughing with delight. “Now, come into the dining room and let me sit with you while you have your supper so you can tell me everything—and I do mean
everything.

Maggie made a face. “There’s a war on—is there anything more I need say?” She blushed scarlet. “Oh, Auntie Jeanne, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”
How could she have forgotten for even a moment that Jeanne’s beloved also had perished in this war?

Jeanne waved off her apology. “Dodging the question never works with me, young lady. And I have not come all this way—at great expense and danger to myself, I might add—to have you avoid me. Do you realize that it took over two hours for the steamer to traverse a single mile over that ice-packed harbor?” She shivered, then pointed her finger at Maggie. “I will not be brushed aside with oversimplification. Now sit down here and tell me how you are getting along. So, you’ve decided to become a nurse.” Her raised eyebrows made it clear she was questioning the wisdom of this decision.

Maggie shrugged. She had begun her nurse’s training right after Michael announced his plan to volunteer. She had never told anyone that it had been her plan to follow him to Europe and the war.

“I applaud your desire to get on with your life, Maggie. Still, I can’t help but wonder if you are doing this as some sort of tribute, or perhaps retribution in memory of your young man?” Her voice softened. “Such dedication is admirable, but you mustn’t abandon your life for a memory. It’s been what—almost a year?”

“Just shy of six months,” Maggie replied, her voice suddenly unsteady.

“Oh, sweet child,” Jeanne exclaimed and pulled Maggie to her.

“Sometimes I can’t seem to remember his face or the sound of his voice,” Maggie confessed. “It’s like losing him in pieces.”

Jeanne nodded. “I know. I do.” She cupped Maggie’s face with her hands, stroking her cheeks with her thumbs.
“And you are not going to believe what I am going to suggest,” she said, “but you must remember that I too lost the love of my life.”

“I know.”

“It’s been two long years, and I too have felt the last memories of his face, his voice—his touch—fading.”

At last someone understood—really understood.

“How have you managed?” Maggie asked, feeling the tension ease through her shoulders and neck.

“It occurred to me that those lapses in memory were my signal, my message from the duke and from God that I must begin to move forward—even to love again.”

Maggie was stunned. The love that had existed between Jeanne and her duke—in spite of the difference in their ages—had been the stuff of fairy tales, complete with her own castle. How could she even entertain the idea?

“I believe that it is time you considered that there will be another love for you, Maggie. You are far too young to close yourself away from such opportunities.”

“Even if that were true—even if I had the slightest interest in such nonsense,” Maggie protested, “well, the male population here is—”

“Come now, there must be other young men on this island, someone who has not yet heeded the call to battle? Or better yet, a hero just returned safely home?”

For an instant the image of Stefan Witte flashed unbidden across Maggie’s mind. She could practically feel her eyes flashing with shock and her mouth curling in disgust.

Jeanne laughed as she studied Maggie’s horrified expression. “Oh, don’t look so stunned. God surely has no need for a lovely thing like you to go through life alone.”

“I shall never—”

The tall, portly man she had seen arrive with Jeanne stepped into the room, his dark hair gleaming in the lamplight, his eyes settling on Jeanne first before he turned politely to Maggie. “Ah, so this is your niece,” he said.

“Maggie, I would like you to meet the duke’s nephew, Sir Frederick Groton. Freddie, this is Margaret Rose.”

“Charmed,” Frederick whispered as he took Maggie’s fingertips and bowed low over them. For a moment Maggie thought he might actually click his heels together and then kiss her hand.

Maggie withdrew her hand from his and cast an incredulous glance at Jeanne.

Jeanne laughed. “Don’t you just love the Europeans? So courtly and utterly charming, every one of them.”

I wouldn’t be so sure, Maggie thought. These days she couldn’t seem to help questioning the motives of every European—friend or foe.

Chapter Four

S
tefan fought weakness and exhaustion to stay alert as he translated all that was happening beyond the closed door of the room where they had brought him. The fisherman and his wife had returned at dusk, and he had been on alert. In these moments when he was not in pain or fighting the delirium of high fever, it was important to learn as much as possible about these people. He well knew that they might be pleasant to his face but was certain that only the foul weather prevented his arrest and transfer to a prisoner-of-war camp at the earliest possible moment. So he listened, straining to hear the soft, weary voice of the young nurse for what information she might give the others.

“He’s sedated,” he had heard her tell the couple, who would watch him now. He took a moment’s satisfaction in realizing she had not noticed him hiding the pills she’d brought him between his gum and cheek until he could remove them. Gritting his teeth against the pain that electrified his fingers and toes from time to time, he had ground them to powder with his thumbnail.

“He’ll likely sleep through the night, then,” the fisherman had replied.

He’ll likely keep his wits about him and plan his escape, Stefan thought. He had to reach his contact. But every attempt he made to roll over or sit up brought excruciating pain and drained him further of what little strength he had.

“The man must eat something,” the fisherman’s wife protested. Stefan thought of what the nurse’s father had told him of the couple’s loss. He thought of how the woman had fussed over him during the transfer from the inn to this cottage. She would be useful. He could play on her sympathies, gain her trust—not like the nurse, whose demeanor was as stiff as her crisply starched apron and nurse’s cap. She kept watch even when he pretended to be drugged, as if at any moment she might be called upon to shoot him.

“You can rouse him long enough for that, Sarah,” he heard the nurse reply.

“Go on, then,” the elder woman replied. “The duchess is anxious to see you.”

The duchess? Since when did Americans take the titles of royalty? Surely he had not heard correctly.

And then for the first time he heard the nurse laugh. The sound was musical—lively, sweet notes that trilled in the cold, still air. Maggie they called her and hearing her laughter, he thought the name apt. He imagined her running lightly over the freshly fallen snow. He envisioned her bursting through the door of the inn and rushing into the welcoming arms of “the duchess” who was…What?

Stefan shook off such thoughts and concentrated on the moment at hand. How many days had passed since he’d jumped ship? Surely the contact he’d been told to find at the wharves as soon as possible would not wait forever. If
he failed to keep that appointment, all would be lost; he would have defected for nothing. Either way his fate was sealed. He squeezed his eyes shut as pain shot through his toes and fingers. Could the end be any more painful than these sudden shocks that paralyzed his limbs without warning, leaving him helpless as a newborn? Would his interrogators torture him to gain information? Would his death be painful? Would it come from a firing squad or hanging? And would anyone ever know that he had died a patriot? He had died because he loved his country—his homeland?

The turning of the doorknob brought his attention back to the here and now. He rolled onto his side and forced his breathing to be deep and steady in spite of the pain. Through the dim light and one eye opened a mere slit, he saw the fisherman’s wife ease into the room. She put the tray she was carrying on the bedside table and stood for a long moment looking down at him.

“Ah, Georgie,” she whispered and her voice caught. “If only this man were you come back to us.” Then she dropped to her knees next to the bed and began praying.

Stefan pretended restlessness and rolled away from her, giving her privacy. After a long moment he heard the rustle of her skirts as she stood. “Stefan Witte,” she whispered, touching his shoulder gently. “You need to wake up and eat something. Build your strength.”

She’s right. I cannot expect to make my way to the wharf in the state I’m in. Stefan faked a moan and rolled onto his back. When the woman touched his shoulder again, he opened his eyes.

“There. That’s much better. Can you sit up a bit, dearie?” While he pushed himself to a half-sitting position
against the pillows, she bustled about lighting a lamp, then spreading a napkin under his chin and bringing him the hot broth. “Maggie—Nurse Hunter—suggested perhaps a mug might make things easier than trying to use a bowl and spoon. Can you manage?”

Stefan nodded and took the mug from her, cradling it with his palms. Instead of leaving him alone as he had hoped she might, the woman pulled a chair closer and watched him. “It’s gut—good,” Stefan said, nodding toward the broth.

“Thank you. So, you speak our language,” she said, raising her voice and slowly enunciating each syllable.

Stefan continued to sip the broth as he considered his options. Surely the more he could remind this woman of her son, the more helpful she might be. “I try,” he admitted with a shy smile.

“I’m not sure we’ve been properly introduced, you being out of your head with fever much of the time since you arrived. I’m Sarah Chadwick. My husband—the fisherman who found you—is Sean.”

“The nurse?”

“Oh, surely Margaret Rose has introduced herself, although she prefers to be known as Maggie. These modern young women,” she added, shaking her head with obvious disapproval. “Her parents own the inn. Sean and I work for them. You simply will not find a finer couple than Gabe and Lucie Hunter. You have little to worry about, Stefan,” she assured him. “Between Mr. Hunter and Dr. Williams, you will be treated fairly—and humanely.” She took the empty mug and placed it back on the tray. “Now then, the way you managed that, I don’t see why you can’t try something a bit more solid. Some bread or cheese perhaps?”

Stefan stifled a yawn. “Very tired.”

“Of course. I’ll come check on you later, then.” She touched his cheek. “Why, you’re burning up. Sean! His fever is back. Send for Maggie at once.”

 

By the time Dr. Williams could arrive, it was late evening and the patient had a raging fever and was struggling for every breath.

“I was afraid of this,” the doctor said, more to himself than to Maggie.

“But he seemed so much better earlier,” Sarah protested, wringing her hands as she hovered near the bed.

“It’s not unexpected in a case like this,” Maggie assured her. “There’s nothing you could have done to prevent this.” She saw relief flood Sarah’s eyes. But the truth was that she was wondering if indeed they had overestimated the extent of his ability to fight off the pneumonia that might well kill him before the firing squad got its chance.

No! Not as long as you are under my care.

For three days Maggie barely left the man’s side. If he choked, she was there to pull him upright and administer the breathing treatments she had once helped dispense to her grandmother. If his fever worsened, she was there with cloths soaked in alcohol to cool him. When he shook with chills, she was ready with extra blankets, which she wrapped him in as tightly as she might swaddle a child. For three nights she stayed at the cottage, sleeping in spurts on the sofa in the Chadwicks’ parlor while Sean attended Stefan, waking the moment she heard a cough or sensed a change in his condition.

And all the while she could not help but admire his determination—even in his state of semiconsciousness—
to fight the fever, to refuse to surrender to the attacks of pain and infection that racked his body. Finally when she woke on the fourth morning, after spending the last three hours in the rocking chair by his bed, she found him sleeping peacefully. His breathing was regular and his fever had passed. Maggie felt triumph mingled with relief. She had stayed with him every minute, forcing him to take fluids, holding him when he choked and coughed, massaging his cramped muscles, sleeping only when he did.

When she was nursing him, she had stopped seeing him as the enemy. He was a human being in pain, in real danger of not making it through another night. She had fought alongside him as she would have fought for the recovery of any patient.

“He’s come through it,” Dr. Williams announced with some degree of disbelief mingled with admiration. “You’ve brought him through it, Maggie. Now I want you to go to the inn and get some proper rest or it will be you I’ll be coming to treat.”

“As soon as Sarah comes this evening,” she promised.

Dr. Williams looked at her for a long moment. “Your devotion to your patients has often impressed me, my dear, but this man—this man is out of danger. You have done good work here. There’s no need to exhaust yourself in further effort.”

He was right, of course, and the truth was that Maggie was every bit as mystified as the doctor appeared to be regarding her reluctance to leave Stefan Witte’s care to others.

“I’m up,” she said with a smile and a shrug. “And as you say, there is little to do but watch him sleep until Sarah returns this evening. I’ll be fine.”

 

“Come to town with me tomorrow,” Jeanne urged Maggie that evening as they sat in the parlor together. “We’ll go shopping. That uniform is impressive in its symbolism, but as the latest fashion?” Jeanne arched one eyebrow in disapproval.

Shopping with Jeanne was indeed an adventure, and Maggie was tempted. “I have to attend my patient,” she reminded Jeanne.

“Nonsense. By all reports your patient is improving. Are not Sarah and Sean seeing to him at night?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then Sarah can see to him for one afternoon. You go in the morning and make sure he has survived the night. Get him set for the day with his medicines and treatments and then off we go.”

Maggie had always envied the way Jeanne seemed to assume that all things were possible simply because she wanted them to be. On the other hand she reminded herself that Jeanne had suffered a loss as great—perhaps greater—than hers. Was this sudden urge to shop really about Maggie’s need for clothes, or did it go deeper? She studied Jeanne’s beautiful face—the smile that always seemed only a hair away from exploding into girlish giggles. But closer examination revealed that in spite of her smile and teasing, Jeanne’s eyes had been robbed of their usual guileless sparkle.

“The selection on Nantucket may not be quite up to your usual standards,” Maggie warned. “No Parisian gowns here.”

“Of course not. There’s a war on, after all. We shall simply do our part to support the economy no matter what the selection. If I decide to move here, I’ll have need of
some items—a muff for every day, proper boots, a sweater or shawl for these insufferable winter nights. Perhaps I can entice my dressmaker to open a shop.”

“Why would you come here to live when you can live practically anywhere in the world?” Maggie asked.

“Because I can’t be in Europe right now and Nantucket—well, it’s as close as I can come to Europe for the time being, at least geographically. Besides, I have this delightful young friend who needs cheering up.” She tweaked Maggie’s nose and laughed. “Now tell me about your patient. Why all this devotion? He’s no longer so very ill, is he?”

Maggie stumbled for words. “He is…”

But Jeanne thought she had confirmed the man’s state of health and pursed her lips sympathetically. “Has he a family?”

“A sister and nephew.” At least that much was true. “They don’t…live here.”

“Then you must write them—have him dictate a letter for you to send them. They must be told that he is in the best of hands. The man is not—that is, he isn’t going to—”

“He will not die,” Maggie replied firmly.

“Oh, Maggie, are you so fierce about all your patients, or perhaps this man has attracted you in a different way?”

Maggie was shocked at the very notion that she and the German might find any attraction. Of course, Jeanne was completely unaware of the man’s national ties. “He is…we could not…”

Jeanne burst into laughter. “If you could see your face, child. Perhaps the man is much older? Of course he is. For as you noted, who else is left on this island when it comes to the male population but the old and the very young?”

“I do not consider myself either old or very young,” Gabe protested, brushing the snow from his camel-hair overcoat and sable bowler as he entered the room. He glanced at Maggie and nodded slightly, and she understood that he had been up to the cottage to check on the German. “And yet I reside on this island, Duchess.”

“So you do, Gabriel, and thank heaven for that.” She accepted his kiss on her cheek. “You could use a new scarf, Gabe. Something a bit more stylish for a man of your position, I should think. Maggie has agreed to come to town with me tomorrow for some shopping. Perhaps we will surprise you.”

“My beautiful daughter made me this scarf when she was no more than ten—it is irreplaceable,” he replied with a wink at Maggie.

Maggie blushed with pleasure, as she knew that the scarf was filled with dropped and added stitches and other mistakes and yet her father wore it with great pride.

“Your daughter is a woman now, and hopefully her knitting has improved. Perhaps she might consider knitting you something new? Haven’t you a birthday coming soon?” Jeanne reminded them.

“And are we to have the pleasure of your company for that occasion?” Gabe asked, his tone jovial, but Maggie saw that his eyes were searching Jeanne’s for some clue of her plans. His birthday was still months away.

BOOK: Gift from the Sea
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