Gift from the Sea (7 page)

He gasped and then smiled. He looked down at her and grinned. “
We
are standing.”

In spite of herself Maggie laughed. “Indeed we are.” She loosened her grip on his waist and felt his body adjust to the change in support. He leaned toward her. “Steady,” she coached while at the same time reminding herself to ignore the warmth of his side pressed against hers and the wintergreen scent of the soap Sean had used when helping him wash earlier that morning.

He tried to take a step and instead fell backward onto the bed, his hand slipping from her shoulder and tangling through her hair as he fell. Maggie shouted for Sean even as she braced him against the fall. Sean caught them both and eased Stefan back onto the bed. Maggie stood and straightened her apron and collar. “Are you all right?” she
said, instinctively reaching to push pins back into the coil of hair she wore at the nape of her neck.

“Yes,” he replied, then grinned as he held up her nurse’s cap.

She snatched it from him and ignored the slight smile Sean tried to cover by turning away. “I do not appreciate your wasting my time, Stefan Witte.” She turned to the mirror to replace the cap.

“I had a cramp,” he protested.

Maggie glanced at him through the mirror and caught him exchanging a knowing look with Sean, who had clearly heard the earlier exchange about the cap and who now appeared to agree that it was an affectation for her to insist on wearing it here.

“Very well,” she said. “That’s enough for today, then.” She wrapped the sheet over him and with Sean’s help lifted his legs so that he was lying fully on the bed.

“No, wait. I will cooperate. We will stand again.” His words hit the door she closed firmly behind her.

When he had stood for the first time, and she had laughed, Stefan had thought to charm her. After all, was she so different from the young women he’d known back in Germany? He had not lied about the cramp, nor had he deliberately taken her nurse’s cap. And yet he had thought she would see the humor, the irony of it. Sean had.

Why? What did it matter if she liked him or even felt a bit more comfortable around him?

Because there was something about this woman—a connection between them. They were more alike than either of them was prepared to admit.

He had made progress with the others. Sean stopped by
in the evenings, encouraging Stefan’s childhood memories of fishing excursions with his father or sharing his own memories of teaching their son, George, to fish. Sarah continued to sit with him and knit or read passages from the Bible. Although Stefan had refused to say why the meeting was so vital, Maggie’s father had given him the benefit of the doubt when Stefan had told him of the need to reach his contact. He had agreed to write a message explaining why Stefan could not keep the appointment and deliver it to the mysterious contact. Stefan knew that Gabe had agreed only because this was a way of testing Stefan’s story. He could see in Gabe’s eyes that he did not believe him. But it was just as evident that Maggie’s father wanted very much to believe him.

Nevertheless, when Gabriel Hunter finally came to call on him later that afternoon, Stefan saw that doubt had won out. Gabe was stone-faced and unmoved by Stefan’s protests as he reported that there had been no one in a blue scarf with an umbrella to receive his message. Gabe made it clear he now believed that Stefan’s fantastic story of defection was pure fabrication, a ruse to buy time.

“I wanted to believe you,” Gabe told him. “I so wanted to believe you that I did a terrible thing. I involved my daughter, my only child, in your deceit.”

“I told the truth. You cannot blame me if you decided to send Mag—your daughter—instead of going yourself,” Stefan protested.

“I blame myself,” Gabe said in a low, tight voice that spoke louder than if he had shouted. “I trusted you, but we—Germans and Americans—are not to share trust, are we?” He did not wait for an answer but left the room, closing the door behind him, and Stefan could not hear
what he was saying to the Chadwicks. He knew only that beginning that evening they did not come to sit with him to talk or read aloud.

In need of an ally, Stefan mentally ran through the remaining candidates. He had already decided against involving the Chadwicks, and that left only Maggie. She had suffered her own losses in this war. Surely if he could explain it all to her, she might even respect what he was trying to do. On the other hand, the little he’d been able to learn about her from the Chadwicks told him that the roots of her personal grief and anger ran deep. He well knew that she needed someone to blame for her loss—someone like him.

The Chadwick woman had told him how Maggie and Michael had seemed meant for each other and how Maggie had turned her back on God when she’d received news of Michael’s death. Such powerful anger might be turned to his advantage if he could find a way to convince her that in helping him she was avenging the death of her sweetheart.

Now, as Stefan lay on the bed, his arms crossed behind his head, his eyes tracing the outline of the small water stain on the ceiling, he considered his next move. The contact had not been made. Now what? He had been through too much to give up now. If he could not convince Maggie to help him, then escape was the only other option, and unless he regained his strength, escape would be impossible.

He waited for Sarah to bring his night medicine, for Sean to look in and mumble his good-night before closing and locking the door. He heard the couple in the bedroom overhead, their voices seeping through the ceiling as they prepared for bed. He waited longer, his eyes riveted on the
clock on the mantel. An hour passed. Above he could hear Sean’s muffled snoring. Outside the snort of the horses. All else was silent.

He eased to the side of the bed and rolled onto his stomach. Panting, he lay there a moment gathering his strength. Then he twisted his lower body until his legs hung over the side, inching backward until his bare feet touched the planked floor. By that time his breath was coming in ragged gasps and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

Upstairs he heard a sound and froze. Someone coughed. Stefan waited for more but all was silent. He forced himself to relax and then placed both palms on the mattress and shoved himself upright. The pain that shot through his fingers and toes because of the pressure he placed on them was so excruciating that he bit down hard on the inside of his lip to keep from crying out. He collapsed back onto the bed, then tried it again, this time placing his weight on his palms and the balls of his feet to avoid the pain to his injured digits. Hunched over the bed, he relaxed his full weight onto his feet and legs and tried to stand—and fell forward. Again and again he worked until the light started to break over the snow and he heard Sean’s heavy tread on the floorboards above him.

He had not stood alone, but he had gotten upright for several seconds, his fingers barely clutching the sheets for balance, and that was progress. Exhausted, he worked his way back into the bed and pulled up the covers. The last thing he heard before falling into a deep sleep was the click of the latch to his bedroom door—another problem to overcome, he thought, and accepted that now more than ever he needed the help of Maggie Hunter.

Maggie was confused and surprised by the report Sarah gave as they exchanged places for the day. “He’s had a setback. No fever that I can tell, but I could hardly rouse him. And his bedclothes were damp as if he’d fought a fever through the night. All twisted up in the bedding he was. I had to get Sean to come in and help me get him straight. I brought fresh linens for us to change the bed. Those are a mess.” She shook her head, mystified. “He’s been improving steadily, although last night he did seem more agitated than usual.”

And yesterday as well, Maggie thought. “Dr. Williams should be here soon,” she assured Sarah. “And I can manage changing the linens. Mother needs you at the house. Don’t worry, Sarah. A setback at this stage is not so unusual for one who has been so ill.”

Sarah nodded. “I just hope it’s not influenza. You don’t think it’s that?”

“Let’s wait for the doctor,” Maggie said. Of course the thought of influenza had crossed Maggie’s mind. While the population of Nantucket had been fortunate to escape the numbers of cases that had plagued towns and cities up and down the East Coast, it wasn’t beyond possibility that the man, in his weakened state, might have contracted the virus. And might it spread to others in the household in spite of everyone being inoculated? To Sarah and Sean or her beloved parents? Her mother, who’d already been infected once?

The very idea gave fresh fuel to the fire of her determination to get this man out of their lives once and for all. By the time she reached the door to Stefan’s room, Maggie was fairly seething with the injustice of having to deal with this
German at a time when she and her family had already faced so much. She entered the room briskly and opened the drapes. The lump in the bed did not stir.

She went about her morning duties—preparing his medication and fresh bandages to apply once she had drained the blisters that had finally formed, signaling further healing of the frostbite—just as she would have if she had been in the hospital. She tapped the silver spoon against the ceramic bowl with extra vigor after mixing his medication. She washed her hands thoroughly, allowing the water to run even though the pipes clanked and groaned in protest. And all the while she watched the bed. She saw him pull the covers over his face to shut out the light.

“Well, good morning,” she said in her professional voice. “Sarah tells me you had a restless night.”

The bandaged fingers clutching the covers flinched slightly, and his body went too still for him to be sleeping. He was listening, waiting for what came next.

“Are you hungry?” she asked as she shook the thermometer, then pulled the covers free of his face and thrust the thermometer between his lips. “Under your tongue, please,” she instructed as she took his wrist and measured his pulse.

Fast, she mentally noted. She checked the thermometer. Normal. She saw him watching her through the puffy slits of half-open eyes.

“Lass mir lien,”
he muttered and reached for the covers.

“Later,” she said and pulled the covers down just past his shoulders, lifting one hand and then the other as she unwrapped and examined his fingertips. “Sarah said you’ve had no breakfast.”

He grunted.

She moved to the foot of the bed and raised the covers to expose his toes. “You’re making excellent progress,” she observed. “The color is almost normal, although there is a bit of swelling. Still, the return of color means better circulation and that’s a good sign. Any cramping overnight?”

“Some,” he confessed. She rested her fingers on his foot, taking the pulse there as well. When she looked up and straight into his eyes, she mentally recorded his pulse but seemed incapable of breaking the contact.

“Your hand is warm,” he said softly.

She jerked it away from his ankle as if she’d just touched a hot stove. “The water—hot water when I wash,” she said, wondering why she was explaining herself. Just then she heard the jingle of a harness and the soft whisper of runners on snow. “Doctor is here,” she announced unnecessarily and hurried from the room.

“Good morning, Maggie. How’s our patient?”

Maggie gave both Sarah’s report and her own to Dr. Williams as she took his heavy coat and hung it on the hall tree.

“Hm-m-m” was all Dr. Williams said as he entered the bedroom and went immediately to Stefan’s bedside. He repeated the same basic examination that Maggie had already done, confirming her findings. He took out his stethoscope and listened to Stefan’s heart and lungs.

“You look a bit done in, my boy,” he said. “Your recovery from the frostbite seems to be coming along nicely, and the lungs are sounding better.” He glanced over his shoulder at Maggie. “Have you been working on the standing this morning?”

“I just got here,” Maggie explained.

The doctor frowned. “Well, maybe we’re rushing things.
Maybe hold off for now. Make sure he eats and let him rest for the day.”

“No,” Stefan objected before Maggie could reply. “I—we will stand,” he said, his eyes on Maggie.

Maggie felt the rush of color along the collar of her uniform and up her neck to her cheeks as she recalled the previous day’s attempt. Unconsciously she reached up and straightened her nurse’s cap. She felt her color deepen when she realized Dr. Williams had spoken and she hadn’t heard. He was studying her, his eyes sympathetic.

“Maggie? I said that perhaps you should train Sean to work with him at night. Mr. Witte here is a large man.”

Maggie forced her thoughts to focus on her patient, for that was what Stefan Witte was. They might do things differently where he came from, but Americans were kind and caring to people in pain or need, even to their enemies. “I can do it.”

“Nevertheless, let’s have Sean assist you.” The doctor seemed to be having second thoughts.

“Yes, Doctor,” she said, addressing him as she would have in the hospital to reassure him. “I’ll go heat up his breakfast while you finish your examination.”

In the kitchen she stirred the oatmeal that Sarah had left on a low fire and set the tray with a napkin and utensils. She’d left the door open a crack so she could use her toe to open it all the way when she returned with the tray. But she paused outside the door when she heard Dr. William’s low voice.