“She’s ringing again,” Adalrik told Marta. An evening soiree had lasted far into the night, and Marta had been on duty until the last guest left and everything had been washed and put away. “She’ll want her breakfast served in bed.”
Marta prepared Frau Schmitz’s tray. She managed to climb the first flight of stairs before a fit of coughing gripped her. She set the tray down heavily and coughed until the spasm passed. Lifting the tray, she climbed the rest of the stairs.
“This breakfast is cold.” Frau Schmitz waved her hand. “Take it away and bring me another tray. And be quicker next time.”
Marta made it halfway down the first flight of stairs when she began to cough again. Struggling for breath, Marta sank onto a step, the tray on her lap. Frau Schmitz came out and peered down the stairwell and disappeared back into her room. A moment later, Nadine went up the stairs. Marta managed to stand and make it downstairs to the kitchen.
Nadine came in right after her. She gave Marta a pitying look. “I’m sorry, Marta, but Frau Schmitz says you must go.”
“Go?”
“She wants you out of the house. Today.”
“Why?”
“She’s afraid of contamination. She says she doesn’t want her children getting croup.”
Marta gave a bleak laugh. Oddly, she felt relieved. Another trip up those stairs and she would have come tumbling down. “I’ll go as soon as I receive my pay. And would you ask Wilda to collect my things please? I don’t think I can walk up those stairs again.” Chest hurting, she coughed violently into her apron.
When Nadine left, Adalrik put the back of his hand against Marta’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“I just need rest.”
“Frau Schmitz is afraid you’re consumptive.”
Marta felt the shock of alarm. Was she destined to die like Mama? Nothing Dr. Zimmer had done had prevented Mama from drowning in her own blood.
“Do you know of a good doctor who speaks German?”
* * *
A nurse helped Marta dress after the examination and showed her into Dr. Smythe’s office. He rose when Marta entered and told her to sit. “I’ve seen this often before, Fräulein. Swiss girls are used to good, clean mountain air, not heavy smoke and damp fog. You should go back to Switzerland. Go home to your family and rest.”
Fighting tears, Marta imagined how her father would greet her. “I’ll get more rest in England.” If Papa’s heart had not softened over Mama’s illness, he certainly would show her no kindness. She coughed into her handkerchief, thankful when she didn’t see spots of red against the white. “What I need is work in a smaller house with fewer stairs and a kitchen with a door or window.” The pain built in her chest until she couldn’t hold back another cough. When the spasm eased, she raised her head.
“Rest is what you need, not work.”
Gathering her courage, she looked him in the face. “Do I have consumption?”
“You are as pale and thin as a consumptive, but no. Frankly, Fräulein, if you don’t take better care of yourself, this can kill you quicker than consumption. Do you understand me?”
Disheartened, Marta relented. “How much rest do I need?”
“A month at the least.”
“A month?”
“Six weeks would be preferable.”
“Six weeks?” Marta coughed until she felt light-headed.
The doctor gave her a bottle of elixir and ordered her to take a spoonful every four hours. “Rest is the best cure, Fräulein. Your body can’t fight infection when exhausted.”
Sick and depressed, Marta went back to the Swiss Home for Girls. Frau Alger took one look at her and assigned her a bed in a quiet corner of a street-level dorm room. Too tired to undress, Marta flopped down onto the cot, her coat still on.
Frau Alger came with a pitcher of warm water and a bowl. “That won’t do.”
Marta shivered as the woman helped her undress and put on her nightgown. She felt an unbearable longing for Mama. When she burst into tears, Frau Alger helped her get into bed. She took the bottle of elixir and read the directions. She went for a spoon and gave Marta her first dose of laudanum, then covered her with thick blankets and tucked them snugly around her. She put her hand on Marta’s head. “Schlaf, Kind.” Marta whispered a bleak thank-you. Already, her eyelids grew heavy.
She awakened at Frau Alger’s touch. “Drink.” She helped Marta sit up enough to drink a cup of thick soup, take another dose of medicine, and sink back into bed. She dreamed of climbing stairs up and up, flights turning right and left and disappearing into the clouds. She held a heavy tray balanced on her shoulder, then paused to rest. Her legs ached so terribly, she knew she would never make it to heaven. “I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can.” Mama stood above her dressed in white. “Don’t give up, Liebling.”
She awakened to the sound of church bells and fell asleep again, dreaming Mama held her hand as they walked up the road to St. Stephen’s Church. Rosie called out to her, and Marta found herself in the Alpine meadow above Steffisburg, picking spring flowers with Rosie.
Rain battered the windows, awakening her briefly. Shivering, Marta pulled the blankets up again. She wanted to dream of Mama and Rosie, but instead dreamed of being lost in the snow. She heard Elise crying out her name over and over. Marta tried to run to her, but her feet kept sinking into the snow. Crawling on her hands and knees, she looked down at the rushing water of the Zulg and saw Elise lying asleep, a baby in her arms, and a blanket of snow covering them both. “No.” She moaned. “No. No.” Frau Alger put cool cloths on her brow and spoke to her. Mama sat in the graveyard, embroidering another dress. She looked up with sunken eyes. “Don’t come back, Marta. Fly, Liebling. Fly away and live.”
Marta awakened to the sound of coach wheels rolling by. She cried, afraid if she went back to sleep, she would dream again. She heard girls come and go, and she pretended to be asleep. Frau Alger came in with a tray. “You’re awake.” She set the tray aside and put a hand on Marta’s forehead. “Good. Your fever has broken.” She helped Marta sit up.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” Marta felt the tears come and couldn’t stop them.
Frau Alger patted her shoulder. “Hush now, Marta. You’re no trouble. And you will be well soon. It’s hard to be so far from home, ja?”
Marta covered her face, feeling the loss of Mama and Elise more acutely than ever. “I have no home.”
Frau Alger sat on the bed and gathered Marta close, murmuring to her as she would a hurting child. Giving in to her grief, Marta clung to her, pretending for just for a moment this kind, older woman was Mama.
* * *
After a week in bed, Marta felt able to get up. The house was empty, so she fixed herself a bowl of hot porridge. Why had she come to England? She felt lost and at odds with herself. Perhaps she should have stayed in Steffisburg and helped Mama. She could have watched over Elise. Too late now to think about those things. What sort of future would she have now if she obeyed Papa and went back? Mama had known. Mama had warned her to stay away.
She gathered her courage and wrote to Rosie.
I am in England. Papa sent a wire telling me to come home. He said nothing about either Elise or Mama, and I knew he would expect me to spend the rest of my life in the shop. If I had not received a letter from Mama’s cousin, Felda Braun, I would not have known Elise had died.
I fled, Rosie. I will never return to Steffisburg. The last time I saw Mama, she said I had to go. In truth, I would rather die a stranger in a foreign land than spend another day under my father’s roof.
Cousin Felda said it was you who found Elise. I dream of her every night. She cries out to me and disappears before I can reach her. I pray God forgives me for being such a poor sister. I pray God will forgive her for what she did to herself and her child. And I pray you will forgive us, too. I will be forever in your debt.
Marta
* * *
After another week of
convalescence, Marta grew restless and discontented. Mama had told her to fly, not perch inside the walls of the Swiss Home for Girls. Rest, the doctor had said, but rest wasn’t just lying in bed tucked beneath a mound of covers. Marta leaned her forehead against the glass, feeling the walls of her prison close in around her. She imagined what Mama would say if she stood in the room right now.
“God is my strength, Marta. He is my help in times of trouble. . . . God has a plan for your life. . . . Perhaps it is God who has put this dream in your heart. . . . God is the one driving you away. . . . An eagle flies alone. . . .”
She thought of Elise, too. Mama’s little barn swallow spoke to her. “I gave in to despair, Marta. If you give up, you’re giving in, too.”
Marta dressed and buttoned up her wool coat.
Frau Alger intercepted her at the front door. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Out for a walk.”
Each day, determined to regain her strength, Marta went a little farther, pushed herself a little harder. At first, she could barely walk more than a block without finding a place to sit and rest. Gradually, she went two, then three. She found a small park and sat surrounded by trees and grass, spring flowers beginning to emerge, slivers of sunlight slicing through the clouds. Sometimes she rose and stood in a spear of light, closing her eyes and imagining she stood in the Alpine meadow with Mama or Rosie.
Soon, she could walk a mile before exhausting herself. When it rained one day, she sought warmth and rest in the Hare and Toad pub. Three men sat drinking from mugs of beer, giving her a cursory glance as she found her way to an empty table in a dimly lit corner. Though she felt out of place and uncomfortable, she decided to stay. At least here, she would hear English spoken.
The men talked in low voices and then, forgetting her presence, spoke more naturally. When another entered, the three greeted him and made room. He spoke to the proprietor, handed over some coins, and took a mug of ale to the table. A few minutes later, the burly proprietor came out with meals stacked up his arm—fish, judging by the smell, and cooked in some sort of dough. She listened, trying to pick up words. Some sounded familiar, no doubt derived from German.
Gathering her courage, Marta went to the counter and tried to make sense of the English words written on the menu overhead. She understood the prices well enough. The proprietor stood behind the counter, drying a beer mug. Pointing to the menu, Marta took out a few pence from her pocket and lined them up on the counter. She put her palms together and moved her hands like a fish.
“Fish and chips?”
“Fish and chips,” she repeated. “Danke.”
He brought her meal and a glass of water. He took a bottle of malt vinegar from another table and set it in front of her. “For the fish.” He pointed.
Marta ate slowly, experimentally, not sure her stomach could stand deep-fried fish caked in dough. Others came in over the next hour, and the pub began to fill with men and women. Some had children. Marta felt self-conscious taking up a table by herself and left. The sun had gone down and the mist had turned to rain. It took an hour to walk back to the Swiss Home for Girls.
“Look at you, Marta!” Frau Alger shook her head. “Do you want to catch your death this time?” She made her sit by the stove and drink hot tea. “Here. I have a letter for you.”
Heart pounding, Marta tore Rosie’s letter open.
My dearest friend,
I feared you would blame me for not keeping better watch over Elise. I went to see her the day after your mother’s funeral. I should not have waited. Had I gone right after the services, Elise might still be alive. But I did wait and will forever be sorry for it. My mother went with me.
Your father said he didn’t know where Elise had gone. He said she would not come out of her room on the day of the funeral. He didn’t look in on her until the next. Your father went out to call the alarm.
I remembered how Elise loved to sit by the stream and listen to the living water. When I found her, she looked like an angel asleep beneath a white blanket of eiderdown.
I don’t know how much Felda Braun told you, but I discovered why Elise hid herself away. She was heavy with child. May God have mercy on the Meyer men for what they did to your poor sister.
I found Elise curled up on her side, as though to embrace the baby inside her and keep it warm. My father told me people who freeze to death feel no pain. I pray that is true.
You asked me to forgive you. I ask now for your forgiveness. Please do not stop writing. I love you like you are my own sister. I miss you desperately.
Ever your friend,
Rosie
Marta wrote back and asked where Papa had buried Elise. She wept at the thought of Elise buried somewhere other than beside Mama, but she knew the church would not want a suicide laid to rest in consecrated soil.
Marta bundled up the next morning, walked to a coach stand, and rode down to Westminster Abbey. She sat on a pew, wondering what Mama would think of this magnificent coronation church. Massive gray columns rose like enormous tree trunks holding up a shadowed canopy above. A rainbow of color splashed across the marble mosaic floors, as sun shone through the stained-glass windows. But the light quickly faded. She listened to the living walking among the shrines to the dead, standing and whispering in the naves lined with crypts holding the bones of great poets and politicians, or gazing at some bronze effigy tomb or sarcophagus.
Oh, God, where does my sister sleep? Can You show mercy and carry her home to heaven? Or must she suffer the agonies of hell because she lost hope?
A woman touched Marta on the shoulder and spoke. Startled, Marta wiped tears away quickly. The woman spoke to her in English. Though unable to comprehend the words, Marta took comfort in the woman’s gentle smile and tone. Mama might have comforted a stranger in the same way.
Marta went to Hyde Park the next day and sat on the grass, watching the boats drift by on the blue Serpentine. Even in the open air and sunshine, Marta felt grief weigh down upon her. Mama said God offered her a future and a hope. But what did that mean? Was she supposed to wait until God spoke to her from the heavens? “Go,” Mama had said, but Marta didn’t know where to go anymore.
She only knew she couldn’t continue this way, drowning in sorrow and living with regret. She had to remember what had driven her away from home in the first place. She wanted freedom to become all she could be. She wanted something to call her own. She couldn’t have either of those things by sitting and feeling sorry for herself.
Before heading back to the Swiss Home for Girls, Marta went to the Swiss consul’s offices.
“Fräulein Schneider!” Kurt Reinhard greeted her warmly. “It is good to see you. I heard you left the consul’s house.”
Surprised he remembered her at all, Marta told him what had transpired. “I would like to put my name on your list again, Herr Reinhard. But may I request an English household this time, preferably one away from the soot and smoke of London?”
“Of course. How soon will you be able to work?”
“The sooner the better.”
“Then I think I have just the place for you.”
9
Marta rode to Kew Station and walked the rest of the way to Lady Daisy Stockhard’s three-story Tudor house near Kew Gardens. She expected to meet with the mistress of housekeeping. Instead, a stooped butler showed her into a parlor with daybeds and wingback chairs, and a large, low, round table covered with books. Every wall boasted a gilt-framed landscape. The floor was covered with a Persian rug. Curved, carved-legged tables with marble tops held brass lamps, and a pianoforte stood in the far corner with a marble bust of Queen Elizabeth. Over the fireplace hung a portrait of an English army officer in dress uniform.
It took but a few seconds to take it all in and redirect her attention to a white-haired lady dressed elegantly in black, sitting in a straight-backed chair, and another much younger, plump and dressed in frothy folds of pink, sitting on a chaise, her back to the windows and
a book open on her lap.
“Thank you, Welton.” The older woman took Marta’s documents from him and put on tiny, wire-framed glasses as she read.
The younger woman, whom Marta took to be the lady’s daughter, said something in English and sighed. Her mother answered pleasantly, to which the daughter lifted her book and made a dismissive sounding comment. The only part of the conversation Marta was fairly certain she understood was that the young woman’s name was Millicent.
Lady Stockhard removed her glasses carefully and looked up. She addressed Marta in passable German. “Don’t stand in the doorway, Fräulein Schneider.” She beckoned. “Come in and let me have a good look at you.” Marta came a few steps into the room and stood with her hands clasped in front of her. “Mr. Reinhard tells me you don’t speak English. My German is limited. Enid, my cook, will teach you English. Honore and Welton will help as well. He takes care of the gardens. I used to love gardening. It’s good for the soul.”
Millicent sighed in annoyance. She said something that Marta didn’t understand.
Lady Stockhard answered pleasantly and then indicated that Marta should sit in a chair close to her. “I like to get to know the people who would join my staff.”
Her daughter glowered and spoke again in English. Marta had no difficulty understanding her condescending tone or dismissive look.
Lady Stockhard said something to her daughter, then smiled and spoke to Marta. “I told her you have training as a dressmaker. That will please her.”
Millicent snapped her book shut and rose. A rustling of skirts announced her departure.
“Do you like gardens, Fräulein?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She didn’t know what to make of Lady Stockhard with her inviting attitude.
“Kew Gardens is a short walk away. I used to spend hours walking there. Now I can only just manage to walk around the house. Someone must take me to Kew Gardens in a wheelchair. Welton is too old, poor dear, and Ingrid met her handsome coachman. I have Melena, but she misses Greece and her family so much, I doubt she’ll stay long. Are you homesick for your family?”