One Child in Berlin (Stella Bled Book Three), page 45
“I had pneumonia.”
Dr. Reynolds packed his black doctor’s bag and said, “I have been the head of his Lordship’s cottage hospital for over forty years. I know you and that poor child were not in York getting pneumonia after a car crash. I need all the information to treat you properly.”
“You have it,” said Stella.
“I saw you at Abel Hershmann’s memorial and I may be old, but I’m not a fool. You’ve lost a considerable amount of weight in a short time. You must see to your health. Make no mistake, what you have done has affected you.”
“This is my private information?”
The doctor snapped his bag shut and eyed her through small wire-rimmed glasses. “It is.”
“Good. I expect you to keep it that way,” said Stella.
“Your mother is in the hall waiting.”
“What will you tell her?”
He stood by her bedside and thought about it so long that Stella was afraid that he’d lost the tether of her question, but he hadn’t. The doctor, who’d survived two wars and multiple epidemics, was merely weighing his options. “You signed the Official Secrets Act?”
Oh, no.
“No,” she lied, knowing it was too late. “I was only asking.”
He nodded and picked up his bag. “I will tell your mother that you’re young and unaffected by the pneumonia. You’re quite recovered.”
Stella hadn’t expected that. “Will you?”
“We all must do our part for king and country, even an old country doctor,” he said. “But take this seriously. You must not push yourself for a good while.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Dr. Reynolds shook her hand and said, “I have the impression that your best is quite something.”
“Thank you.”
“I feel like I should thank you, but there’s nothing to thank you for, since you’ve done nothing but contract pneumonia.”
“That’s right,” said Stella, beaming up at him.
“I will be back in a couple of days to check on you,” he said as he went to the door.
I will not be here.
She waved. “See you then.”
Dr. Reynolds shook his head in resignation and walked out.
A minute later, Francesqua stalked in with a tea tray, looking as agitated as she did when a neighbor came to report Uncle Josiah’s latest misdeed and she was required to do something about his drunken urinating in highly-prized rose bushes or hiring a polka band to play at three o’clock in the morning on his porch. Still, it took a practiced eye to see that she was bothered at all. Only the set of her slim shoulders and a pair of lines between her brows gave her away.
“What did he say?” her mother asked, putting the tray on the end of Stella’s bed.
“I’m young and well recovered.”
Francesqua crossed her arms. “That’s what he told me.”
“See, everything is fine,” said Stella.
“He lied.” Francesqua straightened her covers. “Everyone is lying.”
“No one is lying. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
Her mother went over to the door and closed it. “Everything is not fine.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re not coming home, are you? Even after this,” she said.
“After what? Nothing happened,” said Stella.
Francesqua balled up her fists and raised her voice for the first time in Stella’s life. “Stop. You’re as bad as Josiah. Lying to my face and saying he hasn’t drunk a drop while reeking of whiskey and vomit. Just stop.”
“Mother, really I’m—”
“You were supposed to be my child.”
Stella drew back. “I am.”
“You’re not. You belong to your father and Josiah. They could’ve taken the boys, but it had to be you. My daughter. My child.” Francesqua’s eyes spilled over with tears and she wiped them away furiously, leaving her cheeks red.
“The boys work at the brewery.”
“It’s not the same with them and you know it.”
Her mother was right. It wasn’t the same, but Stella couldn’t say just why. Her brothers worked and learned the brewery business, but their interest was more required than desired. Uncle Josiah never snuck them out of lessons or taught them how to fly. Her father didn’t put them in charge of limited edition brews to test their knowledge or open the books to them so they could see exactly where the money came from or where it went. Her brothers knew and seemed to accept on instinct that this was the way it was. They were smart and capable, but they weren’t Stella. No one minded the way her father took over the brewery as a younger son instead of the oldest, Nicolai. At least, Stella had thought no one minded until the moment her mother finally spoke. Stella found she couldn’t lie to her like she had so many times before. Her mother’s pain changed everything. And as the earl said, her mother was there. She came when no one else did.
“It is different,” said Stella.
“I know what you’re doing,” said Francesqua.
Stella shook her head. “I’m not doing anything.”
Her mother plucked the lumpy handbag off the chair and said, “This is your handbag?”
“Er…yes.”
“The heiress to the Bled brewing fortune and wife of the heir to the United Shipping and Steel fortune carries this handbag?”
“I don’t have to have fancy things all the time.”
“Shall I open it and see what’s inside?”
Stella’s hands clutched at the covers. “It’s private.”
“I just bet it is,” said Francesqua.
“I’m not doing anything, Mother. Please don’t be upset. I don’t want to upset you.”
Francesqua dropped the handbag and went to the tray, picking up a folded paper and slapping it on Stella’s lap. “I picked this up four days ago. Page 8.”
Reluctantly, Stella opened the paper and read the article. It mentioned her attending a dinner party at someone’s house that she’d never heard of. “Well, it’s a mistake.”
“Stella, please. You weren’t at some dinner party in Nottingham while you had double pneumonia in the Midlands. I doubt you were even in England.”
Stella looked at her mother’s flashing eyes and for the first time saw the intelligence in them. She’d never thought of her mother as dumb, nor had she though of her as smart either. Stella realized that for nineteen years she’d rarely thought of her mother at all. Not really. Not as a person, who felt, loved, and hurt the same as everyone else. Francesqua Bled was an obstacle and an ideal. A problem, in other words.
She bit her lip because these words couldn’t be said. They were so horribly unfair and her mother, her perfect saint of a mother, was crying at the foot of her bed.
“I understand we are at war,” said Francesqua, once she’d composed herself.
“We aren’t. America isn’t.”
“I meant, we as a family. You and Nicky were the first to answer the call. Your father and uncles are planning a retooling of the second line in the factory to produce war supplies. I’m raising funds for the Red Cross with Florence. All those bazaars, teas, and clothing drives you think are so dull and pointless are going to keep St. Vincent’s Hospital open, feed the orphans and ill, not to mention give our troops beds and medicines. I can fight, Stella. Maybe not like you or Nicky, but I can and I will. But I can’t do anything for you, the most precious thing in my life, and I can’t help.”
“Mother—”
“Don’t lie. I can’t stand it. Nicky’s mother is at least allowed to know where he is and what he’s doing.”
Stella tossed back her covers and slipped off the bed. Francesqua rushed over, trying to push her back. “What are you doing?”
“Proving you wrong.” Stella grinned at her. “It’s my favorite thing.”
“How am I wrong this time?”
“You can help me.”
“Do tell,” said Francesqua. Stella didn’t know her mother could sound sarcastic, but it suited her well.
“See that suitcase?”
“Your suitcase? The one the real Stella Bled Lawrence wouldn’t be caught dead with?”
“That’s the one.”
Her mother insisted she get back in bed and got the suitcase, placing it next to the tea tray. “How is this suitcase going to help me help you?”
“Open it,” said Stella.
Francesqua looked doubtful, but she opened the case and her doubt was replaced with astonishment. She went through the canvases, jewelry, candlesticks, and coins. “Stella, where in the world did you get this suitcase?”
Stella tilted her head and rolled her eyes.
“Oh, right,” she said. “This must be someone’s collection or, at least, the best of their collection. I’ve never seen this Klimt in any book or catalog.”
“It’s never been sold. It was a private commission and kept within the family.”
“A Jewish family?”
“No. Well, not exactly,” said Stella. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve been entrusted with keeping the collection safe and I need your help to do it.”
Francesqua smiled at her and that look of joy sparked a memory of her mother smiling at her that way when she was little, before the brewery, before the flying and everything that came with it.
“I’m not sure what to do,” said Stella. “I gave her the earl’s name and told her about Bickford House.”
“So she can locate the collection when it’s over.”
“Yes, but I didn’t tell the earl.” Stella thought about his comments on her mother’s love of art and smiled. “I think he knows though.”
“The earl doesn’t miss a trick and I like him in spite of his getting you in up to your neck,” said Francesqua as she gazed down at the Klimt.
“It’s not his fault,” said Stella.
“I’d rather blame him than you,” she said. “First things first. This suitcase must leave England immediately.”
“I was thinking the same thing. There could be an invasion.”
Francesqua got quiet and poured Stella a cup of tea before saying, “I’ll be right back.” She dashed from the room, making her daughter smile. Dashing wasn’t ladylike at all. When she came back, she had a tray with a little pot of glue, a brush, labels, string, and a fountain pen. “Here we are. Just what we need.”
“What are we going to do?” Stella asked.
“Everything must be labeled with all the information you have about the family, so there’s no chance that it could be mistaken for anyone else’s property.”
“I’m not sure if I should.”
“You should. This is that family’s fortune and we’re taking no chances with it,” said Francesqua, giving Stella a label. “Start writing.”
Together they labeled every piece in Ruth’s suitcase with a list of family members and their address in Vienna. Francesqua did an inventory and a copy of the inventory. One went in the suitcase and she gave Stella the other. “When I’ve gone, you will give that to the earl for his records.”
“When are you leaving?” Stella asked, feeling oddly bereft.
“Immediately. We can’t take the chance that I won’t get out before this Phoney War ends.”
Stella impulsively hugged her mother and asked, “What will you tell Papa?”
“Nothing. He doesn’t know about you and he’s not going to,” said Francesqua.
“But what will you do with Ruth’s collection? He’s bound to notice a new Klimt in ours.”
Her mother jutted out a hip and tapped her lip. “You’re right, of course. He will. Very nosy, your father.” Then she smiled. “I’ll give it to Florence. She knows and she’ll be happy to help.”
Stella’s mouth dropped. “She knows? What does she know?”
Francesqua patted her cheek. “That you, Stella Bled, are not wandering around England gazing at obscure literary sights like some retired librarian. Anyone who really knows you, knows that’s ridiculous.”
“What about Uncle Nicolai?”
Her mother snorted. She actually snorted. Another first for Francesqua Bled. “Nico notices nothing. Don’t you remember? When Florence had Millicent, he was completely shocked. He never noticed she was pregnant.”
“She was enormous,” said Stella.
“Exactly my point. Florence it is and while we’re at it, you should come up with a code.”
“A code?”
“For communicating with us when you send things. Just in case.”
Stella closed the suitcase and secured the latches. “I’m not going to be sending you anything else. The world isn’t full of Ruths.”
“Our world is. And this was the plan.”
“What plan?”
Francesqua rolled her eyes at Stella. Would wonders never cease? “The plan Josiah gave you for Vienna. Surely you remember. You were supposed to contact the Block Bauers and the Kronsteiners to help them, give them funds, take out pieces, whatever they needed. Those families are still there. So are dozens of others.”
“You knew about that?” Stella asked, unable to contain her amazement.
“It was my plan. You didn’t think Josiah came up with that on his own, did you?” Francesqua asked.
“Well…”
“Oh, darling. The only thing Josiah would think to smuggle out would be pretty girls.”
“Why didn’t you say it was you?”
Francesqua put her little nose in the air. “I’m your mother. I’m supposed to be a good example.”
Stella threw her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her cheek. “You are.”
“My girl.”
Francesqua left bright and early the next morning and she wasn’t alone. Bickford House was saying goodbye to two sons, several workers from the estate, and one footman, Toby. The entire estate had gathered to say goodbye, a crowd much like Abel’s memorial, although boisterous instead of sad with forced cheerfulness and broad smiles.
Stella stood off to the right with Francesqua, their arms around each other’s waists. They’d never been like that before. Of course, they’d hugged and kissed cheeks, but it wasn’t comfortable. Stella had always been waiting for criticism and it made her keep her distance from her mother who wanted no distance at all.
Standing there, comfortable and close as they hadn’t been since Stella was small, she couldn’t understand why it happened with Francesqua when it didn’t happen with her father or Uncle Josiah. They gave her plenty of criticism, endlessly correcting her in the brewery or in the air. She had to be perfect and that was fine by her. With Francesqua, it wasn’t so. It seemed the smallest cut from her mother left the biggest scar.
“I hate to see this,” said Francesqua. “They’re so young.”
“They want to go,” said Stella.
“And they must. What’s in the little packets?”
The earl and Agatha stood at the end of the line of well-wishers with Albert, whose face was pained for more reasons than just the goodbyes. He and the earl shook the men’s hands and wished them good luck. Then Agatha gave each man a packet wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Their sons were given the same packet with no special treatment. “They’re not special,” the earl had told her earlier. “Because every man is special to someone.”
Albert’s brothers accepted their packets with the very same cheek kisses as Toby the footman or Joe the farmhand and they got in one of the family cars, squeezing in with the other men to be driven to the station in style.
“Twenty pounds, stationery with envelopes and stamps, and a bar of chocolate,” said Stella. “Albert, also, wrote a note to each one.”
“We should do that when it happens,” said her mother. “The brewery will be sending a lot of young men.”
“And women,” said Stella.
“Do you think so?”
“We’ll need nurses and other positions filled. Women will be needed.”
“Mavis will want to go to the front lines.”
Stella laughed, thinking of her feisty Irish friend. “She’d give ‘em hell.”
Francesca stiffened and then relaxed. Stella waited for a rebuke but none was forthcoming. “She would without a doubt. You know, she wanted to come with me on this trip.”
“Why didn’t you bring her?”
“Well, you know how sassy Mavis is. She’s the only one that can bully your father into eating properly.”
“You left the laundress in charge over the whole house?”
“Only over your father. Mrs. Dunn was relieved.”
They smiled and put their heads together as the last man received his packet and kisses.
“It’s time,” said Francesqua.
Stella hugged her and said, “I’ll miss you.”
“It was worth the trip just for that.” She opened her handbag and pulled out an envelope. “Here’s a list of families we know that haven’t been able to emigrate. If you can help them, please do.”
Stella pressed the envelope to her heart. “I’ll find a way.”
“In that, you are just like Josiah, and I mean that as a compliment.”
“Don’t lose my envelope,” said Stella.
“I’ll protect it with my life,” said Francesqua, making it sound like a jest, but she was dead serious.
Stella had given her a code that she’d devised during training. She and Florence would use it for communicating about people like Ruth who were escaping the Reich and needed help from the Bleds. Park-Welles had given her a rare compliment on the code’s ingenuity and Stella felt good about the security.
Francesca and Stella exchanged cheek kisses and Francesqua got in the second car with Toby, who looked somewhat terrified of riding with Mrs. Aleksej Bled of the Bled Brewery. Stella waved and turned to go up the stairs, although it was daunting. Coming down was hard enough. Going up would be a trial.
“Can I help?” Albert was at her shoulder. “I’m good for something. Occasionally.”
