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Agnes watched over Edward, willing herself to stay awake deep into the hours of blackest darkness. The claws of uneasiness dug into her mind. Drifting in sleep, she was engulfed in a deep black canyon.
“Is there anyone... anyone there... anyone there?” her voice echoed against the stone walls. Winds whistled through the canyon, pushing her to her knees. A loneliness, deeper than the sea, filled her as the chilling wind whipped around her. The faces of her parents, George, and John whooshed past her, abandoning her to the emptiness. Edward walked into the canyon and bent beside her. She grasped his hand, but he turned away from her.
“Edward, don't leave, don't leave me!” she urged, but the wind caught him, pushing him farther away from her.
“Goodbye, Agnes,” he said, fading into the black.
“Agnes? Agnes?” she awoke to her name being called. The vision before her convinced her she was still dreaming. She stared, unable to speak.
“Agnes? Don't you know me?” he said, taking her arm.
“Are you... real?” she said.
“Yes, my love,” he said.
“George,” she said, breathing him in and lifting her hand to trace his features.
“You are home, oh George, you are home,” she said, a sigh of contentment washing over her.
“I went to your home and no one was there, so I began asking for you. I met a woman, she was French, on the road. She said you were here with Edward and that he is ill.”
“When did you get here? Are you hurt?” she asked, moving her hands across him, searching for some wound. Her hand moved down his arm and came to rest at his hand. There was not skin beneath her fingers, but rather the rough cloth of a bandage. The memory of her dream, with his bandages swirling around him flooded her mind.
“What happened?” she said.
“Agnes, we don't have to speak about that now,” he said, softly.
“George, you don't have to fight your battles alone anymore. I am here. Tell me,” she said.
He looked at her. Gone were the curls of the school girl who had turned school mistress. Before him was a battle-hardened veteran who had never been to war. She had, he realized now, her own scars to bear as a result of all that had happened.
“All right,” he said, looking into her eyes, “I was in the gun turret, loading the powder shells. It was dark and I hadn't slept a full night in days. I guess my hand must have slipped. It's all foggy in my mind now, but the gun powder sparked and I was knocked back. I was certain, Agnes, that all was lost, that it was too late for me. I saw your face. You were in a meadow, surrounded by flowers. I tried to call to you, but you couldn't answer.”
“I had that dream. So many times I tried to call to you, George, but you couldn't answer. I thought I wouldn't see you again.”
Before he could reply, a groan escaped Edward's lips. Agnes knelt beside him, clasping his hand in her own.
“How long has he been this way?” George asked.
“I've been beside him for two days now. I can only hope that he was not passed out for too long on the floor when I found him, though it couldn't have been too long since we had been with the woman at the cottage discussing the article earlier that day,” she said, taking the cloth from his head and dipping it into the basin for what must have been the hundredth time that day.
“Woman in the cottage? Article?” George asked, lifting the cup of water to Edward's lips.
“I forgot you could not know of everything that has happened. I carry you with me at all times and even when I felt very alone, your presence in my mind made it seem as though you would know. Does that make any sense?”
He nodded.
“It does. I was half surprised to hear you ask what had happened to my hand, until I remembered that of course you could not know.”
“We have met so many people this year. Martin is a blinded veteran and Clara is accused of murdering Lady Pemblebrooke and her children.”
“Lady Pemblebrooke is dead?” George said, looking up from Edward to Agnes.
“Yes, well—she is, only Edward seems to think she is not. I fear his fever has made him delirious. He has been sitting up and saying Lady Pemblebrooke is not dead and that a painting spoke to him.”
“I saw men like this,” George said. The look of pain of harsh memories, which she had witnessed so many times in Edward's face, played across him.
“The trenches made them lose their minds from the strain of it all and from the gases.”
Agnes looked up from Edward to study her fiancé. She moved her hand to clasp his that was not bandaged.
“I hate what happened to you, to both of you,” she paused and nodded toward Edward as she said it, “to all of you.”
The way she said it triggered something in him.
“You have heard from John?”
“He's...” she swallowed, “missing.”
“We'll find him, Agnes. I promise.”
“George, how can you promise me such a thing?” Her face was taut at the conversation.
“Because, John never belonged in the war. He was too young. It wasn't right.” He said the words to appeal to her logic. But Agnes had seen too much, lived too much to be naive.
“No,” she said, “there is no justice or fairness in war. There is no bargaining or settling of accounts. There simply is. We have no guarantees but—” she looked at him, “we have each other. You came home to me and I pray that John will as well.”
“Clara,” Edward mumbled, “Stop Frederick.”
Agnes's face wrinkled, a look that George had observed so often when she was trying to make sense of something.
“What is it?”
“A talking painting and a woman who is dead being alive makes no sense. That I know. But, he remembers that Frederick had something suspicious surrounding him. After the woman in the cottage read us— I should say, translated for us, an article from Vienna, we learned of a murder that seemed very much like Lady Pemblebrooke's. In this case though the woman was hidden in the forest, kidnapped first.”
Agnes's eyes grew wide, as she realized what Edward had been saying.
“George, he might be talking nonsense, but somehow I think he figured out or at least thinks that Lady Pemblebrooke is in the cottage by the forest. I think we have to go there. We have to see if Lady Pemblebrooke is still alive.”
“I will go,” George said, “Edward can't be left alone.”
“I think I had better go. You have never seen Frederick before. If he is anywhere near the cottage, we will have to stay away so as not to spook him.”
George nodded. They stood and he embraced her. She pressed her lips to his and then, with them hovering above his, she whispered,
“I love you. Don't you ever leave me again, George Hamilton.”
“I won't. I wouldn't dare. I love you too much.”
It was torturous to tear herself away from him. It was like ripping a bandage. But, he was here. He’d returned. She could breathe again. Live again. And part of living was rescuing Clara, and possibly—if they were lucky, the not dead Lady Pemblebrooke and her children. She stepped from the embrace and slipped from the house.
Her muscles ached from being confined in the cramped position of nurse for so many hours. She stretched her legs with her longer than usual strides. Her calves burned, slowing her steps more than she would have liked. Edward had not been very descriptive in his feverish ramblings and a fair amount of deduction was required to make any sense of what he had said. There were scores of cottages in the meadow. Narrowing her search to only the cottages along the creek eliminated some, but there would still be far too many to determine which was the right cottage. Did Edward even know? Was he even making sense?
The path sloshed beneath her feet. Popping crunches, reminiscent of the sound of wadding paper, punctuated the slush of the mud. Her steps carried her toward Rosebrim Manor. It made sense to her that if a kidnapping had taken taken place they would not have been transported too far, especially if a single person were the perpetrator.
There. In a grassy knoll, sheltered beneath the sweeping arms of the willow, nestled into the banks of the creek with the cattails and piles of brown leaves surrounding it, stood a dilapidated cottage. Its thatched roof had gaps of missing straw, causing it to look like an old beggar with missing teeth. As she rushed toward the cottage, a nagging fear tugged at her heart. Suppose, Frederick was inside. He would be none too happy to hear her accusations. She had no weapon with her, because she had no reason for one in daily living. Agnes had never held a shining blade or a metal gun in her hand before, but now her fingers twitched molding themselves around the absent weapon. Creeping quietly toward the cottage, with the first rays of morning sunlight dancing delicately across the sky, she spotted a pile of stones through the clouds of white smoke that passed from her lips. Slipping them into her woolen coat pocket, she gathered her courage with the stones.
Standing as tall as she could, to draw upon every inch of strength she contained, she rapped on the door. Nothing happened. Perhaps, no one was even inside and the cottage was only the derelict abandoned relic it appeared. But, if Edward were somehow right, this location would make the most sense. Palming a stone in her hand and finding comfort in its smooth river-washed surface and weighty bulk, she pressed against the door. It was unmoving. Agnes gathered her skirt into her hand and waded across the mud to the back of the cottage.
Something moved to her left, rustling the brambles. Her heart seized. Uneasily she waited for the sound of Frederick's voice to cut through the morning air, piercing her life like a knife. No voice came, but the branches rattled again. Perhaps, he was sneaking up on her. Without hesitating, she spun, hurling a stone toward the noise. A bushy tailed squirrel scampered from the bush, frightened but unharmed. A breath of relief filled her lungs, tightening in her chest and then slumping her shoulders forward in release of the fear.
November rains saturated the grounds behind the cottage, causing her to sink into the soil as she neared the door. She paused just outside the cottage, listening intently, lest there should be some real interloper other than the squirrel. Agnes was not prepared to march in as liberator only to become part of some macabre scene.
The house appeared still and if anyone were inside the cottage, Agnes wagered they were asleep. Convinced that it was time to act, she pushed against the splintered wood of the door. A crackle of paint fell off into her hand in so doing, but sure enough the door edged open.
The early morning light filtered through the opened door, illuminating the dark and cramped cottage. Agnes's eyes took a moment to adjust to the heavily shadowed room. Seeing the far corner of the room, Agnes rushed forward. Huddled against the ground were three bodies, a woman and two children. The forms appeared pale and lifeless in the soft blue light of the morning. She crouched beside them and laid a hand on the woman's chest. There was movement!
“Lady Pemblebrooke?” she asked, hoping she was the woman, but never having seen her before.
The woman's eyes widened in fear. She jumped backward, her bones highlighted by the frail cheap material of the dress she wore.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you,” Agnes said, offering a reassuring smile.
The woman stared at her, too fearful to speak.
“I'm Agnes and you are?” she said, hoping the woman would confirm her identity. She made no reply, but Agnes's voice startled awake the sleeping children. Dirt smeared their faces and their eyes harbored the look of hunger she had seen in those of her poorer students, when the harvest had been disappointing.
“Please, I mean you no harm. Are you Lady Pemblebrooke?”
She stared at Agnes, appearing to judge her trustworthiness.
“If you are not, I would still like to help you, but are you Lady Pemblebrooke?”
The woman shook her head.
“She's dead,” she said, barely audible.
Agnes's heart sank. Edward had only been delirious after all. Trying not to let the disappointment show on her face, she held out her hand to help the woman to her feet. Seeing her hesitation, Agnes said,
“I have food.” This removed the doubt and the woman took hold of Agnes's hand. Though her hand was dirtied, it lacked the roughness she expected to find. There were no callouses or signs of a life of toil, which would accompany one as impoverished as this. She helped the woman to her feet, as the children clung to her skirt. The sunlight flowed more readily into the cottage and it caught a glimmer of something. Agnes followed the light to the woman's other hand. A ring, grander than any dream so poor a peasant could have, shone from her finger.
Agnes felt a prickle of excitement tingle along her spine. Her questions having failed on the mother, she turned to the children.
“I know this must be frightening, but I only want to help you. What are your names?”
The little girl looked at Agnes with skittish eyes, but found in her smile a reassuring presence.
“Mary,” she said.
“Well, Mary, it is very nice to meet you,” she said, with a smile. Encouraged by his sister's example, the boy stepped forward,
“I am Albert.”
Agnes turned her attention to him now, and said, in her most charming voice,
“Albert Pemblebrooke?” The children looked to their mother, unsure of what to say, but it was enough. Agnes had her answer.
“Please, Lady Pemblebrooke, I can help you. We can leave and you will be safe,” Agnes said, feeling as though she were attempting to persuade a student rather than talking to someone of the aristocracy.
She shook her head.
“I cannot. He will come back.”
“Please, I can help you. We can get your life back for you.”
Lady Pemblebrooke studied her. Her eyes moved from the place beside the fireplace where Agnes had found them huddled together to the opened door, beckoning for them to reemerge in a world that had considered them lost.
“Are they terrible?”
“Is who terrible, Lady Pemblebrooke?”
“The invaders... the enemy,” she said, her eyes darting from corner to corner, to see if any might be hiding among the shadows.
“I'm not sure what you mean,” Agnes said, patiently and puzzled.
“It's over. The war turned against us. There is no more... England,” she said.
A look of pain, as though someone were driving a spike through her heart at the sound of the words, covered her face.
“Did he tell you that?” Agnes said.
She nodded, sadly.
“It isn't true. England is still England. The war continues, but our hope is not lost. The Americans have joined the fight. There have been advancements,” Agnes said.
A look of surprise painted her face.
“Is this true? We are still free? That is—”
“Shh, listen,” Agnes whispered, cutting her off. The front door began to rattle.
“We have to go, now!” Agnes said, pulling Lady Pemblebrooke by the arm with her. Mary tripped from her legs being cramped in her sleep. Agnes reached down and restored her to her feet. The doorknob was turning. They scampered from the cottage, but the front door had already swung open.
“You! Stop!” Frederick yelled.
“Go! Run!” Agnes said, pushing them forward.
She reached into her pocket and retrieved a stone that she threw at Frederick. He dodged it and it fell harmlessly to the floor.
“Run!” Agnes said, obtaining another rock. She lobbed it at Frederick and it pegged him in the shoulder, causing him to stumble. Taking her chance, she threw another. It missed her target but hit him squarely in the knee, forcing him down. Confident that he was delayed, if only for a moment, she ran with all of her might. Lady Pemblebrooke and the children had retreated into the forest. She was on the edge of the tree line. Frederick had not yet managed to stand. Agnes ran forward and, with a mighty leap, tumbled to the earth.