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Mud splattered Agnes's face, as she landed hard against the ground. She tried to scramble to her feet, but the fall had not left her unharmed. Falling hard, she had twisted her left ankle and was reduced to hobbling. Frederick had regained his footing and was nearing.
“You! Stop!”
Hearing his captor's voice and seeing his liberator slip farther behind in their retreat, Albert reached down to pick up a stone. Following Agnes's lead, he hurled it toward Frederick.
Agnes wobbled forward, caught between Albert's stones in front of her and Frederick's at her back.
“Agnes, look out!” little Mary cried, rushing past her mother's skirts and gathering up an arsenal of her own stones.
Agnes looked over her shoulder at Mary's warning, dodging the stone Frederick had thrown and watching it land inches from her. Lady Pemblebrooke stood shivering in fear, unable to join in the barrage. Mary picked up a stone, larger than any Agnes or Albert had thrown, and sent it catapulting through the air. Agnes ducked as it soared above her head and hit Frederick, knocking him backward. He fell to the ground, a gash in his forehead, unmoving.
“Children go! Run!” Agnes said. Lady Pemblebrooke stood transfixed, staring at the scene.
“Lady Pemblebrooke, come on!” Agnes said, grabbing her hand and pulling her along.
Agnes's trek through the forest was slowed by her twisted ankle. Lady Pemblebrooke, uninjured physically, bore the internal wounds of her ordeal and moved as though walking in a dream. The children, awakened from the slumber of submission, ran ahead and emerged from the forest to the road. An elderly man, grayed and walking with a limp that was supported by a cane, appeared on the horizon.
The children ran to him, nearly knocking him over, as they skidded to a stop and sent clouds of dust flying from their feet.
“What is this?” he said, as Mary reached up to tug on his coat sleeve.
“We're alive!” she said.
“And we want to go home,” Albert said.
“What are you saying child? I see that, of course, you are alive.”
Agnes burst from the forest, limping much the same as the bewildered old man, with Lady Pemblebrooke at her side.
“Your Ladyship!” he said, taken aback and attempting to bow to her. Lady Pemblebrooke wavered at the greeting.
“But, how can this be?” he said, and then realizing what the children meant, he turned to them and said,
“You are Albert and you must be Mary.”
“That's right,” Albert said.
“Yes, I'm Mary.” She took his hand as she spoke, finding a kindness in him that instantly removed any remaining shreds of shyness.
“My goodness, your father will be delighted to see you,” he said, looking at them and then back to Lady Pemblebrooke.
“But— my husband is— he— was killed at the front,” Lady Pemblebrooke said, stepping forward.
The man looked at her peculiarly.
“I don't know what you mean, Ma’am. There's talk all over town today that he is set to return to Rosebrim Manor next week.”
Lady Pemblebrooke's face took on a ghostly pallor.
“He's alive?” she said, weakly.
“Yes, as alive as we are,” the man said. The children, upon hearing the news, ran into their mother's arms singing joyfully,
“Father is alive! Soon we shall all be home together!”
They burst from their mother's embrace and danced around the old man, making up a song of jubilation.
Children are easily swayed by the changing tide around them, but Lady Pemblebrooke could not as easily cast off the cloak of lies that had taken her stability away from her.
Agnes said softly to her,
“Did he tell you that as well?”
She nodded,
“Long before we ever left the house. I shut myself away in mourning with the children. Oh, I deprived them needlessly of so much.”
A forlorn look crossed her face, as she spoke.
“Lady Pemblebrooke, you mustn't worry about that. You can make a difference for the better now. An innocent girl, Clara, is being held for your murder. You must go to the police and explain what has happened.”
“Oh,” she said, “I don't want any publicity.”
“But Lady Pemblebrooke, Clara has done nothing wrong. She too has suffered. She lost her memory in an explosion.”
“Was it a Zeppelin?” she said, her eyes wide in fright as though remembering some terrible scare. Agnes, her deductive skills fully engaged, said to her,
“Lady Pemblebrooke, is that what happened to you? Were you in a Zeppelin attack?
Her breathing quickened,
“Yes... we... were... away.”
“It's all right, Lady Pemblebrooke. You are safe,” Agnes said.
“I was so ashamed,” Lady Pemblebrooke said now, her breathing becoming steadier.
She paused and, seeing that the children were still occupied in their celebration, spoke lowly to Agnes.
“I was so afraid of the Zeppelins, that we would be invaded. I had such wicked thoughts, that I would...smother... the children in their sleep and then myself if one should land so that we would not suffer occupation.”
Agnes listened to her, trying to provide the comfort needed as a lump grew in her stomach. She had heard of such occurrences as Lady Pemblebrooke spoke of. Hearing the horror, she longed for George's arms to be around her, but she did not let on that she was so deeply affected.
“I thought,” Lady Pemblebrooke continued, “that I was being punished for that when we were kidnapped, when he told me we were dead to the world.”
Agnes took hold of her arm.
“But, now you are free... shouldn't we do the same for Clara?”
Lady Pemblebrooke looked at Agnes, still frightened but her shell slowly cracking.
“How do you have so much courage?” Agnes was surprised at the question. She looked to the children, who had stopped singing and were listening to a story told by the man of a ship laden with gold.
“I just do what is right,” she said.
Lady Pemblebrooke considered her words and looked into her eyes, a clarity returning to them.
“I remember her. She brought me tea once,” Lady Pemblebrooke said, “Agnes, I would like to regain my courage and setting her free is what is right.”
***
“I AM FREE?” CLARA SAID, the guard's words not making sense in her ears. She feared her lapse in memory now extended to the meaning of words.
“Miss Banks, we cannot hold you for a crime you did not commit, in fact a crime that did not occur. Lady Pemblebrooke and her children are alive and Frederick Schrader has been arrested for their kidnapping. That means Miss, that you no longer have to stay here. If you want to because of your memory, then arrangements can be made.”
Clara looked at the guard, her eyes narrowing as she said,
“Those with amnesia may choose to stay in jail?”
The guard shook his head, cradling his cheek in the palm of his hand.
“Miss Banks, you aren't in jail. You never have been.”
“I— I'm not,” she stammered, “and who is this Mr. Schrader? He shares his first name with that of my fiancé.”
His eyes softened into compassion from the confusion that had filled them, as he spoke to her now,
“Miss Banks, Mr. Schrader is your fiancé.”
She reeled at his words, sitting back on the bed.
“He set me up?”
“I'm sorry, Miss Banks. It seems that way,” he said, crossing to stand beside her.
“Schrader— that doesn't sound like any name from around here,” she said.
“No,” the guard said, stepping forward to rest his hand on her shoulder, “When they found him in the forest, where Miss Walters said he lay injured, he began speaking of Vienna and saying he had failed Johann, that he was sorry.”
“I, I don't understand,” Clara said, shaking her head.
The guard turned at the sound of footsteps.
“Hello, Clara,” Agnes said.
“Hello,” Clara said, looking up, surprised to see another appear as her thoughts spun dizzily around her.
“Perhaps, Miss Banks, it would be better for Miss Walters to speak with you,” he said, moving aside for Agnes to enter.
Agnes sat on the edge of the bed beside Clara. The room pressed in around them and Agnes felt a nauseating suffocation crawl from the pit of her stomach.
“Clara, my name is Agnes,” she introduced herself, unsure if Clara would remember.
Clara nodded.
“Tell me please what happened,” she said looking up into Agnes's eyes.
“My cousin Edward and I discovered in a newspaper article that a woman was kidnapped and murdered near Vienna.”
“Frederick did this?” she said, her eyes wide in dismay.
“No, his brother did.”
“I don't understand,” Clara said, her shoulders slumping forward.
“Neither do I, but we know you didn't do anything wrong. You have suffered long enough, Clara and if you would like, you can come to stay with me.”
“Thank you,” Clara said. She looked down at her hands, seeing Frederick's hand around her own, feeling she had been guided down some terrible dark path that had made things appear far worse than they were and caused her to doubt even herself.
“Agnes?”
“Yes, Clara?” she said, wishing there was something that she could do to erase the needless pain Clara had suffered in betrayal and isolation.
“I need to speak with Frederick.”
“Clara, dear Clara! I've just heard the news,” Harold said breathlessly, as he rushed down the hall toward them. Martin followed close behind.
“Harold, Martin, hello,” Clara said, becoming slightly overwhelmed as the crowd around her grew.
“Oh Clara, dear Clara, I knew you were innocent,” Harold said, stepping forward and taking her hand in his.
“Congratulations, Clara,” Martin said, a smile playing over his lips as he spoke the words.
“I— didn't do— uh, thank you,” she said. Sensing Clara's discomfort in the midst of so much confusion, Agnes turned the conversation.
“Thank you, for your support. Clara needs some time to get ready to leave now. She's agreed to come home with me,” Agnes said. Clara looked at her gratefully.
“Yes, of course,” Harold said, “If you need anything, do let me know.”
“Thank you, Harold.”
“Martin is the one that really deserves the thanks. He's the one that heard...” Harold trailed off, as he realized the pain that must be caused for Clara, knowing she'd been betrayed by a man who had promised his loyalty and love.
“Thank you, all of you,” Clara said, “If you don't mind, I'd like to gather my things together to leave.” After they had wished her well and departed, a familiar scent appeared at Martin's right side. Violet water mingled with the medicines and freshly mopped floors.
“Florence?”
“Yes, it's me. Hello, Martin. Wonderful news about your friend Clara. There's been such a sadness in her.”
“Yes, I'm very happy for her,” he said, but the playful smile that so often frequented his face was missing. Florence leaned closer to his ear,
“But, perhaps, a little sad for yourself?”
He lowered his face, ashamed at her insinuation. Though he could fool the others, Florence could see straight through him. She put her hand on his arm.
“It's all right, Martin. I've heard of something that may help you. I'm sorry I can't restore your sight, but I've heard about a new idea where dogs are trained to help those that are blind.”
“Trained dogs?”
“Yes, they become your eyes for you. Would you be interested?”
“Yes, Florence, thank you,” he said and slid his hand over hers that rested on his arm.
***
“FREDERICK?” CLARA SAID, placing her hand on the bars, now on the other side of a true jail cell. He looked up at her, his eyes holding a foggy haze.
“I knew I would find you in England. Where are you hiding him?”
“What? I don't understand what you mean,” she said, consumed with the confusion that so often filled her when in his presence.
“Fritz, where is he?”
“Who is Fritz?” she said, her legs beginning to tremble beneath her dress, feeling as though she were caught in some bad dream.
“You know very well who Fritz is, Katrine. He's the real murderer of Lady Ludstein, your lover, and the reason my brother is dead.”
He looked at her, his eyes wild as he moved restlessly through the cell. Clara let her hand slip from the bar and she stepped backward, away from his unpredictable behavior.
“Frederick,” she said, trying to soothe his temper,
“I think you have mistaken me for someone else. My name is Clara, not Katrine.”
“You changed your name. You hid. But, I tracked you down. I found you. And everything was going to be made right. This time you would suffer and endure the consequences of your betrayal. I made you live through what you did to Johann!” His eyes flashed in anger.
“Frederick, I'm sorry for what happened to you, but I can no longer be a pawn for you. I have to leave and put this behind me. I hope you find your peace.”
Her words spoken, she turned with the decision made to live under her own control. A doctor, younger than herself, with a pair of spectacles on his nose, stood in the hall.
“I heard what you said to him, Miss Banks.”
“Oh?” she said, worried if she had said something the doctor did not approve of.
“I admire you for showing such grace. I understand you have suffered from amnesia and Mr. Schrader told you that you were engaged to him. If it helps to know at all, though, Miss Banks I don't think Mr. Schrader intended to do what he did. At least, I don't think he was thinking clearly. A colleague treated him in London for severe burns. His uniform was so badly damaged in the trenches that it was removed so there was no indication on him to which side he belonged. He told the medics that he was English and so they shipped him to London. It seems the Schraders were quite affluent and Frederick's uncle often traveled to England, taking the boys with him. Surely, that is how he learned English so well, to be able to acquiesce.”
Clara's head tilted to one side, processing what had been said.
“But, how did burns affect his thinking?”
“Miss Banks, the burns were caused by mustard gas.”