26 
Light Goes Out of the Fountain

In Vienna, Mrs. Hildegard Halifax sat silently in her favorite easy chair in the sitting room, her large black eyes staring straight ahead.

The huge house on Ebendorfer Strasse, once so full of life and bustling with activity, was empty and quiet like a great many-roomed mausoleum. Its many windows had become like intrusive eyes probing inward with their accusing stares. The Fountain of Light it had once been called. But if there had ever truly been light existing within these brick and windowed walls, there was none now. Whatever it might have more accurately been called, it was now rapidly being extinguished by a power its inhabitants had vastly underestimated—the power of right and truth.

Mrs. Halifax had been reading the morning newspaper, but it now lay still on her lap. Beside her sat a small writing table with her stationery, cards, envelopes, and favorite pens. But she had no more interest in writing at the moment than she did in reading.

She was not a woman given to morose reflection. But some stray thought had inexplicably triggered her thoughts in the direction of events of the previous year. The reminder sent her brain into a renewal of smoldering fury. She had never thought of Amanda as actually her own daughter-in-law. The marriage, if such it could be called, had been hastily arranged merely to insure that the girl remain with them when old Mrs. Thorndike returned to England. The temporary visit to Vienna, which Amanda had originally assumed would last no more than a week or two, would not have allowed them time to turn her fully to their dark cause. A marriage offered the perfect solution. But there had been no permanent affection for her. She had merely been useful to them. She was merely an object to help them achieve their ends. And at first it seemed they had succeeded.

But then she had outwitted them and escaped. How, Mrs. Halifax still couldn’t imagine. As a result they were now out of favor with the higher powers of the Alliance. Her house, once a thriving hubbub of intelligence activity, even empty was now scarcely large enough to keep her and Hartwell Barclay out of one another’s way, each blaming the other, and both blaming her son Ramsay, for the breakdown that led to Amanda’s escape and their subsequent fall from grace. Their petty natures, obscured by people and activity and self-importance, now came to the surface and grated on each other every moment.

Barclay came and went. She hadn’t seen Ramsay in weeks. The war was going badly. And Mrs. Halifax had the uncomfortable feeling that she was going to be caught beneath the house of cards when it finally fell.

She did not like being alone.

She was a woman ill at ease, but unfortunately not from the healthy pangs of conscience. Whether or not her conscience was still alive at all would have been a difficult question to get to the bottom of. Instead, she was ill at ease from the indignation that consumed her—anger toward Amanda, toward Ramsay for not being able to control her, toward Barclay for his quiet demeanor and calm superciliousness that never took blame for anything. She was angry with everyone. She would not have been capable of recognizing it as such, but in her own way, Hildegard Halifax was even angry with herself.

She had always been cold and calculating. She cared about the cause, of course, but mostly for the benefits and wealth that came to her as a result. But things were not turning out as she had planned when she took the first steps down this road.

When she and her young son had been sent to England years ago, she knew what was expected of her. And there was no denying that she enjoyed the danger and intrigue. She was proud of having snagged Lord Halifax. He never had so much as a clue he was being seduced until it was too late for him to back out. She had not been a young woman even then, but she had used her wiles to maximum effect. He had been putty in her hands. Seduction came easily for her, one who was consumed with herself. And she had to admit that the luxury she had enjoyed in England was more pleasant than living within the war zone here on the Continent.

Ramsay’s mother smiled. In a way it was too bad the old man had died. She might have turned him to the cause eventually too.

Yes, everything according to plan . . . until Amanda—the little vixen!

The dark scowl returned to her face. How could such a stupid little thing have turned the tables on them! It was almost as if some invisible power had protected her and kept her out of sight across Europe. All Ramsay’s attempts to locate her had been useless until she was safely in England, and it was too late.

Their network was undone, and everyone was blaming them!

A great imprecation suddenly burst from the woman’s lips. The same moment her hand came crashing down on her writing table, breaking the eerie silence throughout the house and sending pens and stationery flying in all directions.