Maggie Bright (6 page)

“Schooling,” Clare prompted. “And Father Fitzpatrick.”

He smacked his face. “National Academy of Design, New York City. The Fitz put me through. I dropped out my last year ’cause I got famous and boy, the padre blew his stack on that, tried to get me to
 
—no, no, no, that’s all I’m gonna say about him.”

He sat up. “You ain’t gonna trick me. I ain’t
that
tired.”

“You mean . . . he paid for your schooling?” Clare asked, very interested.

“Mostly. I worked odd jobs. I think some of the dough came from my old man, though I ain’t supposed to know. Could never figure out where the Fitz got it. He’s poor. Always givin’ stuff away. Kind of irresponsible. Most irresponsible thing he ever did, outside of comin’ here, was make me his kid’s godfather. I wanted to crack his head.”

“He sort of . . . directed your schooling? In the absence of your father? Well, that’s very decent of him. Would you say he is sort of a father figure for you?”

Another expression of remembrance came, this one soft.

“He stepped in cement for me.”

“Is that an American metaphor?”

He came to himself. “No, no, no
 
—I ain’t gonna fall for it.”

“Oh, bravo! I
knew
he was decent. Now. I must learn very important facts about
yourself
, and quickly. Tell me something comfortable and inspiring. Do you read books? Smoke a pipe? Oh dear. I wish we’d known each other all our lives. I wish you were an American cousin. I don’t suppose we could say you are. You see, I need to tell them something that says, This man is
not
a burglar or a killer.”

He shrugged. “Tell ’em whatever makes
you
know I ain’t.”

“A million things. They won’t appreciate the subtleties.”

“Like what?”

“A bad man doesn’t talk as much as you.”

“Holy smokes, sister
 
—you must be a saint.”

“A bad man does not come all the way to England to retrieve an errant priest.”

Amusement left. He looked out the window.

“What was he here for, Murray?” said Clare.

“A package, Clare.” His voice had gone hoarse.

“What’s in it?”

“It’s supposed to prove something that cannot be true.”

“About what?”

His face was pale, whether from fatigue or something else, Clare didn’t know. But now something else descended on it, a darkness, a down-pulled shade.

She shouldn’t intrude, not on this. Something felt very wrong. Here, that boyish innocence left and something alarming took its place.

Rubbish. “What is it supposed to prove?”

He shook his head. “It will change you. It will change everything.”

“I’m a big girl. What’s it supposed to prove?”

“It’s supposed to prove something about humanity. If it’s true, we’re finished. It’ll mean somethin’ got inside us. If it’s true
 
—I quit. I’ll find a place where none of this can find me. I’ll find a place where things are how they’re supposed to be. I won’t tell you ’cause you’re nice, Clare. It’ll change you. It’ll change everything.”

“I notice your grammar improves when you are upset,” Clare said a bit breathlessly, fascinated by that dark intensity.

He turned a hostile look upon her. “Why did he give you the
Maggie Brigh
t
?”

It shocked her speechless.

“Why you?” The next words came slow and deliberate: “Why did it go to you?”

How slowly the world turned at moments like these.

“How could you possibly . . . ?” Clare looked out her window. “I don’t know. I’ve wondered ever since.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Whatever I say will sound silly.”

After a moment, he said, “Try me.”

Oh dear.

“The owner was an old friend of my father’s. My parents died when I was eleven. Ever since, I’ve been looking for a place to call my
own.” She felt for the locket. “I didn’t know that a place looks, too. You see, I believe she was meant to be mine.
She
wanted me. It was less that I had come to her by some whim of a man’s allegiance to a boyhood friend, than that she had come to me, as if she were sent to me, as if
 
—” she waited through the ache in her throat
 
—“as if my parents had sent her from heaven. I know how silly that sounds. But I like to believe they are still trying to take care of me, that they sent me another home because the one with my uncle was unbearable.

“I know with all my heart
Maggie Bright
was meant for me, because she changed my life. She was glad the day I owned her. She trusts me, and because of that, I trust her. And she tells me that this Father Fitz had very good reason to be where he was, as if
they
are coconspirators, more than Maggie and I, and she tells me I should
 
—” To the cab driver, she suddenly called, “I’ve changed my mind. We’ll go directly to Bexley-on-the-Thames, not the bookshop.” Gazing out the window, she said, “I don’t belong there anymore. Freedom doesn’t look back.”

The only place she wanted to be was on her boat, and with the thought came the glorious joy that it was hers to go home to all of her days.

After what must have been a very long while, she came to herself, and looked to see what the American thought. He was fast asleep. His arms were crossed. His face was utterly free of care, and rather bunched up and puckered with his head sunk on his shoulder. She didn’t know him well enough to think he looked rather adorable, but if she did, she would.

She also felt quite sure that a potential exhibit for Madame Tussauds would not feel free to snore in the presence of a stranger.

“Blake again. William Percy, please. Yes, I thought you might be interested to know that your suddenly popular prisoner had
two
other guests today, besides the Murray Vance I called about. Well, I don’t know
 
—one was female, lovely, and British
 
—I didn’t count her at first, because she didn’t actually
see
him, she couldn’t get in because of the one-visit rule, but she certainly
came
to see him. It just now struck me that you might want to know. And now the latest visitor just left
 
—another American, male, much older. Rather ratlike. A bit shady. The word
furtive
comes to mind
 
—you could cast him in a Hitchcock film. Yes, he was American. No, he
wasn’t
German, didn’t I just
 
—No, no
 
—I said I didn’t
get
their names, as
 
—Hang on! There’s no cause for that. I can’t very well ask them to
sign
their names if there’s no
visit
, now, can I? Is that sensible? This is a
courtesy
call, sir, I thought it might
interest
you.” He replaced the receiver
without
saying good day. “Sodding . . . rude . . . relics of . . .” He mustered a smile. “Next, please?”

“WHAT IN ME IS DARK .
 . .”

“Yes, yes, illumine,” Jamie finished for him. “Drink up, mate. Thatsa boy. Probably filled with sheep bits. Captain Milton, meet Mr. Belgium Doctor. He’s going to fix you up.”

The angry little doctor stood in the middle of the small, dark hay shed, one hand on a hip. His neat white shirt stood out in the gloom. He turned in place, shaking his head.

“C’est impossible,”
he finally declared, flinging out a hand. “Zee light
 
—terrible. My, my, my tools
 
—no
antiseptique
. And zee Germans. Zey come!
C’est impossible
!
”

“Mr. Belgium Doctor, meet Mr. Bren.” Elliott raised his rifle. “Fix him, or you’ll need fixing.”

Disgusted, the doctor went to a stack of musty hay bales and set down a small brown leather case the size of a large wallet. He began to roll up his sleeves.

It had taken two hours to find him. Another half hour to get him to come, and that, only when Jamie had unshouldered his rifle. Another half hour to scout out the nearest shelter and drag the semiconscious captain to it, another half hour to find water in a sheep trough.

“British
thug
.”

“A thug, eh? I’ve been eight months in your country. Eight months on a line erased in a day, like it never existed. Eight months, for your protection! This is how you repay us?”

The Belgian’s dark eyes pierced. He rolled a sleeve with precise movements. “You are not here for me. You are here for your safe island. Get me bandages.”

Jamie took the captain’s rucksack and rummaged. He found a battered book
 
—
Paradise Lost
by John Milton. He tossed it back, rummaged, found several rolled bandages. He took one and regarded it with a twinge of guilt; two days, and he hadn’t yet changed the bandage. He was too afraid the wound would come apart if he did. He handed it to the doctor. “There’s more if you need them.”

The doctor set it aside. He unwound the ties on his case, and unfolded it.

Now that he had his way after pulling a rifle on a civilian, Jamie cast about for something conversational. “You’ve got the, you know
 
—thread stuff for the job? Catgut? Isn’t that what they call it?”

The doctor sent him a swift, seething glare.

“Right. Just do a good job.” He looked down at the captain. “All right, Milty?”

Captain Milton lay on the ground. He held both sides of his head, groaning softly, breathing faster as if caught in a nightmare, as if sunk to a private place of wrestled hell. Jamie had seen him like this before. Was it pain, or was it something else? Did thoughts of his men bring on that agony? When it was over, he’d always resurface to a wary, bewildered reality. Jamie had the urge to pat him on the head and speak kindly to him, then, like his old dog Toby.

He knelt beside him.

“Doc’s gonna fix you up. But there’s nothing to numb it. Here’s a harness strap, see? Cut from your friend the horse.” He worked the man’s mouth open, and slipped the leather piece between his teeth. “There’s a British soldier’s whiskey, eh?”

And something strange happened: the brown eyes looked
right
at him, first time in two solid days, and it looked as if he had something to say. Something real. Something not from a book. Jamie hesitated, then dislodged the strap, fearing if anything came out it would only come out Milton.

“Solitude sometimes is best society,” the captain whispered apologetically.

He felt a little jump
 
—that
was
direct to him. Even if it came from the book, it was like real conversation, and he understood it. Maybe the man had been trying to communicate in Milton words all along. His own wits blasted out, the wits of Milton blasted in.

“It’s all right, mate. Sometimes . . . we can’t talk about things.” He couldn’t imagine losing his whole squad. Couldn’t imagine finding them blown to bloody ribbons. He’d go loony as the captain.

Brown eyes still with him, the captain whispered, “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”

“That it can.” He patted Milton’s arm.

The doctor drew near with a water-soaked rag and needle and thread. He laid these on the captain’s stomach, and knelt, with clear distaste, in the dirt. He removed the dirty bandages. He wiped the wound with the cleanest parts of the old dressing, tossed it aside, took the water-soaked rag and dabbed very gently at the gash. Even gentle movements released fresh blood. Jamie’s stomach roiled, and he wondered how the doctor would stitch up that dark mishmash. The doctor gestured to the captain’s rucksack, and Jamie retrieved another bandage roll.

Jamie thought he’d start right in with the needle and thread, but
instead, Jamie watched as he used his fingertips to apply delicate pressure on the skull near the wound, and then fan out incrementally all around the captain’s head; as he did so, he gazed off, and let his careful fingers do the seeing. He frowned, and didn’t say what the frown meant. Was the captain’s skull fractured? Like an egg, broken in place? The doctor finished the probing, wiped fresh blood, and reached for the needle and thread.

“Brace yourself, Cap’n.”

“Trial will come unsought,” the captain said, and took the strap between his teeth.

“That it will.” Boy, they were on a roll.

The doctor went to work.

Jamie very nearly did not come back.

He’d seen it all quite clearly. He’d just take off, track down his squad, and they’d make for Dunkirk together. He saw the reunion in his head. I was hoping we were shut of you! Look what Hitler threw back, lads! He’d tell his tale, they’d tell theirs, and they’d be on their way.

But could he tell them he’d left a wounded man?

It made cold sense to leave the wounded. Jamie could fight, Milton could not, and by the look of things, England would need every man she could get once they rallied from this first blood.

He didn’t know why he came back. Only, he couldn’t imagine what an enemy would do with a babbling man like this, a man just now starting to communicate, a man stuck inside a rotten, battered cage. Jamie was just now starting to crack the Milton code.

What in me is dark, illumine: Why did I survive, and not my men?

What is low, raise and support: Someone out there . . . help.

He sat beside the captain, his back to the doctor’s work, and waited.