Page 7 of Alive (Shadows of a Forgotten Past #2)

CHAPTER 7

~ HIDDEN ~

Dusk falls over the snowy fields. My teeth chatter as I stare at my nightgown. What am I doing out here? I need to go home. But where is home? I am lost—a ghost adrift in the dark.

“He is a little fragile but looks healthy,” Dr. Jones’s voice pierces the gloom.

Then, a black-cloaked figure materializes. I shriek. It hovers, its energy paralyzing me, as if claiming my soul. It moves. I am pulled after it.

We leave the fields and cross the forest. I know this path—I’ve walked it countless times. The Breamore Cemetery emerges. A gust of wind wrenches the gates open. I’ve visited often, but not like this. Not with this company.

Yet I follow, silent tombs watching as we pass. We stop at my grave. I understand now. My guide is Death. Has Death torn me from Alex’s side? Will I be entombed?

The figure raises a hand, commanding the earth to tremble. Not my coffin—my son’s—rises from the ground.

“No, no, no!” Tears scorch my eyes like acid. Death is cruel. Why torment me?

The tiny box creaks as it opens . . .

I bolted upright with a scream, the raw emotions following me into the waking world. Were my nightmares born of fear that Death would cross my path again? Was my yearning for children driving me to madness? Or was it something deeper—some hidden truth my subconscious wanted to reveal? Whatever the reason, I had to steady myself. The thought almost made me laugh—easier said than done—the agony of not having saved my child, of never having known him, pressing on my chest.

I reached across the bed. Alex’s side was cold. He had stayed up again, preparing for his departure. It wouldn’t be long now.

* * *

Things changed. The muteness of the radio felt strange. Typically, I would hear it from the hallway. However, Clarence was gone, and Zaira preferred silence over news of the war, especially of casualties. And with Will home, the Haywoods shared her preference. I entered the kitchen expecting to find no one, but the housekeeper sat at the worktable. The kettle rested on the range cooker, the flames glowing beneath it.

“Good morning, Mrs. Haywood.”

“Good morning. Good morning,” she responded absentmindedly, her attention on the papers before her.

“Is Martha around?”

She shook her head, still studying a page.

“Do you know where she is?” I pressed, eager to help the girl with house chores. Busyness, I found, was good therapy for the anxiety I couldn’t control.

“Who?” Mrs. Haywood blinked up at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“Martha.”

“Oh, yes, yes. I’m sorry. She’s gone to fetch some herbs.”

“I see.”

Her gaze dropped again. “No, it can’t come to this,” she mumbled.

The kettle whistled sharply. When Mrs. Haywood showed no inclination to attend it—a strange lapse for someone so efficient—I grew alarmed. I switched off the burner, lifted the kettle, and set it aside.

“This can’t be correct. What have I missed?” She scribbled numbers on the margins of a paper, adding and subtracting, erasing the sum, the cycle repeating.

I fetched two cups, poured the hot water, and dropped teabags into them. “Here, have some tea,” I offered, handing her one.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sterling.” She reached instinctively for the drink but quickly gathered her papers, turning them face down.

“What’s the matter?” I laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “Do tell me.”

“You must forgive me. Really, it’s nothing.” Coming out of the fog of her mind, her gaze focused, and she was present.

“Oh, there is something all right.”

“I . . . I don’t want to impose, Mrs. Sterling. Not again. You have more pressing matters than my difficulties.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Please, tell me—what is it?”

“It’s the farm—our family legacy.” She sighed, her expression grave. “We have worked so hard and have done mighty well with it—until now, that is. I can’t bear to think what will happen if . . .”

“If what?”

“If we can’t pay our creditors.”

“You have creditors?” I was confused. According to Will, the farm was debt-free.

“We do, but Will doesn’t know about it,” she admitted quietly, as though confessing a sin, and unknowingly clarifying my confusion. “And I would like to keep it that way. There is no need to worry the lad when he has so much on his plate.”

“Of course.”

“You see, the inclement weather of the past year has wreaked havoc on the property. We had no choice but to acquire a few loans to keep it going. I’m afraid I’ve fallen behind on the payments, and the lenders are unforgiving. If I don’t come up with the money, they’ll seize the farm.”

What was she speaking of? True, the storms had caused considerable damage, but I couldn’t imagine anything so drastic as to sink a farm. Considering her anguish and the shame she must feel, I thought it best not to inquire further. Albeit something about her story troubled me, lingering like an itch at the back of my mind.

“Would you like our solicitor to look it over? Just to ensure the loan terms are fair?” I offered, gauging whether her creditors might be exploiting her.

“Oh no. I have reviewed the contracts many times. I assure you, all is in order from that angle.”

“Right, then.” I remained unconvinced. “Please, let me know if you change your mind. Is there anything else I might help you with?”

“Well . . . there is something.” A blush crept up her cheeks, her embarrassment unmistakable. “You mustn’t think me impudent, please.”

“I shan’t. Go on.”

“I must catch up on the late payments.” She intertwined her fingers nervously. “Could you possibly advance me three months of salary?”

“It can be arranged.” I masked my shock. The Haywoods were well paid. Her request revealed just how strained their situation had become.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sterling. Truly. And thank you for not mentioning this to Will. As I said, he has enough to worry about. Nor to my husband, please. His pride has taken quite a blow as it is.”

“You have my word.”

“One last thing, if I may.”

I nodded.

“Please keep in mind that all I do is for Will’s sake.” Her gaze held mine, and I saw something I had not seen there before—a connection between us, not that of employee and employer, but as one woman to another.

* * *

With a multitude of inquietudes vying for attention, I cut through the evergreens: the war, Clarence’s departure, Zaira’s broken heart, Alex’s mission, Mrs. White’s proximity, and Mrs. Haywood’s financial dilemma.

I emerged from the wall of shrubbery into the Victory Garden. Instead of Mr. Haywood, I found Will on his knees, working the earth with a hand tool, his brow damp with effort.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sterling.”

“Hello, Will.” The scene brought the Haywood farm to mind, and guilt gnawed at me. He had no idea how dire their circumstances were.

When I lingered, he glanced up. “May I help you?”

“I am looking for your father. Do you know where he is?”

“Sorting seedlings in the greenhouse.”

“Wonderful. I have a suggestion to run past him.”

“The old man will be glad to hear it.” Will’s smile momentarily caught me off guard, it was disarmingly warm. “He is determined to grow everything and anything.”

“The task is monumental, and he’s handling it well. In fact, I’d like to expand planting into the west field and hope to convince him to keep the recruits who built the drying shed.”

“The war is not looking good, is it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Will tossed the tool aside and dug into the clumps of earth with his bare hands. “With all this rain, you’d think the ground would be more forgiving, but no. I have to force it into shape.”

“At least you know what to do.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth.” He chuckled. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. But the old man taught me a few things, including that if I don’t do a job right, he’ll make me do it again. Believe me, I never start something I don’t intend to finish, and I always do it right. I just needed a break from all that studying. Clears the head, you know.” He brushed his hands against his trousers, smearing dirt as he stood.

“Studying?”

“The stack of documents the general gave me.”

“Oh yes.” I felt for him. “Quite the assignment.”

“You can say that again. I see those papers in my dreams.”

I laughed. “Good luck with it.”

“Mrs. Sterling,” he called as I turned to leave.

“Yes.”

“So you know, I’ve heard about General Sterling my entire life. It’s an honor to serve alongside him.” His words warmed my heart. Knowing Alex would guard such a young life eased my worries about the mission.

“You are in good hands. I trust Alex with my soul.” If Will only knew how literal those words were, he would never mistrust his superior. “Use your time wisely.”

“I’ll do my best.”

* * *

I dressed for the day, with last night’s dream tugging at my heart. It had been vivid—more memory than mere imagination. In the dream, I was trapped in a dark, airless space, a cage without doors or windows. Then, breaking the silence, came the cry of an infant—a primal, heart-wrenching sound that pierced my soul. I needed to reach him. I needed to calm his fears.

Without respite, I recalled yet another dream—my son dashing into the forest, always just out of reach. Each time I lost sight of him, he reappeared—taller, older, time stealing him from me. I gasped as the meaning of these visions clawed at me. What if my baby had somehow been taken from the grave? What if, like me, he didn’t lie in the darkness of the earth?

No. My son is dead. But what if he isn’t?

I paced the bedroom, consumed by the thought. The pull tore at my conscience and desires, so at odds I feared I might break. Frustrated, I stopped at the window. Sunshine bathed the gardens, its warmth soothing against my palm on the glass.

And then I knew.

After everything I’d survived—even a second chance at life—ignoring my instincts might be the real madness. Was it a foolish path? Certainly. And the most dreadful part would be convincing Alex.

* * *

“Good morning,” Zaira greeted from the landing. Seeing a smile on her face, something so seldom since Clarence left, was wonderful.

“Good morning,” I replied. “I got another hat catalog for you to look at.”

“Oh, I would love that.”

“I left it on the night table in my room.”

“Thank you. I’ll go grab it now.”

“Do you know where Alex is?”

“I just saw them out in the fields.”

“Them?”

“Mr. Sterling and Will.” She climbed the first steps before pausing. “They are practicing archery.”

“Archery?” I repeated incredulously. Alex had never shown the slightest interest in the sport.

“Yes, Florence, archery. And if I’m not mistaken, Will is teaching Mr. Sterling a thing or two.” She said it so naturally that I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”

“It’s all right. I doubt Alex has ever touched a bow and arrow. Is it that pitiable?”

“Go see for yourself.” She resumed her climb, leaving me smiling.

I found Alex and Will standing in front of a hay-bale target. The whole setup had an improvised charm. The twine was loosely wrapped, barely holding the bale intact, while tufts of grass jutted out in every direction, creating an untamed, uneven mess. Despite its ragged appearance, it served its purpose, judging by the arrows embedded in the target—or near it.

“Commander, this shot was mine,” Alex argued.

“I must disagree, General.” Will pointed to a mark farther from the center. “This one here was yours.”

“You two seem to get along quite well,” I said, amused.

“Come to join us, Mrs. Sterling?”

“Oh no. I’m hopeless at it.”

“So is the general,” Will teased, “but he’s managed all right.”

“You’ve won a battle, not the war, Commander.” Alex shot Will a playful, dangerous look. “We’ll play again later—under my rules.”

“Fair enough.” Will started to gather the scattered arrows.

“Shall we walk?” Alex laced my arm through his.

“Shouldn’t you help him?” I motioned toward Will.

“He can manage.”

“He’ll think you are a sore loser.”

Alex shook his head, mischief lighting his eyes. He enjoyed making Will do the work.

We strolled down the footpath, ancient trees towering above us.

“Did you win any of the games?”

“Not one. The little devil is good at it, but next time, we’ll shoot rifles. He’ll be my target.”

I laughed. “Definitely a sore loser.”

Alex grinned. Seeing him unbothered through defeat reminded me of the times I’d lost to him at Monopoly. It was good for him to know what it felt like. Really good. Will might be exactly what Alex needed.

“Will has an extraordinary future ahead of him,” Alex remarked. “He’ll do well in the Air Force.”

“I think he wants to retire early.”

“A shame, but understandable. Especially if he wants to start a family.”

“That’s true.”

“He won’t have trouble finding a wife. He’s a well-rounded man.”

We ventured deeper into the woods. The mood shifted with the fading light, the lively banter now replaced by reflective silence.

At last Alex said, “I leave in two days.”

“That soon?”

“I want to get on with it, get it done. This is it. My last mission, Florence. I won’t leave you again.”

I stopped, turning to face him, my heart aching. “That’s if you come back alive.”

“I have every intention of doing so.”

“Alex. There’s something I need to ask of you.”

“What is that?” His gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that made me question my plea. But if I lost him without knowing the truth, I would live forever in sorrow and uncertainty.

“Since I can’t legally claim to be our son’s mother, I would like you to request Scotland Yard to exhume his remains.” My words came out swiftly. “A call to the inspector would suffice.”

“Have you lost your mind?” he exclaimed in dismay.

“Alex, listen to me. What if our son isn’t dead? What if something miraculous happened to him? You had my coffin dug up—why is this any different?”

“No, you listen,” he said impatiently. “You came back to me. If it weren’t for your reappearance, I’d never have dreamed of disturbing your resting place.” It was a valid point.

“The problem is that I can’t let it go. I need closure. After everything we’ve experienced, I can’t stop believing that anything is possible.”

“You had a mission, a choice to return and set things right. Our son is a different story. You and I have been graced with knowledge of the true nature of life and death. With what we know, can we not assume our son resides in a far better place?”

“Of course we can. But why does his memory haunt me? Why do I feel there is more to his death than we know?”

“Florence, he is gone. We must move on.” He drew a long breath, exhaling slowly. “Besides, if we were ever to do something so unsettling, wouldn’t it be better if I were here with you? Seeing him could backfire and disturb you more than the dreams already do.” Was he leaving a door open for the future? I was about to ask when he spoke again. “But it’s not the right thing to do. It simply isn’t. We must let him rest in peace. Do you agree with anything I’ve said?”

“I . . .” Reason was on his side.

He extended his arms, and I stepped into his embrace. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too.” Fearing that my insistence might drive a wedge between us, I relented. For now.

* * *

The fire in the hearth burned through the night as we shared our fears, our dreams, and the deepest recesses of our hearts. I clung to every moment—his voice, his lips brushing against mine, the caress of his hands—yet morning seemed to arrive within minutes.

At a tap on the door, I opened my eyes. Alex moved about the room, finishing his packing.

“General, the military car has arrived,” Mrs. Haywood informed from the corridor. “The men are waiting in the sitting room.”

“Keep them busy. Feed them breakfast or something, please.” Alex stuffed a pair of boots into his suitcase. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Very well, sir.”

I sat on the bed, struggling to hold back tears. Will I ever see you again, Mr. Sterling? Is this it? It can’t end like this.

Will had said Adeline took half his heart. Alex was taking mine entirely. If this mission claimed his life and his heart stopped beating, I was certain mine would too.

Alex caught my gaze, and without a word, he descended beside me. Wrapping me in his arms, he held me tightly, my head resting against his chest. His shallow, uneven breaths betrayed his efforts to suppress his emotions.

Though I had told him countless times last night how much I loved him and would miss him, I longed to say it again. But as I opened my mouth, the words dissolved into harrowing sobs.

Alex buried his face in my neck, his voice trembling as he whispered, “I love you, Florence, more than you can ever imagine.”

* * *

The Haywoods and I stepped out of the house into the courtyard. The morning was unnervingly still—no rustling wind in the branches, no chirping of birds in the trees. It was as if the world held its breath for this very inevitable moment.

The official car, with its driver and a second gentleman already in place, stood waiting—a sleek, black vehicle that evoked the image of a hearse— a comparison I didn’t welcome but couldn’t quite banish from my mind.

Alex and Will, both in uniform, loaded their luggage into the boot. Their faces revealed nothing—calm and composed, their feelings concealed behind the mask of duty. Whether they were apprehensive or resolute about their mission, no one would ever know.

The Haywoods bid their son farewell. I’d grown fond of Will, and seeing his parents hold him close, barely containing their emotions, cut through me. It also reminded me that I wasn’t alone in this heartache. Others endured far worse than I could fathom—and I could fathom quite a lot. My self-pity felt small in comparison. If nothing else, I resolved to keep it hidden, at least outwardly.

“Mrs. Sterling, thank you for everything,” Will said, and to my surprise, he pressed a kiss to my cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Will.”

“I shall.” He stepped back, a smile softening his features. “I’ll see you soon.”

Alex turned to me then, his hands taking mine. His touch, so familiar and grounding, made it harder to let him go. “Stay out of trouble, and please be careful. White could surface at any time. If she does, you know it will be to cause harm.”

“I will.”

“I’ll come back to you.”

“I’ll be waiting.” I offered a weak smile.

“But if I don’t?—”

“No.” I shook my head. “Don’t say it.”

He said it anyway. “If I don’t, Florence, move on with your life. Allow yourself to love again.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I pulled him into a fierce embrace. I silenced him with one final kiss, pouring everything I couldn’t put into words into that moment. When he pulled away, I saw his tears glimmering, though he blinked them back. Mine spilled freely down my cheeks.

Alex climbed into the back seat beside Will. The car eased forward, its tires crunching over the gravel. From London, they would sail to the United States—that was all I knew. The secrecy of their mission would shroud them until it was completed, leaving me with nothing but hope to hold onto.

“Come on, dear.” Mr. Haywood reached for his wife’s hand. “Let’s go for a stroll.”

Mrs. Haywood turned to me, her kind eyes misty as she patted them with a handkerchief. “Will you be all right?”

“I’ll be all right.”

They left me standing on the front steps, alone with the ache in my chest. I remained there for the longest time, staring at the spot where the car had disappeared into the morning sun.

* * *

I had to keep myself busy, or the void Alex left in me would consume me entirely. “ Stay out of trouble ,” he had advised. It wasn’t in my nature. If Mrs. White was in the area, I would rather go to her before she found me. Hence, Zaira and I formulated a plan, not the most ingenious one, but sensible enough.

The walk to the Acker farm had been miserable, with an obnoxious wind kicking up dust that stung our eyes and tangled our hair. By the time we reached the gate and pushed through against the gusts, we looked worse for wear. We approached the house, and a well-presented man in his late sixties, in black trousers and a blue cardigan, answered our call.

“Ladies, may I help you?” His lively eyes stared at us expectantly. I sensed he didn’t get many visitors.

“Good morning.” Zaira flashed her most charming smile. “Mr. Acker?”

“That’s correct. Miss . . .?”

“My name is Alice Bates, and this is my sister, Lucy,” Zaira replied smoothly. “We heard you have a cottage to let. We work nearby, so the location would be perfect.”

I looked at her sideways. We hadn’t discussed using false names, but it seemed a reasonable precaution.

“Oh, well,” he said, patting his shiny, waxed hair. “I did, but it’s been taken.”

“Oh, no.” Zaira faked disappointment. “That’s just our luck.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I had more than one to offer.”

“If I may ask,” I interjected, “how long is the lease for?”

“It’s a month-to-month,” he replied. “So, I suppose it could be available in the near future. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a spacious kitchen. If you’d like, I’d be happy to let you know.”

“That’s most kind,” Zaira said. “Please do.”

“Any chance we could look around?” I asked casually. “Just to get an idea in case it does work out.”

“Well, Mrs. Burrell and her nephew left a while ago.”

“Our luck continues to run its dismal course,” I said, disappointed. We had come all this way, endured the biting wind and the gnawing uncertainty, only to leave with no answers and no resolution in sight.

“Do you think they’ll mind terribly if we take a quick peek?” Zaira pressed, smiling again. “We might not get another chance to stop by.”

“Well . . ..” Mr. Acker scratched his head thoughtfully.

“It would truly help us decide if it’s the right fit,” she added.

“All right, I don’t see why not. Come on, I’ll show you.”

“We can get a sense of whether it’s her based on the belongings in the house,” Zaira whispered, leaning closer to me.

I nodded. Mrs. Burrell and her nephew. If the woman was indeed Mrs. White, again I wondered, who the man might be. The question pounded in my head as Mr. Acker led us along a path that meandered through a wooded area.

“What was that?” Mr. Acker called over his shoulder.

“Oh, I was just thanking heaven the wind abated,” Zaira lied.

The trees parted, revealing a clearing.

“There it is,” he said. Set amid open fields where ponies roamed freely, a cottage with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof stood gracefully.

“It’s lovely,” Zaira admitted.

“Lovely indeed,” I echoed.

“It’s been in the family as long as I can remember,” Mr. Acker said, a note of pride in his voice. “In fact, my wife and I lived there when we were first married. My parents stayed in the main house back then. Long time ago that was.”

We toured the perimeter, our host speaking of the surrounding land, seasonal crops, and pastoral purposes. The peaceful environment was ideal for tenants. He then brought us to the front door and turned the knob, inviting us in.

“Take a look around.”

Zaira and I moved swiftly, searching for anything that could confirm or refute Mrs. Burrell’s identity.

“Oh, good storage space.” Zaira inspected the kitchen cupboards. Mrs. White had distinct, expensive tastes that would stand out.

We passed through the smaller bedroom. A man’s clothing hung on the back of a chair, the bed lay unmade, and a stack of newspapers sat on the nightstand. Nothing of interest here. I moved into the main bedroom and cast a glance over my shoulder at Mr. Acker. He lingered in the hallway, chatting with Zaira about property taxes.

Opening the armoire, I found a flamboyant collection of women’s apparel—nothing Mrs. White would ever wear. If anything, she would have sneered at the fashion. My gaze shifted to the chiffonier, where two frames sat.

One held a photograph of a smiling couple, an older man with a hunched back and a gray-haired woman. The other featured a group of young people playing croquet. Nieces and nephews, perhaps? Surely the man who occupied the other bedroom was among them. Though I had no idea which one he might be, none of the faces were familiar.

I picked up the frame for a closer look, but the result was the same. Irritated, I set it back down. What was I doing rifling through these people’s lives like a thief? This was wrong. We had to leave before the Burrells returned.

As I moved to the doorway, I glimpsed something at the edge of the pillow. Spots? No, a solid object. Jewelry? I stepped closer. A string of black beads—a rosary. The memory came rushing back: my fingers catching Mrs. White’s rosary as we wrestled in the hallway at Oak’s Place. The string had snapped, beads scattering as she fled into the night, a fugitive from the law.

“Are you done in there?” Zaira called.

I yanked my eyes from the rosary. It proved nothing. Rosaries were common these days—nearly everyone had one, whether for prayer or in solidarity with loved ones at war.

We thanked Mr. Acker profusely for his kindness, and Zaira gave him the number to reach us.

“Nah, no way the woman who lives there is Mrs. White,” Zaira concluded as we left. “The place is too disorganized, and nothing matches her style.”

“I agree.” Could I ever trust my judgment again?