Echoes

about it once, and he reminisced nostalgically about the peach nightgown. He loved to tease her. “If you had slept any further from me in the bed, you'd have been levitating like some Indian soukh.”

“I thought it was funny when you messed up the bed the next day.” She laughed, but under the circumstances of their pretense, it had been a wise thing to do so as not to arouse suspicion.

“I had to preserve my reputation,” he said rather grandly.

The days of summer rolled by easily, and for once Amadea didn't even miss the convent. She was too busy. She sewed, she read, she played catch with them, she scolded them, and dried their tears. She spoke German to those who wanted to and remembered it, and taught it to the others. And French. She told them it was a good thing to know. They thrived under her protection. And Rupert loved coming home on weekends.

“It's a shame she's a nun,” Marta said mournfully one Sunday at breakfast with Rupert, after Amadea had gone out with the boys. She was going to fish with them in the lake on his estate. They called it Lake Papa.

“I think so, too,” he said honestly. But he knew how determined she was to go back. They seldom talked about it, but she was loyal to her vocation, and he knew it.

“I forget sometimes,” Marta admitted.

“So do I.”

“Do you suppose you could ever change her mind?” she asked cautiously. The children spoke of it often. They wanted her to stay as long as they would.

“I doubt it. That's a very serious thing. And she was a nun for a long time. Six years. It wouldn't be right of me to try and dissuade her.” Marta had the impression he was saying it more to himself than to her.

“I think you should try.” He smiled, but didn't answer. There were times he thought so, too. But he didn't dare. He was afraid she would get angry at him and leave. Some things were taboo. And he respected her a great deal, even if he didn't like the path she had chosen. But he recognized her right to do that, whether he liked it or not. He had no idea how to even broach the subject with her. He knew by now how stubborn she could be, particularly if she believed in something. She was a woman with a strong mind, and once in a while, she reminded him of his wife, although they were very different. She had been a woman of strong opinions too.

Seeing Amadea with the children, and the odd family they had formed, sometimes made him miss having a wife. But this was in some ways the next best thing. They had had a wonderful summer with each other. And before the children went back to school, they went on a family excursion to Brighton. He pushed Amadea along the boardwalk in her wheelchair, while the children went wild, playing games, and going on the rides. She looked longingly at the beach. He couldn't push her on the sand.

“I wish I could walk sometimes,” she said wistfully, although she managed very well in the wheelchair, could get around at full speed, and had no trouble keeping up with the children. It tugged at his heart the way she said it.

“Maybe we should go back and see the doctor one of these days.” She hadn't seen him in three months. When she left the hospital, he had said there was nothing more he could do. The feeling would return in her legs, or not. And so far it hadn't. There had been no change or improvement, although she rarely if ever talked about it. And this was the first time he had heard her complain.

“I don't think there's anything he can do. I don't think about it most of the time. The children don't give me time to.” She turned to look at him then with a tender look in her eyes that always made him wish things were different when he saw it. “Thank you for bringing me here, Rupert, to take care of your kinders.” She had never been as happy in her life, except in her early years in the convent. There was an irrepressible joy to every day. She loved being Mamadea, almost as much as she had loved being Sister Teresa. But she knew this would come to an end too. Many of them would go home, which was better for them in the end. They needed their parents. She and Rupert were only surrogates, although good ones. She thought Rupert was wonderful with them, and it always reminded her of how much he must miss his sons. There were photographs of them all over the house. Ian and James. And his wife Gwyneth. She had been Scottish.

“I don't know what we'd do without you,” Rupert said honestly as he sat down on a bench on the boardwalk, where they could see the children, and she rolled the wheelchair close to him. She looked relaxed and happy as her long blond hair flew in the breeze. She often wore it down like one of the children, and loved brushing the girls' hair, the way her mother had done for her and Daphne when they were little. It was odd how history repeated itself constantly, generation after generation. “I can't even remember what it was like before you came,” Rupert said, and looked distracted. And then he took the wind out of her with what he said next. “I'm leaving on a mission next Thursday.” He wasn't supposed to tell her, but he trusted her completely.

“You're not,” she said, as though denying it could make it not happen. But she knew from the look in his eyes that it would anyway.

“I am.” He didn't look enthused about it either. He loved being at home with her and the children on the weekends. But there was still a war to win.

“To Germany?” she asked in a whisper, as terror struck her heart. They both knew all too well how dangerous that was. And she couldn't imagine life without him now either.

“Something like that,” he said in answer to her question. She knew he couldn't tell her where he was going. It was top secret, and classified information. He had the highest security clearance. She wondered if he was going to Germany, or back into France, or somewhere worse, like farther east. She realized now that during her time in France, she had led a charmed life. So many had been killed and she hadn't, although she had come close several times.

“I wish I could go with you,” she said, forgetting the wheelchair. But there was no question of that now. She could no longer do missions. She would be a handicap and not an asset.

“I don't wish that,” Rupert said bluntly. He no longer wanted her risking her life. She had done enough. And been lucky. Even if she was in a wheelchair, she was lucky to be alive.

“I'm going to worry about you,” Amadea said, looking deeply concerned. “How long will you be gone?”

“Awhile” was all he said. He couldn't tell her that either, but she got the feeling he would be gone a long time, and she couldn't ask. She fell silent for a long moment and then looked at him. There was so much to say, and no way to say it. For either of them. And they knew it.

The children noticed that she was quiet on the way home that night, and Berta asked her if she felt sick.

“No, just tired, sweetheart. It was all that good sea air.” But she and Rupert both knew what it was. It was his mission.

She lay in bed for a long time that night, thinking about it and about him. He was doing the same in his bedroom. Their bedrooms were at opposite ends of the same hallway. She had been overwhelmed by the luxuriousness of the house at first. She had the best guest bedroom. She had told him to put her in one of the maids' rooms, but he wouldn't hear of it. He told her she deserved the handsome room she was in, which she insisted she didn't. It was difficult to adhere to her vow of poverty here. The others she could manage, or had until then.

Rupert left to go back to London the next morning, as he always did. And the children knew nothing about his impending trip, or worse yet, the possibility that he might never come back. Amadea was fully aware of it. He had requested permission to come down to Sussex for the day and night on Wednesday, before he left the following night. And until he returned, Amadea was nervous and anxious and out of sorts. And most unlike her, she snapped at one of the boys when he broke a window with a cricket ball, and then apologized to him for her bad temper. He said it was fine, his real mother had been much worse, and shouted a lot louder, which made her laugh.

But she was still immensely relieved to see Rupert return on Wednesday, and was quick to give him a kiss on the cheek and a warm hug. She knew there was nothing she could ask him. All she could do was pray for him while he was gone and trust that he'd come back. And all he could do was reassure her that he'd be fine. They tried not to talk about it, and had a lovely dinner with the children in the main dining hall, which they normally only did on special occasions. The children sensed easily that something was going on.

“Papa Rupert is going on a trip,” Amadea said cheerfully, but the older children searched her eyes and knew that something was wrong, or at best scary. Amadea looked worried.

“To kill Germans?” Hermann asked, looking delighted.

“Of course not,” Amadea answered.

“When will you be back?” Berta asked, looking worried.

“I don't know. You'll have to take good care of each other and Mamadea. I'll be home soon,” he promised. They all hugged and kissed him before they went to bed. He said he'd be gone in the morning before they got up.