An Irish Hostage Read online

  Dedication

  Alas, it is never easy to say goodbye to anyone or even a pet who has shared years with us. It was particularly hard to lose Charles Dickens, shortened to Dickens. We got him as a kitten, and he became our “nurse” for anyone ill, the arbitrator of any fight, a protector of all the other cats who came into his life and ours, and he was just plain special. Black with an undercoat of white, he was like all black cats, gentle and very loving. Sometimes even fourteen years isn’t long enough. Like all our other treasured friends, losing him left a huge gap in our home.

  And there was Muffin, a long-haired tuxedo cat with a plume of a tail, a gentle and loving giant, who could stand by the dining room table with his paws on the top, and eat from his own plate. Kittens looked to him for comfort and protection. And for Fran he was her baby and her friend. Caroline loved him too. He was just always there, always greeting us at the door, filling our world with joy . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Charles Todd

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Somerset, June 1919

  We had finished our supper and were taking our tea in my mother’s morning room.

  It’s quite a lovely room, the long windows open to a surprisingly mild spring evening, and a bit of a breeze pleasantly lifting the lilac curtains just a little, so that we could hear the nightingale singing in the tree by the garden gate.

  The very picture of a happy family enjoying a companionable silence as we listened.

  The only thing that spoiled this charming scene were the expressions on our faces.

  Simon Brandon, home from whatever it was that had taken him to Scotland while I was in Paris, was trying his best not to look grim.

  I had come home from Paris to discover that I was on extended leave while the Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service decided what to do with me. It was especially disappointing to me, because I’d expected to return to one of the clinics for the wounded who were still in our care. But for my parents’ sake, I was trying to put a brave face on waiting for news.

  My mother, as always sensitive to the feelings of those around her, was doing her best not to look worried.

  And my father, on a brief leave from the Peace Talks in Paris, was attempting to hide his frustration with the direction the talks were taking, because he was privy to much of the behind-the-scenes maneuverings—maneuverings he couldn’t discuss, bottling them up inside instead. He hadn’t even complimented Cook on dinner, a measure of his preoccupation.

  Adding to this merry evening was my own mention of the wedding in Ireland that I was to attend in a fortnight’s time.

  One of the Irish nurses who had been aboard Britannic with me when it sank off the Greek coast had nearly died from severe injuries to her legs when we abandoned ship. I had barely managed to pull her into one of the lifeboats and stop the bleeding. Then as we waited for rescue, several of the doctors and I had done our best to save her left leg, and miracle of miracles, we had succeeded. Eileen had been able to walk again after several months of intensive rehabilitation, and she was so grateful that she asked me to be her attendant at her wedding in Ireland when the war ended and both she and her fiancé were free to marry.

  My parents and Simon were against my going there.

  The problem was the Easter Rising in Ireland in 1916, an attempt to break away from England and set up home rule. It had been put down ruthlessly, and that had only aggravated the situation, hardening the Irish determination to be independent. The English position was that whatever their goals, to openly rebel while Britain was engaged in the Great War was little short of treason, and several of the ringleaders were shot. In 1916, we weren’t certain of victory in France, and then on the heels of the Easter Rising, the Somme Offensive in July had dragged on for months, killing thousands of men. The Government wasn’t in a mood of clemency.

  The Irish, on the other hand, had felt they had waited long enough for independence, and many were tired of promises. There were only about four hundred people involved in the revolt, but it had set a spark alight across the countryside. Those at home, bearing the brunt of Britain’s displeasure, turned on their own and considered the Irishmen who were fighting in the trenches as traitors to the Cause, and there had been incidents that kept the anger on both sides of the issue very close to the boiling point. Some of the worse attacks had been reported in the British press, and of course my parents had read about them.

  I could understand my parents’ position. On the other hand, Eileen had told me that I would be safe, and her family’s protection would be more than enough for the short time I would be in Ireland. Indeed, her cousin had been one of the defenders at the Post Office in Dublin during the worst of the fighting, and he was looked upon as a hero. What’s more, he had written to my father—as if they were equals! Unheard of! After all, the Colonel Sahib, as we called him, was a high-ranking British Army officer and Eileen’s cousin had a price on his head—to assure him I would be taken care of. Another English officer would also be present—he was to be the groom’s best man—and he would certainly see that I traveled safely to and from Ireland.

  We had left the discussion at the supper table and were drinking our tea in a far-from-comfortable silence. But I couldn’t leave the matter there. I owed it to Eileen to let her know if I wasn’t able to come. Still, considering what I had done in France, on my own, while I was serving there, I was better prepared than most young women to take care of myself in hostile situations.

  Our nearest neighbor’s daughter, Sara, had never been out of Somerset. I could understand if her parents had told her she oughtn’t go. I’d have agreed.

  And so I said now, offering a compromise, “I won’t go as a nursing Sister, in uniform. I’ll dress very simply, so as not to attract attention.”

  “You must cross Ireland, my dear,” my father said. “By train. And it isn’t a direct connection. You’ll change twice. The last ten miles you must travel by motorcar. Or dogcart for all I know. And come back in reverse.”

  I glanced at Simon, hoping he might suggest that he accompany me. Then I looked away. He would be less safe than I was, with his English accent and his soldier’s stride.

  “Surely Eileen could have someone meet me in Dublin?” But she hadn’t suggested it . . .

  I sighed.

  Accustomed to making my own decisions for four years, I was finding it hard to be the dutiful daughter I’d been in 1914. Much as I adored my parents, I’d changed.

  My mother seemed to grasp that. She said, finding a smile, “There have been several murders lately, darling. Of English travelers. In France, you had the Army’s protection—well, umbrella. You were a Sister, an officer. It gave you a standing that everyone understood. That won’t exist in Ireland. You will be seen as a target, if someone wishes to make a name for himself by shooting at you. You must see th
at.”

  It was a different argument from my father’s or Simon’s. They had been worried about travel, about finding my way in an unfriendly country, about the difficulties of being a bridesmaid when the English were anathema in most quarters. Everyone at the wedding would know who I was, and while I might not be in trouble there, it was possible that between the wedding and the ferry to England, someone might decide to do something rash.

  My mother did have a point. I finished my tea and set the cup on the table as I considered what she’d said.

  And then I remembered something.

  I glanced at Simon, then looked away again. He hadn’t been himself since Scotland. The easy friendship that had always been between us had been replaced by a stiffness that had left me to wonder what I’d done to deserve it. And so I hesitated to mention what had just occurred to me.

  There had been a flyer in France, while I was in Paris, an American. As I was leaving the country, boarding my ship in Calais, Captain Jackson had asked me to tell Simon hello for him. I’d suspected at the time that the Captain might have been keeping an eye on me at Simon’s request. It would have been typical of Simon—then. And much as that annoyed me in hindsight, I’d found the pilot very helpful indeed and couldn’t very well complain.

  The question now was, how did I bring Captain Jackson into the conversation without letting Simon know what I’d guessed?

  I took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound . . .

  “I think there’s a way we could avoid all the problems of traveling in Ireland. What if I could fly from England to Eileen’s village? And back again. I’d be there just for the wedding, and with her family the entire time.”

  There was a smile on my mother’s face as she turned to the Colonel Sahib. But my father’s frown had deepened. “I could probably find someone to fly you. But I’m not sure I could do that in time.”

  “You don’t need to find anyone. Simon? Captain Jackson is eager for any opportunity to fly. Do you think he might come to England and take me to Ireland?”

  The surprise on Simon’s face was quickly covered.

  I could see that Captain Jackson hadn’t told him that I knew about his friendship with Simon.

  “I can ask him,” he said. “Certainly.”

  “Do you think he’ll agree? I’ll make it worth his while,” my father said.

  And that’s how I got to attend a wedding in Ireland.

  Chapter Two

  It was lovely to see Captain Jackson again. He winked at me as he greeted me, then was introduced to my parents. He was charmed by my mother and got along famously with my father when we met him in London eight days later.

  Turning to Simon, he said, as if they hadn’t met in some time, “Hello. How are you?”

  And Simon shook his hand without a pause. “Good to see you again.”

  I kept a very straight face.

  His aircraft was presently at a private field outside London, and he’d happily agreed to meet us near Bristol on the day in question, and transport me to the wedding, returning for me on Sunday evening after the Saturday ceremony.

  We dined in a restaurant in the City, and afterward my father and Simon spent the night at the Colonel Sahib’s club while my mother and I went to Mrs. Hennessey’s, where I’d kept my lodgings. Mother took Diana’s room, but we had a last cup of tea with Mrs. Hennessey before going up.

  It was then I told my mother that Simon had asked the Captain to keep an eye on me in Paris.

  She laughed. “Why am I not surprised? There was a distinct appearance of having dined on canary about the two of them tonight. There were feathers everywhere, in spite of their efforts.”

  “You see too much.” I hesitated. “Speaking of that. Do you know why Simon was in Scotland recently?”

  “He’s said nothing to me since he came back to the cottage.” Simon lived just through the wood at the bottom of our garden. “I haven’t asked. I didn’t want him to feel he had to confide in me.”

  “I must admit I’m curious.”

  “Yes, darling, so am I. But you know, when he’s ready, he’ll tell me whatever it is that’s troubling him.”

  “Iris swears it’s unrequited love.” She had been our housemaid for ages.

  Mother laughed again. “I’m sure she does. She asked me as I was packing for London if this Captain Jackson, whoever he might be when he’s at home, was your beau.”

  I could hear the echo of Iris’s voice as Mother mimicked her.

  “Because he’s flying me to Ireland?”

  “To her way of thinking, anyone who came all the way from Paris to see you safely to the wedding must be in love with you.”

  “I don’t think Captain Jackson has any intention of carrying me off to New Mexico.”

  “You know that, and I know that, but Iris is always hopeful.”

  I found myself wondering if my mother was also hopeful that I would marry soon and settle in a house near my parents. It wasn’t likely to happen—most of the eligible young men I’d known before the war, danced with and played tennis with and ridden with, were dead now on the battlefields of France.

  I gave her a hug, and we went to bed. But I lay there for some time in the familiar surroundings of my room. How many times had I come here on leave, however brief, and slept the clock round, tired as I was? If I no longer served in the Queen Alexandra’s, would I be encouraged to give up my rooms at Mrs. Hennessey’s? After all, why would I need to stay here, on increasingly rare visits to London? For I’d really have no excuse to go up, would I?

  I wasn’t sure I was ready to consider that possibility. Mrs. Hennessey’s was a part of my years in France, a home I had come to love nearly as much as the one in which I’d been born in Somerset.

  It hadn’t been difficult to decide to join the nursing service in 1914, when the war began. I knew without a doubt that it was my duty. I couldn’t fight with my father’s old regiment, as I might have done as his son. Nursing was the next best thing, using my skills to keep alive as many of the wounded as I could. Looking into the future was far more difficult, as I was discovering even as that future crept closer.

  Would they decide to keep me in the Queen Alexandra’s, given my experience, or would they choose someone who had fewer resources, and needed the money?

  That question was getting ragged around the edges, I’d brought it up to myself so often. And the last thing I wanted was for the Colonel Sahib to use his influence on my behalf.

  I fell asleep finally, dreaming I was in one of the forward aid stations as the Germans broke through and we had to evacuate the wounded in a great hurry, carrying stretcher after stretcher to the ambulances and putting the walking wounded on the floor between the two tiers, with only a blanket to ease the rough journey behind the lines. I was in the last ambulance that pulled out as the last of the line covered our retreat.

  I awoke in a cold sweat, and lay there quietly, hoping I hadn’t disturbed my mother in the next room.

  As I discovered, it was absolutely the most beautiful experience imaginable to fly.

  We took off from an airfield just outside Bristol, and as the wheels left the ground and we were airborne, I had the oddest feeling of freedom. I’d never felt anything to compare with it before this, a lightness that took my breath away.

  And then we were flying across the Severn, over Wales, the mountains and valleys spread out before me like a giant, living map. I could see the black scar of the coal valleys to my right, and thought I could even pick out the Gower peninsula, a blue thread on the horizon to my left. Ahead I could see the narrow channel of water that separated Britain and Ireland.

  I could feel the wind in my face, while the heat of the huge motor in front of me kept my feet warm. Behind me, I could just hear Captain Jackson telling me where we were, a calm running commentary. Above me in the distance floated gossamer threads of clouds, dappling the landscape below with light and shadow. I could understand why Captain Jackson loved to fly. Even when peopl
e were shooting at him.

  He turned north.

  “That’s Mount Snowdon to your right. And Harlech Castle is down there to your left. Can you see it?” He sideslipped on the wind, and as the wing tilted, I could see the gray square, and the sea beyond, whitecapped as it rolled in. I was captivated.

  We passed over Caernarvon Castle, and followed a ferry pulling out from Holyhead. And there was the green spread of Ireland ahead.

  It was surprisingly beautiful. We were flying at about twenty-five hundred feet, and the day was bright and clear as we crossed the coastline.

  Below there was rolling green countryside, the small white cottages of the Irish scattered about the landscape, a village church here and a small lough there, a ruined abbey, a great house with gardens riotous with color, and ruins casting morning shadows across the green grass.

  We avoided the sprawling cities, kept to fields where sheep or cattle or even sleek horses grazed. People who heard us approach would come running out, the children waving madly while the adults shielded their eyes to stare up at us. I waved back, but I couldn’t tell if they saw me.

  I heard Captain Jackson laugh with sheer joy, and I laughed too.

  And then I could see the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. We were approaching our destination, which was on the west coast of Ireland, where fingers of land reached out into the water. I wasn’t sure which finger was ours. We had just passed over a very large lake that seemed to cut the land in two as we banked slightly for a better view. There he turned slightly south. Soon he was pointing down, and in front of me was the field where we were to land. Beyond it stood a fine upright house of gray stone, with sloping lawns surrounding it, and beyond, on a knoll, a church. A bit farther on, the village of Killeighbeg nestled by the sea, which was blindingly bright in the sunlight. A lane ran from the house to the church, and then continued down to the village proper, and I was glad for my parents’ sake, worrying at home, that it appeared I’d never need to go that far. Only to the house and the church.