A Song Across the Sea (37 page)

When Tara and the other maids who shared the room returned to it at night, Sheila would have a pot of tea ready for them that she’d brewed on a small cookstove in the corner. They drank tea and chatted. Sometimes even Cook would lumber up the stairs to join in. Tara looked around one evening and realized that Sheila, of all people, had succeeded in turning the group into some sort of family.

“Sometimes I think I’ll go mad from missing you so much, Tara. I hate to think of you working there as a maid. When I come home, we’ll find a place of our own to live in. I’m afraid it won’t be much like the mansion, but it’ll be ours.”

“You look worried,” she observed one day when she and Sheila were alone.

“I had a bad pain last night. It frightened me.”

“Maybe it’s time.”

“It was a terrible feelin.’ Not normal, I’m thinkin’.”

“Have you felt the baby move today?”

“I have. She’s fine.”

Tara laughed. “You’re so sure as all that that it’ll be a girl?”

“I am. And I’m goin’ to name her Mary.”

“Well it won’t be long now. By the way, in his last letter, Reece said he couldn’t wait to be an uncle.”

A few nights later, though, Tara was abruptly awakened by moans of agony coming from the bed next to hers.

“Sheila?”

“I can’t bear it,” Sheila gasped. “Oh, Tara, I think I’m goin’ to lose me mind.” She was rigid with agony, her arms crossed protectively over her swollen belly.

“I’m goin’ for a doctor.”

“No! It’s not time yet! The Millinders will find out about me and you’ll lose your job.”

“There was always that risk, Sheila.”

The other maids were awake by this time. “Is she having the baby?” Inga asked. “It’s too soon, isn’t it?”

“The baby’s not comin’ yet,” Sheila whimpered. “She’s probably just lettin’ me know she’s gettin’ impatient.” She leaned back against the pillow, her face nearly as white as the bed linens.

Tara frowned, unsure of what to do. Had it just been a false alarm? Tara had little experience with these matters, having been all of ten when her brother Paddy was born—too young to understand much. She bit her lip, trying to decide on a course of action.

“I’m still thinkin’ you should see a doctor.”

“I’ll go to one tomorrow.”

“It’s my day off,” Inga volunteered. “I’ll take her.”

“I’m grateful to you,” Tara told her. She bent down low next to Sheila. “Will you be all right until then?”

“I’m better already. Really I am.” But the hand Tara held in hers felt clammy. “The pain is after leavin’. I’m sorry to have woken all of you. Go back to bed now.” Her tremulous smile was more disturbing than reassuring to Tara. Sheila’s smoky gray eyes had a distant, unfocused look to them, like she was looking into an abyss that the others could not see.

The next morning Tara was sent by Mrs. Beecham to run a half-dozen errands around town. She was met by a highly agitated Cook upon her return.

“It’s bad news, Tara. The baby started coming as soon as you left and something is bad wrong. I’ve never seen so much blood. They’ve taken her to the hospital. George brought the car round the back, to the kitchen door, so no one would see. He’s returned with it, waiting to take you, too.”

•  •  •

It was all over by the time she got there. That fast, she thought. Not even a chance to say good-bye.

She was allowed into the room alone to see her cousin. Tara took Sheila’s cold hand in hers, trying not to look at the blood-soaked sheets still covering her cousin’s body. Her face was still and ghastly white, save for the tiny blue veins that lay just under the surface of the skin. She was expressionless. There was no suggestion of fear in her face, no hint of her last moments, when she’d been violently torn from her young life and cast alone into the dark reaches of the afterworld. Was she at peace? Tara was angry as she pondered the question. Sheila had already found her peace, after a rocky time. She was buoyant with hope for the future, excited to welcome her new baby. Why did this have to happen? The unfairness of it made Tara’s head throb. Was it God’s punishment? What sort of a God would do this to a young girl with her whole life ahead of her?

“No!” someone screamed aloud. It was herself. “No no no no!” She flung herself over Sheila, shaking the lifeless body with fury. “Come back, Sheila! Don’t you make me tell your parents that I’ve failed you! Don’t you do that!” She was crying so hard her words were barely coherent.

There was no answer.

Her parents. Paddy. Now Sheila. She’d lost nearly everyone close to her. How much more was she expected to bear?

“D’ya hear me, Sheila?”

Firm hands were on her shoulders, guiding her out of the room. She dropped onto a bench in the hospital corridor. A glass of water was thrust at her. She tried to lift it to her mouth, but her hand was shaking too badly. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She tried to catch her breath and listen to what the doctor was saying to her. The words made little sense. Hemorrhaging… Unable to stop the bleeding… Did everything possible… The baby…

This, finally, penetrated. Tara became aware that Inga and Francine were there, hovering anxiously over her.

“The baby?” she whispered wretchedly.

“The baby is fine,” the doctor answered calmly, as if that solved everything. “A healthy baby girl.”

T
wo weeks after Mary was born, President Wilson called for a resolution of war against Germany.

“It’s high time,” declared George, sitting down for a cup of coffee at the kitchen table before starting his work on the gardens outside. “And I’m not the only one who feels that way.”

“What’ll it mean?” Tara asked anxiously.

“No good, that’s for sure.” Cook brushed ramekins with drippings for shirred eggs flavored with bacon—Mr. Millinder’s favorite breakfast.

George ignored her pessimism. “Oh, most think it won’t amount to much. More supplies to the Allied countries, probably. That sort of thing. Good for business, if you ask me. And it’ll show those bloody Huns that we stand up for our friends.”

“Will we be sending soldiers?”

“Maybe a small volunteer army. That’s what most think. There’s plenty who’re ready to enlist right now. If I was a younger man, I might just join \’em.”

“You’re an old fool, George.” Cook poured milk she’d been warming in a pan on the stove into a bottle. She slipped a rubber nipple onto it and handed it to Tara. “Here. And there’s clean diapers ready to be taken upstairs, after Mr. Millinder leaves for the office. I hope you’re right grateful to Flora and Lucy for doing all that extra laundry you’re giving them with that baby.”

Seeing Tara’s red-rimmed eyes, Cook softened the tone she’d meant to sound stern. The girl was still crying over her cousin nights, even with the baby to distract her.

Tara mumbled her thanks and snuck upstairs to feed Mary.

“I know how badly you must be grieving over Sheila. I wish I could be there to help you

through this terrible time. When I come home, we’ll be a real family. You, me and little Mary.”

He was accepting Mary as his own. Oh, what a wonderful man she was married to! At least there was one person who approved of her decision not to place Mary in a home for orphans. Her well-meaning fellow servants had tried to persuade her that it would be for the best.

“How will you manage? You work from morning till night.”

“She’s a beautiful baby. Maybe some couple who’ve no children of their own will adopt her.”

And maybe not. Mary was her blood relation. Tara wouldn’t let Sheila down by giving her baby away to strangers.

Tara moved wearily through a schedule made numbingly busy by the baby’s arrival. During the first few weeks there was precious little sleep for her. Tiny Mary awoke many times during the night, needing to be fed or simply needing the warmth and comfort of being held. She soon began sleeping for longer periods of time, to Tara’s relief, but that still left the days hectic.

“The destruction here spreads like an ugly disease. I fly over shell-scarred fields that used to be peaceful farmland and wonder if there are any green trees left in the world. So many people are displaced, their homes reduced to rubble.”

Mary was untouched by the tragedy that accompanied her birth. She was a contented baby, seldom cranky. Her eyes settled on a color very much like her mother’s: smoky gray, with reflective glints of iridescent blue ringing the irises. Her soft, downy hair was dark. Tara was occasionally startled by an expression on Mary’s face that perfectly echoed her mother’s. It made Tara miss Sheila a little less.

“You’re a wee angel, y’are,” she cooed, making funny faces at Mary. The infant, fascinated, tracked her every movement. After only a short time, it was impossible to imagine Mary not being in her life. In between stripping the bed linens and scrubbing the floors each day, Tara would slip off to bathe Mary and put her down for a nap. It developed into a steady, surreptitious routine, achieved with the help of the other staff members. Polishing silver. Beating rugs. Changing diapers. Washing dishes. Scrubbing and waxing floors. Feeding Mary. Dusting. Serving at meals. Changing Mary. Serving at dinners.

She was eternally thankful that she wasn’t in it alone. Although everyone at first thought her mad for keeping the baby, Mary’s bright-eyed charms quickly won them over. In fact, there was a handsome hand-turned oak cradle, polished to a high sheen, waiting for Mary that very first day.

“George found it in the attic. He remembered seeing it there last year. Cleaned it up and sneaked it in here when no one was around. Mrs. Millinder must have used it for her son, when he was a baby.

It had been Reece’s baby cradle! The thought made her tingle as she padded its interior with makeshift bedding and gently lay Mary in it. With a small push, she set it to rocking. Mary was asleep in minutes, looking as if she felt quite at home.

Tara kept the baby close to her at night, so she could reach her before she woke anyone else with her cries. It wasn’t always a successful strategy, but no one complained. Far from showing resentment at having to share their already crowded room with a tiny, sometimes noisy newcomer, the other girls made sort of a pet of Mary. They took turns singing lullabies to her at night and covered for Tara with Mrs. Beecham when Tara was tending to the baby herself.

“She’s in the east wing, cleaning the third floor bedrooms.”

“In the library, dusting.”

“I believe she’s in the pantry, helping Cook.”

Mrs. Beecham miraculously never caught on. Rather, she got the impression that this Kitty Logan was a singularly energetic girl who did a marvelous multitude of tasks in many far-flung rooms of the mansion. If only all of the servants could be so industrious!

They all knew that this arrangement could not go on forever. Tara found herself diplomatically evading pointed questions about what she intended to do once Mary began walking, or even when Mary became old enough for school. How long did Tara really think she could keep the child hidden in the cramped third-floor servants’ quarters, tucked away under the eaves like a princess waiting to be rescued? Tara alone knew that their future lay with Reece, in a home of their own. She desperately wished she could confide all to her friends and ease their concerns, but it was not time yet. She could not risk it.

There was danger that the baby’s increasingly lustful cries would be heard by the Millinders. Fortunately, Mary’s sunny temperament meant that she cried infrequently, but like any baby, she had her fussy days.

New, powerful feelings took hold of Tara: the unbelievable sweetness of holding a warm bundle of baby in her arms; worry that this tiny, helpless being was utterly dependent on her; joy when Mary churned her arms and legs and burbled happily in response to Tara’s nonsensical conversations with her. Mary recognized her voice!

She tried to remember everything delightful Mary did so that she could recount them in her letters to Reece.

George found a baby carriage in the attic, cleaned off cobwebs and polished it to a vibrant shine. On Tara’s days off, she spirited Mary away from the mansion for long walks. Plump and hearty, Mary seemed to truly enjoy the out of doors. Sure and she slept well enough afterwards!

Tara sometimes watched Mary as she slept, wrapped in soft blankets and innocence.

It was hard to believe that anything bad was happening anywhere in the world.

•  •  •

Men drilling with broomsticks in place of rifles, marching in formation in parks and fields, became a common sight. The enthusiasm with which enlistees responded to President Wilson’s call to arms caught the government unprepared. There weren’t enough guns to go around. Millions signed up for active duty in the month of June alone. While factories rapidly retooled to produce weapons instead of cast iron skillets and farm implements, the new soldiers had to practice with broomsticks.

The number of German naval and land victories mounted higher each week. Newspaper editorials railed against the spike-helmeted “evil Huns” who had to be stopped. Tara read the war news avidly, feeling as if it kept her connected to Reece. Just as he’d expected, airplanes took on greater significance in the war. Airborne battles between two pilots—dubbed “dogfights”—became common.

All the talk of Germans and Germany made Tara think of Lotte and her family. Tara hadn’t seen them since she and Sheila fled the boarding house. One Sunday in late June, she pushed Mary’s baby carriage to the neighborhood where the Schoeners lived.

“Who is it? What do you want?” Tara was taken aback by the angry shout that her knock provoked. It sounded like Lotte’s father.

“It’s me, Mr. Schoener. Tara McLaughlin.” Time enough to explain about her married name later. She clutched Mary to her tightly, a little apprehensive.

The door was hastily thrown open and Mr. Schoener clasped her and Mary both in a big bear hug. Other Schoeners gathered quickly. Tara had almost forgotten how many there were in this small apartment. She noticed that Conrad was missing, though.