Chapter 1 #2
Home was the most welcome place to be right now. She only hoped all she loved about it would stay as it was.
The motorcar pulled up at the butcher shop and Bosworth held the door for Ginger. She stepped out onto the street. A few women passed behind the car on foot, and continued around it, as though avoiding the pavement in front of the Martins’ shop.
How odd.
Shutters hung over the front windows. Perhaps the Martins had heard what had happened to the bookseller’s shop and wanted to protect their house?
The front door appeared to be locked. She shook the knob in her hand and the door rattled with a hollow wooden sound—but didn’t budge.
The Martins lived behind the shop. Would they be there?
Ginger gave an uneasy glance to Bosworth.
“Wait here for me. I’m going to the back. ”
She unlatched the gate in the waist-high fence beside the house.
The unpleasant, earthy scent of livestock mixed with chicken droppings stung her nose.
She pulled out a perfumed handkerchief from her handbag and pressed it against her nostrils.
A young goat stood on top of a small enclosure, its eyes fixed on her.
Ginger adjusted her hat. A goat wouldn’t attack her.
But then again, what did she know about goats?
She edged her way toward the back of the house, staying close to the outer wall. The goat bleated, and she jumped. “I’m a friend,” she whispered. The small horns on top of its head appeared more threatening than at first glance.
She turned the corner, and a sudden honk made her heartbeat thud. A large white goose flapped its wings at her. She pressed a hand over her racing heart and caught a breath. Good gracious. She was the one being a goose.
Hurrying the last few steps to the back door, Ginger paused.
The animals continued to watch her curiously.
If there was a war on the horizon, she needed to be made of stronger stuff than this.
Twenty years of gentle breeding had done little to prepare her for anything.
The skills she had learned in finishing school seemed awfully vapid, given what they might be facing.
She rapped on the door with the back of her knuckles. “Mr. Martin?”
From the window beside the door, a pair of eyes peeked over the ledge. One of the Martin children, no doubt. Whispered voices followed, and then the child hid once more.
If something had happened, it was likely the Martin children were living in fear. Ginger tried again. “Mr. Martin. It’s Virginia Whitman.”
A few beats passed, and the lock scraped against the frame.
The door opened a crack. Mrs. Martin stood there, her dark hair in disarray, her eyelids red and puffy.
She wiped her hands on her apron. “Lady Virginia.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
“It’s good of you to come.” A girl no older than two clutched her skirt.
Something was wrong. Ginger tried to blanket her alarm, her reaction subdued. “Mrs. Martin, what’s happened?”
Mrs. Martin took a furtive glance behind her and slipped out, pushing the toddler back inside. She closed the door. “How did you hear of it?” A glassy expression hazed her eyes—as though she hadn’t slept.
A heavy feeling sank through Ginger. “I heard nothing, Mrs. Martin. We were waiting for Mr. Martin to arrive this morning with the order for the garden party. When he didn’t turn up, I thought I would come and check on you.”
Mrs. Martin covered her mouth with a crumpled handkerchief. “Oh, the garden party.” Tears fell onto her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, my lady. They took Friedrich. My son John, too.”
Ginger gasped. “Taken? By whom?”
Mrs. Martin dabbed at her eyes. “Officials came to the house with papers, arrested them.” She sobbed. “They’ve imprisoned them both.”
“Imprisoned?” Friedrich Martin was one of the kindest men in town. What had he done to deserve imprisonment? “Surely they’ve made a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake.” Mrs. Martin sniffled. “It’s because of the Aliens Restriction Act. He’s German. And now I’m terrified they’re coming for the rest of us. The police have ordered me to report to them every day.” The words brought a fresh round of tears.
Report to them? Whatever for? Ginger gathered the distraught woman into her arms. “But, Mrs. Martin—you’re an Englishwoman. You have nothing to fear.”
Mrs. Martin shook her head. “I lost my citizenship when I married Friedrich. Women must adopt their husband’s, you see.
I’m so very frightened for my children.” She gulped and pulled away from Ginger.
“I’m sorry, Lady Virginia. I shouldn’t carry on like this in front of you. You’re practically a child yourself.”
Ginger stiffened. The statement made her feel as though Mrs. Martin thought of Ginger as na?ve and overprotected.
She took a steadying breath. Mrs. Martin couldn’t have meant it as an insult. After all, Ginger only debuted a couple of years earlier, and the townsfolk still referred to her and her younger sister Lucy as the “Whitman girls.”
“You’ve had a terrible shock. I’m honored you’ve trusted me.” Ginger furrowed her brow. “I hope it isn’t horribly insensitive for me to ask—but what reason did they give for arresting John? He was born here.”
Regret filled Mrs. Martin’s expression. “Unfortunately not. Friedrich thought it would be useful if his mother helped me with John, as he was my first-born and my mother died when I was a girl. He was born in Germany and spent the first three months of his life there.”
A thump behind the door reminded Ginger of the children inside. “Mrs. Martin, what can we do? How can I help you? Surely my father will assist you.” In times like these, her father’s earldom—as well as his work in the Foreign Office—might be more influential to people like the Martins.
“I’d be so grateful for you to make some inquiries about Friedrich and John’s whereabouts.” She gripped Ginger’s forearm tightly. “What if they’ve sent them to Germany?”
The thought was frightening. Ginger knew little about the Aliens Restriction Act, but surely they had more decency than to repatriate honest men with homes and families in England?
“I’m certain my father will help get Mr. Martin and John back home, if he can.” Ginger put a hand on Mrs. Martin’s shoulder. “In the meantime, do you and your children have all you need?” How was the woman to feed and care for seven children without her husband?
Mrs. Martin wrung her hands, her handkerchief fluttering to the ground. Her face reddened. “For now. I don’t have the money for the order until Friedrich returns, Lady Virginia. I apologize, we can’t fill the order. The farmer never brought our own order yesterday.”
Ginger regretted having mentioned the order at all. “Oh, never mind that. We’ll make do.” Ginger dropped her hand to her side. “But if you need anything at all, Mrs. Martin, please let me know. We all must care for each other, especially during these precarious times.”
The statement sounded hollow to Ginger as she rode back toward Penmore, replaying the conversation in her mind. She should have offered to cancel the debt entirely, even if it wasn’t her place to do so. Or offered them food and shelter.
She would talk to her mother. They’d return tomorrow with some money. Her mother wouldn’t let the Martins go hungry. And Ginger was sure the church would have resources to help them.
But why had the police arrested John, too? He was a boy, just sixteen.
The chauffeur swung the car around a pothole and the entire frame jolted in response, bumping her against the side. Dust flew up and Ginger waved it away, distractedly.
Something had to be done for the Martins.