Chapter 5 #2
Together with Henry and Charlie, she rushed out into the summer night.
The air held the slightest chill, reminding her they were heading steadily away from long days of festivity.
Her ankles wobbled in the driveway’s gravel.
She wished she’d changed into something more suitable—an evening gown with fine beads seemed cumbersome at nearly nine in the evening.
If she ripped anything, Violet would have her work cut out for her to put it all back together.
Within a few minutes, Bosworth had brought the car around. They jostled down the driveway toward the village, dust from the gravel pluming behind them. On the leather seat beside her, Charlie radiated heat which matched his rapid pulse. An earthy, unwashed scent rose from his skin.
Ginger met Henry’s eyes in the seat across from hers. Henry said nothing, but she read the concern in his expression. He wouldn’t have rushed off like this if he didn’t think the threat to the Martins was credible. Or that it could show up on their doorstep.
She should have been wiser than to say what she’d said about Thomas Winser. Holding her tongue was often a skill she’d lacked as a child—though her governess had done her best to drill it out of her.
But when she remembered Archie Winser’s smug look as he’d stared down poor Charlie, her anger resurfaced.
How easy it was for Archie to cast stones.
Though he was quite young. She’d had the impression he hadn’t even known about his own family background—breaking the news to him must have been a blow.
As they drew closer to the village, the moonlight highlighted the whites of Henry’s eyes.
Ginger reached across the car for his hand, the pressure of nerves battering her insides.
Henry leaned forward and took her hand in his.
His hands were warm and steady, with the sort of confidence she’d always loved about him.
Even when she was a girl, he’d been the first to offer her comfort in the face of fear.
After they’d first arrived at Penmore from Cairo when she was younger, she’d refused to sleep in the nursery.
Her Egyptian governess had often told her frightening fairy tales and parables to keep her in line, and Ginger had become convinced a ghost haunted the nursery.
She’d sneak to Henry’s room when fear got the better of her—and he always allowed her to sleep curled up against him.
She’d find herself back in the nursery by morning, another favor.
Moonlight outlined the Martins’ house, the thatched roof absorbing the light. They were nearly there when Henry let go of her hand and pivoted toward the chauffeur. “Go around to the other side.”
Ginger’s eyes darted toward Charlie. She left him on the seat they’d occupied, scooting across to join Henry. “What is it?”
Henry’s eyes remained focused outside the car.
He leaned back, unblinking. “I’m certain I saw someone by the gate.
” He lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t have brought you.
Father will have my head if I put you in harm’s way.
I’ll have Bosworth leave me and then take you directly back to Penmore.
I sense trouble. Foolish of me not to have brought a pistol. ”
A pistol?
Horror cut her from belly to sternum.
What was it Henry thought he had seen? She didn’t want to cause Charlie any more alarm than necessary, but Henry’s plan seemed absurd.
“For God’s sake, I won’t ride merrily back home while you may be in danger.
If it makes things better, I’ll stay in the car with Charlie while you speak to Mrs. Martin. ”
Bosworth slowed the car and pulled it to a stop. He stepped out and opened the door for Henry. “Stay here.” Henry pointed a finger at the inside of the car.
Ginger fidgeted in her seat as Henry’s figure disappeared around the corner. She’d made a mess of things. She gave the little boy a tight smile, but he was busy staring outside.
A loud crack, like a gunshot, startled them both. Charlie jumped up and then pushed open the car door. He scrambled in the direction Henry had gone.
Stumbling against the door, Ginger bumped her way out of the back seat. Her feet hit the pavement. She steadied herself against the frame of the car.
“No, my lady!” Bosworth bolted from his seat.
“I’ll be fine, Bosworth. Stay with the car.” Ginger ran, trying to keep Charlie in her sight. With the boy being faster and small, he was already far ahead of her. And it was dark. Within a few moments, he disappeared around the corner.
She reached the back gate to the Martins’ property out of breath.
She felt for the latch on the gate, the fabric of her glove catching on a thorn from a rosebush.
The thorn pricked her finger. The wound throbbed, and she yanked her hand back.
Pinching her fingertip in the fist of her other hand, she pushed the gate open with her hip.
The goat. She shuddered.
She hastened down the path toward the back door where she’d called on Mrs. Martin the day before. Her knock provoked whispered voices, then the door opened a crack. Henry peeked out. He threw the door open more widely. “What in the bloody hell are you doing here?”
His language and fury rendered her speechless.
Henry yanked her in and slammed the door closed behind her. His hands curled into fists. “I told you to stay in the car.”
Ginger struggled to find her voice. She couldn’t remember many times Henry had ever been this angry with her. “I followed Charlie. We heard something and then he tore out of the car.”
Mrs. Martin, who had been standing a few steps behind Henry, rushed forward. “Charlie isn’t with you?”
Several children sat on a small, ragged sofa. Charlie wasn’t among them. Ginger took two steps further into the house, her diaphragm dropping low as dread crept into her stomach. “He’s not here?” The room, stuffy and hot, seemed to suffocate.
Mrs. Martin’s face paled. “Charlie!” She turned toward the narrow staircase leading upstairs. “Charlie!” Her voice sounded panicked. She wrung her apron in her hands before rushing up the stairs.
If Charlie wasn’t here, where had he gone? He knew this area better than she did. Maybe he had a secret hiding place or a safer way into the house.
A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. Unless someone had stopped him. Wouldn’t she have noticed?
Henry lifted his hat, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Tell Mrs. Martin to pack her most valuable things and bring them with her. Then help her and the children back to the car. I’m going out to look for Charlie.
Don’t wait for me. Take them to Penmore without me.
I’ll find my way back once I find Charlie. ”
Henry slipped out the door. Without Henry or Mrs. Martin to talk to, Ginger turned her attention to the other Martin children.
Five faces stared at her—four girls and one baby boy, no older than a year.
They were small, but would they all even fit in the car?
The oldest girl, about Lucy’s age, held the baby in her arms, her golden hair in tidy braids on either side of her face.
“Can you pack a bag for your siblings?” Ginger met her light blue eyes. The girl appeared fearful, but calm.
“Me what, miss?”
“I mean for yourself and all the other children.”
She nodded and held the baby out toward one of her sisters, who appeared to be a few years younger than her.
“It may be faster if you both do it. I can hold the baby if you’d like.” Ginger came closer to them.
The two girls exchanged a look and then examined Ginger’s dress. Ginger shifted, feeling more unsuitably dressed than before. The money she’d spent on this dress was probably more than the Martins used to clothe all their children.
Ginger held out her hands. “It’s all right. You go on.”
The older girl handed Ginger the baby and curtsied. She took her sister by the hand and went up the stairs.
The baby in Ginger’s arms squirmed, swiveling his head to stare at her face. He reached out with chubby fingers toward her jaw, pawing at her clumsily. She smiled at him, but he felt awkward in her hands—not at all like she’d imagined holding a baby would be like.
Of course, she’d never held a baby.
The baby stared at her, unblinking, the concern in his eyes growing, his tiny face scrunching as his lip quivered. A sharp, ear-piercing squeal followed as he cried, his entire face turning red.
Ginger held him away from her body. Perhaps she’d gotten too close.
She turned, scanning the faces of the other children, but they were toddlers.
Relief filled her as Mrs. Martin’s footsteps sounded behind her. She took the baby in her arms. He calmed immediately. “Charlie’s not in the house.” She bounced the baby against her hip.
“My brother went out after him. He told me to tell you to gather your valuables and come with us to Penmore. I sent the older girls to pack a bag.”
“Thank you, my lady.” She lifted a trembling hand to her forehead. “I don’t understand why this is happening.”
At least Mrs. Martin had the courtesy not to make Ginger feel worse about the incident with Archie Winser. Ginger cringed. “I’m so sorry—”
Mrs. Martin’s eyes widened as though she believed she had offended Ginger. “I didn’t mean that, my lady. I meant to my family. My husband is a good man.”
Every day, the atrocities the German soldiers committed against the Belgian citizens filled the newspapers.
As much as she sympathized with the Martins, Ginger understood why her countrymen were furious with the Germans.
She shared their anger. But what was happening to the Martins was unconscionable.
“The awful truth is I fear it’s only going to become worse the more we’re drawn into this war.
The news from Belgium is frightful. Is there anyone else in town you can trust, Mrs. Martin? ”
Mrs. Martin cradled her baby closer. “They’re all afraid. I’ll go and pack a handbag with some things.”