Grounded Hearts Read online

  Peasant. He thought she was a peasant. A washed-up, old peasant midwife. She supposed the description fit.

  “Indeed it is. The cane came from Lord Harry. He owns the big house a couple of miles from here. My cottage used to belong to the manor, but like most of the Irish ascendancy, the Harrison family fell on hard times. They’ve sold off most of their property, including this patch.”

  “You bought the cane from him?”

  “Not a’tall. About two years ago, Lord Harry’s butler knocked on my door. There was an emergency. A servant girl was about to give birth. She’d kept her pending motherhood a secret until she went into labor.”

  “Why would she keep it a secret?”

  Nan shrugged. “To save her job. The maid wouldn’t say who the father was, but the evidence pointed to Lord Harry’s son, Tipper. He’s a nasty bit of work.”

  “He fess up?”

  “No. The maid delivered a healthy baby girl. Lord Harry supposedly gave her money and sent her back to her family in Wicklow. On top of my fee, I got this cane as a gift for my troubles.”

  “Your troubles?”

  “To keep my mouth shut in town, but everyone knew.” Everyone would know about Dutch, too, if she wasn’t extra careful. Telephones were not needed to spread news, especially if Mrs. Norman got wind of the flyboy in Nan’s bed.

  “What happened to Tipper?”

  “Nothing. He joined the RAF. He’s serving in Africa. He managed to marry a Royal Ballet ballerina, Margot Dorian.”

  “Margot Dorian? I know who she is. I saw her dance once. Sort of.”

  Nan tilted her head. “You did?”

  “My mom, sister-in-law, and a couple other ladies dragged me to a ballet performance in Canada a while back. She was the star.”

  “What did you think?”

  He shrugged. “I fell asleep.”

  Nan laughed. “I’m surprised you’d go to the ballet.”

  A curve of a smile formed as he said, “The ladies needed an escort, and my brother and I tossed a coin. I lost.”

  “How many brothers do you have?”

  “One. He’s the best.”

  “So, you’re close?”

  “I’d do anything for him. Or any member of my family. How about you?”

  “I would, too, except I don’t have any family.”

  He stopped, his lips on the edge of the cup. “Isn’t that unusual for you Catholics? I mean, big families, right?”

  Nan sank to the corner of the mattress. “I had three brothers, but they all died when I was a kid.”

  “I’m sorry. Your mom and dad?”

  “Gone to meet the angels.” She waved her hand as though it didn’t matter. Waved her hand to wipe the memories away—away for good, if only she could.

  He waited a beat, watching her. She steered the conversation to present day. “Margot . . . Lady Margot is one of my clients now. She lives at the manor house and is expecting a child. Boy oh boy, she must have been shocked when she arrived and found herself in a crumbling mansion. I’m afraid she learned too late that Tipper’s title doesn’t carry much of a bank account. They have no money a’tall. I’ll be lucky to collect my fee.”

  “Yeah, a title doesn’t give a person money or class. Or happiness.”

  “That’s true. Lady Margot is unhappy. She’s gained so much weight, she might be expecting twins, except I know she’s not. Poor creature.”

  He steadied his gaze on her. A flipping sensation in her stomach made her look away. She stood, cleared her throat. “Eat, please. You need to regain your strength.”

  “Thank you. I know this isn’t fair to you. I know—”

  “Not another word. This is for the cause, right?” She stumbled over the uneven slate floor, in the spot she normally remembered to avoid. She added turf to the fire and then poked the embers into a burning glow.

  “This is good,” he said. “The best bread I’ve ever had. You make this?”

  “I did. Not the butter or jam, though.”

  “I thought butter and jam were impossible to find with rationing.”

  “Not in Ireland. We ladies have an informal exchange system.”

  “Black market?”

  She grinned. “Green market. I make apple butter to trade, but I can’t get jars so far this year. Tin is near impossible to find these days. Are you done with your breakfast?” she asked, although she could see by the empty plate that he was. Only a few crumbs remained. Good. He had a healthy appetite.

  The dishes rattled as she took the tray. “I need to check your knee and re-dress your wound before I go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Town. I have patients to visit and supplies to pick up. Let’s have a look at my handiwork.”

  “Be my guest.”

  She resisted returning his smile, but in the end, her lips betrayed her. She pulled back the covers, hitching a breath. The too-small nightshirt was hiked halfway up his muscular thighs. He tried to pull down the shirt, but it barely budged. The top ripped again. She made a note to herself to buy a new one in town. She would need a logical reason for such a purchase. She’d think of something.

  Focusing on his swollen knee, she laid her hand over the bandage. Heat filtered through the gauze. No improvement. “Does this feel tight? Uncomfortable?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Okay.” With a flick of the wrist, she threw the covers over his lap. “We’ll leave that be. Mind you don’t put any weight on that leg today. Use the cane.”

  He saluted her.

  “Funny. Let’s inspect your arm.”

  He glanced at his shoulders. “You want me to wiggle out of this? Is my T-shirt dry?”

  “It had blood on it. I had to burn it this morning, with the rest of your clothes.”

  He pressed back into the pillows. “Are you kidding?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? I saved your . . .” She hesitated at the memory of washing them last night. “Your underwear.”

  “How the heck am I supposed to get over the border? In my boxers?”

  “Don’t be daft. I have my husband’s clothes. Remember?”

  He pulled at the torn nightshirt. “I probably wore this-size shirt when I was twelve.”

  Teddy had been on the short, slender side. Fine-boned, like a porcelain figurine. Masculine, though, not effeminate. At least in her opinion. Every bit the poet.

  Certainly, this pilot sitting in her bed, wearing a nightshirt that stretched across his manly form, had nothing of a poet in him. Hemingway, perhaps.

  Nan considered the dilemma. Either Dutch had to take off the nightshirt and he’d be naked, or she’d need to cut the sleeve and expose the wound.

  Naked in her bed. Nope. That didn’t work. An image of Father Albert with his acne scars, thick glasses, and thinning hair came to mind. He’d surely wag his finger at Nan.

  “I’m going to slit the nightshirt up the arm,” she said, reaching for the scissors on the tray. “It’ll be easier than trying to take the garment off and get it back on again. I’ll get you a new nightshirt in town. How does that sound?”

  “Snip away.”

  The snapping sound of each cut filled the air until she had the sleeve trimmed to the shoulder. Blood had seeped through the bandage. Not a particularly worrisome sign. Carefully, she unrolled the gauze. She was so close to him, she could feel the heat of his body against hers. His moist breath teased her skin.

  She saw his eyes tense. She knew the wound must hurt worse than stepping barefoot on a beehive.

  “I’m sorry this is painful. It’s necessary.”

  “I’m fine.” His voice dropped to a deep bass tone that resonated in her bones.

  A yeasty scent rose from the bandage, immediately setting her on alert. Shouldn’t smell so strongly. Her lips tightened. There was swelling around the edges of the sutured wound, but the cut remained stitched together.

  “How’s it looking, Doc?”

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, she tho
ught. Some redness and swelling was normal. “I’m only a nurse, but you’re doing grand. How painful is this? Tell me the truth.”

  “Hurts a little.”

  “I’d be worried if it didn’t.” She cleaned the area with a hydrogen peroxide solution, sprinkled more sulfanilamide over the wound, and then wrapped his arm with clean gauze. “There.”

  She picked up the soiled bandages and threw them into the blazing fire. White smoke circled up the chimney.

  “Right.” Returning to his bedside, she poured him more tea and handed it to him. Their fingers connected, making part of her want to jump back and another part want to slide her hand over his. Sit next to him. Keep him company.

  “I’m off to town. I’ll be back soon.”

  Stepping to the mirrored wardrobe, she gazed at herself and combed her fingers through her hair. She stared at her dry lips, wishing she had some Tangee lipstick and rouge to make herself look prettier. Ah, what was she thinking? Who cared about her appearance? Certainly not the patient in her bed.

  He cleared his throat. “If you can, will you find out what happened to my crew?”

  “Did they bail out, too?” She gazed at him in the mirror.

  He stopped midsip and lowered the cup. “Of course they did. Do you think I’d leave them in a doomed plane? Go off by myself? What kind of officer do you think I am?” His voice was sharp with an undertone of anger. Frustration.

  With a shake of her head, she opened the wardrobe door. “It was only a question, not an assault on your character.”

  He let out a breath. “We all got out. I was the last to bail. I didn’t see any of them after I landed. The wind scattered us.”

  Nan opened the wardrobe, selected a soft wool scarf, and placed it around her neck. The knit brought out the blue in her eyes, not that anyone cared. Closing the wardrobe door, she asked, “Were any of your men injured before they jumped?”

  His jaw twitched. After a sip of tea, he said, “No. Just me.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Yes, but sometimes . . . stuff happens when you reach the ground.”

  “Or the sea?”

  “Do you have to bring up the worst-case scenario?” His words snapped. He squeezed his eyes shut, seeming to regroup.

  “Sure now, I don’t mean to worry you.”

  His forehead was creased with lines that seemed beyond his years. “I feel responsible for those kids.”

  Kids? “I’ll find out as much as I can. I promise. By the way, how old are you?”

  “I’m an old guy. Twenty-six.”

  “Old?” She was two years his elder. What did that make her?

  “Old for the RAF. The rest of my crew were . . . are under twenty-two. Kids. Please find out what happened to them?”

  “Of course. I’m sure it’s the talk of the town.”

  He placed the cup on the nightstand and lay back on the pillow. “I promise I’ll be out of here tonight. Is there a back road I can take? A bike I can borrow?”

  “There’s my husband’s bike, but . . .” She stood at the foot of the bed. “I’ve got a better plan to get you safely on your way. I have a car.”

  “What?” He sat up, eyes wide. “You do? Why didn’t you give it to me last night?”

  “Last night? When you were bleeding and passing out?”

  The edge of his mouth pulled to the side. “Yeah, you have a point. So I can leave tonight?”

  She raised her hand. “The car isn’t running.”

  “Then you have the potential of a car. That’s pretty much useless. What’s wrong with the vehicle?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Tuda—”

  “Who?”

  “Tuda. My best friend. She’s the best auto mechanic this side of Limerick.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “Her. Yes. She’s like a sister.”

  “A girl mechanic?”

  “Don’t underestimate her. She took on the garage twenty years ago, when her husband took on the bottle. Unfortunately, she’s away in Dublin.”

  “So, this is just a tease? You have a useless car and an absent mechanic? Is this some sort of Irish joke?”

  “Then the joke’s on me.”

  He rubbed his chin. “What’s your plan?”

  “She comes back tomorrow. I’ll say I’ve decided to fix the car, have her come over and look at it. Mind you stay put. I don’t want her mixed up in . . . this.” She bit her lip, the full impact of her deeds swirling around in her mind, especially the odious way she’d gotten rid of Finn. She shuddered at the memory of her fingertip on his cold brass buttons.

  “How long of a drive to the border?”

  “About six hours.”

  He frowned. “That far? Listen, I know a lot about cars,” he said, his gaze traveling up her legs to her eyes.

  What was he looking at? Her old-lady black stockings? Did he notice the run up the side?

  “Do ya?”

  “One of my hobbies. Where’s the car? I’m sure I can figure out what’s wrong with it.”

  “In the calf house.”

  “You have cows?”

  “No. It’s a garage now, across the courtyard, but the name stuck.”

  “Okay. I’ll get on it.”

  “It’s going to stay undisturbed until I get back from town. Understand?”

  He lifted his chin, squinted. “Why wait? I can get started right away. It’s my mission to get out of here as soon as I can.”

  “Your mission is to stay in bed and heal. Understand?”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why waste the time?”

  “Because I need to be here in case Finn or someone else looking for bomber boys shows up.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “You’ll stay in bed and not move from the house. Promise?”

  He wouldn’t meet her gaze. She folded her arms and summoned up her best imitation of Sister Mary Catherine, a nun at school who could send a girl into panic with one glare.

  “You’ll do as I say, Officer Whitney. Or I will kick you out. You’ll get about as far as town before Finn finds you, limping along the lane. And if you get caught, I get caught, because when they see how you’re patched up, they’ll come looking for me.”

  “Then why would you kick me out? That makes no sense.”

  She worked her logic through again, but it didn’t add up. He had her there. None of this was logical, though. “Just stay in bed. We’ll figure out the details and get you out the door soon. You’ll have to work with me, not against me. I’m sure you’re used to being in charge, but you must take my lead in this adventure.”

  He nodded. “All right.”

  “Do you need anything else before I go?” She softened her tone, adjusted the pillows behind his head. His legs moved under the covers. He clutched her hand, stopping her from walking away.

  “Why are you doing this? Helping me?”

  His touch sparked a wave of goose bumps up her arm. “You came in need of medical assistance; I was obliged to help.”

  “How can I ever repay you?”

  She squeezed his hand. “Consider this my contribution to the war effort. But you must do what I say. Stay in bed. Keep the curtains drawn. If Finn comes sniffing around, you are out of sight. Do not answer the door to anyone.”

  “Sure. And if someone breaks in, I can defend myself with the cane.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Nan searched in each direction before she stepped out of the house. She darted across the cobbled courtyard. The misty day barely cast a shadow as she reached the calf house. Heart pounding, she swung open the faded-red door.

  This must have been what it was like for her grandmother twenty years before, when she’d hidden members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood from the English during the war of independence. The irony wasn’t lost on her; today, she was hiding a soldier from the Irish authorities.

  The damp air smelled of rotting hay and mold. To the left, the Ford Model A was covered by a thick burlap t
arp, as though she’d tucked the car in for a nap. A Saint Brigid’s cross made of reeds and straw, the corners of the diamond pattern chewed by something, hung on the wall above a workbench. She hoped the old cross still had power to safeguard them.

  Pulling her bike from the docking place, its handlebar scraping along the stone wall, Nan proceeded to the lane that led to town.

  Haze shrouded the tops of the rolling hills. Carpets of green stretched in every direction, segmented by gray strips of stone fence. The lane dipped down between identical walls of greenery. Within the gloomy tunnel, the temperature dropped.

  She sped toward the crossroads, the pungent scent of marsh mixing with salty sea. The bog stretched down the valley between barren cliffs. Looking the other way, she watched the roll of the dark sea beyond the black sandy beach.

  The sounds of chirping reminded her of happier times, when young people would meet at this spot for a moonlit dance. A man would play the fiddle, another the drum. Couples would dance, laugh, kiss, drink. Some nights, Father Albert would ride in on his bicycle to scare the couples off in all directions.

  The next Sunday, the congregation could count on a sermon regarding the evils of dancing, of giving into carnal desires.

  Those nights, she and Teddy would stroll home arm in arm. He’d recite poetry or sing in his rich tenor voice. Toward the end, though, he’d tell her some tale of how the world should be, not how the world was. He’d given up hope. And then he’d given up dancing at the crossroads.

  The cold breeze whistled inside her scarf. She twisted the bike wheel one direction and then the other, trying to decide which way to go. She could either take the shortcut along the bog or go the long way to town, past Collins’s farm, where she’d seen the billowing smoke of Dutch’s bomber.

  She headed north, toward the crash site. Maybe someone would know about the other airmen.

  Thank you, Lord, for sparing Dutch. I’m sure You have something grand in mind for him to do, for I know You take no one before their time.

  When Nan neared the crash site, she noticed a dozen or so bicycles lying in the grass. The odor of ground-up dirt, mixed with petrol and oil, hung in the air. At the top of the hill, the mangled bomber rested like a child’s no-longer-loved toy. The wings were broken off, while the rest of the airplane had burrowed into the ground.