The Stolen Years. Fiona Hood-Stewart

      She nodded, rose and sniffed. “You must be hungry. I will get you some soup.”

      “Uh, I need to use the washroom,” he murmured, “but I don’t know if I can stand.”

      Greta blushed. “Of course. Allow me.” She came close to the bed. Gavin heaved his legs over the side and tried to stand, but everything went black and he had to sit once more. The second time was better. “Thanks. I can probably manage if you tell me where it is.”

      “I had better help you.”

      “All right,” he conceded, as embarrassed as she was.

      Slowly they made their way across the wooden floorboards, then painfully negotiated the corridor, Gavin leaning heavily on Greta’s slim shoulder. As they passed through arched doors, Gavin observed iron braziers and coats of arms, interspersed with boar and deer heads on the walls.

      “This is the water closet,” she said, blushing more deeply.

      “Thanks,” he replied, making a superhuman effort to stand straight and sound casual.

      “I’ll wait for you here.”

      “I’ll be fine,” he answered, sounding more confident than he felt. What if he couldn’t manage on his own? He entered the bathroom, sank down on the edge of the tub and tried to regain some strength. It took him nearly ten minutes, but he was finally able to open the door with a semblance of dignity. Greta stood by the window, arms crossed protectively over her chest, pretending not to notice. He felt a rush of pity. She had been through so much, and now she had him to contend with.

      He felt stronger as they walked back to the room, and better able to observe his surroundings. The ancient suits of armor standing like sentries along the wide corridor reminded him of Strathaird.

      “Is this place very old?”

      “Only about eighty years old, though it appears older. My grandfather built it for a visit from the kaiser, who wanted to go hunting. Wild boar, I believe. But my father didn’t hunt. He lived most of his life in England—we all did—so it has been closed for many years.”

      “Where are we exactly?”

      “Well hidden in the heart of the Black Forest. The nearest village must be at least twelve kilometers away. Nobody ever comes here, except the odd hunter during the hunting season. Anyway, the men are all at the front, so we’re safe.”

      “Won’t anyone look for you?” he asked curiously, relieved they had reached the bed.

      “What? Look for the Englishwoman’s daughter, and the traitor’s sister? No. They are glad to be rid of me.” She gave a bitter little laugh that belied her young face.

      “You can’t assume that. There must be someone who cares.”

      “Only my aunt Louisa, but she lives in Switzerland. Lie down now. We’ll talk later, after I get your food.”

      He lay back thankfully against the pillows, hating that he felt so damn weak, but relieved that Greta appeared calmer. The sun had gone, replaced by dark shadows that filtered through the diamond-shaped panes. The mention of food made him realize just how hungry he was and helped explain his weakness. He hadn’t eaten for days.

      Sitting up despite the pain, he looked out through the window at a sea of leaves that stretched for miles, like a heavy green carpet dotted with golden spots. All at once the war and the recent tragedies seemed like a dream. Even Franz’s death seemed remote. He thought of Flora, tending the wounded, and wished he were with her and his parents, who perhaps believed him dead. He fiddled fretfully with the sheet, wishing he could turn back time, wishing he hadn’t left Annelise alone with Miles, wondering how long it would take him to get back to his platoon, where he could let them all know he was alive and well.

      His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Greta, carrying a large tray loaded with a bowl of steaming soup, crisp fresh bread hot from the oven and a bottle of Moselle wine. His mouth watered as she laid it carefully on his lap, then she perched at the end of the bed, watching him, as he forced himself to take his time and maintain a semblance of good manners. Perhaps it was sheer hunger, but he couldn’t remember anything ever tasting that appetizing before.

      “It’s delicious,” he said, wishing he could scrape the bottom of the bowl.

      “Would you like more?” She smiled tentatively, a sudden sweetness lighting her features.

      “What about you?” he asked, afraid there might not be enough.

      “I’ve eaten. Don’t worry, there’s plenty. Father made a vegetable plot, and I shot a rabbit this morning.” She stood up.

      “You’re an enterprising young woman,” he said, handing her the tray, “and a very brave one.” Their eyes met and held for a moment, then she busied herself with the tray.

      “This war has made us all into different people.” She looked down and sighed. “I’ll get you more soup.”

      “Greta?”

      “Yes?” She turned back.

      “Just…thank you.” He smiled, embarrassed. Her mouth softened and her lovely green eyes shone with unshed tears.

      Three days later, Gavin felt better. The rest, good food and companionship had strengthened him considerably, and he woke up feeling energetic and ready to rise. Swinging his legs carefully over the edge of the bed, he dressed in an old pair of gray trousers and a jersey that had once belonged to Franz and headed slowly down the large staircase toward the kitchen, filled with new exhilaration. The strain of the escape, followed by being bedridden and catered to hand and foot by Greta, had been getting on his nerves. At least now he could be of some use.

      He reached the kitchen, guided by the smell of freshly baked bread that had become familiar over the past few days, and stood in the doorway. It was low-beamed and cozy. Sparkling copper pots and bunches of herbs and dried flowers hung from the ceiling. A pretty vase of wildflowers that sat on the large wooden table, which was covered in a bright checked cloth, gave the kitchen a homey feel. Greta stood over the immense stove, her back to him, stirring a pot. He watched her, aware all at once of her lithe, slim body, which even the faded blue cotton frock and woolen jacket couldn’t hide, and her hair. That amazing hair, like a princess’s in the fairy tales his mother used to read to them as children, fell smooth and golden down her back.

      He thought sadly of Franz, a man he barely knew, who’d saved him, and realized he was partly responsible for her. Perhaps if he hadn’t planned the escape, Franz and her family would be alive. And Annelise. Surely that should have taught him what uncontrolled reactions could end up causing? He moved silently across the kitchen and came up behind her, peering over her shoulder to see what was in the pot.

      “Mmm, that smells good.”

      Greta squealed in surprise and upset the pan. It clattered to the ground, the contents oozing over the flagstone floor in a thick white puddle at her feet.

      “How could you?” she cried angrily, fists balled, lips trembling.

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Gavin apologized.

      “I don’t care how sorry you are. Look at the mess you’ve made!” she exclaimed. “You’re as thoughtless as Franz—” The words died on her lips and she began to tremble. Without a second thought, Gavin stepped over the spilled porridge and put his arms around her, holding her close, soothing her until he felt the shaking stop. Then, gently, he stroked her hair and neck, easing her head against his shoulder and wishing he could give her back what she’d lost.

      He gazed angrily over her head at the bright autumn morning through the open window, so serene and far removed from the horrors they were experiencing. He kissed the top of her head and whispered to her as he would a child, while birds twittered and a plump gray squirrel scuttled up a branch. It was impossible to believe that, not many miles away, war was causing such endless grief and destruction.