Echoes Page 0,149

for a long moment and then looked at him. There was so much to say, and no way to say it. For either of them. And they knew it.

The children noticed that she was quiet on the way home that night, and Berta asked her if she felt sick.

“No, just tired, sweetheart. It was all that good sea air.” But she and Rupert both knew what it was. It was his mission.

She lay in bed for a long time that night, thinking about it and about him. He was doing the same in his bedroom. Their bedrooms were at opposite ends of the same hallway. She had been overwhelmed by the luxuriousness of the house at first. She had the best guest bedroom. She had told him to put her in one of the maids' rooms, but he wouldn't hear of it. He told her she deserved the handsome room she was in, which she insisted she didn't. It was difficult to adhere to her vow of poverty here. The others she could manage, or had until then.

Rupert left to go back to London the next morning, as he always did. And the children knew nothing about his impending trip, or worse yet, the possibility that he might never come back. Amadea was fully aware of it. He had requested permission to come down to Sussex for the day and night on Wednesday, before he left the following night. And until he returned, Amadea was nervous and anxious and out of sorts. And most unlike her, she snapped at one of the boys when he broke a window with a cricket ball, and then apologized to him for her bad temper. He said it was fine, his real mother had been much worse, and shouted a lot louder, which made her laugh.

But she was still immensely relieved to see Rupert return on Wednesday, and was quick to give him a kiss on the cheek and a warm hug. She knew there was nothing she could ask him. All she could do was pray for him while he was gone and trust that he'd come back. And all he could do was reassure her that he'd be fine. They tried not to talk about it, and had a lovely dinner with the children in the main dining hall, which they normally only did on special occasions. The children sensed easily that something was going on.

“Papa Rupert is going on a trip,” Amadea said cheerfully, but the older children searched her eyes and knew that something was wrong, or at best scary. Amadea looked worried.

“To kill Germans?” Hermann asked, looking delighted.

“Of course not,” Amadea answered.

“When will you be back?” Berta asked, looking worried.

“I don't know. You'll have to take good care of each other and Mamadea. I'll be home soon,” he promised. They all hugged and kissed him before they went to bed. He said he'd be gone in the morning before they got up.

He and Amadea sat and talked late into the night, about many things and nothing in particular. It was just comforting being together. It was nearly dawn when he finally carried her upstairs and set her back in her wheelchair on the landing of their respective bedrooms. When he wasn't there, the older boys always helped her. It was a communal effort.

“I'll be gone when you get up,” he said, trying not to sound somber, but he felt it. He truly hated to leave her.

“No, you won't.” She smiled at him. “I'll get up to say good-bye.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't. I want to.”

He knew her better than to argue with her. He kissed her on the cheek, and she rolled off to her bedroom, without looking back. And for the next two hours, he lay in bed, wishing he had the courage or audacity to walk into her bedroom and take her in his arms. But he didn't. He was too afraid that if he did, she'd be gone when he got back. There were boundaries between them that he knew he had no choice but to respect.

True to her word, she was waiting for him in the hall when he came out of his bedroom just after dawn. She was sitting in the wheelchair in her nightgown, with a robe around her. With her long hair and pink dressing gown, she looked like one of the children. He looked serious and official in his uniform, and she saluted him, which made him