The Stolen Years

“Right again,” he agreed, throwing himself down in the soft bed of grass and closing his eyes. “Ah, this is wonderful. Sun, blue sky and no guns, no rats, no damp, no death. Just the scent of life.” He inhaled deeply, aware of her next to him, her knees clasped up to her chin thoughtfully.

“It’s magical here, isn’t it? What happened to Franz, Mama and Papa seems unreal,” she whispered.

“Don’t.” He leaned on his elbow and took her hand. “I know this will sound cruel, Greta, but you have to stop thinking about it.”

“What a stupid thing to say,” she cried, snatching her hand away. “How can I think of anything else? I loved them. They’re my family.”

“I know. But you have to survive.”

“What for? There’s nothing left. They’re all gone. Dead. Murdered.” She pulled a wildflower raggedly from its roots. “What point is there to a life without those I loved?”

“Do you think that is what they would want?” Gavin retorted. “Is that what Franz died for? For you to sit here, blubbering and feeling sorry for yourself?”

“How dare you? What do you know about it? You haven’t lost your family. Perhaps, if it wasn’t for you, Franz might be alive.”

“Perhaps. But I did what I had to do. An officer’s first duty when taken prisoner is to try and escape from the enemy. Franz chose to join me. I never asked him to.” He rolled over again and watched her. He’d seen this state of mind. He knew how it could end up. “You can’t give up, Greta,” he said in a softer tone. “I won’t let you. I promise I’ll help you get through this, as best we can.”

“You?” She looked down at him disdainfully, pulling the petals from the wilted bud. “You’ll be off once you’re well. Don’t you want to go back to the war?” she challenged.

“Of course. At some point I’ll have to get back, but I can’t go like this.” He tapped his leg. “And I won’t leave you on your own. I owe that to Franz. We both do.” He reached up and took her fingers in his. She hesitated, then allowed him to turn her hand about.

“Do you play the piano?”

“Yes.” She sniffed. “How did you know?”

“Your hands remind me of someone I know who plays the piano, that’s all,” he said wistfully, remembering Flora playing at Strathaird, or on summer evenings in Limoges. It all seemed so long ago and so painfully nostalgic. “Will you play for me?”

She looked away. “Perhaps. Let’s go back. You must be tired and I need to milk the cow.” She pulled her hand away and got up, rubbing the grass from the back of her skirt.

“Cow?” Gavin exclaimed, following suit. “Where on earth did you find a cow?”

“It was standing in front of the house the morning after we arrived. I was frightened someone might reclaim it and find us, but they haven’t, so I’ve adopted her. I’ve called her Gretchen.”

“Then Gretchen it is. I’ll help you milk her. Maybe we can make butter.”

“Do you know how?” Greta looked at him doubtfully.

“Well, not exactly.” He grinned. “But I’ve seen Moira, our cook in Skye, do it dozens of times. Shouldn’t be too difficult,” he added nonchalantly, not about to be defeated. “Come on,” he stretched out his hand, determined to keep the smile on her face, “the only way we’ll know is if we try.”

“You’re being silly,” she demurred, then took his outstretched hand. Suddenly the destruction of the war seemed far away and the warm summer morning was well on its way as they walked slowly back toward the Schloss, both conscious of the new intimacy that reigned between them.

The days passed and they established a comfortable camaraderie. Summer ebbed gently into autumn and the leaves turned from green to red and gold, a beautiful mosaic among the dark pines. As Gavin’s leg improved, they took longer walks, although they never went too far, in case they should be seen by a chance wanderer.

After some unsuccessful experiments, they finally succeeded in making butter, and Gavin was amazed when Greta took him down into the huge, dark cellars of the pavilion, where Baron von Ritter had stocked enough food for an army. There were sausages and hams hanging on large iron hooks from the heavy oak beams; huge, airtight canisters filled with coarse brown flour, sugar, condiments and coffee; heavy stone jars of pickled gherkins and onions; and shelves filled with whole cheeses. But that was not all. Greta showed him a passage that she said went under the forest.

The wine cellar had also been magnificently stocked, probably before the kaiser’s visit, if the dates of the bottles were anything to judge by. Gavin, having spent part of every summer since early childhood at his uncle and aunt’s in Limoges, with occasional trips to nearby Bordeaux, knew good wine.

October came and the nights grew cold. The leaves turned from red and gold to bronze, and each evening they lit the huge fireplace in the study, the smallest room in the house and the easiest to heat. It was here and in the kitchen that Greta and he spent most of their time, talking about their lives, about Skye and Edinburgh, the MacLeod coal business, the summers in France where Gavin had learned how porcelain was made.

Greta listened, enthralled, for Gavin was a good storyteller, adding creative license when he felt it was required, in an effort to make her laugh and forget some of her sadness. Sometimes she would play the piano—which was surprisingly well tuned, for having spent so long silent—and Gavin thought of Flora.

Then one day he woke up and the forest had transformed into a magical, snow-covered fairyland that glistened in the morning sunlight. It made him realize just how long he’d been there and, as at the hospital, he was overwhelmed with guilt for allowing himself to fall into the comfortable rhythm with Greta, and making no attempt to get back to the front. Looking out the window, he realized that wouldn’t be possible now until spring. His leg still hurt and the limp remained, and in the back of his mind he wondered if it would ever heal. But he shunned that idea, convinced, with the invincibility of youth, that everything resolved itself at some point.

He got up and went to the window, feeling the cold, dry air mix with warm sun on his skin. Below, a trail of tiny hoofprints in the virgin snow told him deer were about. All at once he thought of Flora, ashamed that, of late, her image was somewhat hazy. He loved her, of course, but his desire and fondness for Greta was intensifying, particularly since two nights ago, when he’d heard her weeping in her room. He’d entered and sat next to her in the dark, stroking her hair. Then—he wasn’t quite sure how—she was in his arms, and their lips had met, hers closed until gently pried open, her surprise and innocent response forcing him to draw back. But he’d stayed, holding her in his arms, and there had been little sleep for him that night.

He dressed, knowing Greta would be waiting in the kitchen for them to have breakfast. They’d become like a couple, spending their days and much of their nights together. Gavin wondered with a shudder just how long he could stand the longing he felt when she laid her head against his chest, her eyes filled with love and hope. He had to keep strict tabs on himself, sure that she was unaware—as were most young girls—of the inevitable consequences of her actions. He loved her too, in his own way, but most of all he wanted her, and being so close day and night was becoming torture.

Later that day it snowed again and they sat in the study, Gavin trying to concentrate on his book, a treatise on the Franco-Prussian War, while Greta worked on a half-finished tapestry she’d found in an upstairs cupboard, oblivious of what her presence was doing to his frayed nerves. He snapped the book shut. “Damn the snow. We can’t even get out for a walk.”

“I like it. It’s so cozy being inside, watching it fall. Especially with you,” she murmured, blushing.

“I wish you’d stop that.” He got up and poked the fire. “I’ll be off as soon as the weather permits. My leg will be better by then. There’s nothing to stop me from trying to get back to my unit. I’ve stayed far too long as it is.”

“But I thought you were happy here,” she whispered, the tapestry abandoned, eyes brimming with hurt surprise.

“How can I be happy, Greta, when I should be doing my duty for my country, not lounging here doing nothing.” He poked the fire harder and a log fell sideways, sending sparks up the chimney. “I can’t spend the rest of my life rotting here. You know that.”

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, troubled.

“Of course not,” he replied testily, hating himself for causing her consternation and bewilderment but unable to help it.

“Then what is it, Gavin, dear?” she asked, getting up. “Tell me. Something’s wrong. I can feel there’s something you don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s nothing. Nothing you’d understand,” he muttered, placing the poker back on its stand next to the fire.

“Why? Perhaps if you explained, I might.” She stood next to him, waiting for him to encircle her in his arms before raising her lips to his.

He pulled away and crossed over to the window. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said weakly. “You’re so innocent. A baby. You—you have no idea what it is like for a man to be close to you, day and night, and not—it doesn’t matter. The least said the better. I’ll get some wood in before dark.”

“No.” She stopped him, eyes glinting. “You are going to tell me exactly what it is I’m doing wrong. I won’t let you fob me off with excuses. I thought we were happy together. Almost as if we were married,” she added, blushing again.

“But married people don’t just—oh, forget it, Greta. You’ll understand one day.”

“No. I want to understand now, Gavin—there may never be a ‘one day.’ I know married people sleep together in the same bed. Is it something to do with that?”

He looked down at her, ashamed of himself, and reached for her hand. “They do more than just sleep together, my darling.”

“I had sort of gathered that. Could we do that other thing?” She came close, face flushed and eyes alight. “Would it make you happy?”

“No.” He shook his head firmly. “It wouldn’t be right. We’re not married, and well—you could end up having a baby.”

“Can you at least explain it to me, Gavin? Then I could decide, couldn’t I?”

“For Christ’s sake, Greta,” he exclaimed, embarrassed.

“Well, it can’t be that awful. After all, most women must do it, don’t they? I want to be yours, darling, all yours…whatever that means.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I would be betraying my loyalty to Franz.”

“Nothing’s wrong anymore, Gavin,” she said, drawing nearer as evening closed in and shadows bounced off the faded brocade walls. “That’s all the past now. We don’t know what will happen tomorrow or the day after, when the war will end, or…or anything. I want to feel married to you, even if we’re not. And maybe someday we can be.”

“No!” he exclaimed, Flora’s face flashing before him. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? Don’t you love me?”

“Of course I love you, Greta, but—oh, it’s too difficult to explain,” he said, pulling her close and casting Flora from his mind as his hand slipped to the small of her back and he pressed her body gently against his. She stiffened. “Do you understand, darling?” he whispered. “Are you sure you want to know, my Greta? Are you certain?” His senses dimmed as once more he made her feel his erection, barely hearing her whispered assent before leading her toward the large daybed.

One by one he undid the tiny buttons of her high-necked blouse, swallowed hard at her quick intake of breath when his hands reached her breast. Still he continued, unhurried, shedding each garment until she stood before him, her smooth, white skin gleaming in the shadows, her hair a burnished mane highlighted by the glow of the flames. Her eyes were misty now, innocent fear replaced by primeval female desire as she reached up, swept away the golden strands that had fallen over her breasts and stepped away from him.

“My God, you’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman on earth,” he whispered, awed yet somewhat hesitant. This was not one of the French whores at Paris Plage whom he’d paid to experiment with, a brief sexual fling like Annelise. He was about to make Greta a woman, and the knowledge was both frightening and exhilarating.

“Gavin,” she whispered, cheeks ablaze, her voice husky with desire. “I want to see you as you are seeing me.” It was as though the power of womanhood had suddenly been revealed to her, paralyzing him. Then she arched unconsciously and the need to feel her skin on his, to possess her entirely, overruled his fear. She watched, face flushed, as he undressed, diverting her eyes when he took off his underwear.

Eyes locked, they caressed one another, their bodies lit by the glow of the fire and a flame within, pure yet so intense it burned both flesh and soul. Then she was in his arms, his hands roaming down her back to the curve of her buttocks, delighting in the delicate texture of her skin, before laying her gently among the blue and gold brocade cushions of the daybed.

Her eyes closed as he trailed his fingers languorously, determined to savor the enchantment for as long as he was able. But determination grew thin when he reached the taut curve of her breasts and her eyes opened, turning from misty green to emerald as she gasped, her nipples hardening deliciously to his touch. And Gavin knew the sudden thrill of original male triumph. He was the first. To touch, to feel, to love her.

He lowered his lips to her breast, her soft moans empowering, instinct guiding him as he reached the soft golden mound between her thighs, feeling her body tense as he parted her. For a moment he was afraid, but her small cry of ecstasy had his thumb caressing and his fingers exploring until the need to possess her became unendurable and gently he parted her thighs, knowing he could wait no longer.

“I’ll try not to hurt you, my darling,” he whispered as her eyes flew open and he gazed down at her through the glimmering shadows, lips parted, her face framed by a sea of gold-flecked strands splayed across the pillow. Then he could wait no longer, and thrust relentlessly, her visceral cry bringing him to a thundering climax.

Later he held her, soothing her in his arms, Greta’s head tucked into the crook of his broad shoulder and her hair falling like a silken mantle over his chest.

Gavin woke shivering at dawn, realizing that Greta must be frozen. He rose, careful not to wake her, his body reacting immediately when she stretched like a kitten then curled among the cushions, a magical fairy princess wrapped in her golden mane.

He moved to the fire and placed a log on the dying embers. Soon one flame caught, then another, and as daylight crept stealthily through the window, he looked for something to cover her with.

It was then he saw the bloodstains on her thighs and belly. For a moment he reproached himself for acting like a brute. Then, as she gave a contented sigh in her sleep, he smiled despite his misgivings and covered her tenderly with a blanket that lay on the chair, realizing he’d better be ready to explain what had happened, for she evidently had very little clue about the facts of life.

He felt very mature and manly as he walked upstairs to the bathroom. Then he went to his room and put on an old velvet dressing gown forgotten by one of the kaiser’s entourage and came down again, armed with a damp towel and her long silk nightgown. She was still fast asleep, so he laid the things near her and went to the kitchen to make coffee, hoping she wouldn’t be upset when she woke. They were using the coffee sparingly, but today was special, so he added an extra spoonful before stoking the stove and putting the water on to boil, totally relaxed for the first time in ages.

Then, as the kettle began to simmer, he pricked up his ears, certain he’d heard an engine. It was far away, but in this silence you could make anything out. He took the kettle off the stove and rushed to the study.

“Greta, darling, wake up.” He shook her shoulder gently.

“Gavin,” she whispered, a lazy, satisfied smile curving her lips.

“Darling, wake up. I think I heard a car. It’s probably nothing, but all the same we’d better be prepared.”

She sat up instantly, pulling the blanket to her chin, then, glancing instinctively toward the window, she burst into laughter. “That’s impossible. It’s still snowing, look.”

Gavin smiled. She was right. There were at least three feet of snow outside. He sighed with relief, realizing it would be impossible for any vehicle to reach Schloss Annenberg under these weather conditions. It must have been his imagination. Perhaps the war was getting nearer. Who could tell? They hadn’t heard any news of the outside world for so long.

“Maybe the war is getting closer and it was anti-aircraft guns,” he said with a shrug, sitting next to her, stroking her hair. “My God, you’re lovely.”

“I feel lovely,” she said, blushing deliciously before sinking back among the cushions. Then all at once she winced, a dull flush darkening her cheeks, and he remembered.

“You—you may want this,” he said, picking up the damp towel hesitantly and handing it to her, embarrassed. “I brought your nightgown, too.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks crimson, her gaze remained riveted on the towel.

“Greta, darling, don’t worry. It’s normal. When I—when we—well, you’ve bled a little, that’s all, but it’s all right,” he finished in a rush, reaching for her hand. “Remember, it’s as if we were married now. We mustn’t be ashamed with one another.” She nodded, hair shrouding her face. “I’ll go and finish making breakfast. You join me in the kitchen when you’re ready.” He leaned forward and kissed her, ready to leave her in privacy. But when his mouth touched hers, her lips parted. Coffee was forgotten as they came together in a frenzied rush, the blanket and dressing gown thrown aside as they cleaved to one another, wanting nothing more than to prolong the enchantment.

He didn’t wait this time; he took her. And soon she was arching, nails sinking into his shoulders, fanning the blaze of their unleashed passion till it burst into flames and he let out a cry.

This time it was his head that sank onto Greta’s breast, tired and satiated. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Flora. But Greta’s fingers were massaging his neck, her nails coursing through his hair, driving him into a delicious stupor where all he could do was smile, sigh and mutter softly while his unshaved chin grazed her breasts and he fell fast asleep.

7

Etaples, France, 1918

The German offensive had intensified to such a degree during the past weeks that they could not help wondering how much longer the Allied forces would resist the massive drive from the east. Although no one ever expressed their doubts out loud, each day new villages and towns fell and more and more casualties poured in.

In one of the rare moments of quiet Flora was able to grab between shifts, she wrote to Angus, shipped home three months earlier.

It never stops. Day and night the wounded are pouring in and there is barely room to house them. The floors are covered with stretchers and they are treated there, for the beds are full. The operating theaters never stop and they arrive in everything from ambulances to cattle trucks. Bapaume, Beaumont Hamel and Péronne have all fallen and they are saying that the Germans are already in the suburbs of Amiens. Now there is very little left between us and the front lines…Angus dear, if I should not return…remember him for me, won’t you? I promise that if that should be the case, both he and I will be watching over you…

But the frantic activity, dealing with destroyed limbs, removing the stench-filled basins of bloodied gauze and cotton, and treating wounds, allowed her no time to think of Gavin as she prepared surgical instruments and rolled bandages in the hectic dispensary. Not even Arras or the battles of 1917 could compare to the current threat, as the enemy inched toward them, a relentless monster avidly seeking its prey.

Letters were few and far between, and one morning, when she was handed an envelope addressed to her in Angus’s neat hand, all she could do was stuff it into her pocket while she rushed through the chaotic ward to aid an agonizing patient whose blood had congealed, gluing his torn limbs to the hard canvas of the stretcher. She tried to remove it as gently as possible but finally had to cut the canvas away. The soldier’s cry of pain resounded against the ceaseless clatter of trucks, ambulances, ammunition wagons and trains filled with reinforcements, making their way to the front.

When she’d cleared the ward as best she could, she told the other nurse that she was taking quarter of an hour off before the next convoy arrived. Going to the kitchen, she grabbed a cup of strong tea and sat down, exhausted, at the makeshift table, between a harried doctor and the weary chaplain, to read her letter. Taking a sip, she skimmed the lines. All at once, her eyes filled with horror-stricken tears and her hands trembled.

“Are you all right?” the chaplain asked solicitously, laying a hand on her sleeve. “Can I help you, my dear?”

Flora put down the letter and wiped her eyes. “My Uncle Hamish died of a sudden heart attack. He was like a father to me,” she whispered.

“I’m so sorry,” he replied quietly, pressing her hand. “You look exhausted. Perhaps you should try and rest.”

“What? With this mess going on around us?” She glanced bitterly toward the corridor, where another trail of stretchers shuffled by, drenched in blood. The men didn’t even see the front-line stations anymore, but were brought straight here from the shell-blown trenches.

“Still,” the chaplain insisted, “I think you should take a break. If I remember rightly, you lost your fiancé as well.”

She nodded wearily. It all seemed unreal. Gavin gone, abandoned forever in the trenches. Uncle Hamish, dead of shock and unhappiness. Was there nothing this endless war would leave intact?

Taking the kind chaplain’s advice, she wandered aimlessly outside, seeking some solace in the fresh air, a contrast to the acrid stench of the ward. She walked over to a clump of trees and sat down, watching a lumbering horse-pulled cart bringing more injured soldiers.

She turned away, heart overflowing with sadness for Gavin and Uncle Hamish, for Angus and Tante Constance, for the life that had been theirs and that would be no more. Perhaps Angus was right after all. Perhaps the only way to survive was by creating an invincible barrier, pieced together out of painful but loving memories against which, united, they could build a future.

She gazed across the fields, her mind far away. If the war ever ended, she would go home and marry Angus. At least helping him through the ordeal of assuming a role designed for his brother, for which he had neither the nature nor the inclination, would give her life a purpose. She watched as the sun set behind the dark clouds, an ominous stretch of orange-streaked lead that seemed to foreshadow dark weeks ahead where, for the first time, the unmentioned possibility of defeat lurked.

Several days later, as she was sluicing the bedpans, Flora heard two V.A.D.s, Ana and Heather, calling her excitedly.

“Flora, come and see. They’re finally here.”

“Who?” she asked curiously, washing her chilblained hands.

“The Americans. They’re here. Come and see them,” Ana urged, and Flora followed her hastily to watch the long lines of tall, well-built, clean-cut young men marching swiftly along the road. It made her realize how tired and disheveled they must seem, after almost four long years without respite. But the sight infused her with both hope and excitement, tempered by sorrow. Gavin and the others had marched off the same way, full of strength and will…She wondered sadly how many of these young men would return, and how it must feel to come so far and fight for what must seem so alien to them. She commented on this to Ana.

“Just be happy they’re here,” Ana replied with the first grin Flora had seen in many months. “Now we stand a real chance of clobbering those bastards once and for all.”