The Diplomat's Wife(40)
I take a sip of tea, forcing myself to swallow over the lump that has formed in my throat. “Mrs. LeMay, you know that Rose was terribly ill.”
A grave look crosses her face. “Yes. She’s suffered from her blood affliction for many years. But she wrote me from Salzburg that she was getting much better, stronger every day. Thanks to you and a nurse, Dana or something.”
“Dava. She was very good to both of us.” I pause. “Rose was getting better.”
“Was?” Delia speaks slowly, a look of realization crossing her face.
“You don’t mean…?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Her face pales. “What happened?”
“She developed a terrible fever a few days ago. The doctors and nurses did everything they could for her, but the fever was too much, given her weakened state. I’m so sorry.” Delia stares straight ahead, not speaking. I reach out, take the teacup from her shaking hands and set it down. “Perhaps I should call Charles?” She does not answer but buries her face in her hands, sending the cat flying from her lap. Her back shakes as she sobs silently.
A few moments later, she looks up again. “I begged her to come here and live with me before the war. But her father was too sick to travel and she wouldn’t leave him. She said Amsterdam was their home, that everything would be fine.” We all thought that, before the war, I want to say. “I just can’t believe that she’s gone,” she sniffles. “She was like my own child.”
“I know.” I reach out and touch her hand. “She talked about you all the time. She was so excited about coming here and starting a life with you.”
“She was the only family I had left.” Delia wipes her eyes.
“Was…was she happy? At the end, I mean?”
“Very. She was in a beautiful place, with good care and friends.” I describe for her the palace and the grounds. Then I reach into my bag and pull out Rose’s belongings. “Here.” I show her a picture Rose had drawn of the view from the terrace of the mountains and the lake at sunset.
“It’s beautiful.” She reaches into the small pile of Rose’s belongings and pulls out a letter. “This is from me.”
“I know. She kept all of your letters. She loved you very much.”
She does not speak for several minutes. “And you came all the way here to give me these?”
“Yes. Dava suggested that I come. But I didn’t have a visa of my own so I used Rose’s. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Delia wipes her eyes, managing a smile. “That was very kind of you. But what will you do now? Are you planning to go back to the continent, or will you stay in England?”
I hesitate. It feels strange to speak about my plans for the future so soon after informing her of Rose’s death. “Neither, actually,” I say at last. Quickly, I tell her about Paul.
“An American soldier!” Her eyes brighten slightly. “That’s terribly romantic.”
“He’s coming to meet me in London in just under two weeks,” I add. “Then we’ll travel to America together.”
“What will you do until then?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. I still have a little of the money that Dava gave me, but it isn’t enough to keep me for two weeks, even at the worst of boardinghouses.
“You’ll stay with me,” Delia says decisively. I look at her, surprised. “I have this big empty house all to myself. I can show you London before you go.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose…” But even as I say this, I feel myself melting into the comfort of the warm room.
“Not at all,” Delia insists. “I would love the company. And you can tell me all about your time with Rose. It would be a blessing, really.”
“Thank you. That would be lovely.”
“No, I should be thanking you, for bringing the news of my niece and her belongings home to me. Now, where are your bags? Are they on the porch or did you leave them at the station?”
I shift uncomfortably, then gesture to my small satchel. “This is everything.”
A look of surprise flashes across Delia’s face, then disappears again. “Of course, how silly of me. Don’t worry,” she adds, patting my hand. “We can get you whatever you need. Charles,” she calls, her voice rising. The butler appears in the doorway again, as if he’d been waiting to be summoned. “Miss Marta is a good friend of my niece’s.” The butler nods and I can tell from his somber expression that he heard our conversation and knows about Rose’s death. “She is going to be staying with us for a few weeks. Please show her to the guest room and see that she has everything she needs.” She turns back to me and pats my hand. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Miss?” Charles gestures toward the doorway. I stand and follow him back through the foyer and up the stairs. At the end of the hallway he opens a door and turns on a light, revealing a spacious bedroom. A wide bed with a wrought-iron headboard is centered against the far wall, covered in a cornflower-blue duvet that matches the curtains. On the opposite wall there is a large oak armoire and a dresser. The room smells pleasantly of dried flowers and spices. It is the nicest room I have ever seen. “The lavatory is just through there,” Charles adds, pointing to another door. “Please let me know if you need anything.”