Danielle Steel - Echoes

He rolled her into the living room after greeting her with a kiss on the cheek and a warm welcome. The children were all waiting for her in their best clothes, and Mrs. Hascombs had set up a long table in the library with a proper tea. Amadea hadn't seen anything so lovely since before the war. And the children were beautiful as she looked at them. And a trifle scared. A few of them looked worried by the wheelchair as she smiled at them.

“Now let's see,” she said, smiling at them, and feeling like a nun again. At times it was the best way she had of making herself feel comfortable. If she pretended she was still wearing her habit and veil, she didn't feel quite so vulnerable and exposed. And they were all staring at her, trying to take her measure. But so far, for the most part, they liked what they saw. Papa Rupert was right. She was beautiful. And not old. In fact, she looked quite young, even to them. They were sorry about the chair, and her legs.

Amadea was smiling as she returned their gaze. “You must be Rebekka… You're Marta… Friedrich… Ernst… Hermann … Josef… Gretchen …Berta … Johann… Hans… Maximilian… and Claus…” She had named them all correctly, and pointed to each one of them. The only mistake she had made, and an understandable one even to them, was that she had confused Johann and Josef, but as they were identical, everyone did, even Rupert. He was amazed and so were they. She apologized politely to Johann and Josef for the mistake.

“I can't tell them apart either sometimes,” Rebekka volunteered, and without warning, she hopped into her lap. But Amadea felt little, although for a moment Rupert panicked. He didn't want the child to hurt her, but fortunately she hadn't. And Mrs. Hascombs came to greet her with an extended hand and a kind look.

“We're so happy to have you,” she said warmly, and looked as though she meant it. In fact, she looked immensely relieved. She was in deep water with twelve lively young children, and knew it. As did the kinders , and they took full advantage of it. Amadea wasn't sure she could control them either, but she was certainly going to try. She thought they were adorable and fell in love with them at first sight.

“Tell us about the train you blew up,” Rebekka said cheerfully, as they all ate tea and scones, and Rupert looked slightly aghast as Amadea smiled. He had apparently briefed them about her. And she was sure he had also told them she was a nun, which was fine, too.

“Well, it wasn't a nice thing to do,” Amadea said seriously, “but they were Germans, so for now it was all right. But it won't be all right after the war. You can only do things like that when there's a war on.” Rupert nodded approval.

“They bomb us all the time, so there's nothing wrong with killing them,” Maximilian said fiercely. He was thirteen, and already knew his parents were dead. Relatives had told him. He wet the bed sometimes. And had nightmares. Rupert had told her that, too. He had wanted her to know everything about them. He believed in full disclosure and didn't want her to be shocked. There were times when they made him want to tear his hair out. Twelve children were a lot for anyone, no matter how wonderful or well behaved they were.

“Do your legs hurt?” Marta asked kindly. She seemed the gentlest of all. Gretchen was the prettiest. Berta the shyest. The boys seemed full of life, and were moving all the time, even while drinking tea and eating scones. They were itching to go outside and kick a ball around, but Rupert had told them they had to wait until they'd finished tea.

“No, they don't hurt,” Amadea said honestly about her legs. “Sometimes I don't feel them at all. Sometimes I do, a little.” Sometimes her back was excruciating, but she didn't say that. And the scars from her burns were ugly.

“Do you think you'll ever walk again?” Berta finally asked her.

“I don't know,” Amadea said with a smile, she seemed matter of fact about it, which tore at Rupert's heart. He hoped she would, for her sake. “We'll see,” she said, sounding hopeful. She was philosophical about her fate.

And then she suggested they all go outside and walk around the grounds before dark. The boys were thrilled, and were outside playing ball in less than a minute.

“You're wonderful with them,” Rupert said admiringly. “I knew you would be. You're just what they need. They need a mother. None of them has had one in five years, and may not again. Mrs. Hascombs is more like a grandmother to them.” In some cases, most in fact, Amadea was too young to be their mother, she was more like an older sister to them, but they needed that, too. It reminded her of when Daphne was young. She had loved being her older sister. This was good for her, too.

At dinner that night, they spoke of many things, not only about the war. They told Amadea about their friends, school, the things they liked to do. And Rebekka came up with the perfect name for her. She called her “Mamadea.” They all liked it, and so did she. They were now officially Mamadea and Papa Rupert.

The days sped by after that. Rupert went back to London after the weekend, and came back every Friday afternoon and stayed till Monday morning. He was vastly impressed by how well Amadea handled them. And he was touched when he saw what she had done on the first Friday night he was back. She had read about how to do it, and had done a Shabbat for them, with the challah bread. She lit the candles, and read the prayer. It was a deeply touching moment, and the first Sabbath they had celebrated in five years. It brought tears to Rupert's eyes, and the children looked as though they were drifting back in memory to a beloved place as she did it.

“I never thought of that. How did you know what to do?”

“I got a book.” She smiled at him. It had touched her, too. And somewhere in her history there were Sabbaths like that, too, even though she had never known them.

“I don't suppose they did that in the convent,” he said, and she laughed. She enjoyed his company and they were comfortable together. She had had her first glimpse of that in Paris when she was there with him. They talked about it once, and he reminisced nostalgically about the peach nightgown. He loved to tease her. “If you had slept any further from me in the bed, you'd have been levitating like some Indian soukh.”

“I thought it was funny when you messed up the bed the next day.” She laughed, but under the circumstances of their pretense, it had been a wise thing to do so as not to arouse suspicion.

“I had to preserve my reputation,” he said rather grandly.

The days of summer rolled by easily, and for once Amadea didn't even miss the convent. She was too busy. She sewed, she read, she played catch with them, she scolded them, and dried their tears. She spoke German to those who wanted to and remembered it, and taught it to the others. And French. She told them it was a good thing to know. They thrived under her protection. And Rupert loved coming home on weekends.

“It's a shame she's a nun,” Marta said mournfully one Sunday at breakfast with Rupert, after Amadea had gone out with the boys. She was going to fish with them in the lake on his estate. They called it Lake Papa.

“I think so, too,” he said honestly. But he knew how determined she was to go back. They seldom talked about it, but she was loyal to her vocation, and he knew it.

“I forget sometimes,” Marta admitted.

“So do I.”

“Do you suppose you could ever change her mind?” she asked cautiously. The children spoke of it often. They wanted her to stay as long as they would.

“I doubt it. That's a very serious thing. And she was a nun for a long time. Six years. It wouldn't be right of me to try and dissuade her.” Marta had the impression he was saying it more to himself than to her.