Henry & Sarah

Chapter 19 – New Beginnings



January 1887, Uttar Pradesh, India



It was a damp and sizzling morning when six-year-old Ranjid stepped out of the little clay hut where he lived with his parents and his three brothers. The outline of the massive Himalayan mountain range in the distance stood out against the sky, hazy and unreal like a hallucination.

But the sun, the song of the birds, and the apparent peacefulness were deceiving. There was something that hung in the air that morning, but Ranjid didnʼt know what it was. He guessed, though, that it had something to do with the men on the horses who had so suddenly appeared on the horizon. Those men had been the talk of the region for the past weeks and had come from a far-away country where allegedly the rain was plentiful and the sun didnʼt shine. News had spread quickly that they had turned up everywhere in India and had created a considerable amount of unrest in some places because there were people who didnʼt like those foreigners very much.

And now they had come to Ranjidʼs little town.

His father Maraan told him not to follow him and to rather stay at home with his mother. Then Maraan had joined the other male villagers who were on their way to the market place, armed with pitchforks and shovels and looking rather angry.

As the commotion in town and his fatherʼs words had made Ranjid very curious, he quickly sneaked out of his familyʼs clay hut when his mother wasnʼt watching, and secretly followed the others to the market place. Having arrived there, he hid behind a huge stone wall which represented the remains of an old abandoned house which had fallen apart a while ago. There were some holes that had formerly been windows. From there Ranjid could see the villagers who had now all gathered in the square, awaiting the arrival of the strangers.

“Here they come!” Karunakar, the blacksmith, shouted. He excitedly pointed over to the foreign men who were riding towards the village at a steady pace, a determined and self-assured air about them. They wore helmets, red jackets and black trousers, and somehow they all looked the same to Ranjid. Only when they came closer, the boy could see that one of them—a tall, blonde, and wiry man—stood out because his jacket displayed a lot of medals and he was riding at the top of the group, which counted so many more men than Ranjid had fingers on his hands and toes on his feet.

Ranjid didnʼt know that the blonde manʼs name was Damian Cox. He didnʼt know that Damian Cox had spent the best part of the past weeks in hospital, recovering from an extremely nasty head wound which still caused him migraines. He didnʼt know that Damian Cox carried a lot of anger inside of him; anger that he had been unable to direct towards the person that was the reason for that anger and the head wound. He didnʼt know that Damian Cox was now very keen on directing this anger towards anyone who came his way and who didnʼt do as he wished. Ranjid didnʼt know that the villagers, who were now gathering on the market place, were in fact some of those people who didnʼt do as Damian Cox wished. He didnʼt know that these villagers were angry because they found that the British rule in India was unjust and that the British colonists were only befriended with the monarchs and leaders of the country and didnʼt care about the needs of the less well-off and the rural folks, such as Ranjid and his family.

Soon the men in their uniforms had arrived at the market square and stopped their horses. A strange, uncomfortable silence filled the air. Ranjid saw how the blonde man cast the gathered villagers a pitiful glance, then he pointed at their pitchforks and burst out laughing. He said something to his fellow men in a foreign language, and then they too laughed.

The villagers were not amused. One of them dared to take a bold step forward, challenging the leader with the nasty laugh by threatening to punch him in the nose. It was then that Ranjid noticed that the strangers were accompanied by an Indian man who seemed to act as an interpreter. The leader gave the interpreter a sign, then the interpreter said to the villagers, “We strongly recommend you to give up the riots and act in the interest of the land of your mothers and fathers. We are here in peace and—”

Sharukh, the carpenter, cut him off.

“Liar!” he furiously shouted at the interpreter, who slightly shrunk in his saddle in the face of his fellow countrymen taking up position in front of him. Then the carpenter spat on the ground, right at the feet of the leaderʼs horse.

The grin was wiped off the leaderʼs face. He let out a yell, and even though Ranjid didnʼt understand the language, he knew that the leader had just given his men the order to attack.

The next moment hell broke loose. The foreigners were riding straight into the group of villagers, hitting them with clubs. The villagers in turn tried to defend themselves with their pitchforks and grabbed the men by their legs, trying to drag them off their horses.

As for the leader, he didnʼt move a finger. Proudly seated on his horse, he rode over to a safe spot where he was watching the event from afar, a contented smile on his face.

Ranjid got a fright when one of the leaderʼs men and a villager began to fight right in front of the old ruin where he was hiding. He saw that the foreigner pointed at the villager with something which looked like a long pipe with some kind of lever and a pike at the top. Ranjid had seen a thing like that before, on a picture somewhere. He remembered that back then he had asked his father what it was, and his father had told him that it was called a rifle with a bayonet. Ranjid had then asked him what it was used for, and his father had said that these kinds of things were only used by godless people and that he should rather quickly forget about it. And when Ranjid had wanted to know what it was that the godless people did with the piky pipe thing, his uncle Gopal had interfered and had said with a laugh that if one aimed with it at someone and pulled the trigger, the person who got hit would end up with a hole in his body and then would have to walk around with that hole for the rest of his life. That was the only explanation Ranjid had ever received.

Ranjid saw that two of the other villagers came to help their friend and beat the man with the rifle up until he sank to the ground and didnʼt move anymore. Then the brave helpers ran back to the market place where the fight was about to get out of control.

The rifle was still lying on the ground next to the unconscious man with the red jacket.

Suddenly, it occured to Ranjid how funny it would be if the fair-haired man, the leader who was to blame for all of this, would have to run around with a hole in his body for the rest of his life. He guessed that it would surely cause a lot of laughter which, as he found, would serve the nasty man right for treating the village people and his father so bad.

Yes, that would be extremely funny...

Ranjid wondered which body part a hole would look most funny in and came to the conclusion that it would be the best if the hole was in a body part that the evil man could not so easily cover, after all, it should be visible to everyone.

The head, Ranjid thought. Yes, a hole would be most striking in the head. That would be really funny to look at and rather embarrassing for the man…

Ranjid quickly left his hiding place, ran to the spot where the man in the uniform was still lying, motionless and bleeding, and snatched the rifle. It was heavy. The boy laboriously dragged it along the stony ground until he had reached the old ruin again where he took up his previous position behind the window and carefully lifted the rifle, clumsily balancing it with his hands. He soon found out that if he wanted to properly aim at the blonde man on the horse, he would have to stop swaying. Clever as he was, he positioned the rear end of the rifle on his shoulder and placed the top of it on the ledge of the window.

That was much better.

What also made it easier was the fact that in this moment the man on the horse stuck a cigar in his mouth and lit it, and by doing so he didnʼt move a bit and stayed really calm.

Ranjid aimed the rifle exactly at the manʼs head.

The man took a puff at his cigar, inhaled, exhaled, little clouds of smoke surrounding his content-looking face.

Ranjidʼs finger pulled the trigger.

And fired.

The sound of a terrible bang filled Ranjidʼs little ears. The recoil was enormous. The rifle fell out of Ranjidʼs small hands and the boy toppled backwards and fell over a sandbag which was standing right behind him. He hurt his arm upon falling on the ground and began to cry.

He was disappointed. Neither his father nor uncle Gopal had told him that oneself could get hurt when firing a rifle. Angry, sobbing, and without looking back, he ran back home to his mother at breakneck speed. He knew that she would hold him in his arms and comfort him until the pain was gone.

Later when his father came back from the fighting, wounded but alive, he would tell his family with relief that somebody had killed the commander and that this incident had confused and weakened the troop so much that it had been easy for the villagers to get the upper hand and ultimately drive the soldiers away—maybe not forever but at least for that day.

Ranjid didnʼt understand anything of it. And he wasnʼt really interested in it either.

All that counted was that his family was unscathed and united again.

* * *

“He is wounded! He is wounded!” officer McMillan yelled. Immediately, a handful of soldiers grouped around him and knelt down on the ground, staring bewildered at the body which lay motionless at McMillanʼs feet.

But it was too late. After a few final convulsions and some gargling sounds coming out of his bleeding mouth, Damian Cox died, his vacant eyes strangely diverted towards the skies.

Standing next to his fellow soldiers was Jeremy, the former stable boy of the Partridges. His face had taken on a stony expression. All around him the riots were still going on as not everybody had noticed yet what had happened to their leader.

Dead. Damian Cox is dead.

Jeremy was hoping that all of this would simply turn out as a misunderstanding because men like Damian Cox didnʼt die. Men like Damian Cox werenʼt even injured—or rather, they possibly got injured but recovered with miraculous speed, just like Damian had recovered after that fight with Henry Abbott in Kensington. The proud man had staggered out of hospital only a couple of weeks later, demonstrating an air of unshakeable self-confidence despite being wrapped up like a mummy and walking on a crutch.

Like Phoenix risen from the ashes, Cox had suddenly turned up at the mansion one cold and foggy winter morning, yelling at Lord Partridge that he could go to hell with his ploughs, blaming him for having let Henry Abbott and Sarah stay alone in the mansion back then when the whole family had gone to Norwich.

Jeremy had never seen Lord Partridge so pale, lost and speechless. Having been silent witness to the heated conversation between the two men, Jeremy had waited outside behind the shed and had run after Damian when the latter had stomped off with the thunderous announcement that the Partridges would never see him again.

“Sir, can I talk to you for a moment?” Jeremy had asked Damian when he had caught up with him.

“What could you possibly want from me?” Damian, still fuming, had spat.

“I want to come with you to India. I want to become a soldier.”

Damian Cox had begun to laugh and had shaken his head in disbelief.

“Do me a favor, boy: Go back and carry the crap, will you? The army does not need fools like you.”

“I am strong! I am resilient!” Jeremy had retorted with a firm and angry voice. “And I want to lead another life! I want to do something useful! Donʼt forget that it was me who alarmed you when Miss Sarah and Henry Abbott were in the stable that night. Take me with you. I am begging you!”

Obviously surprised by Jeremyʼs obstinacy and impertinence, Damian had looked at him pensively for a moment and then had said with a smirk, “You know what? Why not?”

And then Jeremy had followed Damian Cox on his crusade through the Indian subcontinent on his ruthless mission to make the land British ground by convincing the unwilling and by crushing the riots—with force if necessary.

It was obvious to Jeremy that this whole undertaking also served Damian as an outlet; an outlet to get rid of that anger and hatred inside of him which had always been so prevalent and which had been fueled by the memories of that particular night in Kensington which Cox considered as a major personal defeat.

The fact that Damian found a certain secret delight in the plight and misery of the people that he hurt or killed was one of the reasons that Jeremy eventually began to doubt if his decision of joining Damian had been a good one. Jeremy had wanted to become a soldier for the cause and not because of mere bloodlust.

Apart from that, Damian had treated him in no way respectfully. Jeremy had understood, of course, that they were different in ranking. Damian was the leader of the regiment, and Jeremy was only a number on his list of soldiers who could easily be replaced like little screws in a massive machinery. Still, Jeremy couldnʼt get rid of the thought that Damian held a particular grudge against him. He gathered that it was because he reminded Damian of Partridge Mansion and all the bad memories connected to it.

“Hey, shit-house ward, come over and clean my boots!” Damian would yell at him. Jeremy had learnt at a very early stage that Damianʼs noble and distinguished manners were forgotten as soon as he was on the battlefield.

But Jeremy had never complained. After all, he was in India and in Damian Coxʼs regiment, which was a real privilege. Deep inside, though, he had often wished he would have been back home in England again.

And now Damian Cox was dead.

And just as if he had always secretly waited for an opportunity like this, Jeremy hesitantly turned around and walked away from the others who were still gathering around Damianʼs dead body, not paying attention to him. First, he walked slowly not to stir any suspicion and pretending to go in search of the one who had fired the gun that had killed Damian. Then he slightly accellerated his pace.

Eventually, he began to run. He ran and ran and ran; away from Cox, away from the regiment, away from his life as a soldier. He was roaming the plains and cities, hungry and desperate like a lonely wolf, always heading northwest towards Europe and always hiding, because wherever he went he risked being identified as an Englishman, despite his skin which had always shown a somewhat darker complexion which might have triggered one into believing that he was born in the southern hemisphere, despite the turban and the linen cloak which he wore in order to more easily mingle with the Indian population. It was much safer for him if nobody found out that he had been an English soldier even though he didnʼt consider himself a soldier anymore. But he guessed that this was of no interest to those Indians who had experienced cruelty by the colonists and who sought revenge.

Still, there were Indians who werenʼt hostile and who even felt sympathy for him, but they could hardly save him from all the other dangers that he saw himself confronted with, dangers that didnʼt have anything to do with his background. They couldnʼt save him from robbers and vagabonds who wanted the little money he got and who tried to secretly slit his throat at night when he slept in filthy corners on the ground next to corpses of people who had died because of starvation or diseases. One day he became the victim of a knife attack, but he was lucky: The assassin missed his target because Jeremy woke up in time and was able to fend him off. And so the incident only resulted in a huge scar on his left cheek.

But the fear he had gone through that night was nothing compared to the hunger he permanently suffered. One day he was clubbed by some farmers who had caught him in the act of stealing corncobs from their fields. During that incident his leg got severely damaged with the result that it went stiff. The fact that he was now limping slowed down his return to Europe. But somehow, he could even understand them. He was poor, but so were they. Their small parcel of land was all they owned, and then he came along and tried to snatch away their provisions. It was not fair. But then again nothing seemed to be fair in life.

Being a deserter, Jeremy knew that he would be prosecuted if he ever set foot on English ground again. And so, he went to Italy instead. He reached it in March after a long journey by train, by boat, by oxcart and on foot. It had taken him weeks, but he got there eventually.

And although he liked it to live in the small town of San Gimignano where the sun never ceased to shine, where the wine was delicious and plentiful, and where poppies covered the fields like a vast purple carpet, he wasnʼt so sure anymore if the fact that he was alive could be considered as luck.

It wasnʼt because of the scar in his face, or because of the stiff leg. No, it wasnʼt that. It rather were the memories of all the people he had seen in India, the poor and the ill, the wounded and the dead. When he thought about the poor and the ill, he wondered how God could do this to them. And when he thought about the wounded and the dead, he wondered how the soldiers could do this to them. And then he felt regret because he too had been a soldier. Instead of adding to the poor peopleʼs misery he could have tried to help. Maybe that would have been Godʼs answer to the prayers of all the unfortunate. He could have been their blessing. But instead, he had been their curse.

Yes, it was that which was keeping him awake at night. And when he finally fell asleep, the guilt was still ever so present in his dreams. It made him restless. It made him want to leave San Gimignano and search for another place to stay, as if a change of scenery could make the pain go away.

He couldnʼt claim that he had not known what he was getting himself into back then when he had approached Damian and had asked him so determinedly if he could join his regiment, back then when he had been so desperate to do something useful, something for the Empire, something which he could reflect upon with pride in the years to come. Something that would prove that his father had in fact been wrong in claiming that he was not made for anything better than carrying other peopleʼs dirt around, and that he was a useless bastard who would never make it anywhere.

Yes, he had to admit that he had somehow guessed what it would be like in India. Still, the reality had surprised and shocked him, and he had realized that he didnʼt like war, the fighting and the killing, at all.

But the insight had come too late. Now, he couldnʼt make up for what he had done. He couldnʼt go back to India and tell everyone whom he had harmed that he was sorry.

Maybe I should have died, just like Damian. I havenʼt deserved anything else...

His new and only friend, the Italian Paolo Petrocelli, the son of the local wine grower and a very merry and lively young man, told him that instead of wallowing in self-pity he should rather write letters to all the people that he wanted to apologize to. But Jeremy only laughed bitterly and explained that he didnʼt have their addresses and that some of them didnʼt even have an address or werenʼt even alive anymore. Paolo said that it didnʼt matter and that these letters were not intended to be sent off. They were supposed to cleanse the soul from guilt simply by being written. He said that Jeremy should bury them at the foot of one of the olive trees in the churchyard, and that by doing so he would send them to God. God was great and God would forgive him. If only he was able to forgive himself.

That was what Paolo said.

And then Jeremy wrote letters. Many of them. Not only letters to people in India whose identity he didnʼt know. No, he also wrote a few letters to people whom he believed to have hurt during his life in England, before he had gone to India. He wasnʼt sure if that idea with the tree would work out and if there really was a God merciful enough to take all the blame from him. Still, he went to that olive tree one late afternoon, dug a little hole in the ground and put all the letters inside, one after the other.

Until he held the very last one in his hands.

He stared at the envelope. It was addressed to Sarah and Henry.

He remembered how one evening he and a very drunken Damian had been sitting at a campfire close to some small Indian town, whose name he had forgotten. Back then Damian had told him all about the fight in Kensington Road and how Henry Abbott so impudently had snatched Sarah away from him, and that her Uncle Oscar, whom he had called a devious bastard, had even helped them to escape. Everybody knew that they had gone to America. It had not taken Damian long to find out. The coach driver who had brought them to the pier recalled having seen them going on board of a ship heading for the land of the free.

During that talk at the campfire, Jeremy had believed that he and Damian were some kind of allies; after all, Jeremy found that Henry Abbott had snatched Sarah, Jeremyʼs secret love, away from him, too. Back then he would not have felt the desire to write a letter to either Sarah or Henry. But back then he had not known Damian very well. Not as well as he had known him on the day he had died.

Maybe, if I had not intervened and given them away on that night of the birthday, Abbott would have managed to convince Sarah to come with him after all. Then she would have been spared that marriage with Damian.

Jeremy found that instead of being jealous, he should have kept quiet about her secret encounter with Henry Abbott in the stable, should have let her go and wish her the best. But all he had done was proving that he really was the fool that his father had always seen in him.

Still holding the letter in his hands, Jeremy broke down at the foot of the olive tree and began to cry as the realization hit him how ridiculously pathetic and miserable his life was and that whatever he did was bound to go wrong.

“Ché ti succede, Jeremy? What is wrong with you?” Paolo, who just came strolling up the hill, asked him.

“I am really only worth carrying the crap...” Jeremy wailed.

“Caro amico,” Paolo said softly, comradely squeezing Jeremyʼs shoulder, “non piangere, donʼt cry. I am going to America. You want to come with me?”

Jeremy slowly raised his head and stared at Paolo in shock.

“Why... why are you leaving?!” he asked, terrified at the thought of seeing his only friend go.

Paolo spread his arms as if to embrace the skies and said, “Because we only have this life. Il mondo es il nostro!”

“You are crazy...” Jeremy mumbled.

“Yes! Maybe I am!” Paolo laughed.

And then Jeremy saw Paolo excitedly running down the slope to his fatherʼs house.

Jeremy was thinking hard.

He didnʼt want to be alone anymore. He didnʼt want his only friend to leave him behind.

He quickly wiped away his tears and jumped to his feet.

“Paolo!” he called. “Wait for me! I am coming with you!”

Then he ran after Paolo, in his hands the letter to Sarah and Henry—the only letter where there was still a chance that he would find out where the people that the letter was destined for lived.

* * *

They worked hard to pay for the passage. Together with ten other men Jeremy and Paolo were shoveling tons and tons of coal into the huge furnaces which created the steam to make the ship move. But Jeremy didnʼt complain. He was glad that the shipʼs crew had not rejected him because of his disability. Apart from that, he found that the strain helped him atone for his sins. He suffered with every single heavy shovel of coal he delivered into the flames, as if he was in purgatory, staring right into the mouth of hell. But he was grateful that at least it didnʼt smell for urine.

After twelve days locked up at the bottom of the ship and traveling on an extremely rough sea, Jeremy was allowed to see the sun again. Upon his arrival in April, he was so dirty that he was sure he would never ever be able to get rid of the layer of coal dust covering his skin and sticking to his clothes.

He and Paolo found a place to stay in one of the tenements at the docks and got work in a nearby steel rolling mill where they spent the best part of the day shoveling coal into furnaces—just as back on the ship. But ultimately it was all the same to Jeremy. He was in America. And that gave him a good feeling. There were new opportunities; and he had seen a couple of nice women too. Maybe God really granted him another chance.

One Saturday evening he, Paolo, and some new immigrant friends, Heinz und Klaus from Germany, were strolling through the nightly streets. Curious as they were, they ventured into an area where the wealthy people spent their fortune and where the nobility went to wine and dine in exquisite surroundings. Here the fastidious city dwellers also had the possibility to be intellectually entertained.

Although they couldnʼt afford anything the district had to offer, Jeremy and his friends were highly enjoying themselves and didnʼt care that everyone looked down at them because—judging by their clothes and demeanor—it was more than obvious that they were poor and didnʼt belong.

After a little while, Jeremyʼs glance suddenly fell on an announcement which was attached to the wall of a house.



Make sure you do not miss:

Sodom and Gomorrah



A contemporary play performed by Paul Abbott



On Saturday, April 10th at 8 pm



in the Abbey Theater



Jeremy couldnʼt tear his gaze away from the notice.

Paul Abbott. Can he possibly be related to Henry Abbott? he pondered. How many people called Abbott are there in New York?

“Ché succede, Jeremy?” Paolo asked and interrupted Jeremyʼs train of thoughts.

“Nothing... itʼs nothing...” Jeremy mumbled absent-mindedly. Then, after another moment of contemplation, he said, “Look, why donʼt you go ahead? I will meet you later.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving his friends behind in confusion.

It was a quarter to ten when he finally found the Abbey Theater. He assumed that the play would be over soon and decided to wait. He wanted to know who Paul Abbott was.

From the inside of the theater he could hear thundering applause and people cheering enthusiastically.

Must be quite an icon, that fellow... he thought, observing a group of young and excited-looking ladies who had begun to gather at the entrance door. The women were growing in number with every minute that passed.

At a quarter past ten, the doors opened and a young man stepped out of the building, wearing a topper, a tuxedo and a black cloak. He was immediately received by the waiting ladies with applause and bunches of flowers.

Jeremy was stunned. That man with the cloak and the topper wasnʼt Henry Abbott, but the resemblance was so enormous that Jeremy was certain that the two men had to be connected to each other. He gathered that Paul Abbott was Henryʼs brother as a similarity like this simply could not be put down to a mere coincidence.

Paul Abbott tried his best to please every lady with a charming smile, a kiss on the hand or a quick exchange of words, but after a little while the actor excused himself with a bow and quickly slipped into a coach which was waiting for him at the side of the road.

Jeremy reacted quickly. He darted across the road, and before the coach could start to move he had secretly jumped up on its rear and had grabbed the rails at either side of it. Nobody noticed. Then the coach headed off into the night.

After a ride of about half an hour, crossing Brooklyn Bridge on the way where gusty winds had blown right into Jeremyʼs face, the coach stopped in front of a three-storey building, whose top floor was still brightly lit. Jeremy quickly hopped off the coach and hid in the dark corner of a neighboring house, watching Paul Abbott get out and pay the driver.

Jeremy wondered what to do, if he should walk over to him and ask him if he knew Henry and Sarah. But then he realized that this wasnʼt necessary. Looking up to the third floor he could see two women peer out of the window.

One of the women was unmistakably Sarah.

Jeremy held his breath at the sight of her beauty. Her long brown hair was cascading over her shoulders, and her lips formed the sweetest smile. He noticed how his heart began to beat faster in his chest, and without really wanting it he saw himself overcome by a bout of jealousy. Still, he was seriously relieved to see that Sarah looked happy; although he was sure that the sole reason for her happiness was the presence of Henry Abbott. In that moment, the latter appeared next to her, planted a kiss on her cheek and then drew the curtains so that Jeremy was unable to see them anymore; just as if Henry had somehow sensed that they were being watched.

Momentarily, Jeremy felt inclined to ring the bell, but then courage failed him. Originally, he had only wanted to give Sarah and Henry a letter; the letter which he had carried with him all the way from Italy and which looked rather dirty and creased by now because it had considerably suffered during the journey.

But being so unexpectedly presented with the unique chance to actually speak to Henry and Sarah in person, he suddenly didnʼt feel ready to do so. He decided to go back to the tenements and to come back the next day. He guessed that by then he would know if he should talk to them or if he should just push the letter under their door.

* * *

11th April 1887



On Sunday morning Henry was sitting at the dinner table, reading the real estate advertisements in the newspaper. On the sofa, Bubbe was busy knitting the approximately eleventh pair of socks for Yasminaʼs and Sarahʼs baby that were due any day from now. Yasmina was lying next to her, resting her legs which were swollen and hurt a lot now that she was approaching the final days of her pregnancy.

The living room was filled with the merry laughter of Renana and five of her friends from the neighborhood. Recently, it had become a habit that the children of families, who were living nearby, came to watch Sarah as she was sewing clothes for dolls. The latter had only begun as a past time occupation for Sarah but had quickly turned into something she was able to make a little money with. When Yasmina had taught Sarah how to use the sewing machine, Sarah had quickly started to make progress. She had sewn little garments for the children and when Renana had once complained that her doll was wearing the same clothes all the time, Sarah eventually came up with the idea to help her. Without further ado she had gone to a shop, bought the necessary materials and had begun to create pattern charts; all by herself.

Little Renana had jumped with joy when, only a couple of days later, Sarah had presented to her the first new dress for the doll, quickly followed by another one. And Renana, proud as she had been, had shown the doll to everyone she knew. Soon it had caught the attention of all children in the vicinity, with the result that they all had begun to invade the little flat of the Levyʼs, insisting on Sarah making dolls dressed for them as well.

By having detected that lucrative gap in the market, Sarah had considerably contributed to the flourishing of the Levyʼs tailor business, and had immediately been appointed by Yasmina to official CDDM — ʼChiefDolls Dress Manufacturer.ʼ In fact, Sarah proved to be a never-ending source of brilliant ideas and turned out to be highly gifted when it came to needlework. As she had always been good at drawing, it helped her to create her own design patterns,

With amazement Henry witnessed the changes that Sarah had undergone. Within only a few weeks she had transformed from an insecure, angry girl to a very confident and charming young businesswoman.

He almost burst with pride.

“What about this one?” he asked as he was now reading through the adverts of the property section. “Two story house, four bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, and storage room. Quiet area on the outskirts with back garden. One hundred and twenty Dollars rent per month.”

“That sounds great,” Yasmina remarked, looking up from a book that she was reading. “We must ask Paul what he thinks about it as soon as he comes back from his stage rehearsals.”

By now it had in fact become quite urgent to find another place for all of them to live. With the upcoming arrival of Yasminaʼs and Sarahʼs baby, the little apartment in Summer Hill Avenue would soon prove to be too small for the two families. Initially, it had still been Henryʼs plan to rent a place for him and Sarah alone in order not to be a burden to his brother. But as the time had passed, Paul and the Levys had become so fond of Henry and Sarah being around that Paul had ultimately convinced Henry that it would be better if they all saved up their money so that they would be able to afford the rent for a little house where both families could live together.

Henry had been more than pleased with this idea. Deep in the heart, he had never really wanted to leave the cozy atmosphere in the Levyʼs flat. And Sarah obviously felt the same. She had become so attached to Yasmina that Henry didnʼt want to separate the two girls anymore. Between them, the exact friendship had developed that he had hoped for. He was aware that Sarah secretly longed for merry girls talks and shopping trips downtown. Sometimes the two women were so busy with each other that Henry almost got a little bit jealous, but not too much. After all, Sarah didnʼt mind his regular menʼs nights either that he tended to spend with Paul and Oscar at sportive events or in taverns. And after having granted each other their time out, Henry and Sarah were even more desperate to be with each other.

One hundred and twenty Dollars was a considerable amount of money compared to the rent they were currently paying, but Henry was confident that if they all pulled together in the same direction, they would be able to afford it. After all, his efforts to find work had been more than fruitful and had brought him more money than he would have ever dared to dream of.

He put it down to a major strike of luck that he had met the Deirdre and Shannon Kavanagh back on the ship. Just as they had advised him to, Henry had gone to meet Stephen Sandler two days after his arrival in New York, offering his services as a tutor to Sandlerʼs sons Michael and Ruben. When Stephen Sandler had finished listening to Henry telling him about his previous work experience, and after having read the letter of reference Oscar had written for Henry, he had immediately offered Henry the job. And the latter simply had been unable to refuse as Sandler promised him a considerable amount of money and even a pay rise if Henry managed to live through the trial period of a month.

That pay rise in mind, Henry had tried not to be all too discouraged when he met Michael and Ruben for the first time. The two boys were in fact the most gruesome and terrible children he had ever encountered in his young career as a teacher, and Henry found that every single day he had spent with Sarah during her ʻrebelliousʼ days had been a piece of cake compared to what he would be in for from now on. But then Sarah turned out to be of great help to him, giving him advice on how to handle the boys, just as if they were her own children. Henry gathered that the reason for all of her wisdom in this regard derived from the fact that she had been a rather difficult child herself. And so, after only a short while, Henry had miraculously managed to make the boys stop farting and burping in public by telling them that their gases would poison the atmosphere in the long run and that they would therefore soon run out of air to breathe and would all have to die. This secured him a pay raise which was even higher than Sandler had initially announced.

But as Henry had only worked half a day for the Sandlers, and as the money he had earned was still not enough for securing a proper life in America—especially when one was soon to be a father—Sandler had decided to help Henry and had contacted Reginald Kavanagh, Deirdre and Shannonʼs father, and had asked him if he could offer Henry a position in Memories of Ireland, the company which Sandler and Kavanagh owned. Shortly afterwards, Henry had got to know Kavanagh during one of Sandlerʼs dinner parties where Henry and Sarah had been invited to, and it had turned out that Kavanagh needed an assistant to the supervisor in the warehouse. After having worked there for two afternoons to try it out, Henry ultimately got the position as he had done surprisingly well considering the fact that he had never worked in that field before. And so, Henry worked for Sandler in the mornings, for Kavanagh in the afternoons, and Sarah helped Yasmina with the sewing and, by doing so, earned a little money as well.

Checking their current budget, Henry found that they would be well able to afford the two story place with the little garden. They had tried to convince Oscar to move in with them, but Oscar had explained that he would rather stay in Summer Hill Avenue until he and Tamar got married. After that, he intended to move with her to an apartment close to the hospital where he had found employment as a doctor. As he was now working in the emergency unit, he considered it essential that he stayed close to his workplace so that he could be there anytime he was needed. His position was very demanding and, of course, required him to work on weekends, too. But he loved his work and put his whole heart and soul in it, just as he put his heart and soul into his relationship with Tamar. The two of them had got involved with each other ever so quickly, and with his irresistible charms Oscar had easily managed to win Tamarʼs father over when the latter had begun to grow reluctant towards a marriage between his daughter and Oscar because of the fact that Oscar wasnʼt Jewish. But ultimately Samuel Rosenzweig, who had always liked Oscar in general, had decided that what counted most was the happiness of his daughter. Other than that, he found that it was handy to have a doctor in the family. And so he had given the two of them their blessing. And they were a lovely couple indeed with Oscar hardly talking about anything else but Tamar all day long.

The doorbell rang and tore Henry out of his reflections. The children momentarily looked up but soon got immersed in watching Sarah again.

“That will be Tamar,” Alice said. “She wanted to bring some yarn along which she bought for me on the market yesterday.”

“Iʼll go.” Henry quickly threw the paper on the table and jumped up from his seat, before either Sarah or Yasmina had a chance to get up. He would never allow them to venture down the stairwell now that the two women were both approaching the final days of their pregnancy. Their bellies looked as if they were about to explode and they could hardly move without suffering considerable pains. Although they kept saying that they were fine and were accusing Paul and Henry of treating them as if they had some terrible disease, the men had strictly forbidden them to leave the house. After all, they lived on the third floor. Not that the men didnʼt believe that Sarah and Yasmina would make it downstairs, but they had no idea how to bring the girls back upstairs again.

Four bedrooms... Henry thought as he was merrily making his way down to the entrance hall, taking two steps at a time. Separate kitchen and garden… sounds wonderful...

Lost in thoughts he opened the door.

And froze.

His mouth fell open, but no word came out of it. He felt his heart miss a beat, felt memories overwhelm his mind; the memories of a terrible birthday night in midsummer with him and Sarah standing in a horse stable, surrounded by nothing but darkness except for the dim glow of a lantern light, its little flame illuminating the hard face of an envious and scheming young man who so cold-heartedly watched their little bliss burst into a thousand pieces.

Jeremy.

The boy hesitantly hovered in the doorway, a grumpy yet bashful look on his face.

“May I come in...?” he mumbled.

After having stared at Jeremy for a while, in wonder and in shock, Henry felt his spirits, which temporarily had left him, return. Fueled by the enormous anger which was suddenly beginning to boil inside of him, he jumped at the boy, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him inside the house.

“How dare you!?” Henry spat into the boyʼs face, pushing him hard against the wall.

Jeremy didnʼt appear in any way surprised but rather calm, as if he had already expected that kind of reaction.

“Have you come to destroy my little luck yet again?!” Henry yelled at him. “For the second time? Come on, tell me, is that the reason why you are here?!”

“No, Henry, I—“ Jeremy whimpered, but Henry cut him off.

“Let me tell you, my friend, not this time!” Henry growled furiously. “I swear by all that it is dear to me that I will break every single bone in your body if you harm us again. I will not refrain from killing you if necessary!”

From the slightly insecure look on Jeremyʼs face Henry could gather that he came across as rather convincing, which didnʼt surprise him because he meant every single word he said. Only now did he notice that there was a long and nasty scar on the boyʼs cheek. The sight slightly distracted him for a moment, but not for very long, because suddenly a thought came to his mind; a rather terrifying thought.

“Or are you only the advance guard...?” Henry mumbled suspiciously. He abruptly let go of Jeremy, stormed over to the door, and peered outside. But contrary to what he had expected, there was no one to be seen except for the old violin maker Yehudin Jitzak, who lived in the neighborhood and who was busy sweeping the path in front of his house.

Henry rushed back inside where Jeremy was still leaning against the wall, a strange expression of resignation and exhaustion on his face.

Once more, Henry grabbed him by the collar and began to shake him fiercely.

“Where is he?!”

“Who?” Jeremy asked.

“You bloody well know who I mean, scarface! Damian Cox! He has sent you as his spy, hasnʼt he? He is out there somewhere, just waiting for a chance to strike again, isnʼt he? Do you really think I am that stupid not to realize what you two have been plotting?!”

“Henry? Are you down there?” He suddenly heard Sarah call from upstairs.

“Er... yes, I am! I will be with you in a moment!” Henry called back to her in a merry voice, trying to hide his anger, trying not to give away that Jeremy was here as he was certain that this fact would terribly upset her.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, sounding suspicious.

“Yes, darling, no need to worry. Stay upstairs. It is just some fellow selling brushes. I am dealing with it.”

Henry heard Sarah mumble something, then it was quiet and he supposed that she had gone back inside.

He turned to Jeremy again.

“Now listen to me, you little bastard,” he hissed. “You go and tell Mr. Bloody Cox that if he can bring up the courage to face me personally, I am willing to arrange a date and time for a proper duel. But you can also tell him that he shouldnʼt raise too many hopes that he will survive, as I am prepared to go to great lengths in order to protect Sarah or whoever happens to live under this roof. Do you understand me?!”

Jeremy looked at Henry expressionlessly. Then he said, “Damian is dead.”

Puzzled, Henry loosened the grip on Jeremyʼs collar.

Jeremy let out a little sigh of relief.

“Look, I didnʼt expect a welcoming celebration, but will you at least give me a chance to speak and explain a couple of things?”

“What could you possibly have to explain...?” Henry muttered and reluctantly let go of Jeremy.

“I have come to apologize,” Jeremy said with a firm voice.

Henry shook his head incredulously and began to laugh.

“You must be joking. Coming all the way from England just for that. I donʼt believe a single word...”

“I am not joking,” Jeremy replied angrily. “It is true that it is not the only reason I have come to America. Still, it has been my wish to contact you for quite a while. Can you not listen to a bloody cripple for a second? Look at me! My face is forever disfigured, and one of my legs is stiff.”

“What happened?” Henry asked, trying not to appear all too interested and by no means sympathetic.

“It is true that I spent some time with Damian,” Jeremy began. “We fought together in the army in India. It was the most horrible time of my entire life... I have actually just come from there.”

Jeremyʼs glance wandered off into the distance.

Henry believed to see tiny tears sparkling in the boyʼs eyes, but soon Jeremyʼs face took on a stoney expression again.

“Anyway, Damian was killed,” Jeremy went on. “We assume that the assassin was a very well-trained sniper who had been plotting that assault for quite a while. He shot Damian right in the head. They never caught him. As for me, from that moment on I had enough. Too many injured, too many dead. So I deserted. Risking that you think of me as a pathetic hypocrite, I must say that this experience changed me. I am actually capable of feeling remorse, believe it or not. And that is the reason I have come; in order to say that I am sorry and to tell you that Sarah is a widow now and that you can... well, you can actually marry her now.”

Henry was leaning motionless against the wall next to Jeremy, unable to figure out what to make of it all; what to make of Jeremyʼs sudden appearance and of his story, which somehow seemed so hard to believe.

“Is that... is that really the... truth...?!” Sarahʼs voice suddenly tore him out of his reflections.

He whirled around and saw her standing at the railing of the staircase, looking down at him and Jeremy. Henry had no idea how long she had already been there, secretly overhearing their conversation.

“Sarah,” he exclaimed, “I told you not to come down. It is too strenuous for you.”

But Sarah ignored him. And contrary to Henryʼs worries, she appeared rather calm.

“Tell me, Jeremy, is this the truth?” she asked yet again.

Jeremy, equally puzzled by Sarahʼs unexpected appearance, nodded his head.

“I swear by all that is dear to me that it is the truth…”

“You will surely understand that I have my difficulties to trust you, Jeremy,” Henry remarked, calmer now as well, but still on edge.

Jeremy fumbled in his trouser pockets and produced a grubby envelope and a pencil. With the pencil he began to write an address on the envelope. Then he handed Henry the envelope.

“What is that supposed to be?” Henry asked grumpily.

“That is the letter that I originally had wanted to send you before I decided to try and talk to you personally,” Jeremy explained.

“And the address?”

“Thatʼs the address of Damianʼs regiment in London which I served for. I suggest that you contact them if you are at all unsure whether you can trust me or not. They will confirm Damianʼs death to you. And if you feel like exercising revenge on me, you can also inform them that I am here in New York. They will be more than glad to see me turned in and locked up because I ran away...”

Henry wordlessly stared at the envelope in his hands when he suddenly heard Sarah let out a moan. He looked up and saw to his horror that she was slowly sinking to the ground, one hand clutching her belly, the other one holding on to the banister.

Henry hastily stuffed the envelope in his trouser pocket and rushed up the stairs to come to her aid.

“There you go!” he yelled at Jeremy who was following him. “You bloody upset her! If she and the baby are in trouble it will all be your fault!”

“Henry, please, donʼt shout at him,” Sarah whimpered in an effort to soothe his temper. “There is no reason for it. It is just labor pains. I think the baby it is coming...”

“Good Lord...!” Henry suddenly felt completely out of his depths with the situation. His first thought was to go and get a coach to bring them to the hospital, but he didnʼt want to leave Sarah alone; especially not with Jeremy. Still, he needed help. He gathered that it wouldnʼt make sense to call Yasmina, as she was upstairs and equally unable to come down. And Esther was out on some errands. He considered knocking at the doors of the other families living in the house, but as far as he knew they were mostly old people who wouldnʼt be able to give him a hand. Apart from that they all spoke Yiddish, and Henry didnʼt understand a word of it despite Paulʼs attempts to teach it to him. His knowledge was definitely not enough to make it clear that they needed a doctor and a coach to the hospital. He guessed, though, that Sarahʼs sight would be self-explanatory.

“Stay with her. Iʼll get a coach!” Jeremy suddenly said. And before puzzled Henry could say something in return, the boy had already dashed down the stairs as fast as he was able to. Only now did Henry realize that Jeremy was in fact limping. Henry didnʼt like Jeremy to interfere in this situation but realized that he didnʼt have any other choice. Hoping that the boy would really come back again as he had promised, Henry knelt down next to Sarah, wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

“Try to breathe calmly just as Oscar told you,” he said to her. He was terribly nervous and expected Sarah to be the same, but when he looked at her, he noticed that despite the pain there was a strange expression of bliss and relief on her face.

“Henry...” she breathed, “we can marry... we can finally marry... in front of God...”

“Sarah,” Henry replied softly, “I donʼt want to destroy your hopes, but I am still not sure if Jeremy is lying to us.”

“But he wouldnʼt help us now if he wanted to do us harm, would he?” Sarah reasoned.

Henry nodded. He had to admit that it was quite possible that Damian was dead, even if Holly Witherspoon, Oscarʼs former house help back in England, had never mentioned anything in her letters and telegrams. Oscar had asked her about Damian Cox, but she had been unable to tell him anything as she didnʼt have any connections to the Partridges and she had not wanted to raise any suspicion by asking them or anyone else about Damianʼs whereabouts. And as she didnʼt read the newspaper either—except for the obituaries—she wouldnʼt have seen any notice mentioning the death of some soldiers in India, even if there was a higher ranking officer amongst them.

Sarah weakly let her head sink on Henryʼs shoulder, and he held her and stroked her while they were nervously waiting for Jeremy to return.

And Jeremy did return. Despite his stiff leg he had been as quick as a weasel.

“A coach is waiting outside!” he called and ran over to Henry in order to help him get Sarah back on her feet and down the stairs.

When they got outside, Henry heard Yasmina call down to them from the top window. She appeared rather worried.

“Henry! My goodness, what is going on?!”

“Labor pains!” Henry called up to her while he was quickly shoving Sarah inside the coach. “We are off to the hospital! Everything is under control!”

At least I hope that everything is under control... Henry thought as he climbed inside the coach, followed by Jeremy who equally wanted to get in. Henry looked at him in wonder and blocked his way.

“You donʼt seriously intend to come with us, do you?!” he snapped at the boy.

“You might need me,” Jeremy replied.

“Give me one reason why on earth we should need you!”

“Have you actually thought about the possibility that the baby might come before you arrive at the hospital?”

Henry had to admit to himself that he had not considered this at all.

“Iʼll handle it,” he retorted although he didnʼt have the faintest idea what he would have to do in case it happened.

“Be reasonable,” Jeremy said calmly before Henry could slam the door of the coach in his face. “I actually have some experience, because more than once I helped Angus deliver his horsesʼ foals when I was still working for the Partridges.”

Henry rolled his eyes.

“We are not talking horses here! This is about a human being!”

“For Godʼs sake, will you two come to a decision, or I will sure as hell deliver the baby myself!” Sarah suddenly yelled. As Henry had never heard her swear like that before, he presumed that it was really high time to leave. He shot Jeremy an angry glance, and with gritted teeth watched the boy climb inside the coach. Then they sped off.

Innumerable times Henry had tried to envisage this memorable day, had tried to figure out what it would be like; that moment when they would be on their way to the hospital. And in his visions the situation had been pretty much the same as it was now; just that in his wildest dreams he would not have imagined Jeremy to be sitting right next to him.

He secretly looked at the young man who had once been the so despised stable boy and who was now apathetically staring out of the window, his gaze lost in the distance. Suddenly, Henry realized what a major sacrifice it had to be for Jeremy to see his secret flame becoming the mother of his rivalʼs child. Henry wondered what had happened to him, where he had got the scar from and why his leg was stiff. The vacant look in Jeremyʼs eyes gave Henry the assurance that whatever gruesome and horrid experiences lay behind the boy had been enough to break his spirits and to make him see his life through an entirely new perspective—and to maybe make him feel honest remorse. Henry sensed a flicker of sympathy for him. Still, he incessantly prayed to God that the baby would not come before they had reached their destination, as he didnʼt want to be indebted to Jeremy for the rest of his life.

But everything went well and when they arrived at the hospital some ten minutes later, Henry helped Sarah out of the coach, and together with Jeremy he carried her over to the entrance of the building where they immediately found themselves surrounded by a couple of hospital assistants, who didnʼt ask too many questions and immediately made Sarah lie on a stretcher. Then they quickly carried her inside, with Henry and Jeremy running after them.

“Iʼll be right back,” Henry said to Jeremy when they hurried along the corridors. Then he went in search of Oscar. And although Oscar wouldnʼt be the one to make the baby see the light of day, Henry still wanted to at least inform him that his nieceʼs child was on the way.

Oscar was just in the process of disinfecting the nasty foot wound of a man who had obviously stepped on a rusty nail by accident when Henry knocked on the door of the practice and excitedly stormed inside.

“Sarah or Yasmina?!” Oscar asked, immediately guessing why Henry had turned up so unexpectedly.

“Itʼs Sarah,” Henry replied. “Oscar, before you get out there... well, I just want to let you know that you might run into someone you would have never believed to ever see again in your life. But it seems to be alright; I mean, he is actually here to help.”

Oscar looked at Henry in wonder.

“My God, Henry, what are you talking about?”

Henry smiled weakly.

“You better see for yourself...”

When Oscar stepped out in the hallway, he saw Jeremy walking after the two nurses who were carrying Sarah on a stretcher towards the delivery room.

Oscar appeared surprised at first. Then he broke out in chuckles.

“Well, isnʼt this just another example of lifeʼs funny twists and turns...”

“I suppose it is,” Henry mumbled and let out a sigh. Then he rushed over to the delivery room. When Jeremy saw Henry approach, he quietly withdrew to a corner in the waiting area and sat on a chair.

Sarahʼs face was distorted with pain because the contractions began to come at much shorter intervals. She had been moved from the stretcher onto a blank and sterile treatment table. Henry felt infinitely sorry for her. He had never seen a woman in labor before, and Sarahʼs obvious suffering almost broke his heart.

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly.

“The doctor is on the way, my darling…” he whispered, trying hard to pull himself together and not to let his excitement show too much.

The next moment, the door opened and a white-haired, friendly-looking man who introduced himself as Dr. Bradshaw entered the room, busily rubbing his hands.

“Now, letʼs see what we have got here,” he said merrily, giving the impression that he was pretty much in control of the situation. And without further ado, he started with his work.

Henry averted his eyes at the sight of the doctor sticking his hand into Sarahʼs abdomen. He was embarrassed by her nakedness although he knew her body very well and was sure that Dr. Bradshaw had seen a fair amount of naked women in his career, too. Still, he felt uncomfortable but didnʼt have too much time to worry about it as Sarah suddenly let out a terrible scream. The next moment, Henry saw something peering out between Sarahʼs legs; something tiny and crumpled and smeared with blood.

“Now, thatʼs what I call a pretty baby!” Dr. Bradshaw twittered happily, pulled the little one out of Sarahʼs body and quickly handed it over to the nurse, who received it and wrapped it in a towel.

Henry was staring incredulously at the baby in the nurseʼs arms. His heart was hammering so loudly that he thought his chest would burst.

Oh my God… he thought when suddenly another one of Sarahʼs deafening screams tore him out of his dreamlike state.

He panicked.

“Doctor, why is she still screaming? Whatʼs wrong with her?!”

Doctor Bradhsaw remained surprisingly calm.

“Well, I suppose she will stop screaming once we will have got the other one out,” he remarked almost casually.

“The other one...?!” Henry croaked.

“Twins, Mr. Abbott, twins,” the doctor added with a reassuring smile. Then his hand disappeared in Sarahʼs insides yet again.

For a moment, Henry felt overcome with a terrible sickness; the excitement, the tension, the blood—it suddenly all seemed almost too much to cope with. But then, in a matter of minutes, it was over, and in Sarahʼs arms lay two little babies; the babies that Henry would from now on be the proud father of.

Before he could even begin to realize what had happened, they brought Sarah to another room. Henry followed her on wonky legs and sat down next to her bed on a chair.

Then someone brought the babies, neatly wrapped in bundles, and placed them in Sarah’s arms.

Sarah smiled. She looked tired and exhausted but still appeared as happy and content as only a young mother could be.

Shyly, Henry risked a first glance at the bundles. And there he saw that huddled in them were the two sweetest creatures he had ever set eyes on, two little babies, uttering gargling sounds, their tiny fingers making funny movements in the air as if they were trying to grasp something which wasnʼt there at all.

Henry stared at them in awe. Taken aback by the sight of the babies and unable to utter a single word, he let himself sink next to Sarah on the edge of the bed and slightly removed the towels in which the little ones were wrapped so that he could get a better glimpse at them.

“It is a boy and a girl...” Sarah whispered.

A boy and a girl... it was hammering in Henryʼs head. A boy and a girl... boy and girl...

“Would you like to hold them?” Sarah asked.

Henry nodded. Then he ever so carefully took one of the bundles in his left arm and Sarah placed the other one in his right arm. Sitting there on the bed in a hospital in New York, the two infants in his arms and his beloved Sarah at his side, Henry felt as if he was the luckiest man on earth. He could hardly believe what was happening to him.

A sudden knock at the door tore him out of his stupor.

It was Oscar.

A broad smile on his lips, he walked over to Henry.

“Gorgeous,” Oscar said when he took a closer look at the bundles. He tickled the babiesʼ noses, then he added quietly, “Henry, I really do not want to disturb now, but Jeremy is still outside, and I have the feeling he wants to know if there is anything he can do for you or if he is free to leave.”

Henry nodded and very carefully put the babies back into Sarahʼs arms. Then he bent down and placed a gentle kiss on Sarahʼs forehead.

“Henry,” Sarah said to him, “would you do me a favor? Donʼt be too hard on him...”

Henry knew that she was talking about Jeremy.

He winked at her.

“Iʼll see what I can do…”

Then he got up and left the room.

* * *

Henry found Jeremy at the end of the corridor, sitting on a chair, expressionlessly watching the nurses who were walking past him as they were going after their work. When Henry apporached him, Jeremy abruptly got up and looked at him sternly.

“Is she alright?” he asked.

Henry nodded.

“And the baby?”

“They are fine as well.”

“They?”

“Two,” Henry explained. “Two babies.”

A faint smile flickered across Jeremyʼs lips.

“Congratulations,” he mumbled.

“Thanks.”

The two men looked at each other uncertainly. Henry scratched his ear, not knowing how to handle the uncomfortable silence which had set in.

“So, do you still need me?” Jeremy finally asked.

“No, I think we will handle it from here,” Henry answered.

“Alright then.”

Henry looked at Jeremy pensively for a moment. He found that there was still something furtive about the boy, but Henry believed to also sense something truly sincere which he had not seen in him before. Hoping that his intuition and his ability to judge character didnʼt let him down, Henry stuck his hand in his trouser pocket and took out the letter that Jeremy had given him earlier on, the one with the address of Damianʼs regiment in London.

For a split second Henry hesitated, then he handed Jeremy the letter.

“Are you sure you donʼt want to keep the address?” Jeremy asked with a smirk.

“Strangely enough, I am,” Henry mumbled.

He couldnʼt bring himself to openly thank Jeremy for his admittedly welcome interference. Still, he wanted to somehow express his gratitude.

“Well, if you ever... need something...” he said.

Jeremy just shook his head.

“Thanks, Iʼll be fine,” he replied. “Tell Sarah my regards.”

“I will,” Henry answered.

“Alright then.” Jeremy buried his hands in his trouser pockets. Then he said, “And by the way, donʼt you worry; you will never see me again.”

And with these words he turned around and limped away.

Henry watched Jeremy until the boy disappeared out of sight.

Then he let out a sigh and smiled to himself.