The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact (70 page)

God
bless
you.

Your
son,

Miguel

Tears of joy stung María’s eyes. She wanted to jump on top of the table, shout, and proclaim to the world that her brother was alive. Instead, she sipped her chocolate and grinned at the people passing her table. At length, she began to resume reading the letter from her mother.

María,
you
must
not
think
the
worst
about
Pedro.
I
feel
that
he
is
alive.
As
his
mother,
I
would
just
know
if
he
were
dead.
Father
has
spoken
to
some
people
at
the
Spanish
Medical
Aid
centres
from
both
the
nationalist
and
republican
camps,
and
they
have
promised
to
find
out
all
they
can
about
his
unit
and
what
happened
to
it.
I
cannot
believe
that
a
whole
battalion
has
simply
disappeared
without
a
trace,
so
I
am
confident
that
he
will
be
found
somewhere.
I
will
remain
optimistic.

Your
father
is
keeping
relatively
well,
although
he
cannot
venture
outside
at
the
moment,
as
it
is
so
cold
and
would
only
worsen
his
condition.
You
cannot
imagine
the
impact
Miguel’s
letter
had
on
him.
He
now
walks
around
the
house
with
a
spring
in
his
step
and
has
smiled
more
in
the
last
week
than
in
the
last
year.

The
aunts
are
well,
still
fighting,
and
still
trying
to
prove
themselves
useful,
although
I
can’t
keep
up
with
the
balls
of
wool
and
needles
I’ve
had
to
buy
for
your
auntie
Rosa,
who
insists
that
she’s
going
to
knit
for
the
entire
nationalist
army,
including
General
Franco
himself!

Merrill
Farm
is
back
to
its
days
of
former
glory.
The
hop
gardens
are
healthy
and
yielded
one
of
the
best
crops
in
years
this
summer.
Tom
Butcher’s
son
John
has
done
a
marvellous
job
here
in
the
last
twenty
years,
but
it
breaks
my
heart
to
see
him
and
his
wife
mourn
the
loss
of
their
son
Peter.
They
have
asked
me
to
thank
you
for
getting
the
news
of
his
death
to
them
and
for
being
with
him
at
the
moment
of
his
passing.
It’s
all
so
terribly
sad,
isn’t
it?
Such
a
waste
as
well.

Many
years
ago,
I
would
have
laughed
if
someone
had
suggested
that
I
give
up
Merrill
Farm,
but
my
heart
is
in
Spain
with
its
people,
and
La
Glorieta
is
my
home.
Pedro
has
always
made
it
clear
that
he
wishes
no
part
of
his
Kentish
inheritance,
and
I
know
that
neither
you
nor
Miguel
has
ever
had
any
interest
in
Merrill
Farm
either.
This
has
also
urged
me
to
take
another
step
back
and
admit
that
although
I
cannot
bring
myself
to
sell
it
or
give
it
to
John
Butcher
outright,
I
no
longer
feel
it
is
a
necessary
part
of
our
lives.
There
is
so
much
more
to
worry
about
now.

María,
write
to
us.
You
don’t
seem
to
be
yourself
lately,
and
it
worries
both
your
father
and
me
to
think
that
you
are
hiding
things
from
us.
We
know
you
so
well,
and
we
know
that
you
often
think
of
other
people
before
yourself.
That’s
not
a
bad
thing,
but
sometimes
a
little
self-pity
can
be
a
good
thing,
and
it
is
much
healthier
than
bottling
up
the
sadness
we
detected
in
your
last
couple
of
letters.
It
must
be
horrific
in
your
hospital,
where
you
see
pain
and
suffering
every
day,
where
bombs
flying
through
the
air
give
no
respite
from
the
war
and
wounded.
Your
father
knows
how
it
is
and
is
still
suffering
horrible
nightmares
from
his
few
months
there.
We
want
you
to
consider
coming
to
London,
even
for
a
short
time;
please
tell
us
that
you
will
at
least
think
about
it.

I
leave
you
with
all
our
thoughts
and
prayers
and
hope
to
see
you
soon.

Love,

Mother
and
Father

María folded the pages and thought about her mother’s words. What was she doing here? This was not even her home. La Glorieta was. Valencia was. She had come here to be near Carlos, but he might as well be on the other side of the planet for all the time she’d spent with him. She knew in her heart that she would not go to England or leave Spain for even a day, but why was she in Madrid? She pondered the question and could find no justifiable answer. She had been given her trade certificate months ago and was now a nurse, although her training would continue.

She looked up at the door and then out of the window. There was still no sign of Carlos. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she almost forgot about the other unopened letter until she spilled some chocolate on it. She wiped the envelope dry and tore it open.

Dear
María,

I
am
at
La
Glorieta,
your
home.
When
I
was
told
that
it
had
been
transformed
into
a
hospital
and
convalescent
centre
for
the
wounded,
I
jumped
at
the
chance
to
transfer
there,
for
where
else
would
Pedro
go?
There
were
many
letters
from
him
on
my
return,
just
as
you
suspected,
but
unfortunately,
none
were
sent
after
June,
and
I
saw
him
after
that.