Then again, her pride had been compromised—completely decimated, actually—when she met Lucas at her door a week ago in ratty shorts and a T-shirt, void of any sort of plumage. Not to mention her bragging earlier in the forest, right before she tripped and landed in the mud.
“I still want to teach you how to drive,” he said, sliding the wand into its holder.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“But I ran your car off the road.”
“Much better than running into that guy, though I think he would have preferred you left a dent or two in his tractor. Then you’d have to contact him again.”
“I’m not the least bit interested in Kyle Logan.”
“Glad to hear it. You deserve a man who respects you.”
Her face warmed. “Thank you.”
He pointed toward the car. “Should we try for lunch again?”
“As long as you drive.”
“Fair enough.”
They found a café up on Castle Hill, overlooking the English Channel. Lucas ordered two egg and cress sandwiches along with a bottle of San Pellegrino to share. Quenby drank half the bottle of bubbly water before she started thinking clearly again.
Strange that Lucas would trust her to drive after she’d almost wrecked his vehicle. And even stranger that he’d been so ruffled by Kyle’s display of feathers this afternoon.
After they finished their sandwiches, and the server brought coffee, Quenby set the tin of letters on the wooden slats of the table. The proprietor had told them they could sit outside all afternoon if they wanted, and it might take them that long to translate the rest of Brigitte’s words.
She was anxious to find out what happened to Brigitte, of course, but the anxiety warred with a feeling of dread. What if the remaining letters were more dismal than the others? Their search could end here, in this café, at the base of this tin.
She took out the old wooden princess that Mr. Knight had given her and placed it on the table beside her, as if Brigitte were here with them as well. Then she opened the January 1942 letter again.
She and Lucas began to translate it together.
Hitler’s men only come when the weather cooperates, meaning that fog is heavy over the trees. The numbers in Lady Ricker’s letters correspond with the times our guests arrive, so I changed the number in the last letter, from nine to seven, and waited for a hazy night.
I didn’t know for certain how Hitler’s men arrived, but their trousers are usually soaked when Frau fetches them, their boots coated with mud. I snuck out the front door last night, trekking down to the river in the fog—so like the night Dietmar and I crossed the channel. Then I hid behind the bars of rush.
There was no sound of a motor, but the boat arrived suddenly, as if emerging from the deep. Like one of the undersea boats the German POWs talked about at Breydon Court.
In seconds, a man climbed over the rubber side, dressed like some of the others in a British uniform, his trousers rolled up high. A backpack was secured over his shoulders, and each of his hands clutched a boot as he waded through the shallow water, making him look like a duck flapping its wings.
When he stepped onto the bank, the boat vanished back in the fog. The man looked both ways, seemingly lost below the mill, before he sat down on a flat rock to tie his boots.
I made ticking noises from my fortress of reeds. Like a bush cricket. Then I couldn’t seem to help myself. A shriek escaped my lips. Wild and strong.
Startled, he stood up, patting his side for something that didn’t seem to be there.
I wailed again, loud and long like a banshee. Like a sea monster waiting to devour whoever dared wake him from his sleep.
Hitler’s man sprinted up the riverbank, swearing in our shared language.
I doubled over as he ran, in a vain attempt to stop my laughter. But I couldn’t help it. It felt good to yell and laugh. To watch Hitler’s man run the other way.
For the first time since Frau and I arrived, my voice chased evil away instead of inviting it through our front door.
Frau went to find the man at nine that night, but all she found was a pair of leather boots.
Quenby put down the letter, but her eyes didn’t wander from the writing. Not only was Brigitte’s story linked to Lady Ricker, but here was proof that linked Lady Ricker directly with the espionage mentioned in the National Archives file, her letters orchestrating the delivery of Nazi agents onto England’s shores.
Her fingers drummed on paper, itching to write the lead for a story piecing together in her head. If only Evan would let her write it, she could leave Brigitte’s name out of the story. Her sources would remain confidential, for Mr. Knight’s sake.
“You still with me?” Lucas asked.
Blinking, Quenby looked over at him.
“You’ve gone back again, haven’t you? About seventy years ago?”
She shifted in her chair. After she found out what happened to Brigitte, she’d ask Chandler to speak with Evan about moving forward with this story. Or if Evan did call her directly, she’d try to convince him herself.
She slipped the letter to the bottom of the stack. “Good for Brigitte for fighting back against the evil the best she could.”
“I wonder if the Terrells ever discovered that she was working against them,” he said.
“If they did, they would have tried to silence her for good.” The Terrells or Lady Ricker couldn’t have let her live, especially after the Germans lost the war. Traitors were killed, and Brigitte knew the secrets that could convict all of them.
There would be some sort of grim relief in knowing Brigitte escaped from the Terrells’ abuse, yet in her heart, she hoped Brigitte had survived this, even thrived. For Mr. Knight’s sake.
Lucas poured cream into his coffee. “Her resilience is exemplary.”
“She kept thinking that Dietmar was coming for her.”
“And he did.”
She looked down at the next letter. “Where did you go?”
MARCH 1942
Herr rarely comes now, but a box of food arrives each week from Breydon Court, along with L.R.’s letters. At least he doesn’t let us starve.
Frau seems to think he will love her forever, but Herr loves her as much as he loves the hoe he left in the shed. Both are useful to him. For now.
I fear what will happen when he has no need for her or me anymore.
SEPTEMBER 1942
The letters stopped coming for several months, so I had no paper to write. But then a letter. And a week later, another of Hitler’s men.
Lothar ate. A lot. And he stayed much too long before he went wherever these men go.
After he left, I had to scrounge for berries and nuts and what was left in our garden since nothing remained from our box.
Lothar also came into my little room before he left, late at night. But he wasn’t like Roger. Instead of shaking me, he slithered up to my cot and touched me. Where no one should touch.
When I screamed, Frau ran into the room. I didn’t think she would help, but she coaxed Lothar to leave. Said he could come back in a year or two.
Then she locked my door. I heard them laughing on the other side.
She thinks I still don’t understand much English, but I understand the important words. From now on, when the men come, I will sleep with my cot against the door. And wish I had Roger’s gun.
OCTOBER 1942
Herr finally came, and he was angry. The postman directed Frau to town.
Herr said she shouldn’t have registered for coupons there. Frau said if she hadn’t, both she and I would have starved. And frozen to death since he’d forgotten to send matches for our fire.
Wood and water we have aplenty, but food is scarce, the boxes coming infrequently now. At least with Frau’s coupons we have something to eat. And with the matches we are warm.
I tried to follow Frau to town once but realized I couldn’t go. Can you imagine? Frau has new clothing, but min
e is tattered and stained, like I’ve been digging through cinders. And I smell worse than Roger on that night we came to this place that can hardly be regarded as a home. The people in town would run me out, as if I were a wild cat.
Bombs fell last night, not far from here. I looked outside for flames, like I’d seen back in Breydon Court, but there was nothing except black.
Were Hitler’s men dropping bombs nearby? Or was it the British, trying to bomb our house?
Herr says Germany is winning the war, though we have no other news of it except when Hitler’s men come.
I pray the good men win.
I pray they let me go free.
I pray I never have to talk again.
DECEMBER 1942
Today I turned thirteen.
I took Dietmar’s knight into the forest and sat on a log by the river, surrounded by the company of birds. I pretended to eat cake and toast myself with wine. Pretended I was back home under my father’s magnolia tree, wishing like Cinderella that everyone I loved was celebrating with me.
It’s been more than two years now since Dietmar and I left home. I can no longer remember Papa’s face, but if he were here, he would toast to my thirteen years. He would say he was proud of me. And Dietmar would carve me something special to commemorate the day.
Dietmar’s not coming for me. I know that now. And even if I ran from here, I wouldn’t know how to find him.
If he’s still alive, Dietmar would be fifteen. A man.
I pray that my friend is safe, wherever he is. That he’s warm and fed.
That someone celebrated his fifteenth birthday with him.
JANUARY 1943
The wind changed again today, blowing from the east.
And I think, perhaps, that I’ve found a new friend.
Chapter 34
Breydon Court, January 1943
“Oh, Eddie,” Lady Ricker sighed as she rested back on the satin pillows, her curls coiling around her face. “I must get dressed for the party.”
He twirled her dark hair in his fingers, examining the lace on her negligee as he leaned on one arm. “But you look smashing just the way you are.”
She laughed as she always did when he complimented her. “Admiral and Mrs. Drague will be expecting lipstick and jewels for New Year’s.”
“Admiral Drague is always expecting something.”
She traced her finger along the edge of his chin. “Thanks to you, our little operation on the hill was successful again.”
“What did they take out?”
“The barracks and at least two hangars.”
Lady Ricker had assured him that he would be rewarded handsomely for his loyalty and work. Still, he’d made five extra photographs and hidden them under the floor for collateral, so he could prove his allegiance after the war. Just in case her ladyship tried to cross him.
After kissing him, Lady Ricker inched to the opposite side of the bed, taking a cigarette from her gilded case. “How is Olivia making out?”
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
She lit the cigarette. “It’s a dreadful shack,” she said, clearly ignoring his desire not to discuss his wife. “I fear for her health.”
“She’s not happy, but she’s well enough.”
She took a long drag of the cigarette and the smoke settled over the bed. “You must work to keep her happy, Eddie.”
“I send her food and supplies, but nothing pleases her.”
“I will have Cook make some nice cakes to take with you when you visit this weekend.”
“I wasn’t planning a visit—”
“Is Olivia still caring for the girl?”
“Of course.” Except the girl wasn’t so much of a girl anymore. Over the past months, she’d developed into a woman. A pretty one, even with her tattered clothing.
Perhaps next time he’d bring a frock for her instead of Olivia. Perhaps she would show him a little appreciation for his efforts.
Lady Ricker crushed her cigarette in a tray. “We must keep the girl happy too.”
“I will ensure her happiness.”
“Very noble of you.”
“I have another job—”
The telephone interrupted her, and when she answered it, Eddie heard a man speaking rapidly on the other end, saw her face pale.
“How long ago?” she demanded before hanging up the phone.
“Who was that?” he asked.
She reached for her robe. “You must leave here.”
“But the job—”
She waved her hand. “We’ll discuss it later.”
He wasn’t worried. Her bedroom door was locked, and the corridor would be clear. Lady Ricker demanded all of her staff stay away while she enjoyed her afternoon naps.
When the doorknob rattled, Lady Ricker swore. Eddie swiped his trousers from off a chair, trying to devise some sort of story if Lord Ricker had returned early from London or the nanny needed something yet again for the baby boy.
But a young woman glided into the bedroom, dangling a key in one hand. She eyed his bare chest, laughing. “Well, hello there.”
Eddie rapidly buttoned his shirt.
“Apparently the New Year’s party has already begun.” A mink fur was wrapped over her bare shoulders, across the low sleeves of her shimmering blue dress, but her most prominent feature was her protruding stomach. Clearly the woman was expecting a child and had no qualms in letting the world know.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
A smile slid smoothly across her lips, glistening from a fresh coat of gloss. “I’m a secret.” The woman walked toward the bed. “Hello, Mummy.”
Her ladyship straightened her shoulders like a soldier preparing for a battle. “Hush, Rosalind.”
When the woman saw Lady Ricker’s attire, she looked back at Eddie. Then she laughed again. A gut-wrenching, awful laugh that echoed down the corridor.
His gaze shuttled between the two women. Was Rosalind really Lady Ricker’s daughter?
Eddie closed the door so none of the servants would hear.
“The maid said you weren’t to be disturbed. I can see why.” Her gaze traveled from the top of Eddie’s head down to his toes. “Where’d she find you?”
Lady Ricker responded. “He was a photographer for London Life.”
Rosalind cocked her head. “And now?”
It was none of her business what he did now.
“Let me guess.” She eyed him again. “You were pressed into the service of agriculture so you won’t be called up.”
“I manage the gardens,” he said, refusing to let this woman humiliate him, even if she was Lady Ricker’s daughter.
Rosalind turned back toward her ladyship. “Stop looking at me like that, Mummy. I thought you’d welcome me home.”
Lady Ricker tied the cord around her robe. “We have friends coming soon. And Lord Ricker.”
Rosalind shrugged. “I’m not the one sleeping with the gardener.”
Lady Ricker studied her stomach. “You’ve been sleeping with someone.”
“A distinguished gentleman. To make you proud.” Rosalind collapsed onto a chair, looking out over the deer park covered in a fresh snow. “It’s been a long journey.”
Eddie wasn’t certain what to say. He’d known Lady Ricker had been married before she’d moved to England. Her first husband, the staff had whispered, owned half of Boston. But Eddie had been working here for almost four years now and no one had whispered about a daughter.
Rosalind tossed off her leather pumps. One of the heels was missing. “Papa sends his love.”
Eddie looked between the two women before settling his gaze on Lady Ricker. He’d known she had other lovers over the years, but thought she’d ended all of her relationships, except perhaps with Admiral Drague. “Who’s her father?”
Lady Ricker lit another cigarette and then took a long drag on it. “No one of significance.”
Rosalind swept her hands around the upholstered arms of the chair
. “He’ll be thrilled to hear you say that.”
Anger boiled inside him. The women were playing some sort of game, and he wasn’t going to play along with them. “Where’s your father?” he asked.
“In Paris at the moment, meeting with Goebbels.” Rosalind leaned back on the chair, closed her eyes. “I’m famished.”
“Eddie will fetch you some food.”
“Oh, would you, Eddie?” She glanced over, winking at him.
“Don’t say anything to the others about her,” Lady Ricker commanded.
“Of course not.”
He looked away, deciding right then and there that the sooner Rosalind was gone, the better it would be for them all.
CHAPTER 35
_____
Quenby chugged down a cup of Colombian coffee made in her room’s Keurig. She’d been up much of the night, rereading the translations of Brigitte’s letters on her iPad, trying to piece together any hint of where Brigitte might have gone after the abrupt ending of her story in 1943.
Maybe she ran away with her new friend in spite of her fears. Or maybe another one of Hitler’s men had broken into her room, and she’d decided to run from him.
God forbid that any of those men had their way with her. The thought of it made Quenby’s stomach roll.
If Brigitte had left with an acquaintance, it meant someone else knew where she went, but nothing in her letter hinted at the age, nationality, or even gender of this mystery friend.
After showering, Quenby dressed in cropped jeans and a taupe blouse, switching her clumsy wellies to summer sandals since they had no plans to trek back into the forest this morning. She and Lucas would return to London today, though she wasn’t anxious to go home. Some days she liked getting lost in the crowds, but other days, like today, she didn’t want to be lost at all.
Back in her flat, she would read through the letters one more time, along with her notes, before she continued her search.
At a quarter till eight, she met Lucas down in the small library on the bottom floor of her inn. After closing the door behind her, she joined him on the formal settee. His laptop was propped up on a stack of books, the screen facing them as they waited for Mr. Knight’s morning call.
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