Mr. Knight’s face was darkened by shadows on the screen, the windows behind his desk black. It was almost midnight in the San Juans.
“Hello, Lucas,” he greeted, as if the man beside her were his nephew or grandson.
“Good evening, sir.” Lucas reached to adjust the brightness, and Mr. Knight’s wild white hair filled up most of the screen.
Mr. Knight leaned forward, squinting. “Miss Vaughn?”
She leaned closer to the camera. “I’m here.”
“Very good.” He looked down at the desk beside him and picked up a stack of papers. “You’ve uncovered quite a bit already.”
“It appears that Brigitte left a trail for you after all.”
“My earlier investigators should have found the tin in Newhaven,” he said.
She glanced at Lucas before turning back toward the screen. “You mean the one on Mulberry Lane.”
“No.” Mr. Knight shook his head. “At the Mill House.”
“Your investigators knew about the Mill House?”
“Of course.”
When she looked at Lucas again, he didn’t look back at her. Heat crawled across her skin. Why had they been withholding information from her? And how much more did they know?
“Why didn’t you—?” she started, but Lucas stopped her. Not with a word, to her or Mr. Knight, but he gently placed his hand on her knee, signaling her not to probe. At his touch, a tremor rocketed through her.
Clearing her throat, she decided to change direction. Later she would ask about the Mill House. It was completely unproductive for her to unearth a trail that had already been blazed.
“Did you read the letters we found?” she asked, not knowing whether Mr. Knight had found the letters as well in years past.
“Not yet.” He looked down, and then his eyes returned to the screen. “Is she well?”
Quenby hesitated. “She was hungry and worried. She missed you.”
“Any idea where she went?”
“Not yet.”
“The Terrells, sir,” Lucas said, inching closer to the camera. “It seems as if they were helping the Nazis.”
Something flickered in his eyes, and Quenby wished she were on the other side of Mr. Knight’s desk instead of studying a screen. “I suspected as much, with those photographs in their house.”
“Mrs. Terrell moved to Newhaven to assist them during the war.”
“With Brigitte?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Sadness lingered on his face, and she guessed this was new information for him. Information she almost wished they hadn’t found, for his sake.
It was too late to redeem Brigitte’s life. Why dredge up this sadness when they had no influence on the outcome? Unfortunately, justice was too late in coming for people like Eddie and Olivia Terrell.
But then again, perhaps justice had already been served.
“I want you to keep searching,” Mr. Knight said.
“Of course.”
His eyes grew wide as if something had alarmed him. “But you must be careful, Brigitte.”
Confused, Quenby wasn’t certain how to respond.
Mr. Knight’s screen shook, his head bouncing up and down on their monitor. “They’ll try to stop you.”
Lucas leaned forward, stealing away Quenby’s view of the camera. “She didn’t forget you, Mr. Knight.”
There was a long pause before Mr. Knight responded. “I told her I would find her.”
“We know, sir.”
“And I will find her yet.”
Lucas inched away from the screen, and Quenby saw Mr. Knight again, the man’s hand pressed into his chin. “I pray God leads us to her, before it’s too late.”
Lucas ended their conversation, and then he disconnected the video chat.
Quenby turned toward him. “Too late for what?”
Lucas shrugged, closing the computer screen.
She scooted up on the upholstered seat. “Why wouldn’t you let me ask about the Mill House?”
“Mr. Knight was confused.”
“I’m confused! He called me Brigitte.”
“I don’t believe any of the past investigators came to Newhaven.”
“But he said—”
Lucas’s gaze trailed to the morning light that streamed through the window. “Sometimes his mind slips and takes him back to his youth. He’s trying to stay present.”
She paused. “How confused is he?”
“A little more each day. Some days there’s more absence in his mind than presence.”
“Hence the urgency,” she whispered.
Lucas nodded. “He wants to find her now, before he forgets that he was looking.”
“Poor man.”
“He’s a fighter, Quenby. Always has been.”
“But he can’t fight the battle against his brain.”
“He has a team of doctors, the best in the world, fighting alongside him. And he has people like us who’ll remember for him.”
“Perhaps it’s better for him to just remember the good.”
“The good isn’t what he usually remembers.” He slid the laptop into his black messenger bag. Then he checked his watch. “I have to leave for London before noon.”
“Can I catch a ride?” she joked.
He picked up his bag, and when their eyes met, a smile returned to his face. “Perhaps.”
She stood beside him. “Perhaps what?”
“If you’ll try driving again.”
Quenby followed him out of the library, stopping beside him at the bottom of the steps. “I might actually damage your car this time.”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
Courageous or stupid—she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man standing in front of her. “I’ll drive—if you’ll let me take back roads.”
“As long as you stay on the pavement.”
She tilted her head. “All four tires?”
He nodded. “Preferably no mud or grass or men named Kyle today.”
“We’re going to be late.” Lucas glanced at the clock on his dashboard as they circled a roundabout in Lambeth, wedged into the crush of London traffic.
“Late for what?”
“The concert,” he said.
They’d traveled country roads most of the way up, stopping near Tonbridge so he could see the Terrells’ former cottage and in Westerham for lunch. He’d taken the wheel once they reached London proper, an hour ago. Until then she had managed to keep all four tires on the road and a fair distance from any other vehicles, though she couldn’t make any promises about mud or grass on the tires. Either way, she was quite proud of her feat. They’d had a good day together. Fun even.
“You should come with me to the concert,” he said as he turned left onto Westminster Bridge.
“No luck finding a real date?”
“I didn’t say that.”
They crossed over the Thames, the London Eye circling above the river on their right, Big Ben standing stalwart on their left.
She pondered his question, her mind wandering. What kind of woman would Lucas Hough ask out on a date? Someone like Gwyneth Paltrow or more like Princess Kate? Probably a woman who knew all the rules of British etiquette, dating back to King James.
After they passed Westminster Abbey, Lucas turned left and parked on a side street.
“Please, Quenby.” He flashed a puppy dog–esque look. One that was almost impossible for her to refuse.
“Please what?”
“Come with me.”
He hopped out of the SUV as she reviewed her options. He couldn’t drive her home, at least not until after his concert, but she could easily call for a ride or hop on the Tube a block away.
But then again, if he really wanted her to attend a concert, why shouldn’t she accompany him? She might actually enjoy the music.
He opened her door.
“I’ll go,” she said, stringing her backpack over her shoulder. “But no promises that I’ll sta
y.”
“Fair enough.” He locked the door behind her. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
They walked down the street, and he turned toward the plaza that led into Westminster Abbey. An outdoor board said there was an evensong at three.
Quenby glanced at her watch. It was five minutes after.
The stained glass glowed inside the Gothic cathedral, the warmth of light filtering up to the tip of the vaulted ceilings, raining down on the solemn stone statues and marble floors. A chorus was singing at the other end of the abbey, their voices echoing off stone and glass. She and Lucas hurried across slabs inscribed with names like Sir Isaac Newton and David Livingstone, along an aisle flanking the immense nave as they rushed toward the music on the other side.
Had her mother visited this abbey during her childhood in London? Perhaps she’d even sung here in a choir.
Quenby remembered well the music that seemed to smolder somewhere deep inside Jocelyn, surging up through her lips on the best of days into the most beautiful songs. She even remembered, in choppy clips, her mother and father singing together. Their laughter as they stood hand in hand onstage to perform for a crowd. That’s all she really remembered about her father. That he’d enjoyed laughing.
She and Lucas emerged in a tiled annex between the sanctuary and quire. Dozens of children sang from the tiered choir stalls, their young voices blending in with all things old, brightening the somber space.
Rows of folding chairs lined the annex, most of the seats filled with families listening to the children’s song, the women all in smart casual with their dresses or a skirt and jacket. Quenby glanced down at her jeans and blouse and wished she’d had an opportunity to change.
Lucas placed his hand on her back as they walked up the side aisle. They slipped into two chairs near the front, about three rows from the choir.
“There’s my date,” Lucas said with a grin.
Date? Quenby froze as the word ricocheted through her mind. Then she began to panic, scanning the rows around them for the woman who belonged with Lucas. All she saw were irritated glances from several parents, annoyed at the interruption.
Right now, she was more than annoyed at the man next to her. She wanted to clobber him. “You’re meeting someone?”
“Of course.”
She scooted to the edge of her seat. “I’m outta here.”
“She won’t mind.”
“I’m fairly certain that she will.” Her voice was much too loud, but at the moment, she didn’t care.
Lucas reached for her hand. “It would be ungentlemanly of me to let you walk home alone.”
“It would be unladylike of me to tag along on your date!”
He glanced at the chorus and raised his other hand, waving toward the two tiers of children. A girl about seven or eight lifted her arm in return, her white-and-red choir robe dangling like a flag.
The girl’s smile seemed to radiate across the annex when she waved a second time.
Lucas released Quenby’s hand. “She’s stunning, isn’t she?”
“That’s your date?”
He nodded. “My niece.”
Someone hushed them as Quenby moved back into her seat. She stopped the nervous laugh that almost escaped her lips, but she couldn’t stop the pounding of her heart. Lucas said she did unexpected things, but she hardly compared to him.
The children sang in Latin. Beautifully. Lucas’s niece kept smiling toward them, clearly glad that her uncle had made it to the evensong.
It was a man of contrasts sitting beside her. Proud and irritating at times. Then funny and endearing, though she’d never tell him that.
When the singing ended, the girl raced toward Lucas, arms outstretched as she gave him a hug. He picked her up and twirled her around once before setting her back on the ground.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” she scolded.
“I wouldn’t miss this,” he said, tweaking her nose. “Layla, this is my friend Miss Vaughn.” He glanced back at Quenby. “Miss Vaughn, I’d like to introduce you to my favorite niece.”
The girl put one hand on her hip, tilting her head up toward Quenby. “I’m his only niece.”
Quenby laughed. “It’s nice to meet you, Layla. You have a lovely voice.”
She scrunched her face. “My brother doesn’t think so.”
“Boys can be like that. I think God created them to keep us humble.”
“Do you have a brother?”
“No, I have your uncle.” The words spilled out, and she wished she could stuff them back in, but it was too late. Lucas was beside her, trying—unsuccessfully—not to laugh.
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” she insisted.
“I take my humility responsibilities quite seriously,” he said.
“Hello, Lucas.” A polished-looking woman stepped up to his side. She was dressed in a tailored black pantsuit and wore a silver necklace. Her long hair was a dark brown, perfectly straight. “Who is this?” she asked.
“My colleague and friend,” he explained. “Quenby Vaughn.”
“I’m Anabelle,” the woman said, shaking her hand. “Layla’s mum and the sister Lucas likes to keep humble as well. I’m glad he’s decided to turn his attentions elsewhere.”
Quenby wished the floor of the annex would open up and swallow her. She hadn’t meant to say that about Lucas, especially not with his sister nearby.
Layla held up her arms to display her choir robe. “I have to change.”
Anabelle took her hand and guided her away. Quenby watched them for a moment before she turned back toward Lucas. “Please tell me that your parents aren’t here too.”
“Actually—”
She groaned.
“They wouldn’t miss hearing Layla.”
She crossed her arms. “You should have told me I’d be meeting your family.”
“But if I’d told you—” he leaned down, his voice low—“you would have run.”
Chapter 36
Mill House, January 1943
Rosalind blew into the cottage like a summer breeze, dusting away the winter gloom that had settled over the house, shaking branches so a bit of sun could radiate through.
Brigitte first saw her from her bedroom window, riding in the front seat beside Herr. The moment the woman stepped out of the car, her hand resting on the hump of her belly, Brigitte knew everything was about to change.
She watched the three of them through the crack by her door. Instead of fear, Rosalind radiated confidence and sophistication. An air of indifference to the miserly furnishings around her.
“She can’t stay,” Frau hissed even though Rosalind sat poised on a kitchen chair, right in front of her. The red polish on the younger woman’s fingernails matched the color of her tailored coat, and the sitting room seemed to cower in her presence, the dullness of it blurring away.
Even Herr was rattled. “We have no choice,” he said, pacing beside the women.
“Of course we have a choice. I can hardly feed the two of us as it is, Eddie. I’ve no food for her or anything for a baby.”
“He’ll bring us food and supplies,” Rosalind said, examining the nails fanned out in front of her, bored instead of worried about their discussion. “Won’t you, Eddie?”
Frau’s eyes pierced like darts, but Herr ignored the woman completely, speaking to his wife instead. “I’ve brought plenty of food in the motorcar.”
“But what about next week? Or next month? We’ve gone for weeks at a time without a single box from you or her ladyship.”
“I can’t help it if the Royal Mail loses a parcel.”
“You could drive it here yourself, like you promised.”
“Not without raising suspicions. They’re keeping their eye on us.” Herr glanced at Rosalind.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t sugarcoat it for my sake. I’ve seen and heard plenty in the past five years, and one thing I’ve learned—when you’re the one holding the secret, you’re either dead or fed.
The Nazis feed their people well, as long as you stay in their good graces. Fortunately, Mummy needs all of us right now, so we’ll have food.”
Frau seemed to be considering her words.
Rosalind stood, patting Herr on the arm. “Eddie, I’m certain, will make sure we’re fed. He and Mum are on the best of terms.”
Brigitte covered her mouth to suppress her giggle. She liked how this woman stood up to Herr. And how Herr had no retort.
Rosalind glanced around the room, holding the handle of a suitcase. “So where shall I sleep in this stately pile?”
“I’ll bring you a cot,” Frau said.
“Oh no,” Rosalind said, moving toward Frau’s room. “I need a bed.”
“That’s mine—” Frau began.
But Rosalind had already disappeared inside. “Baby and I will sleep just fine in here.”
After Rosalind closed the door, Frau turned slowly toward her husband, her wide eyes narrowing. “This is ludicrous.”
“We have no choice. No one knows that Lady Ricker has a daughter, not even Lord Ricker. He and the servants will wonder where she’s been.”
Frau’s knotted hands flew to her waist. “Where has she been?”
“In Berlin and then Vienna, with the man she says she’s going to marry.”
“A German officer?”
“That’s what she told Lady Ricker. She acts all high and mighty, but she wouldn’t have come home unless she’s in danger.”
“You don’t know that,” Frau said. “If she finds out what we’ve been doing here, if she tells a single person besides her mother, you and I will both be dead.”
“Rosalind supports Hitler.”
Frau shook her head. “That girl supports herself. I wouldn’t trust her for a second to keep our secrets.”
“You don’t have to worry, Olivia. She doesn’t know what we’ve been doing.”
“The moment one of the men shows up—”
“Lady Ricker will make alternative arrangements. Until Rosalind is gone.”
Brigitte’s heart leapt at that news. If Rosalind stayed, perhaps Hitler’s men would never come here again.
“How do you suppose we’re going to care for a baby?”
Catching the Wind Page 19
