All it took was one bad film to kill Hannah’s film career. Hollywood rejected her, and while she was still recovering from the loss, she received a call from a hospital in Orlando. Jocelyn had died from a drug overdose.
Bridget’s heart broke at the news. She could have been there, should have been there, to rescue Jocelyn before she ran away. Then to protect her from the anonymous man who’d given the ambulance driver Hannah’s name.
For years she’d hated herself for not intervening, and Hannah hated herself for abandoning her child, like Rosalind had done to her.
But God can redeem even the bleakest of situations. After she returned, Hannah never left England again. The two women—sisters—partnered together in their regrets and redemption.
God could still love, they discovered, even when they’d failed.
CHAPTER 55
_____
Lucas carried two new suitcases into his parents’ stately home in Brentford, the brick walls of the old house a pale pink. They’d spent the day driving through the dales of Yorkshire, asking about Adler House.
When they didn’t find it, Lucas suggested they fly back to London and stay at his parents’ house for the night—the police in Newhaven hadn’t located the gray lorry, and he didn’t want Quenby to spend the night in her flat.
Until police found the lorry driver, she didn’t want to spend the night alone either.
Mrs. Hough greeted them warmly, and Quenby thought the woman looked quite regal with her tailored blue suit and white scarf tied neatly around her neck.
“Welcome,” Mrs. Hough said, shaking her hand.
“Thank you for having me.”
“I’m pleased you came. Please roam wherever you’d like.”
Lucas held up their bags. “Right now, we’ll roam upstairs.”
Quenby climbed the winding staircase behind him, and he placed her bag beside a bed in one of the guest rooms. The bedcovering and wallpaper were striped with a tangerine color, and two oil paintings hung at the end of her bed—an austere-looking man with a white wig and a pretty woman wearing an elegant mauve-and-gray gown with a lace bonnet and satin bow.
Lucas pointed toward the portraits. “My great-great-great-grandparents . . . or something like that. They lived here more than a century ago.”
What would it be like to have a family heritage that stretched back for centuries? A story that was beyond yourself?
He reached for her hand, holding it as he’d done the entire flight and the car ride here. He blamed himself for the accident, though she’d told him repeatedly he’d done nothing wrong.
Outside the dual windows, twilight made the pool behind the manor glow pink and orange. “It’s lovely,” she said.
“Indeed.”
But when she turned, Lucas wasn’t looking outside. His eyes were on her. Nervous, she released his hand and reached for her handbag before scooting toward the door.
“Quenby—”
But she was already out in the corridor. She’d been avoiding this conversation since their evening in Florida, and she had no desire to start it now. Her heart was all wrapped up in this man, and she was terrified that it was some sort of mirage. When she blinked, he’d be gone.
Beside the kitchen was a breakfast nook that contained a small table walled in by windows. She removed Mrs. Douglas’s file from her bag along with her phone and iPad, placing them on the table.
Mrs. Hough walked into the kitchen and glanced at the items spread across the table. “Would you like some tea?”
“I would love some.”
“With milk?”
“Please.”
Mrs. Hough filled three mugs with hot water and dropped a tea bag into each one. Once they steeped, she added fresh milk to the mugs and brought them to the table, sitting down beside Quenby. “You’re immersed in some sort of project,” she said, tapping the file.
“Lucas and I have been working to find someone lost during World War II.”
She nodded. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Lucas so—so engrossed.”
Her words seemed to hover between them and the steam from their mugs. Was Mrs. Hough talking about her son’s interest in this case or his interest in Quenby?
She propped her iPad up, uncertain how to respond.
Mrs. Hough patted her hand. “It’s good for him.”
“He’s a loyal man—to Mr. Knight.”
Mrs. Hough smiled. “He’s always been loyal to the people he cares for.”
Quenby glanced back at her computer screen.
“What are you searching for?” Mrs. Hough asked.
“A house in Yorkshire called Adler.” She turned the screen so Mrs. Hough could see the reference online.
“Lucas’s grandparents might know where it is. They spend a few weeks up there each summer.”
“I tried to ring them,” Lucas said as he stepped into the room. “They aren’t answering their phones.”
“They’re holidaying in Porto Cervo at the moment.” Mrs. Hough inched one of the mugs toward her son. “I’ll contact a few of my friends up near Yorkshire to see if they know of it.”
Lucas reached for Quenby’s iPad, pulling it away from her. “You’re not supposed to be on that.”
“Bossy,” she huffed.
He shrugged, winking at her. “Doctor’s orders.”
Mrs. Hough cleared her throat.
“I’m allowed to look at photographs,” Quenby said, opening the paper file.
She spread the articles and photographs from Mrs. Douglas out on the kitchen table, looking at the various pictures she assumed were taken by Eddie Terrell. Photographs of dinner parties and of people sunning on beach chairs by a swimming pool and bathing hut. Some of the photographs had been taken inside an elaborate parlor that reminded her of the one used for Downton Abbey, Lady Ricker trimmed with a jeweled necklace, opera gloves, and a tiara.
“Where is this?” Mrs. Hough asked, picking up a photo of Lady Ricker sitting on a settee.
“Most of them were taken at Breydon Court near Tonbridge. At the home of Lord and Lady Ricker.” Quenby inched the photographs toward her. “Do you know any of these people?”
Mrs. Hough turned over one of them as if searching for writing on the back, but it was blank. “I recognize this man.”
Lucas leaned forward. “Who is it, Mum?”
“Drague,” she said, pointing at an older gentleman with Lady Ricker. “Admiral Drague. He was quite the charmer in London society after his wife died.”
“Was he a commander during World War II?” Lucas asked.
“No, it would have been the First World War. He came home a hero.”
Quenby looked at Lucas, and she knew he was wondering as well why this hero from the war was socializing with Lady Ricker. And why he had later purchased her home.
“Didn’t you say you worked for the World News Syndicate?” Mrs. Hough asked.
“That’s correct.”
“Admiral Drague’s daughter married Richard Graham, back in the 1940s, I think. Around the time he founded the syndicate.”
Quenby’s eyes widened at this revelation, stray pieces of this puzzle snapping into place. She turned back toward the iPad, her fingers itching to start researching the man.
“I’ll do it for you,” Lucas said as if he’d read her mind.
He typed as Quenby and Mrs. Hough sipped their tea. Then he whistled.
Quenby dove toward the iPad, but he pulled it out of her reach. “I’ll read it.”
He’d found an editorial written by Richard Graham—Evan’s father—in 1948, about the late Lord Ricker and his wife. It was a seething condemnation of anyone absurd enough to think they’d been part of an aristocratic espionage network. The Rickers, he wrote, were loyal to Great Britain and the efforts of the war.
“This story must have run around the time Lady Ricker was interviewed,” Quenby said. “If she and Admiral Drague were acquaintances, he would have wanted her name cleared so no one would susp
ect him of being a traitor to his country as well.”
Lucas nodded. “A marriage between his daughter and Richard Graham was collateral for the future. With Graham as his son-in-law, any other questions about the Rickers could have been circumvented by the papers.”
“Spoken like a lawyer,” Quenby teased.
He sat back in his chair. “It’s the power of your press.”
“If they were collaborating in some way, why would Lady Ricker keep a picture of him?” Mrs. Hough asked.
Lucas’s smile was grim. “Probably to use for blackmail.”
“A smart woman, I suppose,” Mrs. Hough said as she pushed away from the table, her mug empty.
“Where does Richard Graham’s son play into all of this?” Lucas asked.
The light on Quenby’s mobile blinked. The name on the screen was the one she’d keyed in days ago by the river. “Perhaps we are about to find out.”
CHAPTER 56
_____
“Will you walk with me?” Lucas asked after Quenby emerged from the library, shaken from her conversation with Evan Graham.
Quenby glanced toward the corridor, but Mrs. Hough had conveniently disappeared. “It’s late.”
“Does your head hurt?” he asked.
“No.”
“Please—we won’t be long.”
When she nodded, he gently took the phone from her hand and placed it on the table. “You won’t need a phone out there.”
She followed Lucas outside, onto the stone pavers of a patio. The burr of crickets accompanied them as they walked toward a pool surrounded by flowers and ornamental shrubs. Starlight reflected in the still black water, and the aromas of jasmine and rose perfumed the evening air, wind rustling their leaves.
“What did Evan say?” he asked, pausing beside the pool.
“He wants to know what I’ve uncovered in my research.”
“And you said—”
“That his grandfather was a friend of the Rickers.”
“I bet he loved that.”
“I didn’t say it exactly like that, but I told him I’d found a photograph of Admiral Drague and Lady Ricker together before Admiral Drague purchased Breydon Court. I told him I had no desire or even evidence to implicate his family, but still . . .”
“What?” Lucas asked.
“He offered me a tremendous amount of money to return to work in the morning and hand over my research. Then he wanted me to start writing a different story.”
“I hope you told him you’re not motivated by money.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“You are an amazing woman, Quenby.”
She shook her head. “Not so much. Not after you get to know me.”
He reached for her other hand. “I think I know you pretty well.”
“There’s much that is still unbeknownst to you,” she said, trying to make a joke, lighten the intensity in his eyes, but he didn’t laugh.
“You are worth fighting for.” He stepped closer. “You and I both know I’m far from perfect, but I would like the opportunity to love you as you should be loved.”
She swallowed hard, basking in his words. “I—” she started, faltering. If only she could ride on the breeze, travel far away from here. “You’re using your superpowers again.”
“Which power is that?” he asked.
“Manipulation.”
“That’s not a superpower.” He stepped back. “And I’m not trying to manipulate you.”
Disappointment laced his words as if she were accusing him of the worst sort of crime. Now he would surely run.
“I’m being completely honest with you,” he said, still holding her hands though he was losing grip.
Could she do the same? Be completely honest with him?
Daniel had spent his whole life trying to keep his promise to return to Brigitte, and it seemed as if Lucas kept his promises too. He’d certainly kept his word with her. Perhaps she could learn again to trust the people who wanted what was best for her.
Perhaps she could love him in return.
“Lucas,” she started again, taking a deep breath.
“I’m not going to leave you, Quenby.”
Before she replied, Mrs. Hough called out to them from the patio. Quenby stepped away.
Lucas looked at Quenby a moment longer and then called over his shoulder, “We’re out here.”
“Oh, good.” She hurried forward, finding them by the pool. “You said Adler House, didn’t you?”
“That’s correct,” Lucas said.
“The provost at a secondary school in Yorkshire said some of his best students come from there.”
“Students?” Quenby asked, her voice a strange squeak.
Mrs. Hough shrugged. “He didn’t expound, but he gave me the address.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Lucas said.
She glanced between them. “I’ll leave you alone, then,” she said, backing away.
But the magic was already gone.
Adler House was hidden among the dales of North Yorkshire. It was a place, Quenby guessed, where knights triumphed over evil. A place where princesses could fly.
Like Breydon Court, iron gates blocked the lane into the property, but there was no intercom button to press. And a For Sale sign hung crooked from one of the gates. Quenby feared that once again, Brigitte had slipped away.
An unkempt hedgerow, made of yew, extended from the gates, and the limbs of several large trees dangled over it. Quenby eyed the branches. “Should we climb it?”
“You’re not climbing anything,” Lucas said as he stepped out of the rented BMW. He hurried around the car to open her door.
She stood up beside him. “My head feels fine now.”
“Thanks to the ibuprofen.”
Quenby lifted her fingers to her lips, glancing toward one of the trees. “Listen.”
Someone giggled, up under the cover of leaves, and Lucas stepped toward the hedge. “It sounds like a monkey.”
“Hello,” Quenby called out.
A boy somersaulted over the lowest branch like an acrobat and dangled off it from his knees, his head hanging precariously close to the ground. Quenby held her breath as he flipped like the wakeboarder back in Florida. Thankfully, he landed on his feet as well.
“Bravo,” Quenby said with a clap, stepping toward the tree.
He held out his hand to shake hers. “I’m Elias.”
“I’m Quenby, and this is Lucas.”
The boy didn’t acknowledge Lucas.
“Do you live in Adler House?” Quenby asked.
He studied her face as if he was trying to decipher her words.
The curtain of leaves parted again, and a girl with blonde pigtails stuck her head out between them. “He doesn’t know much English.”
Quenby smiled at her. “We’re looking for the woman who owns Adler House.”
“Ms. Hannah?”
Her pulse raced. In her interview with Hannah Dayne, the woman had never mentioned that she actually cared for children in her house. “Yes, is she here?”
“She’s always here.” The girl dropped to the ground and shook her hand like Elias had done. “I’m Maya, from Syria.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Maya. How long have you been in England?”
“A year and four days. Ms. Hannah said I could stay here as long as I’d like.”
Quenby pointed back toward Lucas. “My friend and I are trying to find a girl who was lost a long time ago.”
The girl said something to Elias in another language. Then he jumped up and grasped the bottom branch of the tree, weighing it down. He pointed at Quenby and then at the tree. “Come.”
“Wait a minute.” Lucas moved forward. “The doctor said—”
“Technically, you said it, but I’ll be careful.”
“Quenby—” His words faltered. They were so close to finding Brigitte. Nothing, he seemed to realize, was going to stop her from climbing over to the other side.
Lucas reached for the branch. “I’ll go first.”
But Elias scowled at him. “No man allowed.”
Maya apologized. “Some men . . . they hurt him before he left home.”
Quenby couldn’t imagine what both of these children had been through. Nor could she understand what evil drove a person to hurt an innocent child . . . or abandon one. Thankfully, it seemed these children had found safety here.
“Lucas is a good man,” she told Elias. “A kind one.”
She didn’t know if he understood, but she felt Lucas’s hand on her shoulder.
“Be careful, Quenby,” he whispered. “You might start liking me.”
She glanced back at him. “I’m afraid it’s already too late for that.”
She thought he might kiss her right there, but he eyed the tree instead. “I don’t want you to go over that wall alone.”
“I won’t be alone,” she said softly. “Elias and Maya will be with me.”
“But—” he started to protest again.
“If I don’t go now, the children will surely tell Brigitte. And she might run again.”
Lucas glanced at Elias. “Take care of her.”
Elias didn’t stop scowling, but he nodded.
“Do you have your phone?” Lucas asked.
Quenby checked her handbag. “I do.”
“If I don’t hear from you in thirty minutes, I’m phoning the police and an ambulance.”
“Give me forty-five.”
Maya and Elias pressed down on the lowest branch with the strength of their feet. Quenby secured the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and then, with Lucas’s help, pulled herself up onto the branch. She climbed the tree and then over the hedge to the other side.
When her feet touched the ground, she shouted to Lucas that she was fine. Then, turning, she glimpsed the expanse of the park in front of her. It was blooming pink, white, and magenta from a host of magnolia trees.
Maya was on one side of her, Elias on the other, and together they paraded through the color, toward a roof in the distance.
Moments later, when they emerged through the trees, Quenby felt dizzy. Standing before her was a house of buttercream.
Catching the Wind Page 28
