Lucas leaned over and swooped Bridget off her chair. “How about feet and hands?”
The woman’s smile was genuine this time. “My Prince Charming.”
A modern-day knight without the armor.
Quenby carried the woman’s handbag up the flight of steps behind them. When they were near the top, Bridget cried out, “Please stop.”
Lucas obeyed.
“Put me down.”
“Are you certain?” Lucas asked as he lowered her.
“Quite.”
Quenby glanced at the five steps behind them, leading down to the tarmac. For a woman of Bridget’s age, a fall from here could be fatal.
Samantha was waiting inside the doorway as Bridget stood on the top step, staring into the jet. Would she refuse to get on board?
Lucas stood below her, on the step alongside Quenby, both of them creating a wall to protect her.
“I can do this,” Bridget whispered.
“Yes, you can,” Quenby said. “You’re writing a new story too.”
Bridget gave another brisk nod and then she walked through the door.
CHAPTER 59
_____
Bridget dabbed a cool washcloth on Dietmar’s forehead. Of the hundreds—if not thousands—of times she had thought about him over the years, of their reuniting one day, she’d never imagined that she’d find him like this, living in the stalwart castle of a knight yet not able to fight any longer.
He tossed on the pillows, his white hair thrashing from side to side.
Now it was her turn to fight for him.
Days passed in quiet solitude, only her and Eileen and occasionally Jack taking turns to care for him. It was so different from her house full of children, but it gave her time to think. And to pray.
Dietmar had saved her life as they fled from Germany, and she thanked God for giving her the strength to board that plane back in England, grateful for this opportunity to be taking care of Dietmar for a change. She’d been so silly in her youth, relying on him like he was an adult when he was only three years her senior. Instead of acting like a princess, she should have discarded her make-believe crown and, for heaven’s sake, tried to milk that cow alongside him back in Belgium.
He tossed again and threw off the covers.
“It’s okay, Dietmar,” she said, uncertain if she should call him by his German name. But Daniel Knight was a man she didn’t know. Dietmar had been her best friend.
“Brigitte?” he whispered, his eyes closed.
She kissed his forehead. “I’m here.”
When he rested against the pillow, she leaned back in her cushioned chair as well and looked out at the waves battering the rocky coast.
She would stay right here with Dietmar in his fortress, for as long as he needed her.
Dietmar heard bells, ringing from the necks of cows. And he smelled mowed grass and honeysuckle and roasted meat. But he and Brigitte couldn’t go into the farmhouse. The woman there, she would turn them over to the police.
His head thrashed back and forth. He needed his armor. His sword.
“Lauf,” he wanted to scream, but the word came out as a whisper on his lips. Why couldn’t he yell anymore?
“It’s okay, Dietmar.”
His eyes flew open, and he glanced around the dark room.
Had they trapped him in the farmhouse already, the farmer and his wife? He struggled to get up from the bed. To find Brigitte. They wouldn’t send him or Brigitte back to Germany.
A light shone beside him, and there was a woman, holding his shoulder. He shouted at her, the words jumbled together—English and German. Told her that she couldn’t have him.
“Brigitte!” he called again.
And then she was there. Standing beside him, smiling down. She looked older than he remembered, but it was of no matter. He was older too.
He glanced around the room, searching for the woman with the coat of teeth. “I won’t let them take you,” he said, reaching for her hand.
“Don’t worry, Dietmar.” She kissed his forehead. “Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
“No—” he started, but his eyes began to close. This time, though, he wouldn’t let go of her hand.
Later, when the sunlight began trickling into his room, he opened his eyes. Brigitte was still there, stretched out on the bed beside him, asleep. Her hair was gray now, but she was so beautiful, content in her rest. Finally she was well again.
He was still watching her when she woke, and she inched up against the walnut headboard, looking out from the tower room at the whisk of wind stirring the sea.
“I tried and tried,” he said. “But I never caught the wind.”
Brigitte took his hand, smiling at him again.
“I caught it,” she assured him. “And it blew me right back to you.”
EPILOGUE
_____
Seven months later
Precious stones and pearls, that’s what Hansel and Gretel took when they ran from the witch. But when Bridget ran from the Mill House, she took a baby, and her life was forever changed.
As Quenby sat on a rug in front of the fire, inside the eagle house, she reminisced on the lives of two very different sisters, writing down thoughts for their memoir while Bridget and Hannah both read books nearby. It was a story they’d decided to tell together, with Mr. Knight’s permission. One that was partially Quenby’s to share as well.
Months ago, she’d told Hannah that Rosalind, her biological mother, had another child—and that her brother, Alexander, now lived in Jacksonville. Uncle Alexander. It was strange to Quenby. She’d never had anyone to call aunt or uncle before.
Hannah and Quenby had flown to Florida several months ago to visit with him. Bridget had thought Lady Ricker sent someone to knock on her door, back in Rodmell, but Alexander said it was actually his father, asking about Brigitte. Rosalind, swept up perhaps in the early days of romance, told her husband about the daughter she’d birthed and then lost near that village. Alexander didn’t know his father’s intentions, beyond confirming whether or not Rosalind’s story was true, but he said it was probably good that Brigitte and Hannah had moved north.
Each of Lady Ricker’s children, it turned out, had a different father, and it seemed that none of them was Lord Ricker.
Rosalind’s father had been Oskar, the German officer whom Lady Ricker had loved. He had been killed in Normandy on D-Day.
Anthony Ricker’s father was probably Eddie Terrell, confirmed only by Mrs. Douglas’s photograph. Quenby thought it best to keep that speculation to herself.
Alexander said that Louise McMann’s father was actually Admiral Drague. Only a few people knew about Lady Ricker and Admiral Drague’s affair, but Louise was privy to the information, as was Evan Graham, Admiral Drague’s grandson.
Quenby wouldn’t be writing an exposé on the Rickers, and Evan didn’t even have to pay her to suppress it. He didn’t have the money anyway. The news had come out recently, unreported by the syndicate, that Evan’s finances were in the tank. An article exposing the Ricker family, and ultimately Evan’s family as well, would have discredited him as a publisher and completely ruined his financial state.
Also, the police in Newhaven were questioning Evan after they found the driver of the gray lorry. The man had directed them to a tourist visiting Brighton, a man who’d promised to pay him a substantial sum to scare Quenby and Lucas away.
Her work at the syndicate was done, but this memoir, she hoped, was only the beginning of stories she could help people tell.
The twelve children housed in this home were all asleep upstairs as snow fell on the lawn. Lucas was supposed to come tonight, but she guessed he’d have to wait until tomorrow.
Bridget rubbed her arms. “I miss Dietmar.”
“Me too,” Quenby said.
Warming her hands on her tea mug, she thought back over the summer and then autumn months. Bridget had stayed true to her word. She’d spent five of those months helping c
are for Mr. Knight, alongside Eileen. When he passed away, they discovered that he’d written Brigitte into his will long ago, hoping he would find her one day. After his death, Bridget and Lucas became partners at Arrow Wind.
Bridget didn’t really know anything about wind, except it could bring people together or tear them apart. But Lucas had learned plenty over the years about the company, and Quenby had no doubt that their farms would continue to thrive.
Part of Mr. Knight’s income had restored Adler House into a beautiful estate. The For Sale sign was gone, and Lucas and Bridget had begun investing in other houses across England to help unaccompanied children and refugee families who needed a home.
Quenby looked up from her iPad screen, her gaze finding Hannah. She’d learned much about forgiveness in these months, but still one question remained for her. “How do you reconcile that our ancestors were Nazis?”
Hannah glanced at Bridget, as she often did when Quenby asked questions about their story, gaining a silent sort of permission from her older sister before she spoke. “They weren’t all Nazis.”
Quenby tilted her head. “Of course not, but—”
“Quenby,” Hannah said, stopping her. “I took a genetic test a few years ago and discovered that I’m of Jewish descent as well as German.”
“From your father’s side?”
“No, from my mother.”
Quenby leaned back against a chair, stunned by her words. “Rosalind was Jewish?”
She nodded slowly. “Passed down from her mother.”
“Lady Ricker?” Quenby whispered.
“Precisely.”
Which meant that Quenby was of German and Jewish descent as well. “I wonder if she knew . . .”
“It was a grand cover-up scheme if she did. Perhaps she was afraid of what Hitler would do if he took England. She wanted to be known in Germany as someone who supported him.”
Jack ducked under the open doorway and stepped into the room, holding up a porcelain teapot. “Would you ladies like some more tea?”
All three women readily agreed, and he began filling their cups with the steaming brew.
Jack didn’t need a job—Mr. Knight had taken good care of both him and Eileen in his will too—but he’d asked Bridget if he could accompany her to England. And then he’d stayed. The children loved him, and Quenby thought there was a spark between him and Hannah, though they’d probably both deny it.
Her phone rang, and she saw Lucas’s number on the screen. The other two ladies pretended to be engrossed in their books, but she’d learned they were both quite nosy. And they both adored her guy.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked when she answered his call.
“How about tonight?”
“The weather is terrible,” she said, but then she saw headlamps outside the window, and her heart filled with joy.
Hannah excused herself to help Jack in the kitchen, and Bridget pretended to have fallen asleep in her recliner, though Quenby saw her peeking through her eyelids.
“How’s my fiancée?” Lucas asked when he walked into the door. He liked calling her that, ever since she’d agreed to marry him. And each time he said the word, it made her smile.
“I’m much better now.”
He kissed her lips instead of her cheek and handed her a winter bouquet with red roses, white calla lilies, and glossy magnolia leaves.
“What are these for?”
“Just because,” he said as he settled down on the rug beside her as if he belonged here. “Because I love you, Quenby Vaughn.”
When she kissed him this time, the winter wind rattled the glass, but it didn’t startle her. Finally she, too, had found her way home.
Author’s Note
More than a year ago, I sat down with a mug of green tea in my favorite coffee shop, scribbling down my ideas for this novel. Outside the window stood an old tree, a weeping cedar with its sturdy branches and dangling leaves that ballooned like a giant umbrella over the people drinking coffee and tea below.
In my mind’s eye, I saw two German children—the best of friends—playing high among those branches. In a tree house. They were in danger, though at the time I didn’t know what threatened them. I just knew the boy and girl had to run. And the girl would be lost along the way.
As I sipped my drink, the plight of Dietmar and Brigitte began unfolding. It was a gift to me, this story. Given by the Master Creator, who, I believe, works powerfully through stories to redeem His children.
My journey to research this novel took me north to the misty San Juan Islands, across the Atlantic to visit the historic streets and heaths in London and the beautiful gardens and villages of Kent, then down to Switzerland to tour the medieval fortress Château de Chillon.
Years ago, my husband and I hiked in a forest of bright green behind Moselkern to visit another medieval castle called Burg Eltz. I drew on my memories of touring both Germany and Belgium and then living in Germany for a season to tell the story of Dietmar and Brigitte’s escape. The Disney scenes were from my own childhood—and adult—fascination with the magic of story in Orlando.
While in London, I spent an entire day at the National Archives reading through a stack of recently released top secret files as well as older documents about German espionage in the United Kingdom. Many British citizens sympathized with Nazi Germany for a multitude of reasons, and I read account after account of men and women who either gathered information for Hitler or attempted to wreak havoc on England’s facilities. There were handwritten letters from suspected spies; documents about microphotography, invisible ink, and secret codes; a worn file about a Nazi parachutist who became a double agent; and the transcriptions of interrogations conducted during and after the war.
Before World War II, hundreds of German agents gathered information in England about airfields, military bases, and factories, but hours after Great Britain declared war against Germany, British agents apprehended many of these men and women. They were either detained or deported back to Germany. Still the Nazis continued sending men over during the war via plane or boat to gather information and sabotage the country.
England has a grand tradition of documenting the normalcy of life through volunteers who submit their diaries to an organization called Mass Observation. These accounts from the 1940s were an invaluable reference for me as the diarists recorded their fears about espionage, the preparations for war, and the explanation of how the resentment toward Nazis spread to a hatred of all German people, many of whom already lived among the British.
While the threads of espionage stitched this novel together, my heart was not to expose those who betrayed their country—or those who came to a country bent on destruction—as much as to celebrate the redemption and resiliency of children removed or evacuated from their homes and sent to live in another place around the world. So many children today need to begin writing new chapters of redemption and love in the stories of their lives. Catching the Wind was written with a grateful heart to all those who’ve helped abandoned, orphaned, and refugee children begin a new story.
If you’re interested in more information about helping children who need a home, here are five extraordinary organizations that care for kids around the world: remembernhu.org, hearthecry.org, worldorphans.org, runministries.org, and worldrelief.org. Also, prayforthem.com is an excellent resource if you’d like to pray specifically for refugees.
As with all my novels, writing this story was a personal journey, but a host of people partnered with me to help straighten up my facts and encourage me along the way. I’ve had to change minor points for the sake of story—like relocating chalky cliffs from the eastern bank to the west along the River Ouse—but I’ve tried to remain as accurate as possible with my facts. Any and all errors are my fault.
A special thank-you to:
My editors—Stephanie Broene, Sarah Rische, and Shaina Turner—and the entire staff at Tyndale House Publishers for welcoming me so graciously to your team. It’s a pr
ivilege to partner with you. My agent, Natasha Kern, for your constant support and the wisdom you pour boundlessly into my life and writing career. Your heart to fight for those in need inspires me and so many others.
Kevin and Amanda Bates, Jacob Pflug, and all the baristas at Symposium Coffee for allowing me to sit for hours, nursing a green tea as I write in the old house you’ve turned into a beautiful shop, and for inspiring me with your faith and your love of story as well. Amanda—there are two lines in this novel taken straight from your lips. They still make me smile. . . .
The delightful Peter and Anne Cook for sharing your home in Greenwich and your many wonderful stories with me. Caroline Watts, travel agent extraordinaire, for helping me get exactly where I needed to go and for sharing your own stories of England. Ed and Jitka Peacock for graciously rescuing me after I toured the remote Scotney Castle in Kent and delivering me to a train station near Tonbridge so I didn’t have to spend the night in the forest alone.
Aunt Janet Wacker for embracing our family’s heritage and for inspiring me with your many stories. Pinn Crawford and all the librarians at my local library who not only helped me find the resources I needed, but did it with such joy. My engineer brother-in-law Jim Dobson for brainstorming plot and my scientist brother-in-law Dr. Steve Dobson for teaching me how to use a modern-day microscope. Thanks to each of you for sharing your expertise.
My cousin and airline pilot extraordinaire, David Ransopher, and my friend and corporate flight attendant, Ann Menke, for educating me on corporate aviation. My critique partners—Dawn Shipman, Kelly Chang, Nicole Miller, and Mesu Andrews—for sharing your wisdom and allowing me to step into your stories even as you step into mine. Michele Heath, my friend and first reader, for your insight and encouragement. You always cut to the heart of what I want to say and help me communicate it better on the next version. Sheila Herbert for your gracious gift of time and wisdom as I continue learning about life in England both past and present. Tamara Park for inviting me into your journey and for your courage and passion as you interview refugee children and families around the world.
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