by Kate Breslin
Miss Reyer was a fair driver too, dodging rough patches in the road and slowing to almost a halt when they traversed a rather deep puddle, no doubt left by a recent rain. From time to time he glanced at her, and once or twice, their eyes met. She offered an encouraging smile before returning her attention to the road.
His suspicions began fading with the miles that took them away from the city. If she were an enemy spy, she was putting on quite the elaborate act to convince him otherwise. Perhaps Miss Reyer was who she claimed to be.
After they crossed a branch of the Seine, she slowed the motorcycle and wheeled onto a long dirt drive. Soon a château came into view, cast in a pink brick and white marbled framework and accommodating three tall peaks along its roof line. Eventually the dirt turned to concrete as they pulled into the semicircular drive and stopped in front of an elaborate portico.
She killed the motorcycle’s engine and faced him, a smile on her lips. “Welcome to Château de Gall. We call it La Maison des Oiseaux. The birdhouse.”
She swung off the motorcycle and removed her headgear while Colin levered his prosthetic against an edge of the sidecar and used his good hand to pry himself from the cramped space. Once he stood on solid ground, he took off his goggles and saw her watching him. “Are you entertained, Miss Reyer?”
She averted her gaze, then looked back at him as if to say something. Only a sigh emerged, however, before she turned and mounted the steps leading to the massive front door.
He remained next to the sidecar. “Who is this we you speak of?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Me . . . and the French Army. Here at the birdhouse, we work with pigeons that bring messages from the Front.”
“Obviously you send those messages as well.”
Again she avoided his gaze. Yes, she had purposely misled him.
“We send intelligence on to your British Army headquarters at Montreuil.”
Which was how he came by Miss Reyer’s dire note.
“Please, come inside and meet my friends.”
He followed her up the curved entry steps into the château’s cool interior. Parquet wood tiles formed V-shaped patterns along the polished floors of the grand entryway. At the far end of the spacious hall stood an arched opening that led into what appeared to be a larger room.
“If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll go and . . . freshen up.”
He caught the proud tilt of her chin beneath the grime and nodded.
Once she disappeared, he moved deeper into the château. To his right, beyond the faded silk-and-wood-paneled wall, rose a white stone staircase, the ornate ironwork bannister winding upward to the next landing.
He looked higher, to an expansive mural decorating the vaulted ceiling: a depiction of the heavens, the deep pink and azure colors marred in places where the paint had peeled. Edged along the blue skies were seven rosy-cheeked cherubs, their plump bodies clothed in gauze as they looked toward a large white dove haloed by streaks of gold. Its wings spread in flight, the bird seemed an image of the Holy Ghost.
“She’s not here.”
Miss Reyer reappeared, her voice agitated. Colin was again jarred to see her in men’s britches, as she had abandoned the muddy trench coat altogether.
She’d managed to wash her face, though a streak of the dirt remained along her hairline. The grime had semiconcealed the dark blue eyes, high cheekbones, and small, straight nose that complemented her blond hair and pale features. Jewel had not such fair skin, but her hair was the same golden color.
Miss Reyer’s pursed lips were as pink as the flower cart roses he’d seen in Paris. “Isabelle was supposed to wait for us.”
“Who is Isabelle?”
She ignored his question and strode purposefully past the marble staircase toward the larger room at the far end.
Colin stifled his annoyance and quickly caught up with her. They passed the dining room with its long oak table and chairs set against a colorful Turkish rug, then reached another hall to their left.
He paused at the low murmur of male voices.
“Those are the two agents from the Deuxième Bureau, the French Secret Service. They keep an office here in Vernon.” She’d halted with him and nodded in the direction of the voices. “The men decode messages from the Front, and a secretary types the reports. The documents are then sent on to the Bureau in Paris.”
Much the same as his job with MI8. “Where is the dovecote?”
“At the back of the estate. My friend André—Sergeant Moreau—should be there now.”
“Do you work with the pigeons as well?”
She nodded. “I help the sergeant raise and train them. Before my grandfather died, he loved racing pigeons, so I grew up in Ireland with the birds. Now come, we must hurry.”
She took him through the great room, with its ancient, elaborate furnishings, and pulled open a set of tall French doors leading onto a veranda.
Outside, the air held the heady scent of lilac. Leaving the covered porch, they strode across a manicured lawn surrounded by a perimeter of tall, leafy poplars and red-flowering horse chestnut trees. Beyond the row of trees, he had to shield his eyes against the afternoon sun as they paused to admire a circular brick tower standing at the far end of the grounds.
“The dovecote was built in the seventeenth century by a French nobleman.” She indicated the turret, its roof resembling a pointed hat. “When his descendants handed over the estate for the war effort two years ago, the army replaced some of the timbers and filled in the missing bricks, but inside the stone boulins, or pigeonholes, are still in fine condition.”
“How many birds?” Colin knew approximately a hundred pigeons were kept at the dovecote in Hastings.
“We have up to two hundred and fifty pigeons here at any given time.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “You send and receive that much information?”
She nodded. “Now let’s be quick; we’re wasting time.”
She continued on toward the dovecote, and as he followed, Colin couldn’t help noticing her graceful movements despite the mannish dress. She opened the entrance door slowly and crossed the threshold before she motioned to him to follow. “I should tell you—”
A flurry of flapping wings rose at Colin as he stepped inside, and he instinctively raised a protective arm toward his face as scores of birds suddenly took flight. Amid a cacophony of cooing noises, the air in front of him clouded with feathers and dust so that he could hardly see.
“The birds become alarmed with strangers!” Miss Reyer called to him as she reached into a bin near the door and scooped out a handful of dried corn. Once she flung the kernels out into the dovecote’s center, many of the pigeons resettled and began feeding while others ascended toward the rafters.
“Thanks for the warning.” Colin growled the words as he lowered his arm, his nostrils flaring as the pungent, fecal odor of birds assailed him. When the debris in the air finally began to clear, he brushed off his uniform and surveyed the dovecote’s shadowy confines. Every inch of space in the circular structure held a series of concrete holes, most of them filled with birds. Above them near the roofline were four large openings fitted with traps.
“Who has entered my pigeonnier, and why are you upsetting my birds?”
At the sound of the indignant shout, Colin looked across to the opposite side of the dovecote, where a lean figure stood atop a high ladder. The ladder was attached to a crossbeam and fastened to a vertical wooden pole that ran the center length of the building.
“André, it’s me.” Miss Reyer’s voice held humor. “I have brought someone for you to meet.”
The man was looking their direction. “Jo, ma chère! He is here? C’est formidable!” His booming voice caused another massive fluttering of wings before the feeding birds resettled. “I will be down in a moment.”
He reached to grab at the concrete ledge and slowly pulled himself around the circular wall toward them. The center pole easily turned with the ladde
r. When he was directly overhead, he descended the rungs.
His middle-aged face creased with relief and gladness, and in the dim light Colin saw that his rich brown hair and moustache held traces of gray. He wore the blue uniform of the French army, and strapped across his chest was a small wooden cage housing a white bird.
He wiped his hands on his trousers before offering one to Colin. “It is good to finally meet you . . . Lieutenant Mabry, eh? I am Sergeant Moreau and in charge of the pigeonnier. And this is Little Corporal.” He glanced down at the white bird. “We welcome you.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Accepting the man’s hearty handshake, Colin sent an arched look at Miss Reyer. “It was a welcome I will not soon forget.”
“Certainement.” The sergeant chuckled. “We are the birdhouse, after all.”
Colin sensed Miss Reyer shift beside him. “Well, André, now that he’s come, we can go and find my sister. Where did Isabelle run off to?”
“Patience, ma petite.” The sergeant turned to wink at Colin. “Jo, she is headstrong, no? Since having learned her sister is found, she is like a wild bird ready to flee the cage.”
It seemed Miss Reyer had been telling the truth. Jewel was alive. Colin’s pulse quickened as he turned to her. “Who is this . . . Isabelle?”
“Miss Isabelle Moreau is my daughter, Lieutenant,” the sergeant spoke up. “She works for the Deuxième Bureau. She wished to be here in case you arrived, but an errand sent her to Rouen. I expect her back soon.” He glanced at Miss Reyer. “She will be glad to know that Jo now has a protector to accompany her.”
“In case you arrived . . .” Did they not think he would come to France to save Jewel? He frowned, staring at the sergeant. “Why does Miss Reyer need protection?”
“Ma fille will answer your questions once she returns.”
Colin’s mouth thinned. More stalling. Was this Isabelle Moreau the only person who had information about Jewel?
He considered interrogating the sergeant further, but the older man’s untroubled smile made him hold his tongue. If his daughter worked for the French Secret Service, it was possible she’d withheld certain information from him and Miss Reyer.
“Jo, you have offered our lieutenant some refreshment, oui?”
She ducked her head before turning her attention to Colin. “Would you care for tea, Lieutenant?”
Patience, man. He drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “A cup of tea would be appreciated.”
“Très bien!” The sergeant laughed and gave him a hearty slap on the back. Inside the small cage, the white bird’s wings fluttered.
Miss Reyer reached for the cage. “André, please don’t distress him.” She directed a look of displeasure at the sergeant, but he shrugged and continued to grin.
She opened the cage and gently gathered up the bird, holding it close with one hand while she smoothed its white feathers with the other. “Tout va bien, my little corporal. All is well.”
Her soothing voice seemed to calm the bird, and after a few moments, she carefully returned the pigeon to its cage. “We’ll go inside until Isabelle returns. Ready, Lieutenant?”
Colin exchanged a salute with the Frenchman before following Miss Reyer back toward the château. Both had brushed the remaining feathers from their clothes by the time they reached the veranda, and she indicated he should take a seat. “We’ll have our tea out here. I won’t be long.”
After the shadowy confines of the dovecote, Colin was relieved to be outside. He refused to sit, however, and remained standing beside a pair of high-backed wicker peacock chairs. He wasn’t about to get comfortable while they awaited Isabelle’s return. He’d left off questioning the sergeant, but Miss Reyer wasn’t getting off so easily. She still had much to answer for.
“I hope you like Pekoe.”
She stepped back through the French doors with a tray, setting the white porcelain tea service on the small table between the chairs. There was also a plate of biscuits dusted with real sugar.
“I see the French Secret Service eats well.”
She sat and began pouring the tea. “Believe me, the biscuits are a rare treat. Miss Moreau went to school with the owner of the pâtisserie near her office in Paris. She works here at the Vernon branch on Wednesdays and brought them to the château this morning.”
She shrugged. “Otherwise, like most of the French, especially those in Paris, we’ve had to ration.”
Colin hadn’t sampled a sugared biscuit in a long while, and his stomach growled. She smiled. “Please help yourself, Lieutenant. Do not let them go to waste.”
She set the saucer with its cup of steaming tea on the table beside his chair and then began to serve herself. “Won’t you take a seat?”
He waited until she glanced up at him. “I’m tired of games, Miss Reyer. What do you know about Jewel? Where is she, and why is she in trouble?”
———
Jo poured a dollop of milk into her tea as she weighed her response. The lieutenant had been more than patient, and she owed him an explanation.
How much to tell him was the real question. “We . . . that is, Miss Moreau and I—believe Jewel was taken away from her village a few months ago by a German officer.”
“Is she behind enemy lines?”
His gravelly voice drew her attention. Seeing his pale features, her pulse accelerated. Surely he wouldn’t change his mind and leave! She’d waited years for this chance. Papa . . .
A familiar ache pierced her, and she instinctively sought the ring on her right finger, twisting the silver band round and round. “I don’t believe Jewel is in occupied France anymore, Lieutenant. We would not be able to get to her otherwise.”
The blood returned to his face. “I suppose you’re right.”
His relief was contagious, and her heart resumed a normal beat. “I am sorry I cannot give you more information on her whereabouts. My friend Isabelle will explain when she arrives.”
When he made no move to sit, she sighed. “And if I have to keep looking up at you, my neck is certain to get spasms.”
After a tense moment, he removed his cap and dropped into the adjacent wicker chair. Ignoring the tea, he stared at her. “Explain to me, Miss Reyer, how you and Jewel can be sisters, since it is obvious you are not French.” He leaned forward in the seat. “She never mentioned you. Not once.”
His demand shattered her hope of any respite from his interrogation. “To address your second statement, I don’t believe she knows about me.” She busied herself stirring her tea. “As to the first, Jewel and I share the same father, but not the same mother.”
“Half sisters, then.”
She nodded. “She is two years older, and I know that her mother died giving birth to her. Sometime afterward, our father came to Paris, where he met my mother, who was studying art.” Again her pulse quickened, the old defiance raising her chin. “I am the illegitimate daughter, Lieutenant.”
Surprise touched his features, but his gaze held none of the condemnation she’d expected. “Who is your mother?”
“Was. She died two years ago in Dublin. That is when I came to France to find my father. I met him once when I was a child.” The hazy images she’d clung to for years suddenly rose: Blue eyes, strong hands. His smile kissing her palm. The smell of tobacco mingled with an ineffable scent imprinted on her before remembrance . . . the knowledge she was a part of him. Her papa . . .
“Did your mother tell you about Jewel? Or was it your father? He’s still with the French Army, isn’t he?”
Jo turned to him. “Neither of my parents ever spoke of my having a sister, at least that I remember. And Papa . . .” She fought off a wave of anguish. “When I first arrived in Paris two years ago, I contacted his regiment through the Red Cross.” She glanced at her lap. “I learned he was reported missing.”
“I’m sorry.” The edge in his tone eased. “When I was with Jewel last year, she never said . . . well, I suppose being cut off from the outside world in occup
ied France, she had no way of knowing about his situation.” He paused. “So, how is it you found out about Jewel?”
She looked up to see him reaching for the creamer on the tray, and her glance flitted to the gloved hand resting motionless against his thigh. Jo tried to imagine life without the use of both hands and realized she wouldn’t be able to drive the Triumph, a part of her duties for the Bureau she cherished. How did the lieutenant get dressed each morning? She’d had enough experience with buttoning her uniform britches to know it would be impossible—
“Miss Reyer?”
Reeling in her thoughts, she picked up her cup. “I found her diary at Havrincourt.”
He went still. “Havrincourt? You were there?”
“Two months ago.” She took a sip of her tea. “Before the Boche retook the village in their latest spring attack. News arrived in early December that the enemy had been pushed back from my father’s village after a tank battle at Cambrai. I begged Sergeant Moreau to take me there, but he insisted we wait. Several weeks passed before the weather changed and the Allies had reasonably secured the area. We drove in by truck and found much of the town destroyed. A villager who remained told me where to find my father’s farm. I walked among the ruins of the farmhouse and outbuildings, looking for some sign Papa had been there.”
She glanced at the band on her finger. The tiny silver bird’s sapphire eye seemed to wink in the light. A dove’s eye. Her papa had given her the ring when she was a child, but at Havrincourt she’d wanted something more—his photograph, perhaps the pipe she remembered. Some scrap of his life that would tell her where the army had sent him.
“I found the diary instead.” Her gaze lifted to the lieutenant. “So I brought the book back to Paris and began reading about my sister.”
Jo recalled how she’d devoured every word of the diary, reassuring proof that she was no longer alone in the world. Because of Jewel, she still had a family. “My sister began making entries not long after the war began and recorded the events of her village while they lived among the enemy.” She eyed him over the rim of the cup. “Jewel also wrote about you, Lieutenant.”
