Far Side of the Sea

by Kate Breslin

  Her sister had grieved at his departure, the writing on the pages alternating between anger at being abandoned by him and joy in the hope he would come back for her and make her his wife. “She spoke of her love for you and your promise to return.”

  Jo saw how her words cut him, and a part of her felt justified, especially after reading Jewel’s description of the deprivation and filth, the horrors so many endured while living at the mercy of the enemy. And still he had left her there.

  Another part of her sympathized to see the way regret marred his handsome face. She knew firsthand what that kind of sorrow tasted like: the inability to recall one’s actions, like murder and rebellion. Treason against the Crown . . .

  Her attention returned to the lieutenant as he cleared his throat. “What makes you think Jewel was taken from the village by this Boche officer?”

  “She wrote about him in her diary.” Jo stared into her teacup, thinking about all the words her sister had penned. “There was an attack on the village. Jewel knew he was coming for her. He said he’d managed to locate our father and promised to take her to him.” She looked up. “Perhaps some prison camp.”

  “It sounds more like an enticement to get her cooperation.”

  Jo endured his tone, as she too had considered the possibility. Still, she refused to give up hope. “Jewel believes Papa is alive. I must believe it, too.” It is all I have left.

  “Does this Boche officer have a name?”

  “Werner Kepler. My sister wrote that he was a captain in the German Army and had been recently posted to the kommandant’s office in Havrincourt.”

  “What about Jewel’s aunt?”

  “Madame Rochette, her mother’s sister.” Jo nodded. “Jewel wrote that her aunt died from typhus. It would have been several months after you left the village.”

  His head sank toward his chest as though in defeat. More guilt pierced her for having reawakened his demons. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

  He gazed up at her, eyes blazing. “You have had that diary for months. Why did you wait so long to contact me? Heaven only knows what has happened to her by now.”

  “I had no idea where to start.” Jo slowly set down her cup. Was he angry with her . . . or with himself? “In her diary, Jewel always referred to you simply as ‘Colin,’ so I had no last name. She mentioned you were a cavalry soldier in the British Army, and that you had lost your best friend, a man by the name of Wyatt, but she didn’t give his last name, either. She also wrote that you had a swan that drank tea or some such nonsense. Her sentences were so jumbled in places I could not make them out. Nor did I know if you were still in France, or even alive.”

  Jo recalled her frustration in those weeks and months after reading the journal, knowing “Colin” was her only link to finding her family, yet at a loss to do anything about it.

  “So how did you locate me?”

  He appeared more curious now than angry, and she relaxed. “It was blind luck—or a miracle, if you believe in that sort of thing.” Even she had to admit the lead to finding Colin Mabry was more than simple good fortune.

  “As you so clearly pointed out, I did have my sister’s diary for quite some time, but no information on you. Then a couple of weeks ago, I took my lunch in the gardens at Versailles. ’Tis a beautiful place and quite the attraction for soldiers on furlough. A British captain was seated on a park bench not far from me, reading a copy of the Times. When he’d finished with the newspaper, he left it behind.”

  Always hungry for news, especially about any new arrests stemming from the Irish rebellion two years ago, Jo had seized the abandoned paper and scanned every inch of newsprint. “I found the name Colin in the society section, along with the mention of Swan’s Tea Room, an establishment owned by Patrick Mabry, your father. I felt it had to be more than coincidence. Your sister is soon to marry a viscount?”

  “Lord Walenford.” Leaning back against the wicker seat, he crossed his arms. Again she observed the left hand that wasn’t a hand. “And so you made the decision to misrepresent yourself in order to lure me to Paris, is that it?”

  His choice of words stung. “I did not think you would believe me, Lieutenant, so it was necessary to use the slight deception. You could hardly refuse a direct plea from my sister, unless of course you were a dishonorable man who intended to break your promise to her.”

  Now it was his turn to look affronted. “This slight deception of yours included the misuse of our secret military communications channel during wartime.” He nodded toward the dovecote some distance away. “I cannot imagine the sergeant approved of your methods.”

  Jo sat up in her seat, meeting his gaze. “Actually, André helped me to plan the ruse.”

  Satisfied at his look of surprise, she reached for a sugared biscuit. “You said it yourself. Too much time had already passed, and it was imperative I contact you as soon as possible. Ordinarily the Deuxième Bureau would not sanction such a request, but the French are incurable romantics. I wrote the message in a way that any who read it would believe I was a woman desperate to see her amour. It really was surprising how easily André convinced an agent here at the château to apply the code before he sent it by pigeon to your British headquarters in Montreuil. I hoped from there it would make its way across the channel to London and the tea shop your family owned.” She paused. “And that you would recognize the initials of the sender.”

  One of his dark brows lifted, his lower lip curling into a frown—an expression she was becoming quite familiar with in his company. “I did recognize Jewel’s initials, Miss Reyer. Most honorable indeed.”

  Her gaze wavered, his words piercing her conscience. She would suffer his censure, however, because in truth, she needed Colin Mabry more than he could know. She would use the same ploy again if it meant getting him here.

  She, Johanna Dougherty Reyer, had nothing left: no family or country to call her own. She had buried the dead and her troubled past in Ireland, and in this new war-ravaged country of France, she was a stranger.

  Yet she clung to her vaguest, happiest memory of home. Blue eyes and strong hands, a gentle voice . . .

  Maybe she wasn’t deserving of a miracle, but she would find Papa and her sister using any means necessary.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Jewel’s champion has arrived? C’est un miracle!”

  Colin’s head shot up at the sound of a female voice near the open French doors. A slender woman stepped out onto the veranda, and he rose from his seat.

  Her height was close to Miss Reyer’s, though she appeared to be a few years older. She wore her dark hair swept up beneath a feathered brown felt cap, and her beige suit and sturdy shoes gave her a professional look.

  Dark eyes gleamed at him as she approached and extended a hand. “Lieutenant Mabry? I am Miss Reyer’s friend, Isabelle Moreau.”

  He gently grasped her fingers. “Enchanté, Miss Moreau. I have already met your father.”

  She smiled. “It is wonderful to meet you. We have been eager to see if Jo’s message would induce you to come to Paris and help us find Jewel.”

  He glanced at the dark blonde seated in the wicker chair. “Yes, we’ve just been discussing the loftier principles of truth and honor.”

  Twin spots of pink appeared in Miss Reyer’s cheeks, giving him some gratification. Despite her skewed logic, it irked him knowing she’d tricked him into coming to France.

  Colin didn’t like to be manipulated. Whether she and her friends knew it or not, he was a man of his word, and aside from his fondness for Jewel, he owed her much.

  Did they really take him for some sort of cad?

  “I still don’t understand why the elaborate deception to get me here.” He held Miss Reyer’s gaze. “You could have contacted me through the British Army and simply told the truth.”

  “We did ask them, Lieutenant.” She rose from the wicker chair. “Isabelle and I made our request to your local army office, but because of mobilization against
the new German offensive, we were told it could take weeks to receive information.”

  “We didn’t want to wait,” Miss Moreau spoke up. “I work in the typing pool at the Deuxième Bureau and have . . . a friend, Agent Henri Lacourt. I asked him to get word to you in London, but he refused.” She darted an apologetic glance at Miss Reyer. “You see, Lieutenant, we were not completely certain you were the man we were looking for, and Henri—Agent Lacourt—could not justify using the Bureau’s resources on a hunch.”

  “So now you can understand why I had to improvise.” Miss Reyer held her head high, as though she’d been vindicated of her crime.

  Colin’s patience was at an end. He turned his attention to the woman who had just arrived. “Fine. I believe we have the business of Jewel’s whereabouts to discuss?”

  She searched his face, her dark eyes intent. “We do.”

  ———

  As her friend sized up the lieutenant, Jo’s insides quaked with anticipation. Two long years she had waited, and now it seemed her family was within reach. “I want nothing more in the world than to be your papa . . .”

  She tossed the sugared biscuit back onto the plate and brushed off her fingers. “We need to get started, Isabelle.”

  Her friend’s fine dark brows drew together. “I still worry for you, mon amie. He is not a man to be trusted.”

  “I am not to be trusted?”

  The lieutenant stepped back, clearly insulted. “What do you call the fraud used in getting me to come to Paris? Not to mention the subterfuge you exercised on at least one French agent and a gross breach of military protocol in both French and British armies!”

  He glared at Jo’s friend. “Your distrust is clearly misplaced, Miss Moreau, and I weary of this cloak-and-dagger charade. Tell me where Jewel Reyer is now, or I’m taking the next RAF flight back to Britain.”

  Panic seized Jo’s chest. She flashed a desperate look at her friend.

  “Pardon, Lieutenant, I was not speaking against you.” Isabelle offered a slight bow of apology. “I meant the German officer.”

  “Kepler? The Boche captain alleged to have taken Jewel from Havrincourt?”

  “I see Jo has told you that much. Though now it is almost certain Captain Werner Kepler is more than he appears to be.”

  Isabelle glanced at her. “When Jo told me about her sister’s diary and about Kepler, I asked Henri—Agent Lacourt—to make inquiries. He discovered Kepler’s name on the Allies’ enemy watch list. Jewel had described the captain with brown hair and a moustache, which is common enough, but also Kepler’s scar—a piece of his right earlobe is missing. Agent Lacourt sent out a wire to our branch offices throughout free France, hoping to find out if the man was still in the country.”

  She paused, and the lieutenant’s features stilled. “And is he?”

  Isabelle nodded. “Before Jo contacted you, our office received a report that a dark-haired man with a similar scar was seen wearing civilian clothes in a town south of Paris. Agent Lacourt believes it is Kepler—which means our Boche captain could be a spy.”

  “An enemy agent?” He turned to Jo. “I suppose you forgot to mention that.”

  “I thought . . . Isabelle should tell you.”

  His gaze flew back to her friend. “What about Jewel?”

  “The report said Kepler was accompanied by a woman. We believe it might be her.”

  “Might be? You are not certain?”

  Isabelle shrugged. “The telegram only stated she was slender and had golden hair.”

  He frowned. “Those features could describe thousands of women.”

  “I agree, Lieutenant.” Jo moved to his side. “But given all that we know, it seems very likely ’tis Jewel with Kepler. Still, we have no idea what she looks like. I have only the diary, which I found quite by accident in the remains of a root cellar.”

  She noted his look of surprise; she knew from the diary that the cellar had once been his hiding place. “Everything else at the farm was destroyed, including any photographs.”

  “So, you need me for more than protection.”

  He watched her with an unreadable expression. Jo met his gaze with honesty. “You are the only one who can tell me for certain if the woman is my sister.”

  “What would you have done if I hadn’t come to Paris, Miss Reyer?”

  She absently twisted the ring on her finger. “I would have taken my chances in trying to identify Jewel. I would have gone on my own.”

  “Ha! Henri would never tell you where she is, not unless he felt you would be safe.”

  Isabelle’s stubborn expression matched her own. Jo’s temper simmered as she regarded the one woman she’d come to trust since arriving in France. “Then I would start from Paris and work my way south.” Ignoring the rashness of her words, she added, “Like the lieutenant, I am tired of waiting.”

  “You should know the rest, Lieutenant.” Isabelle’s smooth features creased as she looked at him. “Since we suspect this man is Kepler and working as an agent, any direct confrontation might be dangerous.”

  She glanced at his gloved hand. “For Jo’s safety as well as your own, Agent Lacourt will insist on an interview with you before he decides to reveal more. I will also need to make a photostat of your passport before you leave today. Where are you staying?”

  “The Grand Hotel . . . on Place de l’Opéra.”

  Taut lines bracketed his mouth. Evidently Jo’s friend noticed, too. “The noise of the guns, they are très gênant, oui? If you would prefer, Lieutenant, you may stay here at the château with my father. I can drive out again tomorrow evening.”

  “I will return to the hotel tonight.” A muscle in his jaw flexed as he removed his passport and handed it over. He turned to Jo. “Where is this diary?”

  Her heart stilled. “I have it in Paris.”

  “I want to see it.”

  Jo took a step back. If he read all of her sister’s words, he might never agree to accompany her. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Should I? So far all I’ve heard is hearsay—a woman who might be Jewel in the company of a man who might be a German officer or an enemy spy or both—and I have yet to learn their whereabouts.”

  He leaned toward her. “I refuse to listen to any more of your stories, Miss Reyer. You’ll show me that diary.” He turned and shot Isabelle a look. “Before I decide to stay.”

  At the ultimatum in his words, Jo returned to sit in her chair. So much for trying to bluff.

  Isabelle flashed her a look of sympathy before she excused herself to go inside with his passport, leaving Jo to endure his scrutiny and the frown she was coming to know so well.

  The lieutenant thought she was lying. Jo’s mood alternated between worry and indignation. Perhaps she could let him read Jewel’s words—especially the part her sister had penned about their romance.

  She wondered for a moment how Jewel might react to having the lieutenant read her most intimate thoughts. However, if he intended to carry out his threat and return to Britain, reminding him of his romantic time with her sister might be the only incentive to convince him to remain and help Jo in her search.

  “When we go back tonight, I’ll collect the diary and meet you at the hotel for dinner.” Jo pressed her shoulders back. “You will see her words for yourself and understand I am not ‘fabricating’ anything.”

  He seemed content with the plan and resumed his seat to take up his tea. Jo eased out a breath as she reached for her own cup. She would mark for him the diary pages she had in mind, making certain to ink out a few of the entries Jewel had written near the end.

  Entries about her sister’s growing affection for Captain Werner Kepler.

  Was the woman never on time?

  Colin ground his teeth and prayed for patience as he straightened the tableware lying next to his plate. Miss Reyer had left him two hours ago, after dropping him off at the hotel. It had taken him nearly all of that time to perform his ablutions, including brushing the road d
ust from his uniform and dealing with the blasted buttons on the clean shirt he’d packed for the trip. What was her excuse?

  A waiter had begun to close the draperies along the expansive window front of the elegant Café de la Paix. Colin tensed. While the Boche’s big guns had quieted for the evening, the approaching dusk brought the new threat of air raids by German Gotha bombers.

  He quickly scanned the scene outside the glass but saw no sign of her. A few brave patrons chose to remain outdoors on the terrace while several couples hurried past the restaurant, most of the men in blue or khaki uniforms and walking arm in arm with their ladies. Likely off to dine at some other eatery or to attend the cinema.

  Thoughts of Jewel rose in his mind, as well as the events of the afternoon. His trip to the château had raised more questions than answers. If what he’d been told earlier was the truth and Jewel was the woman with Kepler . . . where were they?

  His gut tightened at the thought of her in danger, and in the company of a man almost assuredly an enemy agent. What must she be going through right now?

  Miss Moreau had said Captain Kepler was spotted south of Paris, in free France. If so, why hadn’t Jewel fled? Was she being held against her will, or did Kepler exert some threat over her to keep her chained to him? Her father’s life? “Perhaps she had no choice . . .”

  Colin closed his eyes as Jack’s words came back to haunt him.

  He reopened them to look across the restaurant. The woman might not be Jewel at all. It seemed Colin was the only one who could identify her. What if she turned out to be another enemy spy working in league with the Boche?

  He and Miss Reyer could be walking into a trap.

  The unsettling thought clung to him. Between his soldiering and his secret service training, Colin could handle himself. But what of Miss Reyer?

  He gazed at the useless appendage he kept hidden from view. Was he up to the task of being her protector? And against what, exactly?