Far Side of the Sea

by Kate Breslin

  He pressed back against the seat and scowled. Titan’s teeth! This Agent Henri Lacourt—likely Miss Moreau’s sweetheart—held the key to the puzzle, yet he made them cool their heels while checking to see if Colin would qualify as Miss Reyer’s escort to heaven-knows-where to rescue her sister. If in fact it was Jewel at all.

  Colin wanted to see the diary. Jewel’s own words had to shed more light on her present situation than the cryptic answers he’d received so far.

  Again he glanced toward the restaurant’s foyer. Miss Reyer agreed to meet him over twenty minutes ago. He had no idea where she lived in Paris, but surely it couldn’t take this long to retrieve the diary, give her face another good washing, and return for dinner.

  He waited another five minutes before he plucked the linen napkin from his lap and rose from the chair. This was a complete waste of time. Already he was tired of being on the receiving end of her scheme. He would go to the Deuxième Bureau himself in the morning to see Agent Lacourt and demand answers.

  Or he would go home.

  Tossing his napkin onto the empty plate, he started toward the desk of the headwaiter. He had work to do, responsibilities back in Hastings. Family obligations too, like his sister’s wedding and his promise to Jack to stand in as best man.

  “Monsieur?”

  Colin lifted his gaze. “I’ll need to order room serv—”

  His words halted as he met the wide blue eyes of the striking woman standing beside the headwaiter.

  Colin almost didn’t recognize her. Gone were the muddy trousers and boots, and in their place, a fitted skirt and matching jacket in a blue shade that accentuated the color of her eyes.

  Beneath the jacket, the open collar of her linen blouse revealed just a glimpse of fair skin at the base of her throat, and as his gaze traveled downward, he saw the skirt’s length stop short of a pair of slender ankles encased in ladies’ blue-and-white button-up shoes.

  He raised his attention to the white-gloved hands clutching a leather-bound book.

  “Surely you’re not leaving, Lieutenant?”

  She seemed unfazed as she innocently looked up at him. He noticed she’d fixed her hair, the dark blond wisps now corralled and pinned beneath her netted blue hat.

  The headwaiter retrieved a pair of menus from the desk before he eyed them both questioningly. Colin gave a slight nod and followed Miss Reyer as the man led them back to the table.

  She set the book and her purse against the fine white linen, then shrugged out of her blue jacket. Her movement caused a lock of hair to loosen from the pins and fall against her shoulder. Colin smothered a laugh as she glanced at him and quickly tucked the lock behind her ear.

  The headwaiter held her chair, then took her jacket and bowed before he disappeared. Colin remained standing as he watched her remove her gloves, noting the silver ring she’d worn at Vernon. The jeweled eye glinted in the lamplight.

  He sighed and resumed his seat as she reached for the linen napkin beside her plate and arranged it on her lap. “I do tire of having to wait on you, Miss Reyer.”

  She busied herself inspecting the silverware, as though she hadn’t heard him.

  “That color suits you, by the way.”

  Colin wasn’t certain why he’d made the remark, and it irritated him. She irritated him.

  Her head shot up, the color tingeing her cheeks doing wonders to further brighten her eyes. “Thank you, Lieutenant. And you look quite smart in . . . khaki.”

  He almost snorted laughter as he glanced at his uniform, the only set of clothes he knew by rote. Still, he acknowledged her compliment with a slight bow before returning his napkin to his lap. He glanced at the book on the table. “Is that the diary?”

  She nodded. “I thought we would order our drinks and dinner first.”

  He curbed his impatience and instead seized on her tardiness. “Where is your flat, by the way? I assumed it was in Paris, but obviously you must live in another country.”

  She visibly stiffened at his remark, then chose to ignore it as she smiled calmly. “I happen to live with Miss Moreau on rue Boissière, a few kilometers from here, near Place Victor Hugo. And you know, we don’t say flat in Paris, Lieutenant. ’Tis appartement.”

  He disregarded her words. “You work in Vernon, an hour’s drive from here. Why not live there?”

  “And miss the excitement?” Her grimace caught him off guard. “I have lived in Paris for two years, Lieutenant. When I arrived from Ireland and couldn’t find my father, I had to find work. That’s how I met Isabelle, and we became friends. When she asked if I would be willing to share expenses on a place, I agreed, so here I remain.” She raised her menu. “When I am not helping the sergeant to train the pigeons, I am a paid courier for the Bureau, so I must deliver daily dispatches to Paris anyway.”

  Her reasons for living in the city made sense. Still, he’d rather put distance between himself and the German superguns dropping shells on the city with diabolical regularity.

  “Bonsoir, Lieutenant, mademoiselle. May I bring you an apéritif before dinner?”

  They looked up to see an elderly waiter had approached. He bowed to Miss Reyer. “Perhaps a glass of vin for you, mademoiselle?”

  “I’ll just have water. Perrier, if you please. Avec du citron.”

  When their server eyed him next, Colin hesitated before he finally nodded. “Make that two with lemon, s’il vous plaît.”

  As the man departed, Colin met with Miss Reyer’s speculative gaze across the table.

  “Please feel free to order whatever you’d like to drink, Lieutenant. I’ll not be offended if you get something from the bar.” She tilted her head. “Or are you usually in the reckless habit of imbibing lemon water?”

  He arched a brow. “I could ask the same of you, Miss Reyer. You live in Paris, yet do not drink wine?”

  She gave a slight shrug. “I have been known to sip on a glass of sherry once in a while, but honestly, I have no taste for wine or other spirits.”

  He bent his head. “And for my part, I find alcohol a hindrance to a good night’s sleep.” In truth, it made his nightmares worse. As for the water . . .

  Colin closed off the memory before it began. Concentrating instead on the menu, he perused the restaurant’s fare. “Have you eaten here before?”

  “Isabelle and I come here often. In good weather, we sit outside on the terrace. Would you like my suggestion for dinner? I saw filet de boeuf on the menu board as I walked in. ’Tis quite expensive, of course, with all of the rationing, but well worth the price.”

  Keeping his attention fixed on the menu, Colin’s chest tightened. He flexed the muscles in his left arm, as though willing the gloved hand to work on its own. He hadn’t come prepared to cut into a steak.

  The words soupe à l’oignon gratinée suddenly leapt out at him from the top of the page. Thank you, Lord. “I’ve decided on the onion soup tonight. It advertises to be one of the restaurant’s signature dishes.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you will enjoy it. But that is hardly a meal. Will you have something else with it?”

  He placed the menu on the table and met her inquisitive gaze. “I’ve not much of an appetite this evening.”

  “Why is that?” A slight crease formed between her brows. “Are you unwell?”

  He managed a smile. “Too much traveling today, I think.”

  “Ah.” Her mouth relaxed, and the crease disappeared as she returned to peruse the menu. “I shall have the sole fillet.”

  Once the waiter brought their drinks and took the order, Colin’s attention returned to the diary lying on the table beside her. He held out his hand. “May I?”

  She picked up the book and hesitated. “Please, tell me first, what does my sister look like?”

  Was she trying to bargain with him? Colin remembered her earlier threat to Miss Moreau: that if all else failed, she would try to seek out Jewel on her own.

  “I am simply curious, Lieutenant.” Her half smile indicated
she’d read his thoughts. “I would like to know.”

  He finally relented. “She’s a bit taller but has your same hair color and high cheekbones. Her chin is more rounded and her eyes a softer shade of blue.”

  “What about her nose? Her mouth? How does she speak?”

  He studied the straight nose and pale pink mouth of the woman across from him. “You share the same nose, but her lips aren’t as full. Jewel also has a beautiful, high singing voice.”

  Miss Reyer seemed appeased and offered him the book. “You are welcome to read the entire diary, but I’ve marked with a ribbon the page beginning with your arrival in Havrincourt.”

  His heart thumped in his chest as he opened the cover. A faint musty smell reached his nostrils, along with the scent of violets, conjuring the memory of Jewel’s kiss.

  He glanced up to see Miss Reyer watching him. Unbidden heat singed his cheeks, and he quickly bent his head and began reading, again grateful to his father for insisting that he and Grace learn to speak and write French.

  le 13 avril, 1917

  He appeared out of the dark tonight like a wraith, only to collapse at my feet. Startled, I let go of my apron and watched with regret as the contents I had gathered scattered into the shadows. Those potatoes had come from the abandoned pigsty, where at some point they had taken root. Aunt and I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, and that is surely the reason I hesitated for just a moment before helping the poor soldier into the barn. . . .

  ———

  Jo’s pulse quickened as she reached for her glass of lemon water, never taking her eyes off him. With head bent low, his dark, thick lashes shifted slightly as he read her sister’s words. The angled lines of his face held an intent look, and she knew the passage he must be reading.

  His first encounter with Jewel.

  She had used her pen to ink out a few sentences near the end of the diary—her sister’s effusive words of admiration and praise for Captain Kepler. Jo hoped Colin Mabry wouldn’t take her handiwork amiss, or ask her more questions. It was important he be as eager as she to begin their search.

  After dropping him off at the hotel earlier, she stopped at the Paris Bureau. Isabelle had arrived first and was speaking to Henri in his office as she handed over the copy of Lieutenant Mabry’s passport.

  When her friend reemerged, Jo learned that it would take another day or two before an interview could be arranged. She chafed at having to wait. She also worried.

  Would Henri Lacourt trust the lieutenant to watch out for her?

  Jo’s anxiety continued to mount. Despite her threat to Isabelle earlier, she knew trying to find her half sister and Werner Kepler on her own would be next to impossible. Though the Boche’s scar might be distinguishing, France was a vast country, and she still had only the barest description of him and now a hazy sketch of Jewel. At least Lieutenant Mabry could identify her sister, possibly without Kepler’s knowledge.

  And then what? Would Jewel open her arms in welcome to a sister she’d never met? What about the lieutenant, to whom she’d once sworn undying love?

  It was possible Jewel had become an enemy spy, like the man she so admired. Henri Lacourt seemed to think this “mystery woman” with Kepler was indeed an accomplice.

  Earlier at the château, Lieutenant Mabry had asked about Papa. Jo told him that, according to the diary, Captain Kepler had promised to take Jewel to their father. Yet if her sister had become a spy or even an enemy sympathizer, would she accept Jo as part of her family? Would she allow Jo to accompany her?

  A sigh escaped her. Such questions could only be answered once they found her sister.

  “Lieutenant, mademoiselle, bread for your meal.”

  She ended her musing as the old waiter returned and set a plate of sliced bread on the table. Turning to the lieutenant, he offered a stiff bow before placing a small pot of butter alongside the bread. “For you, Lieutenant. I am sorry to say it is pain national, but hopefully the butter will hide the taste.”

  As the waiter retreated, the lieutenant glanced at her questioningly.

  “It’s what Parisians call ‘national bread,’ made with flour containing fillers. ’Tis part of the rationing laws.” She nodded toward the food. “And the French never serve butter with bread at dinner, but for Allied soldiers, they make allowances . . . for which I’m grateful.”

  He gave an absent nod and went back to reading the diary. Jo fidgeted in her seat, trying to ease the tight whalebone stays squeezing her ribs. She longed for her trousers and tunic. The loose garments allowed more breathing room than the tailored suit, and they didn’t require her to be constrained in a corset!

  Of course, with the old Paris law still in effect, she didn’t dare wear trousers beyond her duties as a paid courier. Even for that, it had been necessary to receive special permission from the police. Not too difficult, since her work was for the Deuxième Bureau.

  Tonight Isabelle had tried to convince her to wear one of her friend’s favorite dinner dresses, the pink crepe with capped sleeves and matching Técla pearls. A lovely ensemble certainly, but Jo had no need to impress the lieutenant. She was recruiting him to be her guide to find Jewel. Beyond that . . .

  She went completely still, noting the change in his expression. The rugged angles of his face had softened.

  An unexpected pang shot through her, and she realized he must be reading the more intimate details between himself and Jewel: laughing as they toasted France with a bottle of wine and the raisin cakes Jewel had received from the enemy for her night’s singing performance; then later, Jewel repeating the final song she’d sung from her set in French rather than the mandated German. Afterward, she had tended his wound.

  “Mon noble chevalier.” Her noble knight—Jewel had bestowed the name on him in those quiet moments. And before she left him that particular evening, she had leaned in to kiss him. . . .

  Jo shut her eyes, and then quickly reopened them to gaze at the lieutenant. His expression held the same look of yearning she’d often experienced herself. She had been alone for so long, and despite her mother Moira’s unconventional ways of bringing up a daughter, Jo longed for a home and a family of her own. To fall in love, something her independent mother had often lectured her against.

  He glanced up at her then, and for an instant, Jo felt as though he’d read her thoughts. She quickly reached for the bread.

  “Pardon me, Miss Reyer. May I borrow the diary? I can read it later this evening and return it to you tomorrow.”

  “Yes . . . of course. By the way, did you notice the fore-edge artwork along the book’s leaf edges? You can only see it when the pages are fanned slightly apart. It’s a painting of a redbird and a bluebird with a nested white egg between them.”

  He feathered the pages with his fingers. “Very clever. And beautifully done.”

  She nodded. “Jewel wrote that our father painted the design. He asked her to write down her songs and to record her life in Havrincourt while he was away, so she could read the diary to him the next time they were together.” Jo didn’t add that her sister would undoubtedly omit reading any parts involving her romantic interlude with the lieutenant.

  He glanced at the book. “I knew she sang but didn’t realize she wrote songs as well.”

  “’Tis another reason I treasure the book.”

  He gazed at her. “I promise I will keep the diary safe.”

  Jo smiled. “I’m certain you will. I spoke with Isabelle this evening. She told me Agent Lacourt has your passport copy and will contact you once he’s made his inquiries.”

  A scowl settled against his rugged features. “Yes, I suppose it will take him some time to see if I come up to scratch as a worthy escort.”

  She looked away, dipping her knife into the pot of butter. “I feel certain your rank and experience with the British Army will impress him.” She slathered butter onto a slice of bread and replaced the knife on the tray. “Care for some?”

  When he didn’t answer, s
he looked up at his rigid posture. She opened her mouth to repeat the question, before recalling his food order—a mere bowl of soup, a meal requiring only a single utensil.

  Jo, you are such a dolt! How could he butter his own bread? Without missing a beat, she set her serving on a small plate and handed it to him. “’Tis coarse fare, as the waiter said, but hardly a surprise to you after being at the Front.”

  He hesitated before accepting her offering. “Thank you, Miss Reyer.”

  She smiled and was preparing another slice for him when the siren wailed outside. Jo’s heart thundered as a whistling sound preceded a bomb’s explosion near the hotel.

  The ground shook, and cries rose among the other dinner guests. The lieutenant launched from his seat, knocking the table. “Get down!”

  She could hear the waiter shouting to everyone to go to the cellar when the lieutenant suddenly pulled her off her chair and onto the carpet, landing on top of her. “Don’t move!”

  Jo still held the butter knife as another blast rocked the building, followed by another, and another, and she shut her eyes, her mouth pursed tight to keep from crying out as she trembled beneath his weight. After all this time in Paris, the sound of the Gotha bombs still frightened her.

  A few moments passed before a stretch of silence ensued. Jo opened her eyes, mere inches from the lieutenant’s, and saw his face was the color of ash, his hazel eyes dark with fear.

  She glanced around and realized they were the only ones left in the café. The cellar had become a standard haven during bombings for most Paris establishments. Likely it held the other dinner guests.

  Awareness shot through her as she felt the lieutenant’s chest rise and fall against hers before eventually slowing to a calmer rate. His breath warmed her face, and the scent of spicy cologne filled her senses.

  With her initial fear passed, she found herself struggling to pull air into her lungs, the tight corset compounding his heavy weight on top of her. “I believe it’s over now, Lieutenant.”

  She whispered the words, bringing him around as he finally seemed to focus on her. The color returned to his features, yet he continued to lie there a moment, staring at her. Jo’s pulse leapt as his gaze searched hers. His voice sounded ragged. “Are you all right, Miss Reyer?”