Far Side of the Sea

by Kate Breslin

  “Yes, I just need . . . some air.”

  He immediately rolled off her and rose to his feet. Reaching for her hand, he helped her up, and Jo noticed the other guests returning from downstairs, chatting with one another as though nothing had happened.

  It was the French way to be stoic under such conditions. What else could they do but continue on?

  She sat back down at the table, and the lieutenant did the same. Neither spoke for a long moment, and Jo took the time to consider her revelation: he’d been terrified, yet protected her with his body. If necessary, he was ready to sacrifice his life for her.

  Her pulse thrummed. “I have no doubt whatsoever, Lieutenant, that you will be a most suitable escort on this quest.” Her voice was soft. “Thank you.”

  His hand gripped the table, and though his breathing had slowed, he still seemed a bit rattled. He nodded and offered a weak smile. “Let’s hope Agent Lacourt feels the same way.”

  Jo’s hope faltered as she realized that, despite his exhibition of bravery moments ago, there was still a chance he would “scratch out” with Henri Lacourt. If so, her quest was doomed before it started.

  She would never find her family.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The sole reason he’d been summoned to Paris was to be kept waiting.

  Colin was convinced of the fact as he paused in his pacing beside Agent Henri Lacourt’s cluttered desk and frowned up at the wall clock in the small, dingy office.

  Two o’clock had come and gone by several minutes. Perhaps France circled the sun in a different orbit than the rest of Europe.

  Miss Reyer had collected him fifteen minutes late as well—no surprise there—and he’d endured another bumpy ride in the sidecar, flinching at the occasional blasts from siege guns as she raced them through the dirty, crowded streets of Paris. One of the shells had struck a park, and Colin stared at the giant crater surrounded by green grass as she’d veered them around a snarl of traffic to reach the avenue de Tourville. He’d relaxed once they passed the École Militaire and Les Invalides, finally pulling up at the gray stone buildings that housed the French Secret Service.

  A faint echo of footsteps sounded outside the closed office door, and he wondered if Monsieur Lacourt was going to make an appearance at last. The soft murmur of female voices accompanied the sound, and he assumed Miss Reyer and her friend Miss Moreau were both hovering near the door.

  In the two interminable days since his arrival, his frustration had turned to sufferance; only the thought of Jewel and the danger she was in kept him waiting here instead of flying back to the relative safety of Hastings. There, at least, the people he worked with were much as they seemed, and punctual, and the siege guns a mere echo compared to the ground-shaking blasts slamming Paris at regular intervals.

  He thought again of the other night at the restaurant, when the siren was followed by Gotha bombs. His first thought had been to get Miss Reyer to safety. Only later did he learn everyone else had moved to the cellar, while he fell on top of her beside their table, squeezing the breath from her lungs.

  She’d been afraid but hadn’t panicked, and Colin had sensed her trying to calm him with her voice after the bombs ceased. He had noticed her eyes were a darker shade of blue than he’d first imagined, and her scent of flowers had eased his breathing.

  He was still irritated over her manipulating him, and her tardiness was a point of contention, but he admired her grit. Much like her sister’s . . .

  The office door suddenly burst open. A tall, lean man with cropped brown hair and an elaborately waxed moustache entered the room.

  He wore a harried expression as he rushed forward with a large envelope and began speaking in heavily accented English. “Lieutenant, I must apologize for the delay. Your Paris office sent over the information I requested by special courier, but the gun blast on rue de Rivoli—a taxi crashed into a bread cart, and it took some time to clear the street. I am Agent Henri Lacourt, by the way.”

  Lacourt extended his hand, and as Colin reached for it, he saw the Frenchman glance at his prosthetic. His gut tightened as he tried to gauge the man’s reaction. “Shall we get down to it, Agent Lacourt?”

  The agent smiled, indicating Colin take the chair adjacent to the desk while he moved around to sit on the other side. “I will need a few moments. Would you care for tea?” He didn’t wait for a response before shouting the order at the closed door. “Mademoiselle Moreau! Can we have tea brought in, s’il vous plaît!”

  Colin raised a brow at Lacourt’s lack of etiquette before settling into the chair, studying the Frenchman as he opened the packet and examined what must be Colin’s personal dossier.

  Colin shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at having to witness a stranger perusing the events of his life like a novel. His gloved hand rested on his thigh. Lacourt’s eyes had gone unerringly to the prosthetic. Had Miss Moreau informed him of the injury?

  Anxiety further knotted his insides. Doubtless this interview was to be a mere formality before the Frenchman flat-out refused his candidacy to accompany Miss Reyer.

  Colin thought back to the diary and the images Jewel’s words had conjured: her taking him in as he stumbled into her life, bloody and wounded, devastated by loss; her feeding him from her scant stores and nursing him back to health. Her risk in keeping him hidden from the Boche.

  The tearstained pages he’d read held her grief at his leave-taking, and later, the loss of her aunt. Near the end, her passages had become inked out and choppy as the battle overran the village and began spreading its chaos. She’d been all alone in enemy territory. It was hardly surprising she felt compelled to leave with the Boche captain or spy, whatever he was.

  Jewel had written down her dreams as well: Colin, sweeping her off her feet and taking her back to Britain as his wife to live in a small country cottage with enough room for their children to play.

  Despite his affection, he’d never thought that far ahead to a future with her. Their time together had been a whirlwind of emotion. He’d been captivated by her kiss and her laughter and tender care of him. Yet as the months passed and the war intruded, he’d come to realize that perhaps it was more his own fancy than any kind of serious love.

  But Jewel was counting on him. After reading her dreams and knowing what she’d sacrificed, he had begun to consider how his being in Paris might be God’s plan for him, after all.

  Since returning from Ireland, he’d been at loose ends, without any set course to his life. What if Miss Reyer’s note to him had been more than coincidence? Colin’s chance to make right some of the past and create a future for himself with Jewel.

  His pulse sped up as he thought about the plan he’d worked out yesterday. He would remain in France and search her out, and if the woman with Kepler turned out to be Jewel and her feelings for Colin remained unchanged, he would offer to marry her here in Paris and take her home with him to Britain.

  Knowing the situation and being a man of honor and duty, Colin knew Jack Benningham would support the match. He just hoped Grace and their father would be as agreeable to his suddenly taking a wife. Especially since he’d never mentioned Jewel to either of them.

  Miss Moreau entered the office just then, carrying a small tea service. She hesitated, eyeing the clutter before she gave Colin a quick look and used her elbow to shove aside Lacourt’s books and paperwork, making room for the tray of tea and biscuits.

  The Frenchman seemed oblivious as he continued reading the documents. Miss Moreau poured the first cup of tea, adding a bit of cream before holding up the sugar bowl to Colin with a questioning look. He shook his head, and she passed him the steaming cup, along with the plate of biscuits.

  Plucking the cup from the saucer, he glanced at the plain flour squares with little enthusiasm. Unlike the sugary edibles he’d been served at the château, these looked like the hardtack in his rations kit at the Front. Even so . . .

  He raised the cup in his good hand and gave her an ap
ologetic smile. She glanced down as she obviously realized her error and returned the saucer and plate to the tray.

  Pouring Lacourt’s tea next, she took her time, occasionally glancing at the agent, who immersed himself in reading Colin’s personal and military history.

  Miss Moreau finally finished her task. “Shall I bring anything else, Agent Lacourt?”

  Seconds passed before the Frenchman lifted his gaze. “Non, that will be all, mademoiselle. For now.” A smile formed beneath the elaborate moustache. “Merci.”

  A rosy color touched her cheeks, and she nodded to them both before moving back toward the door.

  “Lieutenant, I am impressed.” Lacourt set down the papers and picked up his tea. “At the Somme, you fought alongside my countrymen.” He glanced back at the documents on his desk. “In fact, you were awarded the Croix de Guerre. You fought at Courcelette, and then at Combles beside the French Sixth, yes?”

  “Our cavalry was assigned to the British Fourth.” Colin set his cup on the edge of the cluttered desk. After the failed push through at Courcelette, General Haig had sent them south.

  “My good friend fought at Combles.” Lacourt looked up at him. “You saved many French lives that day, despite heavy gunfire.”

  Colin flexed his jaw. He didn’t like discussing the details, like the fact it was raining shells at the time he and another cavalryman used their horses to drag a pair of mitrailleuses from the back line. They fired on the enemy, aiding seven French poilus trapped in the open. In the end, everyone managed to get back to his own unit, and shortly afterward, Colin received the French cross. “I did what any British soldier would do, Agent Lacourt. My duty.”

  He sensed Miss Moreau’s astonished presence behind him before he heard the click of the door closing.

  “I would say you did far more than that. France owes you a debt.” The agent set down his cup and leaned back in his seat. “I will be blunt, Lieutenant. I have read your file, and I realize you are no stranger to battle or valor. You have also had training with the British Secret Service. Yet it has not escaped my notice that you have . . . a substantial injury, which you received last year at Passchendaele. So I wonder if, as an officer and a man of honor . . .” He sat forward, tilting his head. “Can you honestly provide adequate protection to Mademoiselle Reyer on this journey to find her sister?”

  Despite having asked himself that same question repeatedly during his time in Paris, Colin ground his teeth in disappointment. Still, he gave his most candid response. “I will protect her or die trying, monsieur.”

  The Frenchman looked back at the documents for a long moment. Finally he shook his head. “Non, there is too much risk.” Compassion mingled with the resolve in his expression. “Lieutenant, I am sorry that you have come all this way—”

  “Not as sorry as I am, monsieur.” Their interview was at an end. Colin rose from the chair, his good hand clenched at his side. Regardless of his heroics at the Somme, he’d been found wanting. Had the Frenchman read all of the details in his dossier? Colin was still a top marksman with the Colt, and he could handle a rifle, though it now took him longer to reload. He’d also proven his ability to wield a sword in battle.

  The polite refusal ate at his tattered pride like acid. He would send a message to Jack through Goodfellow in Hastings, relaying the situation with Lacourt. Colin’s future brother-in-law was an esteemed member of the peerage. If he wished, he could exert sufficient influence on this Frenchman.

  “You must understand, it has nothing to do with your bravery. . . .”

  But Colin had already turned toward the door, his fury mingled with shame, not only at Lacourt’s rejection, but for the moment’s relief he had experienced at hearing the verdict.

  The French agent was right: it had nothing to do with Colin’s bravery. Lacourt couldn’t know the struggle just to face the day each morning, knowing he would never be whole again. He glared at the offensive gloved hand at his side. God, what is your plan for me?

  Colin barely broke his stride as he threw open the door and left the office. He shot a fierce look at Miss Reyer, hovering outside the threshold with her friend, just as he’d suspected. “We’re leaving.”

  She blinked at him before rushing to keep up as he stormed toward the building’s exit. When he reached the door, she grabbed his sleeve. “What happened back there? What did Agent Lacourt say?”

  “I wonder that you would ask, Miss Reyer, since you and Miss Moreau doubtless overheard every word of the conversation.”

  Her mouth fell open, the blue eyes narrowing at him. “We did not eavesdrop, Lieutenant.”

  “No? Then I’ll translate for you. Lacourt said, ‘Sorry old chap, but you’re unfit for duty.’”

  Her anger seemed to vanish, which only increased his annoyance. She felt sorry for him, did she? He continued past the open doors to the street, breathing in the fresh air as though he’d been suffocating inside. She followed and soon passed him on the steps leading down to the sidewalk. He had expected her to reclaim her seat on the motorcycle parked along the building’s front. Instead she made a hard right onto the avenue de Tourville.

  “Where are you going?”

  She looked back at him. “I want to show you something.”

  Colin refused to budge. He had to contact Goodfellow, not sight-see.

  When she realized he wasn’t following, she stopped and turned with hands on hips. “Well, are you just going to stand there all day? You’ve no time to wallow in your misery; there are plans to make.”

  Of all the impertinent . . . He blew air through his nostrils. He certainly wasn’t wallowing, and she was obviously addled. What kind of plans could they make? He had no idea where Jewel and the Boche agent were . . . or did Miss Reyer have more secrets she’d neglected to share?

  She stood waiting, one boot tapping the sidewalk with obvious impatience. He had half a mind to call a taxi and leave her there, but his curiosity overrode common sense.

  He frowned and joined her.

  Together they walked in silence. A short distance later, she led him into the mammoth stone complex of Les Invalides. As they neared the church standing at its core, she ascended the steps. “’Tis inside the Dôme des Invalides.”

  They entered the cool, quiet interior of what was once King Louis XIV’s royal chapel, and Colin noted the large altar and crucifix at the far end of the spacious building. High above his head, the domed ceiling was painted in colorful mural panels, interspersed with beams of gilt gold.

  They moved toward the middle of the great open rotunda and reached the marble railing to gaze down. In the room below, surrounded by Greek marble statues and mounted on a pedestal, was a large red quartzite sarcophagus.

  Colin recognized the shrine from his history books. “Napoleon’s tomb?”

  She nodded. “After I arrived here in Paris and learned I could not go to my father, I took long walks through the city and visited the historical monuments. I find that I come back to this place most often when I am in need of . . .” She glanced at him and smiled. “Inspiration.”

  Again he scanned the interior of what was once a royal church—the art, the crucifix, the altar. “So you come here to seek God.”

  Following his gaze, she shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know how. We never went to church. Moira—my mother—was not much for religion.” She averted her eyes. “I’m sure you understand, Lieutenant, that a woman who bears a child out of wedlock is treated much like a leper.”

  Her voice was the barest whisper. Despite his own confused anger, Colin was moved to compassion, knowing she was right. Illegitimacy remained a stigma even in London.

  An uncomfortable silence stretched between them before she pointed at the tomb. “Did you know Napoleon was only twenty-four when he became a general? Not much older than you or me.” She paused. “It was more than a hundred years ago that he saw an advantage during the chaos of the revolution and used it to quickly rise in the ranks.”

  “Napoleon i
nspires you?” Colin eyed her incredulously. “In case you’ve forgotten the rest of your history, Miss Reyer, he was Britain’s enemy.”

  “I am aware of the facts, Lieutenant. Still, for good or ill, he became one of the greatest conquerors of all time. To Napoleon, nothing seemed impossible.” She turned to face him, her blue eyes ablaze. “And you cannot let the opinion of one Frenchman stop you in our mission to find Jewel.”

  He leaned in and frowned at her. “I happen to have some ideas which I was about to explore before you dragged me to this place.” He angled his head. “Or do you have another plan in mind? Is there some small detail you forgot to tell me that would aid our situation?”

  “You’ve read my sister’s diary. And Isabelle and I have told you everything else that might pertain to finding my sister.”

  Her chin nudged upward. She was hiding something. Colin remembered the last diary entry. As the mortars blasted the village, Jewel had been sick with fear, awaiting the moment the Boche captain would come for her.

  A sudden sense of dread filled him. “Jewel is still all right, isn’t she? Nothing has happened to her beyond what you’ve told me?”

  “No!” she was quick to answer. “I mean, you read the pages, Lieutenant. She did not indicate she had been harmed in any way.”

  “I need to get back to the hotel.”

  She searched his face, her expression tight. “So, you’re leaving without a fight?”

  He released a heavy breath. “Would you rather I return to the Bureau and let my fist knock some sense into Agent Lacourt?”

  “Not that it would do any good, but . . .”

  She lifted her slim shoulders, and a smile hovered at her lips. Colin’s mood lightened. “I daresay I agree with you.”

  Her expression sobered. “What are these ideas you want to explore?”

  “I intend to contact Lord Walenford in London to see about getting better cooperation from Lacourt.”