Far Side of the Sea

by Kate Breslin

  Unnerved by his gaze, Jo began walking the path that ran south along the river. Colin kept in step with her. “It is much the same way as in pigeon racing. The birds have a natural homing ability. Some experts say it has to do with the earth’s magnetic force.”

  “Like a compass with wings?”

  “Exactly.” She gave him a smile, warming to her subject. “There are other theories too, but no one really knows for certain. Regardless of how they do it, the birds are raised in the loft from hatchlings, fed, and cared for until it is determined they will return to the roost. At that point, they are taken some distance away and tested to see how fast they return.”

  “How quickly do they fly?”

  “Pigeons can average speeds of fifty to seventy miles per hour over long distances. On shorter distances, that can climb to over eighty miles an hour.”

  He whistled softly. “That fast?”

  She nodded. “One of my tasks at the château is to collect the birds into cages and take them on my motorcycle to places like the coast of Brittany or southwest to Orléans. At a prearranged time, I free them, and Sergeant Moreau clocks their return to the loft.”

  His brows rose. “Fascinating. Do they all come back?”

  “Most do, though a few birds have been known to lose their way. Even so, like their cousins the doves, pigeons are monogamous creatures. Once they mate and breed, they will make every effort to return to the loft.”

  “So, you’re saying Little Corporal has a girl waiting back home?”

  Jo startled and turned to see his grin. Was Colin merely jesting . . . or had he discovered the secret in her kit bag? “Er . . . yes, he does have a mate at the dovecote in Vernon. In fact, pigeoneers sometimes use a clever trick when racing their birds. To keep the racer motivated to return to the loft, my grandfather would allow his paired birds to spend a brief time together just before a race. He found it often made a considerable difference in flight time.”

  “Why do I imagine we are speaking of male birds?”

  Jo raised her chin. “Females can be just as devoted.”

  He grinned in response. “So what about the mobile lofts? When I was at the Front, I saw trucks with built-in cages.”

  “Oh yes, the principle is the same.” She smiled at him with enthusiasm. “The birds are raised in the mobile loft and have the ability to return to the same truck, even if it travels a great distance.

  “In fact”—Jo scanned the area to make certain they were alone—“our pigeons often go beyond the Front. Sergeant Moreau packs them into tiny baskets attached to small parachutes and the French planes drop them over occupied territory. ’Tis hoped someone French or Belgian will find the basket and answer the interview questions stuffed inside the tiny capsule attached to the bird’s leg. Things like location, number of enemy troops, or the area’s current situation. Afterward the person releases the bird, and the information makes its way back to the loft.”

  He emitted another low whistle. “I imagine we British must do something similar with our birds.”

  Jo was pleased to see him look impressed. “The ploy has been successful for gathering intelligence. Unless, of course, the enemy gets to the basket first. Then they either write in false information before releasing the pigeon home to the Allies, or they substitute one of their own pigeons inside the basket, so an unsuspecting Belgian or French citizen will find it and submit critical information to the enemy, including their name and location.”

  Gazing at him, her mood sobered. “They are desperate to be saved, you see. But writing in their name usually seals their fate.”

  “The Boche find the poor sod and then take their revenge.”

  His dark brows drew together, reminding Jo that he had witnessed war’s brutality firsthand. “There are other obstacles to gathering intelligence, of course. At times our birds are hunted down and killed before accomplishing their task. Their natural enemy is the falcon, and the Boche employ flocks of them to kill off as many of our pigeons as possible before they reach home. Once a pigeon is downed, there is the chance the enemy will confiscate any message.”

  She frowned, thinking about her small white bird and what easy prey he would be for a large falcon. It was her constant fear when he flew. Already her little corporal had paid his dues.

  “You seem to know a lot about birds.”

  Jo heard his admiration, and her mood lifted. “I learned to understand them growing up. I told you on the train, I spent much time with Grandfather’s pigeons in Kilcoole.”

  “Do you ever miss Ireland?”

  “In many ways, yes.” Jo thought to his earlier description of verdant hills and peaceful vales. “Still, there are parts of my past I do not wish to revisit.”

  His hazel eyes warmed with compassion. “I think we can all speak to that. I once broke my arm while riding horses with Grace. I was teasing my sister and looked back at her to laugh over my own joke when I rode right into a low-hanging branch. It knocked me right out of the saddle.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “It sounds like you got your comeuppance, though it must have been painful. Did she laugh at you?”

  “No, she was worried about me, of course. Afterward, though, she was a bit smug. Told me God sees everything.” He flashed a rueful smile. “I think He definitely saw me going for the branch, even if I didn’t.”

  Jo nodded. She understood about punishment. “In my small village, I grew up believing God was to be feared. He especially disliked bad children.”

  Colin stopped and turned to her. “That’s not what I meant, Johanna. Grace and I were only jesting. God isn’t a tyrant. It was by His grace alone that my arm and not my neck got broken.”

  She eyed him pensively before glancing at his prosthetic. Jo remembered his talk on the train about the miracle of his rescue from the tunnel and hearing God’s voice, only to realize it was Lord Walenford. “What about your hand, Colin? Why didn’t God save it?”

  Her question seemed to give him pause. “I don’t have all the answers, Johanna. What I do know is that the broken arm was due to my inattention on the horse. The loss of this”—he raised the stiff, gloved hand—“was due to the enemy’s explosives that collapsed the tunnel I was in. Neither was God’s doing.”

  His features softened. “He is like a loving Father, Johanna. God metes out justice and mercy. Even miracles.” He paused. “Never anger.”

  “You speak of miracles.” Her words tasted bitter as painful memories of her childhood returned. “I haven’t seen any. They were never for children like me.”

  He reached for her hand, and Jo felt his strength through her glove. “I am sorry you were treated badly. Some people are ignorant, or they get so caught up in their high-and-mighty ways, they become blind to the truth.”

  His expression turned thoughtful. “You might even say the Lord himself was born under a haze of scandal. His miraculous conception before the wedding would have caused His mother to be stoned to death, if not for the angel who spoke to Joseph in a dream.

  “Think of it. God chose the humblest of beginnings. He was born in a lowly stable and lived the life of a carpenter’s son. Yet during His time here on earth, He fed thousands, healed the sick, raised the dead, and loved us enough to suffer and die for us.” He squeezed her hand. “That means He did it for you too, Johanna. How could God not love you every bit as much?”

  Emotion rose in her throat at the sight of the warmth in his eyes. “I wish I could believe what you say, Colin.”

  “You can, Johanna. It’s called faith.” His expression was intent. “It’s about trusting God and His will, no matter what happens. It can be a struggle at times. . . .” A shadow flitted across his face, and Jo wondered if he was still talking to her or to himself. “But it doesn’t change the truth. And if you have that trust, you’ll begin to recognize His miracles.”

  He released her hand. “Anyway, none of us is perfect, even those who consider their own opinion God’s law. We all have our faults.”

/>   “What are yours?”

  ———

  Johanna’s question gave him pause. For all of his talk of faith, Colin remained shackled by the past. He had told her the note she’d sent him would enable him to redeem himself. But would he ever regain what the war had taken?

  His gaze swept across the river. What should he tell her? I am a man made up of many parts: fear of my nightmares and guilt for leaving a woman I cared about behind with the enemy.

  Cowardice, in being so desperate for thirst that I robbed a soldier of his life. . . . “I have plenty of faults, Johanna.” He turned to her. “Perhaps too many to count.”

  “I can think of one.” Her eyes sparkled. “You frown a lot. Particularly at me.”

  “Do I?” He mustered a smile, determined to shake off his mood. “Well, you can be rather unpredictable. You’re never on time, and I hardly understand your logic.”

  Smiling, she tilted her head up at him. “So, you like predictability?”

  Again he noticed how fetching she looked in the hat. “I suppose I do. More so, since returning from the Front. I like knowing what to expect.” He raised a brow. “You don’t?”

  “I admit I’m a terrible judge of time and will forever be trying to improve my failing. But I don’t relish having my life so charted that there are no surprises. If I had been more practical, I should never have hopped a boat alone to Paris in the middle of a war, seeking out a father I hardly know. I could have run anywhere else.”

  “You were running?” Colin eyed her sharply. “Someone was chasing you?”

  She quickly looked away. “Just the past.”

  They had reached the Pont Neuf, and it was Johanna who surveyed the water flowing beneath the arched bridge. Finally she turned to him. “We’ve walked some distance. I suppose we should start back.”

  “Would you like me to hail a cab?”

  She glanced down at her buttoned shoes. “My poor feet would be most grateful.”

  Taking her by the arm, Colin led her away from the river and back up toward the street. Soon he found a taxi, and they settled inside for the ride back to the hotel.

  “Oh, this is far better than walking!”

  As she sighed her obvious relief, Colin grinned. For a moment, he gazed at the woman beside him, considering how little he really knew about Johanna Reyer. And then a sudden, disquieting thought . . .

  How much more he still wanted to learn.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Jardin des Plantes at noon—Lacourt

  Colin found the note with the message lying on the floor of his room the following morning. Because it was near the door, he hoped the messenger had slipped the note beneath the portal and not entered his room uninvited while he slept. Otherwise, the intruder surely would have witnessed his thrashing about during a particularly rough night of dreams.

  Tucking the paper into the pocket of his britches, he continued to dress and wondered if seeing the Boche prisoners at Place du Capitole yesterday had triggered his nightmares . . . or maybe it had been his rehashing for Johanna the details of the tunnel explosion. Either way, Colin didn’t like the idea of anyone—especially Petit—standing over him when he was in such a vulnerable state.

  He pulled on a fresh undershirt and slid the suspenders back into place before heading to the washstand to shave. After pouring water into the basin, he dipped his shaving mug just enough to wet the bar soap, then tucked the vessel into the crook of his left arm and used the brush to whip up a thick white lather.

  As he applied the foam to his face, his mind turned to the upcoming meeting with “Lacourt.” His mouth curved upward. He’d seen through Petit’s ploy—using the Frenchman’s name on the missive. If the American thought he was being clever, he was mistaken.

  He dropped the brush back into the mug and exchanged them for his safety razor. As he wet the steel and began removing his whiskers, a sense of expectancy filled him. After all the games, he was finally going to get some answers about Jewel and her situation with Kepler.

  Colin forced himself to take his time with the razor, impatient to share the news with Johanna at breakfast. She would be overjoyed to know the rendezvous with the American was about to happen.

  Warmth filled him as he thought about their walk yesterday along the river. The words he’d spoken to her about faith and unconditional love had given Colin something to reconsider as well: the times he wrestled with his own belief, and the fact he wasn’t alone in that struggle.

  Johanna’s illegitimacy had made her growing-up years difficult, subjected to ignorance and the prejudice of others. It bothered him to think she believed herself beneath God’s love and His miracles. Colin had told her how people could be cruel, even unintentionally—something he knew firsthand.

  His trips to the rehabilitation center in Dublin had been the worst: the cab driver’s gawking stare as he’d dropped Colin off, the fear in a woman’s eyes as she scurried along the sidewalk to keep her distance while he entered Richmond Asylum.

  As though Colin were a lunatic, and not suffering from what physicians had termed as shell shock.

  Scraping away the last of the white lather, he rinsed the razor before gazing into the mirror at the haunted eyes in his clean-shaven face. The doctors told him that being on his uncle’s farm and working the land was the best medicine; eventually the nightmares would cease, and he’d be free of their chains.

  He prayed the day would come soon.

  Once he’d headed downstairs, Colin found Johanna at the concierge’s desk. Today she wore a long-sleeved dress of dark blue and a wrap in a blue-and-white-striped design. Her eyes seemed more vivid to him this morning, and he wondered if his words yesterday had made an impression. “Ah, here you are, my darling.”

  She jerked her head in his direction before glancing at the uniformed concierge behind the desk, who watched their exchange with interest. Johanna held out her hand and smiled at Colin. “You have found me, Husband.”

  Colin was relieved at her poise and leaned in to brush a light kiss against her cheek. “Well done.” Whispering softly against her ear, he caught the faint scent of flowers.

  He straightened and held her gloved hand. “Shall we breakfast in the restaurant?”

  A soft pink hue colored her cheeks as she eyed him from beneath the large brimmed hat. “I thought we might try something new. The concierge recommends Bistrot Charles, not far from here.”

  “Lead the way.” As she moved ahead toward the exit, Colin followed closely, his hand just grazing the small of her back. Once outside and out of view, he stepped away a few inches and offered her his arm.

  “The change in venue is a good idea.” He still didn’t trust Petit, and any discussion he might have with Johanna about the upcoming meeting needed to happen outside the hotel porter’s hearing.

  They had turned left, walking along the street in the opposite direction of Place du Capitole. Colin told her about the note as they went, and she caught his arm, halting him. “I should like to go with you to this meeting.”

  “I think we both know the man I’m to meet is not Henri Lacourt. And since I have yet to learn Petit’s true motives, I want to go alone and see what he has to say.”

  She eyed him unhappily before she nodded. “All right, you win this time.”

  He smiled. “Are we having a contest?”

  The corners of her mouth lifted. “More like a battle of wills, I’d say. Anyway, you will let me know once you return?”

  He agreed just as they arrived in front of the small café with its rustic sign and large frontage window. Pausing outside to read the menu board, Colin realized the rationing was being felt more deeply outside the confines of their luxury hotel. Bread, cheese, and Toulouse sausages were listed as standard fare, while eggs, sugar, and milk were an outrageous price.

  Still, they entered the establishment and sat near the back, and within minutes, the proprietor had taken their orders and delivered each a cup of coffee colored with the
precious milk.

  ———

  Sipping her hot drink, Jo gazed at Colin across the table, noting his fresh shave. His spiced scent drifted to her, and she imagined she could still feel the imprint of his kiss on her cheek and his warm breath against her ear as he offered words of praise for her acting ability in front of the hotel concierge.

  “What’s wrong? Have I missed a spot with the razor?”

  “Er . . . no, not at all.” She realized she’d been staring and sat up straighter. “So, do you think Petit knows my sister’s location?”

  Colin reached for his cup and took a sip before he answered. “He was rather cryptic with me yesterday, but I believe he knows quite a bit about Jewel and Captain Kepler. I have to assume they are here in the city. Today I hope to find out where.”

  Excitement pulsed through her. Jo’s dream of meeting Jewel and finding their father now seemed more real than ever before. Again she wondered if her sister would like her. And would she like Jewel? From the words Jo had read in the diary, she thought she would.

  Colin had told her what Jewel looked like. If she and her sister were to stand side by side, would Jo be able to recognize their similarities?

  Jo also wondered if Jewel knew of her existence even though she hadn’t written in her diary about having a sister, nor had she mentioned the fact to Colin. And what about Papa? Would he be glad to see both of his daughters together, or would he be embarrassed about Jo?

  Perhaps she would need to win over her sister first. . . .

  Sudden nervousness battled her impatience. “I hope she isn’t too far away. I wish to meet with her as soon as possible.”

  “Really, Johanna? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Disarmed by Colin’s amused grin, it was a moment before Jo realized she’d stated the obvious. Was it being with him that made her turn into such an idiot?

  She tried to redirect the conversation. “No one ever calls me Johanna, you know. My friends call me Jo, and I give you leave to do the same.” Leaning forward, she whispered, “Especially since we are posing as man and wife.”