I glanced up to see humor glinting in his eyes as the rain fell softly around us. The sight of him smiling at me did something funny to my insides, making it difficult to breathe. And all of a sudden, I was arrested for an entirely different reason—struck mute by the fact that I’d feared I would never again see such a gentle expression on his face when he looked at me.
As if grasping the magnitude of this moment, his smile faded, but the tenderness remained. His hand lifted to cup my face, and I was certain he would have kissed me. Had the sky not decided right then to open up and pour.
He pulled back, ushering me inside the vehicle before he darted around to the other side through the cold deluge.
“Dash it all,” he cursed as he fell into his seat. Shrugging his shoulders, he tried to shake off the dampness.
I passed him a handkerchief so that he could mop his face.
“Well, I’m certainly awake now,” he quipped.
Whether it was the gamut of emotions I’d run in the past twenty-four hours or our foiled kiss. Whatever the reason, he suddenly seemed impossibly handsome to me, even with his skin glistening and rain dripping from the brim of his hat. I was forced to clear my throat before I could speak, lest I make a cake of myself. “All the better to help me puzzle this riddle.”
“The thorn, hmm? There isn’t a village by that name, is there?”
“Not that I know of. Although . . .” I paused, as an idea took hold in my brain, becoming more plausible the longer I contemplated it. I sat forward in enthusiasm. “Of course. I’m not sure how they met, but surely it’s possible.”
“How who met?”
I swiveled to face him. “So ‘the thorn’ in French translates to ‘l’epine.’ And I just happen to be familiar with a Madame de l’Epine.” I arched my eyebrows at the significance. “She hid me in her home in Tourcoing, near Lille, one night.”
But rather than excitement, his face blanched. “That close to the rear of the German front?”
“Well, yes,” I fumbled to respond. “Though assignments that required me to be so close to the fighting were rare.”
“Because they were dashed risky.”
I didn’t deny it. Security in those areas had been rigorous. If I had been stopped and they’d bothered to check their rolls of citizens, as an outsider I would have instantly been arrested or shot. But I wasn’t about to explain myself now, nor the necessity of my being there.
“All that is not of the moment,” I replied calmly. “But the fact that Emilie is possibly in Tourcoing is.”
“So that is where you wish to go?” Sidney replied grimly.
I nodded, knowing full well what that meant for him.
He inhaled a deep breath as if to ready himself. “On to Tourcoing then.”
* * *
Fortunately, as we traveled out of Havay, the rain ceased. Though the heavy gray clouds remained in place, threatening to drench us again at any moment. Some distance outside of Mons on the road to Tournai, in the hotly contested country fought over during the Allies’ initial disastrous retreat in August 1914, we stopped at a café in a small village for coffee and sandwiches. Sidney was pleased to find the town had a supply of petrol, so he filled the motorcar’s tank and performed some other maintenance with the help of a man with a booming laugh who had been a mechanic in the Belgian Army. All while a swarm of local boys clustered around him, buzzing excitedly like bees. They asked a hundred rapid-fire questions in their peculiar slang, all of which Sidney answered patiently, happy to find someone as interested in motorcars and engines as himself.
I smiled at the sight, amused by all of their boyish enthusiasm, and strolled down the street to the Hôtel de Ville. They professed they were delighted to let me use their telephone, and I rang up Captain Landau’s office in Brussels. As was the case earlier that day when I’d called from the hotel in Maubeuge while waiting for Sidney to shave and gather his luggage, his secretary claimed Landau was not in. So I left another message stating I would telephone again when we reached our destination. She had no news for me, and while frustrated, I wasn’t overly concerned. It might take some time for the agents in London to track down Pauline Laurent, and I was well aware that Captain Landau was busy with other matters. I trusted he would find a way to get in touch with me if the situation turned urgent.
Sidney had told me he would swing around with the Pierce-Arrow to pick me up at the town square, so I crossed the road toward the green space. Or what had once been green. But the grass was all but stunted, and I could only surmise the Germans had commandeered this square for their use like so many other places. Many of the trees were shorn in half, splintered by shells, but a few remained to offer their welcoming shade on hot days. I strolled down the pathway cutting diagonally across its center toward a statue in the middle, happy to stretch my legs after so many days spent in the motorcar. However, my contented idyll was short-lived.
As I neared the limestone figure, a prickling sensation began along the back of my neck. One I’d long ago learned to heed. I glanced about me slowly, as if surveying the park. There were a few other figures milling about, but none of them seemed to be paying me the slightest attention. I lifted my eyes to the buildings ringing the square that still stood, but there again I was foiled for it was impossible to see through the windows from such a distance. Nevertheless, I felt certain someone was watching me.
I continued through the square, ever mindful of those around me. When I saw the Pierce-Arrow approaching, I abandoned all pretense of ease and turned abruptly to scan the park behind me, hoping to catch them off guard. On the left, a tall man with his hat pulled low hurried away, passing behind two trees. I narrowed my eyes, trying to tell if any part of his walk or appearance seemed familiar to me.
Sidney leaned across to open the motorcar door, and I slid into the passenger seat.
“Drive around toward that direction,” I instructed him, wondering whether we could intercept the man before he disappeared.
Sidney did as instructed, accelerating sharply around the square, but there was no such man in sight. Only a woman pushing a pram who leveled a fierce scowl at us. Sidney stopped short, allowing her to pass while I searched the buildings.
“Did you see someone?” he guessed.
“I don’t know,” I prevaricated, not wanting to speak the name of the person I thought it might have been. “Maybe. But I could have sworn someone was just watching me. And the man I saw move this way was too tall to be that fellow from Brussels who claimed to be Jonathan Fletcher.”
I turned to find Sidney watching me, a shrewd look in his eyes.
“You don’t have to avoid saying his name, you know. I promise I won’t order you out of the car and drive away.”
I inhaled past the tightness in my chest. “Well, you can hardly blame me. For a man who usually charges directly at difficulties, you’ve been doing a remarkable amount of walking away.”
Something shifted behind his eyes, something bleak and heart-wrenching. He stared straight ahead through the windscreen, inching the motorcar forward again. “Yes, well, I’m not always certain I have complete control over myself anymore. It seems better not to risk it.”
I could tell how much it had cost him to admit such a thing, and it only made the confession all the more distressing. For what could I say to that?
I knew the war had changed many men, and often not for the better. Those who would have never lost their temper or lifted a hand in violence, suddenly found it difficult to contain themselves even over the most trifling matters, let alone the larger ones. For them the war was still in the back of their heads, and the instincts and habits they’d fine-tuned over the years of conflict, in order to stay alive, could not be turned off in an instant. Even those who did not suffer from shell shock had nerves twisted and frayed, sometimes almost to the breaking point.
So many of them struggled to let go of the war. I’d wondered if Sidney was one of them, and now I knew.
Swallowing hard, I choked down the lump
that had formed in my throat and reached over to gently touch his leg. I didn’t dare look at him. I knew he didn’t want that. And I feared if I did so, I might not be able to contain my brimming emotions.
For several moments, he didn’t move except for the actions required to drive his motorcar. But then his hand dropped to cover mine, squeezing it tightly before he relaxed his grip.
We fell silent as the village fell away and we ventured deeper into the open fields of the torn countryside. Much of it was still barren and fallow, trampled and mismanaged during the years of German invasion and occupation, or marred by shell holes. But here and there were encouraging signs of regrowth—the green leaves of sprouting potatoes and waving stalks of barley.
I had traveled through this area a few times, cutting across the country from Holland and Brussels toward the French border, often with the aid of a passeur or other guide, largely avoiding towns. The sight of this landscape now tugged at something inside me. I felt a peculiar sense of almost melancholy. Not for the war and all the danger involved, but perhaps for the purpose I’d felt.
“This would probably be a good time to tell you that I spoke with my friend at Scotland Yard,” Sidney said.
I glanced up in surprise. “When?”
“I telephoned him this morning. I wanted to hear whether Pauline Laurent had revealed anything more when they questioned her. She did not.”
“But . . . ?” I could hear the word fairly ringing in his silence.
His eyes darted toward me rife with cynicism. “But she’s no longer at the address she gave them. He went to ask her a few more questions and the proprietress told him she’d departed some days before and most of her things were gone from her room.”
I sat back, somehow not surprised. “Well, that’s suspicious.”
“To say the least.”
“So why did she leave so quickly?” I contemplated. “And where did she go?”
As if in answer to that question, the crawling sensation along the back of my neck began again. I swiveled to look over my shoulder.
“There’s another motorcar some distance behind us,” Sidney said, correctly construing my concern.
“Has it been following us for long?”
“I didn’t see it before our stop, but it might have been there.” He flicked a glance into his wing mirror. “If either the sun would appear or the sky would get dark enough to force us to turn on our headlamps, it would help. As it is, the vehicle almost blends in to the horizon.”
I scanned the road ahead of us, gnawing my lip in thought. Ahead of us, I saw a crossroad leading off toward the east. I pointed. “Turn here.”
Sidney immediately complied, though he had to brake hard to do so. He slowly motored forward on the dirt lane while I turned in my seat, waiting for the other vehicle to appear. About a minute and a half later, a gray motorcar came driving down the road. But it didn’t even brake, simply continued to move forward and carry on to the north, disappearing from sight.
I sank back into the leather, wondering what that meant, if anything. Perhaps, I was imagining things.
“Shall I turn around?”
I gestured incredulously to the muddy mires lining either side of the narrow road. “Where?”
“I’m sure I could manage it.”
I arched a single eyebrow at him, not keen on the idea of watching him attempt such a feat. “Just keep going. We should be coming up on another road cutting back toward the north.”
This proved to be a mistake.
CHAPTER 23
We did, indeed, find the crossroad cutting north. And it was wider than that single dirt lane. But about two miles from the turn, Sidney’s motorcar suddenly began to hiss and splutter, and steam seeped from underneath the bonnet.
A ferocious scowl transformed his face as he pulled the Pierce-Arrow to a stop. “What’s this? I just checked her over.” He threw the vehicle into park. “Unless she jostled something loose on these rubbish roads.”
I wisely remained silent as he climbed out, removed his coat, and rolled up his sleeves so he could look under her bonnet. He cursed, leaping backward as more steam billowed forth. Once it had cleared, he moved forward again to examine the engine.
“What is it?” I asked as he stomped toward the far side running board, muttering to himself.
I heard the clink and clatter of tools shifting about in the small storage box strapped there, and then a softly muttered oath. In the wing mirror, I watched as he threw down the rag he’d been wiping his hands with and then turned to pace away, his hands on his hips. After a moment, he retrieved the rag from the ground and returned to the bonnet.
But it wasn’t long before he slammed it shut again and turned to me. “The radiator has sprung a leak.” He stared up and down the empty road. In all the time we’d been parked there, not a single vehicle had driven by. “If I had my pliers, I could patch it long enough to get us back to civilization, but they appear to be missing, even though I saw them not three quarters of an hour ago.”
“Oh, dear,” I replied evenly, wondering if one of those animated boys might have had something to do with it, even if by accident.
He began unrolling his sleeves in sharp movements. “I suppose we’d better start walking.”
I offered him a smile of commiseration and gathered up what I thought shouldn’t be left behind and tossed it into the shoulder satchel where I’d stored some food and a bottle of cider. I couldn’t help shooting an anxious glance up at the sky heavy with clouds. It was difficult to tell whether the light had grown dimmer because rain was imminent or daylight was merely beginning to wane. Sidney seemed to share my concern for he retrieved a blanket from the rear seat and draped it over his arm before taking the satchel from me to loop it over his shoulders.
We set off down the road toward the north. There was little evidence of human habitation, and the homes and barns that did exist were badly damaged, or little more than charred remains. Yet more sins to lay at the advancing German Army’s feet. Still the walk was easy, and I quickly found my stride again, even after almost a year’s absence from this terrain.
Sidney marched along just as effortlessly, though I could tell he had adjusted his gait to match my shorter one. I worried the shoulder satchel might pull uncomfortably at the healed bullet wound in his chest, but he didn’t appear to be troubled by it. Nevertheless, I was about to ask him about it when he spoke.
“I suppose you’re accustomed to this?”
I looked at him in question.
He gestured broadly with his hand. “Walking cross-country like this. Though I suppose much of it was done at night.” He sounded genuinely interested, but still I demurred.
“I never really got used to it. Not when I knew I could stumble across German soldiers at any moment.” I glanced about me at the flat terrain. “After all, when they called out to you to stop, you had better do so.”
“Weren’t you afraid?”
I glanced up into his wide, troubled eyes.
“We heard the stories at the front, read the newspapers. I know they were censored and exaggerated, but, nevertheless, the Americans didn’t dub the Germans’ actions ‘The Rape of Belgium’ for no reason.”
I knew what he was really asking, and I sought to reassure him. “Of course, I was afraid. How could I not be? And yes, I was . . . pestered to a certain degree. As all the women were. And I didn’t like it.” I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling sullied even now. “I cried the first time it happened. But then I knew it could have been so much worse. And . . . and one simply had to carry on. The German command certainly wasn’t going to stop their men from doing such things.”
I inhaled a steadying breath, lowering my arms. “The best thing I could do, the only thing, was to complete the tasks assigned to me, and help to defeat them, and drive them out of Belgium. And in time, the acuteness of the terror faded. Didn’t it for you?”
He frowned down at his feet. “Yes, I suppose so.” Then he surprised me
by adding. “Or perhaps it was more a matter that one stopped caring altogether.”
His gaze lifted to my shocked one and his lips twisted in irritation. “Not that I was suicidal. Merely that it was easier to just follow orders and stop concerning yourself with everything else.”
I could hear in his voice that he wished this was genuinely true, but I knew better. “Now why do I suspect that’s a lie?”
His head turned abruptly taking in my gently chastising expression.
“Sidney, I’ve seen the way you treat your former soldiers. I watch how it tears you up to see their lost limbs and low spirits. I mean, for heaven’s sakes, you faked your own death so that you could search for evidence to expose a traitor among your ranks! And you told off those two busybody ladies in that café for being insensitive.” He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “Not that they didn’t deserve it. But don’t try to tell me you stopped caring.”
When he didn’t respond, I decided to push a little further.
“Somehow, I suspect you know the exact number of men you killed with your own hands,” I murmured.
His face seemed to close in on itself, struggling to contain the dark emotions I sensed roiling underneath. But he didn’t deny it, and I suspected that was as near a confirmation as I was going to receive. His shoulders seemed to bow, shouldering all the weight of that pain, that guilt, and I wished there was something I could do for him. Some way I could ease that suffering. But that was not my absolution to give.
“It was hell, Sidney,” I said, knowing full well it was not enough. “All you could do was survive it and help as many of your men as possible survive it.”
He didn’t speak for a long time after that. We marched along with nothing but the rustle of the wind through the grass at the side of the road, and the honking cry of a flight of geese overhead to break the stillness, as the light continued to fade. But there was still one more thing bothering me, one more concern. Given all the other revelations of the previous evening and today, I finally felt brave enough to voice it.
Treacherous Is the Night Page 25
