Precious stones and pearls, that’s what Hansel and Gretel took when they ran from the witch. But when Bridget ran from the Mill House, she took a baby, and her life was forever changed.
As Quenby sat on a rug in front of the fire, inside the eagle house, she reminisced on the lives of two very different sisters, writing down thoughts for their memoir while Bridget and Hannah both read books nearby. It was a story they’d decided to tell together, with Mr. Knight’s permission. One that was partially Quenby’s to share as well.
Months ago, she’d told Hannah that Rosalind, her biological mother, had another child—and that her brother, Alexander, now lived in Jacksonville. Uncle Alexander. It was strange to Quenby. She’d never had anyone to call aunt or uncle before.
Hannah and Quenby had flown to Florida several months ago to visit with him. Bridget had thought Lady Ricker sent someone to knock on her door, back in Rodmell, but Alexander said it was actually his father, asking about Brigitte. Rosalind, swept up perhaps in the early days of romance, told her husband about the daughter she’d birthed and then lost near that village. Alexander didn’t know his father’s intentions, beyond confirming whether or not Rosalind’s story was true, but he said it was probably good that Brigitte and Hannah had moved north.
Each of Lady Ricker’s children, it turned out, had a different father, and it seemed that none of them was Lord Ricker.
Rosalind’s father had been Oskar, the German officer whom Lady Ricker had loved. He had been killed in Normandy on D-Day.
Anthony Ricker’s father was probably Eddie Terrell, confirmed only by Mrs. Douglas’s photograph. Quenby thought it best to keep that speculation to herself.
Alexander said that Louise McMann’s father was actually Admiral Drague. Only a few people knew about Lady Ricker and Admiral Drague’s affair, but Louise was privy to the information, as was Evan Graham, Admiral Drague’s grandson.
Quenby wouldn’t be writing an exposé on the Rickers, and Evan didn’t even have to pay her to suppress it. He didn’t have the money anyway. The news had come out recently, unreported by the syndicate, that Evan’s finances were in the tank. An article exposing the Ricker family, and ultimately Evan’s family as well, would have discredited him as a publisher and completely ruined his financial state.
Also, the police in Newhaven were questioning Evan after they found the driver of the gray lorry. The man had directed them to a tourist visiting Brighton, a man who’d promised to pay him a substantial sum to scare Quenby and Lucas away.
Her work at the syndicate was done, but this memoir, she hoped, was only the beginning of stories she could help people tell.
The twelve children housed in this home were all asleep upstairs as snow fell on the lawn. Lucas was supposed to come tonight, but she guessed he’d have to wait until tomorrow.
Bridget rubbed her arms. “I miss Dietmar.”
“Me too,” Quenby said.
Warming her hands on her tea mug, she thought back over the summer and then autumn months. Bridget had stayed true to her word. She’d spent five of those months helping care for Mr. Knight, alongside Eileen. When he passed away, they discovered that he’d written Brigitte into his will long ago, hoping he would find her one day. After his death, Bridget and Lucas became partners at Arrow Wind.
Bridget didn’t really know anything about wind, except it could bring people together or tear them apart. But Lucas had learned plenty over the years about the company, and Quenby had no doubt that their farms would continue to thrive.
Part of Mr. Knight’s income had restored Adler House into a beautiful estate. The For Sale sign was gone, and Lucas and Bridget had begun investing in other houses across England to help unaccompanied children and refugee families who needed a home.
Quenby looked up from her iPad screen, her gaze finding Hannah. She’d learned much about forgiveness in these months, but still one question remained for her. “How do you reconcile that our ancestors were Nazis?”
Hannah glanced at Bridget, as she often did when Quenby asked questions about their story, gaining a silent sort of permission from her older sister before she spoke. “They weren’t all Nazis.”
Quenby tilted her head. “Of course not, but—”
“Quenby,” Hannah said, stopping her. “I took a genetic test a few years ago and discovered that I’m of Jewish descent as well as German.”
“From your father’s side?”
“No, from my mother.”
Quenby leaned back against a chair, stunned by her words. “Rosalind was Jewish?”
She nodded slowly. “Passed down from her mother.”
“Lady Ricker?” Quenby whispered.
“Precisely.”
Which meant that Quenby was of German and Jewish descent as well. “I wonder if she knew . . .”
“It was a grand cover-up scheme if she did. Perhaps she was afraid of what Hitler would do if he took England. She wanted to be known in Germany as someone who supported him.”