Someone who knew what it was like to be left alone.
When he read Quenby Vaughn’s series of articles about refugees, he was impressed with her ability to empathize with the tragic loss of the children while condemning those who infiltrated a new country intent on doing harm. It was a wretched line to walk, determining who needed help and who wanted to start a war.
Miss Vaughn was smart and capable, empathetic yet tough. Once his investigator discovered that she was preparing to write an article about Lady Ricker, the employer of Mr. and Mrs. Terrell, it seemed his prayers to find the right person for this job had been answered. And now he prayed that Miss Vaughn would do what no one before her had been able to accomplish.
Together they would rescue Brigitte.
The wind rustled the pine needles again, and for a moment he thought he heard barking in the distance. Instinctively, his body cried for him to run, but his legs were so tired, as if he’d already walked a dozen miles today.
He glanced around at the trees, confused.
He had been walking a long way, hadn’t he? All the way from Germany. And he was hungry. Tired.
He lifted the walking stick in his hands. Examined it. Where had he found such a polished piece? Perhaps the farmer had given it to him.
“Brigitte,” he called out into the rain, steadying himself against a wet branch as he scanned the trees for her.
She would be nearby, looking for food or a place to sleep. She would never leave him.
Daniel blinked, saying her name again as the rain splashed his face, but this time it was just a whisper. He was back on the island, in the forest near his home.
There was no Brigitte, of course. Hadn’t been in a long time.
It wasn’t just the walls of the castle that were closing in on his mind. Now the trees seemed to be fogging it as well.
If he didn’t find Brigitte soon, he feared he might not remember her at all.
When he emerged on the other side of the forest, Jack was waiting for him.
His driver opened the car door. “You ready to go home, Mr. Knight?”
He nodded slowly. “I believe I am.”
“Eileen has a nice cuppa waiting for you.”
Daniel closed his eyes in the backseat of the car, trying to think about the tea, but her eyes emerged in his mind again, the vibrant blue of them staring back at him.
Somewhere, Brigitte was waiting for him too.
Chapter 15
Mulberry Lane, December 1940
Brigitte’s back was crushed against the closet door, her hands pressed against her ears, but she couldn’t block out the yelling. It grew louder and louder in the kitchen below her room.
She didn’t understand much English, but the Terrells said one word over and over that she knew well now.
Girl.
They always seemed to be fighting about her.
If only Dietmar were here. He could tell her what else the Terrells were saying. He knew all the English words.
Herr Terrell would leave soon. And perhaps Frau Terrell would as well. Then they’d be gone for hours. Sometimes Herr Terrell didn’t return until late at night. Then the fighting would start again.
She reached up and touched her shoulder, her long hair sheared by Frau Terrell’s scissors the night she’d arrived. The cuts made by Frau Terrell’s nails had healed weeks ago, but they’d left behind stripes on her skin.
Herr Terrell hated her—she didn’t need the words of English to understand that. Frau Terrell tolerated her as long as she did the chores assigned her. The woman would point at the broom and say, “Sweep.” Or at the dishes and say, “Wash.” So she swept or washed or whatever Frau Terrell asked of her. Just like Aschenputtel—Cinderella—from the Brothers Grimm.
She didn’t mind the chores. They kept her from thinking about her sweet papa back in Germany. And about her best friend.
Closing her eyes, she pretended that Dietmar was waiting for her below the window, ready to rescue her like he’d done at home. It had all been play back then in the tree house, at least until the enemy really had come and taken her papa away.
Now she needed Dietmar to charge this tower. Climb the vines that led up to her room. Take her with him.
He’d promised her that he would come. A thousand times.
Oh, why had he left her, back when all those people were looking at the children? Why hadn’t he stopped the Terrells before they drove out of town?
She’d seen him standing on the curb, his hands to his sides. And she’d thought—hoped—that he saw her in the car. That he would find this house and steal her away.
Weeks had passed—perhaps even a month or two—but still each morning she awoke fresh to the hope that Dietmar would surely come today.
Had Hitler’s men found him in England? Had they taken him back to Germany?