“I’ve never sucked an egg in my life,” Quenby said. “Not here or in Tennessee.”
“You know what I mean.” Mrs. McMann’s finger hovered over the button that powered her window.
“I’m going to find out what happened,” Quenby continued. “I just wanted to give your family the opportunity to tell your side of things.”
“My mother was an honorable lady who did much good for Britain during the war. There’s nothing else for me to tell.”
“Did she host evacuees?”
The woman shook her head. “She was focused on raising her own children.”
“But you weren’t born until after the war—”
“I wasn’t an only child.”
“Of course,” Quenby said, deciding not to add that she knew Mrs. McMann’s brother wasn’t born either until after many of the evacuees had been relocated. “I read that your mother was from America.”
Mrs. McMann reached for her purse and pulled out her mobile. “I assume you are familiar with the law office of Fenton and Potts.”
“You familiarized me in your e-mail.”
Mrs. McMann lifted the phone to her ear. “They are about to become equally familiar with you.”
The woman drove through the gates. Quenby was tempted to follow her but figured she didn’t need a trespassing charge for Mrs. McMann or any of her family to discredit her story.
And she was certain now that there was a story. She only had to uncover what Mrs. McMann was trying to hide.
The gate clanged shut, and she took a step back. The blue coupe had stopped on the other side, as if the woman was making good on her threat to call her lawyer right away.
A text popped up on her phone from Lucas.
Have you made a decision?
She returned his text. I have twelve more hours to decide.
Seconds later, another question blinked on her screen. Where are you?
At Breydon Court. Working on my story for WNS.
Don’t move.
She stared down at her phone. I have to move. Breathing and all that.
When she looked back up, she saw Mrs. McMann still in her car, watching Quenby in her rearview mirror. The woman opened her door, craning her neck for her final word from the other side of the fence. “If you come tromping on my land, I’ll call the police.”
Mrs. McMann slammed the door before driving away.
As the dust settled back onto the road, Lucas texted her again.
Do you have a car?
Don’t need one with Uber.
I’m south of London. Can drive down.
Lucas might think he could coerce her by his offer to help—and his flowers—but she couldn’t let him influence her work or her decision.
She texted back, No need to come. I’m almost done for today.
His return text came after she started walking. I suppose you can breathe then.
Generous. Thanks.
Where are you going next?
She glanced at the screen for a moment and put her mobile away. She’d send him another text from Mulberry Lane.
Mrs. McMann couldn’t stop her from tromping on public land.
Chapter 17
Breydon Court, December 1940
With the exception of black draping the windows, Breydon Court hadn’t succumbed to the wartime gloom that billowed across their country and infiltrated the minds of citizens dreary from darkness and fear, from rationed food and the cramped spaces that sheltered them from Germany’s wrath.
Electric lights were forbidden at night, but candlelight softened the harsh lines and crevices of the formal parlor in the manor house. Even the ancient portraits seemed to bask in the familiarity of flickering wicks, the faint scent of honey in the melting wax, though they glowered down at the modern furniture and clothing of its occupants with open disdain, appearing quite sinister if one bothered to look long enough.
As Lady Ricker awaited her company in the parlor, Eddie Terrell slipped into the kitchen to find his wife busy preparing for the annual New Year’s Eve party. She, along with three other staff members, had been assigned the task of serving their guests.
“Where have you been?” Olivia whispered as she reached back behind her collar, checking her neatly pinned knot of hair. There wasn’t a loose strand hanging from it. Never was. But Olivia still felt obligated to check it whenever her hands weren’t occupied with something else.
“In the gardens,” he lied.
“You smell like soap.”
He shrugged. “I cleaned up.”
He hadn’t really been in the gardens, of course, but truth was as elusive these days as black treacle at the market. His wartime tasks spanned past his obligatory duties as foreman in the outdoor gardens, like Olivia’s. She was a secretary by trade, but Lady Ricker often sent her to work in the kitchen. And now she’d taken on an evacuee for her ladyship as well.