“Seems like we need a break before we read more.”
As much as she wanted to continue, he was right. Every lobe in her brain ached. “We could work while we eat.”
He nodded. “Then we’ll phone Mr. Knight, after we finish the translations.”
She smoothed her hand over the top of the tin. The news of finding the letters would be welcomed, but the contents so far might hurt the man. “What happens if the rest of the letters are just as bleak?”
“Mr. Knight knows this story may not have a happy ending. He wants resolution.”
“But I want a happy ending for him.”
“As we all do.” They started walking toward the Range Rover. “Either way, Mr. Knight will want to know about the letters.”
“I thought you were keeping these kinds of things from him.”
“It’s only the middle of the story, Quenby.”
She slid into the passenger seat, and as Lucas turned the SUV toward Newhaven, she tried to cling to the dream she’d had last night, of the girl picnicking with a God-like man who cared for her. Was it a premonition? Preparing her for the fact that Brigitte had indeed died as a girl? Perhaps she was with Jesus now. No longer hungry or lonely or afraid.
“Before we go to town . . .” Lucas stopped on the side of the empty road, at the edge of the grassy bank. “I think it’s time for you to do something else unexpected.”
She eyed the murky river on their left. “Does it involve swimming?”
“No.” He turned the car off again and removed the key from the ignition. “It involves steering.”
She glanced over her right shoulder at him, horrified. “I’m not driving.”
His arm swept across the dashboard as if the woods and river were on display. “No better place to learn than out here.”
“I can drive just fine, Lucas. It’s the other drivers who won’t want me on an English road.”
He glanced in his mirror and made a grand show of turning around in his seat. “There’s no traffic out here.”
She crossed her arms. Silent.
He smiled. “Think of it as an opportunity.”
“One that I don’t want to take.”
“I’m here to change your life, Quenby Vaughn.”
Her arms were still crossed, but she loosened them. “It sounds like you’re trying to hawk a time-share.”
“If you learn to drive, you can borrow my car to explore on your own.” He dangled the keys in front of her, sweeping them back and forth like he was trying to hypnotize her.
Her arms fell to her sides. “And leave you in London?”
He tapped the steering wheel’s leather cover. “If you master this.”
For a split second, the thought crossed her mind that she’d begun to enjoy Lucas’s company, but it would be more convenient—for him and for her—if she could travel around on her own. Then he wouldn’t have to leave the office to chauffeur.
She eyed the keys. “No wonder you went into law.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’ve fine-tuned the art of manipulation.”
His face grew serious. “I’m fairly certain that I can’t talk you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”
“True enough.” She swiped the keys from him. “I’ll try it.”
He clicked his seat belt on the passenger side as she restarted the vehicle. Then she pressed the accelerator. It felt strange to be behind a wheel again. Stranger still to be driving a car on the left-hand side.
She steered carefully, tires tracing the edge of the riverbank.
Lucas leaned his chair back. “You’re doing it!”
“I guess I am.”
They rounded another curve. “Here comes a tractor,” Lucas said.
Quenby groaned when she saw the red tractor driving toward them. The same one Kyle had been riding to his barn.
She wished she could duck under the console. Would have, actually, if she hadn’t been in the driver’s seat.
When Kyle saw her, he waved. Then he swerved his tractor toward her. It was ever so slight but enough to throw her off. She overcorrected to her left, and the tires hit the mud. Then the grass.
“Go right,” Lucas urged, but it was too late.
When Quenby pressed on the accelerator, the car just roared back at her, the tires buried deep in the sediment.
In the rearview mirror, she saw Kyle turn the tractor around.
Just great.
Chapter 32
Mill House, December 1941
Mama used to sing to her as she fell asleep on Christmas Eve. She had the prettiest voice. A golden thread stitching together each note. Every word.
How Brigitte had loved to hear her mama sing.
There would be no celebrating Christmas in this old house. She wouldn’t even know the holiday was tomorrow except she’d heard one of Hitler’s men wish Frau a happy Christmas before he left tonight. Then, through the crack near her door, where the wood no longer fit into the frame, she’d watched him kiss Frau on the lips.
How could anyone kiss that woman?