After Lady Ricker divorced her American husband, she’d sent Rosalind to Germany to be with Oskar, planning to join them later, but Oskar decided that Lady Ricker would be much more useful to him in England. Even after her marriage to Lord Ricker, Lady Ricker had visited Rosalind and Oskar in Germany. Until two years before the war.
Apparently Oskar was married as well but Rosalind didn’t tell her much more about him, only that she was terrified of the man. And he didn’t know she was expecting a child.
Brigitte didn’t tell her about Lady Ricker’s letters or her botched translations. Not with Rosalind’s father looming in the background.
Her friend stepped around a tree branch, but then she froze, holding out her arm to stop Brigitte as well. A strange motorcar was parked beside the house. Black with four doors.
“Follow me,” Brigitte said, directing Rosalind to the side of the house.
Cigarette smoke wafted through the sitting room window, and she could see two men inside with Frau, clinging to a cigarette.
Brigitte glanced at Rosalind. She didn’t look surprised.
“We know what you’ve been doing, Mrs. Terrell,” one of the men said. “We picked up a man near Swindon last week, by the name of Lothar. Do you remember him?”
Her voice trembled when she denied it.
Brigitte peeked over the windowsill again as the man leaned closer to Frau. “Too many men for you to remember?”
“You’re insulting me.”
“Lothar is quite a talker. He said you hosted a number of his friends here. He also said that he was sent by Hitler himself, to wreak havoc on the railway works up north.” The man stopped for a moment, and when he turned, Brigitte ducked down. “Do you know what that makes you, Mrs. Terrell?”
“I want to speak to my husband.”
“That makes you a collaborator with the enemy.” Silence reigned before he spoke again. “A traitor.”
She still didn’t speak.
“Where is your husband?”
This time she didn’t hesitate. “He’s in Manchester.”
“Manchester?”
“He found a position there on a farm.”
“I thought he was working at Breydon Court.”
“Not any longer.”
“Lothar said you had a daughter living with you. She helped in your work.”
Brigitte braced herself, waiting for her answer. Would Frau tell the men that she and Rosalind were in the woods?
“She’s not my daughter.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. We called her ‘girl.’”
“Lothar said she’s German.”
“She’s a mute. And she ran away, months ago.”
At first, in her wistfulness, Brigitte thought Frau might be trying to protect her, but she was probably terrified of what Brigitte would say if they found her. And she had plenty to say.
Her feet turned toward the front door, but Rosalind caught her sleeve and started to whisper. Brigitte put her finger on her lips, hushing her as she glanced up into the window again.
The men inside were probably police. British Gestapo. They hadn’t believed Frau’s lies. They probably wouldn’t believe Brigitte’s story either, even if she spoke the truth. At least not when they discovered that she was German and that her voice had been broadcasting back to the enemy.
They would brand her a traitor as well and probably put her in the hold of another boat traveling straight back across the channel. Or hand her over to Hitler’s men the next time they floated up the river.
“Brigitte,” Rosalind said, squeezing her arm. Then she groaned.
Brigitte almost hushed her again, but as she turned, she saw the panic on Rosalind’s face, her hands pressed against her abdomen.
Moving away from the window, she and Rosalind stumbled toward the woods until Rosalind stopped and doubled over, the house still in sight. Then Brigitte began to panic as well. “You can’t have your baby here.”
“Baby’s ready to come, whether or not we are.”
The front door opened, and she pulled Rosalind back into the trees. The policemen marched toward their car, Frau secured between them. Her head was down, resigned, it seemed, to her fate.
Brigitte probably should have wondered what would happen now that Frau was gone. Would they continue receiving their boxes of food from Breydon Court? The food rations from town?
But as the car drove away that afternoon, all Brigitte could think about was Rosalind and the baby about to be born.
CHAPTER 39
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Quenby brought an orchid for Mrs. Douglas, the petals a dark shade of plum. The woman had dressed in a neat peach-colored suit for their meeting, and she wore a strand of pearls and polished ivory pumps.
“You look lovely,” Quenby said as she extended her gift.
The woman smiled from her high-back chair next to the hospital bed, placing the flower on the tray beside a blue ceramic teapot, steam curling from its spout, and a plate of digestive biscuits. “Thank you for returning, Ms. Vaughn.”
“Please call me Quenby.” She gently shook the woman’s hand, mindful of her tender translucent skin.
“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”