River Ouse, April 1943
Rosalind’s hands were clamped over the wheel of the Wolseley, her gaze fixed on the ruts in the bumpy road. The laughter was gone from her lips. The quick wit that could put even Herr in his place. The two of them, together they’d put Herr permanently into a place where he’d never trouble them again.
Neither of them shed tears over the man as they fled the Mill House, but baby girl cried, kicking against Brigitte’s chest. She was hungry and probably just as scared.
When they emerged onto the narrow road beside the river, Rosalind turned north. And Brigitte ventured a question. “Where are we going?”
Rosalind didn’t answer. It was as if she couldn’t hear.
They would travel far away from here, the three of them. Go someplace where Lady Ricker would never find them. Wherever the wind led.
Farmland was on their left, the river on their right until the road turned west toward the farms. As the road meandered through pastures and woodlands, Brigitte realized that Rosalind had no destination in mind. No plan. She was just driving away from the house, until their petrol was gone.
For so long she’d wanted to be free from the oppressive hand of the Terrells, but this was not what she’d imagined. A dead man and a friend who’d slipped out of her mind.
There was no door to hide behind now. No words to twist or change. She and baby were both exposed and at the mercy of Rosalind.
“We can drive to London,” Brigitte said. “My friend’s aunt lives there.”
Silence.
“Or you and the baby can go back to Germany. Her father could take care of both of you.”
Rosalind shook her head, her gaze frozen forward. But this time she spoke. “Her father is dead.”
Baby squirmed in Brigitte’s arms as farmland transformed back into forest. Rosalind turned right onto a bumpy path and the Wolseley began to climb a wooded hill toward the river.
“She’s blessed, Rosalind. She has a good mother to care for her, no matter where you live.”
Rosalind’s lips pressed together in a steely silence as she accelerated the car. Brigitte braced her feet against the floorboard, her fingers clutching the handle. Their tires hit another rut, and her head slammed against the metal roof.
“Slow down,” she demanded, but Rosalind was lost to her again.
And Brigitte knew—she had to get the baby out of here.
Baby was crying louder now, but the cries only seemed to propel Rosalind to drive faster, as if speed would swallow the car and the noise. The wand on the fuel gauge dipped toward empty, and Brigitte prayed the petrol would run out before Rosalind killed them all.
A cow stepped into the path ahead of them. Brigitte screamed, and Rosalind braked, the car shivering as it swerved through the branches. Brigitte yanked on her handle and the door swung open, its hinges rattling behind her. Then she jumped out onto the forest floor with baby clutched close to her chest. She rolled into the brush, away from the car.
The crunch of metal ripped through the trees, her door torn from its hinges. And the cow, it snorted at her before strolling back into the forest.
Baby girl was quiet in her arms—too quiet. As she sat on the moss, stunned, Brigitte thought the impact might jolt Rosalind back to reality, that she would turn around at least to check on the baby, but minutes passed, and Rosalind didn’t return.
Adrenaline rippled through Brigitte’s body as she stood, the earth beneath her still trembling, branches bobbing in the wind. When baby began kicking again, the realization hit her. She had nothing to care for an infant. No food or clothing or diapers. She could survive in the woodland until winter, if she must, but the baby could not. Without milk, baby girl might not survive the day.
A blast of sound raked through the forest then—the squeal of brakes, skidding of tires, the crash of metal against rocks.
Brigitte raced with the baby through the trees, until she reached the cliff above the river. Wind gusted up from the chalky canyon, blowing past her, rustling the trees. In the grass strip between trees and cliff were black tire marks, leading straight over the edge.
Below she could see the blue Wolseley in the water, the boot standing on end as if it were the mast on a sinking sailboat. She couldn’t see inside the vehicle—the front was completely immersed.
“Rosalind!” she shouted over the edge. The name rolled and coiled and sprang back to her.
There was no answer to her pleas. No sight of her friend.
Her stomach turning, Brigitte scanned the cliff for some sort of path, but a rock wall blocked her from the river. It would be precarious climbing down there by herself, and she certainly couldn’t do it with a baby.
There was no sentiment for losing Herr, but Rosalind . . .
How could she bear to lose her only friend?
Brigitte called her name again and again as if she might be in the water, waiting for her.