Brigitte was three years younger, but she already knew how to care for herself and for someone else.
The mother and child in the park drew closer, both laughing as their umbrella bobbed overhead. Her eyes should remain on the lake water—staring was akin to making waves—but she couldn’t seem to help herself. The woman with her short brown hair brushed back over her ears, wearing an olive jumper over her plain dress, looked like an older housewife version of Brigitte. If it was Brigitte, the girl clinging to her hand might be Rosalind’s daughter.
Rosalind stayed frozen on the bench, squeezing the wooden crook of her umbrella as the two walked by her, seemingly unaware of the stone lady on the bench.
It wasn’t Brigitte—or at least, she didn’t think so. Nor was it Rosalind’s child. Baby would be nearly ten now, and this girl looked to be no more than five or six.
Almost every week, she spotted a mother who reminded her of Brigitte, though she never pursued her inquiries. If she ever did find Brigitte, she wasn’t sure what she’d say. Probably she would do exactly what she’d done long ago and walk away.
Just because Rosalind had carried the baby in her womb didn’t mean she was the right one to care for her into adulthood. The baby had deserved a fresh life where no one would try to harm her. And a mum who knew how to mother well.
When the rain clouds took a respite, Rosalind closed her umbrella and propped it beside her. A boy stopped by her bench, a stack of newspapers tied up in a cord under his arm. He eyed her plain coat. “Two pennies for a paper?”
She studied his plain clothes in return. “I’ll take one,” she said, wanting to contribute to the boy’s welfare more than read the words on his paper. The world and its news moved rapidly around her, but Rosalind didn’t—couldn’t—waver.
The woman and girl were near the reeds around the water now, feeding something to the ducks. She turned her attention to the Times in her lap.
February 8, 1953.
Then she read the headline near the bottom of the page. Twice.
The paper boldly announced what she’d been waiting for. Lady Ricker was finally dead, the enemy of influenza taking her life.
According to the writer, Mum had left behind two children in London—a boy named Anthony and a girl named Louise. There was no mention of Lady Ricker turning traitor during the war. And more importantly, no mention of her oldest child.
Rosalind slowly lowered the paper, her hands trembling as a shell of stone seemed to crack near the top of her head, shooting down the seam and crumbling in a thousand pieces at her feet. Then she smiled.
She’d thought it would be many more years before she was free, but finally her life was about to begin.
CHAPTER 47
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A chauffeur sped Quenby and Lucas toward the tearoom to meet Alexander. Quenby had suggested Lucas rent a car at the Jacksonville airport, but he’d refused to drive in the States. And he insisted that she rest.
As they’d crossed the Atlantic, she and Lucas had forgone their movie and launched into a new discussion about Brigitte and the possibility of her planting a magnolia tree near the garden, like Cinderella’s wishing tree.
But how did Brigitte obtain seeds for a magnolia? The beautiful trees grew across England, just like they did in the States, but acquiring magnolia seeds near the Mill House, during the war, seemed an impossibility.
After Lucas fell asleep, Quenby had chipped away at that question until she realized that Brigitte, the refugee, wouldn’t have access to magnolia seeds or the money to purchase them. But Brigitte, a young woman after the war, could have returned to plant it.
That thought revived her.
If Brigitte had left the Mill House after Olivia’s death, why hadn’t she tried to find Dietmar? Or had she tried and failed after Dietmar changed his last name? And most important, had Brigitte hidden something under this magnolia like her father had done all those years ago?
The answers, she hoped, were back in Newhaven.
Humid air clung heavy on her skin as she stepped out of the car and into the elegant tearoom. Palladian windows overlooked a floral garden, and bouquets of summer flowers decorated every table.
A gentleman in his fifties crossed the floor and welcomed them. He was taller than Quenby by a solid foot, his brown hair thinning, and he wore a taupe linen suit over his lanky frame.
“Thank you for meeting me here,” Alexander said, motioning them toward a table.
Quenby chose a seat by the window, and Lucas held it out for her. “I have to admit my curiosity,” she replied as she hung her handbag on the chair.
“And I must admit mine as well.” Alexander sat across the table, resituating his crooked fork into a perfect line. “My aunt says you are writing a story about the Ricker family.”
Quenby wove her fingers together, rested her chin on their nest. “Who is your aunt?”