Rodmell, June 1956
When Lily Ward first asked for the baby girl’s name, Brigitte had called her Hannah after her mother, so that the woman who’d loved Brigitte as a child would never be forgotten. A Hebrew name meaning “favor” or “grace.”
It was a miracle that Hannah had survived her early days of starvation and the filth at the Mill House. She’d grown into a striking young woman who entertained her sister and mother and ultimately the entire village with heart-stirring melodies that teemed from her lips.
Hannah didn’t fear like Brigitte. She’d grown up in a home filled with love and laughter. Plenty of good food and clean clothing and a personal tutor in her younger years since Lily had refused to send her to the village school.
No one told Hannah that she hadn’t been born a Ward, but still she suspected. When she was eleven, she’d asked Brigitte if she was adopted. Brigitte told her about Rosalind and the little she knew about the man who had fathered her. Lily might not have birthed either of them, but the woman had rescued them both.
Brigitte attended nursing school up north to learn how to care properly for children. After graduation, Lily fell ill and Brigitte returned home to nurse her as well.
Mama Lily lived two more months at home, and then one night she slipped away. Brigitte grieved the loss deeply. In her twenty-six years, she’d loved and lost two mothers.
Lily left all her worldly goods to her daughters, though there wasn’t much to give them after she poured her widow’s pension and the small income from the farm into rearing Hannah and sending Brigitte off to school. Brigitte had found a position in Yorkshire, and her new income was enough to enroll Hannah in a public school nearby.
A week after Lily died, while Brigitte was still putting their affairs in order, a stranger knocked on the door. Hannah didn’t trouble Brigitte in her work until after the stranger was gone.
The man, she’d said, was searching for someone named Brigitte, and Hannah knew no one by that name. Which was true. Brigitte had changed her name to Bridget Ward years ago. It meant she was British. Safe. And thanks to Lily, her English was as polished as any of her classmates’ in London.
But the moment that man showed up, the illusion of safety was gone. Somehow, it seemed, one of Lady Ricker’s people had found her. For her ladyship was the only one left who knew Brigitte’s secret. And perhaps Brigitte was the only one who knew hers.
She heard her old friend’s voice, whispering to her to run one more time.
So she and Hannah had packed their bags quickly, cramming everything of value into her little Fiat before fleeing to their new home in Yorkshire. It wasn’t until much later, when she was unpacking, that she realized Dietmar’s knight, the one she thought she’d shoved into her purse, was gone.
CHAPTER 51
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Pink stars were bursting from the yellow-and-green magnolia, a galaxy of blossoms to transform the forgotten garden into a place that whispered the promise of new life.
Quenby traced the tree’s bark with her fingers, but she didn’t find initials carved into it. “I wish Mr. Knight were here.”
Lucas smiled. “We’ll phone him the moment we have news. Where’s your mobile?”
She slipped the phone out of her pocket and opened the metal detector app they’d downloaded on the plane. Hopefully Brigitte had buried a letter far enough away from the trunk that the sprawling roots hadn’t destroyed it.
The app whistled as she scanned the ground; then the sound turned into a piercing scream. Lucas reached for the shovel he’d brought and stomped on the edge of it to dig between the roots. He persisted until his shovel hit metal. “There’s something here.”
She rubbed her hands together. “Brigitte knew what she was doing.”
Instead of a tin, they found a rusted metal box, buried within the web of roots. Quenby brushed off the dirt and lifted the clasp. Inside was an envelope.
She carefully peeled back the flap and removed a single piece of paper, handwritten in English instead of German. Then she began to read it out loud.
Dearest Dietmar,
If you’re reading this, you have kept your promise. After all these years, you have returned.
I wish I were there to greet you. I waited so long for you, hoping that you would come. Praying I would be able to find you one day. I know now how many were detained during the war. How many died. Yet in my mind’s eye, you are still very much alive.
My father died in 1942, and I suppose your lovely father and mother died as well. Sometimes I think I can see them, waiting with arms outstretched for you and for me.
Did you return to Germany? Or did you run someplace else?
It seems like a dream, the years you and I had together. Our autumn in the fields of Belgium, the time we closed our eyes and pretended to be blind. How I wish I could go back and thank those monks for rescuing us.