Now I want to rescue others, like those monks—and you—rescued me.
I listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, Dietmar. And like the eagle, I’ve decided to catch it this time.
With a grateful heart,
And forever yours,
Brigitte,
Your Princess Friend
Quenby dropped the letter to her side. “She doesn’t want to be found.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It’s her good-bye to Mr. Knight. The end of their journey.” Quenby reread the last paragraph. “‘Soft wind breathing through the grass’—that’s from Wuthering Heights, when Lockwood is passing by the graves of Catherine, Edgar, and Heathcliff. He thinks they will be peaceful in death—”
“But the reader knows differently,” Lucas said. “There will be no peace with Catherine and Heathcliff together in the grave.”
She glanced up at him, startled. “How do you know?”
“Required reading at secondary school.”
“I’m impressed you remember.”
“I’m here to impress you,” he quipped. “How did you remember that last line?”
She shrugged. “English lit minor and Bront? aficionado. It’s like Brigitte was burying her life to start anew.”
“She’s conflicted, but I think she still wants to see him.”
She folded the letter and put it back into the box. “Some people really want to disappear.”
“She isn’t your mother, Quenby.”
“I know, but perhaps there was a good reason that she wanted to start again. Perhaps Rosalind’s daughter thought that Brigitte was her mother.”
“You’ll have to ask Brigitte when you find her.”
She took a blossom from the magnolia tree and placed it in her handbag along with the letter. It didn’t particularly matter whether or not she should continue searching for Brigitte as the letter in her hand was another dead end. A soft wind left no path. Someone might have felt it rustling once, but they would never remember.
She and Lucas hiked out of the forest as Brigitte’s words replayed in her mind. She’d said her good-byes and left to live her life. Saying good-bye to Dietmar—her past—probably freed her to embrace her future.
Had Brigitte forgiven those who’d wounded her?
Quenby needed to do the same thing as Brigitte, this letting go of her own past, but she knew she couldn’t do this on her own.
Jocelyn had been addicted to a drug that made people do strange things, and in her craziness, she’d probably thought she loved Chase Merrill. It wasn’t an excuse for what she had done, but it helped Quenby understand.
If she truly forgave her mother, would God take away her pain even if her memories remained? Perhaps that was the superpower she needed most. The power to let go. And the power to love again.
Shivering, she glanced at the man walking beside her.
She needed to finish this assignment for Mr. Knight and say good-bye to Lucas. At first he’d gotten on her nerves, but somehow he’d maneuvered his way under her skin, precariously close to her heart. He’d been a friend to her, a good one. Like Mr. Knight had been to Brigitte. But like Brigitte, Quenby had to step into the wind and let it take her wherever she needed to go.
“Should we call Mr. Knight?” she asked when they reached the mill ruins.
“I suppose.”
“At least he’ll know she was safe after she left the Mill House. Perhaps that will keep him from worrying.”
They stopped beside the waterwheel, and Lucas dialed the number, putting it on speakerphone so Quenby could hear. Eileen answered the call.
“He’s too ill to speak tonight, Mr. Hough.”
Lucas shot Quenby a look of alarm. “What did Dr. Wyatt say?”
“For him to rest, but he isn’t resting well. He keeps asking for Brigitte.”
“I’m afraid we may not find her,” Lucas said. “But she left him a letter telling him that she is well.”
“Can you read it to him?” Eileen asked. “I’ll hold the phone to his ear.”
Lucas glanced at Quenby. “Will you read it?”
She lifted the letter and read Brigitte’s words before she folded it back into the metal box.
There was a long silence on the other end, and then Eileen spoke to them again. “I think he heard you. He opened his eyes for a moment.”
Tears spilled from Quenby’s eyes as Lucas reached over, taking her hand. She clung to his.
“Thank you, Eileen,” he said.
“It’s good for him to know that she survived the war. It will give him comfort.”
After he disconnected the call, Quenby wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I wanted to find Brigitte for him.”
“You gave him the gift of her words.”
“But where did she go from here?” A motorboat sped up the river, and she glanced up the rural road to the north.