Catching the Wind(24)

Quenby leaned against the metal railing that lined the stairs, lamplight pouring down over both of them. “What happened to his parents?”

“They died in a concentration camp called Chelmno, long before the war ended, and the Nazis killed Brigitte’s father too.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she silently chided herself as she turned away from Lucas, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Seventy years might have passed, but the grief was fresh for her. And it explained why Mr. Knight lived as a recluse in his castle. After losing everything as a child, he must have found security inside the walls. The illusion of strength.

Lucas’s voice swelled with emotion, and his grief caught her off guard. Perhaps he was being genuine with her as well. “George and Letha’s only son had been an engineer in Hamburg. He lost his life in a gas chamber.”

“So much loss—”

“It’s horrific, what people can do to one another.”

“Did George and Letha adopt Mr. Knight?” she asked, hoping for a glimpse of hope in his story.

“Eventually,” he said. “They wanted to relocate to the United States, but he insisted on finding Brigitte first. When his letters to Mulberry Lane weren’t returned, Mr. Knight traveled to Tonbridge with George and searched for her until they exhausted their means. George thought she might have been relocated to another country, but it was impossible for them to locate her after the war.

“Instead of keeping their German surname, George and Letha changed their name to Knight as well, and they all immigrated to Washington State. George and Daniel used the technology they’d developed back on the Isle of Man to create new parts for wind turbines. They called the company Arrow Wind.”

Quenby wrapped her arms over her chest and rubbed them. “Jack said that Mr. Knight’s career was in farming.”

Lucas smiled. “Wind farming, to be precise. On the plateaus above the Columbia River at first and then around the world.”

“The wind farms must have been successful.”

“Quite, but he never got what he wanted most in this life.” Lucas leaned against the elm tree on the lawn. “He can’t seem to stop thinking about Brigitte, like she might need his help again.”

“It’s sweet that he still wants to find her, after all these years.”

“Mr. Knight is not a romantic.”

She tightened her hand around her bag, bristling again. “Perhaps you’re the one who’s not romantic, Lucas.”

In the dim light, his head tilted slightly, and she suddenly felt small standing so close to him. “I’ll leave that designation to others.”

She stepped up toward the door. “Thanks for dinner.”

He held out the bouquet again. “Please take these.”

Quenby eyed the flowers in the dim light, their sweet fragrance mixing with the balm of moss and trees. Then she met his gaze. That glimpse of vulnerability had returned, perhaps even a fear of rejection. But he didn’t fear rejection from her personally—he probably had dozens of stunning, wealthy women vying for his attention. He was worried that she’d reject his client.

When she took the flowers, he glanced down, retrieving keys from his pocket. “What should I tell Mr. Knight?”

“That I think he’s sweet.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “What should I tell him about Brigitte?”

“That I’ll make a decision by tomorrow night.”

He smiled. “Very good.”

“Even if I decide to search, I can’t make any promises that I’ll find her.”

“He doesn’t expect promises.”

“What does he expect?” she asked, lowering the flowers to her side.

“That you’ll search with your heart as well as your mind.”



Mulberry Lane, Tonbridge, England.

Quenby typed the location into Google Maps, waiting for the result on her iPad as she stood by her kitchen counter.

Drumming her fingers on the pale wood, she tried to distract herself from Lucas Hough and the way he’d looked at her in the darkness as if he was trying to read her mind. Her heart was wholly tied up in the plight of this boy and girl, but she needed to keep it away from Lucas.

She’d arranged his bouquet of peonies and lavender in a pale-green vase made of recycled glass. In their four months of dating, Brandon had never brought her flowers, and she’d never desired them. Flowers were a frivolous expense in his mind, a gift that would wilt and fade in days.

Somewhere in her mind, a seed planted pre-Brandon had begun to grow. Flowers were for special occasions or just because, when one person valued another. People valued her for her work, her investigative skills and writing, not as an individual. Even Brandon had been intrigued by her work until he realized that work was her life. Her own fortress.

Lucas was no different. He’d never bring flowers unless he wanted something from her.

The map loaded on her screen, and she enlarged it. Mulberry Lane was located three miles northeast of Tonbridge, in the Weald of Kent.

She leaned closer, studying the surrounding landscape. On the map, Mulberry Lane ended at the green space that surrounded Breydon Court. According to Lucas, Mulberry Lane used to be one of the roads on the estate.

Did Brigitte know the Ricker family when she lived there? Probably not—a refugee girl wouldn’t have the opportunity to socialize with an aristocratic family. But Brigitte had lived on their property. Perhaps their lives had intersected at some point. If so, Quenby could work on her espionage story while helping Mr. Knight find Brigitte.