Catching the Wind(28)

The air was crisp, cool as the Elzbach River used to feel streaming between her toes. The breeze brushed over her skin, and she closed her eyes along the lane, savoring its breath.

Sing, it said to her.

But she couldn’t sing outside, in the language forbidden here. She’d have to wait until she was safely locked in her room again, the Terrells gone.

A mangy dog stepped up beside her, sniffing the plaid pinafore that the lady from town brought for her to wear. Brigitte stopped to scratch his ears, and he followed her as she ambled across the pathway toward the pasture, between piles of dried leaves and footprints embedded in the dirt.

From her window she’d seen Herr Terrell digging in these gardens. He was younger than her father and a strange sort. He wore a brown cardigan and trousers when he gardened, and each morning he greased his black hair back, as if he were going to a party instead of to work outside.

Frau Terrell wore a straight gray skirt every day when she left the house, under her checkered coat. Her hair was always combed into a neat knot above her collar, a lump on the back of her head.

The Terrells came and went from the house as if they hadn’t a care. As if they didn’t know that on the other side of the water were men trying to hurt them all.

No one was digging in the garden today, but as Brigitte neared the edge, she saw two men building a wall from a pile of bricks and pail of mortar. Neither of them looked at her or the dog as they drew close.

She ignored them as well, until she heard their voices.

Instead of the language in England, they were both speaking German. They talked in whispers about how far they were from the channel waters. One man wanted to cross back over to Germany on an undersea boat. The other man preferred to wait out the war right here.

One of the men sounded like her father, and her heart raced as she stepped toward him. But it wasn’t her father; she could see it now as he picked up a brick. His nose was all wrong, his hair too long.

What if these men were like the ones who took Papa away? What if they would hurt her too?

Her mind screamed for her to run, but her feet froze on the path. And then it was too late. One of the men had already spotted her. He tipped his hat and said something to her in English.

She glanced back toward the cottage. Frau Terrell would be angry if she didn’t hurry back with the eggs. And this man seemed kind enough. Perhaps he could tell her the location of the henhouse.

“Wo ist das Hühnerstall?” she whispered.

His eyes grew wide, and she knew instantly that it had been a mistake to use her voice. Dietmar had told her not to speak in German. She should have listened.

“Dort drüben,” the man replied, pointing to his left.

“Danke.”

He asked where she was from, and she told him from a house along the river. Then he asked about her family.

“Girl!” Frau Terrell shouted from the garden.

The dog scampered away as Brigitte turned toward her.

“Stay away,” the woman commanded, waving the potato peeler in her hand as she approached.

The man returned to his work, and Brigitte prayed neither man would tell her secret, that she too spoke the language forbidden here. But they seemed to be afraid of Frau Terrell as well. One man dipped his spade into the mortar while the other lifted a brick.

Dozens of words spilled from Frau Terrell’s mouth before she boxed Brigitte on the ear. “Fetch the eggs.”

Brigitte’s head hung as she moved away, her cheeks burning from embarrassment as she found the henhouse to the left of the wall. The chickens scattered when she plodded through the straw, stealing eggs from their nests.

She didn’t know much, but Dietmar had taught her how to run. She could leave tonight through her window, climbing down the ladder of vines. The Terrells wouldn’t know she was gone, at least until the morning.

But if she left tonight, where would she go? She didn’t know this strange country. Didn’t know where to find Dietmar or his aunt.

Dietmar knew where she was. He’d promised to come for her, and Dietmar never broke his promises.

The dog joined her side again as she latched the henhouse door.

Just a little longer, and Dietmar would find her.

A little longer, and they could return to their parents.

It wouldn’t be long now before they could all go home.





CHAPTER 16





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The Tonbridge train station was mostly quiet at a half past one, a direct contrast to the throngs in London. The town center was a paradox as well, modern storefronts mixed with the medieval past. A river ran through town and lapped against the foundations of old shops now housing establishments like Subway and Starbucks. And an abandoned stone castle perched on a grassy hill, overlooking the town.

The public hall had been replaced with an apartment building, three stories tall, but the sidewalk where Quenby stood was the last place Dietmar had seen Brigitte, her nose pressed to the car window. If the Terrells had taken her to Breydon Court, they would have driven north through the town center before leaving town.

With the Uber app on her phone, Quenby requested a ride to Breydon Court. Then she found a bench as she waited for the driver, facing the white bridge that crossed over the river. Its Narnia-like lampposts framed the castle wall behind it.

She’d already spent several hours in the town of Maidstone this morning, searching through records for information. The Elizabethan house at Breydon Court had been built in the 1500s; the owners in 1626 then expanded it into one of the largest manor houses in Kent. The Ricker family inherited it in 1868, and they resided there until Lord Ricker’s death in 1944.