Catching the Wind(55)
“I can drive just fine, Lucas. It’s the other drivers who won’t want me on an English road.”
He glanced in his mirror and made a grand show of turning around in his seat. “There’s no traffic out here.”
She crossed her arms. Silent.
He smiled. “Think of it as an opportunity.”
“One that I don’t want to take.”
“I’m here to change your life, Quenby Vaughn.”
Her arms were still crossed, but she loosened them. “It sounds like you’re trying to hawk a time-share.”
“If you learn to drive, you can borrow my car to explore on your own.” He dangled the keys in front of her, sweeping them back and forth like he was trying to hypnotize her.
Her arms fell to her sides. “And leave you in London?”
He tapped the steering wheel’s leather cover. “If you master this.”
For a split second, the thought crossed her mind that she’d begun to enjoy Lucas’s company, but it would be more convenient—for him and for her—if she could travel around on her own. Then he wouldn’t have to leave the office to chauffeur.
She eyed the keys. “No wonder you went into law.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’ve fine-tuned the art of manipulation.”
His face grew serious. “I’m fairly certain that I can’t talk you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”
“True enough.” She swiped the keys from him. “I’ll try it.”
He clicked his seat belt on the passenger side as she restarted the vehicle. Then she pressed the accelerator. It felt strange to be behind a wheel again. Stranger still to be driving a car on the left-hand side.
She steered carefully, tires tracing the edge of the riverbank.
Lucas leaned his chair back. “You’re doing it!”
“I guess I am.”
They rounded another curve. “Here comes a tractor,” Lucas said.
Quenby groaned when she saw the red tractor driving toward them. The same one Kyle had been riding to his barn.
She wished she could duck under the console. Would have, actually, if she hadn’t been in the driver’s seat.
When Kyle saw her, he waved. Then he swerved his tractor toward her. It was ever so slight but enough to throw her off. She overcorrected to her left, and the tires hit the mud. Then the grass.
“Go right,” Lucas urged, but it was too late.
When Quenby pressed on the accelerator, the car just roared back at her, the tires buried deep in the sediment.
In the rearview mirror, she saw Kyle turn the tractor around.
Just great.
Chapter 32
Mill House, December 1941
Mama used to sing to her as she fell asleep on Christmas Eve. She had the prettiest voice. A golden thread stitching together each note. Every word.
How Brigitte had loved to hear her mama sing.
There would be no celebrating Christmas in this old house. She wouldn’t even know the holiday was tomorrow except she’d heard one of Hitler’s men wish Frau a happy Christmas before he left tonight. Then, through the crack near her door, where the wood no longer fit into the frame, she’d watched him kiss Frau on the lips.
How could anyone kiss that woman?
Except for Herr. It seemed they deserved each other. They kissed and they fought and then they kissed again. It was like hearing the bombs in the distance—she hardly registered the bombs or the yelling anymore.
Hitler’s man said he was going north. To sabotage an airfield. She didn’t know this English word—sabotage—but she doubted he was up to anything good. He and his friends might dress like the British, but they meant this country and her people great harm.
One day, when she left here, she would tell someone what the Terrells were doing. That these men knew how to find the house. That they talked about this sabotage and the Third Reich.
Most of them pretended she wasn’t there, except when they needed her voice. They laughed with Frau while Brigitte was in her room. Saying it wouldn’t be long now before Germany won the war.
Only one man really noticed her, and that’s because she stole his black fountain pen so she could write more letters. He searched the cottage for an hour but never found it under her floor. Not that stealing was right—Mama would probably have punished her for it—but she had this burning need to write. Almost as strong as her pangs of hunger when their parcels were late to arrive. Or Hitler’s men ate all their food.
On the other side of the channel, someone was listening to her, to know when to send the men. And when the men arrived. The pen, she told herself, was payment for her voice.
Frau thought Brigitte was throwing all of Lady Ricker’s letters into the fire, but she was tossing only the German translations into the flames. The English versions she hid inside her blouse before taking them to her room.
Even last summer, Frau made her build a fire for the letters. No matter how hot it was. No matter that she wouldn’t let Brigitte outside. She still insisted on burning the words.
But these days, Frau didn’t watch her as closely as she used to. Sometimes let her wander in the trees in the cold, almost as if she wanted Brigitte to run again. As if she were the source of Frau’s troubles instead of her husband. Or Lady Ricker.