Catching the Wind(62)

He glanced at the chorus and raised his other hand, waving toward the two tiers of children. A girl about seven or eight lifted her arm in return, her white-and-red choir robe dangling like a flag.

The girl’s smile seemed to radiate across the annex when she waved a second time.

Lucas released Quenby’s hand. “She’s stunning, isn’t she?”

“That’s your date?”

He nodded. “My niece.”

Someone hushed them as Quenby moved back into her seat. She stopped the nervous laugh that almost escaped her lips, but she couldn’t stop the pounding of her heart. Lucas said she did unexpected things, but she hardly compared to him.

The children sang in Latin. Beautifully. Lucas’s niece kept smiling toward them, clearly glad that her uncle had made it to the evensong.

It was a man of contrasts sitting beside her. Proud and irritating at times. Then funny and endearing, though she’d never tell him that.

When the singing ended, the girl raced toward Lucas, arms outstretched as she gave him a hug. He picked her up and twirled her around once before setting her back on the ground.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” she scolded.

“I wouldn’t miss this,” he said, tweaking her nose. “Layla, this is my friend Miss Vaughn.” He glanced back at Quenby. “Miss Vaughn, I’d like to introduce you to my favorite niece.”

The girl put one hand on her hip, tilting her head up toward Quenby. “I’m his only niece.”

Quenby laughed. “It’s nice to meet you, Layla. You have a lovely voice.”

She scrunched her face. “My brother doesn’t think so.”

“Boys can be like that. I think God created them to keep us humble.”

“Do you have a brother?”

“No, I have your uncle.” The words spilled out, and she wished she could stuff them back in, but it was too late. Lucas was beside her, trying—unsuccessfully—not to laugh.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” she insisted.

“I take my humility responsibilities quite seriously,” he said.

“Hello, Lucas.” A polished-looking woman stepped up to his side. She was dressed in a tailored black pantsuit and wore a silver necklace. Her long hair was a dark brown, perfectly straight. “Who is this?” she asked.

“My colleague and friend,” he explained. “Quenby Vaughn.”

“I’m Anabelle,” the woman said, shaking her hand. “Layla’s mum and the sister Lucas likes to keep humble as well. I’m glad he’s decided to turn his attentions elsewhere.”

Quenby wished the floor of the annex would open up and swallow her. She hadn’t meant to say that about Lucas, especially not with his sister nearby.

Layla held up her arms to display her choir robe. “I have to change.”

Anabelle took her hand and guided her away. Quenby watched them for a moment before she turned back toward Lucas. “Please tell me that your parents aren’t here too.”

“Actually—”

She groaned.

“They wouldn’t miss hearing Layla.”

She crossed her arms. “You should have told me I’d be meeting your family.”

“But if I’d told you—” he leaned down, his voice low—“you would have run.”





Chapter 36




Mill House, January 1943

Rosalind blew into the cottage like a summer breeze, dusting away the winter gloom that had settled over the house, shaking branches so a bit of sun could radiate through.

Brigitte first saw her from her bedroom window, riding in the front seat beside Herr. The moment the woman stepped out of the car, her hand resting on the hump of her belly, Brigitte knew everything was about to change.

She watched the three of them through the crack by her door. Instead of fear, Rosalind radiated confidence and sophistication. An air of indifference to the miserly furnishings around her.

“She can’t stay,” Frau hissed even though Rosalind sat poised on a kitchen chair, right in front of her. The red polish on the younger woman’s fingernails matched the color of her tailored coat, and the sitting room seemed to cower in her presence, the dullness of it blurring away.

Even Herr was rattled. “We have no choice,” he said, pacing beside the women.

“Of course we have a choice. I can hardly feed the two of us as it is, Eddie. I’ve no food for her or anything for a baby.”

“He’ll bring us food and supplies,” Rosalind said, examining the nails fanned out in front of her, bored instead of worried about their discussion. “Won’t you, Eddie?”

Frau’s eyes pierced like darts, but Herr ignored the woman completely, speaking to his wife instead. “I’ve brought plenty of food in the motorcar.”

“But what about next week? Or next month? We’ve gone for weeks at a time without a single box from you or her ladyship.”

“I can’t help it if the Royal Mail loses a parcel.”

“You could drive it here yourself, like you promised.”

“Not without raising suspicions. They’re keeping their eye on us.” Herr glanced at Rosalind.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t sugarcoat it for my sake. I’ve seen and heard plenty in the past five years, and one thing I’ve learned—when you’re the one holding the secret, you’re either dead or fed. The Nazis feed their people well, as long as you stay in their good graces. Fortunately, Mummy needs all of us right now, so we’ll have food.”