Catching the Wind(63)

Frau seemed to be considering her words.

Rosalind stood, patting Herr on the arm. “Eddie, I’m certain, will make sure we’re fed. He and Mum are on the best of terms.”

Brigitte covered her mouth to suppress her giggle. She liked how this woman stood up to Herr. And how Herr had no retort.

Rosalind glanced around the room, holding the handle of a suitcase. “So where shall I sleep in this stately pile?”

“I’ll bring you a cot,” Frau said.

“Oh no,” Rosalind said, moving toward Frau’s room. “I need a bed.”

“That’s mine—” Frau began.

But Rosalind had already disappeared inside. “Baby and I will sleep just fine in here.”

After Rosalind closed the door, Frau turned slowly toward her husband, her wide eyes narrowing. “This is ludicrous.”

“We have no choice. No one knows that Lady Ricker has a daughter, not even Lord Ricker. He and the servants will wonder where she’s been.”

Frau’s knotted hands flew to her waist. “Where has she been?”

“In Berlin and then Vienna, with the man she says she’s going to marry.”

“A German officer?”

“That’s what she told Lady Ricker. She acts all high and mighty, but she wouldn’t have come home unless she’s in danger.”

“You don’t know that,” Frau said. “If she finds out what we’ve been doing here, if she tells a single person besides her mother, you and I will both be dead.”

“Rosalind supports Hitler.”

Frau shook her head. “That girl supports herself. I wouldn’t trust her for a second to keep our secrets.”

“You don’t have to worry, Olivia. She doesn’t know what we’ve been doing.”

“The moment one of the men shows up—”

“Lady Ricker will make alternative arrangements. Until Rosalind is gone.”

Brigitte’s heart leapt at that news. If Rosalind stayed, perhaps Hitler’s men would never come here again.

“How do you suppose we’re going to care for a baby?”

“Lady Ricker will send you some of her things.”

“The woman likes to make promises that she doesn’t keep.”

“The war is almost over,” he said. “And we’re winning.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“Just a few more days. Then we can celebrate. Perhaps even before the baby is born.”



“What will you name it?” Brigitte whispered in German, sitting beside Rosalind on the edge of the bed. There was no reason, she’d decided, to hide her language from her new friend. Rosalind knew it too.

“I suppose I can’t call him Fritz. People will wonder.”

“Was that the name of your—?” She searched for the right word but wasn’t certain what to call the father.

“He was my lover, Brigitte. No more or less.” She rubbed a white cream into her hands, and Brigitte was fascinated by her assortment of jars. “If it’s a girl, I’m naming her something simple. Not stuffy like Rosalind.”

“You have a beautiful name.”

Rosalind studied her for a moment. “I think I just might like you.”

She pulled her legs up to her chest. “Nobody likes me.”

The front door slammed outside, and Rosalind glanced toward their bedroom door. “If you’re referring to Olivia, she is a nobody. And I doubt she likes anyone. Eddie, on the other hand—”

“That man hates me.”

Rosalind gave her that look again as if she was trying to determine if she could trust her. “It doesn’t mean he won’t take advantage of you.”

“What advantage?”

Rosalind sighed. “Just stay away from him. Tonight you can sleep in my room.”

Brigitte looked at the bed with its covers. The mattress underneath. She hadn’t slept in a real bed since leaving home. “Are you certain?”

“Quite,” Rosalind said before she opened the door. “Eddie, fetch me my luggage.”

The man actually did what Rosalind bade although he clearly wasn’t happy about it. Minutes later, he returned carrying two large suitcases—filled with items Rosalind said she’d pilfered from her mother—both of which he deposited on the bed.

Then he lingered in the room, staring at Brigitte. The hatred was still there, but there was something new in his eyes. Something she didn’t like. They wandered this time, tracing the holes in her ratty pinafore, studying her bare feet. And she felt naked before him. Sick. The same way that man—Lothar—had made her feel when he’d touched her in bed.

Was this the advantage he had?

“That will be all, Eddie,” Rosalind said, waving him away, clearly secure in her station.

He still stared.

“Eddie,” she snapped.

After he left the room, Rosalind tossed Brigitte a dress, a slender pleated one with white polka dots. It fell on the edge of the bed. “Wear this,” she commanded.

Brigitte didn’t touch it. “Are you certain?”

“You must stop asking me if I’m certain.”

She lifted it gingerly, assessing it. The collar was rounded and it had large white buttons down the front to match the dots. She held it up in front of her, and even the gown Cinderella wore to the ball couldn’t have been more beautiful.