Catching the Wind(79)

As they’d crossed the Atlantic, she and Lucas had forgone their movie and launched into a new discussion about Brigitte and the possibility of her planting a magnolia tree near the garden, like Cinderella’s wishing tree.

But how did Brigitte obtain seeds for a magnolia? The beautiful trees grew across England, just like they did in the States, but acquiring magnolia seeds near the Mill House, during the war, seemed an impossibility.

After Lucas fell asleep, Quenby had chipped away at that question until she realized that Brigitte, the refugee, wouldn’t have access to magnolia seeds or the money to purchase them. But Brigitte, a young woman after the war, could have returned to plant it.

That thought revived her.

If Brigitte had left the Mill House after Olivia’s death, why hadn’t she tried to find Dietmar? Or had she tried and failed after Dietmar changed his last name? And most important, had Brigitte hidden something under this magnolia like her father had done all those years ago?

The answers, she hoped, were back in Newhaven.

Humid air clung heavy on her skin as she stepped out of the car and into the elegant tearoom. Palladian windows overlooked a floral garden, and bouquets of summer flowers decorated every table.

A gentleman in his fifties crossed the floor and welcomed them. He was taller than Quenby by a solid foot, his brown hair thinning, and he wore a taupe linen suit over his lanky frame.

“Thank you for meeting me here,” Alexander said, motioning them toward a table.

Quenby chose a seat by the window, and Lucas held it out for her. “I have to admit my curiosity,” she replied as she hung her handbag on the chair.

“And I must admit mine as well.” Alexander sat across the table, resituating his crooked fork into a perfect line. “My aunt says you are writing a story about the Ricker family.”

Quenby wove her fingers together, rested her chin on their nest. “Who is your aunt?”

“We’ll get to that,” he said with a warm smile. “Please, tell me first about this story of yours.”

She dropped her hands onto the marble tabletop. There were no warning signs flashing, like there’d been with Evan, though she knew well that she couldn’t rely solely on intuition to judge a man’s character. But if Alexander was willing to tell her his story—and she hoped he was—then she needed to tell him the basics of what she’d found.

“I’m afraid there’s not much of a way to cushion this,” she said. “I believe Lady Ricker operated a safe house for Nazis during World War II.”

His face didn’t register the sort of shock she’d imagined. “That’s not new information for the family.”

“The Rickers know?”

“Of course,” he said with a nod. “Janice did a lot more than just operate a safe house.”

Before he expounded, the server stepped up to the table with a plate filled with fruits and cheeses. Then he brought a pot of Darjeeling tea. Alexander, it seemed, had already ordered for them.

She smeared the creamy Brie on flatbread while their host poured the tea. “I come here often,” he said, splashing milk into his cup. “It reminds me of home.”

“You’re from England?” Quenby asked as she stirred a cube of sugar into her tea.

“Kensington. I lost the British accent during my freshman year at an American high school.”

“Did the other kids beat it out of you?” Lucas asked.

“They teased it out of me, I suppose. I wasn’t confident like my parents at that age. My mother, on the other hand, clung to her accent until she passed away.”

Quenby waited, hoping he would expound on his mother, but instead he said, “My dad stayed back in London when we moved to the States, but his absence didn’t make much of a difference in our lives. My parents separated when I was very young, and I didn’t see much of him after that.”

Over English tea and finger sandwiches, Alexander began to tell them his story.

“My mother kept me so entertained that I hardly missed my father. She worked as an actress in London, but she always wanted to leave England.”

Perhaps Brigitte became someone else in her adult life. An actress who could move people to laughter and tears. Perhaps the stage took away some of her own pain. For the Brigitte in Quenby’s mind had grown into a woman who was fiercely courageous and strong. Mr. Knight had said she loved to pretend. With a new name, perhaps she’d hidden herself in plain sight on the West End.

“My mother hated the cold of New York and the drudgery of the movies in Hollywood. She ended up performing on the stage at Disneyland for a season. When Disney built the Magic Kingdom, we moved to Orlando.”

Quenby’s heart beat faster. “What was your mother’s name?”

“In London, she was known by her stage name, Eliza Cain.” He took another sip of the milky tea. “But her real name was Rosalind.”

He looked across the table as if Quenby should recognize the name, and she tried to hide her disappointment, wiping the crumbs off her lips with a cloth napkin.

“Was Rosalind related to Lady Ricker?” she asked, feeling foolish for not knowing where this woman fit into the Ricker family.

He nodded slowly. “Rosalind was Janice Ricker’s oldest daughter.”

Quenby blinked, processing this new information. “I’ve read extensively about Lady Ricker and no one ever mentioned Rosalind.”