The House at Mermaid's Cove(38)

“And did it work?”

“Well, they didn’t kill him. The police took over then, of course. He went to prison.”

“I didn’t mean that. Did you win any souls?”

“Some of them had already become Christians. But after that most of the others handed in the necklaces of birds’ claws, bones, and feathers they wore around their necks—the things that welded them to the power of the witch doctors.”

For a long moment he said nothing. “I underestimated you, Alice. I thought your life was all prayer and care.” He stood up, his feet crunching shells as he moved. “You don’t have to get involved in this work if you don’t want to. Sleep on it.” He called Brock, who was rooting about in the seaweed at the water’s edge. “One more thing, you mustn’t mention anything we’ve discussed to the Land Girls or anyone in the village. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

When he and the dog had vanished into the darkness of the woods, I stood for a moment, staring up at the stars. You don’t have to get involved in this work if you don’t want to. His voice echoed inside my head. You said you wanted to do some good, Alice.

Yes, I thought, but this is way beyond what I imagined when I said it.





Chapter 11

I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay awake, trying to imagine the life that Jack had in mind for me. He’d said I could save more lives by working for Churchill’s secret army than by going to Falmouth to nurse at the hospital. I wondered how many men were stranded in France, and how it would feel to be shot out of a plane and come down, probably injured, in a place that was swarming with enemy soldiers.

How can I know God would want this from me?

It was a question that had often been the focus of my prayers when I was a nun. Jack had made it clear that the work could be dangerous. I wasn’t afraid of that. What was I afraid of? Being killed? Having to kill someone?

In the morning I dragged myself out of bed, having had hardly any sleep. When the milking was done, and I’d called at Rose Cottage to check Leo Badger’s progress, I made my way back up to the house and took the path that led down to the church. I peered round the door to make sure no one was there. I tiptoed in and sat in one of the pews. My eyes were drawn to the crucifix above the altar. The figure of Christ was as pale as the candlesticks on the table below. He looked emaciated, defeated—a stark contrast to the buxom, fiery-eyed mermaid carved into the choir stall a few feet away.

Please, tell me what I should do.

I knew God wasn’t going to speak to me. I’d sat like this too many times to hope for a clear voice inside my head. But I prayed that he would answer through my conscience. I closed my eyes. Jack was there, waiting in the darkness. I saw myself sitting beside him at the helm of a boat, dressed in oilskins and a sailor’s cap like the old fishermen in the village. I almost smiled. It was such an absurd image, a risible imitation of the novel I’d been reading, where the heroine disguised herself as a cabin boy to go plundering ships with her pirate. But even as I mocked myself, the thought of going off on a secret mission with Jack was intoxicating.

Why was my imagination so much more powerful than my conscience? How could I know if the answer God seemed to be giving was nothing but my own cloaked desire?

“Hello.”

The voice made me jump. I’d been so wrapped up in my thoughts I hadn’t heard the door open, or the sound of footsteps.

“I thought I might find you in here.” Merle was standing at the end of the pew. “I wanted to apologize.”

I didn’t know what to say. It stung me that the friendship she’d seemed to offer had an ulterior motive. But how could I criticize her when I’d lied about myself?

“I’m sorry.” She sat down beside me. “He said we had to test you out. But as soon as I met you, I felt guilty, because you were so warm and so kind to the children. I wanted us to be friends.”

“How much did he tell you about me?”

“That you were a nun, but couldn’t go back to that life,” she replied. “And that you spoke fluent French. He wanted to know if you were capable of concealing who you really are, that you’d be convincing. That’s important, in the sort of work our people do.”

Our people. I couldn’t help wondering what else Merle and Jack might be concealing from me. Knowing that they were working together so closely only stoked the suspicion that had taken root that afternoon in the churchyard, when I thought I’d seen him place a hand on her back.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Merle went on. “There’ll be no more pretending. You know everything now.”

“Everything?” The expression on my face must have betrayed what was going through my mind.

“You think there’s something between us?” Merle gasped. “Goodness, no!”

“I . . . I’m sorry, I—”

“You thought that because of what I told you about Maurice, I’d be looking elsewhere.” She pursed her lips. “That’s understandable, I suppose. And it’s true. I have fallen in love with someone else.” She opened her handbag and pulled out a leather wallet. Inside was a black-and-white image of a dark-haired man in workman’s overalls standing in the doorway of a greenhouse. “His name’s Fred Bechélet. He worked on our farm on Guernsey.” She handed the photograph to me. “He was there for me when I was at my lowest ebb, when I found out about Maurice’s affair and the baby Ruby was expecting. After a while it developed into something more than a friendship.” She glanced at me, her eyes wary, probably wondering if I’d disapprove.