Catching the Wind

by Melanie Dobson

  Dietmar’s gaze returned one more time toward the road that led away from Tonbridge. In the distance he could see a speck of black piercing the rain. And then it was gone.

  “Auf Wiedersehen,” he whispered, his heart sick.

  Until we meet again.

  CHAPTER 13

  _____

  Quenby leaned back on the leather seat, closing her eyes as Lucas drove his Range Rover through the boroughs of London, toward her flat.

  She heard a siren nearby, the sigh of hydraulic brakes on a bus, but in her mind, all she could hear was Brigitte sobbing as the Terrells stole her away. Not understanding why Dietmar had let her go. And the faintest sound, like a rip of a Band-Aid, echoed through her mind as she imagined the two children, the best of friends, being torn apart.

  No wonder the guilt haunted Mr. Knight. For months, he and Brigitte had leaned solely on each other, and then they’d been brutally separated like so many during the war. He’d fought long and hard to protect her, sacrificing himself repeatedly for her good. Then he felt as if he’d failed her. And poor Brigitte, she probably thought Dietmar had abandoned her.

  Abandonment—Quenby knew what that felt like. A full-blown quake of earth as two plates, once fused together, were wrenched apart. People abandoned those in their care for different reasons, but in this case, Dietmar had no other choice. He’d wanted what was best for Brigitte because he loved her. Not because he wanted to be rid of her.

  She pressed on her temples, trying to massage away her own memories. This wasn’t about her story; it was about Dietmar and Brigitte.

  Lucas said the Terrells had indeed taken Brigitte to their house on Mulberry Lane, located on the grounds of Breydon Court. But none of the investigators were able to find out what happened after Brigitte left Mulberry Lane.

  Perhaps it wasn’t too late for Dietmar—Daniel Knight—to discover where Brigitte went. Quenby’s only fear was what she might find. What if Brigitte died on Mulberry Lane? Or what if this Mr. Terrell or other men abused her when she was a girl? The truth might destroy him.

  “You okay?” Lucas asked.

  “Pretty wrecked.”

  “The story wrecked me too.”

  The safety of home had been stolen from Brigitte and Dietmar during the war. Their family and friends stripped away. They were strangers in a new land, like the children she’d interviewed for her article on refugees.

  She slowly opened her eyes. “Where did the police take Mr. Knight?”

  “To the Isle of Man, hundreds of miles from Tonbridge.”

  “The camp for prisoners of war?” she asked.

  “It was an internment camp, mostly for German professionals living in Great Britain.”

  Lucas glanced into his rearview mirror to change lanes. Then he circled his Range Rover through a roundabout and drove north toward her flat.

  “Did he tell the police about Brigitte?”

  Lucas shook his head. “He was afraid of what officials would do if they discovered she was German as well, so he didn’t even try to write her until after the war. He kept her secret, but he prayed every day for her.”

  They drove up Rosslyn Hill, the trendy boutique shops and eateries closed for the night. She and Lucas had lingered at the restaurant until much too late, closing down the place after eating coconut ice cream and dark-chocolate mousse. And drinking two rounds of cappuccinos. Lucas remained on his best behavior throughout the meal. She still doubted his authenticity, but at least he seemed to realize she was genuine in her concern about Brigitte.

  “In retrospect—” he stopped at a red light—“Mr. Knight was treated quite well at the camp, and he was gifted with a brilliant education from some of the brightest German professors and scientists who were also interned there. A Jewish man named George taught him how to generate electricity, and the two of them used a downed German airplane called a Pfeil—”

  “Arrow,” she translated.

  “Exactly. They took the propeller from the plane and created wind on the island to help power the camp. They all hoped, of course, that the war would end soon. Mr. Knight busied himself with his reading and work with George, thinking his mother would be pleased with his education when they were reunited. But the months on the island turned into years. By the time the war ended, he was almost eighteen.”

  The clock on his dashboard rolled over to 11:42 as Quenby processed the story.

  It must have seemed like an eternity for Mr. Knight, waiting on that island, not knowing what happened to Brigitte or his parents. They probably received very little news about the war while they were interned there.

  Quenby directed Lucas to turn toward the park called Hampstead Heath. “Where did he go after the war?”

  Lucas parked his car outside the weathered brick building that housed her flat. “To live with George and his wife, Letha, in London. It was supposed to be a temporary situation until he found his aunt, but his aunt and cousins had died in the Blitz. The uncle didn’t have the resources to help his late wife’s nephew.”

  Lucas opened his door and stepped outside. When she reached for her handle, Lucas moved swiftly around the car, opening the door for her. The night air was pleasantly cool, and she could smell the musty scent of woodland and moss drifting over from the heath. Lucas escorted her up the sidewalk, the bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand again, but he didn’t climb the steps leading into her building.

  Quenby leaned against the metal railing that lined the stairs, lamplight pouring down over both of them. “What happened to his parents?”

  “They died in a concentration camp called Chelmno, long before the war ended, and the Nazis killed Brigitte’s father too.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek, and she silently chided herself as she turned away from Lucas, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Seventy years might have passed, but the grief was fresh for her. And it explained why Mr. Knight lived as a recluse in his castle. After losing everything as a child, he must have found security inside the walls. The illusion of strength.

  Lucas’s voice swelled with emotion, and his grief caught her off guard. Perhaps he was being genuine with her as well. “George and Letha’s only son had been an engineer in Hamburg. He lost his life in a gas chamber.”

  “So much loss—”

  “It’s horrific, what people can do to one another.”

  “Did George and Letha adopt Mr. Knight?” she asked, hoping for a glimpse of hope in his story.

  “Eventually,” he said. “They wanted to relocate to the United States, but he insisted on finding Brigitte first. When his letters to Mulberry Lane weren’t returned, Mr. Knight traveled to Tonbridge with George and searched for her until they exhausted their means. George thought she might have been relocated to another country, but it was impossible for them to locate her after the war.

  “Instead of keeping their German surname, George and Letha changed their name to Knight as well, and they all immigrated to Washington State. George and Daniel used the technology they’d developed back on the Isle of Man to create new parts for wind turbines. They called the company Arrow Wind.”

  Quenby wrapped her arms over her chest and rubbed them. “Jack said that Mr. Knight’s career was in farming.”

  Lucas smiled. “Wind farming, to be precise. On the plateaus above the Columbia River at first and then around the world.”

  “The wind farms must have been successful.”

  “Quite, but he never got what he wanted most in this life.” Lucas leaned against the elm tree on the lawn. “He can’t seem to stop thinking about Brigitte, like she might need his help again.”

  “It’s sweet that he still wants to find her, after all these years.”

  “Mr. Knight is not a romantic.”

  She tightened her hand around her bag, bristling again. “Perhaps you’re the one who’s not romantic, Lucas.”

  In the dim light, his head tilted slightly, and she suddenly felt small standing so close to him. “I’ll leave that des
ignation to others.”

  She stepped up toward the door. “Thanks for dinner.”

  He held out the bouquet again. “Please take these.”

  Quenby eyed the flowers in the dim light, their sweet fragrance mixing with the balm of moss and trees. Then she met his gaze. That glimpse of vulnerability had returned, perhaps even a fear of rejection. But he didn’t fear rejection from her personally—he probably had dozens of stunning, wealthy women vying for his attention. He was worried that she’d reject his client.

  When she took the flowers, he glanced down, retrieving keys from his pocket. “What should I tell Mr. Knight?”

  “That I think he’s sweet.”

  Lucas raised an eyebrow. “What should I tell him about Brigitte?”

  “That I’ll make a decision by tomorrow night.”

  He smiled. “Very good.”

  “Even if I decide to search, I can’t make any promises that I’ll find her.”

  “He doesn’t expect promises.”

  “What does he expect?” she asked, lowering the flowers to her side.

  “That you’ll search with your heart as well as your mind.”

  Mulberry Lane, Tonbridge, England.

  Quenby typed the location into Google Maps, waiting for the result on her iPad as she stood by her kitchen counter.

  Drumming her fingers on the pale wood, she tried to distract herself from Lucas Hough and the way he’d looked at her in the darkness as if he was trying to read her mind. Her heart was wholly tied up in the plight of this boy and girl, but she needed to keep it away from Lucas.

  She’d arranged his bouquet of peonies and lavender in a pale-green vase made of recycled glass. In their four months of dating, Brandon had never brought her flowers, and she’d never desired them. Flowers were a frivolous expense in his mind, a gift that would wilt and fade in days.

  Somewhere in her mind, a seed planted pre-Brandon had begun to grow. Flowers were for special occasions or just because, when one person valued another. People valued her for her work, her investigative skills and writing, not as an individual. Even Brandon had been intrigued by her work until he realized that work was her life. Her own fortress.

  Lucas was no different. He’d never bring flowers unless he wanted something from her.

  The map loaded on her screen, and she enlarged it. Mulberry Lane was located three miles northeast of Tonbridge, in the Weald of Kent.

  She leaned closer, studying the surrounding landscape. On the map, Mulberry Lane ended at the green space that surrounded Breydon Court. According to Lucas, Mulberry Lane used to be one of the roads on the estate.

  Did Brigitte know the Ricker family when she lived there? Probably not—a refugee girl wouldn’t have the opportunity to socialize with an aristocratic family. But Brigitte had lived on their property. Perhaps their lives had intersected at some point. If so, Quenby could work on her espionage story while helping Mr. Knight find Brigitte.

  She searched Kent County’s database for a family named Terrell, but there was no listing for them. Even if she found the Terrells, Brigitte might have been sent north shortly after she arrived or shipped off to another country like many of the evacuated children during that era.

  Quenby paced around the kitchen table, scrolling back through the notes she’d found in the archives as she walked. When she went to visit Mrs. McMann, she would ask about the Terrells.

  Reaching for her mobile phone, she dialed Chandler’s number. Her boss answered after the third ring, her voice groggy. “This better be important.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be sleeping.”

  “It’s after midnight, Quenby. Most people are asleep by now.”

  “I want to go down to Breydon Court, to speak with Mrs. McMann.”

  “Lady Ricker’s daughter?” Chandler asked, sounding much more awake.

  “Yes,” she said as she slid open the glass door that led out to the patio. “I can take a train down to Kent in the morning.”

  “I told Evan you were working on a big story. He asked if you could have it done by Thursday.”

  “I need to get my facts in place first.”

  “He’s more concerned about breaking it before anyone else.”

  “He should want the truth,” Quenby replied. It was a constant irritation, this implication that she should invent facts if she must to gain readership. She would have a story for Evan Graham—and it would be accurate.

  “Sort it all out, but do it quickly.”

  After saying good-bye, Quenby closed her iPad and stepped out onto the small patio. The woodlands around the heath blocked the lights of central London, and she could see the stars over the pond and trees.

  The truth was out there, for both the Ricker family and Mr. Knight. She couldn’t step away from either story now.

  But alway take heed that thou fight with this mind and hope . . .

  that thine enemy once overcome to his shame, shall never afterward come upon thee again.

  DESIDERIUS ERASMUS

  The Manual of the Christian Knight (1501)

  CHAPTER 14

  _____

  Silver ribbons of rain streamed across the tower window. Below him, wind churned the seawater into a mad froth. A wave crashed into the cliffs, the spray shooting like white flames up the rocks. It wasn’t long past the dinner hour, but the sky was more inky black than gray.

  Daniel couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a thunderstorm in these islands. Two years ago. Three perhaps. The days and months and years all blended together into a soupy sort of mess in his brain. He could remember the details from seventy years past, but yesterday was often a blur.

  A crack of thunder shook the tower floor. Like the powerful, invisible pull of a magnet, the thunder lurched him back to the years he’d spent on another island, far away from here. To the top bunk in his barracks on the Isle of Man.

  The roof leaked whenever it rained, cold water dripping in a slow cadence onto his bedclothes. On the nights he couldn’t sleep, all he could think about was Brigitte. Sleeping beside her under the trees in Belgium, the leaves dripping on their heads as they dreamed about blankets and bratwurst. Warm fires and hot apple cider. Parents to care for them and their needs.

  Coward.

  The storm seemed to accuse him again for what he’d done as a boy. Choosing flight over fight. Twice.

  George and Letha had told him repeatedly that he’d done the right thing, made a courageous choice all those years ago by escaping Germany and then hiding in the closet of that public hall so a family would take Brigitte home with them. But in his dreams, when he saw Brigitte’s tears, her face pressed against the car window, he didn’t feel courageous at all.

  If only he could have predicted the future. The police who had relocated him to an internment camp. The war that lasted four more years.

  He’d prayed for Brigitte, every day since Tonbridge. Prayed that she would be strong, healthy, and loved. That she would know in her heart he’d never meant to abandon her.

  The room trembled again from the rage of thunder, and Daniel reached for the wood column in the center of the tower to balance himself.

  He’d thought he built a castle big enough for space to breathe, but on days like this, when the memories returned, even the windowed walls up here, with their sweeping views of the sea, seemed to close in on him. On these days, it felt as if he were being attacked from the inside.

  The tower of the castle—the keep—was the final refuge in an attack from the enemy, but no fortress of stone could protect from the enemy who crept up from memories, moving stealthily through the entire body, raiding the refuge of one’s mind.

  He needed to clear the adversary from his head before it took hold.

  Slowly he descended the spiral stone stairs, using the banister instead of his cane for balance until he reached the tiled entrance hall. The hall held two suits of armor that he’d purchased back in England, worn centuries ago by knights who were rumored to have fought
alongside William Marshal in the twelfth century.

  When he was a boy, he’d thought all knights were good, that they’d fought unselfishly to protect others. But he’d learned during his internment that not all of them had fought for what was good or right. Some only wanted to steal away what wasn’t theirs.

  Even so, he believed in the medieval Code of Chivalry. To fear God and live by honor. To defend the weak and keep faith. To persevere in every endeavor until the end.

  A heraldic flag, its fierce lion colored a dark midnight blue, hung over the armor. Autumn leaves dropped behind the animal, seeming to plummet at his roar, and a swath of grass trailed back into the distance under the shower of leaves.

  Letha had designed the coat of arms for their family. It meant freedom from evil. The power of the wind. New life. It brought him great honor to hang this symbol of knighthood in his house.

  Eileen, his housekeeper, waited by the front door with his trench coat and tweed hat. Long ago, she and Jack used to try to stop him from walking in the rain, but those days were past. Instead of barring the door, she dropped the coat onto his shoulders and handed over his hat.

  “It’s lightning, Mr. Knight.”

  “I know.”

  She opened the door. “Take care.”

  He breathed in rain as he hobbled toward the front gate, the moisture coating his lungs. Rain clung to the cold wind and splashed his face. He loved the thrust of power to stir the sea. Shake trees. Carry the voice of a child crying for help.

  Here in the storm, tears could fall freely down his cheeks, mixing with the torrent of God’s grief falling from the sky. On days like this, he thought God must surely be crying over the destruction mankind unleashed on one another. At the sight of His children entrenched in violent bitterness and jealousy, their barbaric quest for power detached from Him.

  Daniel leaned against his cane as he moved past the gatehouse, toward a grove of pine trees that battled the wind with its daggers of needles and bark.