“To Ian?” he asked casually.
“Ian Devlin. London.” Pieter gasped for breath. “That’s all I know.”
“It is enough.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Alison wiped chocolate icing from around Libby’s mouth, then lovingly tapped her button nose. They were enjoying a treat at Minivers after the piano lesson, part of their weekly routine. As Alison wiped the pastry crumbs from her daughter’s fingers, she thought of the earlier conversation with Dr. Ericson and the secret about Libby he could never know
The day Ian and Libby arrived at the Mannings’, after the little girl and the twins were tucked in bed for the night, the adults had gathered in the sitting room. With halting words and raw emotion that tore at Alison’s heart, Ian had told them about Gretchen and the German captain, the pitchfork and his promise.
The four of them, Ian and Alison, Mark and Trish, had agreed that only they would know the truth. Everyone else, including the elder Devlins, would be told a slightly skewed version—that Ian found shelter at the farm of a dying woman who begged him to care for her daughter. Her husband’s whereabouts were unknown.
“May we feed the birds now?” Libby asked.
“Of course.”
As if on cue, the Minivers hostess appeared with a small paper bag of stale pastry crumbs. In their frequent visits to the cozy tea shop over the past few months, Libby’s good manners and German-mangled English had endeared her to the woman.
Alison paid the bill while Libby told the hostess about her morning’s lesson, demonstrating a finger pattern on the table.
At the park, the same one where Ian had taken Alison after their first visit to Minivers, Libby skipped along the path with the bag of crumbs clutched tightly in her little hand. Alison followed, smiling contentedly and wishing Ian would come home soon so she could share the precious news. Here, in front of the granite fountain.
She sat on the bench while Libby scattered her crumbs along the path and in front of the fountain. Pigeons quickly gathered, snatching up the bits of pastry and cooing for more. Libby laughed at them and danced around the fountain.
“Miss Schuyler?”
Startled, Alison looked up at the slender man who towered over her, his hat in his hand.
“Forgive me; I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man said with a distinct Swedish accent. “May I speak to you a moment?”
Alison stood and glanced at Libby, busily occupied in picking up colorful leaves scattered beneath the autumn-kissed trees. “Do I know you?” she asked, turning back to the stranger.
“My name is Isak Edstrom. I’ve done business in the past with your grandfather.”
“I don’t remember you.”
“It’s been many years. My customers became less enchanted with the Old Masters after the Great War. But before then, I made several trips to the Van Schuyler Fine Arts Gallery.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Edstrom?”
“I bring you sad news, Miss Schuyler. About your father.”
Alison meant to correct him, to tell him she was Mrs. Devlin now, but his last sentence drove that thought away. Her pulse quickened. “What about my father?”
“The Gestapo finally found him. He is in prison and will be executed in a matter of days.”
Blood drained from her head, leaving her dizzy. Alison grabbed for the side of the bench and lowered herself to the seat. No, her brain screamed. This can’t be happening. Not on this perfect day. The joy that had buoyed her spirit dissipated, replaced by a stone of fear.
“How do you know this?” she said weakly.
“Though Sweden is officially neutral, there are those of us who assist the Dutch Underground. We received the news of Pieter’s arrest. May I?” At her nod, he sat next to her on the bench. “Your father was a very brave man. His forgeries saved many people from the Germans. This is how you must remember him.”
Stunned by the news, Alison sat speechless, while a corner of her brain realized she wasn’t crying. Had she no tears to shed for her father? It couldn’t be true—that’s why she didn’t cry. It just couldn’t be true.
“Miss Schuyler, I have a favor to ask of you.”
She stared at the man, taking in his crystal blue eyes, pale skin, and Nordic features. “I am Mrs. Devlin now. Mrs. Ian Devlin.”
“My apologies, yes. I know of your marriage. But your grandfather spoke of you as his little treasure, did he not?”
Alison nodded, remembering Hendrik’s thready voice as he lay in the hospital bed. “Mijn schatje.”
“It’s hard for me to think of you as a married woman.”
“What is your favor, Mr. Edstrom?”
“It is a difficult one, a dangerous one. I wish I did not have to ask, but other lives may be at stake.”
Her curiosity aroused, she stretched her tensed fingers and folded her hands in her lap. “What could I possibly do?”
“Your father has information vital to the Underground. We believe that the Gestapo chief will allow a visit from his daughter. You could get this information from Pieter.” He leaned slightly forward. “You would also be able to tell your father good-bye.”
Alison straightened as an array of emotions swirled within her. Shock followed by confusion followed by a yearning to see her papa one last time. She looked toward Libby, who smiled and waved her collection of leaves. Alison automatically returned the smile. “Once I’m in Holland . . . how would I ever get out again?”
“We will do our utmost to ensure your safety. You will be gone from your family only two days. Three at the most.”
“What is your plan?” Her words sounded as lifeless as she felt, as if all warmth had drained from her. To see Papa before he died—could anything else matter?
“My plane leaves for Stockholm in an hour. We fly from there to Amsterdam. You see your father, get the information we need, and we bring you home again.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“The only danger is in Amsterdam. But the Gestapo chief has been bribed before.” Edstrom looked at her appraisingly and Alison shrank back. “Forgive me. But I will say that the chief is not immune to a lovely woman’s tears. The plan will work.”
“In an hour?”
“Yes. I have a car waiting. We can go there immediately.”
“I have to go home first.”
“May I drive you there?”
Alison glanced at her watch. So much to do and so little time to think, to plan. She searched the Swede’s eyes again but found no answers.
“I am sorry about Pieter,” he said, his gaze steady under her scrutiny. “He will always be remembered as a hero.”
“Yes, he will.” And a hero’s daughter must also have courage. “Libby,” she called, standing and holding out her hand. “It’s time to go.”
The Swede also rose. “You will come with me, then?”
Alsion straightened her shoulders and looked down at the little girl she thought of as her own daughter. “I will come.”
Forgive me, Ian.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Inside the brownstone, Alison left Libby in the parlor with a storybook and headed for the kitchen, where their day-woman, Mrs. Beall, was rolling out pie crust. “Good, you’re here,” Alison said, pausing to catch her breath. “I need to go away, just overnight. Please take Miss Libby to the Mannings and tell them . . . never mind. I’ll write Trish a note.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Devlin, but I am not a nursemaid. Cooking and housekeeping, that’s my service.”
Alison forced herself to stay calm and vowed that next time she would take care of hiring their household staff instead of leaving it to Ian. She felt just as sorry for the woman as he did, knowing Mrs. Beall was alone since her only son had joined the Army. But Alison found her annoying and often plotted on how she could kidnap the Mannings’ marvelous Mrs. Crewe.
“I understand you are not a nursemaid, Mrs. Beall. And believe me, if I had the time I would take Miss Libby myself. But
I must leave immediately, and Miss Libby must be taken to the Mannings.”
“This is highly irregular,” Mrs. Beall said, pursing thin lips. “Highly irregular.”
“Yes, it most certainly is. Please, may I count on you?”
“Very well. Though don’t blame me if the supper is ruined.”
“No one will be here for supper, Mrs. Beall. And your services won’t be needed tomorrow, either.”
“Not needed?”
Alison sighed. “Don’t worry. Your pay will be the same. In fact, more. For the inconvenience.”
“Why, thank you very much, Mrs. Devlin. I’m glad to be of help any way I can during these troublesome times; yes, I am.”
“Good. Then you can pack Libby’s bag. And don’t forget her doll.”
Without waiting for a response, Alison rushed upstairs. She changed into a pair of trousers and layered a jumper over a long-sleeved blouse, remembering Ian talking about how cold it was in the plane that brought him and Libby to England. After lacing up and tying her hiking boots, she packed a small bag.
Returning to the parlor, she wrote a brief note to Trish, asking her to care for Libby and promising to be home within a day or two. As she folded the paper and slipped it in an envelope, she breathed a prayer of thanks that Ian was gone. Never would he have allowed her to return to Holland. Whenever she talked about her guilt over leaving her family behind, he had held her tight and reassured her that neither Hendrik nor Pieter would want her to risk her life for them.
But the guilt had never gone away, not completely. Somehow it felt wrong that she was so blessed when so many around them suffered. Her beloved husband, though gone occasionally, was home most nights for supper. They had Libby. And now she had her own precious secret.
At least, if Mr. Edstrom could be believed, she’d be home before Ian’s return. A definite case of asking forgiveness instead of permission. When she returned, she’d explain that this had been her only chance to see her papa this side of heaven. Ian would just have to understand.
She glanced out the door to where the Swede leaned against his car, smoking a cigarette. He saw her and pointed at his watch.
Taking a deep breath, she drew Libby onto her lap. “How would you like to spend a few days with Anna and Aaron?”
“And the puppy?”
“And the puppy, of course.”
“And you, Mama?”
“Mama has to go on a trip. Just for a couple of days.” Alison squeezed her tight. “But I’ll come back soon. I promise.”
“Can I go with you?”
“Not this time.” She closed her eyes against a sudden sting of tears. “But when I get home, and when Papi comes home, maybe we can go a trip together. Would you like that?”
“Is Papi coming home?” Her tiny voice chipped at Alison’s heart.
“He’s coming home, sweetheart. You know he has work to do. But he’ll be back in just a few days.” Alison lifted Libby’s chin and looked into her dark eyes. “And I’ll be home before he is. I promise.” God, please don’t let me break this promise. “Okay?”
Libby nodded doubtfully, biting her bottom lip.
“Come on then. Mrs. Beall is going to take you to Aunt Trish. And I’ll see you very soon.”
“I miss you, Mama.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Libby. I love you so much.”
“Bigger than the world?”
“Bigger than the world.”
Mrs. Beall entered the parlor, pulling on her gloves. “I have a bag for Miss Libby. Shall we go now?”
Alison nodded and handed her the note for Trish. “I’ll be back. Tomorrow, the day after at the latest.” She put on Ian’s brown hunting jacket, gave Libby a last hug and kiss, then walked out the door. Quickly, before she could change her mind.
As Mr. Edstrom pulled away from the curb, she looked out the window. Libby stood on the stoop of the brownstone, clutching her doll, tears running down her face. As Alison smiled weakly and waved, her fingers ached for a pencil. How else to ease the ache in her heart?
* * *
Alison and Isak Edstrom were the only passengers in the small cargo plane that flew from a tiny airport outside of London to Stockholm. The Swede busied himself with a briefcase full of documents and newspapers while Alison stared out the window at the misty clouds. He encouraged her to sleep, but the closer they got to Stockholm, the more adrenaline pumped through her veins. Despite the warmth of Ian’s jacket, she shivered, praying the plan would work, that the Gestapo chief would permit her to see her father. And she prayed for a miracle that would allow her to take him back to England.
Her stomach lurched as the plane descended and taxied along the rough Swedish runway. She braced herself as the brakes squealed and the plane hopped to a screeching halt.
“We can go inside the terminal while the plane refuels,” Edstrom said, smiling. “It won’t be long until you’re back in Holland, Miss Schuyler.”
“I prefer to be called Mrs. Devlin,” Alison said coldly.
“My client prefers that you not.” His strange chuckle sent a shiver up her spine.
“Who’s your client?”
“He’s waiting for you. Inside.”
The Swede preceded Alison down the steps of the plane, then escorted her to the terminal. He opened the door and smiled as he gestured for her to go inside.
Doubt tingled at the base of her skull as she stepped into the building. Two German soldiers rose as she entered. One was a stranger, the other all too familiar.
“Hello, Theodor,” she said, proud her voice didn’t shake.
“My dear Alison.”
“Has my father really been arrested? Or is this all a trick?”
“Your father is in prison and scheduled for execution in the morning. I am sorry.”
“Will I get to see him?”
Theodor stepped forward, compassion in his eyes. “My apologies for the deception. I feared if you knew it was I who engineered this plan, you wouldn’t come.”
“I only want to see my father.” She gazed at him, hoping that he could see her gratitude and not her unease. “And then I wish to go home. To London.”
He lifted her left hand and gazed at her rings, the sapphire offset by diamonds and the gold wedding band. “The Brit has good taste.”
“My husband has excellent taste.”
“A point that cannot be argued,” he said smoothly, lifting her fingers to his lips. “After all, he chose you.”
She pulled her hand away, wiping her fingers on her trousers.
He seemed amused by the childish gesture. “Would you like some refreshment?”
“No, thank you.”
“At least have some coffee. It’s not too bad, and it will warm you.”
Even though she didn’t answer, Theodor motioned toward the other German. The soldier immediately disappeared down a short corridor and returned moments later with two hot mugs of coffee.
Alison wrapped her hands around the steaming mug and sniffed it, wondering if it was drugged.
“I managed to acquire your painting from Reichsmarschall Göring,” Theodor said. “I promised your father I would return it to you.”
In her surprise, Alison almost spilled her coffee. “The Girl in the Garden?”
“Yes.” Theodor’s proud smile reminded her of Alice’s Cheshire Cat.
“Where is it?”
“Safe. With your watercolors.”
“You have them, too?”
Theodor leaned close, speaking in a soft, confidential tone. “You know as well as I do that Göring is no artist, has no true appreciation. You should see his estate, Carinhall. Paintings, sculptures, enough to furnish a fine museum. But he displays them with no eye toward composition. It’s disgraceful. I couldn’t bear to think of your delicate watercolors in his clumsy hands.”
Alison tried to reconcile this Theodor, who showed such care for her artistry, with the man whose political ambitions thrust him into the same circles as brutes like H
itler and Göring. Even at the hospital all those months ago, he had risked Göring’s wrath by offering his protection to her and her family. If only she could have loved him . . . how different things might have been. Her family and her gallery would be safe.
“Do you know what happened to my grandfather?”
“Don’t you?” he asked in genuine surprise.
She shook her head. “I’ve not had a word from him. From anyone.”
Theodor shifted uneasily in his chair. “I couldn’t get back to the hospital until the next day. Hendrik was gone. His doctor couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give me any information.”
“You went to the gallery. Did you talk to our man Brant?”
“Do you really not know, Alison?”
The compassion in his voice frightened her, and she merely shook her head.
“Göring’s soldiers arrived while I was there. They took him away. He . . . he died.”
“They killed him?”
“They broke him. But I believe he died by his own hand. I’m not sure how.”
She lifted the mug to her lips, purposely burning her mouth with the hot coffee to lessen the pain in her chest.
“Perhaps it will comfort you to know his son escaped. With my help.”
She raised her eyes to his. “You mean Will? You helped Will escape?”
“I promised Brant I would. Just as I promised your father I would reunite you with The Girl in the Garden. Whatever you may think of me, I am a man of honor. I keep my word.”
Before she could respond, the terminal door opened and a gust of wind whooshed through the room. The tall Swede ducked inside. “The plane is ready, Count Scheidemann.”
Theodor took the mug from her hands. “Come, Alison. You’ll soon be home.”
* * *
Something about the lighting was wrong. Alison shoved up the long sleeve of Ian’s jacket and checked the time. They’d been flying at least half an hour, she calculated, as she stared back out the window. Beyond the misty clouds, the sun descended toward earth.
She faced Theodor, strapped in the seat beside her, and pointed out the window. “That’s west. Practically due west.”
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