Go-Go—innocent little eyes in deepest brown that wouldn’t look upon their grand-mère again.
Go!
She rushed forward—one, two, three, four, five—and gripped the doorknob. Pushed it open.
Cold air wafted out, and on it rode the light, floral scent of Maman’s soap. Lily of the valley.
She blinked and fumbled for the knob that would turn on the low lights.
It looked the same as it always had, each and every time she’d come in here. Someone had made the bed. Righted the disorder that had been caused when they came to remove her. Dot, she’d bet. Or Willa. Lukas wouldn’t have had the heart.
But it didn’t look like Dot or Willa. It looked like Maman, smelled like Maman. She wasn’t sure if it brought comfort or pain.
Best not to dwell on it. She went for the chest of drawers and opened the topmost one. A rainbow of clothing met her eyes. To the left, various scarves and even a shawl. Whites, greys, browns, a black. She pulled out a grey one, but before she could command herself to close the drawer and retreat, she saw blue and red and pink and yellow articles to the right of the scarves, all with slips of paper pinned to them.
Christmas presents. She knew it the moment she pulled out the little cardigan with Zurie pinned to it. As if Maman had really needed to remind herself for whom the tiny thing was intended. But she’d always been meticulous about the oddest things.
Margot turned and set the gift on the bed, along with the scarf. Zurie would get it for Christmas. One last gift from her grand-mère. Turning back to the drawer, she saw that the next slip said Lukas. A new scarf in masculine blues and greys, with gloves to match. Moving that aside, she saw a beautiful shawl for Willa. Then stared at the last slip. Margot.
She blinked, and blinked again when the first one didn’t clear her eyes of their blurriness. At first all she could see was the bright red. A color she never would have chosen for herself, but exactly the sort of brilliant hue Maman always pushed her to wear. It wouldn’t be a shawl—Margot never wore shawls. It was too wide for a scarf. With hands trembling more than she cared to admit, she extracted it. Fold after fold lengthened. Sleeves shook themselves out.
A long cardigan, belted, open at the front, cabled on the sleeves. The sort of thing that would be perfect on a spring day, or an autumn one, when a coat was too heavy but the air too cool for nothing. The sort of thing that Margot had wished for, though the words had never crossed her lips.
But she’d known. Maman had always known. She’d known, and somehow she’d found the time to knit this without Margot ever seeing her work on it. The evenings when Margot had the night shift, probably. Or after Maman had shut her door and supposedly retired.
She took off the pin and let the paper flutter to the floor. She slid her arms into the sleeves. She buttoned the belt into place. And then she looked up, catching her reflection in the mirror.
A stranger looked back at her with short waves in her hair, Maman’s handiwork lending style to her figure, a flash of color she never sought but which even she knew suited her complexion. She wrapped her arms around her middle and felt her mother embracing her.
“Maman.” She whispered the name into the room—a plea. A prayer she knew the Lord wouldn’t answer. He wouldn’t give her mother back to her. Couldn’t, because He’d created a world of rules and laws and mathematical certainties, and that world didn’t involve women rising from the grave a week after they’d died and been buried.
The floor greeted her, though she wasn’t aware of her knees having buckled until they smacked into the unforgiving wood. But her knees didn’t matter. The pain was welcome, even. A muted echo of her heart.
Arms still wrapped around herself, she leaned her head against the bed and breathed in the lily of the valley scent that equaled Maman. The breath knotted, heaved, her diaphragm rebelled, and something hot and wet scalded her cheeks.
“Maman,” she whispered again into the room. But the only answer was the sound of her sob.
13
Look sharp, men.” One of the patients who was a day or so away from being released back to his unit scurried into the ward. His eyes were wide, and he followed his own advice, cinching the belt on his dressing gown and standing far straighter than most of the blokes in hospital could hope to do. “There’s an admiral on his way in. Coming for you, Elton.”
Drake pushed himself up a few more inches, glad he could manage the feat today without having to call for a nurse like an infant. It would be Hall, he assumed. He’d had a feeling DID would come by before another day or two could pass.
What surprised him when Hall strode into the ward a minute later wasn’t the way he homed directly in on Drake’s bed. And it certainly wasn’t the way his presence filled the room, despite the fact that he was neither tall nor particularly fierce-looking, and made all the men who were awake try to salute. What surprised him was the very familiar bag clutched in his hand. Drake’s bag—the one he’d had with him on the train. The one he’d left on the train. Thoroton must have retrieved it for him and sent it along.
“At ease, men,” DID said with a smile as he turned toward Drake’s cot. He set the bag down and took a seat without any ado. “Lieutenant Elton. How are you feeling today?”
“Ready to escape.” He still hurt like the dickens and hadn’t attempted to stand since he’d fallen into that train car, but he was awake far too much for the monotony of hospital life to be anything but agonizing. He added a smile. “And report back to duty, I mean.”
Hall snorted a laugh. “Right. You look it. Though actually, that’s what I’ve come about. I know you’re the type who will improve faster if you’ve something to occupy your mind.”
“Yes!” He nearly shouted it, though he caught himself in time. Any patient who dared to raise his voice in anything but a scream of pain would be chastised immediately by Nurse Wilcox, the same ward matron who had so infuriated Margot De Wilde the other day. He couldn’t help smiling over the memory of her stomping in, her hair an absolute wreck and fury dripping from every beautiful line of her face.
Hopefully DID would chalk the smile up to something other than thoughts of Margot De Wilde. Though as distractions went, she’d proven an interesting one. She hadn’t rejoined Dot on her daily visits, but his sister had endless stories to tell from their six-week-long acquaintance.
“I do realize that five days in hospital is hardly enough to have recovered after such a scrape, and I’ll not have you pushing yourself beyond your capabilities and slowing your recuperation. However”—Hall lifted his chin and looked down at Drake like a schoolmaster would look at a particularly bright pupil who was acting particularly stupid—“if you promise to abide by the dictates of your doctor, I’ve made arrangements.”
Drake nodded, afraid to part his lips lest that forbidden shout of joy emerge.
The admiral nodded too. “Very well, then. Tomorrow you’ll be moved to your sister’s flat. I’ve arranged for your doctor to pay you a visit every day, and we can hire a nurse as well, if needed. If their reports are good, then I’ll begin sending a bit of work home for you with your sister.”
“With my . . .” Drake pursed his lips. “But, sir—”
“You’ll have to tell her, Lieutenant.” Hall’s tone left no room for debate. “Thus far she is willing to believe that I am the bearer of information simply because she is under my command, but that will not hold up if we move forward with this plan.”
“Yes, sir.” Training had him agreeing. But training didn’t answer the questions. How was he supposed to inform his sister that he was an intelligence agent—not just a sailor—without sparking the fear that lived deep inside her? How was he to admit that when she thought he’d been on the battleship Royal Oak, seeing little action, he’d really been with Abuelo in Spain, balancing the image of a spoiled university student with the reality of dodging German bullets?
Or not dodging them, as the case may be.
Margot De Wilde seemed to have a formula
for telling a convincing lie. Did she also have one for delivering a hard truth?
“Very good. Now.” Eyes snapping with amusement, Hall leaned forward. “I’ve yet to get a straight answer from either Miss De Wilde or your sister about what happened here the other day to result in shorn locks. But I suspect it’s a story I want to hear.”
It was certainly one that had been making the rounds in the ward—always at the expense of the cantankerous matron who had dared to insult their duchess. As Drake told the admiral the tale, his neighbors butted in now and then with their own observations of how Miss De Wilde had stridden in, looking to be the epitome of furious pride. And how Dot had been the only one in the room who seemed more horrified than impressed.
The admiral chuckled in all the right places, going so far as to lean back in his chair and slap a hand to his knee at one point.
The duchess herself made an appearance as they were wrapping up the tale, stealing the attention of most of the men and giving Hall the chance to lean forward and say quietly, eyes still twinkling, “Don’t waste your time, Elton.”
Drake lifted his brows. “Pardon?”
“Pursuing Margot De Wilde. I see the interest in your eyes.”
His brows pulled down again. Hall was famous for reading people, but even so—Drake was usually better at hiding his thoughts than that. Perhaps it was the fault of the injury and medication and endless hours on this blighted cot. But DID had seen, apparently, so what was the point in denying it? He weighed the question for a moment before coming to the conclusion that admitting it could actually prove an advantage. He could ask the admiral questions he couldn’t ask his sister without announcing to her his interest in her friend. “Is she spoken for?”
The admiral barked a laugh. “Heavens no! She wouldn’t hear of it. Which is my point. In the last year I have watched no fewer than half a dozen men try to get her attention, and she is utterly oblivious to them all.”
Drake shifted, winced, and covered it with a smile. “That’s a positive for my cause, sir, not a negative.”
“Elton . . .” The amusement in the admiral’s eyes faded into mild concern. “I don’t usually take it upon myself to interfere in such matters, but Margot is a special case. She is vulnerable from the loss of her mother, though she’ll never admit it. I won’t have you taking advantage of that.”
“I wouldn’t!” The very suggestion made him go tense. Which in turn made fire scream through his middle.
“Not in any reprehensible way. But you ought to know that she has goals for her life, for when this war is over, that don’t include a husband keeping her at home to raise a brood of children. Education, for starters.”
Drake settled back against the pillows, darting only a glance to his right when a chorus of laughter broke out near where the duchess and Nurse Denler were arguing—or pretending to argue—over who would make up the empty cot that was apparently to be filled this afternoon. “She hasn’t already got an education?” According to Dot, most of the secretaries had attended university, at least for a while. Dot was one of the few who hadn’t.
“Not as much a one as she would like. Though I believe she was enrolled at university in Louvain before her father passed away. When she was twelve or thirteen.”
University? At such a young age? He knew his surprise showed on his face. Even so, it didn’t stop a corner of his mouth from tugging up. “Dot did say her new friend is the most intelligent person she’s ever met.”
“Mm. I rather agree with her.” That statement said considerably more than Dot’s claim, given that Admiral Blinker Hall, Director of Intelligence, knew far more people than Dorothea Elton. Still.
Hall shook his head. “And I see I’ve only managed to intrigue you more. Well. I shall leave it to Margot, then, to convince you of the futility of your thoughts.”
“It is surely understandable to be intrigued. I look forward to becoming her friend, at the very least.”
“An infinitely wiser goal. And now I had better be off.” Hall stood, tugging his jacket into place, and motioned to the bag he’d set on the floor. “Would you like me to hand that to you?”
“Please. And thank you for bringing it, sir.” Thoughts of the bag, and hence the other items he’d had on his person that day, bruised the happier thought of a pretty Belgian who could out-think him. “One moment more, if you please. I’m afraid my memory is a bit muddled after I fell. The case I’d slipped into my pocket, with the sample . . . ?” It hadn’t broken, had it? Because if it had, if the tainted sugar had been crushed—Drake could be fairly certain he hadn’t ingested or inhaled any, given the fact that he was still on earth and only in bullet-induced pain, but what of the workers and other intelligence agents who had swarmed the car?
Hall offered a reassuring smile and positioned the bag beside Drake on his cot. “Thoroton sent it ahead of you—perfectly preserved. You apparently protected it as you fell.”
His relief was palpable. “Good. Thank you, Admiral.”
“The thanks go to you for a job well done, Elton. Get back on your feet, and perhaps we’ll get you into the field again before this war is over.” He turned away, then paused and leveled a finger at him. “Tell your sister. By Monday. Understood?”
Drake sighed. “Understood. And I will, of course, caution her to keep it to herself. Although—what of her new friend? Can Miss De Wilde know?”
“I see no harm in that.” Hall’s lips twitched.
Drake nodded. “Then good day, Admiral.” He saluted as best as he could manage and, after the admiral strode away, opened his satchel. There wasn’t much inside it. A change of clothes. The newspaper he’d been hiding behind more than reading. The volume of poetry he’d brought with him.
This he pulled out and opened to the slip of paper he’d been using to mark his spot, his mind still spinning through those last moments. His fingers stilled. “Admiral?”
Hall had made it halfway to the door, but he turned with lifted brows and hurried back to Drake’s bedside, his face clear of anything but question. “Yes? What is it, lad?”
Drake stared at the page, but it wasn’t the French clouding his mind. It was the Spanish shout from German lips. Garbled by the wind, but still clear. “Jaeger.”
Hall sat again, probably so that their words could be quieter. “Yes? His name was in Thoroton’s report. He was the agent accompanying the shipment.”
The one who shot him—that would have been in the report, too, at least as a supposition. “Was he apprehended?” They could surely have had someone waiting when the train arrived.
But Hall shook his head. “Thoroton reported that he’d disembarked the train at some point before the next station.”
Drake’s fingers tightened around the book. “He’ll be seeking retribution. Either on the team in Spain or on me here. He ought to be watched.”
“He will be.” Hall pitched his voice lower still, leaning to within a few inches of him. “Don’t let that worry you—I keep accounts of every German agent still in England, and they’re only free if I’ve deemed them to be of more use to me that way. If he enters the country, I’ll know it. And if necessary, we can make use of the identity of one of the German agents we have in prison to communicate with him, sending a message in a name he would recognize. We’ve done it before, with others, to great success.”
A nod, a smile to show how well he appreciated the admiral’s cleverness. But Drake couldn’t convince his grip on the book to loosen. Perhaps it was only fear—a visceral, purely instinctual reaction to the man who had shot at him twice and struck him once. A few inches either direction, and that bullet would have killed him. It was surely nothing but the finger of God that had directed it through his abdomen in a way that dodged all vital organs and arteries.
But perhaps it wasn’t only fear. Perhaps it was a premonition born of the instincts he’d sharpened so carefully over the last three years of service. And if that were the case, he’d have to sort out why he thought so and wha
t it might mean. What particular dangers the man could pose. When Drake’s mind was less clouded with pain and medication, he’d work it out.
Margot clutched the glass, praying it would tether her to sanity. Somehow, though, she suspected that the fizzing soda had no such miraculous properties. It couldn’t combat the dozens of chattering people, the crowds that moved in chaotic patterns through Herschell’s house, the too-warm temperature that made her wish she’d agreed to a dress with a shorter sleeve.
Beside her, Dot actually seemed to be having a decent time. She wore an evening dress in green, had a necklace sparkling around her throat, and swayed a bit to the beat of the music. Two couples were attempting to dance in a space not designed for it, while Serocold laughed and launched into another verse of the song he was playing on the piano.
Margot could appreciate the rhythm, strong and sure. She could calculate the intervals and knew intellectually that some chords were more pleasing than others because of them. She understood the mathematics behind the music and loved it because of the rules it followed. But it never made her feet tap or her body sway.
“I haven’t been to anything like this since Nelson left.” Dot was smiling and sipping at her own glass of fizzing red liquid. “And not often then, I confess.”
Margot had already heard all about the man Dot had planned to marry. He seemed like he’d been a good sort. But at this point, the loss was stale enough that her friend’s voice never seemed strained or too sad when she mentioned him. Margot looked out over the crowd. “I attended one of these over the summer.” When Maman had made her.
Maman had also insisted she have a few evening dresses in her wardrobe for such occasions. Willa had come over this afternoon to tell her which she ought to wear. And, Margot suspected, to make sure she waved her hair.
She’d nearly refused to do so again after the flutter it had caused among the secretaries.
A man she didn’t recognize, but who bore a bit of a resemblance to Herschell, approached with a smile. Aimed, wisely, at Dot instead of her. “Good evening, ladies.” He looked young, maybe nineteen or twenty, and wore naval blue. “Would one of you like to dance?”
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