by Kate Breslin
Miss Reyer nodded, and the woman stamped and returned her ticket.
The conductor eyed Colin next. “Lieutenant Mabry?”
Colin realized his mouth hung open and quickly closed it, handing over his ticket. When she went through to the next car, he leaned close to Miss Reyer and growled, “Thanks for the warning.”
She calmly met his gaze and spoke in a hushed tone. “There wasn’t sufficient privacy to tell you earlier. Besides, I knew you would handle it. Henri suggested the idea, so I had Isabelle arrange my new passport this morning. For the duration of our quest, I will be Mrs. Johanna Mabry. After all, ’tis only proper we should appear married if we are to travel together with luggage and stay in the same hotel.” She gave him a sharp look. “Or would you have me risk my reputation?”
He could only stare at the woman whose customary dress consisted of men’s trousers and boots. “I trust these connecting rooms will have locks?” When her eyes widened, he added, “I have my honor to protect as well.”
She dipped her head as if in assent, and the hat slid to one side. As she hurried to re-pin the grand chapeau into place, Colin suppressed a grin. Miss Reyer seemed to have trouble keeping herself together.
It suddenly struck him—he was traveling with a pretend wife to observe an alleged enemy spy likely posing under a phony name, and while there, he was to deliver plans to a man helping the Parisians to build a fake city. Was nothing real any longer?
He glanced again at the unusual woman seated beside him. It was pointless to get angry. He’d been in Paris just three days and already knew his moods didn’t faze her in the least. He chose a different tactic. “Tell me, Madame Mabry, about your life in Ireland. Where did you grow up? Go to school? Any other family?”
She stared at him, her mouth slightly open.
“We’ve got plenty of time before we reach Toulouse, so we may as well get to know one another better.” He did smile then. “After all, we are man and wife.”
Then he leaned close and whispered, “With spies lurking about, it wouldn’t do to have anyone catch us in a lie, now, would it?”
She seemed starstruck. Had her face gone pale?
Colin took pity on her. “Fine, I’ll begin. My uncle Brian lives on a farm outside of Dublin, with three cows, a henhouse full of chickens, and a few acres to call his own. It’s quite beautiful there.”
As he spoke, Colin imagined the green hills and quiet fields. Only birdsong, the jingle of the harness, and the snuffle of the old mare used for plowing had interrupted the blessed silence as he turned the soil with his uncle under a winter sun. “The labor was hard, but it was peaceful.”
———
Jo had shied away from the notion of sharing her past with him, yet as he spoke, she relaxed, watching wistful emotion play across his features as clearly as she’d viewed the film scenes at the cinema last night. It was obvious he missed Ireland and the farm.
A sense of kinship felt only by another Éireannach settled over her. She’d lived with Moira south of Dublin and knew the sweet smell of hay and the verdant hills of which the lieutenant spoke. It seemed he too had found comfort in those tranquil surroundings.
Jo couldn’t forget the way he’d thrown himself onto the ground his first day in Paris, when the siege guns set off an explosion a few blocks away. Nor that evening at the restaurant, when he’d sought to protect her.
She’d been frightened too, but the sight of his chalky face, the terror in his dark eyes—as if demons chased him—had touched a chord of emotion deep inside of her. Each time they traveled through Paris, he wore a tense look, his body lurching forward in the sidecar when the guns found their mark in some part of the city. And last night, she could almost smell his panic as the Gotha bombers resumed their night raids. Afterward, outside the theater, his paleness had lingered, along with a slight tremor in his hand.
Other soldiers who came to the city had similar reactions, especially those fresh from the Front. It always broke her heart to see men startle at the sound of fireworks on Bastille Day, or at the sudden, sharp rap of drums as the band struck up its music. Even the loud clatter of dishes dropped by a clumsy waiter had the power to affect them.
Jo couldn’t imagine how the lieutenant had coped through the all-night air raids of the previous two days. She cleared her throat. “How long were you in Dublin with your uncle . . . before you returned to London?”
“Seven months. I stayed long enough to ready the fields for spring planting.”
She glanced over at the hand that wasn’t a hand, lying on the armrest nearest the aisle. “How did you . . . ?”
“Manage?” He’d followed her gaze and lifted the gloved appendage. “It doesn’t take much to strap this to a plow and walk behind a horse breaking up ground. And a hook is just the thing for manning a pitchfork or carrying feed bags for the animals.” He dropped the prosthetic onto the armrest. “Needless to say, I was determined to recover as soon as possible.”
Had he recovered? She thought again of his reaction to the bombs. “How do you manage to eat . . . I mean, other than soup?”
“I come with fittings for every occasion.” His smile seemed bitter, and she was sorry she’d asked. He leaned back and arched a brow. “Now your turn, Madame Mabry.”
She took a deep breath and began. “Shortly after I was born, my mother took me back to live in Kilcoole, along the coast. My grandfather had married into my grandmother’s wealth, and after she died, he spent much of the money on vices, like the horses and the pigeon racing I told you about. The rest of the time, he usually raged at my mother . . . about my circumstances.”
As a young girl, Jo often hid away listening to heated arguments between Moira and Grandfather Dougherty. Many times she’d overheard him use words for her like baseborn and misbegotten, and for his daughter, harlot and slut.
Jo had heard other terrible names, too. The Gaelic leanbh tabhartha was often whispered behind the mocking hands and scornful gazes of the villagers. So often, in fact, that after Grandfather’s death, Moira used what remained of her mother’s inheritance to send Jo off to a boarding school in England.
She shut out the memory. “Grandfather had a dovecote built into the attic at the manor house and secured about twenty pigeons. I was allowed to help him raise and train the birds.”
“Much like your work at Vernon.”
She nodded. “The birds are my passion. . . .”
A slight stirring against her foot made Jo pause. Reaching toward the kit bag, she pretended to fuss with the floral scarf lying inside the opening. Rest easy, Little Corporal. All is well.
She straightened then and turned to him, pulse racing. Had he noticed anything?
The lieutenant wore the same look of mild curiosity, and Jo let out a sigh. Her secret was safe. “I was lucky to get the job with André.” She smoothed her skirt. “I actually started out as a dressmaker’s assistant here in Paris. Isabelle was a client.”
He smiled. “For some reason, I’m not surprised you would prefer working with birds to sewing.”
She sighed. “In truth, I loathed having to mend uniforms in Madame Clément’s shop.”
“I think my sister, Grace, would agree with you. She dislikes needlework intensely.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She is actually my twin, though we don’t look anything alike. Her locks are as red as hot coals, and at times she has a temper to match.”
Hearing the affection in his tone, Jo thought Miss Mabry fortunate to have such a doting brother. “What about the rest of your family? I read in the Times that your father owns a tea shop. What about your mother? The newspaper didn’t mention her.”
His smiled dimmed. “Mother has been gone these two years. Tuberculosis. And yes, my father is ‘steeped’ in his tea business. His temperament is much like my sister’s. I know he loves us, but as a father, he can occasionally be overbearing.”
She nodded. “Moira’s nature was like your father’s, I think. Seemi
ngly harsh at moments, but I know deep down, her love for me was fierce.” She ached as the last memories of her mother swarmed her.
“I notice you call her by her Christian name. Was she not ‘Mother’ to you?”
Jo shrugged. “My mother did not wish to be confined to a role and preferred the freedom to simply be ‘Moira.’ I was her small soldier. . . .”
She pursed her lips and glanced away. Leave the past be, Jo.
“‘Small soldier’? Pardon me, but that seems an odd nickname for a daughter.”
She met his gaze. A partial truth would be better than lying. “My mother was quite energetic in the fight to gain the vote for women in Ireland.”
He nodded. “And you carry the same torch?”
Was he making fun of her? Jo bristled. “All women should have equality in deciding the laws of our country.”
He laughed. “Yes, I believe you and Grace would get along just fine.”
His outburst both pleased and surprised her. When he didn’t scowl, he was quite charming. “Your sister is a suffragette, too?”
“She is, and so was my mother.” His humor subsided. “I support Grace’s efforts wholeheartedly.”
It warmed her to learn he didn’t fear the notion of a woman having her own ideas and occasionally having better ones than men. “I wish my grandfather had shared your views.”
“So he didn’t approve of your mother’s . . . activities?”
Jo flashed a sardonic look. “That is an understatement. If Moira said a thing was blue, my grandfather would argue it was white. They fought about everything.” Including allegiances. Before his death, Grandfather had been a stalwart Unionist for Britain, while Jo’s mother pledged her support for Irish freedom.
More memories tore through her, and she stared at her lap. A pledge costing dearly . . .
“It must have been difficult for you growing up.”
She lifted her face to him, forcing a smile. “At least Moira fought to keep us at home and not incarcerated in one of those institutions for unwed mothers. And I spent much time in the attic with Grandfather’s pigeons. I also forgot to mention boarding school in Britain. I was twelve when Moira sent me to Uplands at Poole, near Weymouth, to continue my education.”
He seemed surprised. “When did you return?”
Jo toyed with the finger of her glove. “She sent for me just before Christmas in 1915. I was barely seventeen.”
Jo would never forget that winter: Moira, driving them through the bitter cold to attend clandestine meetings near Dublin, where they had seen the open caches of German-bought guns and ammunition while Countess Markievicz and other rebel leaders planned a spring uprising. Jo’s mother, recruiting women from the Cumann na mBan into the more militant Irish Citizen Army even as rebels trained ragtag troops of men into Irish Volunteers.
Nor could she rid herself of the memory of that Wednesday in April, two days after the Easter Rising began. Gunfire raging, Moira, clad in military dress and clutching her rifle, hunkered down in a shoe shop on Sackville Street near Dublin’s General Post Office.
The shop had caught fire, and her mother moved outside, taking aim with her rifle at the armed British troops positioned across the street. Jo stood next to the open shop window, too terrified to notice the flames as she watched a stocky soldier move forward with his rifle, shouting for their surrender. Moira responded by firing off a shot, and suddenly the world erupted in a barrage of bullets, her mother disappearing in the haze of smoke. . . .
“What was your grandfather’s view about the Rising of ’16?”
Jo’s head shot up at the lieutenant’s question, her throat dry. “He . . . passed away long before the rebellion.” She tried to school her thoughts. “What about your uncle?” She dropped her voice. “Is he a Nationalist?”
He nodded. “Uncle Brian supports a free Ireland, but he disagrees with the rashness of taking up arms against British soldiers.”
If only Moira had chosen a different path. Anguished, Jo still felt the need to defend her mother’s decision. “Some thought it was necessary.” She looked away. “They were tired of waiting.”
He leaned close to her. “That is no excuse. As a British officer in His Majesty’s service, I could never condone rebellion against the king.”
She turned to see his face inches from hers and noted the flecks of green in his eyes. “You grew up a Londoner. How can you possibly know what it feels like to be crushed beneath the heel of the British boot?”
His features tightened, yet he guarded his tone. “That, madame, is still no cause for insurrection. While it’s true I grew up in London, my mother being English, my father is full-blooded Irish. He worked hard to raise himself from the poverty of Dublin’s slums and become the successful businessman he is today.” He paused. “I’ve no doubt Patrick Mabry felt that heel you speak of, but he paid his dues and in the end was victorious . . . without violence.”
“How fortunate for him and for your family.” She looked past him, working to restrain her temper. “But for every one like your father, there are countless others who continue to struggle in Ireland. They long for the independence to create their own commerce and establish their own laws. Laws to benefit the Irish first.”
His expression eased. “I’ll grant you, those ideals seem fair enough. In truth, with the exception of the months I spent with my uncle, I’m unfamiliar with Irish life.”
He tipped his head. “So you were seventeen when you arrived in France? It must have been a fearful time for you. How did your . . . how did Moira die?”
Seeing his compassion, Jo swallowed her anger. “It was a very difficult death, and I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Again he reached to comfort her, his hand on her gloves. “Forgive me. I should not have pried.”
He gave her hands a gentle squeeze, then leaned in to whisper, “I hope our friend is at the hotel when we arrive.”
His warm breath tickled her ear, while the scent of his musky, spiced cologne surrounded her. She whispered back, “Isabelle was not able to tell me much. Except she thinks him a friend to Henri.”
“Well, good old Henri certainly had a change of heart in our favor.”
She nodded, relieved to be back on safe ground. “Doubtless Isabelle had something to do with his decision to help.”
“I am certain she had everything to do with it.” He smiled at her then, and Jo was struck anew by how handsome he looked when he wasn’t scowling. “As my future brother-in-law would tell you, there is nothing a man wouldn’t do for the woman he loves.”
Her heart gave an unexpected leap. “Such as?”
He leaned back in the seat and lowered his head. “Lord Walenford saved my life at the Front, and it was all for my sister’s sake.”
“Truly?” Jo’s gaze returned to the wooden hand on the armrest. “Will you . . . tell me what happened?”
“Not much to tell. I was buried for days inside a collapsed tunnel at Passchendaele in Belgium.”
She drew in a gulp of air and reached for her throat. Even imagining his circumstances made breathing difficult. “How did you get out? Were you alone?”
“It was quite miraculous. His lordship had flown across the channel and arrived at the battlefield. Before that, I was listed as missing, until someone figured out I’d been assigned to help the tunnelers plant explosives. I’m still not certain about all of the details, but I remember lying there in the dark, praying to God to deliver me, and suddenly I thought He’d answered.”
“God . . . answered you?”
“He did.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Though it was Jack’s voice I heard. My sister’s fiancé had somehow managed to figure out our approximate location.” He hesitated. “And no, I wasn’t alone. There were three others down there in the collapse.”
He turned and stared straight ahead. “They didn’t make it.”
The last few days had been hellish: four lives whittled down to just hims
elf and Richards. The meager stores of Boche food they’d discovered in the underground cache were gone, and his water bottle lay empty.
He leaned back against the dirt wall of the cramped space, agonizing thirst threatening to overpower him. In the dim light of an electric torch, Colin watched Richards across from him, breathing noisily as he raised his own water bottle to drink.
Another bottle lay beside the older man—Cleese’s. He’d died in the initial collapse, so his jug must still be almost full. Colin swallowed against his parched throat, his pulse slow and heavy in his chest.
Richards lowered the water bottle from his lips and held it toward Colin. “Drink, boy. That hand . . . you need your strength.”
Colin gazed dully at his left wrist and the belt Richards had helped to tighten. The gangrenous hand was swollen with pus, aching with a pain he could barely manage.
Still, he hesitated, though he stared at the jug Richards held. He glanced back to Cleese’s water bottle lying beside the old man.
“Take this before I change my mind.” Richards rasped the words, his features twisted in pain as he thrust the bottle at him. His other hand reached for Cleese’s bottle. “I have a full one . . . here.”
Colin needed no further coaxing. Snatching the jug from the older man’s grasp, he took a long pull of cool, sweet water. “Thanks,” he muttered afterward, and Richards offered a weak smile as he leaned against the tunnel wall and stared into space.
Sipping sparingly at the water over the next two days, Colin watched Richards begin to rave and thought starvation drove his madness. On the last day before their rescue, the older man finally succumbed, collapsing at his feet. Believing him dead, and with his own borrowed bottle empty, Colin reached for the one Richards kept. It too was empty.
He realized he’d never seen Richards take a drink. He checked the inside of the rim with his finger. Bone dry. It seemed clear that Cleese had never filled the jug before the tunnel collapsed. That meant Richards had knowingly given him his own share. . . .