Delia grabbed one of his silk scarves from the open suitcase. “Why do you needthis?” Her meaning was clear. Thin silk scarves weren’t for warmth; they were for pilots flying on a mission.
“I might need to fly an airplane.” He wouldn’t lie to Delia and kept his eyes locked on hers as his intent became clear.
She dropped the scarf back in the suitcase and grasped him by both elbows. “Sit down,” she said, steering him to the cot.
He took another draw on the cigarette, then blew out the smoke on a shaky breath.
“Your hands are trembling,” she pointed out, her face filled with concern.
“It’s been a bad day.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
He’d already seen one weeks ago. The doctor called his condition “war neurosis” and said there was no cure. Finn called these episodes “the tremblies.” Regardless of the name, he wouldn’t let a little trembling interfere when Mathilde was locked up in a prison.
“I don’t need a doctor. The tremblies only happen when I’m thinking about Belgium, so it isn’t a big deal.”
But it was a big deal. His hands shook so hard, the tip of ash at the end of his cigarette broke off and landed on Delia’s skirt. She brushed the ash away, took the cigarette from his hand, and snuffed it out in a dish already overflowing with butts.
“Finn, there are better ways of handling this than your boarding a ship back to Europe. We have connections in New York who can help. Slow down. Make a plan. Anything is better than going absent without leave and getting convicted of desertion.”
He scoffed. “If I could turn the clock back and save my mother from that fire, do you think I would care about being absent without leave? I’m going to save Mathilde. I won’t let her kids grow up as orphans.”
The image of little Jeannette offering him a cookie rose in his mind. And Pieter smuggling him aboard the barge, already a man at fourteen. Finn clamped a hand over his knee to stop it from shaking.
Delia grabbed his hand. “Finn, there are nine million people in Belgium. They’re depending on you.”
He gave a heavy sigh. The image of Jeannette’s sweet face preoccupied his mind. No kid should be as scrawny as her, and yet she still wanted to give him her cookie. “I know you’re right, but I’m not going to sit on the sidelines. I can’t.” He closed the suitcase, buckled it, and hoisted it off the cot.
“What are you going to do once there?”
“Right now I’m going to book passage on a ship to France. I’ll figure out the rest later.” Finn couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. Instead, he turned abruptly and left the tent.
Delia sensed her whole world crumbling beneath her feet as she watched Finn leave, his suitcase clutched in his hand. How could she just stand there while he went about destroying himself? If he didn’t get killed trying to rescue Mathilde, he’d be court-martialed and would likely spend years in prison.
She stood in the aisle between the tents, watching him grow smaller as he walked away. To her left was the parade ground where new recruits marched in formation, and to her right was the administration building where she could report what Finn was doing. They would arrest him and send him to a military prison. It would ruin his career and his reputation, but it would save his life.
She mustn’t do anything rash. Now more than ever, she needed to set emotion aside and approach this problem with analytical precision. There might be a legal way to free Mathilde and stop Finn from ruining his life.
And the best person to consult for help was Wesley Chandler.
23
The long trip back from Camp Mills meant it was late afternoon before Delia arrived at the office building where she’d spent six years working for Wesley. She hiked up her skirts and scurried up the front steps, desperate to catch Wesley before he left to have dinner with his daughter.
Had it been just last night that she’d seen him? The crowded meeting at Bertie’s town house seemed another lifetime ago, before she knew of Finn’s intention to destroy his future over an ill-conceived plan to rescue Mathilde. Wesley’s disappointment at learning of her romance with Finn had been evident, but he was an honorable man and would still help to the best of his ability.
That didn’t assuage the quivery feeling in her gut as she entered the building. She used to love working here. The scent of lemon polish on the mahogany wainscoting was the same. The hardwood floor creaked under her shoes at exactly the same spots. The cold brass doorknob was wonderfully familiar as she twisted it and walked into the spacious front room.
The sight of Amy Chandler sitting at Delia’s old desk brought her up short. Wesley’s daughter filed her nails as she casually twirled in the office chair.
It was a bit of an insult. Wesley had replaced Delia with the world’s most pampered seventeen-year-old. “Hello, Amy,” she said, a hint of a chill in her tone. “Why aren’t you in school?”
Amy continued examining her fingernails. “Because school is pointless, and Papa pays me to do office work.”
Hopefully, it wasn’t the same wage Delia had received from Wesley. Amy’s presence meant that he hadn’t yet left for their father-daughter dinner, which was good.
At the far side of the office, Reginald Hawthorne stood. “Are you coming back to work for Wesley?” The note of hope in his voice was unmistakable.
