A smile dug into Miss Jones’s plump cheeks. “My country can afford the luxury of squabbling with each other. We aren’t at war.”
“Oui,” Jouveau said. “Which is another topic we must address.”
“No arguments from me.” Miss Jones flipped up her hand. “But try to convince the average Midwesterner why he should care a fig about yet another European war.”
Aleida’s heart burned. “Then youshouldtell my story. Make them care.”
Murmurs of approval swept the table.
Miss Jones gave her a slow, narrow-eyed smile. “A solid point. You’ve got a deal.”
“Thank you.” The story wouldn’t help her find Theo, but it might encourage sympathy for human beings on the other side of the world—and a willingness to fight for them.
Aleida pulled her notepad from her purse, opened to number twenty-seven, and made notes.
“What’s this?” Mr. Collingwood smiled at her notepad.
“My notes on my search for my son—where I’ve looked and where I might inquire. Orphanages, the Dutch Embassy—”
“And the BBC.” His eyebrows bunched together. “I truly am sorry. This ordeal must be difficult for you and your husband.”
Aleida’s mouth set. “My husband is responsible for this ordeal. And now he’s dead.”
Silence thudded like a millstone in the middle of the table.
She smoothed a page hard, trying to remove a crease. “You’ll think me callous. But Sebastiaan ripped my son from my arms as I slept, sent him away with strangers without my knowledge or consent, and refused to give me the couple’s name or address. Then a fighter plane strafed him because he was too arrogant to take cover.” She glanced at Mr. Collingwood’s sleeve. “I wear no black armband.”
Her violation of every rule of British decorum pulsed in the silence.
“Rechtdoorzee,” Mr. Collingwood said in a low voice, ragged around the edges. The corners of his eyes turned down, but in that sadness shone a tiny light of admiration.
“Good for you, Aleida,” Miss Jones said. “We can call you Aleida, can’t we? After you spilled your guts like that?”
“Ye—yes.” Her eyes stretched wide. “What do you mean—good for me?”
“Call me Louisa.” She leaned close, her green eyes kindling. “He was a cruel man, your husband. Wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” Honesty cleansed like a flame.
“Most women blame themselves for a man’s cruelty, but not you. Not me. My first husband beat me when he was angry. He beat me when he was sad. He beat me just for the fun of it. His fault. Not mine. I dumped him. Good for me.”
“Very well, Lou.” MacLeod adjusted his glasses. “What’s your excuse for husbands two, three, and four?”
Louisa ticked off points on her fingers. “Bored me, cheated on me, died. So who wants to be number five? Come on, fellas. The ride may be short, but it’s a whole lot of fun.”
As one, the men held up their hands, shook their heads, and laughed.
Aleida laughed too. It had been so long.
6
BUNTINGFORD, HERTFORDSHIRE
SATURDAY, JULY27, 1940
Even the windows of Collingwood Manor wept for the lost heir.
Hugh sat on the window seat with one leg up on the cushion, sipping tea. Jagged light brightened the leaden sky, and a rumble rolled over the damp lawns and gardens.
