“Like Charlie?” Miss Lloyd’s small eyes lit up. “The nursery class is playing outside. Come with me.”
As she followed, Aleida’s stomach tumbled, and she prayed incoherent pleas.
Mrs. Owen entered a sitting room with a bank of windows overlooking a grassy slope. “They’re playing caterpillar. Charlie’s at the end.”
Small children in light blue play smocks held hands and snaked across the lawn. The boy at the end of the queue ...
Aleida’s heart plunged into her tumbling stomach. Charlie was missing far more than his fingers—his arm ended above the elbow. And he had sandy curls, not Theo’s straight, white-blond hair. “He isn’t Theo. He isn’t my son.”
If she ever needed confirmation that looking to numbers for signs and answers didn’t work ...
Of course, it didn’t. It couldn’t. Turning a knob twelve times didn’t cause God to release the desires of one’s heart. God wasn’t an automaton to manipulate.
She’d always known that. But now she believed it.
Aleida slammed her eyes shut and prayed to the only one who knew where Theo was, the one who could lead her to him—or not—in his timing and his way.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Owen said in a gentle voice.
A wave of sorrow broke inside her. It was Theo’s birthday, and no one knew. No one would celebrate with him.
“Let’s return to town.” Mrs. Owen threaded her arm through Aleida’s.
Aleida thanked her with a glance and went with her out to the car.
Verdant countryside rolled past on the drive back. She had two more days to visit towns in Wales, but all she wanted was to return to London and tell Hugh.
Those eyes of his—how soft they were when he hurt for her. Those arms of his—how he’d hold her and comfort her.
Was it fair to lean on him for comfort when she hesitated at any sign of romance?
He never pressed. He never touched her other than gentlemanly gestures. He took her to lunch and for walks in the park, more friendly than romantic. He was all kindness and humor and chivalry ... and veiled longing.
She groaned and massaged her squirming belly. He deserveda woman who could give generously, not one preoccupied with troubles.
Hugh had enough troubles of his own. François Jouveau had been missing for over a month, and the police believed him to be an air raid victim. Guy Gilbert had mentioned a rumor that Jouveau had parachuted into France as a spy. MacLeod remembered Jouveau talking about French refugees in America—had he crossed the Atlantic for a story?
Hugh believed none of it. The connection to his uncle’s murder loomed in his thoughts. In vain, the poor man had turned his study inside out searching for Jouveau’s notebook, for any clues it might contain.
Aleida sighed out another prayer. Only the Lord knew where Theo and Jouveau and the notebook were. Only the Lord knew who had killed Elliott Hastings. If only the Lord would show them.
Back at the guildhall, Aleida asked Mrs. Owen to use the telephone and she left money to cover the charge.
In a few minutes, the operator connected her to the Ministry of Health. Nilima Sharma transferred her to Miss Granville, and Aleida told her about the hostel.
“Oh yes.” No surprise colored Miss Granville’s voice. “There are fifty hostels and camps throughout the country.”
“Fifty?” Aleida clapped her hand to her chest. Now she had forty-nine new locations to search. “We can’t find homes for that many children?”
“Must you always sound outraged? We’ve removed these children from squalor and given them proper food and clothing and a sanitary home. They ought to be grateful.”
Aleida mashed her lips together. Yes, the children received care. But they didn’t receive love.
“Please, Mrs. Martens.” Miss Granville’s tone softened. “This is for the best. I persuaded you to abandon your last crusade. Please don’t take up a new one. Now, I must—oh, do you—”A voice murmured in the background. “Mrs. Martens, Miss Sharma would like to speak to you.”
The phone clicked in transfer. “Mrs. Martens?” Nilima whispered into the phone.
“Yes?” Why was she whispering?
