Spoken like a true selkie. And he kissed her.
49
Dunnet
Saturday, September 5, 1942
In a small room off the foyer of Dunnet Parish Church, Aleida fussed with the sashes tied over the shoulders of the traditional white Scottish dress Mrs. Mackenzie had loaned Cilla for her wedding day.
One sash in orange for her Dutch heritage. One sash in the Mackenzie tartan.
Cilla’s chin quivered. “I wish Vader could give me away.” And by now, Vader and Moeder believed she was dead.
Aleida’s soft-eyed gaze rose to her. “It’s bittersweet, ja? Marrying in exile? When I married Hugh, I was so happy, but I missed Moeder, Vader, Gerrit—you. I do wish Tante Margriet and Uncle James could have come to Scotland today.”
“I understand. It’s a long journey, and travel is discouraged. Neil couldn’t come either since he’s training with the army.”
Aleida adjusted the sprigs of heather in Cilla’s hair. “I’m glad Hugh found a story up here for the BBC to justify our trip. Oh, he’s beside himself that he can’t tell your story of escaping the Netherlands.”
“It isn’t as interesting as he thinks.” Nor was it her real story. And if Hugh broadcast an interview with her, the Germans could hear. What if someone recognized her voice? What if the Abwehr connected Cecilia Klaasen to Cilla van der Zee? More importantly, Cilla no longer wanted to focus on her old story, but on the new one she was writing with Lachlan.
“I can’t believe Hugh already met Lachlan.” Aleida chuckled and smoothed the bodice of her pale blue maternity dress. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Hugh has interviewed half the nation and wants to interview the other half.”
“I’m glad they like each other. And I’m glad Portsmouth isn’t terribly far from Hertfordshire.”
“I am too.” Hugh stayed in his London townhouse during the week, then joined Aleida and her son at the Collingwood country home every weekend.
Cilla patted her cousin’s belly, growing rounder each month. “I’ll certainly visit when the newest Collingwood arrives.”
“I hope so. I do wish you two weren’t moving from London to Portsmouth. Selfish, I know.” Aleida raised half a smile, as if she’d ever been selfish one day in her life.
“I will miss seeing you so often.” Despite a fitful start, Diamond was ready to begin her duties. Cilla had established rapport as a fellow continental exile, but her moral superiority as a member of the resistance lent her necessary authority. Diamond would never know Cilla had once been a double agent herself.
The door opened, and Mrs. Fraser peeked inside. “It’s time. Are you ready, dearie?”
A thrill of nervousness and anticipation ran through her. “I am.”
Aleida settled a kiss on Cilla’s cheek and billowed Mrs. Mackenzie’s wedding veil over Cilla’s face. Then she pressed a bouquet of heather in shades of pink and purple into Cilla’s hands.
Cilla followed Mrs. Fraser and Aleida into the foyer. Piano music drifted from the sanctuary, and Aleida proceeded inside.
With a deep breath and a deeper prayer, Cilla stepped into the doorway.
Dozens of smiling faces turned to her—Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, Hugh Collingwood, Irene Goodwin, and several local families—including men she and Lachlan had rescued at sea.
At the altar, Lachlan stood with Arthur Goodwin and the minister.
Even the gauzy veil couldn’t diminish how handsome Lachlan looked in his dress blues, his red hair glinting in a beam of sunlight and his smile glowing.
His fierce devotion and compassionate honor and overwhelming love drew her—drew her down the aisle to him.
****
Lively bagpipe music swirled through the drawing room at Creag na Mara as couples performed a country dance.
Sitting to Cilla’s left, Lachlan now wore his kilt and a black jacket and a plaid over one shoulder. His good foot tapped to the music, and he caressed Cilla’s left hand with both of his own.
Lachlan sighed. “I should be dancing with you on our wedding day.”
