In the infrequent and short Red Cross messages, Ivy hadn’t been able to convey the damage to the medical practice. Her smile wavered. “If we have a practice to return to.”
“Nonsense. We shall be absent only a few months more.” Dadgestured to an open spot on the docks. “The war shall be over by Christmas.”
Charlie tucked in a dragging corner of blanket. “After Jersey is liberated, the truth will come out about Ivy and what she’s done, and the patients will return.”
“Truth?” Mum frowned at Ivy.
Oh dear. She hadn’t wanted to discuss this on their first day together, and she smoothed the front of her threadbare green coat, bearing fresh scars from the escape. “I told you about Fern’s job.”
“With the Germans?” Dad clucked his tongue. “What was she thinking?”
“She thought her wages would help the family.” Ivy drew in a long breath. “But her reputation as a collaborator tarnished me and drove patients away.”
“You two aren’t getting on,” Mum said.
Ivy’s throat swelled, and she shook her head.
“We’ve been quite worried about her,” Dad said. “Even before the Channel Islands were cut off, Bill hadn’t received a Red Cross message from her in over a year.”
Ivy might never tell her parents about her final confrontation with Fern. Honesty mattered, but so did her parents’ love for their eldest daughter. Knowing Fern had denounced Ivy to the secret police ... it would wreck them.
Instead, she raised a watery smile. “This isn’t a day for worry. Haven’t we all done enough of that?”
“Indeed.” Mum hugged Ivy’s arm. “This is a day to rejoice.”
Dad gripped Charlie’s shoulder as if he never wanted to let go. “Tell us how we came to receive an invitation from none other than Hugh Collingwood of the BBC. To stay with—who was it, dear? A cousin?”
“Of his wife’s, I believe.” Mum gave Ivy a quizzical look. “And a friend of yours?”
Despite her own resolution, a fresh wave of worry crashed over her. Where was Gerrit? Would the British ever believe him?
“Yes,” Charlie said. “She’s a cousin of Gerrit van der Zee.”
Ivy nodded. “The man I love.”
Portsmouth
In the waning light, Gerrit and Bernardus stood outside their hotel in brand-new clothes. Gerrit’s dark blue suit needed tailoring in the waist and sleeves, but it was far better than his much-abused gray suit.
Bernardus had shaved off the mustache that so offended Cilla and had gotten a haircut, but the black dye would take weeks to grow out. “Free men in a free country.”
“At last.” In the morning, Gerrit and Bernardus would depart to visit the War Office in London for yet more questioning—but as free men. Behind the scenes over the past week and a half, the competing British intelligence agencies had exchanged notes until a picture of Gerrit’s and Bernardus’s work had emerged from the mist.
Leaning on his crutch, Bernardus adjusted the rim of his new homburg. “We can’t go home yet.”
“Not yet.” In German-occupied Amsterdam, their families considered them the worst sort of collaborators and believed Bernardus and Cilla were dead. If only the Allied offensive north into the Netherlands in September had succeeded. It had not.
A black car pulled to the curb, and Cilla bounded out of the car and hugged Gerrit and Bernardus. Again.
A naval officer stepped out from behind the driver’s seat, a tall man with red hair and a cane.
“My husband, Lachlan,” Cilla said. “Lachlan, my cousin Gerrit and friend Bernardus.”
“It’s an honor to meet you.” Lachlan spoke with a Scottish accent. “Cilla told me what you did in the Netherlands and Jersey. But is it true? Was Cilla actually in the resistance?”
Cilla spun to him, her blond hair flying about her shoulders. “Lachlan Mackenzie!”
Her husband laughed and pulled her to his side. “Welcome to Portsmouth, lads.”
