She whirled to face front and gathered her Bible and purse. Nothing nice about a man in Organisation Todt, but she held her tongue so she wouldn’t disillusion the sweet woman who saw good in everyone.
“Your brother came too.”
“He did?” Charlie had been away with the SSOrmerfor several days.
Charlie made his way down the aisle, with an unusual element of restraint in his smile.
“I’m glad you’re home again.” Fern stood and pecked him on the cheek.
Ivy did likewise. “What’s wrong, Charlie?”
“Wrong? Nothing.” He widened his smile, most surely to prove his point, but actually disproving it. Disappointment or frustration flickered in the background.
The little boy who’d poured out his heart to her was becoming a man, so she managed a smile in return.
“Excuse me.” Fern slipped past Charlie to chat with her friends.
“And I see Bertie Nicolle.” Charlie gave Ivy a polite nod and joined one of his friends from Victoria College in the back pew on the left. He passed the two Dutchmen without even a glance.
Good. Perhaps he’d seen their true nature. Had that caused her brother’s disappointment?
If it didn’t require meeting the collaborator’s gaze, she’d glare at him.
“Did I tell you?” Mrs. Galais adjusted her eyeglasses. “I received a postcard from Frank and Edna.”
“You did? How are they?” About a month before, the International Red Cross had promised to watch over the welfare of the deportees from the Channel Islands—over a thousand from Jersey and nearly a thousand from Guernsey and Sark.
“They’re doing well, from what I can tell.” In her dark blue coat, Mrs. Galais led the way up the aisle. “They’re at an internment camp in southern Germany, as the Red Cross said. They’re comfortable and well-fed but asked me to send their warm clothes.”
“They could take so few possessions. I’m glad you’re allowed to send more now.” Outside, the dove-gray clouds had parted, and sunshine poured through the ragged hole and dripped liquid light on the churchyard. The scent of damp flagstone and moss filled the air.
“Oh!” A flurry of dark blue, a leg swinging up in the air, a thump.
“Mrs. Galais!” Ivy dropped to her knees beside her friend. “Are you hurt?”
Mrs. Galais lay sprawled on her back, her hat askew. “Oh dear.”
“Where do you hurt?” Ivy felt behind her head—no blood, thank goodness. “Did you hit your head?”
“No, no.” Her left hand fumbled for her right shoulder.
A man knelt on Mrs. Galais’s other side. “May I help you up?”
“Oh, you dear man.” Mrs. Galais stretched her hand to him.
To Gerrit van der Zee—who took that hand.
Ivy’s stomach contracted, and she raised an arm. Not to shove him away—if only she could!—but to delay the assistance. “I need to examine her first.”
“Yes, Dr. Picot.” A light Dutch accent—and respect—lilted in his deep voice.
And respect radiated from the clear blue-green of his eyes, so clear she could see straight through.
Ivy wrenched her gaze back to Mrs. Galais, and she gently palpatedher right shoulder. “Tell me when it hurts. Are you feeling pain anywhere else?”
“Only in my dignity.” Mrs. Galais felt around her face. “Oh dear. My glasses.”
“Here they are, ma’am. I’ll get your purse.” Mr. van der Zee handed her the glasses and pushed up to standing on long, lanky legs, with a stumble as if a youth still unaccustomed to the length of those legs.
