Violins of Autumn (25 page)

This news catches me by surprise. It seems like the sort of thing she would have told me about before now.

“You’re engaged?” I can’t even imagine myself with a fiancé at Denise’s age.

“I was.” Patting her eyes, she says, “Simon is dead.”

The words almost take my breath away. I can’t imagine how devastating it must have been for her to lose her fiancé. I’ve only known Robbie a short time, and it would truly break my heart to hear that he had died.

“I’m so sorry, Denise.”

“I miss him every day.”

We take a quiet moment to dry our eyes. Moxie decides she has better places to be, and we watch her scamper off to make the most of the last remaining hour of night.

“Simon and I were sweethearts since primary school. He was my first and only love. My mum and dad told us we were too young and foolish to be thinking about engagement and marriage. But we knew they were wrong. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I wanted us to be together forever. We were
meant
to be together.” Denise lets out a weepy sigh. “Three and a half years ago, the sixteenth of September, his Spitfire was shot down. He never made it out.”

I put my hand on Denise’s.

“I didn’t understand how a person as good as Simon could be taken away forever, while I was allowed to keep on living.”

My throat tightens. “Yes.”

“For a while, I wished my life had ended with his. It didn’t. I kept going. That’s just what you do, I guess. At first I sat around
with a woe-is-me attitude, feeling sorry for myself. Then I realized that everyone I knew was also suffering. I could continue moping around or I could get out and do my part. And that led me to where I am now, sitting here with you. We all have our own reasons for coming to France. I wanted to get back at the people who took Simon away from me.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “That night at the Commodore, you wanted revenge?”

“I can’t say it didn’t cross my mind. Like I said, it wasn’t my finest hour.” Resting her chin on her hands, she says, “It made me realize one thing, though. My anger was getting the better of me. Driving me mad almost. Since I’ve come back to the LaRoches’ I’ve had time to think. Somewhere in Germany, there’s a girl mourning the love of her life. Perhaps my Simon shot him down. Perhaps if she and I met, we’d be friends. That really got under my skin, you know?”

I nod.

“What about you, Adele? Why are you here?”

“When asked if I like adventure, I said yes.”

“But it can’t be so straightforward, can it? Answering a simple question doesn’t get you through four grueling months of training and propel you to jump from a plane into an enemy-occupied foreign land. Most people run away from danger. Not toward it, arms spread wide.”

“Well, I guess so much about this war is so terribly wrong that eventually I felt like I had to do something,” I say. “And I wanted to be brave, like my uncle. After rescuing nine people the first day of the Blitz, he didn’t go home and wring his hands. As I sat seething in my bedroom that night, I overheard him saying to my aunt, ‘They cannot get away with this. We mustn’t let them.’
I knew he was right, but what could I do? I was only a young girl. I couldn’t go off to war like he did.”

Denise leans toward me. “And then you grew up.”

“Three years later, I was invited to Baker Street. At first I didn’t take the invitation seriously. The more I thought about it, though, the more I wondered why they’d asked me. I felt flattered. Maybe they saw something in me that I didn’t? It wouldn’t hurt to see what it was all about. Nothing had to come of it. But when I arrived one of the first things the captain said to me was, ‘We must make it clear to Germany that Britain will never surrender. We will not bow to their tyranny!’ All my anger came flooding back. Everything sort of lined up and clicked into place in my mind. They handed me that opportunity at the perfect time. I’d already burdened my aunt longer than I should have, but I wasn’t sure where else to go.”

“That’s right. Your father had abandoned you.”

I draw in a long breath and release it slowly, as I would before firing my weapon.

“So that’s why I’m here,” I say. “Who knows where I’ll go after this. I guess when the time comes I’ll think about it then.”

After a moment of drowsy silence, Denise says, “Thank you, Adele.”

“What for?”

“For telling your story. To me.”

I smile, and we watch the first traces of light appear on the horizon, while the world still feels tranquil, a flat, calm sea before an approaching storm.

It’s going on half past ten when I return to the farm after cycling through the countryside all day on the lookout for more fields the SOE can use in their night drops of agents and supplies. After jotting notes, I score each one on a points system I made up. Two fields are perfect, I think, and with any luck Bishop will agree. Riding around on a bicycle and gazing into wide-open spaces doesn’t sound like hard work, but the success or failure of a drop depends on the choices I make.

Feeling mentally exhausted and like a wet rag wrung out and hung to dry in the scorching sun, I enter the house with only food and sleep on my agenda. I plan to tick them off in short order.

Straight away I spot Shepherd, seated alone at the kitchen table, tearing a chunk of crusty bread into halves. My heart leaps in my chest.

“Hi there,” I say.

“Hello, stranger, good to see you again.”

My mind whirrs while I remove my shoes. As far as he knows, the last time we saw each other was on the plane. He doesn’t know I watched his capture from the forest, or that Robbie and I saw him in Paris.

“Good to see you too,” I say, stepping forward. “I heard you got captured.”

“Luckily my captors were two sluggish gendarmes with their heads in the clouds. I would have been daft as a brush not to take advantage of the first opportunity to escape. I took off like my pants were afire. I’ve never run that bloody fast in my life.”

“I’ll bet,” I say. “Did they get you to talk?”

He glances down at his bread. “No, of course not.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“I’m just relieved to have finally found Bishop again,” he says. He points over his shoulder. “Madame LaRoche asked me to tell you there’s soup on the stove.”

Weak steam escapes the pot when I lift the lid. I fill a bowl with tepid broth and vegetables, pull a chair out from the table, and sit my aching body down. Since nobody’s around but Shepherd, I drink the liquid straight from the bowl.

Meticulously ripping his bread as if along a seam in the crust, he says, “So, you and Denise were sent to Paris. What did you think?”

“It was how I imagined it would be,” I say with a shrug. “Did you get to spend any time there?”

“Unfortunately no, I’ve been busy in and around Caen.”

“That’s too bad.”

I polish off every vegetable, including the lowly rutabaga. Still hungry, I lick the spoon clean.

Shepherd passes the bread plate to me. The sheen of his wristwatch band reflects the glow of the table’s candles. I lean forward to take a piece of bread to get a better look, and my heart just about stops. There are enough diamonds and gold in the thing to keep a small town fed for a month.

“Handsome watch,” I say, sopping up broth at the bottom of my bowl.

He rolls the upturned cuff of his shirt sleeve over his wrist. “It’s a fake, naturally.”

“Of course.” The bread hits the spot. I yawn, stretching my arms. “I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.”

“Yes, good night to you.”

I place my bowl in the sink and head upstairs to bed.

If Shepherd thinks he can fool me, he is sorely mistaken.

When I wake, I roll over, careful not to flex my calf muscles the wrong way. The charley horses I get after long rides are excruciating.

I’m surprised to see Denise’s neatly made bed is empty and she’s already left the room. I usually can’t sleep through her morning beauty routine. I dress hurriedly, shocked to have over-slept. I have to catch Bishop and talk to him about Shepherd before he leaves for the day.

My reflection streaks across the washstand mirror like a disheveled hag from a Shakespearean play. One foot inside the room and one foot out, I hem and haw over the decision to give in to vanity when I’m in such a hurry. But what if I bump into Pierre? I splash some water on my face and drag a comb through my hair.

Luckily, Pierre isn’t in the kitchen when I get there, but
neither is anybody else. Through the window I spot Madame LaRoche pushing a wheelbarrow across the yard. I cram my bare feet into my shoes and go outside.

“Good morning, Claire,” I say, jogging to her. “Have you seen Bishop, by any chance?”

“Good morning.” She sets the wheelbarrow down. “Yes, he is over there.”

Behind me, Bishop is leaning against the side of the house, smoking a pipe. I thank Madame LaRoche and run to him.

“Can we talk privately?” I ask. “I have something important to tell you.”

“Yes, of course. Let’s take a seat on the bench in the flower garden.”

On the way to the bench, I say, “It’s about Shepherd, sir.” Continuing to look straight ahead, Bishop says, “Tell me more.”

When we’re seated, I tuck my hair behind my ears. As I fell asleep last night, I put together everything I want to say. I get straight to it while the words are still somewhat organized in my mind.

“I think Shepherd is a double agent. That’s a heavy accusation, I know, but I was awake half the night thinking it through.”

Bishop tilts his head, watching smoke curl from the pipe. “What makes you think he has been turned, Adele?”

“Nothing about his arrest and escape make sense, Bishop. After our jump, I watched him get captured by four gendarmes, not two as he told me last night. And he assured me he didn’t talk under interrogation, but it didn’t ring true.”

With a slow nod, Bishop says, “Go on.”

“Denise and I dodged capture in Paris a few times because
luck was on our side. Our first safe house was compromised, maybe by Shepherd, maybe not, but because of that we became separated for a while. He may have lost track of us. Then one afternoon he found me. He followed at distance, and he doesn’t know I saw him. Soon after, on a ride, I had a close call with a German roadblock that had been set up in the middle of nowhere. It was as if they knew a courier would be traveling through. I think that net was meant to snag me.”

Bishop’s dignified features give infuriatingly little in the way of a reaction.

“Anything else you’d like to add?”

“My contact warned me that she was being followed. She even suspected a leak in our circuit. The most damning evidence against Shepherd came to me last night, though. That watch of his is worth a small fortune. And he lied right to my face about being in Paris.”

“Is that all, Adele?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” he says, rising. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

He strides off, leaving me alone on the bench. Doubt creeps over me. Should I have kept my nose out of it? I don’t want to be a brown-nosing snitch. I only want to do the right thing. I stay at the bench a few minutes, mulling everything over, point by point.

I leave the spring garden of wilting daffodils and woebegone tulips, stripped by the wind of half their red and yellow petals, along a winding gravel path.

At the barn, I call through the open door. “Denise, are you in here?”

From deep inside the building, she hollers, “I’m in Daisy’s stall.”

I just saw Daisy, the farm’s milking cow, grazing in the pasture with her playful calf, Clover. When I reach the back of the barn, I find Denise mucking the stall with a tall, handsome stranger.

“I thought you were never going to wake up.” Denise wipes sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of the old work shirt protecting her clothes. “Adele, this is Frank. Frank, this is Adele.”

Pokerfaced, he extends his hand. In a voice as bland as his handshake, he says, “Nice to meet you.”

“He’s a downed airman,” Denise tells me. “You’ve been working hard, Frank. Why don’t you get something to eat?”

He leans his pitchfork against the wall. “That is a good idea. I’m hungry.”

Frank’s mesmerizing pale-green eyes are almost too pretty for a man’s face. Even they can’t make up for his apparent lack of personality.

We watch his back—and a rather fine back it is—until he’s out the door.

Denise lets loose a snippy “My word!”

“Geez, I’ve seen wood with more charisma.”

“I have never in my life met anyone so boring. The ways he talks it’s as if he’s reading from a textbook. I asked about Connecticut, where he’s from, and he said something about missing the rolling hills and the many horse farms. Who speaks that way? And the dull bugger has latched himself right on to me, following me around like a lost puppy.”

“I thought you liked puppies.”

Denise sticks her tongue out at me.

“He’s from Connecticut? So am I.”

“Don’t tell that to Professor Frank. He may strike up a conversation about population density and average seasonal temperatures.”

Laughing, I grab the pitchfork Frank used. “Want help with the chores?”

“Yes, thank you. I have yet to do the calf stall. Claire and I are collecting manure mixed with straw to add as compost to the gardens.”

Denise and I work a good hour together, mucking and hauling and spreading fresh straw, before the hunger pangs wrenching at my gut force me to quit. Cycling long distances has given me a ferocious appetite. Circumstances being what they are, I’m never able to keep my stomach entirely happy.

At the house, I open the kitchen door and peer inside, hoping Frank is long gone.

The kitchen is empty. The adjoining parlor isn’t.

“Hi, Pierre.” On the table in front of him is a bottle of red wine. “It’s a little early for wine, isn’t it?”

He brings the bottle to his merlot-tinged lips. When I enter the room he offers it to me.

“You might want to drink this,” he says.

“Why?” Something is very wrong. Pierre refuses to look me in the face. “What happened?”