The Paris Agent(59)

“We did talk about it a little,” I admitted. “It sounds as though her circuit did some extraordinary work.”

“Oh my, they truly did,” Turner agreed. We fell silent again as he continued driving, and I thought the conversation was over until he said, “Did she mention her circuit leader?”

“Ah—” I was caught off guard by the question. “Why do you ask, sir?”

Turner cleared his throat.

“There was an indication at one point that she and her circuit leader may have become close. The consensus from Baker Street was that she’s a fine agent—a rule follower too—and that there was likely to be little substance to that rumor. It’s obviously not ideal for agents to be in one place for too long so we shifted her to Paris anyway, but I wondered what your thoughts were.”

“Well, you probably know even better than I do,” I said carefully. “She and her circuit leader have been friends for years, and who knows what becomes of a relationship like that when two people are under pressure in the field.”

“Who knows indeed…”

“But you can be sure that she’s an agent with true integrity and she would never compromise the work of the SOE,” I added hastily. “She’s just not like that. Chloe is one of the good ones.”

Turner nodded slowly.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s exactly as I thought.”

Later that night after Turner returned me to Bexley, I sat cross-legged on my bed, the parcel from Giles’s CO on the duvet in front of me. I stared at it for a long time, then finally, picked it up and opened it. Just as I’d expected, it contained a short note from his CO, offering sympathy for my loss, explaining that Giles had instructed that if he should perish, I should be forwarded the contents of the parcel.

Giles was a great man. You and your son can be very proud that he died a hero, Eloise.

Died a hero. What did those words even mean? Did it somehow make his death more meaningful that he had worked with courage until it happened? It certainly did nothing to ease the sting of the loss. I stared at the letter with frustration and scorn, but I quickly felt grief taking the place of my anger. I had to believe Giles’s dedication to freedom, his belief in justice, his passion for peace—that all of this did make both his life and his death somehow worthwhile.

I had to believe that he and his sacrifice mattered.

Deeper in the parcel, I found an envelope addressed to me. I opened it with shaking hands, and out first fell the photo of Giles with me during his last visit home. I looked so young in that photo, a different woman altogether than the one who stared back at me in the mirror now, even though only three years had passed.

And Giles? Staring into his eyes in that photograph made my chest ache and my eyes sting. He looked so content, so thrilled with the surprise twist in our story that Hughie represented. I missed my husband with every waking moment, but as I looked at that photo again, I felt my grief would overwhelm me for the rest of my life.

I couldn’t do it. I could not read his letter. It would be the last words he ever spoke to me and that would mean he was really gone. I pushed it away as if it represented a physical danger to me, but then a thought sounded—if not now, when? I’d been tempted to open the parcel before my first mission, but I had the luxury then of knowing that if anything happened to me, my mother would know to share its contents with my son.

Just as Giles had left instructions to his CO to send me this parcel, I was the only person left who could do the same for Hughie, and I could be called up for my next mission at any time. Just like Chloe in the field, lamenting whatever the disagreement with her mother was, I had to ensure there was some kind of closure for my loved one left behind.

Weeping now, I unfolded the letter slowly, savoring the touch of the paper against my skin, knowing that it had last touched Giles’s hands. A sob burst from my lips at the sight of his handwriting—that pretty, careful scrawl, almost too flowery to come from the pen of such a strong man.

Eloise, my love,

You have been the greatest blessing of my life. Whatever happens, know that I have loved and adored you with every breath since the moment I saw you behind that desk at Hatfield.

If this war takes my life, but one day you and our baby live in a world at peace, it will have been worth it. Make sure that they know that their father loved them even from afar. Make sure they know that I was certain that they would be good and brave and brilliant.

And as for you, Eloise, do not let rage consume you if I am lost. Be safe and be well, and be happy. You deserve all of those things, my love, with or without me.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Giles

With shaking hands, I folded the paper up, and rested it gently in the little box I had picked up in Paris for Hughie. On top, I rested the photograph, and atop of that, the final item from the parcel: the rosary beads I gave to Giles the very last time I saw him.

The metal links were a little rusted now, the medal of St. Michael slightly bent. I tried not to think about whether Giles had those beads with him when he died. I tried not to picture another airman gently taking them from his pocket and washing them so I might have them back.

When I was called back into Baker Street just two days later for a meeting with Turner, I took that little box with me, stuffed with precious items for my son, including a note from me. It was so difficult to write and I could manage only a few lines before my emotions overtook me and I wound up weeping over the paper, but it was something. Giles’s last words meant the world to me, and I wanted to do the same for my son.