I looked away from her, toward the rocks, struggling to process what she’d said. This man who had found me, bound my wounds, fed me, and housed me was an aristocrat. A peer of the realm. It seemed impossible. Incredible. Why would a person like that go to such trouble for someone like me?
“He’s always telling us to call him Jack,” Merle went on. “But it seems disrespectful. The children call him Lordy, which he doesn’t seem to mind.”
At that moment Ned came hurtling across the sand, clutching something to his chest. To my surprise he skidded to a halt in front of me, dropping his trophy into my lap. “It’s a present,” he said, smiling at me from under his dark eyelashes.
“Thank you, Ned—how lovely!” I picked up the mussel shell, which was as big as his hand, and angled it so that the sun caught the mother-of-pearl inside.
“Will you come and play with us?” He sat down on the blanket beside me, tugging at my other hand.
“Come on, Ned.” Merle stood up. “It’s time for school.”
“Oh!” His mouth turned down at the edges.
“Another time, maybe.” Merle turned to me. “They go to the school round the bay. We don’t usually come this way. You can only get to it from here at low tide. But they were up early, and they wanted to come to the beach.”
I glanced down at Ned, who looked as if he was about to cry. What had happened to him on Guernsey was unimaginably awful. He would have been too young when he was rescued to have any memory of his parents. His story was a chilling echo of something that had happened in Africa. A piece of wickedness whose legacy haunted me still.
“Go and tell the others,” Merle said to Ned. “Mrs. Graham will be cross if we’re late.”
“Do his parents know where he is?” I asked as he darted off across the beach.
She shook her head. “It’s been impossible to get letters to and from the island since the Germans took control.”
“They must be desperate.”
“I know. I can’t imagine not having my three with me. When the planes are flying over, and you hear about places being bombed, I think, well, if it happens to us, at least we’ll be together.” She brushed a wisp of blond hair from her face. “That must sound selfish—but the thought of them being somewhere else, living with strangers, hundreds of miles away . . .” She trailed off as the children came running up to us.
I was gathering up the blankets after waving them goodbye when Brock, Jack’s dog, came bounding across the beach. He jumped up, wetting my chin with sandy licks.
“Brock!” Jack wasn’t far behind.
The sound of his voice threw me into a panic. I was tongue-tied. Why had he kept back the fact that he was Lord Trewella? I had no idea of the proper way to address a viscount.
“Good morning!” He closed the distance between us. “Oh—you’re walking. Good.” However, he didn’t look pleased. “There’s something you need to do.” He ushered me into the boathouse. “I’ve got you one of these.” He handed me a buff-colored card, folded in two.
“What is it?”
“Your identity card—you just need to sign it.”
I opened it and scanned the inside. There was my name and my date of birth. And another line headed “Marital Status,” with the word Unmarried printed in bold black type beside it.
“How did you manage to get it so quickly?”
“It’s easier, with the house being used by the military.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Without it, you’d be in danger of being arrested. Aliens need permits to get into Cornwall—it’s a protected area.”
Aliens. It sounded unpleasant. But that was what I was.
“I met someone from the house this morning,” I said. “The mother of the evacuees. Sh . . . she told me you have a title. I . . .” I trailed off. What could I say? I wish you’d told me? I’d never have had the impertinence to ask if I could stay here if I’d known?
He grunted. “The Fourteenth Viscount Trewella—at your service.” He made a mocking bow. “Would it have made a difference if I’d told you?”
“Well, I . . .”
“You would have behaved quite differently.” He finished the sentence for me. “We’re similar in that respect, Alice. You don’t want it to be known that you’re a nun because you’re afraid of being judged, of being put into a box. It’s the same for me: I’d rather be taken for who I am—not what people expect me to be.”