At one point, I threw myself to the ground in a field of barley when I caught sight of what I thought was a man standing between the rows of golden stalks. I don’t know how long I lay there before I dared to raise my head, only to discover that what I’d seen was a scarecrow in the distance.
I kept looking at the sky, using the sun to check that I was going in the right direction. I could no longer see nor hear the road, and I was afraid I’d somehow veered away from the route I needed to follow. My map was still sewn inside the veil that Miranda was wearing, but I’d studied it well enough to know that I must keep going in a southwesterly direction to reach Lannion. Thankfully it was well past midday, which made it easier to figure out which way was west.
After what felt like many hours, I caught a glimpse of the river. I was so relieved to see it that I broke into a run across a field of cabbages. I could smell the bitter green scent of the leaves as my boots trampled them. I was so intent on reaching the boundary, on scaling the wall and seeing the harbor down below, that I didn’t spot the gate set in the hedge to the left of me, or the three German soldiers perched on top of it, smoking cigarettes.
It was no wonder that they didn’t believe my story. I was running through a field, with torn, dirty clothes, and nettle welts on my face that must have made me look as if I’d been in a fight. They took my passport and frog-marched me to a hut across the road. I was shaking and retching as they shoved me inside. When they locked the door, I was in total darkness. Panic seized me, making my heart thump so hard I thought I might pass out. There was nowhere to sit but the floor. I slumped in a corner, breathless, trying to recite the Hail Mary. I’d done the same thing when the Brabantia was torpedoed, whispering it over and over to quell the terror as I clung to life in the freezing water. I told myself I’d survived that and I’d survive this, that God wouldn’t have saved me from death only to abandon me now.
But you’ve abandoned him. Sister Clare’s face loomed out of the darkness.
“I haven’t,” I whispered. “I’ve never stopped praying, never stopped saying the rosary. Just because I don’t wear the habit anymore doesn’t mean I don’t believe.”
You’ve gone your own way, though, haven’t you? Allowed that man to take God’s place in your heart. A man who got a girl pregnant and drove her to her death.
“Yes, he did wrong. But he’s not evil.”
Isn’t he? What about the boy? Isn’t that wicked, deceiving a child?
The door of the hut flew open. I blinked, blinded by the orange rays of the sinking sun. A man stood, silhouetted against the light.
“You come from Ireland? But you are living in Paris?” He spoke in English, very loudly.
“Yes.” I stood up, my legs tingling with pins and needles. I clutched the rough wooden wall beside me, firing prayers into the space between us. Please, God, make him let me go. Don’t let him hurt me. Help me get back to Jack.
“Why were you running?” He started moving toward me.
“I . . . I disturbed a wasps’ nest—when I climbed over a wall. They were stinging me.” I touched the nettle rash on my face. This was the story I’d stuttered out when the men on the gate had pounced on me. I could smell the rancid cow dung on the cuff of my sleeve. He must have smelled it, too. He stopped. Took a step back.
“Your passport is being checked. You will stay here.” He turned away, slamming the door behind him.
Once again, I was plunged into darkness. I sank onto the floor, hugging myself, glad of the reek of my clothes, because it was a kind of protection. Surely no man would want to touch me, smelling as I did. I told myself that it was still light outside, that if they let me go in the next couple of hours, I could still make it to Lannion before midnight. I groped around the hut, trying to find something other than the floor to sit on. My fingers found a pile of canvas—possibly tents—that I’d glimpsed when they’d thrown me into the hut. The texture reminded me of the sailcloth bed I’d made in the boathouse back in Cornwall. I sank down onto it and closed my eyes, conjuring precious images of Mermaid’s Cove. How I longed to wake up to the lapping waves and the cries of seabirds, to walk through those enchanted gardens to the house, to read bedtime stories to Ned and the others, to sit in the library, chatting to Merle. And—what I’d never done but ached for most of all—to lie on a blanket under the stars with Jack.
I must have fallen asleep. The rattle of the key in the lock woke me. I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding.