I nodded, coughing to clear my throat. “But is it possible for you to send a letter? I thought . . .”
“To a neutral country, yes. It might be opened, of course, but I’ll be careful not to include any information that would put you or the work you do at risk.”
She stood up and came around the desk to where I was sitting. She laid her hand on my head and said: “Seigneur Dieu, bénis ta fille et donne la paix.” Lord God, bless your daughter and give her peace.
I couldn’t help myself then: the words released all the pent-up emotion of the past weeks and months. Tears streamed down my face.
In the days that followed I worked in the infirmary, went to chapel, ate my meals with the nuns, and behaved, in every respect, as if I’d never left the religious life. But often, as I was washing one of the elderly patients or reciting the familiar words of a psalm or a prayer, I would be hundreds of miles away, walking beneath towering stands of bamboo, ducking under the clustered blossoms of rhododendrons, and running my fingers over the furry trunks of tree ferns. I would be chasing Ned through the churchyard, or walking alongside Jack, with Brock sniffing at my heels. Sometimes it would be early morning, and I would be sitting alone outside the boathouse, throwing crumbs to the tame robin and listening to the whisper of the waves. And other times it would be dark, with stars pricking the sky like pins in purple velvet, and Jack would be lying beside me on a blanket on the sand.
Each night, on my way to bed, I would glance out of the dormitory window, searching for the moon. I watched it wax to full, then lost sight of it as it waned to a quarter, rising too late to be visible at bedtime. I was counting the days—only a week now—until it disappeared completely. I pictured Jack piloting the motor launch from its hiding place in one of the creeks along the Helford River, bringing it round to the jetty where the agents would be waiting, and blind George Retallack standing in the shadows of the schoolhouse, listening for the signal to untie the rope.
I’d hoped for a communication of some kind—confirmation that Jack had received my message. But as the days wore on and nothing came, I told myself that he would have thought it too dangerous for the Resistance to make direct contact with the convent. I knew the window of time when La Coquille would be able to return to Brittany, and where the dinghy would come ashore. All I had to do was be there.
Two days before the new moon, Mère de Saint-Philippe summoned me to her office. This time there was no hint of a smile on her face: her eyes were glacial. She motioned me to sit down. Then she reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheet of newsprint. Without a word she pushed it across the desk.
It was the front page of L’Heure Bretonne—the regional newspaper. There was a grainy image of a boat beneath the headline: “La voie d’évacuation secrète.” Secret Escape Route Exposed.
My mouth went dry as I read the report. Someone had betrayed us. The Germans knew all about the clandestine runs between Cornwall and Brittany. Not only did they know, they had taken drastic action to destroy the escape route: “Following the information received, a bombing raid was carried out yesterday in the Isles of Scilly, and much damage was done to boats in New Grimsby harbor.” Frantically I searched for the date the newspaper had come out. Monday, June 28—two days ago.
My heart hammered as I saw it in my mind’s eye. The peace of New Grimsby Sound shattered as German planes screamed overhead raining destruction, fire ripping through the hull of La Coquille, her engine exploding in a plume of black smoke. He wouldn’t have been there, would he? Not four days before the new moon?
“C’est un coup terrible, je sais.” It’s a terrible blow, I know.
I couldn’t reply. My throat was paralyzed.
She told me not to be afraid, that all the nuns were praying for me and for the safety of the brave souls who had risked their lives to save others. As she spoke, I felt as if I were hovering above my own body, looking down at myself, nodding like an automaton. She was saying that I could stay on at the convent—that as I had never formally left the Sisters of Mary the Virgin, I could resume the religious life in Brittany, if I chose—and that to try to get back to England now would be impossible.
I stared, stupefied, into her pale, kind eyes. Was this God’s judgment? For going my own way and telling myself it was what he wanted? A voice inside me screamed. Punish me, then! But just let Jack be alive.
Chapter 25
That night I lay awake, watching the curtains surrounding my bed fade to gray with the dying light. No matter how many times I told myself that Jack wouldn’t have been aboard La Coquille when it was bombed, I couldn’t help fearing the worst. The times of our departure had varied, depending on the tide and the weather conditions: on our first mission, we’d reached the Scillies two days before the new moon, but the second time it had been a whole day earlier. If a storm had been predicted for that crucial time of darkness, Jack might have headed for New Grimsby in advance of it. I prayed with all my heart that he hadn’t.