“Where did he send you?”
“Across the border and into Spain. Eventually to England and then here, to America. It was the usual route, so I knew what to expect, but not how long it would take or how hard it would be. It was strange being on that end of it. Until then, I could only imagine what happened once the men were handed off. And then all of a sudden, there I was, being handed off myself.”
Rory suppressed a shudder, imagining herself in Soline’s shoes, leaving her home and the man she loved at the mercy of strangers. “Wasn’t it dangerous? Traveling like that while the war was going on?”
“It was. But for many, staying in Paris amounted to a death sentence. We lost some, but there were more successes than failures, and that made the risk worth taking.”
“I can’t imagine it. To leave Paris and end up here in Boston. It must have been like landing in another world.”
Soline went quiet, her hands still and white on either side of her plate. “I didn’t come to Boston right away. I went to Newport first—to Anson’s father. Anson wrote to say I was coming.”
Rory was surprised by this. Soline had never mentioned Anson’s family. “It must have been a comfort to be with his people, rather than all alone in a new place.”
Soline shook her head very slowly, her eyes dark with memory. “No. It was not . . . a comfort.”
TWENTY-FIVE
SOLINE
Whosoever shall misuse la magie for selfish ends shall bring unhappiness on the family entire. Take care, then, to keep your needle true, and do not use your charms in pursuit of things not meant for you.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
22 September 1943—Newport
I arrive at the station in Newport on a chilly Wednesday morning, messy and creased after hours on the train. I’m as thin as a rake in my borrowed clothes, exhausted after weeks of seasickness and uncertainty. For days, all I’ve been able to think about is a hot bath and a real bed with clean sheets, but now, as I stand on the crowded platform, searching for a face that looks like Anson, my thoughts turn in a new direction.
I’ve done the best I can with my hair, but I didn’t have enough pins to do it up properly. Hairpins are hard enough to come by these days, but they’re especially hard to find on ships and trains and convoys full of men. I hate to think what I must look like. No hat, no gloves, no proper shoes. Not exactly the way a girl hopes to look when meeting her future father-in-law for the first time.
The crowd on the platform has begun to thin. I stand on my tiptoes, searching the remaining faces, but none of them seems right. A young man with a pinned-up sleeve. An old man clutching a rumpled paper sack. A pair of GIs in army green, carrying a trunk between them. But no one likely to be Owen Purcell.
My stomach turns over, wondering if there’s been a miscommunication of some kind, a missed call or lost letter. And then I see a man moving toward me on the platform. He’s wearing a plain black suit and a brimmed cap.
His brows lift as he eyes me up and down. “Would you be Miss Roussel?”
Relief floods through me. “Oui, I am—” I stop, reminding myself that I’m in America now. “Yes. I’m Miss Roussel.”
“My name is Stanton. I’m Mr. Purcell’s driver. If you’ll just point out your bags, I’ll take them to the car.”
“I don’t have any bags,” I tell him, holding up my battered box. “It’s just this.”
He gives the box a dubious glance but manages a nod. “Very good, miss.”
But when he reaches for it, I find myself taking a step back. It contains everything I care about in the world, and I haven’t let it out of my sight in weeks. “I’ll carry it, thank you.”
“As you wish.” His face is carefully blank, like Maman’s when dealing with a troublesome bride. “If you’ll follow me.”
He leads me to a great ship of a car, gleaming black with a shiny grille and tires with wide white sides. The sight of it makes my throat constrict. It reminds me of the Gestapo’s cars, long and sinister, prowling the streets of Paris. I peer through the window, expecting my first glance of Anson’s father, but the car is empty.
If Stanton notices my disappointment, he gives no sign as he whisks open the rear door. I step past him and climb in. It’s warm inside and comfortable, and suddenly I’m so very tired. I let my head fall back against the leather seat and close my eyes, trying not to think about why Anson’s father didn’t come to the station to meet me.