“He told me he’d ensure Jocelyn’s name was suppressed if the records were ever unsealed. He told me it was for the best if no one knew of her mistakes,” Drusilla says now, her voice shaking with anger. “For twenty-four years I thought my daughter died in shame. I thought her death meant nothing.”
“Your daughter was a bloody hero,” my dad insists, tears streaming down his face. “It’s a travesty that you were ever allowed to think otherwise. But this is my fault. It’s all my fault.” He covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking as he weeps.
“Dad,” I say, bewildered. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I knew she’d make a good agent. And I wanted to see her again, so…” He breaks off, stricken. “I nominated her. Tell them, Miss Elwood. Tell them what I did.”
“During his training, Noah told us about Josie.” Helen nods. “He had correctly identified in her the qualities of a brilliant agent after what he’d seen on their journey on the escape line. That’s why we invited her to try out for the SOE.”
“It wasn’t just that. I touched her hand in front of Adrien—that’s the only reason Baker Street found out we were in love—the only reason she was sent to Paris! I failed her, time and time again,” Dad chokes. He turns his hollow gaze to Drusilla. “Your daughter is dead because of me, Dr. Sallow. You have every reason to hate me. I’m so sorry.”
“Did my daughter love you, Mr. Ainsworth?” Drusilla asks stiffly. Dad draws a surprised breath, then nods, almost to himself.
“Yes. Yes, I believe she did.”
“Then we’ll leave the blame for her death where it belongs. Not on your shoulders, Noah, but on the shoulders of the men who killed her.” She reaches across the table, stretching out her hand toward him. Dad’s fingers are shaking as he reaches to meet her halfway. “Let it go, son,” Drusilla whispers. “Forgive yourself. If Josie loved you, that’s what she would have wanted.”
Hours have passed. Dad and Dr. Sallow are still sitting at one end of the table swapping stories about Jocelyn, while Quinn watches on and Professor Read frantically scribbles down notes.
Theo, Helen and I have made ourselves fresh cups of tea and we mingle away from the other group. Their conversation is starting to feel like a long overdue wake I wasn’t invited to. It’s been an exhausting day for everyone, but there’s a peace in my father’s face that I wasn’t anticipating. If he set out looking for closure when we first decided to track down Remy a few weeks ago, he’s finally found it. It just wasn’t where we first thought to look.
“I feel such a relief,” Helen says on a sigh. “Honestly, it’s like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.”
“My dad set out just to thank the agent he thought had saved his life, but I can’t help but feel like he wound up getting exactly what he needed, in a roundabout way.”
“Yes, Harry told me about your father and Fleur,” Helen says. “She actually brought this brooch for me, smuggled it back from Paris in 1944.” She taps a brooch on her cardigan, a brightly colored cluster of green and red beads with small pearls dangling below. “Fleur was entirely on her own for her first mission, and as we now know, managing somehow to stay one step ahead of the Germans as Gerard fed them information about her. And then of course, to save your father’s life that day at Salon-La-Tour. She was a truly remarkable woman.” Helen stifles a yawn, then looks out the window again. Her voice is distant as she murmurs, “I still wonder sometimes how Gerard could fool us all for so long, but then again, when I look back at what seemed to be an intense dedication to the work we were doing, I can still scarcely believe he was disloyal at all. He worked day and night for years right beside me. He pushed our agents in training, helped us to plan the missions, even went above and beyond to clear away any obstacle to their service, just as I tried to do.” Her eyes crinkle suddenly. “God—at one point, he even got involved in finding child care for Fleur’s own child! Her mother was called away unexpectedly and he all but browbeat me into looking after the boy. Luckily for the child, my mother was there to help, because God knows I had no idea what to do with a toddler.”
“What became of the child when she died?” I ask hesitantly. Theo is staring at the ground, his jaw set. I have an inkling he’s listening intently, but I know, especially after what happened when we met Drusilla, he would be trying very hard not to get his hopes up again.
“Fleur’s mother took him back as soon as she returned from her business trip. The boy was the cutest little thing. Didn’t speak a word of English and my mother’s French wasn’t the best, but we managed.”
My eyes lock with Theo’s.
“He didn’t speak English, you say?” I repeat.
“Not a word.”
“And…Fleur’s mother. You’re sure she cared for him after her death?”
“I never had reason to doubt it…”
“Did you speak to her? At any point?”
“Well, no.” For the first time, Helen appears uncertain. Her brows knit as she says, “Gerard had spoken to her on the phone so he was the one to return the boy when it was time.”
“But who told Fleur’s mother that she was dead?” Theo asks cautiously. Helen’s gaze shifts between us.
“It would have been Gerard,” she admits. At our shocked gasps, she says, “Please remember that was months before anyone had cause to doubt the man! Why are you even asking me about this?”
“Theo,” I whisper. He looks at me. His glasses are askew, his eyes are wide and shiny with tears of hope. “Tell her.”
It unravels quickly from there. After a quarter of a century of silence and lies, Theo Sinclair discovers the truth about his family of origin in the very place he spent years searching for it.
“What do you think Mum would make of all of this?” Dad asks me. It is almost 3:00 a.m., and we’ve only just returned home from Manchester. Poor Wrigley was beside himself when he saw us, and he’s now stretched across the lounge, his head on Dad’s lap. Dad’s voice is raw and his eyes are puffy from crying. He seems exhausted, but I think this is the good kind of tired. I’m slumped in Mum’s armchair, too wired to sleep, too tired to hold myself up.
I think about Dad’s question for a few minutes before I try to answer it. He is sitting to my left, and that silvery scar is just above his ear on the side of his head nearest to me. I know that beneath his pajama shirt there’s other scars, puckered and round, mirrored on both sides of his shoulder. Even if there was some surgery that could hide the mark left behind by the trauma life inflicted upon my dad, the mark would still be there in some invisible way. Those scars are part of the man who raised me. Those imperfections part of the man I have known and loved for my entire life. The version of him who did not have a brain injury and had never been shot ceased to exist long before I was even born.
In Dad’s case, the scars he wears are marks upon his body I can see and hear in his voice, and maybe for Mum, the scars were in places that were harder to spot, but in the end it’s all the same: our scars become part of who we are. Every mark life makes upon us creates a new version of our identity because there is simply no going back to who we were before those experiences.