LONDON
SUNDAY, APRIL 20, 1941
With his suitcase between his feet, Hugh stood in the crowded corridor of the overnight train from Aberdeen. All night he’d jostled against the shoulders of his fellow passengers, dozing off and on.
After a delay outside London as they waited for the all clear from yet another air raid, the train pulled into King’s Cross Station.
Hugh stifled a yawn and followed the herd out to the platform.
Glass and steel arched high above, and he made his way through the railway station to the Underground station of King’s Cross St. Pancras.
Soon he’d be home. Would Lennox be there to greet him? Hugh had searched for his cat all Wednesday night, but since returning to Scotland, he hadn’t been able to ring Simmons for news. What if Lennox had been hurt and was hiding somewhere, wounded, dying? What if he’d fled instinctively to his previous home, where the owner wanted him tossed into the Thames?
He passed a newsstand, black with headlines about recent British setbacks in North Africa and the return of the Luftwaffe to London.
Two major raids in the past few days—were the Germans preparing to invade Britain? How could they with so many Nazi troops in the Balkans? Yugoslavia had fallen and Greece couldn’t endure much longer, but transferring forces west again would take time.
Hugh bought his ticket for the Piccadilly Line and found his platform.
“Hugh Collingwood?” a man said in an American accent.
To his right, a dark-haired man in his thirties waved and grinned.
“Tony Da Costa!” Hugh grinned back and shook his friend’s hand. He’d met Tony in Belgium, whilst the American reporter followed the exodus of refugees south and Hugh followed the British forces north. “What have you been doing this past year?”
“I was in Japan for a while.” Tony pointed his thumb to the side and frowned. “Things are brewing over there. Mark my words, we’re going to have trouble.”
Hugh sighed. Didn’t the world have trouble enough already? “How long have you been in London?”
“Two weeks.” Teeth shone white in his broad smile. “Ed Murrow offered me a job.”
“Congratulations. You’re a ‘Murrow Boy’ now.”
“I am. He’s got fellows posted all over the world. He’s deciding where to send me.”
“Sounds smashing.”
Tony clapped Hugh on the shoulder. “Speaking of smashing, I heard one of your reports from Scotland. What brings you to London?”
Hugh gazed into the dark tunnel. “The BBC transferred me back.”
Tony laughed. “You sound disappointed.”
“Not at all. It’s rather exciting. I’ll have full use of a mobile recording unit, and I can tell the stories I’ve been longing to tell.”
“And yet . . .” Tony’s coffee-dark eyes narrowed. The man had a reporter’s inquisitiveness and tenacity, combined with American nosiness.
Everything English inside him told him to deflect the attention. Yet Hugh always thought more clearly when talking to others, and he hadn’t told a soul what happened with Aleida. “It’s a woman, if you must know.”
“I must. She broke your heart?”
That would be far easier to bear. “I broke hers.”
Tony whistled. “What’d you do?” Compassion bent down the corners of his mouth.
In their short acquaintance, Hugh had found Tony to be a man of integrity. No one stood within ten feet of them. And Hugh’s exhaustion drained away the last of his reserve.
He lowered his voice. “She’s Dutch. When she was fleeing the Netherlands, her husband gave her little boy to a British couple bound for London.”
Tony groaned. “I saw a woman do that during the exodus. Almost tossed her kid through a car window. I wonder if she ever found him.”
“Precisely. Aleida’s husband was a dreadful man. He refused to give her the name or address of the British couple—then he was killed the next day. She came here looking for her son.”
“No name? No address? Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Indeed.” A wind built from the tunnel as a train approached. “The only thing in her favor is that her son has a distinguishing feature, a hand deformity.”
Tony’s mouth dropped open. “A hand deformity?”
“Poor little chap is missing all the fingers on his right hand.” How many times had he heard Aleida describe Theo in her lilting accent?
“Missing . . . all . . .”
The red Underground train entered the station with a flurry of air.
Hugh raised his voice above the noise. “It did help her find him.” Then he groaned. “Rather, she found the couple. However, she has no papers to prove he’s her child, not even a photograph. The husband didn’t believe her and refused to give up the child. That’s when I made my error.”
The train doors opened. Tony stood with his mouth hanging open.
“Come along.” Hugh nudged his friend on board. He needed to finish the story, although relating the embarrassing details in the confines of a train made him cringe. “I made the error of—”
“A Dutch boy, you said?” Tony grabbed a pole for support, and his gaze pierced. “How old?”
“He’s four now. He was three at the time.”
“Blond? His mother’s blond?”
“Well, yes.” Many Dutch were.
“Missing all his fingers like this?” He raised a fist, and the light in his eyes brightened.
“Yes.” Why was Tony acting so strangely?
“Collie!” Tony bumped Hugh’s arm with that fist. “I took their picture during the exodus.”
“Pardon?”
“It had to be them. I saw a woman and her son sitting under a tree. The contrast—the love and devotion between them—and in the background, the refugees traipsing by. I took a dozen shots, some of my best ever.”
The doors shut, the train pulled away, and Hugh wobbled, his brain spinning. He gripped the pole above Tony’s hand. It couldn’t be.
“Would have won me the Pulitzer if I could have published them.”
“You lost the film?”
“No, the woman’s husband was a raving lunatic. Threatened to destroy my career if I printed them.”
Hugh’s fingers went as cold as Sebastiaan Martens’s heart.
Tony snorted. “I wasn’t worried about my career, but I was very worried about what he’d do to his wife. He was furious with her for letting her picture be taken. Ever heard of such nonsense?”
“It must be Aleida.” Hugh’s voice came out in a wisp. “Her husband forbade her to have her son photographed. He was ashamed of the boy’s hand.”
“That’s him, all right. Crazy. He’s dead, you say? Good riddance.”
Hugh’s hands tightened around his suitcase handle and the pole. “If only she had that photograph, she could prove Theo was her son.”
Tony spread his hands wide. “I have the prints in my room at the Savoy.”
Everything froze inside him, not daring to hope. “You do?”
“Sure. I may be a reporter, but I’m also a photographer, and a photographer always takes his portfolio with him.” Tony slapped Hugh’s arm. “We’re going to the Savoy.”
When they reached Leicester Square Station, Hugh had to restrain himself from running the half mile to the hotel.
Up in his room, Tony thumbed through a portfolio. “Here you go. Is it her?”
It was. Hugh sank into an armchair with the stack of photographs.
Aleida’s exquisite face, lit up in absolute love, and a little boy.
Theo.
Hugh’s heart lurched. What a beautiful child he was, laughing, with his clublike hand raised high. Hugh flipped through the photographs, and Aleida and Theo came to life, speaking with each other, smiling, Theo touching Aleida’s cheek, her mouth, Aleida kissing his hand.
She saw no deformity. She saw her beloved son.
Hugh had never loved her more.
Seeing that child’s face, seeing the love between them—now he knew why Aleida couldn’t give up the search.
Tony sat on the bed. “Is it her?”
“Most definitely.” The photographs proved not only her maternity but also that she was neither negligent nor abusive.
Tony waved his hand at the portfolio. “Give them to her.”
“But they’re—”
“I’ve got the negatives back in New York. I can make more prints.” His wide mouth curled into a mischievous smile. “If they’ll help you get back your girl . . .”
“They won’t.” He’d hurt her too deeply, and he wouldn’t insult her by trying to win her back. “But they will help Aleida get back her son.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Leave your suitcase here.” He jerked his head to the door. “Go on, now. Scram.”
A smile built, nearly as wide as Tony’s. “Right-o.”