CHAPTER 21
Though my mouth was dry and my stomach quavered, I forced myself to speak. “On the night we returned to Rotterdam, I . . . I slept with Alec,” I gasped, my voice trembling on the words. I inhaled a ragged breath, trying to fight back the tears burning at the corners of my eyes. “It was only the once, and I . . . I knew it was a mistake the moment it was over.”
I spoke the last in a rush as Sidney whirled away from me, uttering a curse. He shook his head as if he couldn’t even bear to look at me.
I slid toward the edge of the settee, pleading with my clasped hands. “I’m so sorry, Sidney. Had I known you were alive, I would never have even considered it.”
“Are you sure about that?” he queried snidely, turning back to face me.
“Yes! How can you even think otherwise?” I protested, resentment trickling in to override some of my guilt.
“Because the two of you seemed quite cozy. And you already admitted you care for him.”
I rose to my feet. “Not like I care for you. Never that way. And had you not led me to believe you were dead, I would never have allowed him to get that close. I would never have wanted him to.”
“So this is my fault?” he demanded incredulously.
“Yes. No.” I clenched my fists in frustration. “Had I known you were alive, I would never have behaved the way I did. But my actions are my own. I take responsibility for that.”
“So you’re claiming you did what you did out of grief? That you drank, and flirted, and warmed another man’s bed because you were missing me?”
“I didn’t know how to deal with any of it, Sidney! The war, the work I did, Rob’s death, the loss of all those men—so many friends. And then to lose you . . .” I choked on a sob and turned my head away, fighting back the emotion. “You can’t tell me you handled everything any better?” I accused.
His eyes blazed with fury, the light of that single lamp making the hollows of his face dark pools of anger. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”
“Because I didn’t know how. How do you tell your husband that you slept with another man? How do you raise that specter when the state of your marriage is already in peril?” I pleaded with him, trying to make him understand.
He stared back at me, his emotions so raw, so blistering that I wanted to shut my eyes. I made myself continue to meet his gaze, trying to communicate how much I regretted my actions, how desperately I wanted us to find a way past this. For a moment, I thought he might come to me. That he might take me in his arms. But then he did the exact opposite.
Lifting his hands as if in defeat, he backed toward the door. “I just . . . I can’t . . .” He shook his head and whirled away. A moment later the door clicked shut behind him.
I stood staring at the dark wood, my mind blank, as if it could not comprehend what had just happened. My body caught on quicker. My knees gave out and I sank back onto the sofa as a sob worked its way up from my throat, bursting forth. I leaned forward and wept, pressing my hands over my chest as if by force and will alone, I could keep my heart from breaking. Yet again.
I had cried so many tears over Sidney. When I’d believed him dead in the sucking red mud of the Somme. When I’d discovered he was alive, but he’d placed his quest for vengeance over any devotion he felt for me. Not to mention all the times he’d returned to the front after a few days’ leave. Each departure, each new offensive, each roll of honor printed in the newspapers brought a fresh wave of terror and grief. And now this.
Eventually, my sobs diminished, and I collapsed sideways on the settee, gazing forlornly at the door through which Sidney had departed. I wondered, almost idly, if he would ever return, or if he would just leave me here. I’d grown so used to his leaving, though it had been the war and not by his choice, that the event seemed somehow inevitable. As if he had always been meant to be an impermanent fixture in my life, flitting in and out, ravaging what was left of my heart.
How long I stared red-eyed at the door, wrestling with myself, I don’t know. But at some point, my eyes grew heavy and I fell into a fitful sleep.
* * *
My eyes were gritty and my face swollen the following morning—as I hefted my valise and portmanteau, and emerged from the hotel into the dim light of dawn. A ceiling of gray clouds blocked the sun, casting a pall over the day. One that seemed fitting.
I’d woken sometime before sunrise to find that Sidney had still not returned. That revelation opened a pit in my stomach, and I’d rolled over to stare up at the ceiling, trying to come to terms with what I’d only feared the night before. That our short-lived reunion was truly over, and our war-torn marriage was at an end.
We wouldn’t be the first or the last couple who wed during the feverish excitement of the war to discover afterwards it was a mistake. But that was no consolation now. No balm to my already battered heart.
I’d waited two more hours for him to appear, and when he did not, I’d forced myself to dress and pack my things. After all, Emilie was still in danger. She still needed to be found. My wreck of a marriage changed none of that.
I’d stopped to speak to the concierge, learning that while the train did not go to Quevy, there was a garage just around the corner that also operated a car service the hotel sometimes utilized for their guests. He offered to telephone them, but I declined, not wanting to remain in the hotel a moment longer than necessary now that I’d made up my mind what must be done. Eventually, Sidney would have to return for his things, and as he seemed to be giving me time to clear out before that, I resolved to do so.
But standing on the pavement now, I felt a profound sense of loss, of aloneness. In the five weeks since Sidney’s return, without realizing it, somehow, I’d grown attached to the comfort of believing I was no longer alone. Throughout the war and especially after his reported death, I’d felt isolated, singular. And the consequences of that loneliness had at times been cold and cutting.
But then Sidney had come back, and despite the difficulties, despite the uncertainty, he was alive and so was I, and at least there was two of us.
Now that proved to be a lie. And the yawning reality of it held me immobile.
How long I stood that way, I can’t say, but the shuffle of footsteps behind me alerted me to the presence of another. I lifted a hand to adjust my hat, forcing movement back into my limbs before I glanced over my shoulder. Only to be staggered by the sight of Sidney standing against the wall, watching me.
His face was haggard and pale, and his hair kinked and curled, as I knew he hated it, falling over his forehead. But even looking as awful as he did, he was still the most beautiful human being I’d ever seen. That knowledge cut like a knife through my breast.
He ground out the cigarette he’d been smoking and approached me, his gaze dipping to my luggage. “Leaving me, are you?”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak, only stare into his deep blue eyes rimmed with dark circles, almost as if he’d been punched. Though the rest of his face was subdued, his eyes gleamed at me with a dozen questions. All I cared about was that there was no trace of disgust or fury.
“I thought I’d change it up for once,” I finally replied.
The joke fell flat, and the moment it had passed my lips, I wished I could take it back. It was too soon. But Sidney only tipped his head, acknowledging the truth of that statement.
“Where did you sleep?” I asked softly, for he looked as if he were about to keel over.
“I didn’t. I just walked,” he added, anticipating my next question. “Thinking.” He shrugged. “It’s not the first time I’ve done so.”
It wasn’t an invitation to ask questions, but I did so anyway. “The war? The traitors?”
“Some.” His gaze dipped to his foot, where he pushed aside a stray stone. “But a lot of times it was you.” His eyes searched mine before he murmured. “It was hard not to think about you at night.”
My chest tightened with the same longing I heard in his voice, and I wanted to reach out to him, to move closer, but I couldn’t. Not when I didn’t know what his plans were. Did this mean he wasn’t leaving me, or was he simply trying to say goodbye?
He inhaled a deep, hitching breath and glanced at the hotel. “Will you let me fetch my things and then we’ll set off for Quevy?”
It wasn’t a declaration of forgiveness or a clear statement of intent, but I figured it was the best that could be expected at the moment. Too quick a reconciliation would have seemed false. Better to take it by increments.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “So long as you let me drive for a spell.”
He arched his eyebrows at this demand, but before he could insist he was fine, I cut him off.
“You may be alert enough to drive, but I need you to have your full faculties in order to help me unravel this riddle.”
When he still looked as if he wanted to argue, I arched my chin.
“Did you or did you not teach me how to drive before the war? And I’ve been doing so for nearly five years in your prized Pierce-Arrow, with nary a scratch.” In a gentler voice, I added, “I can handle her, Sidney.”
He exhaled, finally relenting. “I suppose I could take a short doss.”
I didn’t reply, determined he’d sleep the whole way to Quevy, no matter how long it took to traverse the twelve kilometers on these roads.
* * *
Though we didn’t know the exact direction to Emilie’s sister’s house, in a tiny village like Quevy, everyone knew each other, and we were swiftly directed to her cottage. At first, upon seeing the petite woman with frazzled hair and quick, darting eyes, I thought we might have come to the wrong place. She was as different from calm, contained Emilie as could be. But she ushered us inside when I mentioned Rose Moreau, as if worried the trees bordering her home might be listening.
She gestured us toward chairs at a battered, round table. “Yes, Rose Moreau is my sister,” she confirmed after closing and locking the door.
Sidney and I exchanged a look as she fluttered about, twitching curtains before joining us at the table.
“Is she here?” I asked.
Her eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion. “Who wants to know?”
“My name is Verity Kent. Though your sister would most likely have known me as Gabrielle Thys.” When this elicited no response from her, I tried something else. “Her priest in Macon told us she left a message for me saying I could find her here.”
She leaned forward in challenge, unsettling me. “Is that actually what he said?”
“Well, no. He said I could inquire after her here.”
Her eyebrows arched, as if anticipating more.
“And that the hens had come home to roost.” I wasn’t sure how this was pertinent to her, but it seemed to galvanize her into action.
She jumped up from her chair and crossed the room toward a cupboard. “Did you bring the can, then?”
I blinked in surprise. “Yes, actually. Though it’s out in the motorcar.”
She waved her hand at us as she bent forward on her hands and knees to rummage through the items stored in the lower compartment. “Well, go fetch it then.”
“I’ll go,” Sidney offered, rising to do so.
I watched the little woman in bemusement. It was only by a stroke of luck that I’d taken the can with me. I’d intended to leave it where I’d found it, but then Madame Ledoq had interrupted us and I’d never removed it from my pocket until we returned to the motorcar.
Exclaiming in triumph, Madame Moreau’s sister emerged from the depths of the cabinet, brandishing a thick book as if it was the Holy Grail. She dropped it on the table before me with a thunk and then planted her hands on her hips. It was a Bible, and an old one at that, but I had no idea what she expected me to do with it.
Sidney returned then, looking between us as he passed me the tin can.
“Are there no further instructions?” I asked.
“If you are who you say you are, then you’ll know the game as surely as you know your name,” she declared before walking away.
Scowling in confusion, I studied the can and the Bible. Clearly, I was missing something. Something important.
“I take it you don’t know what to do?” Sidney inquired.
“Just . . . give me a moment.”
Removing the can’s lid, I looked inside again to still find it empty. Should there have been some message inside? Had someone else taken it? Or was the can to be used in a different way?
I turned it this way and that, searching for random markings. Closer examination showed there were five dented holes in the bottom, but they didn’t follow any discernable pattern I could see. I reached out to flip open the Bible. Perhaps there would be a note or random marking for me to follow.
But then why did I need the can?
Huffing in exasperation, I set the can down on the open page of the Bible to glower at it. If this was some coded message, Emilie was certainly going to extremes to keep her location a secret.
Which in and of itself was peculiar. She was such a straightforward, no-nonsense person. All of this subterfuge was making me uneasy. Either she was extremely wary of someone finding her and uncovering whatever she knew, or she wasn’t the one sending me on this scavenger hunt. But who else knew about the can and the other things?
“Verity.”
Hearing the wariness in his voice, I glanced up at Sidney.
He stood next to the cupboard, holding one of the books from its upper shelves. “I think you should see this.” He held the book in front of me so that I could read the cover.
“That’s one of Jonathan Fletcher’s novels.” The middle-aged man from the séance who we had confronted in Liège for following me. “But why . . .”
He flipped the book over so that I could see the back, pointing to the photograph of the author. The distinguished older gentleman in the image was decidedly not the man who had claimed to be him.
“He lied,” I murmured rather needlessly.
Sidney nodded. “Yes, and we didn’t catch it.”
I scowled, feeling the same anger I heard in his voice over our being duped. “Well, dash it all. And he’s probably still following us.”
“If he is, he’s doing a much better job at it. I haven’t seen him lurking about, and I’ve been paying attention.”
“So have I,” I admitted. Had his bumbling nature been an act? To what end?
I glanced down at the book again. “I suppose the photograph could be fake,” I suggested hopefully. The man captured there looked like the sort of person one wanted a gifted author to appear like. Maybe Mr. Fletcher didn’t want his real face plastered on the back of his books.
Sidney didn’t say anything, merely arched his eyebrows letting me know he realized I didn’t believe that any more than he did.
I frowned at the open page of the Bible as he replaced Mr. Fletcher’s book on the shelf.
The corners of his mouth quirked upward in sympathy at my evident frustration with Emilie’s code. “Perhaps the sister can be persuaded to tell us where Madame Moreau is.”
I could hear the sounds of her moving about in the next room. “If she even knows.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
But his steps were arrested before he’d even taken one. He loomed closer to stare down at the can. “Did you know you can see letters through the holes at the bottom?”
I leapt to my feet to lean over the can. He was right. You could see individual letters through the punctures.
My heart surged in excitement. “It’s a cipher.” I paused. “But what page?”
I thought back over everything we’d learned, over all the memories I’d relived this week about my time spent with Emilie. And then my thoughts returned to what her sister had just told me.
“You’ll know the game as surely as you know your name,” I repeated.
Emilie had known me as Gabrielle during the war. Could she be referring to the angel Gabriel? But which verse?
I began to flip the pages to the New Testament, but then the Book of Psalms caught my eye and I paused. There must be a half dozen or more verses that included Gabriel by name, but I could think of only one that mentioned verity. My mother had quoted it often enough to me, for that was how she’d chosen my name. It was verity the virtue and not Verity the name, but I didn’t think the distinction mattered.
Turning back several pages, I located Psalm 111 and rested the can on the page just below the line with the word “verity” at the center. I had to rotate the can a bit, but sure enough the holes lined up to pick out the letters h, a, v, a, y.
“What’s ‘havay’?” Sidney asked, reading over my shoulder.
“Havay is a village a short distance from here.” But this answer only raised more questions. Namely about the village itself. For I was familiar with Havay, and I knew there was very little chance Emilie was staying there. Yet another breadcrumb on her trail?
I looked up to find her sister watching me from the doorway. Her only parting words were, “Step with care.”