A Bitter Truth

solicitor. Bringing it to me, she said, “Sophie is very pretty-it will not serve her well, this beauty, in the future. We cannot protect her always. You understand?”

“I do understand. Completely. Has anyone else come in search of her?”

“No. We were certain that the father must be dead. To abandon such a young child seemed cruel. Unless of course he has a wife in England. These things happen, you know.”

Sadly, I did.

Thanking her, I left the house and went out to the Major’s motorcar. Turning it, I drove back the way I had come to prevent getting lost in the twisting streets. It had started to rain, the cobblestones slippery and grimy under a darkening sky.

I had just passed the cathedral for the second time, searching for the Street of Fishes, where the avocat lived, when I saw that another motorcar was coming toward me. I pulled over as far as I dared in the narrow, medieval street, to allow it to pass me. The wings were dented and the paint was scratched but I recognized it as English, then looked up to see who was driving it.

He must have turned to look in my direction because I was conspicuous in my blue coat and hat. Anyone in this part of France could identify my uniform at a glance.

Our eyes met, and I recognized Captain Ellis in the same instant he recognized me.

Chapter Twelve

What was Roger Ellis doing in Rouen? Was he this close to finding little Sophie too?

His reflexes were faster than mine. He spun the wheel, and before I could grasp what he was intending, he’d turned his motorcar across the path of mine, and it was all I could do to grip the brake hard enough to prevent the Major’s motorcar from crashing into his.

He was already out of his vehicle, and before I could reverse, he had opened the near passenger-side door and slid into the seat beside me.

“Are you following me?” he demanded, flushed with anger.

Quickly rethinking the situation, I said, “No. I’m on leave. What are you doing here?”

“Whose motorcar is this?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Pull over.”

“No. Why?”

“Because the middle of the road is nowhere to talk.”

My first reaction was to tell him I would do nothing of the sort, and then I thought about Sophie, and I decided that agreeing with him might make more sense than refusing and driving away, leaving him to do as he pleased after I was gone.

“All right.”

He was instantly suspicious. “I’ll stay here until you do.”

I reversed, found a place to leave the motorcar, then got out and walked with the Captain to his, waiting while he pulled it out of the middle of the road and brought it around behind the Major’s vehicle.

Then, taking my arm, he guided me to a small bistro that was still open just down the street. It was narrow, grimy, and filled with the smoke of those French cigarettes that caught at the back of the throat. I coughed as he led me to a small table. The top was ringed with circles from the glasses of previous occupants, and I felt like taking out a handkerchief and wiping it clean. The proprietor came over, nodding, and swiped at the circles with a cloth that might once have been white.

I had expected to be the only woman present, but while I was the only one in uniform, there were a number of others, mostly middle-aged and in black. In the provinces, French women wore black as a rule, but I had a feeling from their long, joyless faces that this was mourning, not fashion. There were no young men present, only those past the age of military service, or even elderly. There was very little conversation, as if everyone was sunk in his or her own thoughts.

Roger Ellis ordered wine and asked if I preferred a coffee. I nodded, wanting to keep a clear head.

“Why are you in Rouen?” he asked a second time.

“I told you, I’m on leave.”

“Sister Crawford. You are driving a motorcar that isn’t your own, and you’d hardly take an excursion to Rouen, which is crowded with refugees and new recruits, just to have a look at the cathedral. Where are you staying?”

“I’m not. As you say, I came to see the cathedral. I was driving back to Calais when you saw me.”

“You’re here to find that child.”

I was tempted to tell him her name was Sophie, and she’d just been diagnosed with chicken pox, to see if he cared at all.

Instead I said, “Why are you so certain that I have any interest in your child?”

“She’s not my child.”

“Lieutenant Hughes told you that night in the drawing room that she was the image of Juliana.”

“He was drunk and confused.”

The waiter came with a glass of wine and a cup of coffee on a tray, setting them down before us.

“Where were you then, when you told your men you’d been in Paris?”

That shocked him.

“Who told you about that?”

“I don’t precisely remember. Perhaps it was an Australian Sergeant with shrapnel in his shoulder.”

Anger flared in his face. “Don’t deliberately annoy me.”

“I’m not. I’m simply treating you with the same courtesy you’ve shown to me.”

The flush faded, and he grinned in spite of himself. “Yes, I’m sorry. But you see, you’re a friend of Lydia’s, not mine. And I wouldn’t put it past her to take it into her head to want this child, whether it’s mine or not. Which I must say surprises me, because she gave the impression once or twice that she was jealous of Juliana.”

“I don’t think either of you really knows the other. Three years of war can be a very long time in a marriage. Whether they want to or not, people change, and especially with the strain of war. She’d hardly got to know you when you went off to France. And when you did come home, you didn’t appear to be overjoyed to see her. And you were violent.”

“Yes, all right, I deserved that. I didn’t intend to hit her. It was just that-well, never mind, you weren’t there. I needn’t bore you with my worries.”

“It might help me to understand why you are so adamant that this child isn’t yours, and yet here you are in Rouen for the same reason you claim I’ve come here. That’s why you were so displeased when you saw me. To put it mildly. You almost wrecked my motorcar.”

Roger Ellis took a deep breath. His wine remained untouched, while the one sip I’d taken of my coffee made me wonder what had been substituted for coffee beans.

“May I call you Bess?” he asked, catching me off guard. “It seems ridiculous to stand on social ceremony at this stage.”

“Please do.”

“Thank you. When I was wounded, I was in great pain and frightened because I overheard the doctors debating whether or not to take my arm. At least I thought they were discussing me. Apparently I was mistaken, because when I woke up, too terrified to look at my right side for fear I’d see an empty sleeve, I lay there with my eyes shut. Very cowardly of me, I realize that. But the thought of going home to Lydia half a man was something I couldn’t contemplate. The nursing sister who tended me was a young woman, much like you, who finally said to me that if I didn’t sit up and eat, they would have to send me to England to recover. That was the only threat that would have worked, because the last thing I could face was that. I hated her with all my heart, but I opened my eyes, and when she handed me the fork, I was so busy being angry that from habit I reached for it-and a pain shot through my shoulder so fierce, I turned to look at the hand. And it was there. I was so weak with relief she took pity on me