Secrets and Spies: Delafield and Malloy Investigations

Society Notes

by Louisa Delafield

Friday April 30, 1915

The wind ruffled the roan mare’s black mane as she lifted her head and sniffed the air. It smelled damp and smoky, so different from the dry air of the west where she had run with a boy on her back, a boy who had loved her and who had tried not to cry when she was put on a train along with hundreds of others of her kind. The boy cried anyway, and the roan mare must have sensed his sadness and feared what it meant.

When it comes to horses, gentlemen and ladies of society tend to favor thoroughbred racers. However, they’ve taken an interest in a different sort of horse these days — the war horse. A fund-raiser by a group of distinguished individuals including Mr. Jack Morgan, Mr. and Mrs. Albert Vanderbilt, Mr. and Mrs. Harry Payne Whitney, and Mrs. Alva Belmont, has rounded up approximately 1,050 horses, which will be sent overseas to do their part in the British war effort. The horses, all sturdy steeds, have been shipped from farms and ranches around the country and will be used for the transport of soldiers and artillery. They will also haul ambulances and supply wagons. Not only are the horses able to travel through mud and across rough ground, they also raise the morale of the fighting men.

I visited the corrals and found the horses ready for duty. When a ripple of skittishness ran through the herd, a roan quarter horse, 15 hands high, took charge, calming the others with soft whinnies and neck nuzzling. Fortunately, I had a sugar cube in my pocket to offer her as a reward. They may be mere animals, but they are more like us (and in some ways much better) than we care to admit. Most of these horses will not survive the battles to come, but because of their sacrifice, many more of Britain’s young men will someday return to hearth and home.

Chapter 1

Louisa

Louisa noticed the muffled laughter as she wended her way through the maze of desks, but didn’t pay it much heed until she reached her own desk and saw that a bucket of oats had replaced her trusty Remington typewriter. Hands on hips, she turned to look at the culprits, and that was when the muffled laughter turned to guffaws.

Mr. Stephens, thank you so much for this delightful gift, but I’m not hungry at the moment, she said, looking over at the police reporter, who was surely the instigator of this juvenile joke. Would it trouble you too much to return my typewriter?

Lovely piece you wrote, Miss Delafield, Mick Jones, the barely mediocre sports writer, called out. Pure poetry.

I’m so glad we’re neighbors, Billy Stephens said, drawing out the neigh, as he brought her typewriter over to her.

And please, Louisa said, indicating the bucket of oats, find a better place for this.

The men continued to act foolish as they were wont to do, and Louisa sat down at her desk and ignored them as she was wont to do. She had gone out on a limb with that story, but she’d been moved by the sight of the horses and especially that gorgeous roan mare with the black mane. She could still feel those velvety lips on her palm as the horse took the sugar cube from her hand. She’d always loved horses and remembered her own heartbreak when, after her father’s death, they’d had to sell the pair of black geldings that pulled their carriage. Families all over the country must be feeling a terrible sense of loss as they gave up their horses for a senseless war across the ocean.

Where’s your sidekick? Billy asked, nodding toward the empty chair where Ellen Malloy usually sat.

She’s off to Ireland to visit her sick father, Louisa said. She leaves tomorrow so I gave her the day off to get ready.

Billy rubbed his chin and then asked, What boat is she taking?

"The Lusitania," Louisa said.

Billy went to his desk and returned with the morning’s newspaper. He opened it to her column.

Mr. Stephens, how long are you going to harangue me about this column? I know it’s not my usual society fare. I may have gone a little — she said.

Look at the advertisement, he interrupted.

She read the small print from the Cunard Ocean Steamships’ advert aloud, ...vessels flying the flag of Great Britain or any of her allies are liable to destruction... She looked up at Billy.

"But the Lusitania is a passenger ship with mostly American citizens, she said. I’m sure Germany would never provoke Wilson. This advertisement is just a bluff." And yet she felt extremely uneasy, thinking of Ellen crossing the Atlantic in the middle of a war, neutrality or no neutrality.

Suddenly the newsroom grew quiet.

Oh, my, Billy said. He lowered the paper and whistled under his breath.

Louisa looked up. All the men were watching as a young woman zigzagged through the warren of news desks toward Louisa. She wore a stylish gray chenille hat with a navy bow, a smart gray jacket trimmed in navy velvet, and a flared skirt that landed a few inches above her ankles and carried a parasol. Louisa surmised in a glance that the woman was perfect for the job, and her heart sank like a stone. The last thing she wanted was to actually hire a replacement for Ellen — even temporarily.

Miss Delafield? the woman asked, her voice light and lilting. It’s me, Phyllis Wolfe.

She stood at Louisa’s desk, dewy and glowing. Louisa was only 26, but she suddenly felt old and tarnished. 

I’m here about the position as your assistant, the young woman continued. I sent you a letter.

Louisa patted her unruly hair and forced a smile to her lips, but it took another few seconds to wet her mouth enough that she could open it.

Please have a seat, she finally uttered.

Miss, you don’t want to work for her, Billy said, throwing a glance at Louisa. We call her Bloody Delafield for all the murders she digs up. Sometimes literally. He was referring to the poisoning of a doctor two years earlier, as well as the death of a servant girl and a fellow society writer, all of which Louisa and Ellen had investigated. Even though she wrote these stories under a pen name, the men in the newsroom knew she was the one behind them.

Don’t listen to him, Mrs. Wolfe, she said, emphasizing the missus.

Married, are you? Billy asked in dismay.

Widowed, she responded. Demurely, Louisa noted. Oh, she was good, this one.

Mrs. Wolfe was a debutante the last time I saw her, Louisa said, turning her gaze toward the young woman. Your coming out party took five whole inches of my column.

Five inches? Billy said, widening his eyes. Louisa decided ignoring him was the best course of action.

A long time ago, Mrs. Wolfe said in a world-weary tone and glanced down at her folded hands.

Not that long ago. Four years, perhaps? You married that artist, Herman Wolfe, soon after the party, Louisa said.

Eloped, Mrs. Wolfe corrected. You may as well say the truth. It was quite the scandal. My family cut me off entirely. So we moved to Germany where Herman was from.

Bad timing, that, Billy said with a grimace.

It was unfair of your parents to cut you off, Louisa said. The belief of the older generation that they had the right to choose the spouses of their children had always struck Louisa as one of the pitfalls of being in the upper classes. Phyllis had married a destitute artist for love, and she’d paid a steep price.

But widowhood has restored my respectability, which makes me a perfect fit for the job of assistant to the most respected society writer in America, Mrs. Wolfe said.

Billy barked a laugh and noted,  She’ll be great at this job.

Mr. Stephens, isn’t there a paddywagon somewhere you should be chasing? Louisa asked, glaring at him.

All right. I know when I’m not welcome. He wandered slowly back toward his own desk. Louisa had a mind to smack him with something but she had no weapon handy. Not to mention the fact that she didn’t want to confirm the bloody Delafield title. It was true she’d strayed off the society beat more than a few times over the past two years, but she was still first and foremost, "Louisa Delafield, syndicated society columnist for The Ledger."

You know the position is only temporary, Louisa said. I’ve promised Miss Malloy her job will be waiting for her as soon as she returns from her trip to Ireland.

"If her ship doesn’t get torpedoed by the Krauts, Billy interjected from his desk where he had continued to eavesdrop on their conversation. No offense, Mrs. Wolfe."

None taken. I’m not German. Besides, I saw that advertisement. It’s German bluster. I came over from Liverpool on a cruise liner just last month, Mrs. Wolfe said. We made it without incident.

There, you see, Louisa said. Ellen will be fine. She didn’t feel nearly as confident as she hoped she sounded.

The young woman leaned forward, her eyebrows pinched together.

Ever since the war started, the Germans have taken to disliking Americans intensely. You’d be surprised how many of us were on the boat — all leaving Germany. It was such a relief to step foot again on American soil.

Their loss, Billy said.

Exasperated, Louisa tossed down her pencil.

Mr. Stephens, please. I’m trying to conduct an interview, she said.

With an exaggerated sigh, Billy rose from his chair, donned his hat and sauntered off. His broad shoulders moved with the swagger of a man who knows that he’s attractive to a certain kind of woman. Louisa was not of that kind.

She turned to the unpleasant task at hand — unpleasant because she dreaded replacing Ellen, who was so much more than an assistant. Ellen was also her friend and confidante. And she was absolutely invaluable when it came to Louisa’s darker stories, the one she wrote under her pseudonym, Beatrice Milton. On the other hand, this pert young thing would hardly need any training at all when it came to the society stories.

If you don’t mind my asking, Mrs. Wolfe — why not move back in with your family and let them find you a new husband, one that meets with their approval? It’s not easy for a woman to make it alone in this world, Louisa said.

Mrs. Wolfe’s eyes narrowed, her face tightened, and her breath sounded almost like a hiss.

I’ll never go back into that cage, she said.

Cage? Your family? Louisa was stupefied.

Marriage, she responded. Again she leaned toward Louisa, this time her hands trembling with emotion as she clutched the bag on her lap. He turned out to be horrid. I made a vow to myself that I won’t be dependent on anyone ever again. And please call me Phyllis. I hate being burdened with his name.

Louisa blinked in surprise at the young woman’s frankness, and her heart softened.

Oh my dear. I’m so sorry.

Thank you, Phyllis said, straightening her back and regaining her composure as she looked at Louisa with forthright, almond-shaped eyes.

Louisa sighed. There seemed to be no way out. Ellen would be leaving tomorrow, and Phyllis Wolfe had all the necessary qualifications for the job — as long as it stayed within the confines of the society page.

As you observed earlier, you are a perfect fit for the job of my assistant. You certainly know how to dress the part. You can even cover some of the events for me. Which, she had to admit, was not a function that Ellen with her working-class Irish background could have fulfilled. Yes, I think you’ll do quite nicely. Then she added, Temporarily, of course.

Of course. Then Phyllis Wolfe smiled at her so warmly that the whole room lit up.

I’ll see you Monday morning, Louisa said. Bright and early.

How early?

Oh, by the crack of eleven, Louisa said. Then they both laughed. Completely against her will, Louisa had been won over.

After Mrs. Wolfe left, Louisa returned to her correspondence. To her utter surprise, she saw an envelope from Forrest Calloway, publisher of the paper — and the man she had let slip from her fingers a year earlier. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Then she opened the note and read:

Dear Louisa,

Would you care to join me to go to a baseball game tomorrow afternoon? If so, please call my house tonight and let Mr. Kimura know. We’ll pick you up at one.

Yours truly,

Forrest

She fought back tears and told herself it meant nothing, but her heart told her she was lying. This meant everything.

Chapter 2

Ellen

Ellen looked out the window from the back seat of the Pierce Arrow at the crowd of cars pulling up in front of the Cunard passenger terminal. People poured onto the sidewalk in front of the pink granite facade: wealthy men in top hats, their wives with their mink stoles wrapped around their necks, children tugging on the hands of their nurses, second class passengers toting suitcases and baskets, the occasional single woman and child, businessmen checking their watches, and burly porters unloading trunks.

As she watched, a cauldron of emotions boiled inside her. When she’d arrived in this country three years ago, near penniless, and bedraggled from weeks in the crowded steerage quarters, she’d never dreamed she’d be going back home in a first-class cabin with the woman of her dreams at her side. She glanced at Hester sitting next to her, and they shared a secret smile.

"Do you realize this is the same pier where they brought the survivors of the Titanic?" Hester’s married sister, Katherine Murphy, asked. Short, plump and nearly always frowning, Katherine was the exact opposite of the smiling, gangly Hester.

"Katherine, would you please not mention the Titanic when we are about to board an ocean liner?" Hester said in mock exasperation.

Oh, my dear, I’m sure nothing will happen to you and your ... companion, Katherine said, casting a glance at Ellen. I do find it queer that you chose never to have a lady’s maid and yet you have hired Miss Malloy to accompany you on this voyage.

Ellen turned away. She and Hester loved each other, a fact someone like Katherine Murphy could never understand. Not only were they both women, but they were from completely different social classes. None of that mattered to them. She had loved Hester since the moment she saw her sitting in a teahouse in Greenwich Village two years earlier.

She surreptitiously let the backs of her fingers slide against Hester’s skirt.

I told you, Ellen’s work for the suffrage movement in New York has been vital. She is the perfect choice to be at my side when I visit Emmeline Pankhurst in London, Hester said.

Ellen snorted and pretended it was a sneeze.

And how does Louisa Delafield feel about having her assistant snatched out from under her, Katherine said and huffed. As a tireless social climber, Katherine had enormous respect for the city’s syndicated society writer.

It’s only temporary, Mrs. Murphy, Ellen interjected. Louisa will manage.

The motorcar nosed into a vacated spot and Ellen was about to open the door when Hester tapped her on the wrist and gave a subtle shake of her head. Ellen sighed and settled back to wait for the portly chauffeur to make his way around the back of the motorcar and open the door.

Bon voyage, Katherine called out before the chauffeur shut the door.

Two porters loaded Hester’s trunks onto a wagon, and as the Pierce Arrow drove off, Ellen turned to Hester with unabashed admiration.

Oy, girleen, I never knew you were such a skillful prevaricator, she said.

It was only a little white lie, Hester said. I know that you’re taking this trip to see your father, but what Katherine doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Especially about us, Ellen said. Does she not even suspect?

Of course not, Hester said. She couldn’t possibly imagine that I love you.

Hester smiled at her, and a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds. Although the sky was cloudy, the temperature was warmer than it had been in recent days. Spring had finally arrived.

Ellen, is that Louisa? Hester asked.

Ellen eyes followed Hester’s finger and spotted Louisa at the entrance to the terminal, talking to a handsome gentleman in a gray suit with a pink carnation on his lapel and a tweed cap on his head.

It is! Ellen said.

I believe that’s Alfred Vanderbilt she speaking to, Hester said. Perhaps she’s working on a story.

The gentleman bowed to Louisa and walked into the terminal as Ellen and Hester snaked through the crowd to reach Louisa, who broke into a smile when she saw them.

I thought I’d never find you in this crowd, she said.

We found you, it would seem. What are you doing here? Ellen asked.

I came to see you off, and Suzie sent cookies, Louisa said, holding out a bag to her. Ellen peeked inside and smelled Suzie’s famous molasses cookies.

She’s a gem, she is, Ellen said. Louisa’s older servant was as much of a friend to Ellen as Louisa herself was.

Was that Alfred Vanderbilt? Hester asked.

It was. He said his mother tried to warn him off getting on this ship. Someone apparently sent a telegram saying it wasn’t safe.

That’s all rubbish, Hester said. "The Lusy is the fastest ship on the sea."

I tried to get her not to come, Ellen said to Louisa. She wouldn’t even be going on this trip if it weren’t for me.

I’m not just coming on this trip for you, Ellen, Hester said. I’m eager to see how the British suffragists are faring in the midst of this war. I can’t help it if that coincides with your trip back home to see your father.

Louisa glanced from one to the other and then said, The ocean voyage will be a lovely getaway for the two of you.

Ellen leaned toward Louisa and said, She told her sister I’m her ‘hired companion.’ That’s how she’s dragged me into first class, but don’t think this means I won’t want my job when I get back. I don’t intend to stay anyone’s hired companion.

Ellen loved Hester, but she wished the gulf in their social status wasn’t so enormous.

Don’t you worry. I’ve hired someone, but she knows that she’s temporary. You just enjoy yourself. I’m sure the first-class accommodations will be quite luxurious, and your new employer doesn’t seem like a slave driver, Louisa teased.

They gazed at each other for a moment. They had been through so much since Ellen had become her assistant. They’d uncovered some of New York society’s darkest secrets and been on more than one dangerous adventure.

Ellen, dear. We must hurry. They’re inspecting everyone’s bags, and detectives are double checking tickets. So there will be no chance of saboteurs, Hester said.

Aren’t either of you worried about U-boats? Louisa asked.

Oh, we’ll be as safe on that ship as we would be on Broadway, Hester said, tucking her hand in Ellen’s elbow. Ellen shrugged at Louisa. Not one of the passengers hurrying into the terminal seemed the least bit concerned about the German threat.

Bon voyage, ladies, and, Ellen, I hope your father pulls through, Louisa said.

I hope he’s still alive when I get there, Ellen said. I’ve a thing or two to tell him before he makes his way to the Great Beyond.

Then Ellen and Hester headed into the terminal to board their ship.

Having passed muster with the detectives, they made their way onto the pier. The ship was a great monster, black and sleek, its slanted funnels painted wartime gray. Brawny stevedores loaded wagons of cargo onto pallets to go onto the ship, men in blue sailor outfits scurried around, and men in white aprons supervised the unloading of food. How much food it must take to feed almost two thousand passengers and crew, Ellen marveled.

They followed the crowd to the boarding area. People leaned on the rails waving handkerchiefs at those they were leaving behind. A man on the pier cranked a movie camera as passengers rushed past him. Ellen caught the tingle of excitement as they made their way up the plank, and soon they were also leaning against the rail, looking out at the concrete jumble of New York city. A cacophony of sounds filled the air with children laughing and screaming, passengers calling out to their loved ones on the shore, and stewards yelling orders.

Finally, the gangplank was lifted while at the end of the boat a sailor raised a flag. Steam billowed noisily through the ship’s funnels. An army of small tugs nudged the great ship along the Hudson River and out to sea.

Hester sighed as they stood together, shoulders touching, and said, And we’re off.

Chapter 3

Louisa

Louisa strode into the parlor, looking for her bag, and saw her mother, Anna, staring up at the family portrait over the mantelpiece with the ginger cat on her lap. The grand painting looked incongruous in their shabby Harlem townhome. Louisa’s dead father seemed to be looking back at her with a bemused expression on his face. Anna bent her head, casting her eyes down, in an attitude of utter defeat. Louisa sighed. For fifteen years this grief had weighed her mother down. She remembered when Anna was as light and chirpy as a little bluebird. Now, she mostly confined herself to an invalid chair though she was perfectly capable of walking. She said too much exertion gave her chest pains.

So Louisa did what she always did when confronted with the unbearable weight of her mother’s sorrow. She created a diversion.

Mother, she said, you’ll never guess where I’m going. A baseball game.

A baseball game? Louisa’s mother looked up at her as if she’d just said she was going to fly to the moon.

Yes, Louisa said, slipping on a pair of white gloves. 

What does one wear to a baseball game? Anna mused.

This, Louisa said, indicating the black jumper over a lace blouse with pearl buttons and a Georgette-crepe layered skirt that hit mid-calf.

Suzie came in the room, looked Louisa over, and nodded with approval.

What do you think? Louisa asked.

I think he’ll want to kick himself for wasting a whole year being mad at you, Suzie said. Suzie had been there during the fiasco the previous year in Florida when Louisa had fallen for an ill-intentioned Frenchman, who had left her out in a swamp for dead. That episode had not turned out well for him. His lady friend shot him. Thanks to Suzie and Ellen, Louisa had escaped the swamp and solved a murder, but she had lost Forrest.

Why do you suppose he wants to take you out after all this time? Anna asked.

I think it’s taken him this long to forgive me, Louisa said. Oh, my hat!

She rushed upstairs, found the large black hat with the white bow on her vanity, placed it on her head, and gazed at herself in the mirror.

Had Forrest really forgiven her, she wondered. For the past year, she’d buried herself in her work: writing her syndicated column, covering every society event in the city no matter how minor, and slipping into her Beatrice Milton role to uncover a few scandals. Louisa was not without her charms. She was still pretty and had excellent breeding. Men occasionally had the temerity to inquire if they might accompany her to an opera or to a play, but she always turned them down. She was not interested in dalliances. She wondered if she’d been waiting all along for this — an invitation from Mr. Forrest Calloway to a baseball game, of all things.

The doorbell rang. Louisa glanced out the window and saw the Packard parked outside.

She took a deep breath, adjusted the hat to a rakish angle and then walked in a stately manner to the stairs, only to rush down them like a school girl.

The chauffeur, Mr. Kimura, held out a slender, perfectly manicured hand and helped Louisa into the capacious back seat of the dark blue Packard where Forrest was waiting for her with a misty smile. He was twenty years older than she with a bit of a paunch, but the glow of his deep-set mahogany eyes shined into her depths and she had to admit that happiness was seeping through her as she sat near him.

You look radiant, he said.

Thank you, she said, settling into the leather seat. I’m quite looking forward to today. I know nothing about baseball.

I was afraid you might dread it. Brandy?

I don’t dread it at all. I donned this playful little frock just for the occasion, she said, smoothing down her skirt. Yes, I’ll have a tiny bit, please.

She was grateful for anything that might steady her nerves. He took a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses from a basket on the floorboard, poured a glass, and handed it to her.

Thank you, she said and took a sip, savoring the amber taste on her tongue.

Neither of them mentioned the fact that they hadn’t spoken to each other in a year, so when he reached over and squeezed her hand, she thought her heart would burst.

I enjoyed your piece about the horses, he said. I found it quite poetic.

Louisa laughed, embarrassed.

The men in the office will never let me live it down, she said. They left a bucket of oats on my desk.

I will have them all fired, he said.

No, you won’t, she said and playfully tapped his arm. Isn’t this a bit daring, the two of us being in public like this without a host of chaperones?

We’ll have an entire stadium full of chaperones, he said.

Yes, Louisa thought, but showing up together would make a certain statement. During their year-long relationship, they had often been together in public at various functions, but to the world at large they seemed nothing more than a wealthy publisher, advising and advancing his star society writer. It was only when Mr. Kimura drove the motorcar around to the back of the house in Grammercy Park so she could enter unseen through the kitchen that they allowed themselves to show their true feelings. Fortunately, except for the rare occasion, Forrest took a hands-off approach to publishing and let his editor make all of the decisions so none of the other reporters had ever accused her of receiving preferential treatment. If she’d still been a member of society, instead of simply reporting on it, she might have had to bear more scrutiny but since the doyennes saw her as little more than a well-dressed servant, her scandalous behavior had escaped their notice. Did today’s invitation mean a resumption of their previous relationship or the beginning of something new?

As Mr. Kimura drove to the Polo Grounds, the baseball stadium where a polo stick had never once been seen, Louisa changed the course of the conversation and chattered.

Ellen is off to Ireland to see her dying father, she said. So I hired a replacement. She won’t be much help with my Beatrice Milton stories. Not like Ellen. But she’s ideal for the society beat. I may even send her to some of those ubiquitous weddings in my place.

Perhaps foregoing the Beatrice Milton stories is not such a bad thing, he said.

Forrest had never liked the fact that she sometimes found herself in dangerous situations, so she dropped the matter.

As the motorcar pulled in front of the main entrance of the stadium, Louisa looked around in wonder at the throngs of men and boys, who all seemed on the verge of hysteria as they milled around.

Don’t worry, Forrest said as Mr. Kimura opened the door to let her out. You won’t be subjected to sitting with the stadium riffraff.

I’m not a hothouse flower, Mr. Calloway, she said and stepped out of the car.

Thank you, Mr. Kimura, she said. Mr. Calloway only hired Asian servants, a habit held over from his California past, she supposed. Mr. Kimura bowed and closed the car door behind her.

The brisk spring air made her pull her shawl around her shoulders and tuck her hands into her muff.

The crowd was even louder and more boisterous than she’d expected. As they stepped through the marble facade, the noise and smells of unwashed humanity, spilled beer, and popcorn wafted through the air. The sensations overwhelmed her for a moment, but Forrest led her to a private entrance, which she assumed was for wealthy ticket holders and other VIPs.

They entered the stadium, Forrest stopping to shake hands or otherwise acknowledge various men of means. One of them, tall, with ice-blue eyes and a mustache that curled at each end, stopped Forrest with a gesture.

Herr Calloway, how are you? And who is your lovely companion?

Louisa held out her hand, Louisa Delafield, Count von Bernstorff. She knew exactly who he was. That was her job. His job seemed to be to show up at as many society events as he could fit into his calendar. She felt certain he knew who she was, as well.

The famous society writer, he said and kissed her knuckles. You cover much territory these days. I read your piece about the war horses.

They’re heroes already.

They are indeed, but doesn’t this sending of horses to the Allies violate the idea of your country’s neutrality?  he said.

As you observed, Ambassador, I’m the society writer, not the political writer, she said and shrugged one shoulder.

"Of course. I’m not blaming you. In fact, why don’t you come to the opera with me and my wife as my guest next Friday night? There is a benefit performance of Lohengrin for the German Red Cross. We can meet at the Ritz-Carlton, and go from there."

It was a rather sudden invitation, Louisa thought, but it was well within her beat: an opera and a charity function. Count von Bernstorff was a known social climber, but weren’t social climbers the bread and butter of her business?

That sounds delightful, she said. I shall put it on my schedule.

The count bowed to them and walked stiffly away.

What a surprise to see a German count at an American baseball game, Louisa observed.

He’s probably here to report to the Fatherland about the fitness of our young men should we enter the war, Forrest said as he led her to a flight of stairs.

Do you think he’s a spy? Louisa asked.

Well, I don’t think he’s rooting for England to win the war, he said.

They came to a staircase and proceeded up.

They do have boxes here, I assume? Louisa said.

"They