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hooks—it’ll catch you from page one and reel you in! With spies,
romance, and characters with mountains to overcome, Far Side
of the Sea is a complex and riveting tale that you won’t be able to
set aside. Bravo!”
—Roseanna M. White, bestselling author of the Ladies
of the Manor and Shadows Over England series
“Not everyone can write a good war story. Still fewer can bring
love, faith, and romance into the mix and make it work. Kate
Breslin can do all this with strength and style. She is a remark-
able writer, and this book is a remarkable story.”
—Murray Pura, author of The Wings of Morning, Majestic and
Wild, and My Heart Belongs in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
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_Breslin_FarSideSea_ET_wo.indd 5 11/28/18 3:18 PM
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tocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only
exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®.
Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission of Zondervan.
All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
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H e was suffocating.
Trapped beneath several feet of earth, he tried to claw
his way through the dirt and rubble to reach the blue sky
above. His starving lungs screamed for air, the torn flesh beneath
his broken fingernails bleeding into the soil as he scrabbled toward
the surface. The agony in his chest grew unbearable, yet darkness
continued to swallow him, the heavens overhead always beyond his
grasp. Futility settled over him. He would die here, in this place.
Buried alive . . .
Colin awoke with a start. Chest heaving, his sweat-soaked body
gave an involuntary shudder. The nightmare was always the same;
even using both of his hands, he could never reach the precious
blue sky.
A sharp rap echoed at the door. Dawn’s gray light filtered
through his bedroom window in the cramped seaside flat as he
rolled toward his nightstand to turn on the lamp. Blinking against
the sudden brightness, he stared at the clock. 0530 . . .
The next knock accompanied a hesitant male voice. “Lieuten-
ant Mabry?”
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Colt .455 revolver and turned his attention to the canvas satchel
still hanging on the valet.
Shaking out the bag’s contents onto the bed, he stared at the
choice of accoutrements: two steel hooks, a steel pick, a glove-
encased wooden hand, and one eating fork, each with a metal stub
that fastened to the terminal sleeve at his wrist.
Out of habit, Colin chose the gloved hand, fitting the prosthetic
into place. Once he’d repacked the satchel and slung the strap
across his shoulder, he went to give himself a quick once-over in
the cheval glass.
A smartly attired British officer stared back at him, although
the hazel eyes beneath his uniform cap looked haunted and world-
weary, not those of a young man twenty-one years of age. He
thought about the nightmares he’d struggled with during the nine
months since his return from the Front. The war had aged him
tenfold.
Lord, please renew my spirit. He let his critical gaze linger another
moment before dismissing his reflection. Heading toward his tiny
kitchen, he grabbed a few biscuits from the tin in the cupboard
and exited his flat.
April’s coastal breezes nipped at his freshly shaved skin as
Colin walked briskly along the shoreline road toward Hastings
Pier, where Goodfellow was waiting. He took a moment to breathe
in the tang of salt air, reveling in the sense of relief at again being
outdoors.
The sun’s reflection was already beginning to crest the watery
horizon. Dawn was breaking, and while the seaside town slept, he
savored the relative quiet, broken by the cries of hungry gulls and
waves lapping against the sandy shore.
A peace that would disintegrate once the sun rose into the sky.
Colin soon spotted his corporal with the truck, and a few min-
utes later, they were driving up the hillside toward the nondescript
building that served as the offices of MI8 secret communications
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His hand reached for the first tiny roll of paper, and using his
thumb and forefinger, Colin spread the curled message flat against
the cardboard sheet he’d installed on the desktop. Holding the
paper in place with his prosthetic, he took pins from the cushion
and secured the note to the board.
Once he’d retrieved his codebook and paper, he was about to
settle into his task when Goodfellow returned with the tea. “Ah,
thank you, Albert.” Colin breathed in the welcoming scent of Dar-
jeeling. “Any dispatches from London?”
“Yes, sir, from the Admiralty. I’ve coded a dozen messages so
far, and after you’ve checked my work, I’ll take them next door to
be sent to France.”
Colin pushed out a sigh, reaching for his tea. It was going to be
a long day. “I’ve no doubt your work is impeccable—”
A sudden boom echoed from across the channel, startling them
both. With a clatter, Colin’s cup dropped against the saucer.
“Sounds like they’re bombing Paris again, sir.”
“So it would seem.” He tried to mask his discomfort and again
lifted the cup. The next blast erupted before he’d raised the rim
to his lips. He clutched the teacup’s handle to keep from sloshing
the hot liquid. “You may get back to your work, Corporal.”
Colin barely acknowledged the soldier’s departure as he set
down the cup again and regarded his shaking hand, making a fist.
“God, please help me.”
He closed his eyes and tried to quash his fear. Another boom
followed, and he ground his teeth. How much of Paris had the Ger-
mans destroyed? Only weeks ago, they had launched their Spring
Offensive and begun firing a new type of long-range siege guns at
the French capital. The daily explosions, while distant, reminded
him that only fifty miles of water separated him from the war.
Titan’s teeth! Why had he agreed to accept this post in Has
tings?
As if taunting him, the guns stopped. The air grew quiet again,
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and Colin managed to drink his tea. After several minutes, he was
steady enough to get back to his work.
He’d memorized much of the codebook, so it didn’t take long to
recognize the monotony of supply requisitions and troop reports
he would forward to London’s War Office. There were also orders
for more carrier pigeons, as the supply at Montreuil was getting
low. Colin had learned the birds flew only one way—back to their
lofts—so it was necessary to send Hastings pigeons to France to
bring messages into Britain.
Head bent to the task, Colin worked through his lunch. By the
time his shift was about to end, he was hungry and his shoulders
ached.
He was decrypting his last message of the day marked FOR-
WARD TO LONDON when the telephone rang in his office. Re-
lieved at the diversion, he reached for the receiver. “Lieutenant
Mabry here.”
“Colin, how are things in Hastings?”
He straightened at the sound of the tinny male voice. “Lord
Walenford.”
“Enough of that. Either Jack or Benningham will do. We’re
going to be brothers, after all.” Jack Benningham’s voice warmed.
“Speaking of which . . . I thought you might join me for dinner this
evening. My man can meet you at Victoria Station and bring you
around to the house.”
The town house? Colin still hadn’t gotten used to the idea his
sister was about to marry a viscount and the future Earl of Stone
brooke. A man who also happened to be Colin’s boss.
Which meant, despite his reluctance to travel into London to-
night, he could hardly refuse his employer and brother-to-be. “I
can take the train from Hastings if that is acceptable.”
“Splendid. I’ll expect you at eight. Mrs. Riley is making her
ration stew.”
Colin stared blindly at the unfinished work on his desk, still
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surprised at the invitation. “Very well, Lord . . . uh, Jack. I look
forward to it.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you tonight. We’ll have dinner in my study,
and you can bring any dispatches for the Admiralty directly here.”
“Of course . . .” Colin’s hand groped to replace the receiver as
his gaze fell to the last message he’d been working on, noting for
the first time the letters he’d already deciphered. LT. C . . . O . . .
L . . . I . . .
He continued breaking down the other cryptic numbers, his
pulse hammering as more words began to form:
Lt. Colin Mabry, British Army, c/o Swan’s Tea Room, London:
Urgent you remember your promise of love. Meet me Café de
la Paix, Paris. 10 April, 1500 hours. You’re my last hope.—J. R.
17
KenSinGton, LonDon
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cuff links, Jack might starve. “Casual dining suits me fine, and my
uniform takes the guesswork out of dressing.”
“Another benefit of being in the military.” Grinning, Jack
reached for his wineglass. “Anyway, with the new rationing laws
in Britain, food these days suits a more casual palate.” His eyes
gleamed as he leaned back in his chair. “Though if you tell Mrs.
Riley I said so, I’ll deny it. At least she makes the meager fare
edible.”
He took a sip of red wine before returning his attention to
Colin. “So, how are you getting on in that picturesque little town
by the sea?”
“Hastings is certainly better than being here in the city.” Colin
recalled his anxiety upon arriving in London two months ago,
after leaving his uncle’s farm. “Not so many people. I thank you
for offering me the post.”
“My pleasure.” Jack’s smile caused the scarred flesh around
his eyes to pucker. He’d suffered his own casualties of war. “Yet I
would imagine that since Kaiser Wilhelm began his Spring Offen-
sive last month, you are plagued by noise from across the water.
We sometimes hear the guns in London as well.”
Colin reached for his crystal goblet of water and stared at the
glass a moment before setting it back down. “The sound is . . .
distracting but not unmanageable.” He glanced up to see compas-
sion in Jack’s handsome features.
“Every so often a German plane will get through our home de-
fense and drop a bomb or two here in town. I nearly jump out of my
skin.” Toying with the stem of his glass, Jack paused. “Grace asked
me to tell you that your father still wishes you to come and work
with him at Swan’s. Once your sister and I marry, she will resign
her position as the tea room’s floor manager. Patrick wants you
to take the reins and learn the tea business from the ground up.”
Colin’s mouth compressed at the sudden stab of guilt. With
their mother gone from tuberculosis these two years, he and his
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sister had become closer than ever, and Grace occasionally trav-
eled to Hastings to visit him.
Yet he rarely returned to the Mabry family’s London home in
Knightsbridge. It was difficult to endure the doleful looks Grace
tried to hide as she watched him eat his meals or button his coat,
and Father, always looking away from the prosthetic while trying
too hard to provide accommodation for what his only son lacked.
Even worse were his father’s continued attempts to recruit Colin
into the family tea enterprise.
“You know I cannot work the floor at Swan’s. Being in the public
eye . . .” He slid his arm with the wooden hand farther out of view
beneath the table.
Jack sighed. “I told her as much. I spent months hiding away
from society after the explosion, knowing I frightened the locals.”
He touched his scarred brow. “Blinded, I wanted nothing more
than to remain invisible.”
Colin merely nodded.
A knock sounded before an aged footman with a slight limp
entered the study with a tray bearing a white soup tureen. Under
the watchful eye of Knowles, he began serving up steaming bowl-
fuls of Mrs. Riley’s ration stew.
Colin had been relieved to know stew was on the menu. Reach-
ing for his spoon, he breathed in the fragrance of beef broth and
thyme and realized the fresh vegetables had likely come from
Jack’s farm estate in Kent, where Colin’s sister had met the heir
to Stonebrooke while baling hay with the Women’s Forage Corps.
The two men tucked into their supper, and Colin tasted bits of
beef much like those from the rationed tins of bully beef sent to
the soldiers overseas.
“Now that you’re here, I have a favor to ask.” Jack glanced up
from his stew. “I need your help with the wedding.”
Colin paused, his spoon halfway to his lips. Curiosity battled
his wariness. “How so?”
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her aunt tried to convince me to take her only niece away from
the Boche.”
Colin turned to his host. “Jewel’s father was off fighting in the
French Army, so it was just the two women. Still, I refused. I
couldn’t risk taking her through no-man’s-land in order to return
to my regiment. She could have been killed, or worse.”
“Of course.” Jack’s humor ebbed. “I was there for just a brief
time, but I saw it was no place for civilians, especially not a woman
alone.”
“I told Jewel she would be safer remaining in the village, so
long as she had a patron in the kommandant and she kept singing.
I promised her I’d come back after the war.”
His chest tightened with the old regret. “I returned to my regi-
ment, and for weeks, the fighting was intense. I never received
word from her—not that I expected to, with the town occupied
by the enemy. Shortly after that, I was sent to Passchendaele to
help with the tunnels.” He shot Jack a grateful look. “You know
what happened after that.”
Jack nodded.
“This past December, when I was still in Dublin seeing the head
doctor at Richmond, I overheard talk that our tanks in France had
pushed past the Hindenburg Line at Cambrai, near Jewel’s village.
The Boche began a retreat, and their artillery fire left Havrincourt
all but destroyed. Most of the townspeople are dead or missing.”
Colin’s gaze fell to the table. “I wrote to the Red Cross, hoping to
get word about Jewel and her aunt, but there was no information.
I thought they had both been killed.”
“That’s why you stayed away at Christmas.”
“It was one of the reasons.” Colin’s sister and father had been
crushed over his absence, but he’d been in no condition to come
home and spread holiday cheer. “I thought it best.”
“And this Miss . . . ?”
“Reyer. Her name is Jewel Bernadette Reyer.”
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“Reyer, you say?” A slight frown touched Jack’s lips. “I take it,
then, your Miss Reyer is alive?”
Colin explained the encrypted message he’d received that af-
ternoon. “The meeting at the café in Paris is set for tomorrow, the
tenth. Her request sounds urgent.”
“Reyer . . .” Jack rose from his place at the table. “Excuse me
a moment.”
Colin watched him stride across the room to the oak desk situ-
ated near the hearth. After shuffling through a stack of papers, Jack
withdrew a file and returned.
“I know that name. . . .” Once again taking his seat, he opened
the file and began flipping pages, his features intent. “Here it is.
J. Reyer.”
“What are you looking at?”
“It’s the Allies’ enemy watch list from France.”
“Enemy list?” Colin fell back against his seat, eyes wide. “You
think Jewel is working for the Boche?”
He almost laughed until Jack’s grave look ignited his anger.
“That’s ludicrous! With all she has suffered living in enemy terri-
tory, Jewel would never betray France.”
“Are you so certain?” Jack spoke quietly. “Perhaps she had no
choice. You did mention she’d found favor with the komman-
dant—”
“Not like that!” Colin tossed down his napkin and rose to his
feet while memories rushed him: Jewel singing softly as she re-
bandaged his wound, then sharing with him her last crust of bread;
amusing him by mimicking the Boche kommandant as she strutted
about the cellar floor, talking German nonsense and twirling the
end of an imaginary moustache before falling into gales of laughter
at Colin’s feet.
“It’s not her.” He stared at Jack, his mouth hard. “Reyer is a
common enough name in France, and the initial J could stand for
Jean or Joseph or a hundred names other than Jewel.”
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in with the British MI6 office in Paris when you arrive, so they
know you’re there.” An edge of his mouth lifted. “I’ll sleep better.”
Colin smiled his gratitude. “I will, and thanks, Jack.”
“Good enough. Now let’s eat.”
The two men resumed their repast, yet as Colin ate, he mulled
over Jack’s words. What if Jewel was the J. Reyer on the Allies’
watch list? It might explain her urgent message. And while he
would never believe her culpable of such a heinous crime as trea-
son, Jack had suggested she might not have had a choice. If that
were the case, it could mean she was in real trouble.
Colin’s thoughts drifted throughout the rest of dinner, and
later, as Lord Walenford’s chauffeur drove him toward the Mabrys’
Knightsbridge home, Colin tried to convince himself that it was
all in his imagination, that Jewel was simply anxious to see him
again after all this time.
Or was it more than that?
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She shifted on her booted feet. “But . . . you received my mes-
sage, oui? To remember your promise of love?”
Hair rose along his nape. This woman had sent him the mes-
sage. Did she seriously believe she could pretend to be Jewel? His
lip curled as he stared at her, the warning from the Paris desk still
fresh in his mind. He wasn’t about to be taken in by any French
Mata Hari. “You’re a liar.”
She blinked and took a step backward before the blue orbs shot
sparks. “And you’re a rude clod of a man, sir! ’Tis obvious you’ve
not been taught any manners.”
Her French accent might be lacking, but her Irish brogue was
perfect. He leaned forward and gave her his most intimidating
look. “I know what Jewel Reyer looks like, Miss . . . whoever you
are. And you are not her. Perhaps you’re one of those women who
spy for the Germans?”
“Did I say I was her?” Both hands knuckled against her hips.
Her chin jutted outward. “And what makes you think I’d crawl on
my belly to work for the Boche?”
Of course she would deny being a spy. His pulse leapt as he
considered another, more dreadful scenario. “Where is Jewel?” He
took a step closer, every muscle tense. “What have you done with
her? She asked me here, signed that message with her initials—”
“J and R.” She cut him off. “Yes, I know. Those happen to be
mine as well. My name is Johanna Reyer, Lieutenant. I am Jewel’s
sister.”
He could only gape at her. Jewel never mentioned having a
sister.
At his astonishment, her smile returned, and she gave him a
sympathetic nod that sent her topknot listing sideways. “I under-
stand your surprise, thinking Jewel contacted you.” She leaned
forward and lowered her voice. “My sister is in terrible trouble,
Lieutenant Mabry. She needs our help.”
———
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of mud on her face, she remembered the puddle on her way into
town, the size of a lake and one she’d failed to avoid before it was
too late.
Her hair looked just as frightful. The once neatly pinned top-
knot had tilted to one side, and errant wisps of hair draped all
around her coat collar. She tried to straighten the crooked bun
and turned to him. “The Boche have ears all over the city. . . .”
She paused. Was that a smirk on his face? Her spine stiffened.
“We should discuss this in a more private place.”
The light in his hazel eyes dimmed. “Where?”
“My office isn’t too far, and it’s very safe.”
Again his lower lip curled as he stared at her. Was he weighing
her sincerity?
Anxiety nipped at Jo’s patience. By some miracle she didn’t
deserve, she’d found her sister’s savior. She could now flee Paris,
and with the lieutenant’s help, reach Jewel—and their father—
before it was too late.
“I assure you, Lieutenant, I am no spy. My sister is in dire need,
and every minute we stand here puts her life in greater danger.”
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