Susan shuddered at the sound of her pigeon’s name. She retrieved her reading glasses and immediately recognized that it wasn’t her handwriting. And it wasn’t coded. Her hands trembled as she read the message.

Susan’s hands quivered. She stared at the message. “You thought I was . . .”

“Yes,” he said.

She squeezed the paper. A mixture of shock and anger jarred her body. “Who’s Corporal Williamson? Why would he have sent this message?” She struggled to recall the names of the soldiers who were once stationed on the farm.

Ollie swallowed. “There was no Corporal Williamson.”

She stared at him. Then it struck her. She quickly retrieved her tin, kept on a kitchen cart, and emptied its contents onto the table. Comparing the handwriting from a message, signed Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar, RAF, she found the penmanship to be identical. “My God.”

“Boar must’ve gotten to Duchess and switched messages,” Ollie said.

“Why?” Susan’s eyes blurred with tears.

“Maybe it was because he despised Americans, especially me. Or that he was jealous of us.” He leaned forward. “I believe the tipping point was when he learned that he’d lost an eye. He turned bitter, realizing he’d never fly again. I suppose I became the target for his anger, and the message was initially meant to be a cruel joke, one that I’d figure out if I made it out of France.” Ollie took a deep breath and exhaled. “And even more confusing, Boar saved my life on two separate occasions.”

“I hate him,” Susan said. “He took away our future.”

He gently clasped her hands. “I spent the trip here trying to make sense of it all. I found myself regretting what I’d done, or not done. It was the longest flight of my life.”

Susan sniffed. A tear dropped onto his hand, and she noticed that he made no effort to wipe it away.

“Initially, I refused to let myself believe the news that you and Bertie had been killed. I’d been away when Duchess had returned, and I’d assumed that Boar had written the message, although he adamantly denied it. But when I returned in the spring of ’41, I found the farm destroyed. The field was pocked with craters. I abandoned my doubts about the validity of the message. And at that moment, and every day since, I believed that you were gone.”

Susan stared at him. She noticed his lower lip tremble.

“I couldn’t bring myself to stand over your grave. I had picked wildflowers from the meadow and placed them by a loft.” Ollie lowered his head. “If only I had stayed in Epping, I would’ve found you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Susan cried. “He did this to us.”

Ollie drew a wavering breath. “When I learned you were alive, I was ecstatic. And at the same time devastated by the thought of what could have been.”

She inched closer.