by Renee Ryan
Paulette stood at her closet, studying the contents. “Maman, perfect timing. Which gown should I wear tonight? The blue?” She reached in and plucked out a dress the color of a brittle, cloudless sky. “Or—” her hand plunged in again “—the green?”
Hélène considered both options, then pointed to her choice. “The green. It will highlight the golden tints in your hair and make your eyes sparkle.”
A self-satisfied smile met this response. “I think so, too.”
Hélène didn’t linger. She had her own evening gown to choose. Tonight’s party would be a difficult test, and only the first of many. Another step deeper into the lie of her own making.
She would not regret, or think of herself, or what her actions did to her soul. She would think only of her daughters. They were alive and would one day—someday—live in a free France. She had to believe that, or she would break. She slipped into her evening gown, one of her most flattering and von Schmidt’s favorite. He would notice, and assume she’d dressed for him. She would not correct his assumption.
Mouth grim, she secured the last pin in her hair and studied the result of her efforts in the full-length mirror. Skimming a half inch above the ground, the pale lavender silk, tucked at her waist by an invisible seam, clung to her curves and left just enough to the imagination to be considered elegant rather than tasteless.
She retouched her makeup, adding kohl liner to enhance the almond shape of her eyes. At her writing desk she reviewed the guest list, mostly Germans but a few local Champenois. Would they speak to her? Only the ones who’d made similar liaisons as herself.
How many? she wondered. Too many, and she pitied them all, as she pitied herself.
Consulting the clock, she decided she had time to check on the caterer. The kitchen was a hive of activity. Under Monsieur Chardon’s careful watch, a sea of hired staff moved with purpose and efficiency, filling silver serving trays with caviar, poached salmon and all forms of French delicacies. Lucien Trevon and his sisters were among the servers.
Hélène nodded in approval.
She entered the main salon and paused a moment to catch her breath. The stillness on the air was disconcerting but would be shattered soon enough. Her heels struck the parquet flooring with ruthless efficiency as she checked the decorations. A few mistakes caught her notice, not enough flowers in one arrangement, too many in another.
The sound of heavy footsteps had her gasping. Her hand went to her throat. “Gabrielle, you startled me.”
Dressed to contend with the bitter temperatures in the vineyard, her daughter wore heavy boots and a thick jacket, and held a mug of fragrant coffee between her palms. “I was heading to my room when I thought I heard a noise.” She took a sip of the steaming liquid. “You look tired, Maman.”
She was tired. Bone tired. But she thought she’d camouflaged the signs with her makeup brush. She went to the closest mirror to check for herself. One glance was enough to send her back upstairs to her dressing table. She headed for the stairwell.
Gabrielle followed her. The entirety of her worry shone in her eyes. Hélène hated seeing her daughter so conflicted. “You have something you wish to say to me?”
“I... Yes. Wait a moment.” She placed the mug of coffee on one of the stairs then pulled Hélène into a fierce embrace. “I hate that you are in so much pain.”
She stiffened in her daughter’s arms. “Any pain I suffer is my own doing.”
“I love you, Maman,” Gabrielle whispered. “I love you. I don’t say it enough.”
Hélène began to cry. She wanted to cling to her daughter a moment longer. Just one more moment. “I love you, too, ma fille. I don’t say it enough, either.”
By uttering the words, she took ownership of her past and present sins, and silently appealed to the Lord for forgiveness. She stepped back and asked the same of her daughter. “Forgive me, Gabrielle. I have not been the best of mothers.”
“You have been the best mother you know how to be. And that, Maman, has always been enough.”
She didn’t deserve such leniency from the one daughter she’d neglected in favor of the other. Hélène cupped Gabrielle’s cheek. She knew it was futile to say the words, but she said them anyway. “I should have done better by you. I should have done more.”
Gabrielle’s hand came up to cover hers. “You did plenty.”
They shared a sad smile, then parted ways.
Hélène staggered to her room. She made a moue of distaste at her reflection. She’d vowed not to cry over her fate, and here were tear tracks on her cheeks. She cleared her mind of all thought and began erasing her distress with a calm, steady hand.
The transformation took longer than it should have. By the time she arrived back downstairs, the guests were already arriving. Her heart took an extra hard beat. Too much laughter rang from French lips, a cruel mockery of the young men dying on the battlefields so that they could enjoy this freedom of drinking champagne with their German occupiers.
Von Schmidt caught her eye and motioned her to join him. She answered his call with a slow, steady pace. He was encircled by a group of men of varying ages and sizes. Several were dressed like him. Some were in formal dinner attire. One wore the black uniform of the SS.
She made the short journey across the room to the sound of whispers spoken loud enough for her to hear. So much condemnation, so much indignity to endure.
Humiliation wanted to overwhelm her, wanted to slow her steps and quicken her breath. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Her smile was meant for the entire group, and none of them individually, not even von Schmidt.
He seized her arm at the elbow and squeezed harder than was necessary, a silent warning to speak nothing but happy words to their guests. His gaze roamed her face, then lowered over her gown. There was an air of ownership in his manner. And why wouldn’t he look at her that way? He did own her. “You’re wearing my favorite.” Appreciation filled his voice. “I approve.”
“I...” She swallowed back the catch in her throat and forged ahead with this unpleasant charade. “I dressed tonight with you in mind.”
An audible gasp from a woman off to her left told Hélène she was still being watched. She could not let that knowledge flummox her. She had Nazis to entertain. One of their group, a short little man with small eyes and a receding hairline, openly leered at her. He wore a black Waffen-SS uniform, the iron cross pinned at the center of his shirt collar. He held a high rank. The single oak leaf signified he was a full colonel.
“You have exquisite taste in women, Herr Hauptmann,” he said. “Please, introduce us.”
“Hélène, this is Standartenführer Bauer. He is the regiment leader of the SS unit that is currently billeting in Reims.”
She drummed up a smile. “Welcome, Herr Standartenführer.”
“Enchanté, Madame.” He took her hand and touched a kiss to her knuckles. A flush crept up her neck. His breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and the grip on her hand felt like a vise. She tried to pull away. She couldn’t help herself. He repulsed her. But he held fast to her hand, his grip tightening, as if he was used to such a reaction and enjoyed the opportunity to display his dominance over a weaker individual.
Von Schmidt did not come to her rescue. He, too, repulsed her.
Hélène thought matters couldn’t get any worse. But then she heard a familiar female tittering from across the room. Her eyes went wide at the sight of Paulette surrounded by a group of male admirers. All of the young men wore Waffen-SS uniforms. A strangled sound slid past Hélène’s lips, immediately muffled.
“You will excuse me, gentlemen. I must see to my daughter. She is young and...” Hélène hesitated, trying to find the words that would explain this new terror in her heart. There were none. So, she said again, “She is young.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gabrielle
Gabriell
e stood on the edge of the party, calculating when she could make her exit. She had work to do for her father-in-law, for France, for the man who’d been shot out of the sky. Max had been hiding the airman for months and the strain was getting to him. That had been the reason for their meeting three nights ago, to discuss the airman’s rescue.
Another hour, she decided. Then she would slip away and help Max transport the young pilot to the railyard where a resistance worker would take him across the border. They’d agreed the party would be the perfect cover to break curfew, especially with so many of the newly stationed SS in attendance. They may never get another opportunity like this.
That meant enduring the chorus of Heil Hitlers awhile longer, something that required a spine of steel and a frigid heart. She’d acquired both since France declared war on Germany.
Josephine had already gone up to her bedroom, and that was a relief to Gabrielle. Nazi occupation was wearing on her grandmother. It was wearing on them all, especially Hélène, who had the most to lose and yet took the greatest personal risks. Gabrielle might disagree with her mother’s route, but she understood her reasons. And respected her courage.
The three LeBlanc widows waged their own wars against their captors. Gabrielle, Josephine, Hélène, all of them fought without breaking, without getting caught, and without pulling Paulette into their acts of treason. Gabrielle sighed softly. No one watching her sister now would ever think the world was at war.
How much had changed in so little time, and yet her sister had not changed enough. She was no longer a girl. She was an eighteen-year-old woman and should not be so ignorant of the realities of war. Gabrielle expected more from Paulette. It was time her sister understood parties such as these were not to be enjoyed, but rather endured.
Champagne glasses clinked, while oysters sat in nests of ice, and all manner of gourmet delicacies made the rounds on silver trays. Where had so much plenty come from?
Gabrielle didn’t want to know.
The air was rank with cigarette smoke and loud with the sound of laughter. Her mother stood beside von Schmidt, looking serene and perfectly comfortable. It was a lie. Earlier tonight, Gabrielle had seen the despair on her mother’s face, and the underlying shame. In that moment, she’d been overwhelmed with love for the woman who had given her life, and had feared if she left the words unsaid she may never find another chance to say them.
Her mother took too many risks. She was at her most charming tonight, bestowing smiles and exchanging witticisms with men in SS uniforms. Men who, if they knew her lineage, would send her to her death without hesitation.
Gabrielle suddenly felt eyes on her. The sensation left her chilled to the marrow. She looked for the source. With a jolt, she realized Detective Mueller had arrived and was now watching her. His face showed no expression. Like her, he stood on the outside of the festivities. A man not happy to be here.
Their eyes met and she wasn’t quite sure what she saw there. Suspicion, doubts. Her stomach rolled. Did he suspect what she did for the good of France? Did he know she planned an act of treason this very night?
In that moment, she hated him, and every other Nazi in her home, in her country. Evil men. Murderers.
Could Mueller read her hatred? Her fear?
She lowered her gaze. Then thought, no. She would not cower under his stare. She lifted her head. He was still studying her with that utter lack of expression.
Someone said his name, another man in uniform. Mueller’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer, then, slowly, he turned his head and their strange bond was broken.
Breathing hard, feeling as if she’d crossed an invisible line, though not sure when or how, she quickly escaped the house. She needed to be in the cold, raw air. She walked for a time. The night was clear, the stars a million sparkling diamonds against the black fabric of the sky.
Headlights approached from the heart of Reims. More Germans arriving to drink LeBlanc champagne. Despite the chill in the air, the big, black, ugly Mercedes bounced down the drive with their tops down to show off their bejeweled passengers, coming to a halt outside the château to deposit their insufferable cargo.
Gabrielle should get back to the party, before she was missed. She retraced her steps along the balustrade. Needing to remember where she came from, what she fought for, she paused and looked out over the vineyard. Several guests milled about her. Most were smiling, laughing, and Gabrielle was struck by how many local Frenchwomen were on the arms of German soldiers.
Selfish, foolish creatures. Their fierce resolve to remain untouched by the war would be their undoing. Or perhaps, she was being uncharitable. Perhaps their reasons were more like her mother’s. Gabrielle would never know the truth. It was impossible to see inside another’s heart.
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, alerting her that she was being watched again. A movement in the dark captured her attention, the smudge of a shadow in the form of a man. Detective Mueller had come looking for her.
She’d known he’d follow her, had felt it in her gut, in the kick of antagonism that hit her square in the heart when their eyes met. He peered at her without attempting to come any closer. One shoulder propped against the wall, he just stood there, cloaked in shadow, watching her. A sense of déjà vu rocked her to the core. He’d stared at her like this once before, only a few days ago in the wine cellar. She found the experience just as unnerving now as she had then.
He pushed away from the wall and took a step toward her. Another step. Another. She tried not to shrink away from his slow, determined approach. “Madame Dupree.”
The way he uttered her name, in that heavy German accent, with such purpose, without inflection, as he would use to relate the current weather, it made her hands tremble. “I sent the champagne to Berlin, as you requested.”
“It was not a request.” The firm set of his jaw assured her he was not in the mood to pick his way through niceties. This was a party, in his honor. And yet, he was out here baiting her with his considerable height and menacing presence.
“Nevertheless, I followed your orders, as you knew I would.” It was not what she’d meant to say. She knew better than to engage his wrath. Her nerves were showing.
“I tasted your grandmother’s rosé just now.” He imparted the news as if it were an item he needed to tick off some internal list.
“How did you find it?”
“It was—” a single eyebrow lifted “—magical.”
She could hear it then, the pounding of her heart. The fear rushing through her veins. And yet, confronted with the sarcastic reminder of her grandmother’s enthusiasm over the blending process, spoken with the finality of a judge rendering a verdict, her defiance wanted to rear. She shoved it behind a bland smile. She’d hoped not to see him tonight. She needed to keep her wits about her for the sake of the stranded British airman. She should not have come outside and drawn Mueller’s notice.
He took another step, coming closer, as if he meant to impart a secret. Her skin suddenly recoiled at his nearness. His words, when they came, brought only confusion. “Your grandmother is right to feel pride in her accomplishment.”
He spoke of wine while she was planning a daring rescue. Throat thick, she held steady, unmoving, anxious to see how long he would hover over her, how long she could stand his nearness. He kept at a respectable distance.
For the span of three, rib-cracking heartbeats they stared into each other’s eyes. Then, he spoke again. “The women in your family have much to be thankful for. You are three generations of widows, alone in this world, and yet have found a way to run a successful champagne empire without the help of your men.”
There were threats in that carefully modulated speech, and yet she couldn’t isolate a single one. Gabrielle felt her confusion morph into something darker, her desire to escape more powerful, more insistent. Her primitive need to run was almost too much to c
ontain. “We do what we must to survive.”
She knew her mistake at once. Mueller’s face changed before she finished speaking. Ambivalence drained out and suspicion flooded in. “How far, I wonder, are the women in your family willing to go? What compromises do you make?” He flicked a glance in the general direction of her mother and von Schmidt. “What risks do you take?”
Accusation and distrust filled his smile. No, not a smile. A sinister twist of lips that showed enough teeth to make his point.
“I only meant,” she began, letting him see her fear, letting the emotion bleed into each faltering word, “that we are no strangers to hard work.”
He didn’t respond right away. As the tension stretched between them, solitary church bells marred the night air, the strikes melding with the beat of her heart. He casually looked her over, running his gaze from the top of her head to the tip of her ridiculously female shoes.
Without warning, he seized her wrist and brought her hand within inches of his face. He took his time inspecting her palm, her cracked nails, the various scars. She held perfectly still under his appraisal. He would find no secrets here. The callouses were real. The scars her badges of honor.
He shot a look her way, quick and dazzling, just a flash of approval. And then, his expression was wiped clean and her hand was falling back to her side. “You have the hand of a farmer.”
“I am a farmer.”
His gaze fell on the vineyard. “I suppose you are.”
Gabrielle hugged herself and rubbed her arms for warmth. She wanted to escape inside and stand before the fire. But she would not. Nor would she let this man see the inner workings of her mind. Yet every time their eyes connected that was exactly the impression he gave. That he could read her thoughts.
She searched for some semblance of control, a speck, that was all she needed. She nearly had it in her grasp when a high-pitched female giggle jolted her attention to the interior of the château. She didn’t need to search long to discover that Paulette was being Paulette. The eighteen-year-old was becoming a terrible flirt. Boys flocked to her, like bees to honey. Lemmings to the cliff. All desperate to win her favor. Something she bestowed a bit too freely. Yet, somehow, she always managed to stay just on the right side of propriety.