Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  Almost with a sense of defiance, she said to him, “It is such a pleasure to see you, after all of this time. I cannot quite believe I am here. I . . . I wondered about what happened to you after . . .”

  His jaw clenched. He looked away. Audrey rushed into another village anecdote, but Gabby felt crushed. Squashed beneath his foot like a bug.

  Gabby wanted to unpin her beautiful jeweled bird and throw it at him. She couldn’t bear this. She was going to disgrace herself if she didn’t get out of here. She scooted her chair back, making Jupiter give a very human groan of affront.

  But before she could get up to leave, a servant appeared with the tea tray. Audrey said, “Ah! No doubt you are famished, Gabby.”

  Gabby kept her seat, sagging inwardly at the prospect of having to force down some food. The silver tea service and the tiered cake stand full of sandwiches and scones did not seem to impress Audrey. She took one sandwich and sniffed. “Not fish paste again. Good Lord, what will Gabby think of us?”

  Jack inspected his own sandwich with a raised eyebrow, then shrugged and kept eating.

  Audrey rushed on. “We are still suffering from rationing, Gabby, but try the scones and the strawberry jam. At least that is homemade. The cream is from our own dairy, of course.”

  “We also have rationing still,” said Gabby. “One hardly remembers what real food tastes like.”

  Gabby had not tried scones before and put one on her plate, following Audrey’s instruction to dollop the jam on first. “Like this, see?” With a decided flick of the wrist, the jam plopped on her scone. The same treatment for the cream, which was so thick, it was the consistency of butter. “And wala! as your lot say. Try it. Go on.”

  Feeling self-conscious, Gabby did as she was told, with Jupiter following her every move. When she bit into her scone, Jupiter’s head jerked up, butting the table and upsetting her teacup.

  “Ah!” The tea went everywhere, all over the table and into her lap, scalding her thighs. Gabby dropped the scone and jumped up, peeling her sodden skirt away from her legs.

  “I’m sorry! I have to . . .” Half-blinded by tears, she turned and ran from the room.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Paris, June 1944

  GABBY

  Gabby scrutinized Jack with the eagle-eyed attention of a personal physician. “How do you feel today?”

  The sulfa pills had been as effective as the doctor had promised. Within twenty-four hours, Gabby saw improvement, and a few days after that, Jack swore he was on the road to recovery. She only wished she could serve him more nutritious meals, but she did what she could, giving up her own rations without telling him.

  “I’m all the better for seeing you.” He smiled, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You are looking particularly fetching today, mademoiselle. Have you done something different with your hair?”

  She chuckled. “Not a thing.” It was true that she did take more care with her appearance these days, but she wasn’t going to admit that. “Clearly you are getting better if you are thinking about hairstyles and such.” Her pleasure in this circumstance was dimmed only by the fact that once he was well enough, Jack would have to leave her.

  He struggled to sit up and she hurried over to plump the pillows behind his head. “Weak as a cat,” he muttered. But he caught her busy hands in his, stilling them, and she felt a strength that belied his words.

  Gabby’s heart gave one hard thump. Without a thought, she returned the pressure of his grip, met his steady gaze with a soft gasp of recognition and wonder. She wasn’t alone in this. He felt it, too.

  “Gabby,” he said softly. Slowly, he pulled her down to him. Their lips touched, tentatively at first, then he speared his fingers through her hair, pressing her to him, kissing her as if she were the only thing that mattered in all the world.

  Choking back a sob, Gabby lifted her head and took his face between her hands. “I thought I was going to lose you. I never want to feel that way again.”

  It had been a very close thing. He’d been out of his mind with fever and for the first couple of doses, it had taken all her strength and ingenuity simply to administer the sulfa tablets. She had ended up crushing them and mixing them with honey because he couldn’t seem to swallow them with water, no matter how hard she tried to make him understand that it was vital for him to do so.

  She thought of his inner strength, despite his weakened physical state, of all she had been through trying to make him well again, of the intimacies she had performed.

  He was not one for dwelling on his own suffering, so another kiss was the only answer he gave her. Their embrace grew more passionate and more physical, until Jack’s hiss of pain made Gabby jerk back, a hand to her mouth. “Your wound! Oh, it’s too soon. We shouldn’t.”

  “Too soon? I’ve been wanting to do that since the first moment I set eyes on you,” said Jack, reaching for her again with a gleam of humor in his eye. “You don’t know how I’ve suffered.”

  “No, really, we mustn’t.” Feeling oddly shy, Gabby moved out of reach, coiling her hair back into its chignon, pinning it into place.

  Jack sighed. “Will you sit with me awhile?” he asked. “Do you have time?”

  She didn’t, but she nodded and sat on her usual chair beside the bed. “Shall I read to you?”

  “Not today, if you don’t mind.” He inhaled a long, deep breath, which was mercifully clear of that horrid rattle, and turned on his side. “Come here.” He pulled open the bedclothes and made room for her to slide in next to him.

  Willing, but shy, Gabby stepped out of first one shoe, then the other. After only a slight hesitation, she climbed in and lay on her back beside him, her head propped up on her crooked arm. The space was tight. It was a single bed, and a hot day, but she didn’t care. She loved the feel of him beside her. She would stay there forever if she could.

  “I wish I could go outside,” said Jack. “Or even look out a window.” He trailed a fingertip down her cheek and tilted her chin. “Will you describe to me what is happening out there, my dear Gabby, in the most beautiful city in the world?”

  “All right,” Gabby said shakily, acutely aware of him in every cell of her body.

  But instead of describing Paris as it truly was, with the shops bare of produce and people queueing for hours only to find that everything had already gone, with every elegant restaurant and garden teeming with Germans and the Nazis swathing the monuments in swastikas, she spoke about Paris as it had been when she was a girl. The boulevards, wide and leafy; the simple pleasure of a walk along the Seine through rosy twilights; the fun and flair of the Moulin Rouge and the painted women there, red and black and white ruffles, rounded bosoms and legs kicking high. When the Louvre was a wondrous palace full of priceless artwork that anyone could see; when they lived with her papa on a little farm on the outskirts of Paris and kept chickens and were happy.

  She was so absorbed in her tale that time passed quickly. She stopped, and the present tumbled back into place, both the ugly and the good. The good was the man in bed beside her, watching her speak as if he saw the world itself in a completely new way, now that she had described it for him.

  She loved Jack. She loved him. All the doubts and the struggles and the danger had led her to take the greatest risk of all.

  Their gazes caught and held. In that moment, she knew he felt the same.

  His fringe was too long. It had fallen over his eyes. She reached up and swept it back from his brow. Then she pulled him down to her and let her cares fall away.

  Chantilly, June 1944

  YVETTE

  Mademoiselle? Come out now, or I shall come in and get you.” Werner’s voice sounded muffled but the words held a quiet menace.

  Through the en suite door, Yvette called, “I am taking my time to look nice for you, mein Herr. One more minute.”

  She slapped on some makeup, so that at least it would look like she’d done more than simply change her clothes. A slick of scarl
et lipstick on her lips. Her hand was trembling too much to stay within the lines. Attempting to smooth away the excess smudges only made it worse. She picked up Dulac’s mascara but decided not to risk it. Her hair . . . She bunched the thick, curling mass in her hand and twisted it into a knot, securing it with pins.

  At last, she shuffled out of the bathroom in bare feet, toes curling into the carpet with each step, shoulders so hunched, her chest was practically concave. Dulac’s negligee felt like cool liquid on her body. Its plunging neckline gave her the new and disconcerting sensation of being half-naked in this man’s presence. Its lace edge itched her skin. She glanced at the clock. Werner had been there for fifteen minutes. With luck, Dulac would be back in five.

  The German came forward and handed her a glass of champagne. Feeling the need of some liquid courage, she drank deeply. The bubbles caught at her throat, making her choke back a cough. How elegant! And how dangerous if she let herself become drunk. Just one gulp had sent a warm lassitude spreading through her limbs.

  She set the glass on the table by the alcove, resolving only to wet her lips next time. What a waste of good champagne.

  Gesturing for her companion to do the same, Yvette sat on a sofa in the small lounge area, as far away from the bed as possible. She would have preferred the armchair but that would be too pointed. “Come, Herr Obersturmbannführer. Tell me about yourself.”

  Perhaps the champagne had mellowed him, or perhaps he had decided to play with his prey before mauling it. He complied with her request.

  Like most people, Werner enjoyed talking about himself, and she took care to flatter him and ask intelligent questions, until he settled deeper into his chair and crossed one booted leg over the other, as if he now had all the time in the world.

  He told her about his home in Berlin and, oddly, about his wife and children, too. He seemed to have absolutely no sense of how inappropriate that was. But then, perhaps all soldiers discussed their wives with their women. They did not think of what they did as adultery. They thought it was a purely physical thing, like eating a meal when you were hungry.

  “Men are animals,” her mother told her once. Only some of them, Yvette thought.

  Nevertheless, this was good. Keep him talking until the cavalry arrived.

  An age passed and still no Dulac. Yvette didn’t dare even glance at the clock in case Werner caught her and took it as a cue to begin.

  As if he sensed the direction of her thoughts, Werner stopped abruptly. “No more talking.” He moved closer.

  “Will you excuse me?” Evading his embrace, she stood up. “I need to use the convenience.” Waggling her glass to indicate all the champagne she’d drunk, she put it down on the table and headed to the en suite.

  On the way there, she glanced at the clock. Thirty-eight minutes. Louise should have been back by now. Had something happened to her? Yvette went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Her gaze swept the room, as if the answer to her dilemma might be hidden among Dulac’s cosmetics. Maybe she could make a run for it, scuttle back to her attic and bar the door. But if Werner came after her, that would draw attention, and besides, it would make him suspicious of Louise. Yvette needed to appear willing. But there was no doubt in her mind. She could not go to bed with that man. The mere thought of him touching her made her sick . . .

  Hmm. What had Louise said about him? He was fastidious. That gave her an idea.

  She grabbed the tooth glass from beside the sink and filled it with water, then added some of the thick pearly liquid from the bottle of bubble bath Dulac had used earlier and mixed it a bit with her finger. Breathing hard through her nostrils, she forced herself to drink. She gulped and gagged, but by sheer willpower, she managed to keep the stuff down.

  Yvette returned, all smiles, to Werner’s side. As she curled up beside him and put a hand on his chest, she could already feel that noxious mixture doing its work, had to bury her face in his neck to hide a sudden retch. He smelled nice, which seemed wrong, somehow, but at least breathing in the astringency of his cologne settled her stomach a touch.

  He began nuzzling her ear, roughly groping her body. That brought the nausea rushing back, until all she could think about was holding in what wanted more and more urgently to come out. Her skin grew clammy. She felt as if she might faint.

  She heard a clink of metal. He was undoing his belt buckle. So much for finesse. “I’m sorry,” Yvette gasped out. “I don’t feel well. We have to stop.”

  “No more of your games.” Werner bared his teeth as if he’d eat her. Then he gripped her wrists in one hand, pushed her back against the cushions, and pinned her hands above her head. With the other hand, he shoved up her negligee. The ease with which he subdued her despite her struggles made tears spring to her eyes. Why had she let Louise talk her into this? And then it struck her. Louise had never intended to interrupt them. She’d only said she would to placate Yvette.

  A surge of panic somehow made her nausea disappear when she needed it most. “Please don’t,” she whispered. “Please.” But he either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He undid his belt buckle and shoved down his trousers. She felt a strange, insistent weight against her thigh.

  That did it. Soapy water surged up her throat. Not even attempting to turn her head, Yvette vomited down the front of Dulac’s beautiful negligee. And all over the Obersturmbannführer, too.

  * * *

  IT WAS TWO in the morning before Dulac returned to her suite. Yvette had turned off the lights and awaited her in darkness. The movie star must have thought the room unoccupied because when she saw Yvette, she gasped and put her fingertips to her breastbone. Then she straightened and held her head in that queenly way of hers to stare Yvette down.

  “You should at least have the grace to look guilty,” Yvette said, wishing her voice didn’t tremble. She’d finished off the champagne. It had given her courage. Or perhaps bravado was nearer the mark.

  Louise shrugged. “You have to grow up sometime. How was it?”

  “How was what?”

  The actress put on a flamboyant Chinese silk dressing gown in jade and gold. The sleeves drooped as she fixed herself a drink. “Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Nothing happened,” Yvette said. “Most unfortunately, I was taken ill. My apologies. Your negligee is ruined.”

  Werner had nearly wept with outrage and disgust. Due to their respective positions, he had not been as covered in sick as Yvette had wished. However, poised as he was to begin, the sudden volcanic eruption of soapy bile from her throat had so revolted him that she wondered if he would forever associate the one act with the other.

  She hoped so. She hoped the image would shrivel him if he ever tried to force a woman again.

  Dulac listened to her explanation. “Clever. Let us hope he doesn’t suspect a ruse.”

  “I did warn him I was feeling poorly. Did you get what you wanted?” Somehow, despite fuming over the other woman’s treachery, Yvette found that she could be all business now. Something about Louise Dulac demanded toughness from her. Yvette wouldn’t forgive the actress for her betrayal, but the horrible encounter with the Obersturmbannführer would be for nothing if they didn’t carry out the next part of the plan.

  Louise said, “I need to encode the message. You might as well wait for it, since you’re here. Then you need to be ready to leave as soon as curfew lifts. You have a long ride ahead.”

  “I have nothing in my stomach, mademoiselle.”

  Dulac tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “You have become bold all of a sudden, Yvette.” Then she smiled. “It suits you.”

  When Yvette merely shrugged, Louise added, “I’ll send for bread, fruit, and cheese. You can eat now and wrap some up to take on your journey.”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle.” After telephoning the order to the kitchens, Louise sat down at the desk and took out writing implements, preparing to work. Clearly, she had dismissed the incident with Werner from her mind, and
Yvette wondered how a woman became so hard that she could leave a young girl to be raped by her enemy without a qualm, then calmly sit down to encode a message to her contact back in Paris.

  If this was what it took to be an intelligence agent, Yvette wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it.

  When Louise had finished the message, she took out the satin-covered case in which she kept her pearls and removed them, dropping the loose pearls into a china bowl.

  She lifted out the velvet bed from the jewel box and used a penknife to slit open the lining, just enough to slide her small note through, between the lining and the base of the box. Then she sewed up the tear with tiny stitches, fitted the velvet bed back in place, and put the pearls on top of that.

  “Here.” She rose from the desk and handed Yvette the case of pearls, together with the pass she’d persuaded the German ambassador to endorse. “Go safely. The bicycle is at the stables, waiting for you. Good luck, Yvette.”

  Her attitude left no room for Yvette’s resentment. She certainly wasn’t going to beg forgiveness or apologize for deceiving her, for placing her in a horrible position without her consent.

  They all did what they must. There was a war on, after all.

  * * *

  THE JOURNEY BACK to Paris was long and arduous, made infinitely worse by the sultry weather. By the time Yvette reached the jeweler’s shop in Paris, she was sunburned and soaked through with perspiration. She ached in places she had never thought about before, and when she saw the jeweler’s shingle out front, she sent a silent prayer of thanks up to the good God in heaven that she’d made it at last.

  In her relief, she nearly rode straight up to the shop. However, Catherine Dior’s training kicked in, and she cycled slowly past on the opposite side of the street to scope out the area first. There was no need to be subtle about her surveillance, however. Passersby were all stopping to stare.