Was Gabby still up? She’d never let Yvette out of the apartment if she saw her trying to leave at this time of night. Yvette got out of bed and crept through the empty parlor, checked the kitchen, but Gabby wasn’t in the loge at all.
Was she with one of the tenants? Perhaps someone was ill and she was tending to them. Yvette thought of Madame LaRoq. With a guilty pang, she realized she hadn’t visited madame for weeks. Tomorrow, she would not let Gabby put her off.
Maman’s snore shattered the silence, and a choke of nervous laughter escaped Yvette—a release of tension more than genuine mirth. So Danique was in her room, then. Good.
At least with her sister gone, Yvette didn’t have to bother being quiet as she dressed. She pulled on Louise Dulac’s trousers and shirt and swept her hair up beneath an old beret of her father’s. She wouldn’t fool anyone close up, but at a distance she would pass for male. Less hassle that way.
She had time before curfew, so there was no need to worry about being stopped on the way to the café, but she carried out a few countersurveillance measures, just in case.
From her training, she knew better than to simply walk into a meeting place. It was important to reconnoiter first. But as she wheeled her bicycle toward the entrance to the alley behind the café, the ak-ak-ak of machine-gun fire split the air.
Jean-Luc! Glancing wildly over her shoulder, she saw citizens taking fright, ducking and running for cover, but she couldn’t move. She was too late. Even now, he could be dead, they could all be dead, mown down where they stood, shot to pieces, drowning in pools of blood. As Yvette stood there, frozen, a man practically tackled her, hustling her off the street, bicycle and all, into a deeply recessed doorway.
She was too shocked to resist, and when she turned to speak, he had gone. Some anonymous hero bent on saving those too stupid or panicked to save themselves.
Someone must have talked, betrayed the group. The senseless futility of it made Yvette want to punch and kick and scream, and yet for some time she was too scared even to make a whimper or to leave her hiding place. She held still and listened, her ears straining for the next flurry of shots.
After what seemed like years, she heard signs of life, of people emerging back into the street, if only to scurry to the safety of their homes. Then the world fell silent, as if a blanket had fallen over everything, smothering all sound.
She left her bicycle where it was and crept further along the street. Two large vans rounded the corner toward her with a squeal of brakes, one after the other, and turned into the street up ahead, in front of the café where the men had met. They didn’t look like army vehicles or anything she’d seen the Nazis use. Who were they?
All went quiet again. Did she dare to approach? A thin sound came from the alley that ran behind the café, a wheezing cry that turned to a whimper. Someone was in agony. Flattening herself against the wall, she peered around the corner into the alley. A figure slumped over in the gutter, clutching his chest. It looked like Jean-Luc.
“No!” She ran to kneel down beside the figure. It wasn’t Jean-Luc; it was a man a few years older. Still, she had to help him. She took off her scarf, wadded it up, and held it to his shoulder to try to staunch the bleeding. The bullet was on the right side, so it had missed his heart. It is not too bad, she thought. Please, let it not be too bad. But how could she get him to safety? Were there men looking for him, even now?
“Quick, help me bind it up,” gasped the young man, stripping off his kerchief and handing it to her. “Then get out of here. I’ll be fine.”
She did her best in the dark to bind his wound, but she could feel blood seeping through her scarf as she held it in place. “We need to get you medical attention.” Gabby would know what to do, but Yvette couldn’t bear this fellow’s weight all the way to the loge. She wanted to ask about Jean-Luc but in that group, they didn’t use names. “The young man with the limp. Did they take him?”
Her patient grunted. “I was late. I ran when I saw what was up. No time to see who was taken and who was killed.” He sucked a breath between his teeth and struggled to his knees, leaning heavily on her shoulder. “Thank you. Now leave me. You’ve done enough.”
As Yvette hesitated, the injured man gave her a shove. “Go, you stupid girl. It’s all turned to hell but there’s no reason for you to get—”
He was cut off by a shout coming from further down the alleyway. “Here’s one! Hey, I’ve got another one!” A powerful flashlight caught them in its beam. Dazzled, Yvette turned her face away, blinking hard to get her night vision back.
“Two. There are two here.”
“Alive, lads. We want them alive, remember,” called another voice.
She saw the glint of the pistol in the injured man’s hand before her mind switched into gear.
“Run, girl. Run!” He fired off a shot in the direction of the light. “Go!”
She didn’t hesitate. She turned and bolted for her bicycle. She was already pedaling away when she heard the man’s scream. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling his pain, wishing she could have stood by his side and fought.
Then, it hit her. Those men who had hunted the injured man had not been German. She’d understood every word. They’d spoken in French. Gestapistes.
They wanted the rebels alive. That could mean only one thing. They meant to question them. And if their captives did not give them the information they wanted, what then? Torture?
Cold fear swept over her, even as she pedaled harder through the blackened Paris streets. She was shaking so violently, she could barely steer her bicycle. It was well after curfew now, and if she was caught with blood on her, she was done for.
But she knew the city well, and like a little mouse scuttling back to her nest, Yvette managed to avoid checkpoints and patrols on the way home. Turning at last into the rue Royale, she was almost light-headed with relief. Then she saw the great doors to the courtyard of number 10 standing open, the twin beams of a van’s headlights streaming forth. With a gasp, she braked hard, her foot dropping from the pedal to the ground. What now? A raid? Had they come for her already? No. Impossible.
Yvette looked over her shoulder. She had nowhere to run, and the surge of panicked energy she’d experienced in the wake of the skirmish in the alley had left her depleted, her legs weak and limp as noodles. She hid well out of sight on the opposite side of the street and watched.
The main door to the courtyard had been left wide open and a van was backed up in the vestibule, its headlights blazing in flagrant disregard for blackout restrictions. She could make out a tall man standing beside the van, talking to the driver. Then the van continued to reverse, right into the courtyard beyond the wide vestibule. She caught the outline of the tall man’s features illuminated briefly by the headlights as he turned away.
Her whole body turned cold. It was Vidar. Rick. She would never get used to that name.
The van’s headlights switched off, and blackness fell, and her eyes took a few moments to adjust. She started toward Vidar, then realized, with a swirl of confused emotions, that his intentions might not be good. Whatever he was doing there at this time of night, it did not seem to bode well for the residents of number 10. Nighttime visits rarely did.
While she argued with herself over whether or not to confront him, Vidar seemed to melt into the shadows and disappear.
When the street was clear, Yvette crossed, well out of sight of anyone in the courtyard. She leaned her bicycle against the wall and peered through the front window into the loge. She couldn’t see anyone. What was going on?
She heard first one door, then another open and shut. Peering around the corner into the courtyard, she saw that the cabin of the van was empty now. Two men were walking away from it, their backs to her. They were crossing the courtyard toward the east wing with a purposeful stride. Now was her chance. Yvette retrieved her bicycle, wheeled it in through the street door, and rested it against the vestibule wall.
Gabby grabbed her and pulle
d her into the loge. “Oh, God, Yvette! What in the world?” When Gabby got a good look at her, she turned white. “You are bleeding! Are you hurt? What happened to you? Where have you been?”
Yvette looked down at herself. A deep patch of red darkened Louise Dulac’s beautiful blouse. “No, no, it’s not my blood, but tell me, what is going on here?”
Gabby grabbed her arm and yanked her to the bathroom. “Quick! You can’t let anyone see you like that. Wash the blood off and get out of those clothes. I’ll burn them when these men are gone. Hurry!”
“It’s not Catherine?” whispered Yvette. “They have not come for her?”
“No! Bon Dieu, why should you think that?” Gabby’s eyes narrowed, but all she added was “They’re taking some valuables that belonged to the tenants, that’s all. It’s that horrible Berger’s gang.”
A masculine voice called from the vestibule. “Mademoiselle Foucher. A word?”
Gabby turned to go, but Yvette said, “No! Gabby, the blood.” Her hand was covered in it from grabbing Yvette. “Quickly.”
“Just a minute,” Gabby called back. Wild-eyed, she took the soap and scrubbed at her hands. Then she dried them, briefly pressing her forehead against the wall, as if to gather courage. Taking a deep breath, she went out to see what the man wanted.
For once, Yvette did as she was told, too numb and shocked to bother about the raid, even though just a week before she would have been squaring up to these men, spitting and fighting the dirty looters tooth and nail. When she’d finished washing, she dressed and hid the bloody garments in the bottom of their bedroom wardrobe. She poured some of Maman’s apple brandy into a mug, then sat in a sort of trance at the kitchen table, cradling the mug in her hands and forgetting to drink it. When the van finally left and the street doors closed behind it, Yvette waited for Gabby, but she didn’t come.
Maman was the first to return. “What a night!” She frowned at Yvette. “What happened to you?”
Yvette couldn’t even begin to answer. “Nothing.”
Maman eyed her for a moment. “Just tell me this. Will what you have done tonight have consequences for you or this family?”
Yvette looked away. She couldn’t even form the words. They might have killed Jean-Luc. But they’d wanted those men alive—for questioning, of course. If Jean-Luc had been taken, she was compromised. If it hadn’t been for the injured man shooting at those men, providing cover for her escape, she might well have been captured herself. “I have to see Catherine Dior.” She gulped down all the brandy, and the fire of it racing down her gullet gave her courage. She stood.
“Dior, Dior,” grumbled Maman. “All of our troubles can be traced back to that family. Every single one.”
Yvette was too tired and overwrought to ask what her mother meant. Aching in heart and body, she went up to see Catherine, to confess what she’d done.
Chapter Twenty-One
England, February 1947
GABBY
Away from Audrey’s kindhearted curiosity and Jack’s stony indifference, Gabby felt more alone than she ever had before. Even with Yvette in New York, Gabby had still had her work and her mother, and the hope of seeing Jack again. That hope had kept her going through the pain of losing Yvette and the worry over Catherine. It had given her the courage to hide those other men.
She had been right not to open that cursed envelope, not to listen to that British voice on the phone.
She curled up on the window seat, defeated. Dully, she inspected the dark patch in her lap. She should wash the tea out before it stained, but the will to do anything but sit there had left her completely.
If only she knew the way to the nearest train station, she would have set out with her suitcase that minute. As it was, she would have to ask Audrey to take her there. She grimaced. Audrey had been so kind, and the last thing Gabby wanted was to be overly dramatic about her departure.
No, much as she wanted to run from this, she couldn’t go until the appointed time. She’d have to brazen it out, ignore Jack’s hurtful behavior.
Why had he been so cold to her? As if he resented her presence, thought it an imposition. She hoped Audrey would tell him Gabby hadn’t simply invited herself, but she wouldn’t bank on it. Audrey was a treasure, but she did not seem an overly sensitive sort of person. Would she even suspect there had been deeper feelings than friendship between Gabby and Jack—at least on Gabby’s side? Gabby could not bring herself to explain it. Bad enough to have those feelings. A hundred times worse to be obliged to speak them aloud.
But what had happened to him? The man she had fallen in love with had been courteous and considerate. Had she been a stranger, the Jack she knew would have treated her better than he had treated her that afternoon. She was the last person to wish for plain gratitude—that would have hurt almost as much as this silence—but why couldn’t he at least be civil? Where was the tenderness he had shown her back in Paris? Had it all been a lie, calculated to keep her sweet so she wouldn’t betray him to the Germans? No. That couldn’t be.
The piping on the window-seat cushion was fraying at the edges. She rolled the ragged fabric between her fingers, trying without success to repair it. Wartime romance was notoriously fleeting and fickle. But Jack had spoken so often of his plans for them when the war was over. He did not seem the kind of man to make promises he had no intention of keeping.
Maybe his feelings for her had been genuine at the time, but they’d faded once he was safe home in England.
Or had something happened to change him? What had he been through after he’d escaped Paris and returned home?
She would ask Audrey on their excursion tomorrow. Gabby turned her head to gaze out beyond the tree line to that church spire in the distance. It was a long, long time since she had spoken to God, but she found herself offering up a silent prayer for Jack, nonetheless.
* * *
DINNER THAT EVENING was no better than teatime, and Audrey maintained such a hectic flow of chatter that Gabby stopped trying to keep up with it. When she was called upon to give her opinion, she said, “Ah, I am sorry. I did not quite understand . . .”
Jack’s fair hair seemed to have darkened to bronze since Paris. His face was lined but somehow even more handsome than she remembered. Men were lucky that way.
She noticed Jack didn’t reach for a cigar or even a cigarette after dinner, but he remained where he was while Gabby and Audrey left for the drawing room.
After only a few moments, however, he appeared in the doorway and almost hesitantly came into the room. He moved reluctantly, as if his feet were stuck in cement, and Gabby flushed. Could he make it any clearer he did not want her here?
Audrey rang the bell. After another few minutes’ stilted conversation, there was a thumping on the stairs and a boy and a girl appeared, good-naturedly pushing and shoving each other to get through the doorway first.
“Uncle Jack!” The smaller child, the boy, clambered onto Jack’s lap. “What are you doing here? I was looking for you all over.”
The softening of Jack’s grim expression as he ruffled his nephew’s hair made Gabby’s heart break in two. He was capable of looking the way he used to, then. It was just that she could not be the one to make him do it.
She watched, fascinated, as the small boy twisted Jack around his finger until his sister, the elder and twice his size, gave him a friendly punch on the thigh. “Francis, do give over. It’s my turn now.”
“Good gracious, the two of you are such hooligans,” sighed Audrey. “Whatever will our guest think?”
The pair turned to look at Gabby.
“Are you the French lady?” The girl abandoned her uncle to approach. With an impeccable accent, she added, “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”
A little light seemed to switch on in Gabby’s chest and a warmth settled there. She smiled at the girl and asked her in French for her name.
“I am Isabelle and this is Francis,” said the girl, again in French. Her long blond hair was thick
and lustrous, but her freckled face was a little pinched and peaky looking, as if she’d been ill.
“I’m Frank, not Francis,” said the little boy, puffing out his chest. “And I’ve lost a button.”
“Oh, no, have you?” said Audrey. “Come here and let me see.”
While Audrey inspected the damage to his striped pajamas, Gabby patted the space beside her on the sofa and smiled at Isabelle. “Come, sit by me and tell me all about yourself.”
“I haven’t been well,” confided the girl, inching her bottom deeper into the sofa. “But Mama is taking me to the Riviera to re . . . recuperate. Isn’t that right, Mama?”
“What?” Audrey looked up from Frank’s shirt. “Oh, er, yes. Well, that’s the plan, anyway.” Her attention returned to the shirt and her voice rose half an octave. “I wish you would consider joining us, Jack. Mr. Pargeter could run things here.”
“Oh, yes!” said Isabelle, her eyes shining. “That would be utterly brilliant. Do say you’ll come, Uncle Jack.”
Jack’s gaze flickered, for an instant, to Gabby. Then he said, “Perhaps some other time. I’m busy here at the moment.”
“But it’s winter!” cried Isabelle. “There is literally nothing to do here until May, at the least.”
“That shows how much you know about it,” said Frank.
“Now, now, children,” said Audrey as their voices rose in disagreement. “Don’t squabble. If that is your uncle’s decision, so be it. Not that I think it wouldn’t do you a power of good—”
“Thank you, Audrey,” said Jack, cutting her off. Then, with a marked change of tone, he added, “Come, you young brigands, say good night and I’ll take you up to bed.”
Frank lit up at the promised treat. “Can we read Treasure Island?” he said eagerly.
“I don’t see why not.”
Isabelle, clearly torn between the desire to stay with the adults and the fear of missing out on the story, reluctantly left Gabby’s side. She kissed and hugged her mother, then suddenly came back to Gabby and threw her skinny arms around her neck. “Good night, madame.”
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