Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  Gabby breathed in Isabelle’s soap-and-water scent and squeezed her eyes shut. “Bonne nuit, ma fille,” she whispered back, a catch in her throat. Somehow, the little girl’s spontaneous affection made Jack’s coldness even harder to bear.

  “No, I’ll take them,” said Audrey briskly, putting a hand on her brother’s shoulder before he’d even attempted to rise. “You’ve hardly spoken two words to our guest.” She sent an unreadable glance to Gabby. “And I imagine there is much to say.”

  The children protested loudly at the last-minute substitute, but Jack was too well-mannered to echo their sentiments. Gabby caught the dark look he threw his sister, however, and abruptly stood. “I’ll go up, too, I think. It has been a tiring day.”

  She sensed his relief as she left the drawing room. But as soon as she stepped out into the hall, Audrey caught her by the elbow and told the children to go on ahead.

  “You’re giving up? Just like that?”

  It was futile to pretend she didn’t know what Audrey meant. “He doesn’t want me here. He has made that clear.”

  “That’s not it at all.” Audrey bit her lip and glanced back toward the drawing room. “Look, it’s not my place to interfere, but just try again, can’t you? He . . . he’s not himself. But I think . . .” She gripped Gabby’s hands tightly and shook them a little. “I feel you would be good for him, if only you will be brave.”

  “Mama!” Frank yelled from the landing above.

  “Coming!” Audrey’s eyes pleaded with her. “Please, Gabby. Please.” Then she hurried off to put her children to bed.

  Gabby looked after her helplessly. She hadn’t felt so confused and at sea since Jack had first come to the apartments at rue Royale. He’s not himself. Audrey’s words echoed through her mind. So it wasn’t her imagination, then. But what was making him behave this way?

  Slowly, she turned and went back to the drawing room to find out.

  * * *

  “I HAVE DECIDED to return to London tomorrow if your sister is free to drive me to the station.” Gabby stated it baldly, without preamble, as she walked back into the drawing room.

  Jack’s expression lightened. He was relieved. Relieved that she was going.

  As if the words were forced out of him, he said, “So soon? Please don’t go on my account.”

  And what was she to make of that? “You don’t want me here.” She blurted it out and saw him wince at her gaucheness. “But I don’t understand why.” Anger boiled up within her. “Common courtesy, at least—”

  “Courtesy,” he muttered. “Dear God.”

  She slapped her hand on a nearby chair. “Was I not kind to you? Did I not nurse you and care for you and hide you at great risk to my own life and the lives of everyone around me?”

  She was becoming shrill. She hated herself for speaking aloud things that she would never in a million years have thought to say to him had he behaved like a normal human instead of this block of ice.

  His eyebrow raised, but he wasn’t meeting her eye. “Well, you got your medal, didn’t you? What do you want from me?”

  She gasped. Threatening tears clogged her throat. She had been determined not to reproach him, but his cruelty was so disproportionate, so undeserved, that her sense of justice could not let it stand. “Your sister invited me. Naturally, I assumed you wanted me here.”

  “Audrey has a habit of meddling in things that don’t concern her.” In a controlled, even tone, he added, “Don’t you think that if I’d wanted you I would have come to Paris long ago? It’s not as if I didn’t know where you lived.”

  Gabby’s entire body froze. She wanted desperately to run from the room, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. As she stared at him, he seemed to sag back in his chair, defeated, bitter, and dismissive.

  Yet still she could not go. She had faced down the French Gestapo during the war, and yet she had never been so afraid. “I don’t know what has happened to you. I don’t know why you are being like this. But I . . . I want you to know that . . .” She swallowed, then lifted her chin. “I came here against my better judgment because . . . I love you. And . . . and life is short. And it is probably the case that I will not be able to say it to you again. So, there. I have said it and now I’ll go.”

  She tried to gauge his expression but his head was bent, his face in shadow. This was not the man she had known in Paris, so gentle and loving and whimsical. He was angry, not indifferent. If he didn’t care, he would be smooth and polite. She knew very well the code of men like him. Audrey was right. This was something else. She wanted to shake him, to slap his face, anything to get to the truth.

  But she’d spent the full sum of her courage with that declaration of love. She could not bring herself to beg or rant. She was done.

  “I will leave as soon as possible,” she whispered. It hurt to breathe through the pain in her chest. “But if you ever do come to your senses, you will know where to find me.”

  She waited for a painful few seconds, yearning for him to reply, to say he’d made a mistake and that he still loved her, too. But he didn’t. He simply sat there. So she turned on her heel and left.

  YVETTE

  When Yvette reached the front entrance to the club, Vidar was waiting, her coat slung over his arm, her hat in his hand, a cigarette between his lips.

  How dearly she wished him to take charge at that moment. He could pull her into his arms and kiss her, tell her she was the only woman he wanted, whether she testified at this trial or not. Something told her he would scorn to use such tactics, however, and she was right.

  Wordlessly, she let him help her into the heavy wool coat. She turned in the direction of the boardinghouse where she was staying and set off at a brisk pace.

  He kept up with her easily, and it started to feel foolish to rush. She slowed a little. “There is nothing more to talk about.”

  He smiled. “I wasn’t thinking about talking.”

  His graveled tone shot a spear of longing through her. She was grateful that the night protected her from scrutiny, because that one raw moment of desire would have betrayed her, exposed a weakness he would be all too eager to exploit.

  “You have quite a nerve,” she said. “Why I didn’t simply inform on you to the Paris authorities is beyond me.”

  “I could take a guess.”

  She shrugged. “You need not sound so smug about it. I’m sure your powers of seduction are legendary. It’s what makes you such a good spy, I think.”

  “I still have no idea why you think I betrayed you, Yvette. You must know that everything I did, getting you out of Paris like that, was for your own safety.”

  He had wanted to keep her safe, that was true. He had never betrayed her in that way. But she was terrified that he had somehow betrayed Catherine, that she, Yvette, had led him to her. But she couldn’t allow herself to voice that concern. She could scarcely acknowledge it to herself. Instead, she shifted to firmer ground. “It is a pity Louise Dulac did not have a similar care. Or do you agree with what she did?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not what I would have done. But then, I recruited her to do much, much worse, so who am I to throw stones?”

  “You recruited her?” She let that sink in. “You sent her to seduce Gruber, then.”

  “No. No, she was already with him when I made the approach. I simply . . . helped her to fulfill her patriotic duty. She was uniquely placed to observe Gruber and his associates, their growing dissatisfaction with Hitler.”

  So Dulac was a collaborator at heart. “In fact, she would not have become any sort of spy if you had not turned her into one.”

  “That’s not how it happened. Look, she made it known to me that she was open to the approach. Getting close to Gruber was probably her plan all along.”

  Yvette was not so sure. “Did you ever think she might be working both sides to see who won?”

  “Her information was good. Whatever her motives, she was an excellent asset.” He turned to face Yvette, gripped he
r upper arms. “I hate what Louise did to you, but not because she was wrong to do it. It was a foul, dirty business, the occupation. I would be a hypocrite to condemn her when so often I persuaded good people to risk their lives in the same cause.” He hesitated. “Sometimes, I had to do bad things to convince bad people to work with me.”

  “You were one of them, weren’t you?” He’d confirmed a suspicion she’d held since the night Jean-Luc and his resistance cell were taken.

  He sighed. “I keep telling you. I’m no Nazi.”

  “No, but you were involved with Berger’s gang. The same ones who took Catherine and . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to finish that sentence but blurted out, “I saw you, remember? I saw you talk to those men outside our apartment building on the night of the raid.”

  “Raid?” He seemed genuinely puzzled. “What raid?”

  Yvette snorted. “Were there so many you can’t recall? The raid on number ten rue Royale, of course. My sister was nearly caught harboring a fugitive.”

  “Oh, that.” He shrugged. “I got there a little late to put a stop to it, I’m afraid. Busy night.” He eyed her. “For you, also. Laying your life on the line for your boyfriend like that.”

  She stared at him. Was that jealousy she detected in his tone? Really? She didn’t trouble to correct him about Jean-Luc. He could think what he liked.

  “What happened to him, I wonder,” mused Vidar, twisting the knife. “Did you ever learn?”

  Shame washed over her. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Finding out would have been too painful. Maybe if she’d read the many letters Gabby had sent her in New York, she would know what had happened to Jean-Luc. Maybe, if she’d been able to bear the thought of him, she could have discovered for herself.

  Walking in Christian Dior’s fashion show seemed such a triviality now. She felt ashamed and fretful. Part of her wanted to escape from this man who insisted on touching all her wounded places. Yet he was the one person in the world who might actually understand.

  They had arrived at the boardinghouse. She stopped and gazed up at him with a specific need burning inside her. He cupped her cheek in his palm, and the gesture felt like acceptance. “Yvette, listen to me. We can’t change the past—”

  “No more talking,” she whispered. By the dim light from a streetlamp a few feet away, she saw a man who was still young, yet whose eyes betrayed the pain and experience of a seasoned veteran. She wanted to trust the instincts that had always told her he was good. “Heinrich Jäger-Hoffmann, Baron von Leitfeld.”

  “I told you the truth about that, Yvette,” he said, but she put a fingertip to his lips, silencing him.

  “You want me to call you Rick?” She shook her head. “I prefer Vidar.” She wanted him to sweep her into his arms, sweep away her doubts. She was so tired of struggling against this need.

  As if he had heard her secret longing, he gave a sharp exhale. Pulling her to him, he kissed her. She let the world, Louise Dulac, the war—everything—fall away, and lost herself in him.

  Against her landlady’s rules, Yvette smuggled Vidar up to her room. “It’s a good thing we are spies,” she whispered as they eased inside.

  Her back was to the wall as he kissed her, hot, silent, and hungry, deliciously wrong. She put her fingertips to his jaw, felt the prickle of his five o’clock shadow, slid her hand to stroke the skin at his nape, pulling him closer. He was a mystery she needed to solve, but that could wait until morning.

  Tonight, she suspended hostilities. She didn’t care why he wanted her, only that he did.

  GABBY

  But you can’t leave us already.” Audrey dropped her toast and marmalade and regarded Gabby with dismay. “You’ve only just arrived! And your return packet is booked and paid for and you’ll have to pay another fare . . . Oh, do be a trouper and stay.” She leaned forward and gripped Gabby’s hand in a strong clasp. “Just . . . walk to the village with me after breakfast and we’ll talk.”

  All night, Gabby had lain awake, wondering how she had so misjudged what had occurred between her and Jack during his short stay in Madame LaRoq’s apartment. That confrontation with him had been like a bad dream, a nightmare in which the solid ground shifts underfoot and everything you know as absolute truth down to the marrow in your bones becomes a lie.

  The snow had melted overnight, and the walk to the village was a muddy one. Luckily, Audrey had made Gabby don an ancient but serviceable pair of rainproof boots, so she didn’t have to worry about ruining her shoes.

  At any other time, she would have reveled in the crisp, freezing country air, but now the weather, which Audrey described as “bracing,” seemed threatening and grim. Gabby was beyond tired. It was hard to keep up with Audrey’s quick, long-legged stride.

  A mist rose from the ground, reaching out curling tendrils. The lake was like a sheet of glass, reflecting the lowering sky. They came to a bridge where the ornamental lake narrowed to a burbling stream. It was like a painting, this place, with its weeping willows and its arching stone bridge. No wonder Jack loved it here. She sighed, and as they came to the bridge’s hump, Audrey stopped and leaned on the parapet, her hands clasped together. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, so please, don’t let on to Jack that you know.”

  Gabby’s heart gave a quick, hard pound. “What is it?”

  “I thought perhaps you might guess. I hoped you would, or that you would worm the truth out of him, but now I see that you are not a woman who uses wiles or trickery to get what she wants.” She smiled. “I’m happy about that, of course, but I wish you would fight harder for him.”

  Something burned in Gabby’s chest. “I fought as hard as I knew how. And besides, why should I be the one fighting? I came all this way, after all.”

  “Men.” Audrey sighed. “They can be the bloodiest creatures on earth.”

  Gabby frowned. “Comment?”

  “I mean stubborn, dear,” Audrey explained. “Jack is too proud to tell you that he came off somewhat the worse after the war.” She made a face, gripped the lichened balustrade. “Thinks he is not the man you fell in love with, I suppose. I don’t know.”

  “‘Somewhat the worse,’” Gabby repeated slowly. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s his lungs,” said Audrey. “After he left you, he did not go back to England.”

  “What?”

  Audrey shrugged. “Crazy, wasn’t it? You nursed him too well.” She made a face. “No, of course I don’t mean that. But he felt fit enough to go on missions with the resistance, sabotaging German tanks and blowing up bridges and whatnot. By the time the Allies marched on Paris, he was in a state of collapse. They shipped him home, but then he came down with pneumonia. It affected his heart. Time after time, I thought we were going to lose him, but somehow, he pulled through.”

  Gabby felt as if a glass wall had slid into place between her and the world. She heard what Audrey was saying, but the words didn’t quite touch her. She was cold and numb.

  “Gabby?” Audrey put an arm around her and rubbed her hand up and down her bicep as if to thaw her. She felt the pressure of it but no warmth. She tried to speak, but only a strangled sound came out.

  She tried again. “And this is why he was so cruel to me. He doesn’t want to tie me to an invalid. Is that it?”

  The sympathy in Audrey’s eyes was more than she could bear. “He hasn’t said as much, but I believe that is the case.” She hesitated. “The doctor says a warmer climate would be the very thing for Jack’s health, but he won’t go. It’s as if he can’t bear to try, only to be disappointed.” Her smile had a bitter edge. “But there I go, attributing motives where there might be none. I cannot tell what he’s thinking and he never confides in me. When I heard him on the telephone recommending you for that medal, though . . .” Her eyes misted and she closed them. “The way he talked about you, the note in his voice—oh, it was as if the Jack I knew and loved had come back to me. I had never heard him talk about a woman like that before. I knew I had to c
ome and find you, to bring you back to him.”

  “But he does not want me,” said Gabby. “Even when I told him . . .” She swallowed hard. “Doesn’t he know I would take care of him? I love him. I spend all my waking hours caring for people who will never love me back. Does he think that I would begrudge looking after someone who loves me?”

  “I think he would prefer to be the one to look after you,” said Audrey. “Men are funny that way.”

  “What garbage!” said Gabby. “If the war taught us anything, it’s that we women can look after ourselves.” She turned and ran down the bridge, ungainly in her rain boots but determined.

  Audrey hurried to catch up with her. “Wait! What are you going to do?”

  But Gabby didn’t answer. She trudged and hobbled and ran all the way back to the house, only stopping to yank off her muddy boots.

  She burst into the library and found Jack reading a book by the fire. There was a pause as she stood there in her stockinged feet, panting from her run. Then he rose with a pained, resigned expression, as if he were about to face a firing squad. “Can I take your coat?”

  She blinked at this non sequitur. “No, thank you.” The heat in this room made her acutely conscious that she was dressed for the wintry countryside. She tugged at the scarf she’d wrapped around her neck and cleared her throat. “Please. Sit down. I want to talk with you properly.”

  She realized she had been speaking in French. She had meant to stick to English but instinct had taken over.

  “Ah.” He seemed to comprehend. “You’ve been talking to Audrey.”

  “Don’t blame Audrey. This is about you and me.” She took the chair opposite him, sitting on the edge and leaning toward him. She wished they weren’t so far apart, but this would have to do.

  “I am insulted,” she said. “You love me. And yet you think so little of me that you believe I would love you less if I knew of your health problems.” She shook her head. “After all that we went through together, how could you believe that?”