“No. I’m exhausted already so if it’s all right with you, let’s go ahead and compare notes. I don’t know very much about my husband’s time in Paris during the war, so I’m anticipating a short meeting.”
“Sure. It’s just . . .” His eyes fell to my chest again as his finger plucked at his own shirtfront.
Looking down at my chest, I saw the pale pink lacy confection of a brassier that Precious had forced me to wear on full display through the wet fabric of my dress. Completely defeated now, I picked up my drink and drained it. It was at that moment that I spotted Precious and Mrs. Schulyer sitting at a table in the corner with a direct line of sight. They must have seen everything because Precious actually gave me a thumbs-up signal.
Something warm and heavy descended on my shoulders and I looked up to see Drew carefully settling his navy-blue jacket on me. “Maybe this will help,” he said, patting me on the back as if I were some faithful hound before settling back into his seat.
I made the mistake of looking at Precious again, where she and her companion were now giving me four thumbs-up. The waiter reappeared with two more drinks, another green martini for me and a glass of red wine for Drew. “From the two ladies in the corner,” he said.
“Do you know them?” Drew asked, twisting in his seat and giving them a hesitant wave.
Ignoring his question, I thumped my large bag on the table, making sure to avoid our glasses. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” I picked up my drink and took a large gulp, appreciating the encroaching alcohol buffer between my true self and my current actions. I stifled a hiccup. “And since you’ve already seen my underpinnings you should probably call me Babs.”
He choked a bit on his wine. Setting down his glass, he said, “Sure, no problem. Babs it is.” His gaze drifted to my chest again between the lapels of his jacket and he quickly took another drink. “That’s a delicious Bordeaux,” he said studying the deep red of the liquid in his glass. “Great earthy notes, with a burst of fruit.” He swirled the wine and held up his glass. “Juicy, full-bodied, and great legs.”
Our eyes met and I watched the color slowly rise in his face as he realized what he’d just said. “The wine,” he said quickly. “I was talking about the wine. I was president of the wine club back in college.”
“Of course,” I said, a little surprised. He seemed too big and too American to know the difference between a nice Bordeaux and a glass of grape juice. I slid the copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel from my bag, noticing the edge of the letter peeking out of the middle. I hastily removed it from the book and tucked the letter back inside my bag, hoping he hadn’t seen it. I wasn’t quite ready to share that bit of information with him. Or anyone. Or ever. I wasn’t even sure why I’d brought it, except that at some point while packing I must have listened to my conscience. I opened up the front cover of the book, revealing the Le Mouton Noir address stamp in the front.
“That’s why you were at the bookstore yesterday,” Drew said.
When I nodded, he continued, “My father told me about the bookstore—how it was a hub of Resistance activity, and that La Fleur met many of her contacts there. I thought it would be a good place to start.”
“Did you find out anything?”
“No. I didn’t stay.” He smiled sheepishly. “I was worried about you since you seemed so bent on self-destruction yesterday, and I followed you at a discreet distance to make sure you made it back to wherever you came from. When I saw you enter the Ritz, I figured you’d be all right.”
I felt the blood rush to my face, embarrassed and yet a little bit charmed. “Yes, well, here I am. Safe and sound. And I’m afraid I don’t really have any more information about this La Fleur woman.”
He gestured with his hand for me to speak more quietly. “Be careful about mentioning her name. She’s a national hero here in France for the work she did during the Resistance. Not sure if it’s more legend than fact, but women have been naming their daughters Fleur for the last two decades in her honor.”
A sour taste began at the back of my throat and I quickly washed it down with another gulp of my drink. “I only heard the name a few times. From Kit, right after he’d returned from the camp at the end of the war. He wasn’t well, physically or mentally.” I looked up at Drew Bowdoin and saw the compassion in his eyes, and knew that he understood. He was here for his father, after all. “He was delirious. Calling out in his sleep. It happened several times, but not in any context that I could make sense of. I wasn’t even sure it was a person until I learned about who La Fleur was later. They must have worked together in the Resistance is all I could piece together.”
“Yes, they did. According to my father, La Fleur began as a courier between the various Resistance groups. She was successful because she knew people in the right places—higher-ups in the Nazi regime, perhaps. Or influential Parisians. It’s unclear how, but she did have access. And after what my father told me about her . . .” He paused as another round of drinks arrived at our table. “Babs, do you know those ladies—”
I cut him off. “What did he tell you?” I leaned over the table, feeling his jacket slip from my shoulders and the sodden neckline of my dress gape open. I smacked it with the palm of my hand to close the gap, but it was unclear if it had any effect.
“That she may have saved many lives according to those Resistance members interviewed after the war. But to my father, she was a traitor.”
“Because of the failed drop.” It was difficult meeting his eyes as his gaze was now trained firmly at the middle of my forehead.
“Yes. Some sort of treasure of rubies and diamonds. And something to do with a white wolf with a cross.”
“A white wolf with a . . .” My eyelids lowered slowly before I brought them back up again. “What is that, exactly?” My words seemed to be bumping into each other.
“My father never found out. Whatever it was wasn’t delivered. La Fleur never showed. And when the diamonds and rubies began showing up among the Nazis, my dad was removed from the field and branded a traitor. He was never charged, but he was never sent on another mission and never received any of the medals that were his due because the cloud of suspicion never left him. He blames La Fleur, believes she’s actually the one who gave the treasure to the Nazis. And then allowed him to take the fall.”
“That’s terrible.” I managed to hold back a belch just in time to save my dignity. Even in my mental fog, I felt great pleasure knowing that La Fleur wasn’t the angel she was rumored to be. “What was her real name?”
Drew shrugged, and I found myself noticing his very broad shoulders and wondering if he played football—American or British, although at the moment I couldn’t recall the difference. “Nobody knows. Even my father. She’s quite the enigma.” He seemed to be leaning toward me, an odd expression on his face. “Are you all right, Babs?”
“Just fine, thank you,” I said, grasping the edge of the table so I didn’t fall out of my chair.
He studied me for a moment, as if considering my response before continuing. “After the war, did she ever try to contact your husband? A phone call? Or letter?”
I stared at the mostly full glass in front of me, hearing the strident voice of Mrs. Schuyler over the din and through the alcohol haze in my brain. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she screeched. “It’s the Battle of the SOMMAY. I thought you said you knew French.” I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Because I was thinking of the letter inside my bag. The words written by another woman to my husband. I will always love you. Always.
“No,” I said. “There was no contact.” Then I picked up my glass and drained it.
“But he called out her name,” he said gently. “That must have been difficult for you.” He reached over and pressed his large hand on top of mine and I didn’t mind. It was the first act of compassion I’d received in a very long while. And I learned something about Drew “not connected to the university” Bowdoin right then. He knew what it was like to love someone who wasn’t
really his.
He leaned back in his chair. “How is your French?”
I almost blurted out Better than yours but thought that would be rude. “I learned French in school, but I got much better at it after Kit came back from the war. I think I was attempting to be more cosmopolitan.” I swallowed, a bitter taste settling on my tongue. “So that my husband would find me more interesting than I was. He loved all things French, and I was . . . not.” I hadn’t meant to say all that, but there was something so kind, so understanding about the way Drew was looking at me that I felt compelled to share things with him I’d never shared with anyone else.
I straightened in my chair, aware of how incredibly attractive he was. How incredibly attractive I found him to be. I snatched my hand away, feeling as if I’d just been unfaithful to Kit, even though I’d been a widow for over a year. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the small folder I always carried with me of my important papers and photographs of my children. I suppose it was a leftover from the war days when one wasn’t sure if one’s house would still be there at the end of the day.
“Have I shown you pictures of my children? I have three of them.” Without waiting for an answer, I slid several photographs onto the table. They weren’t the most recent ones, all being taken before Kit’s illness at Robin’s fifteenth birthday celebration out on the lawn at Langford Hall. I pointed to each photo, identifying the subjects. “That’s Robin, the eldest. He’s seventeen. He’s named after his grandfather, Robert Langford.”
“The spy novelist? That Robert Langford?”
“The very one,” I said, inordinately pleased that Drew knew who Robert was. “And this,” I said, pointing to my second son, “is Rupert. He’s fourteen and very smart and very sweet. Not as athletic as Robin, but they’re good friends as well as brothers. And this,” I said, tapping on my daughter’s face, “is Penelope, but we call her Penny, and she’s eleven. She’s very clever and gets along with her brothers—although she’s closest to Rupert. Most likely because he enjoys playing with her dolls and dressing up. He’s very kind to do that as I know Robin would never consider it.”
He smiled and pointed at another figure who appeared in each photo. “And who’s that?”
“Oh, that’s Walnut. He’s a whippet. It’s sort of a requirement—having a whippet at Langford Hall. They’re passed on from generation to generation. Like the Langford signet ring.” I stopped suddenly, remembering.
“A signet ring?” Drew prompted.
I nodded. “Yes, it was gold with two swans engraved on it. Sadly, Robin won’t get a chance to wear it. Kit came home from the war without it. He never mentioned it, so I assumed the Germans took it when he was interred in the prison camp.”
“That’s a shame.” Drew took a moment to examine the pictures. “They’re great kids. You must be very proud.”
I looked into his hazel eyes, and immediately wished that I hadn’t. This man was far more attractive than he should have been. And his words were sincere, which made him even more appealing. “Yes,” I said, “I am. They’re fantastic—all three of them.”
The world seemed to tip suddenly, ungraciously sliding me out of my chair. With wobbly limbs that refused to listen, I was unable to stop myself from falling and I was quite resigned to collapsing on the floor and perhaps sleeping there when two strong arms grasped me around my waist. “Why don’t I take you to your room, Babs? We can talk more tomorrow.”
I tried to tell him that I didn’t have anything more to say on the subject and there was no need to talk tomorrow. But mostly I wanted to let him know that I was quite all right and that I could find my own way to my room but by the time I’d figured out what I should say, I was pressed against his side and being led toward the lifts. And then Precious was there, stuffing the photographs and the folder into my bag and handing my room key to Drew. I tried to focus on her face long enough to thank her, but only succeeded in shutting my eyes completely. Drew managed to get us both inside the lift and before the doors closed I was quite sure I saw Precious wink.
Drew struggled a bit at the door to my room. He uttered a short oath under his breath before the door finally swung open. I found myself being lifted over his shoulder then carried across the room before being ungraciously dumped on top of my bed.
“Sorry, Babs. I guess I’m more used to footballs than women.”
I heard the sound of zippers and then felt my boots being tugged off my feet. As I stared up at the spinning ceiling medallion—had it been doing that before?—I had the fleeting thought that he might be planning to ravish me. The thought didn’t alarm me as much as it should have. Although he didn’t seem the ravishing type. A man like that usually didn’t have to.
“Babs, are you all right?”
He leaned over me and he looked so sweet and concerned that I had no choice but to reach up. I’d meant to just touch his cheek, but when my arms refused my instruction, I somehow managed to lace my fingers around his neck to keep them raised. “Are you going to ravish me?”
He looked startled. “Ravish?”
“You know—have your way with me?” I closed my eyes tightly, trying to remember what my brothers used to talk about when they didn’t know I was listening. My eyes flew open in triumph. “Do a little rumpy-pumpy?”
His face turned an interesting shade of red. Very delicately he pulled my fingers off his neck, holding my hands together in his large, warm ones. “It’s not that I don’t find you attractive, Babs—far from it. But you’re a bit drunk, and I’m not in the habit of taking advantage.”
He placed my hands against my sides, then pulled up the bedclothes, tucking them in gently around me. Then he pulled the phone on the side table closer to me, scribbled something on the Ritz notepad, and put a small rubbish can on the floor next to the bed. “Just in case,” he said. “Call me if you need anything. I wrote down my room number.”
I listened as his footsteps crossed the room to the door, pausing as he shut off the light. “Good night, Babs. See you tomorrow.”
I struggled to lift my head from the pillow. “Do you really find me attractive?”
But the door had already shut, the sound of his retreating footsteps my last conscious memory.
Chapter Eight
Aurélie
The Château de Courcelles
Picardy, France
September 1914
“You do remember, then,” said the German officer in front of Aurélie.
“Herr von Sternburg.” She had been half hoping he would deny it. That he would be an evil twin or a strangely similar cousin.
“Mademoiselle de Courcelles.” Herr von Sternburg started to hold out a hand to her, but at the expression on her face, he let it fall. “Those were happier times, I think.”
“I take it this isn’t a social call, then.” She was proud of how cool she sounded, cool beneath her rising anger, anger that this man, this man who had eaten her mother’s cakes, had pretended to be civilized, to be almost French, could be here now, in her home, in the uniform of the conqueror.
“No.”
“You know this man?” her father asked.
No, she wanted to say. This wasn’t the man she knew, the one she remembered, with the daisies in his buttonhole and a book in his hand. War had made a mockery of the man she remembered. The only thing unchanged was his nose, a very imperial eagle of a nose, the most assertive thing about him.
Stiffly, Aurélie said, “Father, may I present to you Herr von Sternburg. Late of Paris.”
“It’s Lieutenant von Sternburg now,” he said apologetically, as if his uniform didn’t say it loud enough, his uniform and the soldiers at his back, bumping and jostling one another as they ogled the keep and speculated on their prospects for plunder. “I beg pardon for the manner of our meeting, Monsieur le Comte. I have long desired to have the honor of your acquaintance—although I should have wished that it might occur under other circumstances than these.”
“These are circumstances o
f your making,” said Aurélie hotly. “If you don’t like them, change them. Take those soldiers back again and go infest someone else’s castle.”
He ducked his head. “Believe me when I say I wish I had that power. It is my regrettable duty to inform you . . . no, to request of you . . . that is, I have come on behalf of . . .”
“Lieutenant!”
Lieutenant von Sternburg froze to attention. The guards fell away as another man approached. He was no more than medium height, but he made up for it with the volume of his voice, the swagger of his step.
“Sir,” said Von Sternburg. All the light had gone from his eyes. He was like a statue, a very Prussian statue, all nose and chin.
The commanding officer’s eyes slid slyly over Aurélie and her father, taking in her father’s Scottish tweeds, her stained old dress and priceless pearl earrings. In clumsy but serviceable French, he demanded, “What are you doing standing here jabbering with an old man and a girl?” The word he used wasn’t quite girl. It was a term more familiar on the docks than in the drawing room. “I want my bags brought up to the largest room. If there is a presentable room in this ruin.”
“The wench,” said Aurélie’s father, his voice like a lash, “is the Demoiselle of Courcelles. And the old man is the owner of this ruin. Which has stood since the fourteenth century. Unconquered.”
The newcomer’s lip curled. He addressed himself deliberately, insultingly, to Von Sternburg. “I could blow that wall down with a sneeze. Tell the old man to move aside. I have work to do.”
“Sir.” Von Sternburg leaned close to his commanding officer’s ear, speaking in German. “Major Hoffmeister, this is the Graf von Courcelles. His family has held these lands since Charlemagne.”
“Am I meant to be impressed?” snapped the major. He spoke directly to Aurélie’s father for the first time, sticking his chin up like a weapon. “You do not seem to understand the situation, Monsieur de Courcelles. Pardon me. Monsieur le Comte. This castle has been requisitioned. Everything within and without these walls is now at the disposal of the imperial German army to do with as I please.”
All the Ways We Said Goodbye Page 11