Oh yes. Her mother always had friends. And her friends were generally to be believed.
Aurélie drew in a deep breath, her chest tight. “I shouldn’t have gone. I should have stayed with him.”
“And died, too?” She couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother look so fierce. Regaining her urbane mask, her mother said, “For what it’s worth, there were German officers gone, too. Several of them. Your father would have considered that worth the sacrifice, I imagine. He always wanted to die in battle rather than in someone’s bed.”
German officers gone. Max.
Aurélie’s gorge rose. “Oh no.”
Her mother mistook her expression. “Darling, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t making light of it. We all have different ways of mourning, I suppose. And I do mourn your father.”
“You are right. He would be proud,” said Aurélie numbly. “How many German officers died with him?”
“Several. I don’t believe there was anyone left to take charge. I heard all was chaos. That was why they thought—they thought you had died, too.”
“I didn’t,” said Aurélie flatly. No. She had run away. To keep the talisman safe.
The talisman that would never have been there if she hadn’t brought it. The talisman that had cost her father and her lover their lives. She had cost them their lives.
“My father sent me away. With this.” Fumbling in her chemise, beneath the multiple layers of clothes bundled about her, she drew out the talisman, drawing the chain up over her head. She had removed it from her hair and returned it to her neck once she had crossed into France.
“The talisman.” Her mother took it from her, holding it delicately by the chain, the relic swaying gently, still warm from Aurélie’s skin, like a living thing, winking at her in the electric light. “You scared me half to death when you ran away with that, you know. I was afraid you meant to go into battle with it, as your father had. I was so relieved when your father told me you’d come to Courcelles.”
“I know. He told me. I found one of your messages.” All of that seemed so far away now. “I hadn’t realized you were on corresponding terms.”
“When it mattered.” The carefully painted line of her mother’s lip rouge trembled, just a bit. “He was very proud of you.”
Aurélie lifted her hands to her temples, as though she could hold in the memories, the pain. “I did so little.”
“That’s not what your father said. He said you were a symbol of hope—and an excellent distraction.”
She had been so upset by that, being a distraction. She had been so angry at her father. But now she would give anything to go back, to have him alive again. And Max . . . Max, who had betrayed everything, had killed his own superior for her. Max, who was meant to be playing on the banks of a lake with a brood of children with silver-gilt hair, not killed in a château in France. He would never even have been there but for her.
Max, who had once come to her mother’s salon with daisies in his buttonhole. She wanted to close her eyes and turn back time, here, in her old room. She wanted to make them all whole again.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t change any of it. And it hurt, it hurt so terribly much.
“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” Aurélie pressed her hands over her mouth, but the sobs escaped anyway, not pretty, graceful tears, but horrible, ugly gulping sobs, torn from her gut, ripping her insides out. “If I’d never gone . . . if I’d never brought the talisman . . . I should have stayed with him. Why didn’t I stay with him?”
Her mother chafed her wrists. “And die, as well? Your father would have wanted you safe,” she said. “Safe and working for France.”
Her father? Oh yes. Her father. It was on the tip of her tongue to pour out the truth about Max, but something held her back. What would people say? That she had been a German officer’s whore. Never mind that he loved her, that she loved him, that he had come to her mother’s salon with daisies.
She couldn’t soil it. She wouldn’t let them soil it.
Aurélie lifted her head, her eyes stinging, her throat aching. “My father. He wanted me to bring the talisman back, to tell the world that we had wrenched it from the Germans.”
Her mother absently stroked her cheek. “The demoiselle holds the talisman and France cannot fall? It’s not a dreadful notion. There might be something in it. . . . Ah, Marie. Is that the tisane? Enough of this for the moment, my darling. Bath first, and then sleep.”
So Aurélie let herself be led, first to the bath, and then to the high, soft bed, where a warm drink that tasted like weeds was pressed into her hands. Because what mattered now? All her dreams were ash.
Her mother must have put something in the tisane. Or Marie had. Aurélie, who had spent the past five weeks sleeping fitfully in a third-class train seat, or on a makeshift cot, slept and slept and slept some more. If she dreamed, her only memory of it was in the moisture of tears on her cheeks.
She had a vague recollection of waking in the night to find her mother beside her, stroking her hair, her perfume a soft presence in the air.
“Sleep, my darling,” she had said, and Aurélie had slept.
When Aurélie woke again, it was broad daylight. She knew that, because her mother was vigorously opening the drapes, letting the light stream in.
Aurélie winced and held up a hand against the light.
“I’m sorry, my darling.” Her mother was chic in a suit with a wide, calf-length skirt and a jacket that belted smartly at the waist. “I should have let you sleep, but you’ve been asleep since Tuesday. And Paris-Midi is coming at noon and the New York Times at one.”
“The New York Times . . . what?”
“They want to photograph you with the talisman, here, at the Ritz.” Her mother busied herself with an armful of garments that Aurélie did not recognize as her own, examining and discarding them one by one. Finally, she held one up and gave a little nod of approval. “White, I think. White, with a tricolore pinned to your chest. Innocent, but also patriotic. You’ll look like Liberty on the barricades. Only without the barricades.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re a heroine,” said her mother. “The woman who routed an entire command of German officers and liberated a French national treasure.”
From under the pile of garments, her mother tugged out a folded newspaper, tossing it to Aurélie. It was Le Matin, and Aurélie’s own face, her debutante portrait, taken two years before, smirked out at her from the front page.
THE DEMOISELLE DE COURCELLES BRINGS HOPE TO FRANCE.
THE SAINT IS WITH US, SAYS DEMOISELLE DE COURCELLES. FRANCE CANNOT FALL.
“According to that,” said her mother, “you singlehandedly torched the German headquarters.”
The words swam in front of Aurélie’s eyes. She shoved the paper aside, struggling to sit up against the pillows. She felt at a decided disadvantage, still half asleep. Her mouth tasted like the inside of a bird’s cage. “According to whom?”
“To me.” Her mother perched on the edge of the bed, next to her. “I called them. I told them the story. France needs a heroine right now. It needs you.”
Aurélie frowned at her, trying to gather her wits. “But that’s not what happened.”
“Does it matter what happened?”
Dreier, a living flame. Max, with the bronze statue of Mars in his hand. “It matters to me. It mattered to M—to my father.”
“Your father would glory in this.” Gentling her voice, her mother said, “People need something to give them hope. There’s nothing better than a beautiful woman and an ancient relic. And diamonds.”
“But I didn’t do anything.” Other than leave her father and the man she loved.
“Then do something now.” Her mother gave her blanket-covered knees a brisk pat. “Inspire our armies to new victories. Give people the courage to carry on. Be what your father wanted you to be. A heroine for France. And put some clothes on before the photographer from Paris-Midi a
rrives.”
Paris-Midi arrived and the New York Times and the Chicago Tribune and papers from places whose names Aurélie didn’t recognize, but who were, it seemed, sure that their readers would be passionately interested in the story of the young aristocrat who had broken the German hold on Picardy.
She hadn’t, of course. She had only disrupted one command center, and that had been restaffed within hours after some agitated sending of telegrams and directions from Berlin, but the papers preferred not to focus on that bit, so neither did Aurélie. She just tilted her chin and looked melancholy and noble and went where she was told.
A car was put at her disposal. Not her car, her beloved long-lost car, but a stuffy black car with a driver paid by the government. Aurélie was ferried triumphantly from village to village, displayed with the talisman, the Demoiselle de Courcelles bringing hope to France. They dressed her in white with a tricolore pinned to her chest; she was Liberty, she was the Spirit of France, she was a living sign of defiance against the Germans.
And if she was quietly ill by the side of the road, only her mother noticed.
“Here, take this,” said her mother, handing her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. They were en route to yet another engagement, at which her mother and the local mayor would speak and Aurélie would stand there looking symbolic, holding the talisman. Then contributions would be taken for the war effort. “How far along are you?”
Aurélie looked at her blankly.
“The child,” said her mother matter-of-factly. “How many months gone are you?”
“Child?”
“Yes, the child that’s making you miserably ill—and will also make you lose your waist,” her mother added drily. “That child.”
The car was parked at the side of the road, the driver smoking a cigarette. It was September again, and the air was starting to get that autumn smell, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves.
Aurélie stared at her mother. “I thought—I thought I was ill because I was sad.”
For once, she had the satisfaction of rendering her mother entirely speechless. “I knew I shouldn’t have left your education to the nuns,” her mother said at last. “Have you the slightest idea how babies are made?”
“I . . . no.” She supposed she should have thought it. But it wasn’t something one discussed. And she’d never had female friends to share things with her.
“What about the father?” Her mother’s voice was carefully neutral.
“I—I don’t want to discuss it.” The father. Max would have adored being a father. It was what he wanted more than anything. A family. A large family.
“Were you forced? Never mind. This isn’t the place,” her mother said hastily, when Aurélie looked at her in alarm. “It doesn’t matter. What’s a father, anyway? This is your child, not anyone else’s. We’ll raise it together, you and I. You’re not alone in this.”
“We should—we should be getting on.” Aurélie couldn’t help putting her hands to her stomach. It didn’t feel any different. It seemed strange to think that a child might be growing there. Max’s baby, their baby, who was supposed to grow up in a town with an unpronounceable name, surrounded by brothers and sisters and dogs. “Wouldn’t I feel something?”
“Not necessarily. How long has it been since you’ve had your courses?” Her mother nodded, without waiting for an answer. “I’ll have my doctor examine you when we return.”
“A child,” said Aurélie, testing out the notion. She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or elated. Her mother might be wrong—except her mother didn’t believe in being wrong. If her mother said something, it must be so. The world would conform itself to her wishes or face the consequences. Aurélie suddenly, fiercely, hoped her mother was right.
Her mother was still talking. “You’ve no husband, of course, but we can manage that.” Her mother pursed her lips, thinking. “I saw Jean-Marie d’Aubigny’s name on the casualty lists.”
“Oh no.” Aurélie pressed her eyes shut. Her playmate, her childhood friend. She should feel more, she should weep for him, but she felt drained of emotion. Horror had succeeded horror until there was nothing left. “Not Jean-Marie, too.”
“Yes, it’s very sad,” said her mother absently. “Papers disappear in wartime. Marriage records, for example. Or there’s that spineless priest your father keeps on at Courcelles. Surely, he could be persuaded to . . . to remember what ought to have happened. We’ll tell people you were married in secret. A moonlit wedding at the chapel. A few stolen moments together before he had to leave for the front . . . Who is there to say otherwise?”
“Everyone in his regiment!”
Her mother waved that away. “He must have had leave at some point. Jean-Marie was a younger son, there’s no inheritance to be disputed. And who would give the lie to the Demoiselle de Courcelles? You’re an emblem of France. I’m surprised they aren’t putting you on the coins yet.”
“Yes, but—”
“Jean-Marie would have wanted what was best for you.”
Aurélie couldn’t deny that. Jean-Marie had always had a big heart. But it was Max she was thinking of, Max whose child would have another man’s name.
But did she really want to raise her child with the stigma of illegitimacy? Not just illegitimacy, but a German for a father. People spat when they spoke of the Boches. So would she, but for Max.
In a low voice, Aurélie said, “Jean-Marie came through Courcelles at the end of September. I saw him then.”
“Well, then. There you are.” In her most persuasive tones, her mother said, “Let Jean-Marie do this one last thing for you. Your child will have a noble name. A French name.”
Startled, Aurélie looked at her mother, wondering just what her father had put in those reports. But her mother was looking particularly guileless.
“The papers will adore it. The demoiselle’s secret marriage to her beloved childhood betrothed, a child for France, blah, blah, blah.”
“All right,” said Aurélie slowly.
She put her hands on her stomach, trying to imagine the person inside. Wherever Max was, she liked to think that he knew, that he would be watching them. And Max, of all people, would never quibble because she gave his child another man’s name. He would want only their happiness.
For the past month, she had been living in a fog, cut off from everything. Now, for the first time, Aurélie felt the fog begin to lift. She felt grief—but also joy. And a fierce, fierce love.
“All right,” she said, and her voice was stronger. “For the child.”
“Not the child, darling. Your child.” Her mother took her hands and gave them a squeeze. “A person. An opinionated, strong-willed, fascinating person who will give you headaches and heartaches, but you’ll love to distraction all the same. Who knows what sort of world your child will live in, what wonders he’ll accomplish?”
“He might be a philosopher, or a poet,” Aurélie said, thinking of Max, of those long, delicate hands, the way his fair hair fell across his brow as he sat reading in the candlelight.
“Or she.” Her mother gave her a quick, impulsive hug. Aurélie breathed in the scent of her perfume. Instead of making her ill, it smelled of home and hope and springtime. “Let us not think of death, my darling, but life.”
Chapter Thirty
Daisy
Hôtel-Dieu
Paris, France
April 1964
Daisy wasn’t afraid to die. That was the singular virtue of an illness like hers: you had time to prepare, you had time to accept this idea of death, you had time to suffer and wish you were dead already. And maybe she wasn’t old, but she wasn’t that young anymore, either. She’d raised her children to adulthood. Wasn’t that all anyone could ask for?
Anyway, they had given her a very nice room, a pleasant place to die. Madeleine and Olivier sat on either side of the bed, each one holding her hand, and the April sunlight passed through the window and enshrouded the three of them. Olivier’s blond hai
r had darkened to brown as he passed into adolescence, but when the sun shone on it, as it did now, you could see the trace of gold left behind, an inheritance from his mother’s parents. What a fine boy, Daisy thought. He was in his second year of law school now, so promising. Probably the world didn’t need quite so many lawyers, but Olivier would be a good one, certainly. He would marry some fine girl and raise a beautiful family.
And Madeleine, always so dark-haired and serious. Daisy couldn’t see her face very well—everything had begun to dim, as if the lights of the world were going out, one by one—but that was a blessing, because Madeleine was taking this hard. Madeleine had always taken things hard. The flight from Paris had been terrible for her, losing her father and Uncle Max both at once, losing her home and everything familiar. Thank God for the baby. They had found a little house on the edge of Lake Constance, where Daisy gave birth one fine July evening, but really it was Madeleine’s baby. Madeleine was just at an age when a little girl longs for a sister, and she had poured all her love and heartache into this infant, Kit’s gift to them, and that was when life began to get better, n’est-ce pas? When the darkness started lifting, and they felt like a family again, Daisy and the children and Grandmère, there on the shores of Lake Constance, the warm, fresh air and the sparkling water, so peaceful and so beautiful. When Daisy could begin to imagine a world in which the war ended, and she and Kit found each other again, when she would be sitting at the dear Little Bar on the rue Cambon side and he would enter, turn his head, look for her, see her! He would walk toward her slowly, not wanting to rush this moment of reunion. He would stand before her and touch her hand, where his ring still lay snug on her finger, two swans entwined. He would be haggard and thin, so would she, but it wouldn’t matter. None of it would matter anymore. They would kiss, they would embrace, they would go upstairs and remember what it was to be matched once more with the other half of yourself, to be made whole again.
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