He is beloved.
A soldier who passed by the old Legrand farm told me his beehives still hum with life.
My only consolation is our child, safe in my belly. It breaks my heart that Émile never knew he was to become a father; I waited to tell him when next I saw him, selfishly wanting to see the light in his beautiful, sad eyes as he heard the news.
I wish to thank you for being such a solace to him. We in Reims are often cut off from the rest of the world, and not all of my letters made it to my dear Émile. But each time he visited, he would read yours to me. Your care and sympathy were a balm to him at the very worst of times.
I wonder if we shall meet one day? I used to dream of sailing away on the ocean I have never seen, perhaps all the way to Australia. But I no longer dream.
Cordialement,
Lucie Maréchal Legrand
Rosalyn sat with the letter clutched in her hands for a very long time as tears stung her eyes. After all this . . . how could Émile have simply died? Disappeared, just like that.
Just like Dash.
Leaving in his wake yet another grieving widow.
Chapter Forty
Doris
1918
Doris swept the contents of the table to the floor with a crash, then hurled her silver-handled brush into the vanity mirror. It shattered, sending shards flying, bullets of silvery glass showering onto the plush Aubusson wool carpet.
Sally the maid rushed into the sitting room. “Is everything all right, ma’am?”
“Get out!” Doris screamed.
“Seven years’ bad luck,” Sally muttered with a shake of her head, taking in the damage. The servants were no longer cowed by Doris, having become accustomed to her mercurial temper. “I’ll fetch the broom.”
“Later,” Doris snapped. “Close the door—and bring me some tea.”
As if the threat of bad luck would frighten me, Doris thought. What were seven more years of misery to crown the wretchedness of a wasted lifetime? Bitterness filled her, leaving an acrid taste in her mouth. Sally had best not dawdle with that tea.
Émile. Gone.
Impossible.
Doris had never shed a tear for her husband, and her stoic acceptance of God’s will had earned her accolades at Richard’s funeral. She should have been praised for not bursting out with glee and tap-dancing on his coffin. Losing Émile, on the other hand . . .
She collapsed into her chair, dropped her head onto her arms, and sobbed, hot tears and mucus flowing unhindered down her face. She wailed and keened, made wretched by the death of a young man she had never met.
For years, Doris had been waiting hungrily for the daily post, hoping for one of his missives, wishing her money could somehow make them come more frequently. Often weeks passed with no letter from France, and then a bonanza of three or four arrived at the same time. Doris sequestered herself in her study and devoured the letters all at once, absorbing Émile’s descriptions of war: the carnage and the beauty, the butchery and the moments of grace. Then she would ask Sally to bring her tea and cakes, and would read the letters over again, more slowly, this time searching for meaning in how Émile had formed each sentence, the emotions conveyed by his choice of words.
She had been so happy for Émile when his Lucie said yes, when they found each other—and love—in the middle of the blood and the violence. Doris had had Sally bring her a bottle of champagne and she had drunk to the young couple’s connection and their joy. She had drunk to their future.
And then it was snatched away, just that quickly.
Just like that.
Still crying, Doris moved to the other side of the room, to her most unusual and most recent dollhouse. It was a series of caves, complete with a little school within the muddy walls, and a little cave within a cave leading off the nook labeled “Dakar.” There was a tiny, fierce gargoyle, and a wedding bed of clean white linens, encircled by candles.
Two figures sat on the crude steps, drinking champagne as they toasted each other and their future. A future stamped out by cruelty, by a war that had no reason.
Doris returned to her desk and reread the letter.
My only consolation is our child, safe in my belly.
A child. Now here was something Doris’s money would be good for. Émile’s widow, and her dear child, would never want for anything.
Doris would make sure of it.
Chapter Forty-one
Lucie
My dearest husband,
I shall never believe it. I think I shall go to my grave not believing it. How could someone like you disappear from this earthly plane?
Since this war began, I have made a game of asking myself: What was the worst moment? The head of the Smiling Angel crashing upon the pavement. The breaking of the blind woman’s teacup. The look on your face at that very last moment, when you turned back to smile at me.
Never before had you turned back.
This page is stained with tears, as yours are with blood.
* * *
I wipe the tears from my swollen eyes. According to the notice from the war department, my dear husband, my Émile, had been dead nearly a month by the time I received word. I cannot accept that: How could I not have known? I am appalled by my betrayal. I had carried on living, eating, sleeping, organizing a play with the children—all the while my Émile, my husband, had departed this world, and yet I did not know it.
Now everything makes me angry: the need to ingest water, to relieve myself. To breathe. Every breath makes me angry.
I don’t know why I am writing a letter to a dead man, except that I cannot believe he is truly dead. Would I not feel his absence in the world if he were?
But there is nowhere to send my letter. If I post it to his military address, it will come back, forwarded to me as his wife.
Still. I have to speak to him. I have to share my news.
I have stared at the butcher knife, pondering death. I know they would say my death was a victory for the enemy, but I know differently. My death would not be an escape but a triumph, a statement of my power. I would lay down my arms and walk into the arms of the abyss.
But I cannot, because our child keeps me here. Did you know, mon amour? Did you sense it, somehow? Our child grows within me. I wish I had told you.
I hold out hope that this has been a mistake, that you are out there, somewhere, still. Your Australian marraine writes you still, and I will keep the letters for you. She has yet to receive the terrible news, to read the words that cannot be taken back.
You must be out there. Wouldn’t I feel it if you were not?
The bubbles continue to buoy us. The vintage holds its promise of a future. So I have hidden a package for you: bottles of Victory Vintage champagne, and a sweater—one of my mother’s last, as her health is fading—in our special nook.
All awaits us in the attic of Dakar.
Until we meet again,
Your loving wife,
Lucie
Chapter Forty-two
Emma and Blondine were scheduled to return from Paris that afternoon. Rosalyn steeled herself, knowing she would have to tell them about Émile. She should be good at this. After Dash died, she had been forced over and over again to share such words, the ones that cannot be grasped or taken back.
The words that, once uttered, meant the world had changed.
Rosalyn was in the tasting room fixing a cup of coffee when their car pulled in. Blondine carried several shopping bags, and through the window, Rosalyn could see André taking packages out of the trunk. Blondine was effusive and flushed, but Emma seemed subdued, not her usual ebullient self.
“I take it you had a good time,” said Rosalyn, as they came into the tasting room, “or at the very least, an expensive time.”
“Smell this,” said Blondine,
thrusting a slender, pale wrist toward Rosalyn. “Is that not the most divine scent you have ever smelled? Absolument divin.”
“Parisian perfumeries,” said Emma. “Hard to get any sweeter than that.”
Dutifully, Rosalyn took a sniff. The scent was woody but subtle and sophisticated, precisely what one would expect from a Parisian perfume.
“You’re right. It’s divine.”
“Emma got one for you as well,” said Blondine. “A different kind, though, so we don’t smell the same.”
“That’s so generous, and completely unnecessary,” said Rosalyn.
Emma waved her off. “Nonsense. Why bother visiting Paris if you’re not going to buy perfume? And you know how those salespeople can get, très snob. Qui se la pète? I love shocking them by buying the place out. What’s money for if not to embarrass snooty salespeople? Anyway, we tried to guess what would suit you, but if you don’t like it, feel free to regift it to a friend.”
“Que-ce que c’est ‘regift’?” asked Blondine.
Emma explained the concept to a confused Blondine while Rosalyn dabbed a bit of the amber liquid on her wrist. It was heavenly, a blend of jasmine tones over a base of bergamot and amber.
“I love it. Thank you so much. Did you get some for yourself? A signature scent?” asked Rosalyn.
“I already have more perfume than I can use in this lifetime,” said Emma.
Again, Rosalyn sensed a slight dampening of Emma’s usual upbeat nature. Was it the conversation they’d had before she left? Rosalyn should speak to her alone and clear the air; the only thing worse than experiencing grief was taking those feelings out on other people through anger. Emma had offered nothing but friendship and support; she certainly didn’t deserve that.
“One more thing,” Emma said as Blondine handed her a bag from Magasin Sennelier, an art supply store.
Rosalyn peeked inside to find a set of oil paints, brushes, and solvent.
“André insisted,” said Emma. “Drove us all over the Marais searching for just the right set. We found plenty at Rougier and Plé Filles du Calvaire, but they weren’t good enough. He wanted you to have the perfect one. He’s got several blank canvases in the car as well.”
Wordlessly, Rosalyn ran her hand over the beautiful set of paints. The gift of perfume was touching, but this was something else entirely. She glanced out the window, but André had long since disappeared.
“The shower’s great in the gîte, so I’m not about to complain about the accommodations,” continued Emma. “But good heavens, we need something to spruce up those guest rooms. Blondine keeps mentioning your sketches, and André noticed them the other day as well. Maybe you should make the walls your canvas, leave a little of yourself behind.”
“That’s a great idea,” said Blondine. “My mother helped with the decorations here in the tasting room, but my father and I don’t have much of a sense of these things. You should feel free to paint champagne on the walls!”
“Are you sure about that?” Rosalyn asked. “Wouldn’t you like to approve a sketch first?”
“Why?” Blondine said with a shrug. “I trust you. Besides, we’ll just have Pietro paint over it if we don’t like it.”
Rosalyn laughed. The idea appealed to her; it felt like permission to be a naughty child, painting the walls.
And then she sobered, remembering her news about Émile. She was on the verge of telling them when Emma announced: “Well. I’m beat. I’m heading to my room to root through my acquisitions, and perhaps take a petite sieste. Rosalyn, lovely to see you, as always. We’ll catch up soon. We have some stories to share, do we not, Blondine? Parisian stories.”
She limped out of the room on her crutches, two sets of eyes following her.
Rosalyn turned to Blondine. “What’s going on?”
“She sent me shopping one day,” said Blondine. “She didn’t want me to know where she was going, but André told me they went to the hospital.”
“Is there a problem with her leg?”
Blondine shrugged. “I can’t get a thing out of her. When I asked, she said something about André and beans—does that mean anything to you?”
“‘Spill the beans’ means ‘to reveal a secret.’”
“Ah, that makes sense now. In any event, Emma said it was just a routine checkup, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Her appointment was at the Hôpital Universitaire Pitié-Salpêtrière—Charles Foix.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It is a teaching hospital, known for research.” She paused. “I worry when people go to research hospitals. My grandmother was sent to one. It usually means they have something that can’t be easily cured.”
“You know how Emma is,” Rosalyn said, as she felt a stab of fear. “Probably just demanded the best physician in all of Paris look at her leg.”
“Maybe,” Blondine said, looking doubtful. “But if she wants to keep it to herself, I suppose that’s her choice. After all, we keep our own secrets, non?”
* * *
Rosalyn decided to wait to share the news of Émile’s fate until the three of them were together again. They had explored Émile’s journey together, and should grieve his death together. Returning to her room, Rosalyn paused in front of the door of Pinot Meunier but heard no movement. She didn’t want to disturb Emma if she was napping. Could Blondine be onto something? She had noticed Emma taking pills a few times, which she had claimed were vitamins.
Rosalyn had seen enough pills in her life to know that what Emma was taking were not simple nutritional supplements. Still, many people took medications for high blood pressure and a myriad of other ailments; Emma was in her fifties, old enough to have developed a few chronic issues. The thing was . . . Dash hadn’t told Rosalyn he was feeling ill for a very long time, until it was too late. Why hadn’t he confided in her?
She carried her gifts to Chambre Chardonnay and set the beautiful perfume bottle on her bedside table so she could sniff it at will. The new paint set she placed on the table, running her fingers over the tubes of pigment with reverence, reading the names aloud. “Phthalo green, barium yellow, bremen blue, celadon green, alizarin crimson . . .”
The thought of Emma being sick, really sick, filled Rosalyn with dread. She remembered the look on the doctor’s face when she referred Dash to a research hospital to explore experimental treatment options.
Still, it wasn’t any of Rosalyn’s business. Not to mention she had known Emma for only what—a few weeks? Was it simply being someplace new, or the fact that they were living together, that fostered this feeling of closeness to someone she hardly knew? There was an intensity to the relationship that made her understand why so many people had affairs while on vacation.
Affairs. Her mind went to Jérôme. After the lovely evening at his house, she had fled without explanation.
The truth was that he had stirred something in her that Rosalyn thought had died along with her husband. From the very first time she saw Jérôme in his fields, in the barely dawning light, something had drawn her to him . . . a yearning, a craving, a desire for closeness.
Intimacy. This was a loss that even the young widows’ support group had trouble discussing.
Rosalyn used to hunger for Dash’s touch. Even after they had been married for a while, their connection still burned, not as hot as it was in the very beginning but more intense, buoyed by their closeness, the experiences they had shared.
How could she hunger for another?
Jérôme had introduced her to his son, had noticed her new haircut, had shown her the Comtois collection and his family’s library. He was sending her signs, wasn’t he? She wasn’t even sure what that felt like anymore.
She should seek Jérôme out, to apologize for her abrupt departure.
And yet a part of her longed to remain in her cold lit
tle cocoon, insulated from the world. Rosalyn fiddled with the locket around her neck and recalled her horrific nightmare, Dash not allowing her to close the door of the medicine cabinet.
She made her decision.
Chapter Forty-three
Rosalyn dressed in warm clothes and set out walking. Jérôme wasn’t in his fields near the highway, but she spied plumes of smoke from small fires staining the sky, and a team of half a dozen workers bustling like busy ants, high on the hill.
She hiked up and found an impossibly old man, a middle-aged woman, and a few younger people clad in heavy wool sweaters and wearing fingerless gloves, with mud caking their rubber boots. They sat on little rolling stools, moving along the rows as they tended to one vine after another. In oil drums at the ends of the rows burned the clippings, providing warmth for cold fingers.
The scene reminded her of the battlefield séchoirs, and she felt an urge to capture the scene on canvas with her new paints. The impressionist painter Édouard Manet once said there were no true lines in nature, only areas of color coming together. She would prepare her palette with zinc oxide, cerulean blue, burnt umber, viridian green. . . .
“They’re tying up the vines,” said a voice behind her.
Heart thudding, Rosalyn turned to see Jérôme, dressed like the others in muddy boots and a heavy parka over a sweater. His cheeks were shaded by whiskers, and his mouth drew her attention. But as always, it was his eyes that captured her.
“I’ve seen the process, in Napa,” Rosalyn said. “But isn’t it early?”
“It is, yes, but we adjust our calendar to accommodate the weather.” He crouched down and pointed to where the canes were tied to the horizontal wire. “We use biodegradable twine to train the plant.”
She nodded, leaning over to see.
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