I cleared my throat. “Have you broken off things with Starla?”
He leaned back against the wall. “I will be a good husband to you, Chloe.”
“Not if you’re sleeping with other women.”
“I will end it with her.”
I thought of Isabelle, jumping from stone to stone in the park, giggling as she raced down the metal slide. What if I hadn’t found out about Austin’s affair? We could have been having this conversation six or seven years from now, after we had a child of our own. His infidelity would have shattered our family.
“But for how long will you end it?” I asked.
His eyes hardened for a moment and then he met my gaze again, his smile creeping back. “I won’t be like my father, Chloe. Once we’re married, I will be faithful to you.”
I wanted to believe him, I really did, but it was impossible. Even if I forgave Austin and became his wife, his betrayal would cast a shadow over our entire marriage.
When I married, I wanted to love my husband with all my heart, knowing he would be faithful. It shouldn’t have mattered—didn’t matter—if my husband was the governor of Virginia. President of the United States, for that matter. I wanted to treasure the man I married, along with our children.
“I can’t marry you, Austin.” Why was it so hard for me to say it? “I thought I loved you, but I’ve discovered I don’t—not as a wife should love her husband.”
He didn’t seem fazed by my words. “It doesn’t matter, Chloe. Love is such an ambiguous word.”
“But it matters to me. I want to love well in my life. I want my husband to love me.” I paused. “Why didn’t you ask Starla to marry you?”
“She’s not from Virginia, nor is she—” He stopped. “I wanted to marry you.”
“That time in the coffee shop, when you spilled my latte.” I swallowed. “It wasn’t really an accident, was it?”
At least he had the decency to look down at his shoes.
He should have been ashamed.
“You’d already researched me.”
“Chloe—”
“You needed a wife to run for governor, and on paper you thought I would make a decent addition to your little team,” I said slowly. “So you staged our meeting.”
“Olivia thought you would be good for the campaign, but once I met you—”
“It was all smoke and mirrors.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out. There was a text from Riley.
Headed back to Saint-Lô.
When I smiled, Austin glanced at my phone. “Who is it?”
I looked up at him, the strength surfacing again. “It’s time for you to leave.”
Instead of getting into the car, he stepped toward the château. “I’m not leaving France without you.”
• • •
Riley strutted into the formal salon an hour later, his grandfather’s bomber jacket slung over his shoulder and his Moleskine journal clutched in his hand. I probably should have warned him about Austin’s arrival, but I was afraid if he knew Austin had dropped in, he might bypass Saint-Lô for the airport.
The smile on Riley’s face faded when he saw the man in the formal high-back chair sitting across from me.
Austin leapt up as if he was about to tackle Riley. “Who are you?”
Recognition flickered in Riley’s eyes. “I’m Riley Holtz.”
“Ah, the filmmaker.” And with that, Austin dismissed him.
Riley tossed his jacket over the back of the couch. “And what is your name?”
He sat back in the chair. “I’m Austin Vale,” he said as if he was Prince William and Riley was the pizza delivery guy waiting for a tip. Then he pointed at me. “Chloe’s fiancé.”
I shook my head. “We are no longer engaged, Austin.”
Riley glanced at me again, and I could see the concern in his eyes. “I was expecting a package from my parents. I thought it might have arrived—”
Austin stepped up to Riley. “If you would excuse us, we were in the midst of a discussion.”
Discussion wasn’t quite accurate. It was more like a congressman filibustering a vote. The familiar pounding had returned to my head, and I pressed my fingers against it. Oddly enough, my head hadn’t hurt after I ended the relationship with Austin, only when he showed up in France and refused to leave without me.
Clearly Austin Vale had no regard for people telling him no.
“Chloe . . .” Riley motioned toward the hallway, his eyes vacillating between worry and angst. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
Even though he no longer had any say as to where I went or with whom, Austin still swore under his breath when I agreed. Without a glimpse back, I slipped down into the kitchen.
Riley sat on the counter. “I thought you broke up with him.”
“I did.” I paced the floor in front of the fireplace. “He showed up here and somehow thought he could convince me that we should still marry.”
He searched my face. “Do you still want to marry him?”
“Of course not,” I said, but the concern in Riley’s eyes had turned into doubt. He didn’t believe me. “I’m still processing . . .”
Riley rubbed his hands together. “Will Austin love you for who you are or is his love dependent on what you will do for him?”
“It’s dependent on what I do for him.”
“So really Austin loves himself.” Riley hopped back down from the counter. “You have to decide with certainty what you want for your future.”
“I’ve already decided.”
“Then why is Austin still here?” His dark green eyes seemed to sink into mine, and my skin flushed. In that moment, I wasn’t thinking at all about the man waiting for me upstairs.
Questions knotted together in the pit of my stomach, and strength began to fill me again. Wonder at the man in front of me. I reached for Riley’s hands, like he’d done with me at the park. But this time he jumped away from me. As if I’d burned him.
I pulled back my hands, crossing them under my arms. Tears began to pool in my eyes, and I squeezed them shut, willing my emotions to flatline.
I wanted—I didn’t know what I wanted except . . .
Right now, I wanted to be alone.
Riley leaned back against the counter. Quiet.
“I’m sorry . . . ,” I finally said.
He shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I stepped toward the door. “I’m going to tell him to leave.”
The tears were gone as I stood in front of Austin and told him once and for all that our relationship was over. There would be no wedding—not even a postponed one. And this time Austin believed me. Before I finished talking, he rushed out of the château and climbed into his car.
I stood in the dust, and for the first time since I’d left New York, I was grateful. Grateful that he’d cheated on me. Grateful that I’d been able to tell him how I felt. Grateful that he was gone from the château.
But I wasn’t sure what to do about the man still left inside.
Chapter 47
The starlight made the tree limbs look like spindly gray webs painted on a black canvas. The village of beehives was silent for the night, but twigs and dried leaves crackled under the feet of the airmen. Each time the forest broadcast their presence, the Americans stopped and listened.
The hawthorns became denser along the path, and Gisèle urged them along quickly, her own heart beating at a rapid pace as she whispered prayers to her mother, begging her to petition God for guidance. She hadn’t been back to the cellar since she’d found Adeline.
Eddie stopped in front of a beehive. “Where are we?”
“Near a friend’s house,” she whispered back.
“But—”
“You must trust me, but I must trust you as well. You can tell no one of this place.”
A dog barked in the direction of town, and both men readily agreed.
Glowworms sprinkled green light in
the grass, and she heard one of the men whisper, “They look like fireflies.”
She hushed him and listened again for the sound of German voices, the pulse of foreign footsteps nearby. All she heard was the rustle of leaves in the wind and the steady flow of the Vire.
The root cellar had to be close, somewhere among these hives. If only she could shine her flashlight into the trees, but with the houses in town shrouded in blackout curtains, it would be a beacon to the enemy and to the Allies alike.
So she stumbled forward in the darkness, feigning confidence in what she could not see, trusting her heavenly Father to guide her. She didn’t dare tell the Americans her fears. If she couldn’t find it, they would all be taken away.
There were no markings to guide her, but the moonlight glazed a silver sheen along the path. The next time she pushed back a spray of branches, she saw a rock pile in front of them.
Relief escaped her lips in a long sigh and she reached for the rope handle of the stone room, tugging the door open. It was brilliant of her ancestors to put this entrance in a cellar, hidden among the beehives. The people of Saint-Lô had probably avoided this place for centuries, and foreigners would certainly avoid the hives.
The room reeked of moldy potatoes and animal droppings, but she was more concerned by the rustling of tiny feet, shuffling into the corners.
Moving aside a stack of empty baskets, she found exactly what she’d hoped for—a small door set into the floor. She tugged on it, in case Michel had left it unlocked, but it didn’t budge. As she removed the rosary from her neck, she prayed that the same key that opened the chapelle and the iron gate and the closet in the sacristy would open this lock as well.
She turned it slowly, unlocking the hatch, and when she lifted the door, Eddie whistled.
“Hush,” she commanded again.
This time he responded with a low rumble of a laugh. “I’ll apologize later.”
She flipped on her flashlight and urged them quickly down the ladder, into the cavern. Along the tunnel, they stepped over pans and newspapers and passed by small rooms cluttered with bedrolls and clothing, the crevices where her ancestors and some of the townspeople hid during the French Revolution.
The next time Eddie whistled, she didn’t scold him. “Who lives down here?” he asked.
“Members of the French Resistance.”
“We’ve heard rumors about them . . .”
She stepped over another stack of papers. “I don’t know that word. Rumors.”
“It means ‘stories.’ ”
“Ah,” she replied. “Rumeurs.”
He shrugged.
“The rumeurs are probably true.”
The stench of rotting food and urine drifted through the tunnel, and her anger flared. How could her brother and the other men live like this? It was atrocious that the gentlemen of France were forced to huddle down here in this stench like rodents. Trolls. Even as they fought for France, they were refugees in their own country. The Germans were making animals out of them all.
“How is your arm?” she asked of the man trailing behind them.
“Tolerable.”
“My brother will know how to help you.”
Daniel tripped, and Eddie caught him. “Is your brother down here?”
“He travels much, but he is in charge of the men who stay here.”
There was pride in her voice, and she realized it was the first time she’d been able to tell someone about Michel’s work. He could have hidden away in England with their grandparents, ignored the plight of his country to protect himself. For almost four years the Nazis had tried to stop him, yet he chose to continue the fight for France and for the people being persecuted in their country. So many had given up, resigned themselves to their occupants’ presence, but he never quit. These Americans were fighting hard in the skies for her country, and she was immensely proud of the work her brother was doing on the ground as well.
“Perhaps your brother can help us get home,” Eddie said.
“Perhaps . . .” She slowed her walk. “How long will the Allies fight?”
“Until Hitler is gone,” Eddie said.
His words brought her peace. “Sometimes it feels as if the Germans will never leave.”
“There are thousands upon thousands of soldiers across the Channel, waiting to fight,” Eddie said. “It won’t be long before the rest of our men will join your brother in fighting on French soil.”
Every day she woke up afraid the Germans would find out she’d never married, that Philippe would return again and take Adeline from her, that they would uncover her brother’s hiding place.
She was tired of living in fear.
The stench of human waste grew stronger, along with a cloud of cigarette smoke that hovered in the narrow tunnel, but they pressed on until the dull light in front of her merged with the edge of her beam.
“Wait here,” she commanded before tiptoeing forward.
She peeked into the large room where she’d found the cigarette butts and bedding before. This time, the room was packed with men, about thirty of them, leaning against the walls or huddling around the lanterns on the floor, reading newspapers or quietly playing cards. Most of them were terribly thin, with clothes more like strands of thread dangling from their skin.
Where had they all come from? Her pittance of food wouldn’t have done much to feed this many men, but it had been something to support them, to show she was resisting instead of just strengthening their enemy.
When she stepped into the room, the men quieted and they all turned to stare at her.
Michel elbowed his way through them. “Gigi, I—”
She stopped him before he began to lecture her again about coming into the tunnel. “The Nazis shot down an American plane in the valley.”
His mouth dropped open before he spoke. “Were there any survivors?”
She nodded slowly. “At least two of them.”
He stepped forward, his eyes wide. “Where are they?”
She cleared her throat. “In the tunnel, behind me.”
In the dim light, she watched his gaze falter between frustration and curiosity and perhaps even hope. “You weren’t supposed to tell anyone about this place,” he said, but there was no threat in his tone, as if he was speaking out for the sake of the men waiting behind him.
“I had to hide them, Michel.” She glanced at the faces of the men. “And it seems like half of Saint-Lô already knows about your tunnel.”
He swept his arm out beside him. “I trust my life to any of these men.”
“And you told me to trust the Americans as well.”
Michel buttoned the top button on his shirt. “We were just preparing to leave for the night.”
She shivered. What were they planning?
“Perhaps they can rest here until you return.” She hesitated. “One man has injured his arm.”
When Michel stepped into the corridor, most of the men continued whispering or playing their card games. Except one man. His gaze rested on her face, and even though his face was smudged with dirt like the others, his jawline shaded with whiskers, this man smiled at her.
When he stepped forward, her stomach somersaulted. “Do you remember me?” he asked.
She was almost afraid to speak with him but forced herself to answer. “I believe I do.”
“I’m Jean-Marc,” he said. “We went to primary school together.”
“Rausch.” She wrapped her arms across her chest. “Your name is Jean-Marc Rausch.”
He smiled again, as if he were pleased that she remembered him. She was pleased as well—that he was safe, hidden in the tunnel, and that the Germans, or Philippe, couldn’t interrogate him down here.
She rubbed her arms. “A lot has happened since primary school.”
“What has happened to you?” he asked.
She almost told him what she had done, how she had taken his name as her own, but Michel stepped into the room, the two airmen behind him. “D
aniel’s arm is broken, but our doctor can set it,” he said to her before he turned back to the airmen. “If we can find someone to make you papiers d’identité, I have a friend who can escort you down to Spain and arrange your transport back to Great Britain.”
“We will need photographs to make identity papers,” Gisèle said.
“We have pictures.” Eddie opened his backpack. “In our emergency kits.”
Gisèle took the photographs from him and Daniel. “Then I’ll try and obtain papers for both of you.”
Eddie hugged her and Daniel carefully shook her hand. She might never see them again, yet they were all fighting together.
Michel escorted her toward the ledge. “Where will you get the papers?” he asked.
“I have a friend . . .”
“Be careful, Gigi.”
She nodded. “Are you afraid?”
In the dim light, she saw compassion in his eyes. “Of course.”
“Yet you continue to fight . . .”
“Courage doesn’t mean you stop being afraid.” He kissed her cheeks. “It means you continue to fight, even when you’re terrified.”
All these years, she’d thought her brother wasn’t afraid of anything.
As she climbed the steps to the chapelle, she tucked the men’s photographs into her brassiere and brushed the leaves out of her hair, the dust off her skirt. No matter how worn she was, no matter how afraid, she would continue to fight.
“Madame Rausch!” the patrolman called out as she moved through the cemetery. “It is not safe for you to be out tonight.”
Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him. “It is not safe to pray?”
He shook his head.
As he escorted her back to the château, he didn’t seem to notice the smell of damp moss or perspiration on her clothes. Nor did he notice the trembling in her hands or the prayers that slipped from her lips.
It might not have been safe to pray, even in the darkness, but on nights like this, she needed to pray even more. For courage for herself, in spite of her fears. For Eddie and his navigator. For Jean-Marc and Michel. For André and Nadine. And for all those aboveground with her trying to keep the earth from cracking wide open and swallowing the people they loved.
Chateau of Secrets: A Novel Page 24