“Well, that’s just preposterous,” Thérèse clucked. “Who would lower a flashlight down a well and leave it there?”
“Jojo?” Philippe asked. The kids were clearly intent on making the mysterious old man the protagonist of this story.
“Whoever did it,” Beck said, putting special emphasis on whoever, “probably didn’t intend to leave the rope and flashlight down there.” He glanced at the shattered cement slab lying at the foot of the well. “They might have been startled when the cover fell off and shattered. . . .”
“And they just let go of the rope?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Interesting theory, Sherlock,” Jade said. “Do you think we should dust for fingerprints or something?”
Beck turned on her, taking the flashlight from her hand. “You’re mocking me.”
She smiled. “I am indeed.”
“Well, whatever the explanation is,” Thérèse said, “I’m just glad the structure wasn’t damaged. It might not look like much now, but with the right kind of landscaping around it and some creativity, it could make a stunning water feature.”
Beck raised an eyebrow. “A well as a water feature? How original.”
Eva hadn’t finished working herself into a terror. “I think Jojo did it,” she whispered loudly enough for all of them to hear.
Philippe nodded with the vigor of conviction. “He was looking for a treasure, but he didn’t find it ’cause he dropped the flashlight.”
“And now the treasure is stuck at the bottom of the well and nobody can get to it,” Eva finished with the kind of dramatic flair that might have earned her a role on Broadway.
“Why does it have to be Jojo?” Beck asked them, hands on hips.
Twin sets of shoulders hunched up in an “I don’t know” gesture that made Jade laugh. “All right, you two. Let’s leave Mr. Becker to find the culprit and get back to our books.”
“But . . .”
“I promise you he’ll let us know just as soon as he traps the bad guy, Philippe,” Jade added, lowering her voice to a dramatic purr on “bad guy.” The boy seemed satisfied with the promise.
“You tell us, okay?” Eva’s soft voice held fascination and command.
Beck snapped a salute as the trio walked away. “You’ll be the first to know.” As an afterthought, he added, “But don’t go accusing Jojo of anything! There’s no reason to think he did this!”
At least, that was what Becker chose to believe. There were so many tugs-of-war being waged in his head that he didn’t need to add another to the mix. Whoever had done this must have had a good reason. Beck wondered as he walked away if it was the same reason that had prompted the late-night excavating under the patio.
JANUARY 1944
MARIE WAS in the laundry room, scrubbing stubborn bloodstains out of cotton sheets, when Elise found her. She leaned back against the doorjamb, sighing dramatically, clearly waiting for Marie to ask her about the ball.
Marie wasn’t in the mood for listening to her friend wax romantic about the Nazi of her dreams and was tempted to let the silence stretch until Elise got bored and went away, but it was not to be.
“Ask me about the ball!” Elise chimed when Marie failed to broach the topic. She had the look of a cat after a five-course canary meal.
Marie scrubbed a little harder, taking some of her worry for Elise out on the soiled linen. “Tell me about the ball,” she mumbled.
“It was . . . grand,” Elise gushed, her eyes on the ceiling, as if a reenactment of the event were being projected on its white surface. “The castle was . . .” Her excitement got the best of her, and she ran behind her friend, wrapping her arms around Marie’s waist as she continued to stare off at the scene she was reliving. “It was magical, Marie. There were lanterns all the way around the lawn out front. Flowers everywhere, even in the bathroom! And waiters and a chamber orchestra in the ballroom. And the canapés—Marie, you should have seen the canapés! They were tiny little edible works of art.”
Marie pried the arms from around her waist and turned to face her friend, leaning back against the washboard. “I’m glad you had fun, Elise.”
Elise studied her face for a moment. “No, you’re not. You’re not happy at all!”
“Elise.”
“But if you had been there . . .” She twirled gracefully as if she were in her partner’s arms on the ballroom’s polished floor. “The ladies all wore dresses of the most exquisite fabrics. Silks and taffetas and Chantilly lace. And their hair. Oh, Marie, you should have seen their hair. It was all so . . . so elegant!”
Marie couldn’t help but smile, albeit sadly. Her friend was entertaining on the most common of days, and this post-Cinderella’s-ball version of Elise was as endearing as it was disquieting. “Did Karl treat you right?” she asked.
Elise paused in her exuberance and met Marie’s straightforward gaze. “He treated me like I was made of china. Marie, he treated me like I was made of gold . . .”
Their gazes held for a moment longer before Marie turned back to her scrubbing, alternating salt and vinegar on the stubborn stains. “And is he a good dancer?” she asked. “Or do you have bruised feet to show for your adventure?”
“He dances like a Greek god,” Elise breathed.
This made Marie pause again, hand on hip. “Elise, what on earth do you know about Greek gods?”
Elise giggled. “I know they dance like Karl,” she offered. She took the sheet Marie had been working on to the tub on the tall counter by the window and immersed it in bleachy water while Marie riffled through a laundry basket for her next cleaning project.
“Were there any townspeople there?”
Elise was silent for a moment before answering, in a much more serious voice, “A few of them. The caterers who provided the wine and hors d’oeuvres . . . and a couple others.”
“And they recognized you?”
“They spoke to me in French, so . . . yes, I guess they did.” A sad edge had crept into her voice. It seemed her magical night had not been all magic after all.
Marie wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the window where Elise, arms folded over her stomach, stared out at the woods just outside the manor’s gates. “What did they say to you when they spoke to you in French?” she asked.
Elise bit her lip. “They called me a traitor. . . .” She averted her gaze, but not before Marie had seen the tears gathering there.
“Elise,” she said, her hand on her friend’s back.
“It’s not fair!” Elise protested. “I’m no less French than they are.”
“But . . .” Marie didn’t know how to make her see the villagers’ point of view. “But they saw you dance with a Nazi,” she finally explained, trying to sound sensitive, but intent on getting her point across. “They saw you talking with him and laughing with him. They saw you eating the food and drinking the champagne they had served the Nazis. They know you’re French, but, Elise, if you work for the boches and have a relationship with a boche and dance with him at a ball hosted by the boches for the boches . . . what do you expect their conclusion to be?”
A tear rolled down Elise’s cheek. “Maurice spit at me,” she said, taking in a hiccupping breath.
“He did?”
She nodded. “He walked right up to me as I was waiting for Karl to come back with our drinks and he spit at me.” She turned watery eyes on her friend. “And then he just—walked away.”
Marie’s hand traced slow circles on Elise’s back. “Are you sure it’s worth it?” she asked. Then, as Elise looked at her quizzically, she added, “Are you sure you love Karl enough to go through this—to risk what you’re risking?”
Elise nodded, her blonde curls bobbing and her eyes determined. “He said he wants to marry me.”
Marie felt her lungs constrict. “He wants to—?”
“Not right now,” Elise added, some excitement coming back into her gaze. “But soon. When the war is over.”
“E
lise . . .”
“He said his family owns a lot of land near Heidelberg where we can build a home and breed horses.” Cheeks flushed with excitement, she took her friend’s hand and squeezed it. “And you can come and visit us. You can live with us if you want!”
“Wait! How can you be sure this is what you want? Why raise horses in Germany when your home is right here—in Lamorlaye—and your family—”
“Stop trying to be my conscience, Marie,” Elise interrupted, her face and voice suddenly hardening. “You don’t know what it is to love someone and to want to spend the rest of your life with him.”
“You’re right, but . . . Elise, he’s a boche!”
Elise’s face lit up with the kind of pride that made Marie’s skin crawl. “He wants me to serve the Führer with him, to obey Himmler’s order to bear children who will restore the Aryan race.”
“Elise . . .”
She turned on Marie with a hysterical sort of intent on her face. “Don’t try to talk me out of it!” she nearly yelled. “Just—don’t! Karl says it’s our duty to repopulate the Reich. Just like all the women in the manor are doing! You see how they’re treated,” she continued, her voice now nearly pleading. “They’re special, Marie. They’re doing something that has . . .” She searched for the right word. “Something that has a higher purpose. If I can bear a baby for the Führer . . .”
“Elise, stop it!” Marie grabbed her friend’s arms and shook her, trying to jar the enraptured expression from her face. “You’re talking nonsense. You’re not old enough to have children. And the war isn’t over. The Nazis might not win, you know. And then what? What do you do then with your bastard baby?”
The slap resounded in the room like the crack of a whip. Marie covered her cheek with a hand that shook from shock and horror. Elise raised her chin and gave Marie a look so cold that it sent a shiver down her spine. “Don’t ever speak of my baby that way again,” she said, her voice low and threatening. “Nor of the man I love, nor of the Führer.”
“Elise . . .” Marie was at a loss for words. She knew her friend loved Karl but had never suspected that the love would lead to treason. “Just wait. Okay? Before you . . . do anything about having a baby. Give it a little more time.”
Elise moved toward the door, stopping to turn to Marie before she exited. There was a dreamy smile on her face when she said, “It might already be too late for that.”
THE PROGRESS BEING MADE in the castle was astonishing. On a rainy Friday morning, Fallon, Thérèse, and Becker toured the site, consulting with the artisans and master craftsmen they encountered and marveling both at the extent and beauty of the work already accomplished. In the two adjoining dining halls, the crown molding and wainscoting had been painstakingly removed and restored, several layers of paint steamed and scraped off each piece to return the artistic accents to their rich wood finish. Several layers of old wallpaper had also been stripped and the plaster beneath them prepared for the wall treatments Thérèse had ordered. They would be covered with two different historically accurate patterns printed on modern wallpaper and the artistic use of molding designs.
The passageway between the dining rooms and the kitchen had been used as a food preparation site in decades gone by. Originally, floor-to-ceiling built-in cupboards had lined one wall, and a giant cutting board across the room sported a sort of guillotine intended to make quick work of slicing French baguettes. The floor in this area had previously been covered in old, cracked tiles now replaced with small, unglazed marble tiles in shades of gray and brown. The cupboards had been ripped out, and Thérèse had ordered some new organizational features for the space. She liked to call the style she’d selected for this area and the kitchen “nouveau vieux,” which, translated, meant “new old.” The men had to agree, almost reluctantly, that her choice was in keeping with the colors and lines of the dining halls, while modern and spacious enough to add practicality and efficiency to the room. Thérèse tried to hide her pleasure at their praise and failed miserably. She glowed with satisfaction and expressed her pride with a nonstop flurry of words that threatened to sap Becker of whatever sanity he still possessed.
Becker led the trio into his office to show Fallon the progress he was making on the staircase features. Fallon looked around, taking in the workbench crowded under the window, the thick layer of wood chips on the floor, and the draped sheets protecting the furniture in the sitting area.
“Made yourself at home, did you?” he asked, smiling.
Becker realized that he hadn’t consulted with his boss before making the office his carpentry studio. “I just thought it would be more practical . . .”
Fallon interrupted his explanation with a hearty thump on the back. “No need to explain yourself, my lad. I can see this office is serving you well, and that’s exactly what it was intended for.”
They’d spent a few more minutes discussing the progress of the project when there was a quick knock on the door. Sylvia poked her head into the room. “I thought I heard my husband’s voice,” she said, smiling at him as she entered. “Mr. Becker,” she said, “I hope you’ll forgive me, but we have a doctor’s appointment—” she glanced at her watch—“a half an hour ago, so I’m going to have to forcibly remove your boss from the premises!” She linked an arm through her husband’s as she spoke and gently propelled him toward the door. “Nice to see you, Thérèse! That shade of red looks just beautiful on you.” She was at the door now, pushing Fallon out. “I’m sure he was very pleased with your progress, Mr. Becker,” she said, turning to smile at him, then calling out the door, “Weren’t you, love?”
“I was indeed,” came Fallon’s jovial reply from the landing outside the office.
Sylvia was just about to pull the door closed when Thérèse took a few furtive steps forward and interrupted her. “Madame Fallon!”
Sylvia stepped back into the room, clearly preoccupied by the passing time. “Please. Call me Sylvia.”
“Sylvia, then. I’m just wondering how you’re feeling,” she said.
Becker frowned and took a closer look at the high-strung woman whose eagerness to ask about her employer’s wife’s health seemed just a little excessive. She seemed to be torn between staring with odd intensity at Sylvia’s swollen belly and averting her eyes from the sight.
“With the baby, I mean,” Thérèse answered. “Is everything all right?”
Sylvia too seemed a bit nonplussed by Thérèse’s concern. “I’m doing fine, Thérèse. I’m . . .” A thought struck her. “Oh—you’re referring to the doctor’s appointment!”
“Yes, of course. You mentioned that you were seeing him this morning, and . . .”
“Her. We’re seeing her. And it’s just a routine checkup. Nothing to worry yourself about.”
“Oh, good.” Thérèse sounded genuinely, deeply relieved. She fingered her pendant, a flush on her neck and cheeks, her eyes earnest. “One just doesn’t know. Pregnancies can be so . . . unpredictable, sometimes. And even with modern medicine . . .”
Sylvia smiled and said, “I’m sure everything is just fine, Thérèse.” She nodded at Beck. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you both.”
When the door closed behind her, Thérèse’s tension collapsed in a visible way. She let out a shaky breath and grabbed the backrest of the couch with an unsteady hand.
“Thérèse,” Beck said, a little embarrassed by the woman’s behavior, “she’s the pregnant one, you know. There’s no need to work yourself up about someone else’s baby.”
“No—of course not,” Thérèse conceded. “It’s just that—you know—” She seemed to be racking her mind for a plausible explanation. “I’ve come to care about the Fallons, and I guess I get a little overprotective of those I feel close to.”
“Yeah, well—your overprotective is someone else’s over-the-cuckoo’s-nest, so you might want to put a lid on the hysterics.” He realized too late that his words had been unnecessarily harsh. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Thé
rèse cut in before he could say anything.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her back once again ramrod straight, “I’ve got some wallpapering to attend to.” And she marched out of the office.
Sundays were the only day of the week when his meal routine was altered. The kids were home with their parents on that day, and Jade spent only enough time at the castle to bring Beck croissants for breakfast and fix him lunch. They had agreed that he’d snack on leftovers for dinner and allow Jade to spend some time at home.
It was nearly one when he realized there had been no sign of life from the kitchen, and he went out to investigate. Jade’s purse hung on the hook next to the back door and there were some groceries on the counter, but the kitchen was otherwise empty. Beck went to the sink to start some coffee percolating and looked through the bags of groceries. There was broccoli, potatoes, cheese, and a pot of cream. Anyone else might have known how to turn those ingredients into a meal, but Beck’s culinary specialties were Kraft mac and cheese, microwave popcorn, and Thai takeout. Anything beyond that was Greek to him.
He had his head in the fridge and was scrounging for leftovers when he heard the door open. Jade smiled when she saw him and immediately raised a hand in apology. “I’m so sorry it’s so late . . . ,” she began.
“Well, it’s about time you showed up. Look at me. One more minute without food and the UN would be sending in a humanitarian convoy.”
Jade sent him a small smile and hung her coat on the usual hook, grabbing an apron and moving slowly toward the bagged groceries on the counter. “I’ll have it on the table in fifteen minutes.”
There was something in her demeanor that caught his attention. Maybe it was the slight shuffle of her feet or the look of forced concentration on her face. Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that she hadn’t made eye contact with him since she’d arrived.
“Um . . .” He was slightly out of his league here. Sensitivity had never been a strong suit. “Are you sure you’re up to cooking? I mean . . . there are leftovers in the—”
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