There was a brittle silence while the Kommandant considered Marie’s words. She stared him down, hands on hips and eyes blazing.
“Fine,” he finally clipped. “Take her out the side entrance.” He motioned toward the delivery doors at the side of the manor. “Then report straight back to the library!”
Afraid that he might change his mind if she hesitated again, Marie hoisted Elise to her feet and walked with her in the direction the Kommandant had pointed. A small Citroën cargo truck waited outside the door, nearly full with the boxes of documents, books, and small works of art the soldiers had been carting out of the manor for the better part of the afternoon. Marie ushered her friend toward the double doors open at the back of the truck.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re getting in there. I’ll help you climb into the back, and you’ll be at the château in no time.”
“I’m going in a truck?” Elise wailed.
Marie grabbed her friend by both arms and shook her. “Listen! There are no more cars out front. Frau Carpentier took the last of them. I don’t think the Kommandant has any plans to take you to the castle.”
“But the other mothers—”
“Are carrying SS children,” Marie said, disgust in her voice. “Yours is the child of a stable boy, Elise. It doesn’t matter to them whether you’re in a safe place or not when your baby is born.”
Elise stared at her friend, paralyzed by dread. When she finally spoke again, it was in a broken voice. “But they told me they’d take care of me. . . .”
Marie shook Elise again, conscious that the Kommandant might come searching for them if too much time passed. “They’re boches, Elise. They’ll do anything to preserve the Reich, and you and your baby don’t count for much in that equation right now. So either we get into this truck and hope the drivers will take us to the castle, or we stand here and wait for the Kommandant to come looking for us.”
“There’s no room in there for me,” Elise said, her voice rising again as she glanced into the packed truck.
“Shh,” Marie soothed. “We’ll make room.”
Elise’s hand gripped Marie’s arm so tightly that she flinched. Glancing at her friend, Marie saw the pallor of her face and the rigid set of her jaw. “Contraction?” she asked.
Elise nodded mutely, her eyes filling with tears of pain. “I think the baby’s coming,” she said, horror and awe dueling in her voice. “What am I going to do?” she begged. “Marie—what am I going to do?”
Marie climbed into the truck, quickly stacking some boxes and repositioning others until she’d carved out some room. She moved a small trunk to the center of the space and motioned for Elise to come forward. “Here,” she said, pulling her friend up into the truck. “You sit on this, and I’ll stand behind you, okay?” she coaxed, wondering if the stacks of boxes would withstand the bumps and turns between the manor and the castle.
At that moment, two guards came hurrying around the side of the building, headed for the truck. When they saw the young women—one sitting, one standing—in the back of the vehicle, they came to a simultaneous halt.
“Was machen Sie hier?” the taller one asked.
Marie stood as tall as her five feet four inches allowed and, in as authoritative a voice as she could muster, said, “This is the last of the residents. Kommandant Koch’s orders are that you get us to the castle now.”
The men hesitated, suspicion in their eyes.
“Listen, you can go back in there and check with the Kommandant if you’d like, but she might have her baby in your truck if you wait any longer!”
The mention of Koch’s name and the prospect of childbirth in their presence sent the men into action. They hurried to the truck, taking a good look at the precarious stacks of boxes surrounding the young women and, with an uncomfortable glance at each other, closed the girls into the back of the vehicle.
Though the small windows on either side of the truck were partially obscured by boxes, there was enough light in the close confines for Marie to see her friend’s pain. “We’ll be there in a couple minutes,” she said as the engine roared to life and the truck lurched forward. One of the boxes slipped and narrowly avoided falling on Elise’s head. Marie pushed it back into place and held it there with an outstretched arm. “Speak to me, Elise,” she said.
Her friend looked up at her with so much torture and fear that Marie nearly let go of the box to grasp Elise’s hand. “You can do this,” she said instead, trying to infuse confidence and energy into the words. “We’ll get you to the castle, and the nurses will be there to help you. You can do this, Elise. You hear me?”
“It’s too soon,” her friend said, a sob catching in her throat. “It’s five weeks early, Marie. Five weeks! Even with the nurses there, it might not . . .” Another sob interrupted her sentence. “And what about Karl?” she wailed. “What if he gets sent to the front? What if I never see him again? What if . . . ?”
“Premature babies survive all the time,” Marie said, the optimism in her voice not quite believable. “And Karl loves you. He’ll find his way back to you. He will. I know he will.”
“Don’t let them take my baby,” Elise pleaded, wracked by guttural sobs. Marie crouched down next to her friend in the crowded space and tried to soothe her. As the truck made a sharp turn, the box that had threatened to fall before toppled, hitting Marie’s back and rolling off onto the floor, scattering manila folders around the girls’ feet. As another contraction seized Elise, she rocked back, her head against the row of boxes behind her, biting her lip so hard that blood pearled around her teeth. Marie rubbed her arm and shushed her while her eyes skimmed the manila folders on the floor. Elise’s name, at the top of one of them, caught her eye.
With one hand still stroking her friend’s arm, she reached for the folder and flipped it open. Among lineage charts and medical reports were two pictures, one of Elise on the day she was admitted, a genuinely joyous smile radiating from the black-and-white paper. And one of Karl, standing erect in uniform next to an impressive stallion he held by the headstall. Marie handed the picture to her friend. “Look,” she said. “Look at what I found!”
Elise focused her eyes on the small photo in Marie’s hand and hiccupped, nearly smiling before a contraction sent her backward again, clutching her stomach and groaning. Marie pressed the picture into her friend’s sweaty hand and folded her fingers over it.
“Hold on to this,” she said. “Hold on to Karl.”
And while her friend cried out in agony, Karl’s picture crunched in her balled fist, Marie gathered the rest of Elise’s file together and slipped it into the waist of her skirt, under the white shirt of her uniform.
THE CASTLE GLOWED under the falling darkness of dusk. The dining rooms and ballroom were bright with the crystal-speckled light of Thérèse’s magnificent chandeliers. The Fallons’ guests strolled the ground floor with champagne glasses in their hands, taking in the period-perfect details that made of the once-lackluster rooms a vibrant showcase for historical objects, antique furniture, and the “nouveau vieux” juxtapositions of Thérèse’s visionary artistry.
Becker had spent the better part of the afternoon convincing himself that he had to attend the party, when all he’d really wanted to do was stay out of sight and observe the festivities from afar. He’d never been much for formal gatherings, and this one—at which he knew only the Fallons, Thérèse, and Jade—was particularly uncomfortable for him. When he’d placed a call to Gary the day before, he’d still had the firm intention of bowing out of the castle’s inaugural celebration.
“Are you kidding me?” Gary had asked.
“It’s just a party.”
“Yes, it is,” Gary said with emphasis. “It’s the party that marks the completion of T&B’s first project in Europe. So get your sorry self into that ballroom tomorrow night and drum up some more business, will you?”
Becker sighed. “Fine. But next time we do something like this, you’re flying over. This is more
your kind of gig than mine.”
“You happy with the results?”
“Yeah. Although I could have done without the last-minute drama.”
“Any news yet on the break-in?”
Becker chuckled. “If you’d seen the cops they sent out to investigate . . .”
“Not France’s finest?”
“Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Make that dumb with a b.”
There was something familiar and comforting about Gary’s chuckle as it reached Becker across the ocean. With his part of the château project now virtually completed, his future gaped like a void before him. It was a destabilizing feeling that had made his resolve teeter and tomorrow’s champagne seem a little too appealing.
“You booked your return ticket yet?” Gary asked.
“A week from yesterday. That’ll give me time to tie up loose ends before I leave.”
“Don’t work too hard, you hear? You’ve earned a little R&R.”
“We’ll see.”
After a few seconds of comfortable silence, Gary said, “Hey, try to enjoy the party.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Wash your hands before you eat, stay away from the champagne, steer clear of ill-intentioned females, and don’t bite anyone’s head off. That cover all the bases?”
“Shut up.”
Now, standing in the shadows at the foot of the grand staircase, Becker nursed the goblet of sparkling water he’d snagged from a passing waiter and observed the scene. Haute couture–clad guests stood in the entryway, their eyes taking in the graceful staircase, now restored to its original grandeur, the refinished marble floors, and the art Thérèse had tastefully hung in strategic places on the limestone walls. They wandered through the sitting room on their way to the dining rooms, oblivious to the story of the hanging tapestry that covered a portion of the wall. In the dining rooms the guests found impeccably restored floors, crown molding, and wainscoting, elaborate wall designs filled with period wallpaper, and window dressings that framed views of the circular drive completely surrounded with lanterns that flickered in the evening breeze. There was something magical about the atmosphere, but nowhere more so than in the ballroom.
Becker forced himself out of the shadows and made his way there, the lure of appetizers stronger than his reticence to socialize. The elegant room was bedecked with linen-covered, candlelit tables where trays of small sandwiches and other amuse-gueules were displayed. Guests mingled as they observed their surroundings, taking in the fine details of the remodel and complimenting the Fallons on the completion of their project.
Fallon and Sylvia stood by the fireplace, where a mellow fire burned orange. Sylvia’s flowing empire-waisted floor-length gown in a stunning shade of red draped her form to perfection. She was radiant, her face aglow with pleasure. Next to her, Fallon beamed in a black tuxedo. He caught Becker’s eye and motioned for him to join them. Becker shook his head.
“Come on, my lad,” Fallon insisted, his voice jovial and loud. “No use being shy when you’re the star of the show!”
Heads turned in Becker’s direction, preventing him from beating a hasty retreat. He forced a smile and walked over to the Fallons, shaking the hand his employer extended.
“Becker, I want you to meet Yves and Marilène Claudot,” he said in his British-laced French. “They’re quite impressed with what you’ve done here.”
“Thanks,” Becker said, eager to get away. “I’m pleased with the results.”
“Is that a québécois accent I hear?” Marilène asked, her interest piqued.
Becker saw his chance at escape slipping away. “I was born in Montreal. . . .” He paused as his eyes fell on Thérèse. She stood just outside the closed French doors that led from the ballroom to the small terrace, looking in through the glass, her bright-yellow dress vividly outlined against the darkness. Her face, slightly obscured by the reflections of light on the windowpane and the darkness beyond it, bore an expression of such intense emotion that Becker quickly excused himself and made his way out of the ballroom, entering the terrace through the doors under the grand staircase. When he got there, Thérèse was gone.
“Thérèse?” he called, somehow disturbed by his glimpse of the woman’s face.
No one answered. Beck walked over to the spot where Thérèse had stood and looked into the ballroom, taking in the animated conversations, the coming and going of champagne-bearing waiters, and the muted strains of the string ensemble that played just inside the ballroom’s doors. The scene might have belonged in a historical movie, framed as it was by tall windows and French doors, the long gowns and tuxedos of the guests lending an old-world glamour to the picture. Becker wondered what it was that had kept Thérèse frozen to that spot, contemplating the celebration with a look of utter sadness on her face.
The caterer’s maître d’ bustled into the ballroom and whispered something in Fallon’s ear. With the kitchen part of the remodel not yet begun, the Fallons had enlisted the assistant chef and waitstaff of an upscale Parisian restaurant to cater the event, and the meal was about to begin.
Fallon turned toward the guests and bellowed, “If I might have your attention!”
Becker found his place at the round table where the Fallons sat and eyed the empty seat Thérèse should have filled. As the guests were escorted to their places, Jade and the children entered from the office. They’d been sequestered in the north wing of the château since the portrait shoot that had taken place earlier in the afternoon. Becker had stood by and watched the family posing on his staircase—not his, theirs—and had felt something akin to satisfaction spreading in his chest. It had been a long time since anything that warm or positive had crossed his emotional landscape, and the realization sobered and discomfited him.
The first four courses went by unbearably slowly, though each was exquisitely prepared and displayed on elegant china plates. The sommelier hired for the evening paid special attention to the Fallons’ table, coming again and again to refill their wine glasses and extol the praises of the new bottles he introduced with every course. Tension mounting, Becker covered his crystal goblet each time the sommelier leaned his bottle over it, but by the time the cheese course came, he’d had enough. He pushed his chair back so hard that it groaned against the parquet, startling nearby guests into a moment of silence. “Sorry,” he said, raising a hand in apology. “I was just . . .” He caught Jade’s eye across the table and felt a pang of rebellion at the look of warning on her face. Without another word, he left the room.
Beck went straight from the dining room to his apartment, his heart beating too fast and his hands clammy. He threw himself down onto his bed, covered his eyes with his arm, and concentrated on calming his breathing. The combination of social stress and the sommelier’s repeated visits had pushed him frighteningly near to the limit of his self-control. The frantic busyness of the past few days had kept him too occupied or too exhausted to give much heed to the static that occasionally arose, but now that there were no more deadlines to meet or damages to repair, the static was becoming a more formidable enemy.
When his heartbeat had slowed and the initial intensity of the episode had passed, Beck levered himself off the bed and went to the window, opening it to let the fresh night air cool his body. Some of the lanterns around the drive had begun to go out, and the gap-toothed appearance of the interrupted circle seemed contradictory to the sounds of the Fallons’ lavish party reaching him from below. He saw a figure passing under the juniper trees that stood like sentinels along the stately stables and leaned forward, squinting into the night. Probably Jojo on his way back from the neighbor’s again. Beck wondered how much time he spent over there at night, calming the horses with his presence as he had on the boulevard weeks ago.
A creaking floorboard alerted Beck to someone’s presence in the apartment. He turned to find Jade standing in his doorway, looking uncomfortable. Neither of them said anything for what felt like an interminable moment. Beck fought down the sarcastic r
emarks that always seemed at their most vicious when his cravings peaked, and Jade looked surprised to find herself standing there.
“Did you want something?” Becker finally asked.
“The kids wanted to know why you haven’t come back to dinner.”
Becker raised an eyebrow, giving her time to amend her statement.
Jade rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said with a self-deprecating head shake. “I was wondering too.”
Part of Beck wanted to bark at her that he didn’t need a guardian. The other part was somewhat heartened by her statement. Before he could decide which of the two would win out, Jade said, “Mr. Fallon wanted you to know that you don’t have to come back down. He said something about forcing a square peg into a round hole and suggested that you’d be happier up here than sitting at the table.”
Beck nodded. “Thank him for me. The only thing that could talk me into going back into that dining room is exactly what made me leave in such a hurry.”
“I’m sorry about the sommelier,” Jade said, her gaze honest. “It’s just that a French dinner without wine . . .”
Beck held up his hand. “No need to explain. The problem’s mine, not Fallon’s.”
The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable again. Jade finally broke it. “I’ll put some dessert aside for you when it’s served. The chef’s crème brûlée is the reason the Fallons chose him, so . . .”
“Thanks,” Beck said, feeling stupid as he stood there staring at her with nothing to occupy his nerves.
Jade turned to leave, and Beck took a quick step toward her. “Wait!” he said, before he’d had the time to think of what he’d say next. Jade turned and looked at him, inquisitive. All Beck knew at that moment was that staying alone in his apartment would probably not bode well, and with the guests now moving out to the patio for fresh air between the last two courses, a frantic run around the property was out of the question. “Can you just . . . ?” He moved to the chair that sat against the wall by the window and pulled it forward. “Could you just sit? For a while? It’s just that—” He shrugged, embarrassed but determined.
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