Tante Joséphine has been a comfort to me, but she and Maman have begun to argue over the menus and the gardens, and the best place for the sideboard in the drawing room. For my sake, I hope they find peace. I don’t yet know what I would do without her. Poor Gilles. I still hate what has become of our lives, and I remain unhappy that we’re married, and yet with the combination of sleeping on the settee and being woken up by my nightmares, even I have noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes, the way he moves as if in pain each morning.
I overheard one of the hands teasing him about it, assuming that our nightly amour had taken its toll on him.
I suppose it’s a good thing that the hands believe we’re a married couple in all ways, and yet I felt my face flush with embarrassment.
That morning, after breakfast, I asked if he would take a walk in the garden with Gabrielle and me. Once we were well away from the house, I asked if he wanted to move to a different room, and when he declined, I told him that if he meant to stay in the room, he may as well sleep in the same bed.
Gilles flushed red, which I pretended not to notice.
It’s a large bed. And Anouk will be there.
I wish life wasn’t as it is, but the fact of the matter is that this man is my husband and he’s suffering on my account.
I wish it were otherwise, Gabriel, but you left us in this precarious position. If you hadn’t died, you know, Gilles would be sleeping in his own bed at his parents’ home…though perhaps it is better to be on a settee at the chateau than under the same roof as Madame Bessette.
As this is my private journal, I can write here that I would rather sleep in a barn than share a home with that woman.
At any rate, he accepted my invitation (which sounds so much more salacious than it actually is), and gave one of his own—for the three of us to drive into the village market to purchase grocery goods with which to teach him to cook.
I considered rescinding my offer. Just because I don’t want him to sleep miserably on the settee doesn’t mean he and I are friends, or that I want to teach him to cook.
Is that ungrateful of me? It’s true that he’s given up the chance to marry some nice, simple girl in the village and married me instead, giving Gabrielle and me the protection of his name. Yes, it is ungrateful, but I miss you so terribly I can’t manage to feel bad about it.
But Gilles looked so tired that I agreed to the trip to the village. The man’s been waking me from nightmares and bringing me water, and I’m not the cold hag that I try to convince everyone that I am.
I dressed for town and made an effort, since I knew that this would be the first time the two of us would be seen—and discussed—as a couple.
If only it could have been us. I would have introduced you to Remy, who runs the café, and to Marcel, who stocks the best produce at his stand.
I would have taken you to the bakery, where the bread is good, and the patisserie, where the pastries are not. Everyone would have admired what a charming couple we made, how well spoken you were. You might have suggested to the pastry chef how to chill the butter longer, how to create a flakier croissant, and the entire village would have celebrated the day you arrived.
But instead Gilles and I walked through town, and the town was not as I left it. The rations had taken their toll on the villagers. I carried Gabrielle, who looked fetching in a white sundress that would remain white for about fifteen minutes.
I helped Gilles choose fruit, telling him what to look for in peaches, aubergines, heirloom tomatoes, and blackberries. These were terribly expensive—the shortages, you know—but I paid extra just the same, knowing it would help the families with less than mine.
Rather than scoff at how selective I was being, he listened carefully and asked a few questions.
But we didn’t shop unnoticed. Everyone who knew us stopped to say hello, to meet Gabrielle, to marvel at the news of our marriage, to swoon over the romance of it all.
That was the hardest, the ladies who were convinced it was romantic, how we’d married quietly in Toulouse and returned with our beautiful child. There were winks from those who, of course, believed Gabrielle was our love child.
I forced a smile until my head ached with the strain. When the strain began to show, Gilles apologized and said I’d been recovering from a recent illness.
Gilles apologized once we returned to the car. “I didn’t realize it would be like that,” he said.
I held Gabrielle close as the car bounced over the road. “I was a curiosity enough before I left,” I told him. “Returning home with a husband and child—people were bound to be interested.”
He nodded and studied the road as he drove, which I appreciated. And then he said he thought I was brave, and that Gabrielle charmed everyone, and that he could go to town next time and spare us the trip.
I told him that while the trip had been difficult, it hadn’t been the most difficult.
It feels strange to be riding together with Gilles. We used to drive together before, that lifetime ago when we courted and became engaged. To think that here we were again, accompanied by my daughter—such strange times.
Nobody says anything at any meal, to anybody. All the passengers are very dismal, and seem to have tremendous secrets weighing on their minds.
—CHARLES DICKENS
We were quiet after the reading. I tucked the bookmark in place, feeling guilty. Would it be better to read alone? I shoved the idea away quickly.
My family had suffered losses, yes. But we were resilient. And we knew that the owner of the diary, Mireille, had been a woman of great strength. As I placed the book on the table, I reminded myself that while the story felt sad and difficult now, we had more than a glimpse at the ending. We had to hang on, as readers, to let Mireille tell her story in its entirety—the hard parts that we knew had to fold into the better days.
Still, there was a time for balance.
“Let’s make ravioli today,” I said.
Letizia cheered, Caterina clapped, and I felt a relief in their response.
We cleared the breakfast plates and cleaned the kitchen first.
Nelson, Damian, and Riccardo took the children outside while the rest of us piled into the kitchen. We cleaned the farmhouse table thoroughly before weighing out the flour and cracking eggs. I showed Neil how to work the eggs into the fine flour, and we laughed as all of us began to knead at the same time. My father began singing his favorite song, “Io Che Non Vivo,” and my zio, zia, Letizia, and Caterina all joined in. I sang along, singing the lyrics to Neil.
He leaned close and pressed a kiss to my lips. “Ti amo,” he said, before returning to his dough.
My heart felt so full, I thought it might burst.
We let our balls of dough rest for an hour. Some of the family members returned, others sought out a quiet place to read or gathered for a raucous game of cards.
Because there were two pasta makers, I showed Neil how to use one, Sophie used the other, and Letizia, Caterina, and Nico all competed for who could roll the best ravioli dough by hand.
Letizia won.
Meanwhile, Sandrine and Chloé made the filling with ricotta, spinach, and parmesan, seasoning it with salt, pepper, and a little nutmeg.
We made long strips of dough and plopped teaspoons of the filling on top before placing a top strip of dough, cutting the squares, and crimping the edges.
“I had a roommate in college whose aunts spent a weekend in December making tamales,” Neil said as we prepared another row of raviolis. “This reminds me of that.”
“And they freeze,” I said. “Like tamales. Though with a group this size, it still won’t last long.”
We paused for lunch, enjoying leftovers from the previous night, before pressing to finish the ravioli. By the end, Neil felt proficient in using the pasta maker and even tried his hand at rolling out the dough.
After a dinner of ravioli in a butter and sage sauce, served with roasted carrots and broccolini, I reached to the side
board for the diary.
“Let me read,” Sophie said. “I’ll take a turn.”
I handed the diary to her and watched as she found her place. “ ‘My dearest Gabriel,’ ” she began. “ ‘Our sweet Alice is now at the chateau.’ ”
I closed my eyes and let the words wash over me, picturing Mireille at her writing desk, processing the twists her life had taken.
I’ve not seen her for seven weeks. Her adoption by Cécile is quite legal, or as legal as it could be with her forged papers.
She prefers Cécile. I have not held her; she has not reached for me.
The household made a celebration of her arrival, and I celebrated along with them. She is here. She is safe. She is under the protection of Richard and Cécile, as well as Françoise’s son Luc’s reputation as a French hero.
She is safe. That is all that matters.
My dearest Gabriel,
While Alice may not feel at ease with me, she has not forgotten her sister. Is it the fact that they shared my womb, a little over a year ago? Gabrielle is over the moon to have her sister back. They clap and make nonsense conversation and scuffle over toys.
Cécile is genuinely good with her. They sit together, Richard and Cécile and Alice: the very image of a young family.
Alice is safe. That is all that matters.
My dearest Gabriel,
I ache for my daughters, the feeling of having them both safe in my arms. I ache, and I don’t know what to do about it.
But Alice is safe. Gabrielle is safe. That is the only thing that matters.
My dearest Gabriel,
I could not sleep for weeping, tonight. I ache for my Alice.
Gilles eventually began to stroke my hair, from the crown of my head to the nape of my neck. I closed my eyes and pretended it was you, Gabriel. I imagined it was your hand, and fell asleep.
I miss you.
Dearest Gabriel,
Perhaps the most upsetting thing about having a husband—whom you do not love—be kind to you is the feeling of obligation to be kind back. It’s deeply inconvenient.
(And yes, I am aware that Gabrielle and I are protected and safe because of him. I ought to be thankful rather than resentful, but the fact that he is not you places him at a very distinct disadvantage.)
Anyway, so as not to be an ungrateful cow, I asked Gilles if he wanted to join me in the kitchen for the afternoon. Marise watched over Gabrielle, and Françoise let me take over a section of the kitchen.
I told Gilles we were going to practice knife skills. I borrowed two chef’s knives, showing him how to hold the knife in order to make it an extension of his hand, how to curl the fingers of his opposite hand to avoid slicing a fingertip.
He watched me very carefully before imitating my actions. We stood there together, not talking, slicing carrots. Carrot after carrot. (Thankfully, we had a significant carrot crop.) I sped up my pace, slicing perfect, even rounds, and his sped up as well.
We didn’t speak, but after a while it began to feel…easier. I asked after the fields, and he told me which sections they were having irrigation troubles with, and his concern about the crops, and how he and Richard had been discussing a way to distill the lavender oil themselves. He spoke well of Richard, which spoke well of him to me.
Once we’d amassed a great pile of carrots—probably a kilo? I announced that we needed to continue with the rest of the meal. Richard had checked the snares in the woods earlier and found a nice brace of hares, which Françoise had skinned and quartered.
I would have browned them with some lardons, if we weren’t saving the pigs for later, but made a nice mirepoix base of leeks, shallots, and carrots just the same, before returning the rabbit and adding some white wine (this is Chateau de l’Abeille—I suspect there’s white wine beneath the floorboards) and a little flour, to thicken, as well as a little more salt and some fresh thyme.
Obviously, this didn’t make more than a dent in the carrots, as you can imagine. So I set a stack of carrot slices in front of him and gave myself a matching stack, and we set to work chopping them as finely as possible for a carrot cake.
You know that it’s best to grate the carrots, of course, but I reasoned that a very fine mince would come out just as well.
I am grateful for the farm at the chateau, for while we do not have large quantities of butter, we have enough—more than most, to be sure. I sautéed the carrots in butter first to soften them before making the rest of the batter. The resulting cake had the deliciously nutty taste of browned butter.
After we placed it into the oven, Gilles thanked me very sincerely for showing him how to slice carrots—so sincerely I almost giggled, but it would have ruined a moment of generosity on his behalf.
And then he asked if Gabrielle and I would join him on a picnic the following day, and I nearly panicked right there in the kitchen. What did he mean by such a thing? What did he want from me, and would I be prepared to give it?
But he’d been very kind, and very patient, and I know Gabrielle could use the time in the sunshine.
So I said yes.
My dearest Gabriel,
Cécile caught me after breakfast this morning, while both girls were with Marise.
I shall confess to you: I have been avoiding her. My dearest sister, my sister who is caring for our Alice—I have avoided her.
I have not known what to say, or how to be her friend, much less a sister. She is no less dear, of course, but I am filled with such grief that a night of sleep is a rare thing.
But she sought after me, much as she did when we were young and had argued over something silly: a doll, a book, a ribbon. She chased after me the same way as she did in those days, seeking a renewed assurance of affection. We sat in the window seat in the garret, our old hiding place. She clasped my hand and asked me if I could continue to bear the plan that had been laid out for Alice, or if we had to find some other way.
I held her hand and reassured her that this was still the best plan—here we were all home, we were far from the war zones. While we might have been safer outside of France, there were no assurances, and the travels held perils of their own.
Even if the soldiers who had sought you out traveled this far south, we all had new names, new papers.
I realized I had to be stronger. And that, to give our brunette daughter the safest future, I had to accept her new identity in my heart. She was no longer mine, but Cécile’s.
I told Cécile so, and—Cécile being Cécile—she welled up into tears and reached for me. We hugged each other tight, weeping together. I thanked her for her care of Alice, for being willing to step into such difficult shoes, and for marrying so lovely a man as Richard. She laughed and wiped her tears, saying that marrying Richard was certainly no hardship. But she also looked self-conscious, and asked after Gilles and myself, how I was managing.
I’d made no secret, in the past, of my distaste for Gilles and relief that he and I did not marry. But I had to admit that my opinion of him had changed. Perhaps not a great deal, but I no longer viewed him as wanting me for my inheritance of the land. I knew he loved the land for its own sake. He loved the lavender farm for the same reason that I loved pastry.
Gilles and I—we’re a little older now. The things I wanted when I was younger, adventure, independence, well, I think I’ve had plenty of adventure. And as far as independence, in this time of war I believe survival depends on depending on others. On being interconnected.
I almost laugh sometimes, because my life is exactly what I was trying to escape so long ago—marriage to Gilles, motherhood.
And yet I arrived at that place so differently than anticipated. And no matter what happens, I will always have you in my heart, you—my best and favorite rebellion.
I regret nothing. And I told Cécile so. We’re all doing the very best we can. We hear of arrests and rumors of arrests, of women and children being sent to labor camps. I know there are families in hiding, which is not so very different from
us. We hide in the open.
And she hugged me and told me she loved me, and that she missed me and that she was so very sorry for the strife that had plagued my family.
In turn, I told her that we were managing, Gilles, Gabrielle, and I, and that I was fine, and that I hoped Alice was not interrupting her honeymoon with Richard too much. She colored and said that they’d managed.
And then she had questions of a ladylike nature (I am far too ladylike to recount them to you, dearest, as they were posed in confidence), and I answered her with a forwardness that both shocked and delighted her. We had a good marriage, you and I, and I want the same for Cécile—and knowing Richard, I believe she will have it.
Caterina hooted at the last few lines. “We would have had quite the reading experience had Grand-mère not been so ladylike.”
Nico looked down at his empty plate. “I’m not sure I’m old enough for this.”
Letizia swatted his shoulder. “You Americans. You are so sensitive about people and sex. How do you think you are here on this earth, really?”
Nico looked back at her, his face stoic. “The stork.”
~ SPINACH AND RICOTTA RAVIOLI WITH BROWNED BUTTER ~
This simple ravioli filling is tasty with a variety of sauces, but a basic browned butter won’t compete with the gentle flavors of the spinach and ricotta. If you’d like to add a protein, leftover roasted chicken or sautéed prawns would be tasty. Just add a little extra butter so you’ll have enough sauce.
For the ravioli:
1 8-ounce package frozen spinach
1 cup ricotta
½ cup parmesan
⅛ teaspoon nutmeg, freshly grated
Salt and pepper to taste
For the pasta:
1 recipe Homemade Pasta (see this page)
1 tablespoon salt
Together at the Table Page 24