“I don’t understand. What was too late? What couldn’t you do?”
Lady Vi Carver came back that day. If only for moments in a small nursing facility room, she sparked back to life. With a twinkle in her Elizabeth Taylor eyes and a familiar dimpled smile. Accompanied by tears. Through loss and the storied pasts of fairy tales, forgotten photos, and heirloom jewelry—
“Become his wife, of course.”
Tinges of shock pricked Ellie’s skin. “His wife . . .”
“That’s right.” Vi ran her index finger over the photo’s worn edge. “I need you to go to The Sleeping Beauty. Find him. Tell him I accept—before it’s too late.”
THREE
APRIL 22, 1944
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
Viola Hart didn’t dare think of the last time she’d eaten.
Food. Water. Even survival—such things were an extravagance when dodging the realities of war. Her stomach had given up its harrowing pangs long ago as the drudgery of long days and sleepless nights blurred into one another.
Railroad tracks littered with the remnants of abandoned wagons and trucks—rusting ghosts from the 1939 exodus of Paris—cut paths through the never-ending span of countryside on her trek from La Roche-Guyon. Vi had followed the metal graveyard lining the tracks, hiding just far enough into the darkest parts of the woods so as not to be seen. And keen she was to notice every sound, avoiding the rhythmic drumming of marching Nazi patrols and the grinding of tank treads that had gutted parts of the country-side like angry metal tillers.
Hunger festered as she continued moving, staying put only as long as necessary to ensure her safety before moving on, finding little to hope for.
Even less to eat.
She’d uncovered parsnips from an old garden some days back. Wild mushrooms under a felled log in the forest. Guinea eggs nested in the hedgerow of an abandoned farm. Vi had even come upon an overturned truck boasting a treasure: two cans of sardines that had been lost under the wreckage along the rail lines. Tin reflected in the sun, giving away their hiding place. She dug them out by scraping her nails in the dirt and sat in the midst of the metal graveyard to feast like a queen. But that was days ago. Too many to count. And her clothes had been near hanging off her frame before she’d started running.
Other than those scanty gifts of provision, little was left that hadn’t been picked clean or bomb-withered long ago. The forest was barren. France was being choked from the inside out, and her hope to flee from it had all but faded. At least until she saw the old chapel—its humble stone spire and cross rising out of the morning mist like a mirage, drawing her to it.
Vi had come upon a storybook castle first, the ruins of stone walls enveloped in a thick layer of ivy. She’d rather have hidden there, to get lost in its crumbling secrets and forget the world for a time. Maybe sleep in one of the lofty rooms and imagine the soirees that had enlivened it centuries before. But it boasted a wide moat of murky water on all sides but one. And despite the enchantment of blossoming trees creating a blush canopy to line it, the road that led to the castle’s façade had fresh tire tracks cutting through. If SS guards were in this little vineyard town, it appeared they were patrolling the Loire Valley’s vast kingdoms of castle ruins, searching for enemies of the Third Reich.
Enemies, like her.
The bumps of tire tracks beneath her soles were enough to make her settle in the tiny chapel peeking out from behind the ruins. The roof looked sturdy enough to keep her dry if the sky decided on a spring rain. And she’d almost missed spying it, so chances were good any patrolling eyes would too. With dawn not far off, it seemed as good a place to rest as any.
Vi huddled on the floor of the abandoned chapel, surrounded by crates of pears and a burlap bag of unshelled walnuts she’d found stowed away in the hollow of a stone altar. By who, it didn’t matter. With a world cloaked in obstacles, hunger had been turned away long enough.
It would wait no longer.
Sitting in the shadows, Vi bit into a pear’s flesh, letting the juice run down her chin. The taste was sweeter than anything she remembered. The rest, kinder. If there had been any pews, they were long gone. The floor was cold, but still the altar beckoned her to lean back and finally breathe deep, savoring the respite from a constant battle for survival. She surrendered, too weary to think of anything save for being grateful that a pear and an old chapel had become her unwitting saviors.
Raw emotion pricked at her eyes, threatening a flood to come pouring out. Vi shook her head against it, forcing the tears away. “You will not cry.” She broke the silence with words that echoed against the ceiling. “You will not . . .”
Not when she’d narrowly escaped.
Not when others had given their lives to get her out of northern France altogether. She owed it to their fight to keep going . . . to keep running . . . to stay alive—no matter what. The SS were still out there, no doubt turning over every stone in France until they found what she’d stolen. And tears wouldn’t change that.
The beauty of a stained-glass window behind the altar drew her attention instead, doling comfort in the central image of a mature Christ standing watch over the space. It was hushed but powerful, the King in pristine ivory robes, with sky blues and rich royal purples stained around in delicate design, an awakening image of peace in their war-torn world.
She bit into the pear again, the sweet combination of honey and tart pulling her back to the present. Moments of longing at stained-glass windows were a folly Vi couldn’t entertain. Someone had stored those wares in the chapel. Though she desperately needed the rest, the owner could come back at any time, and she could ill afford a break now.
She’d been denying the truth, for a few precious moments anyway. The only option was to line her pockets and venture out into the forest again, running and praying for the best—her stomach she’d have to fill later.
Vi had only begun to stuff pears and handfuls of walnuts in her canvas messenger bag when the sound of a sliding bolt sliced through the empty chapel, echoing off the walls.
She stopped chewing, her palms instantly freezing in midair.
The heavy chapel door spread its weight in a creaky cry of weathered iron hinges. Footsteps echoed through the chapel a scant second later, the soles of shoes—or, God help her, military-issue boots—grinding into the soil of dirt and dried leaves that had gathered in piles upon the stone floor.
Each step was slow, steady, penetrating through the frantic beating of her heart.
Fear taunted as Vi swallowed the last bit of fruit in her mouth, its sweetness having turned bitter on her tongue. There was only one entrance she knew of: the door at the east end of the chapel. The door with the lock Vi had managed to pick and the bolt she’d left unlatched until she could slip out again, unheard and certainly unseen.
That intention fizzled now as she scanned the room, inching up on her knees to peek through the shadows.
The door stood ajar.
Someone had indeed entered—and was still inside.
She sank back down, her thoughts racing so fast they could be pinging off the walls. Maybe she could surprise the intruder? Jump up and run without warning? Knock them down and head for the door to escape into the woods?
No. The SS guards had guns ready for us last time and weren’t afraid to use them.
It was certain she’d be shot in the back before she could get five paces out the door.
Think, Vi. Think.
Smashing through a stained-glass window could prove deadlier to flesh than a bullet. Throwing pears and walnuts at a soldier with a machine gun was feeble—completely out of the question. The old straight blade she’d found along the railroad lines some towns back was still in the bottom of her bag, but it would cause too much noise to dig it out now. And what good would a chipped, rusty razor do against a soldier’s automatic weapon?
All that remained was for her to fight.
Vi ran her nails along the groov
es of stones at the altar base.
The foundation was weak, but she hadn’t time to dislodge any of the stones. Her last recourse was a weathered wood crate. It would prove a paltry weapon against the Nazis’ guns, but what choice did she have?
A board hung loose and Vi gripped it, finding it gave without fight or sound. Two rusty nails protruded from the end. They might at least prove some point, if she could connect them with her attacker’s body.
She held fast in a white-knuckled grip, determined to give them the best whipping she could, or go down swinging in the process.
The footsteps grew closer.
Hold . . .
Closer they came, God help her.
Vi slammed her eyes shut for a split second, listening. Trying to calm her breathing at the same time. Wishing she’d never seen the treelined road or the hidden chapel. If only she’d passed by the ruins instead of letting them draw her in.
Hold fast . . .
When she was sure the intruder was but a step away, Vi shot to standing, wielding the board like she’d seen the cricket players do on campus at Cambridge—out, away from the body, ready to crash the target with a confident, steady grip.
She pulled back to swing, the air slamming in and out of her lungs.
“Arrêtez!” a man shouted, immediately lowering a rifle that had been braced against his shoulder.
To yell “stop” . . . was it for her, or himself?
He extended a hand out in front of him and repeated, “Arrêtez,” this on the exhale of a pent-up breath, indicating he’d been as startled as she. He pulled his finger back from the trigger, enough to encourage her to resume breathing.
The man lowered the rifle to point at the floor, then scanned the chapel, his feet iced in place. He covered all corners of the space quickly, then turned to her with a tilt of his head to one side.
Even through a mass of shadows, the golden tint of his eyes examined hers. “Êtes-vous seule?”
“Yes. I’m alone.” Why she’d responded in English without thinking, Vi couldn’t guess—unless it was so ingrained as her first language that it tumbled out her mouth due to exhaustion and a half-starved state. But it was a mistake at that, and mistakes meant death here.
She didn’t dare make another.
“Bien.” He let out a rough sigh. “You’re English.”
Though displeased with her presence in the chapel, to Vi’s relief the man didn’t appear truly threatening. Annoyance was a marked improvement over murderous intentions any day.
He eased the butt of the rifle to the floor and leaned against it like a makeshift cane. “Well, you can speak Français for a start. And lower that. I’d rather not take a board to the face if I can help it. Terrible way to start the day.”
Yes, she supposed she could ease off a bit. Vi allowed her arm muscles to go lax and lowered the board, but she still kept it down at her side—just in case.
He ran a hand through a crop of dark waves that tipped over his brow, then searched the shadows in the small chapel again, perhaps doubting she’d been honest with him that she was indeed alone.
“Why in God’s name didn’t you speak French?” He lowered his voice to a vehement whisper, adding, “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to speak English here?”
“I . . .” She shook her head. “I honestly don’t know why I spoke English. I haven’t spoken to anyone in . . . well, in a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Long enough to know what a mistake that was.”
He sighed again. “So, English, do you mind telling me what you’re doing here—besides pilfering the food we put back from winter stores?”
Vi kept her lips pursed. Any outright lie at what she was doing would have been ridiculous in the middle of a war zone. Not when France was blasted to bits and she looked like some lost creature from the woods. She drew upon her experience to come up with the best tale. She’d have to make an explanation as close to the truth for it to be believable, but far enough away that he’d not question her further.
“You have no answer?”
She nodded, willing her countenance to read as innocent as a milk maiden’s. “I’m bound for my family’s dairy farm in Vercors.”
He did a double take. “Vercors? Aren’t you a bit far north? And west, for that matter? What sees a dairy farmer’s daughter lost this far into wine country?”
“Visiting, to care for my uncle. But there have been some . . . complications. So I’ll be heading south to rendezvous with my family.”
He paused, as if searching the chapel for an uncle they both knew was not there. “And your travel papers?”
Vi could have choked on her breath. “Why do you want to know about my papers?”
There’d been no time to manufacture new papers, and even if she had them, her old forgeries were grossly out of date. Without valid paperwork, it would take a mere shred of suspicion for a local villager to turn her in to the nearest gray uniform. She’d be up before a Nazi firing squad before dawn.
“Your silence is an answer whether you know it or not.” He shifted his weight to his other foot as he leaned against the rifle. “So, you’re waltzing through Nazi-occupied territory, spouting off weak explanations in English, with zero papers to explain what you’re doing here. Oh, and thieving from our limited food stores. Is that about the way of it?”
Vi straightened her posture before him. If he stood to drag her before the firing squad’s guns, she’d go with every ounce of brash she had left—including courage that set her spine ramrod straight. “I wasn’t thieving.”
“Menteuse,” he said, smiling as he called her a liar, and pulled a kerchief from his pocket. He tapped his chin and tossed the linen square to her. “There’s a half-eaten pear on the floor. Between that and your face, I’d say there’s a bit left out of your story.”
The dirt. The pear juice must have left trails down her chin.
Vi closed her eyes, wishing she hadn’t remembered she still owned any vanity at the moment.
She’d found a straight razor some days back and sawed at her hair, chopping it to her chin in case the SS were circulating a photo with an ebony style down past her shoulders. Lucky for her she was made of stout stuff, enough that she could forget how it gutted her to watch her locks burn in a makeshift campfire, or what the jagged and mismatched ends must look like at the moment.
War changed everything. Vanity of every kind was extinct in their savage world, and the imperious stranger should have known better than to chide her for a white lie to survive in the midst of it.
Vi wiped her face, soiling the white kerchief as he studied her with a cool stare.
“Are you well? Do you need medical attention?”
A curious thing to ask, especially if he was debating on turning her in. She’d expected to need an undertaker far sooner than a physician.
She shook her head. “No.”
“You may not need one yet, but you will if you don’t take better care. Don’t you know trespassers will be shot on sight? Signs are posted all along the road. And in town—no one stops at the castle. Period.”
“I can read.” Vi needn’t tell him it was in six languages—French and German included. “I didn’t come by the road or through town, so if there were signs, I missed them.”
“Then how did you . . . ?”
“By train.”
It wasn’t an outright lie. Vi had come by train—along the tracks, anyway. Still, the furrow in his brow told that he wasn’t drawn in that easily.
“Well, English, your story just keeps fanning my interest.” He lifted his rifle and pointed out toward the road leading to the castle. “Train lines have been shut down to passengers for years, especially the foreign, paperless kind. Only Nazi-occupied train cars come in or out now, and they own every road for miles. You’d never have made it through by car or rail. So try again.”
Blast. He was more astute than he’d let on.
“I followed the tracks on
foot, staying just inside the tree line.”
“And why is that, pray?”
“They don’t bury mines along the tracks.”
That seemed to trigger a deeper level of understanding in him.
There was a longer pause after each explanation she gave, like the cogs and gears had begun turning in his mind, connecting things Vi would have rather kept inactive. But this was different. A tiny twinge to the lips, a crease at the corners of the eyes—amusement of some kind. And he wasn’t averse to letting it show.
Vi had gone too far. Made herself too knowledgeable. A bilingual milkmaid was rare enough. But a foreigner who knew of communication wires and land mines? That was a bona fide unicorn in the occupation zone—unless, of course, there was more than she was telling him outright.
She backtracked. “Everyone knows the Nazis wouldn’t dare risk their ability to move supplies and troops by severing their own communications lines.”
“Everyone, hmm?”
“The risk is high of being seen out in the open, but it’s far safer than going through the towns. As I’m a woman traveling alone, I’m sure you’d agree someone like me would have to choose the lesser of two risks.” She shrugged, feigning ease as if she were in a shop window picking out a new Sunday hat. “So you can see how I missed the signs.”
“Oui. I can. But whether you happened upon them or not, they are still posted. And Boches don’t hang them for kicks. There’s no trespassing. Not here or at the castle ruins. The Nazis will shoot you on sight. That’s to say nothing about interrogating you for being caught amongst our food stores. I’d rather not advertise where we’re keeping supplies if I can help it. I’m not interested in being hanged anytime soon.”
“They’d hang you for that?”
“Or put a bullet in the back of the skull, but some say that’d be for the lucky ones. The rest are sent away to a work camp and never return.”
The Lost Castle Page 4