“How do you know this?”
“Hush—we haven’t time. A coded message will go out over the underground wire. When you hear Beethoven’s Fifth, you’ll know it’s time. Get to the Resistance. Stay there until you know the Allies have landed. Then, as soon as you can, find the boys from Baker Street and give them the contents of your heel.”
Never had Vi guessed Clémence was aware of 64 Baker Street.
Suddenly, she wished they had but a few precious moments to exchange stories, to look in each other’s eyes and know that what was happening could not be final. Was she an operative from the SOE, working in the same row as Vi for months and never saying anything? Sifting through the work of translating French to German and back took on new significance. It was more likely that Clémence had been battling to send secret transmissions from inside enemy lines, and Vi hadn’t known a thing about it.
But somehow, the SS did.
“What is it?” She swallowed hard. “What’s in my heel?”
“Proof—” Clémence stopped short, both of them jumping slightly when a guard shoved a typewriter on the ground with a great crack. She leaned in closer to Vi’s ear. “Rommel is plotting to assassinate the Führer.”
Vi’s breathing hollowed out. She lowered one of her arms and grasped the wall for support, digging her fingernails into cold stone behind her. “Then this is for you?”
“There are a few of us here, yes.”
“What have you done, Clémence?”
“Only what was required of me by God—for king and country. And now, the cup is passed to you.” Vi could hear the smile in the woman’s voice, defiance tingeing her every word. “Just promise me. You’ll get to that door tonight. You’ll go through it and no matter what happens, you’ll keep running after you do.” Clémence pulled Vi’s arm away from the wall, then squeezed her wrist and hand in solidarity. “Promise me this.”
Vi’s breaths swept in and out in a flurry. She trembled, turning for a last look at her friend, and nodded—once.
What audacity it was to think that at one time, Vi could judge courage. And character. And even faith, and that she could claim all three. That bravery owned a pedigree of fighting men in uniform, or survivors like her, who’d endured the worst of the Blitz and turned to run back into the fray. But that moment was one she knew she’d never forget, as the dauntless nature of courage took shape before her eyes, molding into the form of a woman she’d known for mere weeks, and now, the world was poised to lose altogether.
It cemented Vi’s resolve that not only would she make it to the door, but whatever lay beyond had better be prepared for a fight. The one thing she refused to do was fail in the eyes of the most courageous person she’d ever know.
“What’s on the other side of the door?”
“Make it through, and the rest of your life will be waiting. Live it for us.”
Clémence straightened, infusing her stance with iron as the SS came to their row, then tendered a gentle squeeze to Vi’s shoulder and finally let go.
JUNE 5, 1944
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
“Lady, come quick.”
Camille knelt over a crate, her deep-chocolate hair falling down to shield her face as she dug through. Vi hurried over from organizing the paint supplies to the back corner of the castle ruins’ grand ballroom, meeting her with an anxious heart.
“Whatever’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter.” Camille grinned, lifting a span of soft mint fabric from the depths of the wooden box. “Except I found this.”
“A dress? How in the world . . . ?” Vi ran her fingers over the bottom edge of the fabric as if it were made of spun gold. It was a mite wrinkled and not the most couture of cuts, but a dress of any kind was a luxury set aside for the likes of queens. It was something they never should have found buried in wares dropped from their friends across the Channel.
“Mounds of coats and trousers, and old work shirts, and someone slips this in. It must be fate.” She winked and tossed it in Vi’s arms. “Why don’t you try it? Looks like your color.”
Vi rolled her eyes, even though she held tight to the fabric in her arms. “What would I do with a dress? We have preparations to make. We have to get ammunition up to the cottage, make ready for when Victoria lands . . . take extra weapons through to the bunker. How in the world would I go tromping through the grove in a dress like this? And look at my shoes. Ruddy oxfords don’t exactly match the sash.”
“So go barefoot for a while. It’s warm enough.”
Camille was softhearted. Lovely and, Vi forgot sometimes, as young as she was. War had an odd way of making adults out of barely grown girls and boys. It was normal for a young woman to desire some frivolities, even given what they might be facing in mere hours. Of course she’d see merit in donning a lovely dress and living in the moment.
“Look, you’ve been wearing trousers for weeks and even I forgot you probably once owned a tube of lipstick.” Camille braced a hand on her hip and, in the other, raised the curious find of a camera. “You don’t want to look shabby for our photo album, do you?”
“You found a camera?”
“Uh-huh. And a roll of film.” She winked. “Now get a move on. We don’t have much time to get you ready. I’d like to document the look on Julien’s face when he sees you in that.”
Vi bit her bottom lip over a smile, then whisked away into the back of the ruins.
The turret surrounded her on all sides, a rounded semicircle of stairs that cut up for some six stories, with window cutouts rising to the top. She stopped in the shadows, shedding the old clothes in an instant, and pulling the delicate fabric up over her hips and shoulders. Mother-of-pearl buttons lined the front, and she tied the sash, nipping tight around the waist.
A sound startled her from behind—a slight scratching that sent her whirling—and her eyes met with the most curious sight.
A fox.
As if written from a fairy-tale world, he’d managed to climb up to a second-story window ledge and stretch out in the sun. He snoozed, swishing his black-tipped tail over the sill, brushing against the ivy that clung to the outer walls as if he cared not to have been seen. Clever and careful he was not.
“Lazy creature,” she scolded on a smile, and gathered her things.
But the cheek died away as fast as it had arrived. Theirs was not a castle in a fairy tale, and war didn’t promise happy endings. Odd that he’d chosen that very moment to bring whimsy to the world around her.
“Lady!” Camille’s voice drew her back.
“Coming,” Vi called over her shoulder, stirring the fox from its slumber.
The animal darted out of sight in a heartbeat, scurrying off beyond ivy-tipped walls.
“You’ll want to find a place to hide, little friend.” Vi sighed, ducking back into the depths of the castle. “Before tomorrow, that is. Hide in your grove, and wait it out. Help is coming soon.”
Vi told herself it was foolish to have pinned her hair in rolls at her temples, when it was only long enough to tip her chin. A girlish folly. Oh, but what she wouldn’t have given for a tube of lipstick, like Camille had mentioned. Or dainty heels and a flashy new hat to tip down over her brow in a coy show of confidence. But it didn’t matter now.
The team had gathered along the stone wall behind the castle, all except the still-elusive Elder, who was readying the men deep in the heart of the woods. And though Brig was making final preparations on her explosives under the bridge, even she’d emerged to share a ration meal with the others.
Vi took a deep breath and stepped out, oxfords in hand, the feel of the stones cold against her bare feet as she walked down the castle’s front steps. Julien must have found the gramophone; music lilted up to touch the canopy of trees overhead. Light laughter drew her to a path through the old gardens, to the ancient stone wall and arched gate overlooking the vineyard rows.
The long walk was humbling in a way, rem
inding her that time was short, but hadn’t it always been? The castle was a witness to the speed of life, and the generations that had passed around its walls. And so it was again that in a matter of hours, or days, all that surrounded them could fall away too. Bombed flat. Burned to dust. The castle’s world changed once more.
She forced the thought away, instead smiling when she saw the boot of Julien’s left foot hanging out from inside the gate. Vi kicked it in her path, gaining his attention.
“Lady.” Julien shot to his feet—fast for him—and, to her delight, stood with jaw dropped for the seconds it took to recover at the sight of her in the creamy mint dress. He grasped his wits enough to offer her a seat and helped her ease down on the large pile of stones at his side.
Camille’s muffled giggle followed the click of the camera. Brig’s aghast visage and Pascal’s approval, too, as they made room for her at the makeshift table on the forest floor. Marie eyed her, keeping her cool nature affixed no matter the build of the clock ticking toward tomorrow. Criquet smiled and stuffed a peach in her mouth, then tipped a tin can up to drink what remained of the sweet in its bottom.
It was in those moments Vi thought of the memories of the last weeks, and months, and then before that, the London years of her life. Sifting through moments in her mind. The good and the bad that made her the woman she’d become. The beautiful, the lost. And as the dwindling light threatened the reminder that dusk was drawing near, she looked to the sky, the sun waving farewell, wondering when would be the last time they’d see it together.
Julien seemed to notice too and, without fanfare, reached over and laced his fingers with hers. He ran his thumb over the long scar that curled over her hand and wrist.
“What’s this? Pear bite you?”
It had been years since the bombing in London had branded her with the scar. Vi rewarded him with a smile, grateful that the time spent at the castle had helped her forget.
“No pear stealing. Just a bit of leftover courage, that’s all.”
The makeshift family broke bread over a table of stones. Julien poured wine in tin cans—the L’Aveline label, their best vintage. The one that had become the lifeblood of the Vivay land. And they feasted like royalty, just as he’d said. Dessert was canned fruit, if Criquet had left any for the rest, and after, they became artists, climbing ladders and donning brushes with red paint, covering the side of the castle in a grand V.
This was life. Living right where they were, stepping out into the unknown together, without an ounce of regret because they knew what they were doing was right. Camille snapped photos. Pascal supervised Julien’s every move. Brig took chances with her painting, hanging out windowsills and scaring the lot of them half to death. And for her ability to bristle, it was a consolation to see Marie smiling, making a game of it all, telling Criquet they were “painting the roses red” just like Alice did when she’d fallen into a Wonderland world.
Vi knew she’d never find a grander meal or a lovelier memory in all her life.
The evening wore on and Camille convinced them to pose for final photos before the light left. It was Julien’s idea to level Vi’s height with his, and he lifted her to sit on the stone wall at his side, whispering, “Belle . . . Belle, Lady . . . ,” in her ear.
“Look to the camera,” he said, and slipped the subtle luxury of his arm around the small of her waist. “And smile, Lady.”
She did smile, but the camera wouldn’t know it in full.
Vi looked up, memorizing the strength of Julien’s profile in that snapshot of time, finding that she only had eyes for him.
TWENTY-FIVE
AUGUST 20, 1789
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
The vineyard had received Aveline’s attention much of the morning.
She’d tended to the arbors with Fan and the others, cutting back the leaves in areas of overgrowth so the abundance of grapes on the vine could soak up the last weeks of precious sunlight before the harvest. The sun was high overhead now, baking down, and she was relieved to spend time in the grove, tending the castle garden under the cover of shade trees.
“I apologize for the intrusion, mademoiselle.”
Aveline leaned her spade against the stone wall and turned with a smile, glad for the sound of Robert’s voice. “There you are. I’ve wanted to show you what we’ve accomplished—”
Her voice was silenced by a man who hadn’t come to help break soil in his mother’s garden, but by the authority of his rank, suddenly on full display.
Robert stood along the hedgerow, turning a cocked hat in his hands. The black beaver skin stood out as formal, as was the rest of his attire—crisp shirt beneath a vest with gold buttons, covered over with a jacket bearing the Renard crest, and black breech trousers. Certainly not attire she was used to seeing on the man who was tireless in laboring upon his father’s land.
With an apron and linen work dress dusted over with earth on the front, Aveline couldn’t hope to match him. She wiped her hands on the apron, then smoothed it out against her skirts. “It appears as though I am unprepared for the formality of this meeting.”
Something told her to reach for her hat. Straw and light-blue ribbons were paltry adornments compared to the nature of propriety he brought, but it would have to do.
Robert shook his head. “I’m not here to work. Not today.”
“Oh. I see. But Gabin has been making plans to break down the stone wall—for the gate we talked about? Over there, by the void in the tree line. I wanted to show it to you. He said we could fashion a wide arch, so it would still be possible to see the arbor rows in the fields behind it. And when visitors come down the hill, they should see the colors bloom on this side.”
She tipped the hat low on her head, smiling under its brim, still trying to find lightness in him. The capriciousness of his features, hardened over and foreign, stirred the flutter of doubt in her midsection. “Unless you think it a poor idea . . .”
Another turn of the hat in his hands caused a flip-flop of her heart.
“No. It’s a fine idea. I’ll see that Gabin begins work on it right away. And Fan will plant seeds so that come spring, the garden will look as you wish it to.”
“I should like to help her. And I thought we’d settled this. You are free to address me as Aveline. You can’t think me that formal when I’m layered under a veil of earth.”
“Not free, mademoiselle. It would not be appropriate now.” He cleared his throat. Shifted his stance a step. “I have brought something for you. It was kept safe until you had need of it again.”
Robert set the hat upon his head, indicating he intended to take his leave momentarily. He tucked a hand in his vest pocket and opened it, revealing the fox brooch glittering in his palm.
Aveline stepped forward, not understanding how he could stand so unaffected before her. With a stark coldness he stood, not flinching as she took the brooch from him, even when the scars on her hand brushed his skin slight as a butterfly’s kiss.
“Robert . . .” Aveline gripped the brooch, precious stones cutting into her palm as she watched him retreat. Step by step, he eased back. “If I’ve done something . . . said something wrong . . .”
“You have done nothing.” He clamped his eyes shut, as if suddenly pained, his back fusing against the stone wall. “Nothing at all.”
“Then why—?” Aveline took a step forward, hoping only to go to him. Eager to resume the warmth of familiarity they’d exchanged in weeks of laboring side by side.
But her path was cut short by another gentleman who’d stepped from the castle road into the garden’s haven.
Sunlight rained down upon the shoulders of Philippe.
The shock of seeing him—as more than the ghost of a fiancé but a real gentleman—rendered her speechless. His was the noble brow she’d seen once before, in a portrait salvaged from the castle. Not as tall as his younger brother but adorned as formally, quite distinguished in a French naval uniform
.
“Aveline?” He removed his hat, bowing before her.
Warmth shone in the gentleman’s eyes. Though they were seeking, and surveyed the side of her face in earnest, then fell to the damaged skin of the collarbone exposed above the bodice of her dress. Aveline’s first inclination was to hide her face, so she turned away, chin tucked, hat working as a straw shield over the harsh pigmentation of marred skin.
“No, it’s alright.” He stepped in farther. She heard careful boot falls approaching her from behind. “Robert has already told us what occurred here at the castle. You needn’t hide yourself. This is not your shame to bear.”
“Shame?”
“I meant there is no shame for what’s happened,” Philippe coaxed, his voice tentative as he walked round to face her. “It is evidence of the rabble’s petulance that nearly felled the estate. But thank Providence your life was spared in the midst of it.”
Philippe approached and her gaze drifted over a blue coat and red vest, both with embroidery and buttons of finely polished gold. A uniform of some stature, it seemed. And then—a purse to his lips, in what she hoped was authenticity rather than charity.
“You have joined the king’s forces?”
“Oui.” He flashed a malleable smile and brushed a hand over his lapel. “I am the Duc et Vivay’s heir. As my brother hadn’t the inclination to pursue the military duty of a younger son—this vineyard holds him fast—I will fight in his stead. It is believed by some that officers of noble lineage are not seen favorably by the masses. Nevertheless, I have joined the Royal Navy, to take up that yoke for our king and our family name, and I intend to rise in rank with all due haste. After what’s happened to you here, on my family’s own land, and now with the insurrection in Paris, the navy needs men who will stand up to our enemies, both in France and abroad. I mean to restore my family’s honor.”
“Honor? Isn’t such earned by caring for those closest to you?”
“Events have occurred across the country. Just two days ago, a peasant assemblage forced nobles from their estates at Liège. Even César-Constantin-François de Hoensbroeck was made to leave. Imagine—a prince-bishop of France forced out! Our fathers have attempted to quell the insurrection with others of the Second Estate, but Paris has fallen into disastrous unrest. We are to sail to England where we are assured safety.”
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