Lies Told In Silence
Page 27
“Wrong. You’re beautiful. Francois knows that. He’s known you since you were little. You have to trust him, Helene.”
While her mother wound a silk ribbon around a simple bouquet of yellow roses, Helene reconsidered Marie’s words. Would trust be enough for them to build a life together? And if she could trust Francois, could she trust herself?
Helene’s aunt knocked on the door and entered. “Father Michel is waiting.”
“Just a few more minutes,” Helene said as her mother set a white hat decorated with rose-shaped flowers on her head and secured it with two pins. Nothing could disguise Helene’s condition, so they had decided on a simple blue dress. Her mother had found the hat in Paris and explained that it would be something special to mark the day.
“You look beautiful. Doesn’t she, Henri?”
Now that Helene was being married, her father had set aside his anger. “She certainly does.”
“Francois is a lucky man,” said Maman.
“Under the circumstances, I’m the one who’s lucky.”
Her mother kissed her and whispered, “I know you’ll be a good wife, chérie, and your baby will have a father.”
Marie smiled her encouragement as the families gathered in a semicircle behind the bride and groom. Standing beside Francois in front of the priest, Helene’s knees were shaking. During the prayers and the words of the marriage ceremony, she counted the candles lit to honour the dead, the stones surrounding the altar, the beads on Father Michel’s rosary, the colours of the stained-glass window, anything she could find to avoid thinking of Edward. When the service ended, Francois lifted the veil of her hat and kissed her cheek, a brief caress that gave no hint of his emotions.
After dinner at a hotel across the quay from the church, they rode in a horse-drawn carriage to the small cottage Francois had rented a short distance from Tante Chantal. Helene was pleased to see the glow of lights at each window as they approached, and when Francois opened the door, stepping aside so she could enter first, she saw a vase full of flowers and a basket of food on the table. On the mantel were a bottle of wine and two glasses.
She touched his arm. “You’ve thought of everything.”
They kept the conversation light while sipping a glass of wine in front of the fire. Though Helene sat on the sofa, Francois prowled around the room, picking up random objects and examining several books on a shelf next to the fireplace. From time to time he looked at her and smiled.
“I’m tired, Francois. I think I’ll get ready for bed.”
“I’ll wait in the living room.”
Looking in the mirror at her large belly and heavy breasts, Helene murmured under her breath. “Don’t be ridiculous, he won’t find you the slightest bit attractive. But if he does want to make love, you know what to do.” She pulled a long cotton nightdress over her head and got into bed.
A few minutes later, uneven footsteps approached the room, and the door squeaked open.
“What are you doing?” she asked as Francois took a heavy blanket and pillow from the linen chest.
“I thought I should sleep on the sofa.”
Helene debated her response. The sofa meant she could avoid intimacy awhile longer, but how would that decision affect their ultimate survival as a couple? She remembered that her grandparents married without really knowing one another. What would Grandmere do?
“A husband should be with his wife on their wedding night.”
“But …” He made a curving motion to mimic the bulge in her body.
“I’m sure the baby will be fine.”
After a moment of hesitation, Francois put the blanket and pillow back. His tight smile caused her to wonder whether the thought of sharing a bed with her made him uncomfortable. As he removed his clothing, she saw what the war had done to him: the scars along his leg where exploding shrapnel had met living flesh, the burns on his back, a bayonet puncture on his right arm. She wondered about the wounds she could not see, those on his mind and soul.
“It’s not pretty,” he said.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re alive.”
Helene lifted the covers and he slid in with his back to her, the weight of his body unsettling her balance so that she shifted towards him on the mattress. Francois did not move, and she felt his tension as he breathed deliberately in and out. When she touched his arm, brushing the hairs on his skin like a feather, he shivered. Then her fingers lingered on the space between his shoulder blades, stroking the burn marks one by one.
“Will you hold me?” she said.
Francois turned to face her, putting one arm beneath her shoulders and bringing her close with the other so that her belly nestled against him. He smelled of soap and shaving cream, a hint of wine lingering on his breath. His free hand moved down her back, touching the curve of her hip.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, kissing her lips for the very first time, a kiss that was gentle and hesitant.
Helene put one hand on his cheek and deepened the kiss, her tongue mingling with his, his arm pulling them closer together, and she could feel his erection stirring. Will he mind that I’m not a virgin? Will the image of another man come between us? These thoughts came and went as their kisses continued and Francois’s breathing grew heavier.
As his hand slid beneath the edge of her nightgown, caressing the skin along her thigh, she startled and drew away.
“We can stop,” he said. “If you’re not ready, I can just hold you in my arms or sleep on the sofa.”
“No,” she said. “I want you here. Really, Francois, I do.”
She took his hand and placed it on her naked hip and lifted her mouth to his. He was exquisitely gentle, seeking permission without words, touching every part of her, and when he could wait no longer, he entered her.
She was surprised at how different the act of love was with another man. Although she thought briefly of Edward, she focused on giving pleasure to Francois, and then lost herself in the unexpected pleasure he gave to her.
Chapter 40
November 1918
Honfleur was quiet in early November, a welcome quiet after the emotional events of October, and as she moved about their small cottage, dusting its few ornaments, putting away the biscuits she had made for breakfast, removing the vase of flowers Francois had arranged for their wedding night, Helene’s feelings were mixed. Relief dominated as the unbearable dilemma of losing her child, or raising what society would deem a bastard, had disappeared. Beyond relief, she felt a sense of calm, contemplating the birth of Edward’s child, and acceptance of life’s unexpected ruptures was also beginning to take hold. But beyond those emotions, a thick layer of sorrow loomed. Every day something reminded her of Edward, and every day she struggled to keep her misery hidden from Francois.
When her grandmother had spoken about marrying without love, she had said one could grow to love that person, and now Helene clung to that notion even as she worried whether she had made a mistake. And yet her husband had been nothing but kind. He seemed to take pleasure in doing small things for her, from fetching her slippers to placing a shawl around her shoulders when the chill gathered at night. Not that he doted on her every minute, for he followed a daily regimen of exercise and letter writing and had taken up sailing as a diversion, which called for regular lessons with an ill-natured man named Stephan who was missing an arm.
“We suit one another,” Francois had said when she asked him how he put up with Stephan’s surliness, and Helene wondered whether her husband was referring to their wounds or their moods.
After the doctor announced that the baby could come any day, every time Helene moved, Francois asked whether she was all right. Had it been Edward, such concern would have been understandable, but for some reason, Francois’s solicitousness was irritating, and she had been happy he had surrendered to her insistence that he go sailing that morning.
After her chores were finished, Helene planned to write a letter to Marie, a task
that gave her much pleasure, even though she now had to take care when writing about Francois for fear of raising any concerns. Helene reached up to place a bowl on the second shelf and felt a sharp twinge of pain in her lower back. Before she had time to contemplate the source of pain, a church bell began ringing and a horn honked, and then shouting erupted outside the cottage. Suddenly, the front door opened and Francois called out.
“Helene! The war is over. It’s over. Come and look,” he said.
Hurrying from the kitchen into the front room as quickly as her heavy figure would allow, Helene saw the look of relief mingled with astonishment on her husband’s face. His energetic demeanour reminded her of the Francois of long ago.
“Is it really over?”
“Yes, yes. Everyone’s gathering at the square. Can you walk that far? Or should you rest here, and I’ll bring back the news?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
Mentioning the pain in her back would only make him anxious, and she wanted them both to experience the joy that the end to war would bring. Peace at last, she thought. Rumours had circulated for weeks, and now here it was. Peace would not remove Francois’s limp or his scars nor would it bring Edward back, but it would allow them and the whole country to begin anew.
Helene and Francois joined the swelling crowd following the road into the centre of town. Everywhere men and women carried the tricolour, hosting it high each time the crowd shouted, “Vive la France!” Holding hands children skipped along in ever-increasing numbers, a horse-drawn cart passed by, the laughing driver holding the reins in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Doors opened, families tumbled out, dogs barked, the noise of the crowd rose and rose, interspersed with the sounds of “The Marseillaise”. Helene clung to Francois, tears running freely down her cheeks.
Four years, she thought. Never would I have imagined this day under these circumstances.
*
A few days after Germany surrendered, Lise travelled once more to Honfleur, this time for the baby’s birth. She smiled at the euphoria of passengers and those greeting the train, the excitement and energy filling the air, the flags and bunting decorating streets and houses. At each stop, the train’s whistle tooted in short, happy bursts.
Henri had known for weeks that the end was imminent and had broken his vow of secrecy to let her know their son would soon return. As the train jerked and clattered, she remembered how Paris had looked on that final day of war; the people cheering, crying, laughing. With Jean and Lucy, she had joined the crowds, watching young women kiss the soldiers as they passed by, traffic stalled as impromptu parades begun in different parts of the city came together into one big swell of bobbing heads. She watched their joyful tears and heard the sound of singing. “We are free!” many shouted, waving the flags of France and the Allies, their dark world suddenly light.
Francois met her at the station, his stiff formality at odds with the fact that she had known him all his life. He doesn’t know how to treat me as a mother-in-law, she thought as she searched his face for evidence of her daughter’s impact. She imagined that his shoulders were less stiff and his face more at ease.
“I’m so happy to see you, Francois,” she said, hoping that a warm smile and her hand resting lightly on his arm would signal family and friendship. “Your Maman sends her love.”
“We had a letter from her yesterday. Sounds like Paris is celebrating.”
“It’s wonderful to see.” Lise’s feelings were so close to the surface that if she said much more she would be in tears. War’s end had released four years of pent-up emotions, and they spilled of their own accord. “Is Helene all right?”
“She’s very uncomfortable,” he said, his voice tight, “and has regular pains, especially at night.”
“That’s quite normal.” Lise felt he needed reassuring just like Henri had when Guy was born. “Don’t worry. She’s a strong woman.”
Francois ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve been so concerned about her I have hardly paid attention to the news. What are Parisians saying?”
“Everyone talks about the war to end all wars. Henri says Woodrow Wilson has prepared a peace proposal.”
“Peace. After so long, it’s hard to believe.” Francois held her arm as they crossed the road. “I’m glad you’re here. Helene is worried. She’s heard too many stories about labour pain and babies in difficult positions. I don’t understand why women delight in telling these tales.”
*
In the early hours of November 18, Helene shook Francois’s shoulder.
“I think it’s time.”
Francois propped himself on one arm, squeezing his eyes shut then opening them wide. He touched her cheek and smiled his reassurance.
“I’ll get your mother.”
She heard him pad barefoot down the hallway and knock on her mother’s bedroom door.
“Maman Noisette! Can you come? Helene needs you.” Francois did not wait for her answer before returning to Helene’s side.
“I’m going to fetch the midwife.”
He dressed quickly in trousers and sweater, pulled on thick socks and shoved his feet into a pair of old shoes. She heard him thump down the stairs and the front door slam shut.
When her mother entered the bedroom, Helene’s smile turned into a grimace as a brief thud of pressure signalled the beginning of another contraction. Pain billowed to a peak, holding its intensity for a moment or two before easing. Beads of sweat formed on her brow.
“Painful?” Helene nodded as her mother wiped her brow with a cool, damp cloth. “How many minutes apart?”
“About ten, I think.” The pain was intense. She was losing track of time.
“Just take them one by one,” her mother said, “otherwise it feels overwhelming. Panting helps.” Helene watched her mother demonstrate.
Helene nodded then felt a warm gush of fluid between her legs. “Maman?”
“That’s normal. The fluid has to release so the baby can come.”
She eased Helene into a chair and quickly changed the sheets and helped her into a fresh nightgown. Helene felt another thud of pain as she crawled back in bed and tensed in anticipation.
“Relax and breathe,” her mother whispered.
The same pattern of pain spread through her body, a rapid ramp of intensity, holding steady at that pain level then a gradual subsiding. “Where’s Francois?”
“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
“Thank you, Maman, for coming.” Helene wondered how she would have coped without her mother’s calm certainty. Maman squeezed her hand and wiped her brow again. After several more contractions, they heard Francois’s uneven footsteps on the stairs.
“Madame Fleury is at another delivery.” He announced in a flat tone as he shrugged off his coat. “She’ll be with us as soon as possible.”
Feeling another thud of pain, Helene concentrated on a brightly coloured painting of a fishing boat on the wall opposite their bed.
“Can you hold Helene’s hand while I get some fresh water?”
Francois sat on a wooden chair next to the bed. “You look a little tired,” he said.
“You were gone so long I was worried.”
She squeezed his hand as the next contraction announced its arrival, and he held tight, whispering encouraging words to keep her focused. She was pale when it ended, though she made no sound.
Time lost significance. Helene was only aware of contractions and brief interludes without pain. Her body became a separate being, operating outside her permission. Francois remained at her side, his warm hand offering strength while his calm eyes steadied her. As daylight emerged in pale shadows outside the window, the midwife arrived. By then, Helene’s labour pains were coming almost one on top of the other, and she was beginning to panic.
“Please leave the room, Monsieur, so I can examine Madame.”
“No! My husband stays. I can’t do this without him.” Helene cried out with another contraction.
Between contractions, Madame Fleury examined her cervix. “It will come very soon,” she said, her nose pinched in disapproval.
As if waiting for the midwife’s permission, Helene moaned, “I have to push.”
The midwife crouched into position. Shortly, the baby’s head emerged then, with a slow, determined push, the shoulders and body followed. Madame Fleury wiped the baby gently with a white flannel cloth before placing it in Helene’s arms.
“It’s a girl,” she said as Helene burst into tears.
Part III
Chapter 41
April 1936
“Everyone working hard?” Francois asked when Helene returned to the kitchen.
Most nights after dinner, Francois helped clear the table, rinsing and neatly stacking the dishes to the right of the sink while Helene nudged their children towards homework. She thought of managing the house as her job while his was to run the business, so she insisted he relax with the newspaper while she cleaned everything away. Spending long hours at his office entitled him to unwind. But he always read in the kitchen, and somehow this made Helene feel that they were communing, even if conversation was limited to random comments on an editorial or a brief interchange about the day’s events.
“Well, Claire and Juliette are studying. Daniel seems to be daydreaming.”
“Just like his father,” said Francois, turning a page of the newspaper.
“You don’t daydream. You’re one of the most practical men I know.”
Helene turned to look at her husband fondly. His scars had faded over the years, though the one on his cheek was still puckered and red, a prominent reminder of war. Nevertheless, he was a handsome man, and she enjoyed the envious looks that women often gave them.
“That makes me sound boring. How have you put up with me for so long?”
She flapped her dishtowel at him in a playful manner and turned back to the sink. After almost eighteen years of marriage, they lived comfortably in the seventh arrondissement. Contentment had settled into their lives after the wonder of Claire’s birth and a reality that was far too demanding for thoughts of what might have been. Then Juliette and Daniel had come along, each born two years apart, and for many years, Helene was so exhausted she fell asleep most evenings reading the newspaper while Francois worked relentlessly to establish his manufacturing business. Now their children were older, and she had time for a few social activities and twice weekly tennis games.