Lies Told In Silence

by M. K. Tod

  “Dear God. I can’t believe I found you,” he said.

  Helene let go of Edward and unzipped her skirt; it puddled around her feet. She drew her sweater up and over her head then unfastened her bra, standing only inches away from him in nothing but silk underwear. She heard his quick intake of breath and smiled.

  “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  She pulled him onto the bed and pressed against him. His arm encircled her, lifting her close as she opened herself to him, and they lay still, as if that were enough, one intimate penetration to make up for all their time apart. Then they began to move, like dancers who had once perfected an intricate ballet and still remembered the steps. Thrusting, touching, kissing, stroking, waiting for an explosion they knew would come.

  *

  “Why didn’t you wait?” Edward’s question disturbed her languorous mood.

  “I did wait. I waited for months and months, but your letters never came.” She struggled to find the right words. “At first, I wasn’t worried because my father took us to Paris, and I thought it would take time for you to receive my letter with our address. But then weeks went by without hearing from you. I became more and more depressed—so ill the doctor sent me to rest and recover by the seaside. I stayed with my father’s sister.” A brief smile touched her lips, and Edward pulled her close again.

  “All that time,” she continued, “I could only imagine you were either dead or you no longer loved me. Both were unbearable. I thought if you were dead, Eric or your captain would have sent word, but no letters ever came.” Helene was overcome with memories. “Last month, I found out what happened. My father intercepted our letters. All of them.” She saw the look of disbelief cross his face and began to cry. “He robbed us of one another. I don’t think I will ever forgive him.”

  “Oh, my God. Our letters? What kind of man would do that? For a while, I thought your letters would eventually catch up to me, but they never came. I couldn’t figure out what had happened, and I had no way to see you. I thought your promise meant nothing and you had lied to me. I thought you no longer wanted me. When it was over, I went to Beaufort to find you, but you weren’t there. I couldn’t find anyone who could tell me where you were. I was frantic and angry.” He gripped her arm so hard she knew it would bruise. “Losing you was like losing myself. It took years before I could wake up in the morning and not think of you. Did you know that? Years.”

  She traced a finger along his lip. “I’ve always wanted you.” His kiss took her breath away, and she shuddered as he caressed the curve of her hips. A tear trickled down her cheek. Sobbing, she wrapped her arms around him again.

  *

  In the afternoon, they walked through the garden talking only of their tangible surroundings, a yellow hummingbird hovering by the rose bushes, the sound of a bullfrog, a broken swing. They circled the pond, where two adult swans closely guarded seven fuzzy little ones, hissing when Helene and Edward came too close, then strolled along the driveway that wound out to the road.

  “How’s your mother?” Edward said.

  “Fine. She and Papa spend most of the year in Paris. They come here for August and September.” Helene linked her arm with his. “I don’t want to talk about my father. It makes me furious. Maman knows I’m here.”

  Edward raised his eyebrows.

  “She doesn’t approve.”

  “I thought she liked me.”

  “She did. But that’s not the point. She said stirring up old memories is dangerous. Here’s Monsieur Garnier’s house. Do you remember the party that night we met?”

  “I remember waiting a very long time to dance with you. For some reason, you went off with Eric, and I kept hoping you wouldn’t like him.”

  Helene laughed, remembering a charming man with red hair. “Should we peek into the barn?” she said.

  Unlike wartime when few building materials were available, the farmhouse appeared freshly painted and recently enlarged with a wing extending from the side nearest the barn. A wooden bench had been placed beside the front door and framed by a bed of white hydrangeas.

  “Won’t they mind?”

  Helene shook her head. “I’ll tell them we met here during the war. They’ll think it’s romantic. We French love romance.”

  Edward held her hand as they went through the gate and walked along the drive past the house. Unlike the main house, the barn looked in need of repairs, the main doors hanging askew by rusty hinges, a section of roof sagging low, clumps of moss clinging to its wooden shingles.

  “It looks smaller than I remember,” Edward said. He kissed her hand. “Let’s go back.”

  Their second lovemaking was far more leisurely, passion building slowly as sunlight warmed their naked bodies. Edward brought her to the edge again and again, each time pulling back, allowing the urgency to subside before beginning again.

  *

  “Tell me about your family,” Edward said.

  This was the question Helene had feared. She had prepared an answer, one that adjusted the timing of her marriage and the ages of her children. Edward accepted her story without question.

  “What about your husband?” he asked.

  “He’s a good man. Wounded at Amiens. We’re content.”

  “Content,” he said. “I would have imagined something stronger for you than contentment. Does he know you’re here?” She nodded. “You’re more daring than me.”

  “The French have more tolerance for such things.”

  Helene knew this was not true. Francois had no tolerance for what she was doing. None at all. He was waiting in Paris for her to regain her senses and raging at her decision to come to Beaufort.

  “What about your family?” she said.

  Helene watched his face soften as he spoke about a boy called Alex and his ten-year-old daughter, Emily. After telling a few stories, he chuckled as if to himself.

  “She’s stubborn and he’s willful.”

  Helene laughed. “Sounds like they take after you. And your wife?”

  “Ann is the best friend of Eric’s wife.” Edward drew his lips together in a tight line. “I can’t talk to you about her.”

  Helene touched his shoulder. “We should get dressed. I’ll make something for us to eat.”

  After dinner, he told her where his unit went in the final months of war then spoke of the day it all ended and his duties in Germany with the Army of Occupation. She watched the faraway look in his eyes as he relayed these stories and the occasional grimace that crossed his face.

  “We were in Germany for a few months and then went to Belgium. The army had little for us to do; we were in a holding pattern because there weren’t enough ships to take everyone home. I managed to secure a few days leave and hitched a ride to a place not too far from Beaufort with a plan to search for you, or for someone who knew where you were. The house was empty, of course. No one was home at the farm next to you. Germaine had left town. A woman at the café said she thought you had gone to Paris, but there was no time for me to travel there, and I couldn’t risk court martial. So I went back to Belgium.”

  “And when did you return to Canada?”

  “In May. A very sad day in May.”

  *

  “Shall we go exploring today?” Helene said.

  They had awakened late and lingered over breakfast and now were standing together looking out the kitchen window. Edward had his arm around her shoulder.

  “You’re in charge,” he said.

  “I’ll make us a little picnic. Remember when I used to sneak food from the house?” He nodded. “I wonder if my mother had any inkling that I was meeting you? Of course, she knows now, but she was so preoccupied in those days. Always worried about Guy and Papa and about what might happen to us in Beaufort.”

  Helene assembled cheese and fruit and wrapped a baguette in a large napkin to keep it from drying out. She added two bottles of beer and a small package of nuts. When they set out, Edward held the basket in one hand and Hele
ne’s hand in the other. Walking the path to the shepherd’s hut, they stopped to gaze across fields golden with wheat and held hands to jump a tumbling stream. From a distance, the hut looked the same, but as they drew near, Helene saw shutters hanging loose, a roof full of holes and the solid wood door left ajar. They peered inside and were startled when a dove flapped its wings and flew away through the roof.

  “Looks like no one uses it anymore,” Edward said.

  “Except maybe teenagers. Look at the broken bottles and garbage.”

  “We can sit outside like we used to.”

  Helene smiled at him. “We used to do more than sit.”

  Edward spread a blanket so they were facing west, where the view was of rolling fields and the red roofs and church spires of small villages. A heavy stillness lay around them, humidity building as the sun peaked.

  “It looks peaceful,” he said, stretching his long legs out.

  “I always felt protected up here. The war seemed far away, and we were in our own little world. Do you remember the first time we came?” He nodded. “I remember hoping you would kiss me again and wondering how to encourage you. I even asked Germaine.” Her laugh faded and she turned towards him. “I remember the last time, watching you go down the hill until you disappeared.”

  “I couldn’t look back,” he said.

  “I know.”

  A bird trilled three notes, two high and one low, then again, two high and one low. In silence, they watched clouds gather like giant cotton bolls while the sun warmed their bodies and soothing stillness surrounded them.

  “We moved a lot after I left.” Edward spoke as if picking up the thread of their earlier conversation. “Earnshaw, Simpson and I trained as many signals units as we could before summer. We knew Germany planned one last big push, and Foch had command, so our efforts were finally coordinated. Sometimes we joined the battlefront, sometimes not. Each time I tried to sleep, I thought of you.” His voice drifted off.

  “You kept writing.”

  “Mm hmm. It was the only thing that gave me hope. You’ve read them all?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Helene tried to swallow her pain. Why, Papa, why?

  “And when you went back?”

  “I went to England first. Spent four weeks waiting for transport. There were still thousands of troops trying to get home.” He shifted onto his side, and she saw the sadness in his face. “Not good having so many men pent up in a holding camp with nothing to do. I was drunk many nights.”

  By then I was married, she thought, sleeping with Francois—no, be honest, making love with Francois—and Claire was six months old. An image of Claire lying between them on the bed, her tiny hand wrapped around Francois’s finger, flashed in her mind. Fatherhood had suited Francois. He knew exactly how to calm Claire’s late-night fussing and ease her into sleep. He also knew how to stroke Helene’s body so that she pulsed with desire.

  “When I got home, I spent the first week in my bedroom. I wouldn’t talk to anyone. My parents were so happy I was home, but instead of the son they expected, they got this depressed stranger. It was selfish, but I couldn’t pretend.” He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Two years later, I met Ann.”

  He stopped talking and looked at her, and Helene knew it was time to tell her story. She wondered how much to tell.

  “When I didn’t hear from you, Marie was the only person I could really talk to. You never met her, but she was my best friend and still is. We wrote to one another throughout the war. I told her all about you, and she was the one who tried to comfort me as the weeks went by without your letters. Being in Honfleur helped. The doctor gave me a tonic, and my aunt was wonderful. We walked together every day, and gradually, I told her everything. She’s an amazing listener …”

  Helene remembered those long walks, the tilt of her aunt’s head and her encouraging words; sometimes just her warm brown eyes and intense glance were enough for Helene to tell Chantal how she was feeling or admit her fears for the future. Her aunt never judged, and neither did Marie.

  “At Christmas, when I was back in Paris, I visited Marie, and her brother was there. He was still recovering from his wounds. Do you remember that he used to write to me?” Edward nodded and rubbed his thumb along the top of her hand. “I never realized he was fond of me.” Helene felt her cheeks flush. “Later that year, he proposed. Without you, I didn’t really care who I married, and Francois needed me. I said yes.” She would not betray Francois further by telling Edward about Claire.

  “Why are we here, Helene?”

  “This was our special place. I wanted us—”

  “I don’t mean here at the hut; I mean why did you ask me to Beaufort?”

  What could she tell him? Could she admit the depth of her love? Could she tell him that he made her feel complete? Could she confess that he was the father of her firstborn? What was she prepared to sacrifice for his love?

  “When I learned of the memorial, I knew I had to come. I had to know whether you had died.” She whispered the last word as if fearful that saying it might make it so. “But when Maman gave me your letters, nothing could keep me from coming. There was a chance, however small, that you might be here. And then you found me. The happiness I felt was unimaginable. I had no choice but to ask you here. No choice at all.”

  Helene touched his cheek then kissed him, a soft kiss that gradually built as her tongue reached for his. He pushed her onto her back and, bit by bit, removed her clothing. Once she was naked, he plucked petals from the wildflowers they had collected and dropped them, one by one, on her body. With the sun beating down, he traced his fingers over her breasts, her stomach, her legs, circling closer and closer. She waited. He dipped a finger into her moist centre and touched her, stroking up and down as soft as a feather as her climax built.

  “Wait,” she said. “I want you inside me.”

  Edward stripped off his clothes, and she pulled him into her, wrapping her legs around him as they rocked together in the gathering pulse of release.

  Much later, he roused her from sleep. “Do you think it’s time to go?” he said.

  “I wish we could stay here forever.”

  *

  “Are you sure?” she asked, wrapping fruit and cheese the next morning.

  “My doctor would have said this is part of the healing process.”

  “Your doctor? Are you sick?” Panic flashed through her.

  “I used to have nightmares. War stress. That’s what the doctor called it. He helped me. We should go to the hill. Definitely, we should go.” Edward took another gulp of coffee, stood up and reached for her hand. “I’m fine.”

  As they climbed to the hilltop where Helene and Jean had watched soldiers prepare for battle, Edward told her about his return to Canada and the deep depression that caught him like a vice and squeezed him for months. She did not press him with questions, merely offered reassuring little phrases that encouraged him to continue and watched his face as the sun ebbed and flowed amidst forest shade and open hills. They kept a slow, measured pace, as if moving faster would disturb his story and its healing purge. As they reached the summit, he stopped.

  “I’d forgotten how I could talk to you. I’ve told you more than I’ve told anyone. Even the doctor.” He lifted her chin and kissed her, a gentle, almost chaste kiss. “Thank you.”

  For a fleeting moment, Helene wondered what Francois would have told her if she had found a way to encourage him.

  Edward stepped close to the edge and looked out. They could see the memorial, stark and white against the ridge. Below, the valley looked peaceful, as if nothing could disturb its life-giving purpose. Hawks circled, wings wide to catch the winds.

  “It’s beautiful now, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He said simply as he put his arm around her waist.

  Chapter 46

  July 1936

  Night stood in deep silence outside their window, a breeze stirring thr
ough wispy pines made soft shushing noises.

  “I want us to be together,” he said.

  The words that had once thrilled her now made her infinitely sad. What have I set in motion? she thought. Maman was right. I never should have come. Never given us a second taste of what might have been. After all these years apart, she still loved him. That much was clear. He completed her. But now she loved her children, and that love surpassed everything else. And she loved Francois, not in the same way as Edward, but her husband had been her steadfast companion and lover for eighteen years. She could not take that away from him.

  “I don’t … it’s not possible. Not anymore. It’s all I’ve thought about, but I can’t see anything except pain for those we love. I don’t think I can do that to my family. How could we live with ourselves?”

  “Over time they would—”

  “They depend on you, Edward. They need you. Your wife, your children, your family. I know you can’t abandon them. I can’t ask you to do that.”

  He pulled away from her. “Right. I’m so dependable; that’s why I’m here in France with a woman I fell in love with twenty years ago. Deceiving my wife. Risking everything.”

  Helene reached for him, caressing his back with one hand to soothe him.

  “You can’t leave me again.” He shrugged her hand away.

  “Darling, I wish …” She could not continue.

  “I’m not good enough for you, am I?”

  He’s angry now. Perhaps that’s best. Anger will protect him. She wanted to hold him, to lose herself in him, to stay in this tiny bubble of a world they knew. But her duty was with her children and Francois, who had rescued her so long ago. She wanted to weep an ocean of tears for the man she should have married.

  “You are more than enough. You are everything.” Her voice was so low he could barely hear.

  “You said you love me.”

  “I do. But we can’t—”

  “Stop,” he shouted and gripped her shoulders. “Stop.”

  He rolled away from her and grabbed his pants from the wicker chair, stuffing one leg then the other into them, wrenching the belt tight.