by Hazel Gaynor
“It would certainly give you something to write about,” Daniel continued. “What is it that you write, exactly? You never really said.”
“I write news articles that are mostly never published, except for one. I had a few ideas stolen by a so-called friend, or should I say, ex-friend. He’s built up an enviable reputation now, while I continue to receive rejection letters. The curse of being a woman trying to make a name for herself.” I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. My cheeks were rosy from too much sun and the light spray of freckles across the bridge of my nose had deepened. To my surprise, my hair was still pinned into a relatively neat knot for a change.
“Have you ever considered writing under a male pseudonym?” Daniel asked, his dark eyes on mine. “You might have better luck. I know we’re supposed to be living in progressive times, but I’m not sure all that much has changed for women in the last few years.”
I stared at him a moment, both intrigued by his suggestion and impressed he should take an invested interest in women’s rights. “You might be right,” I said at last. “The Brontës did it. George Sand. Even Colette for a time. Auntie Nellie used a pen name, though it was still a female name.”
“Auntie Nellie?”
I laughed. “Not technically an aunt. More of a family friend. You probably know her as Nellie Bly. Elizabeth Cochran was her real name.”
“You knew Nellie Bly? Well, that’s quite the claim to fame. Was she as brazen and outspoken in real life as her reputation would have us believe?”
“She was worse, in the best way possible! Nellie didn’t leave anything left unsaid. She was a friend of my grandmother’s. She’s part of the reason we’re making this trip across Europe.” I paused. “And she’s one of the main reasons I’m a writer.”
He nodded. “We all need role models. My youngest sister has struggled to find work as a mathematician, even in Boston where things should be a bit easier than in a small town. It’s a crime, really. She isn’t the type to be confined to the home. You remind me of her a little, actually, only taller.”
Daniel was a little on the short side, barely reaching my height. He was broad rather than lanky, but he moved with a certain confidence and grace. It struck me how little I knew about him, even though I felt as if I’d known him for some time.
“I’m serious,” he went on. “You should consider a pen name. You’re an intelligent and capable woman. Once you remove the female stigma, I’m certain you’ll have more luck.”
A stigma indeed. It infuriated me. I finished my brandy and placed the glass on the bar.
Perhaps I should consider using a man’s name, or even my first initial and last name. M. Sommers. Journalist. No one would know whether the M stood for Mark or Michael or Madeleine, and frankly, it was none of their business. As a man, they’d have one less reason to turn me away. A sudden lightness came over me. Now, if only I had a great pitch.
“Care to join me in another?” Daniel asked.
“Why not.” As the bartender poured another brandy for me and a Lillet for Daniel, my eyes strayed to the folder on the bar top. “Working on something?” I asked. “A review of a show?”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Well, no. It’s—”
“Let’s see,” I said, pulling the folder toward me without waiting for his permission. The alcohol had gone straight to my head.
“They’re drawings,” he blurted, his ears going red. “I’m fascinated by architecture, you see. Buildings and structures in Paris range from Roman times to Gothic, to the more modern style as they call it, from the early nineteenth century. And then there’s Art Deco. The skyline is so open here compared to New York. Paris is preserved in time, really. I’ve enjoyed studying them and thought I’d sketch a few.”
“Are you an artist, too?”
He looked a little embarrassed. “In a way, but not like your sister. She has a real talent. I just . . . dabble.”
I flipped through the drawings, noticing the dimensions listed in the margins, the perfect lines clearly drawn with a ruler. “Daniel, these are very good. I’m no expert, but have you considered work as an architect? Clara’s fiancé works in that line of business. Perhaps he could offer some advice.”
He swallowed a sip of Lillet and, after a moment, met my eye. “I have. In fact, I’m not sure how long I’ll remain a theater critic.”
“That’s wonderful! Good for you. Funny how sometimes you have to get away from your regular day-to-day to realize what you should be doing with your life. That was partly why Violet was so intent on us taking the trip. She has a modern way of thinking for someone born in the last century.”
“So, what’s next on your itinerary?” Daniel continued. “You’d mentioned some letters of your grandmother’s?”
“Yes. We’re headed to Amiens.”
“Oh? And what’s there?”
“A war cemetery. Our grandfather is buried there, apparently. I’m not sure how I feel about going to be honest.”
Daniel took a long sip of his drink. “I’m sure it will be difficult, but a wonderful thing to do for Violet. You know, you light up whenever you talk about her. It’s nice to see.”
Not used to compliments, I sputtered on my drink, turning a sip into an inadvertent gulp. “Do I? Thanks.”
“You’re an intriguing woman, Madeleine. Quite different from how I’d imagined.”
“How you’d imagined?” I frowned, uncertain by what he meant.
Guilt flashed across his face an instant before he composed himself. “You’re so different from your sister, I mean.”
I looked at him, wondering what the strange behavior was about, but rather than point it out, I shrugged. “Yes. That’s a fact.”
He stared back at me, a serious look on his face.
I stood abruptly and gathered my things.
“I should be going. Don’t want to make dear Clara worry.” I downed the rest of my drink in one gulp. “Thank you for the drinks.”
“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend—”
I waved dismissively. “Not at all. See you around, Daniel.”
I darted for the elevator, leaving a bewildered Daniel behind. Yet as I walked to my room, his words reverberated in my mind: You’re an intelligent and capable woman. Once you remove the female stigma, I’m certain you’ll have more luck. Though he hadn’t read a single piece of my writing, he believed I had what it took to be successful, that I had gumption, and that meant something to me.
Once in the suite, I headed straight for the writing desk, opened my journal, and began to write.
Clara
Madeleine surprised me with a reconciliation gift she’d purchased from an artist in Montmartre, proving she had a heart after all. It helped to thaw some of the previous days’ tensions and after an argument-free dinner together, we’d ended the evening with an unexpectedly companionable stroll along the Seine.
I woke the next morning feeling content and refreshed, my mood brightened further by birdsong and the melody of French conversation beyond the window, but the sight of Violet’s letter to Frank reminded me of the difficult events the day held for us. It seemed especially sad that this was how she would say goodbye to him, but at least she’d been given the chance to put her affairs in order. I supposed Charles would manage all of those things when we were married. As I dressed for the journey ahead, I wondered what life would be like as somebody’s wife. It would be different, but would I be different, too?
I dressed quickly and headed to the breakfast room, where I found Madeleine already at our table.
“The croissants are to die for,” she said, her mouth full as she took another bite of the flaky pastry and ignored the crumbs that fell onto the tablecloth. “You should try one.”
I tried not to comment on the mess she’d made on her side of the table, ordered a boiled egg, and stirred sugar into my coffee. “You seem in good spirits. You obviously slept well given how loudly you snored. I could hear you through the wall.”
At
this, Madeleine shrugged. “Not much I can do about that when I’m asleep,” she added as she spread an alarming amount of cherry jam onto her croissant. She glanced at my outfit of an olive-green crepe tea dress and matching shoes. “You’re not traveling to Amiens in that, are you?”
“Yes. And what’s wrong with it?” I noticed she’d attired herself like a packhorse again.
“We’re going to a cemetery, Clara. We’ll essentially be walking through a field.”
“Well then, you’ll be glad you dressed like a farmer.”
Ignoring me, Madeleine pulled something from her handbag. “Remember how I told you I ran into Daniel Miller at the bar yesterday?”
“Yes. What about it?” I was embarrassed to have been found out about not telling her I’d bumped into him myself.
“Well, read this.” She pushed a page of the hotel’s stationery toward me. “I told him about our trip to Amiens and it turns out I’ve inspired him to visit the cathedral there. Today! He’s invited us to join him for lunch when we’re finished visiting the cemetery.”
“Really?” I skimmed the note, my mood souring with every line.
Dear Maddie,
After our conversation last night, you’ve inspired me to visit the cathedral in Amiens. I went to the station early this morning to buy my ticket and took the liberty of picking up tickets for your trip as well since I was already there and the timetables are impossible to decipher. I hope you don’t mind.
I won’t infringe upon your important plans with your sister. However, should you two find yourselves hungry, I reserved a table for lunch pour trois at La Cave, an excellent little restaurant beside the cathedral. The food is rustic, but you’ll never taste a finer rabbit stew and you strike me as someone who will appreciate the local cuisine.
I hope things go well for you both at the cemetery. I imagine it will be a poignant experience.
Sincerely,
Daniel
I was horrified. How dare he be so presumptuous! We were perfectly capable of booking our own travel, and at the time we chose. He further insulted us by assuming we’d want to dine with him!
“Does your friend intend to make all our travel arrangements?” I remarked as I pushed the note back to Madeleine. “I’m surprised. I’d have thought you would be offended by him feeling the need to interfere. I suppose he’ll expect to sit with us on the train, too?”
“He’d better not!” Madeleine said. “I like the man just fine, but this is our trip. At least we don’t have to go to the bother of figuring out the tickets, but what do we do about lunch? It feels rude to decline.”
I shrugged. “I don’t suppose there’s much we can do about it now.”
“No,” Madeleine agreed. “I don’t suppose there is.”
Although she was saying all the right words, I got the distinct feeling Madeleine wasn’t quite as put off by the idea of meeting Daniel Miller for lunch as she pretended.
“Anyway, the important thing is to find Grandpa’s grave,” I added. “The rest of it is incidental.”
We finished our breakfast in silence until I noted the time and stood up suddenly.
“We’d better get going if we want to make the train Daniel has arranged for us. I’d hate to miss it.”
Madeleine insisted we had plenty of time, and that I worried too much, but I was pleased to prove her wrong when a traffic jam in the center of the city caused a significant delay and meant we made the Amiens train with only minutes to spare.
“You won’t be traveling with us, Mr. Miller?” I asked when we saw him on the platform and began to board. “It was kind of you to buy our tickets, but there really was no need.”
“I assume you ladies would much rather gossip about me than have me sit beside you. I hope your search is successful. Join me for lunch, if you wish. Or not. The stew is delicious, though, I promise!”
He wished us a pleasant journey and boarded a few cars down from us.
He was charming to a fault and certainly made it difficult for me to sustain my initial dislike for him.
“At least he had the decency to travel in a different compartment,” I remarked as we boarded and took our seats. “I was dreading spending the journey making polite conversation and forcing pleasantries.”
“Yes. Imagine,” Madeleine added with more than a hint of sarcasm. “That would be awful.”
Once we were on the way, I reread Violet’s first letter to us, and studied the sepia-colored photograph. Grandpa Frank’s face was familiar to me from old photographs Violet had on display around Veneto, but she didn’t talk about him much, and we somehow knew not to ask, afraid of upsetting her.
“I hadn’t thought about him much until this trip,” I said as I studied the photograph again. “He looks like he was a lot of fun.”
“He was a handsome devil,” Madeleine said. “No wonder Violet fell madly in love with him.”
I pictured Violet as a young woman in love, and thought about my feelings for Charles. Would I miss him every day if he weren’t here, as Violet had said she missed Frank? Would my hand still reach for his at sunrise, twenty years after he’d last slept beside me?
I returned the photograph to the envelope, turned my face to the window, and hoped Madeleine hadn’t noticed the tears I blinked away.
* * *
WE ARRIVED TO a dreary morning in Amiens, the brooding sky threatening rain. Nonetheless, it was market day and everything was bustle and noise, the stalls adorned with fresh fruit and vegetables, rustic breads, cured meats, and cheeses. My artist’s eye was more alert to beauty than it had been for a long time. Some invisible restraint had fallen away within me, and I felt more open since leaving New York. I was more aware of my surroundings, of my urge to draw and paint.
“It’s hard to imagine there was ever a war going on in such a pretty place,” I said as the bus taking us to our final destination rumbled over cobbled streets and crossed a bridge above the Somme river.
“Violet said Frank’s unit was billeted here,” Madeleine added. “I wonder which house was his.”
I stared out of the window, pressing the images onto my mind so I would be able to capture them in my sketchbook later. I dozed a little then, soothed by the motion of the bus. For once, my mind was free of all thoughts of weddings and whether I would ever find Edward in Venice.
After twenty minutes or so, the bus came to a stop and the driver explained that we had arrived at our destination. We were the only people for miles around, it seemed, as the bus pulled away and we found ourselves entirely alone.
The cemetery was both beautiful and heartbreaking. A sea of white crosses stretched as far as I could see, each one a precise distance from the next. Such care had been taken, such respect shown to the fallen.
“Where shall we start?” I asked. Violet hadn’t given us a plot number. Perhaps there wasn’t such a thing.
“I’ll start at the far end,” Madeleine suggested. “You start here. If you find Frank’s cross, whistle.”
“If I find Frank’s cross, I’ll wave until you see me. This isn’t the docks in New York, Madeleine.”
Our search took much longer than I’d anticipated. Not just because of the sheer number of graves, but because I found myself stopping to read each name inscribed on the simple white crosses, and the shockingly brief period of the dates between birth and death. I walked along row after row, some of the crosses marked only with the words “A Soldier of the Great War.” Too many fallen and unidentified men to comprehend.
I glanced up occasionally to see if Madeleine was faring any better. Like me, she was peering at each headstone, reading the inscription, moving on to the next. It would take us days to find Grandpa Frank at this rate.
After an hour, the sky grew darker and a steady rain began to fall. I made my way over to Madeleine, my feet soaked from the wet grass. I wished I’d taken her advice and worn more practical laced boots, after all.
“It’s miserable,” I said as I reached her. “Maybe we shou
ld come back when the rain stops?”
She looked up, her natural curls sagging in the rain, which was falling heavier and heavier by the minute. “We’re already wet,” she said. “We may as well finish the job.”
I pulled my coat up over my head. “We’ll be drowned. Let’s come back after lunch, preferably with an umbrella.”
“Don’t be such a baby. This is part of the challenge!” she replied. “Besides, does it really matter if we’re drowned? You’re always so caught up in appearances.”
“I may be a baby, but I’d rather not catch a cold and spend the rest of our trip in bed sick!” I had to raise my voice to make myself heard against the hiss of the rain that now pelted us both. “This is ridiculous, Madeleine. I’m heading back into town. We can come back later.”
Stubborn to a fault, my sister refused to listen to me. “You go back if you like,” she shouted in reply. “I’m staying.”
My coat was drenched and soon my clothes would be, too. I hurried as fast as I could in skirt and heels to the bus stop at the edge of the cemetery, fuming all the way. Why did Madeleine insist on turning everything into an argument? She never used her common sense. Ever.
Thankfully, a bus came along in minutes. As I boarded, relieved to be out of the rain, my anger cooled a little. What if Grandpa Frank wasn’t here after all? Violet would be devastated if we had to tell her we couldn’t find him. She’d sent us all this way to wrap up the loose threads of her life, and it looked like we were already set to fail. After everything she had done for me, I couldn’t bear to let her down.
Taking a seat beside the window, I sighed wearily, rubbed the condensation from the glass, and searched for Madeleine. There she was, doggedly tramping among the endless rows of crosses as the rain fell in curtains around her. Her obstinacy served her well sometimes.
If anyone could find Frank, Madeleine could.
Maddie
I didn’t find Grandpa Frank, despite searching the remaining rows. As the rain eventually eased, I even went back through the rows Clara had already checked. Just as I’d resigned myself to the fact that his grave wasn’t here, I noticed a groundskeeper tending to the graves, removing old flowers and weeds. I approached him and explained in rusty French that I was trying to find my grandfather’s grave, and was there anything he could do to help? Fortunately, he spoke good English, and what he told me gave me hope.