I feel my first flicker of guilt and dismiss it. I’ve done what I agreed to. I found Marie. If she and her brother don’t want to know about the future, there’s not much more I can do, and doing any more would be breaking a promise I made to myself, and also to Mark, even if he doesn’t know I made it. I don’t care what Marie-Therese or her brother say. The second I’m recovered I’m going back home.
Henri comes in just before dinner. Even after a day outside, with sweat on his brow and bits of hay falling from his trousers, he's the picture of a handsome 1940’s soldier or movie star. All chiseled perfection, a lock of hair falling forward.
He walks into the room and sets apples on the table in front of me. His hands are large, tan from days spent outdoors. "So you won't need to steal them," he says.
I glance up. I’ve got just enough energy to slap that smirk off his face, I’d bet. "Are you always so pleasant to your female guests? I'm beginning to see why you're still single."
His mouth slips up on one side. "You think I'm single for lack of options?"
Marie-Therese smiles fondly at him. "Our Henri can't throw a stick without hitting a lovesick girl,” she says. “It’s almost irritating going into town with him, the way they all stop us and try to talk to him.”
I don’t doubt for a moment this is true, but I still long for a way to take him down a peg. "I assume it must be entirely women who don't know you well," I murmur.
Henri arches a brow. “Do you always bait men who hold your life in their hands?” he asks.
I’m more annoyed by the remark than I am threatened, because I’m still hard-pressed to imagine him as a killer. “Sorry. I’m not entirely clear on the rules,” I reply. “No one’s ever threatened to kill me before.”
He turns toward the room just past the kitchen, which I assume is his. “With the mouth on you,” he says, “I find that very surprising.”
After Henri emerges, freshly bathed and irritatingly handsome, we sit down to eat a dinner that is relatively simple, yet smells better than anything I’ve ever smelled. I'm still so ravenously hungry it feels like I might never get full.
"What happened to the bread?" Henri asks. I sigh. I should have known he'd comment.
"It was my first time."
He narrows one eye. "How exactly is it that a girl of your age has not learned to make bread?”
It’s no different than the question Marie-Therese asked earlier, except that he seems to regard even the most minute things about me as indicative of some greater evil, and it’s getting old.
I set down my fork. "Is there ever going to come a point where you don't act like I'm the antichrist?"
"Perhaps if I got to know you well enough,” he says, cutting into his ham, “but I don’t plan to. So why do you not possess such a basic skill?"
My lip curls. I think the inherent chauvinism of this era would kill me long before Nazis or my ineptitude at household chores. "Because where I'm from, we don't need to make our own bread. Once life improves a few decades from now, the ability to cook and produce children will not be considered a woman's foremost accomplishments.”
“But you still need to eat,” argues Marie-Therese. “Who cooks if women aren’t?”
“People eat out a lot in my time. And cooking is easier too. Faster.”
She sits forward, suddenly fascinated. “Faster how?”
"Are you sure I'm supposed to be telling you this?" I ask.
“No,” Henri intones. “You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t even be here.”
Marie-Therese shrugs. "Tell us anyway. I want to know. I want to know everything that's different. Just not anything bad."
I frown. The bad is probably what she most needs to know. I’ve spent less than a day with her, but already every bone in my body wants to urge her to flee—to move to the United States or some distant island that won’t be touched by the war. Except it’s not a choice I should make for her. As her asshole brother pointed out, I shouldn’t even be here in the first place.
Ignoring Henri’s thoughts on the matter, I tell them about microwaves and VCRs and MTV and drive-thrus. I tell them about air conditioning, something they could sorely use right now: even with the windows open my dress has been stuck to me all day. I explain that few people farm, and that—at least where I'm from—most people go to college and wind up working indoors.
Marie-Therese is enthralled by the life I describe, gushing over the idea of having weekends free to go to parties or movies or galleries. But Henri just listens, seeming to carefully weigh every word that comes out of my mouth with his arms folded across his chest.
When Marie-Therese runs upstairs to get her needlepoint, he leans back in his chair. “I think you'll find our small life here rather unpleasant," he says.
"There’s only been one unpleasant part so far,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at him. I rise to my feet, too tired to sit here being baited by him and he rises too, looming over me. Between his height and the width of his shoulders, I feel a little more vulnerable than I did when we were seated.
"You've charmed my sister, kelpie,” he says, his eyes brushing over my face, "but I promise I won't be quite so easy."
I don’t know how to translate kelpie and decide not to ask. I’m almost certain it isn’t anything good.
5
When I wake the next day the sun is beating down on me through the open window, and the air in the room is so thick and oppressive it would make me feel groggy no matter how much sleep I'd gotten. I should be in New York City right now with Mark. There was a new gallery in SoHo he wanted to take me to, and as much as I love discovering new artists, it’s the appeal of a darkened room and air-conditioning that speaks to me most at the moment.
I put on yesterday's dress and limp downstairs, a trickle of sweat rolling down my chest and landing somewhere inside the God-awful, too-small bra. Marie-Therese is bustling around, sprightly and all smiles. "Oh goodness," she says, coming to a halt. "You look worse."
I twist my hair off my neck, trying to cool off. “It’s just hot,” I say weakly. I take in the small basket she’s packing. “Are you going out?” My heart beats unsteadily at the prospect of being left here with Henri. I still don’t think he’s a killer, necessarily, but I like having her here as a buffer regardless.
She nods. “I teach German on Friday mornings, but if you'd like I could take you to town when I'm done.”
Despite my fatigue, the idea appeals to me. Here on the farm, life does not feel drastically different from home. But in a town, with the shops and all the people, it might truly feel as if I'm in France, just before the occupation. Sort of like a Renaissance festival or 50’s day in high school, albeit it one where the participants don't realize they've got nearly a decade of suffering ahead.
"I didn’t have time to milk the cows so there’s only water to drink, but I left you bread and cheese,” she says, grabbing the basket. “I’ll be back after lunch, but in the meantime, take a bath. It might help you cool off.”
I see her off reluctantly and then go to the bathroom. For a moment I simply stare at the tub, arms folded across my chest, wondering how I can avoid this. It’s been a decade since I last had a bath instead of a shower, but I assume it’s my only option here.
I strip and force myself into the tub, sitting in two inches of water and emptying a pitcher over my head to wash my hair. I find shampoo but no conditioner. It’s depressing to exert so much effort just to have my hair feel like straw when I’m done.
Showers, conditioner, shorts and cool air. This is what I miss most, so far. That and the absence of Henri.
I get back into my clothes. By the time I’m done dressing I’m hot again, and exhausted, but I grab the pail Marie uses for milking and head outside. Though ours ceased to be a working farm once my father left, I still remember a thing or two, and Marie has enough work to do without me adding to it.
I get as far as the pump when I sense something behind me and glance over my shoulder. Henri is in the fiel
d there, a vine in one hand and shears in the other, but he’s gone completely still, watching me. When our eyes meet he throws the shears to the ground and begins to march my way.
Right. Because I’m a criminal here to steal his shitty little apples or something. "You don't need to get the gun just yet," I say testily as he approaches. "I'm just milking the cows."
His tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth. He almost looks amused. "Do you even know how to milk a cow? Don't you have a magical device in your time that milks the cow and churns the butter and carries it all to your tongue?"
Well, for the most part, yes. I lift a shoulder. "I assume it can't be that hard if you can do it."
His hands link behind his neck, observing me. "Hopefully you've taken on this chore in lieu of making the bread."
"Marie-Therese and I are going to town today,” I reply, rolling my eyes, “so your bread is safe."
His jaw drops. "To town?" he asks, and then he laughs unhappily. "Non. My impulsive sister is so thrilled to have someone around that she's not using her head. You will stay on the farm and go nowhere else. You’ve caused enough trouble as it is."
I'm growing tired, standing in the sun, and though I do sort of enjoy sparring with him, my will to do so is dwindling by the second. "I must be growing on you if you're so desperate to keep me close."
"Hardly," he replies. "But Marie-Therese attracts enough attention and two of you together, in the same household? It could raise suspicion."
I throw out my hands. His paranoia is getting really, really old. "What does it matter?" I exclaim. "Is Marie-Therese a fugitive? A celebrity in hiding? Why would anyone care where she is? I don't care that she knows where I am."
His eyes shift away. Hiding something again. "It's never safe for any of you to know each other, and the fact that you're pretending not to know this isn't helping your case."
"How would I know that? Marie's the first time traveler I've ever even met!"
His eyes narrow. "Not your mother? Your grandmother? A sister?"
My family history is like an overstuffed closet. Pull one thing loose and you'll find yourself buried in the rest. I go with the simplest explanation instead. "It skipped my mother, and my grandmother died before I was born. I’ve traveled back to see her, but asking her to explain things would..."
"…let her know she’ll die before her time," he concludes. He understands because it’s the same reason Marie won’t at least try to go back and visit her mother. I see a flicker of something in his eyes. I'd suspect it was sympathy if he were anyone else.
"Yes." I feel unsteady now, between the heat and the exhaustion. I need to end this conversation before I pass out.
He reaches back to rub a hand along the nape of his neck, flinching. "You had no business jumping back like this when you know so little. What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking your sister needed help, because the information came from a pretty reliable source." Though I’m not sure a message from beyond the grave would necessarily be considered reliable.
I sway suddenly and he grabs my waist to hold me upright. I can feel the pressure of his hands through my dress, and this sudden awareness of him—of his size and his strength—unnerves me. “You need to lie down,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I reply, but it’s a lie. I can’t think straight right now, between the exhaustion and his hands on me. My eyes close for a moment and he scoops me up like a child and heads for the house. I’d like to argue but I feel like I’m about to pass out. And dazed though I am, I can’t help but notice that—for all his belligerence—he’s gentle with me now. Gentler than I’d have thought him capable of.
"You think you're being brave," he says softly. "But bravery like that will get you killed one day, kelpie."
That word again. "That's the second time you've called me that,” I murmur. “If you're going to insult me, have the balls to do it in English."
He raises a brow. "A lady would not use that expression. And not only do you not know French, you don't know your own language as well. Kelpie is a Scottish word I think. A myth."
"So enlighten me,” I say, as he sets me on the couch. “What is a kelpie?"
He hesitates, his eyes on my face for a long moment before he turns away. "A monster in human form."
By the time Marie-Therese returns, I've already taken a nap but don’t feel much better for it. She prepares a broth over the stove, her mouth pursed with irritation over Henri’s edict about me remaining on the farm, though in truth I’m probably too tired to make the walk anyway.
I cut carrots for her while she peels potatoes and asks me question after question about university. She wants to know everything: the classes I’ve taken, my plans for the degree, what it’s like to live on my own. Each question sounds more wistful than the one before it.
"Did you ever think about going?" I ask.
She grabs the carrots I've chopped in two certain handfuls and drops them into the pot on the stove. "I couldn't leave Henri all alone," she says. "Perhaps when he marries."
"That poor woman," I sigh. "She has no idea what she's in for with him."
She laughs. "Oh no. Did you see him today? Is he still being a beast?"
"Yes, and he called me a kelpie for the second time, which is apparently a monster in human form."
A small smile graces her lips. "If it's any consolation, it's actually a monster who takes the form of a beautiful woman."
I grimace. "It's not really much of a consolation."
“Poor Henri. We finally get a beautiful girl around here and she hates him. Like I said, you've seen him at his worst. He was so different before he came back from England.”
“England?”
She nods, blowing on a steaming spoonful of the broth to taste before bringing it to her lips. “He was there for university."
For some reason the news surprises me, though it shouldn’t. His posh British accent was one of the first things I noticed about him, after all. "I didn't realize he'd gone."
"It wasn't for him so he left,” she says with a shrug. “But please just ignore him if he’s being rude. I know you can’t see it yet, but there’s not a sweeter, more caring man alive than my brother. Your presence here worries him, and I suppose he’s lashing out a bit because of it.”
“If he’s threatened by me, I’m guessing he’s threatened by almost anything,” I say with a sigh. “As you’ve both pointed out, I’m terrible at time jumping and not even good at stealing.”
Her shoulders fall as she turns back to the stove. “We've already lost both our parents, and I think he blames himself a bit…for not being able to help our mother.”
For reasons I doubt I’ll ever understand, only women can time travel. It hadn’t occurred to me until now how painful it must be for Henri that his sister could choose to charge back and save their mother, but he cannot.
“He’s made it his sworn duty to keep me safe and yet the Germans are getting bolder—it's said they've now crossed the river into Allemagne—and with Madame Beauvoir popping in unannounced and now you…these things happen and it makes him feel like he’s failing."
I don't want to feel sorry for Henri, I really don't. But in both of them I’m seeing a life of promise that's been waylaid somehow. If I planned to stay, and I don't, I might think this is what Kit wanted me to fix. That perhaps she wanted me to save Marie-Therese and Henri from themselves, from this sad, isolated little life they've created, though I wouldn’t have the first idea how. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m definitely not staying.
Over dinner Marie-Therese is all smiles and laughter, while Henri continues to regard me like some kind of vampire who might lunge forward at any moment to sink my fangs into his neck. The more his sister seems to like me, the more his aversion grows.
"Henri," Marie chides, "you must smile at least once tonight so Amelie realizes you're capable of it."
"She's the guest," he says, eyes on his stew. "I believe she's the one who sh
ould be charming."
I pat my lips with my napkin and give him a saccharine smile. "I'm not generally charming to men who've held me at gunpoint. It's a personal thing."
"And I'm not in the habit of smiling at vipers who land naked on my property and refuse to leave."
"Refuse to leave?" I demand. "You’re holding me hostage, remember?"
His eyes meet mine across the table. "Fine. You are free to go," he replies. He glances away then. "The sooner the better,” he adds, almost to himself.
I should be relieved but feel oddly hurt instead. It’s an old kind of hurt, as if he’s pressed upon a large bruise I’ve had so long I can’t remember where I got it. The experience of not being wanted is something you never entirely get used to.
Marie-Therese rises, snatching things from the table. “Henri, you’re being rude,” she says. “Amelie will not be well enough to travel for days or even weeks, and more importantly, I don't want her to go. It's been years since I've had another female around the house."
He leans back, folding his arms across his chest. "Yes, I'm aware. And it's making you a little too comfortable. Taking her to town, Marie? You really think people won't talk about our American ‘cousin’ once they've seen her?"
"You worry too much,” Marie-Therese says with a dismissive wave of a hand. "Humans can rationalize almost anything, and it’s not as if it's a secret by now. You know what a gossip Madame Beauvoir is."
He exhales heavily. "And you don't worry enough. I've asked you multiple times to jump back and change the way that visit went. There’s no reason anyone needs to know she’s here."
She glances at him, and then me. "No," she says, finally. "There's no point. I think Amelie might stay with us a while, so I’m not going to exhaust myself trying to hide her."
I open my mouth to assure her I do not plan to stay for a while, but Henri, lovely man that he is, is way ahead of me. "Stay a while?" he demands. "Are you insane? She remains here until she's recovered and not an hour longer, do you understand?"
Across Time: Across Time Book 1 Page 3