Heat rose in Diane’s face, warming her cheeks. “No. He’s an honorable man.”
“But a man.”
“It’s not like that.” Suddenly annoyed, she asked, “How long are you in Le Havre?”
“Two days. Then I’ll take the train to Paris. By then Mrs. Lawrence’s and Victoria’s trunks will have arrived. I would like you to come to Paris. I want you to meet Mrs. Lawrence and Victoria. We can begin planning our own enterprise together.”
“I have never longed to see Paris.”
“Ah, I think you don’t know what you’re missing. You can tell Mr. Bernard that you’re coming to visit me. Perhaps you will stay with me a couple of days or weeks, and then we’ll see.”
“I’m eighteen, Claire. I believe the days of you looking out for me are over.”
Claire leaned forward, and when she spoke, her voice was heavy with emotion. “You and our brothers and sisters are my children, my life. I will always put you first. It is my greatest wish that we will all be together again.”
Diane had always known that the Hedrick brothers and sisters would never gather as a group again. “Mama expected too much of you when she asked you to take care of us.”
“I promised her.”
“She should not have asked that of you. You were a child yourself.”
Claire laid her hand over Diane’s. “You know she never would have left us willingly.”
“She gave Papa two sons, and yet she needed to try for another child. She knew by then that pregnancy was a risk. She knew the dangers, and yet she tried for another baby.”
“She loved us.”
A bitter seed that had burrowed in Diane long ago took hold and sprouted. “Did she?”
Claire hesitated as if she too had sensed this truth but could never voice it. “How can you say that?”
“You know it as well as I do. You can’t tell me you don’t blame her.”
Claire dropped her gaze to the brocade on her cuff and traced it with her gloved hand. “She loved us.”
“I’m not saying she didn’t. But she was so anxious to please Papa, and he was never happier than when he held his own son in his arms. He kept the boys close. The daughters he cast off.”
“For our own good.”
“Or perhaps for his own good. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Then you’re a better woman than I, Claire.”
Claire stared at her, her eyes flaring with an anger that reminded Diane of when they were young girls. Unlike then, she would not be bossed around.
Diane dropped her gaze to her half-consumed coffee and the treats she had barely touched. “I was so excited to see you today. I never intended to bait you into an argument.”
“It’s like it always was, eh?” Claire said with affection.
“I thought I had moved past all this because I am truly happy where I am.”
“Of all the children, you were the one that fought me the most. The world tried its best to change us, but it seems we’re exactly as we’ve always been.”
Diane laughed, seeing the truth. She imagined them in their eighties, meeting again and finding something to argue about.
Claire ordered more coffee and macarons, and the awkwardness of their meeting passed as they settled into their old relationship as if they had never been apart.
“I have a surprise for you,” Claire said.
“A surprise?”
“There is a photographer around the corner. He has agreed to take our picture.”
“Picture?”
“Yes.”
Claire pulled out the picture taken of the four sisters with their mother. Diane was the baby in her arms, Jemma and Sarah stood on her left and right, and Claire stood behind her, a small hand resting on her shoulder. Tears glistened in Diane’s eyes as she stared at her mother’s face. “Remember this?” Claire asked.
Diane studied it closely, stunned to see her mother’s face and how young she had been. “I had forgotten what she looked like,” she whispered.
“I try to remember the sound of her voice, but I can’t,” Claire said.
Diane slowly tried to hand back the picture, not sure if she really wanted to remember what was gone forever.
“You keep it. I have more memories of her.”
Diane pushed the picture toward her sister. “No. You should have it. You’re the one who will make sure the world doesn’t forget us.”
“I promise you.” Claire pulled several francs from her purse and handed them to their waiter. And when Diane dug for her coins, Claire refused them. “No, this is my treat.”
They walked down the cobblestone street, arm in arm, laughing and mindful of the stares.
The photographer’s shop was located on a side street sandwiched between a bakery and a millinery. The studio was small, and inside, its walls were draped in heavy fabric. Light flickered from a dozen small gas lamps that added touches of brightness in an otherwise dreary room.
Claire introduced herself and Diane to the photographer, who said he had been expecting them. He seated them on a settee. The photographer ducked his head under the thick black cloth and then came around and positioned their faces toward the camera. “Look at me, ladies. And smile. You are pretty and too young for such somber expressions.”
They both smiled, holding the pose as he exposed the lenses and counted to fifteen. He reloaded the large glass-plate negative in his camera and took another picture.
When the session was done, Claire and Diane hugged and agreed the picture would be mailed to their father, so that he would not forget them.
The sisters held hands and leaned close as the carriage rocked over the cobblestones, as if knowing that talk of working together and owning a shop one day was just that—talk. They both sensed that life was soon going to take them in different directions.
Diane kissed Claire goodbye, and she stepped onto the cobblestones. As the carriage rolled away, she waved to her sister, who leaned out the window until the vehicle rumbled around the corner and out of sight.
As Diane stepped through the front door of the small inn, she felt a lightness of spirit and a boldness she had not really known since before Mama had died. When she walked into the lobby, Gilbert was there sitting by the fire, a glass of untouched wine in front of him.
She smiled as she tugged the tips of her gloves and removed them. She sat across from him. “Only you could be in Le Havre and look so glum.”
“It smells in this city,” he said.
She made a face as she reached for his wine and took a sip. It was too sweet, and it sat on the back of the tongue in a most unpleasant way. “Your cider is certainly much better.”
“Yes.” He looked up at her. “When do you leave?”
“Leave for where?” Diane asked.
“With your sister and the rich family she works for. I didn’t think you’d stay with us forever and knew this day would come.”
“Are you happy it has?” she asked.
“It’s not my place to have an opinion,” he said.
“You always have an opinion, Gilbert. Do you wish for me to leave?” She felt her own breath catch in her throat as she waited for his answer.
He gulped down half the glass of wine and winced. “No, I don’t want you to leave.”
If this day with Claire had shown her anything, it was that her own future was indeed not secure. She loved living at Château Bernard, but her place there relied on the whims of Gilbert and Madame Herbert. “And what would you have me do when I return to the château?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think it’s time I secured my future.”
He looked perplexed. “You have a secure future.”
“No, of course I don’t. The baker’s son has affection for me. And the miller has spoken to me at church several times. I could perhaps make a marriage of either of them or the tanner’s son. Then I would know for certain where I belong in this world.”
“They are all idiots, and you would be bored silly within a month,” he growled.
“Perhaps. But I would know I have a place that is all mine.”
His gaze sharpened. “You belong at Château Bernard.”
“As what? Maid? Cook? Nurse? Apple picker?”
He looked up at her, his gaze full of an emotion she had not seen before. “We should return to the orchard now. The city makes you crazy.”
She drew in a breath, staring at his expression for any sign that he did not truly mean what he had just asked of her. “Not crazy. Curious.”
He curled his fingers into fists as if he were clinging to sanity. “What is your place at the orchard? You are the orchard now. It would not exist without you. I would have died two years ago if you’d not nursed me.”
She had been so terrified during those dark days when the fever had taken him over. Where would she have gone if not for him?
Gilbert drew in a breath. “Marry me.”
She laughed, believing he was joking, but his gaze held no hints of teasing, and very quickly her smile faded. “Why do you want to marry me?”
His brows drew together. “I think we would work well together.”
Her very practical Gilbert was never one for nice words. He was always direct and to the point. But in a world filled with meaningless pretty words, she found she rather liked directness.
The idea of marrying him had indeed crossed her mind many times. When he had been ill, and she had sponged down his body with cool towels, she had been very aware of him as a man. When the miller had taken her hand a month ago after church, she’d wanted it to be Gilbert’s fingers wrapped around hers. When the tanner had tried to kiss her, she had turned her cheek, annoyed that Gilbert had never tried to kiss her. No matter which young man put himself in her path, she saw only Gilbert. “Just like that, you want to marry me.”
“Yes, I do.” He reached in his pants pocket and pulled out a small piece of cloth. Carefully, he unwrapped it to reveal a small gold band. “It was my mother’s,” he said.
“How long have you been carrying this?”
“Weeks.”
She held out her hand, and he carefully placed it on her palm. She curled her fingers around it. “And when we are married, what would I do? Continue on as I have?”
He cleared his throat. “I assume there will be children.”
Heat rose up in her cheeks. “And if I don’t want children?”
He studied her, more puzzled than worried. “Why wouldn’t you?”
As much as she had dreamed of sharing the marriage bed with Gilbert, the idea of delivering a baby terrified her. “My mother had seven children. She died having the last.”
“That was a long time ago. And there’s a doctor in town. I would like to have children, especially if one is a girl, and she looks like you.”
The idea of holding a baby in her arms held a faint appeal, but it also brought back memories of an absent mother, a father’s disappointment, and younger brothers who took the lion’s share of the attention. Her fingers pressed the gold into her palm.
“Perhaps not right away,” he said. A frown wrinkled his brow. “But I would want a child one day.”
“Perhaps one or two. But until then, you would have to be content with just me. Would that do?”
“Yes,” he whispered before he cleared his throat. “That would do very nicely.”
She slid the ring on her finger and discovered it fit perfectly. She came up to him, and, grabbing the rough fabric of his lapel, she pulled him toward her and kissed him. He sat stock-still, but his lips were soft, and he smelled faintly of soap and fresh air. After a moment, he rose, and his hand came up to her waist. He pressed her toward him, deepening the kiss.
Her senses exploded, and all the restless nights she had lain awake thinking about touching him culminated into a desire that left her breathless. She had always been reckless, making decisions too quickly.
“Is this marriage crazy? I know I’m older,” Gilbert said.
“Ten years is not such a difference.” She reached for the half glass of wine and drank the rest. “All right, I’ll marry you. When?”
“Now. Today. And then we will deliver that Calvados to your sister and be done with this town.”
She smiled and leaned forward, kissing him on the lips in full view of everyone in the inn.
The next day, when Diane and Gilbert delivered the case of cider to Claire’s hotel room, she greeted them with a smile until her gaze caught the glimmer of the gold on her finger.
Claire took her sister’s hand, studied the ring for a long moment, and then looked in her eyes. “Impetuous.”
“Perhaps.” But Diane was worried. She wanted her sister’s approval. “Do I have your blessing?”
“Monsieur Bernard, you will take very good care of my sister,” Claire said.
He met her gaze head-on and nodded. “I will.”
“Then I wish you both a long and happy life together,” Claire said.
Pierre had been detained in a Paris jail cell. The police had arrested him when a woman claimed he had beaten her. But in the end, he had been able to reason with the magistrate and paint the woman as hysterical. The magistrate had eyed Pierre’s dark suit and silk vest and concluded he was a man of means and not someone to tangle with.
After his release, he took the first train back to Le Havre and visited the inn where he had learned Claire Hedrick was staying. Over the years, he had continued to write Mrs. Lawrence, and finally, she had begun jotting notes to him. One of which spoke of Claire’s trip to France.
If he had not been such a fool, he would not have arrived late in the port city. He made his way through the inn and found the manager. When he described Claire and a story about them being siblings, the manager finally admitted that she had left several days ago for Paris.
He had inquired about Diane, and the manager remembered her but could not say where she had gone. Ah, he had been such a fool!
It was mere happenstance that he was walking by the photographer’s studio and spotted the picture of the two young women. It had been six years since he had seen Diane, but the instant he saw the picture, he knew it was her. Those eyes.
In the six years since he had seen her, not a day passed that he did not think about how Madame LeBlanc and Diane had cheated him. Madame LeBlanc was dead and couldn’t tell him what she’d done with the gems she’d stolen from her marks on the ocean liner. But Diane could. He could see now he was fortunate that he’d been stopped from killing the girl.
The photographer had been pleased his work had caught Pierre’s attention and had happily accepted three francs for the copy.
He asked around the area for anyone who might have seen the women. There had been a waiter who had served them. But in the end, he never found Diane.
Pierre took the photograph back to his small apartment. He set it on the marble mantel above his fireplace, so that it was the first thing he saw when he entered his apartment or when he awoke in the morning.
Over the coming years, he would stare at the photograph for hours. Sometimes he would talk to it, explaining in great detail what he would do to Diane when he finally found her. Other times he spoke sweetly and kindly, as if the woman were his lover. Once he became so angry he nearly threw it in the fire. But in the end, he did not destroy it. It was his obsession.
Diane might have forgotten him, but he never forgot about her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Diane
Age 23
Tuesday, September 15, 1914
Normandy, France
Over the past five years, Diane and Gilbert had enjoyed many blessings. They’d learned each and every curve of the other’s body, and their physical pleasure grew each time they lay together. At first, Diane hoped they would not have children. She wanted Gilbert all to herself, and she wanted the time to learn more about the orchard and how the cider was made. Gilbert was a patient teacher and she a qui
ck learner. And now she was his partner in every sense of the word.
There were days around her monthly flow when she would become melancholy and wonder if God was punishing her for not truly wanting children. Or perhaps it was because she had helped Madame LeBlanc with her dark arts, or never told the police about Pierre. Whatever the reasons, she did her best not to dwell on it. She consoled herself with the knowledge that the orchards had flourished and grew still more productive each passing year.
Two years ago, Madame Herbert had passed away in her sleep on a winter morning, and a day later Oscar followed. Gilbert had seen to it that they were buried side by side in the family graveyard beside Madame Herbert’s beloved husband.
Diane and Gilbert had lain together that night, needing to love each other and to savor the sweetness of life. For several more months their life remained good, even as the flames of war burned hotter.
Gilbert read the papers weekly, and when they were in town, he and the other men felt the pull of duty. Though the trees were bursting with sweet apples and looked like the best crop in over a generation, she worried the war would take him from her.
“The government is drafting men to fight,” he said.
She stood at the counter, kneading dough, and it was a struggle for her to keep her voice even. “You are too old. Leave the fighting for the younger men.”
The paper crinkled as it did when he neatly folded it in quarters. “I’m thirty-three and in my prime, or so my wife tells me.”
She dug the heel of her hand into the dough with extra force, annoyed he was joking while she was petrified. “I don’t want you to leave. I need you here.”
He rose and walked to the stove, wrapping his arms around her narrow waist, and kissed her on that very tender spot behind her ear. “You can run this place as well as me. And I will return very soon. They say it will be over before the fall harvest.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and faced him. “How does anyone know when a war will be over? Wars are like cyclones on the water. Powerful, destructive, and damn unpredictable.”
He laid his hands on her hips and tugged her toward him. “I shall return to you.”
But her husband had already promised that he would never leave her. Diane laid her hand over his chest. His heart beat steady and sure under her fingertips. He was her life. She could not live without him. “Maybe if you leave, I shall return to America.”
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