Chateau of Secrets: A Novel (34 page)

Now he paced in front of the château. His button-down shirt was slightly wrinkled, but he held the composure of an attorney who usually got his way. I couldn’t physically remove him from the château’s property—and I had a suspicion that as long as Austin wasn’t threatening to hurt me, the local police wouldn’t want to get involved with two Americans disputing over whether or not they remained engaged.

He leaned back and glanced up at my family’s château again. “It looks like a castle.”

“It is a castle!”

His gaze remained locked on the building. “How much do you think it’s worth?”

I put my hands on my hips. “You flew all the way to France to ask how much the château is worth?”

“No—I came to apologize,” he said, turning back to focus on me. “I still want to marry you.”

“You
still
want to . . .” I said, appalled at his audacity, as if he was willing to humble himself. “I told Olivia the wedding is off.”

He shook his head. “It’s only been postponed.”

“Austin—” I crossed my arms and asked the question I should have asked a long time ago. “Why do you want to marry me?”

He paused, his handsome eyes squinting as he seemed to search for an answer. “I need you.”

“That’s a lousy reason, Austin.”

He seemed shocked at my retort.

“Let me help,” I said. “You want me to marry you because you think I can somehow help you win this election.”

“It’s not just about me, Chloe. It’s about us. We make a good team, a team that will last far past this election.”

He was asking me to play on his team? He might have thought he was being winsome, but the blinders had been ripped from my eyes. He didn’t love me. He loved the idea of having a teammate—and a cheerleader who knew when to look the other way.

I cleared my throat. “Have you broken off things with Starla?”

He leaned back against the wall. “I will be a good husband to you, Chloe.”

“Not if you’re sleeping with other women.”

“I will end it with her.”

I thought of Isabelle, jumping from stone to stone in the park, giggling as she raced down the metal slide. What if I hadn’t found out about Austin’s affair? We could have been
having this conversation six or seven years from now, after we had a child of our own. His infidelity would have shattered our family.

“But for how long will you end it?” I asked.

His eyes hardened for a moment and then he met my gaze again, his smile creeping back. “I won’t be like my father, Chloe. Once we’re married, I will be faithful to you.”

I wanted to believe him, I really did, but it was impossible. Even if I forgave Austin and became his wife, his betrayal would cast a shadow over our entire marriage.

When I married, I wanted to love my husband with all my heart, knowing he would be faithful. It shouldn’t have mattered—didn’t matter—if my husband was the governor of Virginia. President of the United States, for that matter. I wanted to treasure the man I married, along with our children.

“I can’t marry you, Austin.” Why was it so hard for me to say it? “I thought I loved you, but I’ve discovered I don’t—not as a wife should love her husband.”

He didn’t seem fazed by my words. “It doesn’t matter, Chloe. Love is such an ambiguous word.”

“But it matters to me. I want to love well in my life. I want my husband to love me.” I paused. “Why didn’t you ask Starla to marry you?”

“She’s not from Virginia, nor is she—” He stopped. “I wanted to marry you.”

“That time in the coffee shop, when you spilled my latte.” I swallowed. “It wasn’t really an accident, was it?”

At least he had the decency to look down at his shoes.

He should have been ashamed.

“You’d already researched me.”

“Chloe—”

“You needed a wife to run for governor, and on paper you thought I would make a decent addition to your little team,” I said slowly. “So you staged our meeting.”

“Olivia thought you would be good for the campaign, but once I met you—”

“It was all smoke and mirrors.”

My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out. There was a text from Riley.

Headed back to Saint-Lô.

When I smiled, Austin glanced at my phone. “Who is it?”

I looked up at him, the strength surfacing again. “It’s time for you to leave.”

Instead of getting into the car, he stepped toward the château. “I’m not leaving France without you.”

•  •  •

Riley strutted into the formal salon an hour later, his grandfather’s bomber jacket slung over his shoulder and his Moleskine journal clutched in his hand. I probably should have warned him about Austin’s arrival, but I was afraid if he knew Austin had dropped in, he might bypass Saint-Lô for the airport.

The smile on Riley’s face faded when he saw the man in the formal high-back chair sitting across from me.

Austin leapt up as if he was about to tackle Riley. “Who are you?”

Recognition flickered in Riley’s eyes. “I’m Riley Holtz.”

“Ah, the filmmaker.” And with that, Austin dismissed him.

Riley tossed his jacket over the back of the couch. “And what is your name?”

He sat back in the chair. “I’m Austin Vale,” he said as if he was Prince William and Riley was the pizza delivery guy waiting for a tip. Then he pointed at me. “Chloe’s fiancé.”

I shook my head. “We are no longer engaged, Austin.”

Riley glanced at me again, and I could see the concern in his eyes. “I was expecting a package from my parents. I thought it might have arrived—”

Austin stepped up to Riley. “If you would excuse us, we were in the midst of a discussion.”

Discussion
wasn’t quite accurate. It was more like a congressman filibustering a vote. The familiar pounding had returned to my head, and I pressed my fingers against it. Oddly enough, my head hadn’t hurt after I ended the relationship with Austin, only when he showed up in France and refused to leave without me.

Clearly Austin Vale had no regard for people telling him no.

“Chloe . . .” Riley motioned toward the hallway, his eyes vacillating between worry and angst. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

Even though he no longer had any say as to where I went or with whom, Austin still swore under his breath when I agreed. Without a glimpse back, I slipped down into the kitchen.

Riley sat on the counter. “I thought you broke up with him.”

“I did.” I paced the floor in front of the fireplace. “He showed up here and somehow thought he could convince me that we should still marry.”

He searched my face. “Do you still want to marry him?”

“Of course not,” I said, but the concern in Riley’s eyes had turned into doubt. He didn’t believe me. “I’m still processing . . .”

Riley rubbed his hands together. “Will Austin love you for who you are or is his love dependent on what you will do for him?”

“It’s dependent on what I do for him.”

“So really Austin loves himself.” Riley hopped back down
from the counter. “You have to decide with certainty what you want for your future.”

“I’ve already decided.”

“Then why is Austin still here?” His dark green eyes seemed to sink into mine, and my skin flushed. In that moment, I wasn’t thinking at all about the man waiting for me upstairs.

Questions knotted together in the pit of my stomach, and strength began to fill me again. Wonder at the man in front of me. I reached for Riley’s hands, like he’d done with me at the park. But this time he jumped away from me. As if I’d burned him.

I pulled back my hands, crossing them under my arms. Tears began to pool in my eyes, and I squeezed them shut, willing my emotions to flatline.

I wanted—I didn’t know what I wanted except . . .

Right now, I wanted to be alone.

Riley leaned back against the counter. Quiet.

“I’m sorry . . . ,” I finally said.

He shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I stepped toward the door. “I’m going to tell him to leave.”

The tears were gone as I stood in front of Austin and told him once and for all that our relationship was over. There would be no wedding—not even a postponed one. And this time Austin believed me. Before I finished talking, he rushed out of the château and climbed into his car.

I stood in the dust, and for the first time since I’d left New York, I was grateful. Grateful that he’d cheated on me. Grateful that I’d been able to tell him how I felt. Grateful that he was gone from the château.

But I wasn’t sure what to do about the man still left inside.

Chapter 47

T
he starlight made the tree limbs look like spindly gray webs painted on a black canvas. The village of beehives was silent for the night, but twigs and dried leaves crackled under the feet of the airmen. Each time the forest broadcast their presence, the Americans stopped and listened.

The hawthorns became denser along the path, and Gisèle urged them along quickly, her own heart beating at a rapid pace as she whispered prayers to her mother, begging her to petition God for guidance. She hadn’t been back to the cellar since she’d found Adeline.

Eddie stopped in front of a beehive. “Where are we?”

“Near a friend’s house,” she whispered back.

“But—”

“You must trust me, but I must trust you as well. You can tell no one of this place.”

A dog barked in the direction of town, and both men readily agreed.

Glowworms sprinkled green light in the grass, and she heard one of the men whisper, “They look like fireflies.”

She hushed him and listened again for the sound of German voices, the pulse of foreign footsteps nearby. All she
heard was the rustle of leaves in the wind and the steady flow of the Vire.

The root cellar had to be close, somewhere among these hives. If only she could shine her flashlight into the trees, but with the houses in town shrouded in blackout curtains, it would be a beacon to the enemy and to the Allies alike.

So she stumbled forward in the darkness, feigning confidence in what she could not see, trusting her heavenly Father to guide her. She didn’t dare tell the Americans her fears. If she couldn’t find it, they would all be taken away.

There were no markings to guide her, but the moonlight glazed a silver sheen along the path. The next time she pushed back a spray of branches, she saw a rock pile in front of them.

Relief escaped her lips in a long sigh and she reached for the rope handle of the stone room, tugging the door open. It was brilliant of her ancestors to put this entrance in a cellar, hidden among the beehives. The people of Saint-Lô had probably avoided this place for centuries, and foreigners would certainly avoid the hives.

The room reeked of moldy potatoes and animal droppings, but she was more concerned by the rustling of tiny feet, shuffling into the corners.

Moving aside a stack of empty baskets, she found exactly what she’d hoped for—a small door set into the floor. She tugged on it, in case Michel had left it unlocked, but it didn’t budge. As she removed the rosary from her neck, she prayed that the same key that opened the
chapelle
and the iron gate and the closet in the sacristy would open this lock as well.

She turned it slowly, unlocking the hatch, and when she lifted the door, Eddie whistled.

“Hush,” she commanded again.

This time he responded with a low rumble of a laugh. “I’ll apologize later.”

She flipped on her flashlight and urged them quickly down the ladder, into the cavern. Along the tunnel, they stepped over pans and newspapers and passed by small rooms cluttered with bedrolls and clothing, the crevices where her ancestors and some of the townspeople hid during the French Revolution.

The next time Eddie whistled, she didn’t scold him. “Who lives down here?” he asked.

“Members of the French Resistance.”

“We’ve heard rumors about them . . .”

She stepped over another stack of papers. “I don’t know that word.
Rumors.
”

“It means ‘stories.’ ”

“Ah,” she replied. “
Rumeurs.
”

He shrugged.

“The
rumeurs
are probably true.”

The stench of rotting food and urine drifted through the tunnel, and her anger flared. How could her brother and the other men live like this? It was atrocious that the gentlemen of France were forced to huddle down here in this stench like rodents. Trolls. Even as they fought for France, they were refugees in their own country. The Germans were making animals out of them all.