Chateau of Secrets: A Novel (5 page)

Her arms and legs were bruised, and last night Nadine had helped her bandage her bloodied knees. Then her friend had loaned her a pink nightgown to wear to bed. On a chair near the window, Nadine had draped a fresh blouse and skirt for her to borrow.

Gisèle closed her eyes again.

If only she could be more like her mother—the former Lady Serena Eckley. The Vicomtesse Duchant after she married Papa. Her mother would have faced the Germans with courage and strength like she had in the previous war, but right now, Gisèle felt nothing but fear.

Forcing herself to rise, she smoothed her hair and stepped across the creaky floor to dress in her friend’s clothes. They were a size smaller than what Gisèle wore but a much better alternative than the smoky, torn clothing she’d arrived in last night.

Her forehead against the windowpane, she scanned the tips of the trees for Nazi planes, but only puffs of cumulus clouds hung overhead. As if the heart of France hadn’t changed overnight.

Had the Germans already taken Saint-Lô? The Batiers’ property stretched into the trees, all the way down to the river, and collided with her family’s property line. Most of the townspeople avoided this patch near the river due to the dozens of beehives along the path, some of them built centuries ago. Neither André nor Nadine tried to persuade them otherwise. The previous owner of their home had been an avid beekeeper, but André and Nadine had never officially kept bees. Even without the Batiers’ assistance, the insects continued to flourish between the hawthorns.

André and Nadine had bought the house three years ago, days after André accepted a position as a teacher at the secondary school in Saint-Lô. The house had been a disaster with its crooked shutters and crumbling fireplace and unpainted wooden walls. Apparently the previous owner had been more enamored of beekeeping than housekeeping.

Michel helped André repair the fireplace, and in the following months, before Nadine’s parents moved down to Grenoble, Gisèle assisted Nadine and her mother in painting the exterior a creamy yellow color, straightening the shutters, and planting a garden. There were few places more beautiful now than the Batiers’ backyard in springtime, but she couldn’t linger here.

In the clarity of morning, she knew what she had to do. She would sneak back to the château and tell Michel all that had happened. Then she would meet Philippe and leave with him and Papa—if Papa still remained.

Michel had enough food and apple brandy to last at least three days. Her brother didn’t want to leave, but she would convince him to go to Switzerland as well. Perhaps they could meet on the other side of the border. Or perhaps the British would come to their country’s rescue and they could return home.

Her door inched open, and she turned to see her dear friend standing in the doorway.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Nadine said. “But it’s almost ten.”

She glanced back out the window. “Do you have any news?”

“I’m afraid not much of consequence.” She looked out the window. “The aeroplanes haven’t returned this morning.”

Gisèle pressed her fingers against the glass. “I suppose that is the best of news right now.”

“Come eat.” Nadine was small in stature, but André had nicknamed his wife “Flambée.” Not because of her temper—Gisèle had never seen her friend angry—but because she was passionate about her garden, her home, her family. Her charcoal hair was coiled at her neck, and her olive skin was flawless. Years ago, she’d been confirmed in the Catholic Church, the faith of her community, but it would have been impossible to hide the Jewish heritage in her features.

The three of them had stayed up past four, until the skies grew quiet, listening to the BBC on the wireless even though there was little news reported during the night.

André and Nadine decided not to run—they had no automobile and knew they wouldn’t get far on their bicycles. Besides, André said, Nadine’s family was in southern France and his family had moved to Morocco. There was no place for them to go. So they hunkered down in their cottage to see what would happen next.

Gisèle followed Nadine down into the living room. Nadine paused, lifting the corner of the curtain as if she were checking for the Germans before she turned toward Gisèle. “I’m afraid of what they will do if they stay here.”

For a moment, Gisèle flashed back to her years in primary school, before Nadine and her family emigrated from Austria.
Even though she preferred riding her bicycle up the long path like the other children, her father insisted that their chauffeur drive her to school. Most of the kids in her class shunned her, refusing to play with the “queen from the castle.” She wasn’t a queen and never thought of herself as nobility in those years. She viewed herself as a Norman girl who happened to live in a big house. A lonely Norman girl who had only her family and her father’s horses for company.

Then Nadine arrived in Saint-Lô when they were both eight, and they became instant friends. They’d eaten lunch together every day, jumped rope on the playground, and stayed up late giggling on the rare occasions when Gisèle’s parents allowed a slumber party in the château. When Gisèle lost her mother, Nadine cried with her until no more tears would come, and even now, ten years later, Nadine sometimes mourned Gisèle’s loss. But her mother wouldn’t want them to grieve right now. She would want them to stand up to their enemy.

But how could they fight the Germans on their own?

Nadine rolled her hands over her belly and for the first time, Gisèle noticed the slightest bulge in her friend’s abdomen. She met the eyes of her friend and saw the anxiety in them. “Nadine?”

She nodded toward the closed door of the office, the buzz of the wireless seeping out to the living room. “André doesn’t know yet.”

“Why not?”

“At first . . .” She swallowed. “At first, I wanted to be certain, and then when I confirmed it, I was scared. It’s a terrible time to bring a baby into the world.”

Gisèle thought of the joy a child would bring to all of them. “The baby won’t know it’s a terrible time.” Just like she hadn’t known there was a war when she was born. Until her mother died, she only remembered peace and happiness in her home.

“I pray
the fighting will be done before she’s born,” Nadine said, the strength of her desire pressing through her words.

“How do you know it’s a she?”

A gentle smile lit Nadine’s face. “Just a hunch.”

From the next room, she heard the crackle of a voice. Nadine nodded toward the office door. “André’s been glued to the wireless all morning.”

“Perhaps there is new information.”

Nadine pointed toward the door. “You go listen with him. I’ll bring lunch.”

Gisèle knocked on the door, and André told her to come in. Nadine’s husband sat on a padded footstool, his head almost resting on the small speaker of the wireless. His light brown hair was messy, and his wire-rimmed glasses crept down his nose.

The announcer said the French people were fleeing south by the thousands, the French army running alongside them. The French people had been assured that their army was strong enough to resist a German attack, yet everything was crumbling.

As the news broadcast ended, Nadine set a tray with small sandwiches on the desk along with a pot of coffee. “It is too late for us to fight.”

André shook his head. “It is never too late. The people in France won’t let the Germans stay here.”

Nadine collapsed onto a chair. “But what do we do now?”

“We may not be able to fight them with weapons.” André reached for his wife’s hand, and with his other hand, he pounded his chest. “But we can fight them with our hearts.”

Nadine shook her head. “The Germans care nothing about hearts.”

“It doesn’t matter if they care,” André insisted. “It matters that we care about our country. About our fellow man.”

Gisèle poured a cup of coffee and took a sip. “Sometimes, I fear, our hearts can steer us wrong.”

“We will fight for the good in France,” André said. “No matter what happens, we will know we did the right thing.”

His words resonated with her. No matter what happened, she needed to fight for what was good as well.

They listened to the BBC, eating their chicken salad sandwiches, but it was the same news. France was still running, reeling, from the German blitzkrieg. And then there was news from London about Winston Churchill, the new prime minister in Britain.

She didn’t want to know what was happening in England. She wanted to know what was happening right here, on the streets of Saint-Lo. And at the château.

When the announcer finished, Gisèle stood.

“Please stay with us,” Nadine begged her.

“Philippe will be waiting for me,” she said as they walked toward the front door. “And I must check on my father.”

“Surely the Germans will be gone soon,” Nadine said before Gisèle kissed both of her friend’s cheeks.

Gisèle tried to smile as she whispered, “Long before your baby is born.”

“I pray so.”

“What will you name her?”

Fear flickered in Nadine’s eyes before she returned Gisèle’s smile. “It depends on André, of course, but if it’s a girl, I want to name her Louise, after his mother.”

Perhaps by the time Louise was born, the world would be righted again. “It’s a beautiful name.”

“With that name . . .” Pride flashed in her eyes. “No one will ever question whether or not my daughter is a Frenchwoman.”

L
eaning my head back against the wall, I sank onto the floor of the ballroom and surveyed the damage. A half hour ago, Austin’s supporters began trickling out, leaving behind a room littered with plates, napkins, and fancy toothpicks pierced into remnants of food.

At least someone had eaten tonight.

I tossed my sandal toward a chair but nailed a plastic cup on the floor instead. Red wine streamed onto the flecked carpet, and I watched, mesmerized, as the river grew hairline passages of fingers and toes. I should have run for paper towels, mopped up the mess before it stained, but it was half past two in the morning. Somewhere back around one, my energy had begun spilling out like the wine. Now there wasn’t a single ounce left in me.

Closing my eyes, I breathed in the blessed silence. My hunger pangs had been numbed, the need for sleep replacing my need for food. Olivia drummed up a chai latte for me around midnight, but the effects had been minimal. No amount of caffeine could replace the benefits of a decent pillow.

The door creaked open on the other side of the room, and in the dim light, I watched Austin moving toward me. I’d botched up his introduction, but I made it for the first dance of the night.
Barefoot. He hadn’t said a word about either faux pas. Instead he smiled and I smiled, and for about three minutes, in the magic of the music and the lights, I had his attention.

“Dr. Everett was the last one to leave.” Austin turned a chair around to sit beside me. “You think it was a success?”

Somehow his tux had managed to stay wrinkle-free for the entire event and his wavy black hair remained set perfectly in place.

“It was a blockbuster of a night,” I said, coaxing my fingers through the stiff spray in my hair. “These people adore you.”

He took a long sip from his bottled water. “I tried to introduce you, but you seemed to have disappeared.”

A headache clustered over my eyes, and I pressed my middle fingers against my eyebrows. “I’m sorry.”

The pout in his smile reminded me more of a kid like Tommy Dawson than of a confident candidate or movie star. “Better to ditch me here than at the altar.”

“I didn’t ditch you.” I pressed harder on my brows, as if I could massage the pain away. “My mom texted and said she needed to speak with me. I thought it was urgent.”

“Everything is urgent for your mom.” He set his water bottle beside the chair and reached for my left hand, tugging it away from my face. Then he entwined my fingers through his. “What was it this time?”

“Something about a filmmaker shooting a documentary in France. Mom wants me to meet him at the château.”

He leaned forward a few inches. “When does she want you to go?”

“Tuesday,” I said, “but don’t worry. I told her I couldn’t do it.”

He eyed me for a moment before speaking again. “Is this a documentary about World War II?”

At my nod, he leaned closer, his eyes intent on mine. “When will it air?”

“I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way I can travel to France next week.”

His elbows propped on his legs, he held up my hand. “These are important details, Chloe.”

“I have a thousand important details I’m trying to pull together. It’s impossible to keep track of them all.”

“That’s why you hired a wedding coordinator. To help you with the details.”

If only it were that easy. I, not the coordinator, would be responsible if everything went awry on August 10. Or, heaven forbid, if I picked out the wrong colors or plates or dresses for my eight bridesmaids—only two of whom were actual friends.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and I knew exactly what he was doing—developing some sort of a plan. “Would he be interviewing you?”

I wished I could read his mind. Why did he care if I did an interview on World War II? “My parents want me to tell him some of Mémé’s stories, but it doesn’t matter. I only have nine weeks to pull this wedding together.”

Nine weeks to achieve perfection.

“So you run away for one of those weeks and get some rest,” he said with a shrug. “You’ll come back refreshed and ready to tackle what’s left.”

He drummed on my hand as I processed his words. He made it sound so simple, this running away. I cocked my head, studying him. “You really think I should go to France?”

“I think you should consider it.”

Something else was going on behind that smile. I was exhausted,
but if I was going to dig, I needed to do it now. Even though we’d be together all day tomorrow, we’d be surrounded.

“What’s the real reason you want me to go?”

This time he shrugged. “I want my fiancée to relax.”

“And . . . ,” I said, pressing him.