“Were you forced? Never mind. This isn’t the place,” her mother said hastily, when Aurélie looked at her in alarm. “It doesn’t matter. What’s a father, anyway? This is your child, not anyone else’s. We’ll raise it together, you and I. You’re not alone in this.”
“We should—we should be getting on.” Aurélie couldn’t help putting her hands to her stomach. It didn’t feel any different. It seemed strange to think that a child might be growing there. Max’s baby, their baby, who was supposed to grow up in a town with an unpronounceable name, surrounded by brothers and sisters and dogs. “Wouldn’t I feel something?”
“Not necessarily. How long has it been since you’ve had your courses?” Her mother nodded, without waiting for an answer. “I’ll have my doctor examine you when we return.”
“A child,” said Aurélie, testing out the notion. She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or elated. Her mother might be wrong—except her mother didn’t believe in being wrong. If her mother said something, it must be so. The world would conform itself to her wishes or face the consequences. Aurélie suddenly, fiercely, hoped her mother was right.
Her mother was still talking. “You’ve no husband, of course, but we can manage that.” Her mother pursed her lips, thinking. “I saw Jean-Marie d’Aubigny’s name on the casualty lists.”
“Oh no.” Aurélie pressed her eyes shut. Her playmate, her childhood friend. She should feel more, she should weep for him, but she felt drained of emotion. Horror had succeeded horror until there was nothing left. “Not Jean-Marie, too.”
“Yes, it’s very sad,” said her mother absently. “Papers disappear in wartime. Marriage records, for example. Or there’s that spineless priest your father keeps on at Courcelles. Surely, he could be persuaded to . . . to remember what ought to have happened. We’ll tell people you were married in secret. A moonlit wedding at the chapel. A few stolen moments together before he had to leave for the front . . . Who is there to say otherwise?”
“Everyone in his regiment!”
Her mother waved that away. “He must have had leave at some point. Jean-Marie was a younger son, there’s no inheritance to be disputed. And who would give the lie to the Demoiselle de Courcelles? You’re an emblem of France. I’m surprised they aren’t putting you on the coins yet.”
“Yes, but—”
“Jean-Marie would have wanted what was best for you.”
Aurélie couldn’t deny that. Jean-Marie had always had a big heart. But it was Max she was thinking of, Max whose child would have another man’s name.
But did she really want to raise her child with the stigma of illegitimacy? Not just illegitimacy, but a German for a father. People spat when they spoke of the Boches. So would she, but for Max.
In a low voice, Aurélie said, “Jean-Marie came through Courcelles at the end of September. I saw him then.”
“Well, then. There you are.” In her most persuasive tones, her mother said, “Let Jean-Marie do this one last thing for you. Your child will have a noble name. A French name.”
Startled, Aurélie looked at her mother, wondering just what her father had put in those reports. But her mother was looking particularly guileless.
“The papers will adore it. The demoiselle’s secret marriage to her beloved childhood betrothed, a child for France, blah, blah, blah.”
“All right,” said Aurélie slowly.
She put her hands on her stomach, trying to imagine the person inside. Wherever Max was, she liked to think that he knew, that he would be watching them. And Max, of all people, would never quibble because she gave his child another man’s name. He would want only their happiness.
For the past month, she had been living in a fog, cut off from everything. Now, for the first time, Aurélie felt the fog begin to lift. She felt grief—but also joy. And a fierce, fierce love.
“All right,” she said, and her voice was stronger. “For the child.”
“Not the child, darling. Your child.” Her mother took her hands and gave them a squeeze. “A person. An opinionated, strong-willed, fascinating person who will give you headaches and heartaches, but you’ll love to distraction all the same. Who knows what sort of world your child will live in, what wonders he’ll accomplish?”
“He might be a philosopher, or a poet,” Aurélie said, thinking of Max, of those long, delicate hands, the way his fair hair fell across his brow as he sat reading in the candlelight.
“Or she.” Her mother gave her a quick, impulsive hug. Aurélie breathed in the scent of her perfume. Instead of making her ill, it smelled of home and hope and springtime. “Let us not think of death, my darling, but life.”
Chapter Thirty
Daisy
Hôtel-Dieu
Paris, France
April 1964
Daisy wasn’t afraid to die. That was the singular virtue of an illness like hers: you had time to prepare, you had time to accept this idea of death, you had time to suffer and wish you were dead already. And maybe she wasn’t old, but she wasn’t that young anymore, either. She’d raised her children to adulthood. Wasn’t that all anyone could ask for?
Anyway, they had given her a very nice room, a pleasant place to die. Madeleine and Olivier sat on either side of the bed, each one holding her hand, and the April sunlight passed through the window and enshrouded the three of them. Olivier’s blond hair had darkened to brown as he passed into adolescence, but when the sun shone on it, as it did now, you could see the trace of gold left behind, an inheritance from his mother’s parents. What a fine boy, Daisy thought. He was in his second year of law school now, so promising. Probably the world didn’t need quite so many lawyers, but Olivier would be a good one, certainly. He would marry some fine girl and raise a beautiful family.
And Madeleine, always so dark-haired and serious. Daisy couldn’t see her face very well—everything had begun to dim, as if the lights of the world were going out, one by one—but that was a blessing, because Madeleine was taking this hard. Madeleine had always taken things hard. The flight from Paris had been terrible for her, losing her father and Uncle Max both at once, losing her home and everything familiar. Thank God for the baby. They had found a little house on the edge of Lake Constance, where Daisy gave birth one fine July evening, but really it was Madeleine’s baby. Madeleine was just at an age when a little girl longs for a sister, and she had poured all her love and heartache into this infant, Kit’s gift to them, and that was when life began to get better, n’est-ce pas? When the darkness started lifting, and they felt like a family again, Daisy and the children and Grandmère, there on the shores of Lake Constance, the warm, fresh air and the sparkling water, so peaceful and so beautiful. When Daisy could begin to imagine a world in which the war ended, and she and Kit found each other again, when she would be sitting at the dear Little Bar on the rue Cambon side and he would enter, turn his head, look for her, see her! He would walk toward her slowly, not wanting to rush this moment of reunion. He would stand before her and touch her hand, where his ring still lay snug on her finger, two swans entwined. He would be haggard and thin, so would she, but it wouldn’t matter. None of it would matter anymore. They would kiss, they would embrace, they would go upstairs and remember what it was to be matched once more with the other half of yourself, to be made whole again.