I sat down in the chair at the marred kitchen table and watched as Walnut stirred from his bed. He lifted his head, his eyes martyr-like as he issued a heavy sigh before heaving himself out of his warm comfy bed to amble over to me. He dutifully sat down next to my chair and rested his head in my lap so I could stroke his silky ears. Tired now, I rested my head on the table, feeling inordinately comforted by the soft snoring and fuggy dog breath coming from my lap. I closed my eyes, my last waking thought wondering how on earth I was meant to face another day.
I was awakened by the sound of the heavy slap of something hitting the table by my head. My head jerked up, and I regretted the quick movement as my neck revolted from being in an awkward position all night. My lap was cold; my canine companion had long since deserted me to the more comfortable confines of his bed and was enjoying the heat of the cast-iron stove that had apparently been lit.
“You shouldn’t be sleeping in the kitchen, Mrs. Langford. It’s not proper.”
I blinked up into the pinched face of Mrs. Finch, the housekeeper’s eyes enlarged by the thick lenses of her glasses causing her to resemble her namesake. She was of an indeterminate age, the tightly permed hair and shapeless housedresses giving no clue as to her exact age. Mrs. Finch’s mother had been the housekeeper at Langford Hall for years until she’d moved to a cottage closer to the village and Mrs. Finch had taken over. Her mother had been called Mrs. Finch, too, and I rather hoped it was because the name came with the position rather than because of any improprieties in the family tree.
I blinked again, staring at the stack of post that had been dropped on the table beside me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Finch. I just wanted to rest my eyes for a moment.”
“You were up wandering again, is more like,” Mrs. Finch said between tight lips. She jutted a pointed chin at the post. “That’s been piling up for a week now. I’ll put the kettle on and bring your tea and toast to the breakfast room, where you’ll be more comfortable sorting through it all.”
The kitchen was Mrs. Finch’s domain and she resented any interlopers, including the mistress of the house. I could manage an entire cadre of forceful women in the Women’s Institute, supervise dozens of small children and live barnyard creatures for the Nativity play at the local church, as well as organize the annual gymkhana on the grounds at Langford Hall with ease and aplomb, but I couldn’t bear to argue with Mrs. Finch. Maybe it was because I always suspected that Mrs. Finch thought that Kit could have done better in choosing a wife. Someone who retained her good looks and youthful bloom and didn’t “let herself go” as my sister called my lack of interest in clothes and other feminine things meant to retain one’s attractiveness postchildren. And maybe it was because I knew that Mrs. Finch was probably right.
“Yes, of course,” I said, looking down at my lap, mortified to see that I still wore Kit’s navy-blue dressing gown. “I suppose I should wash and dress first.”
Mrs. Finch looked at me with what could only be called disappointment and gave me a brief nod.
I grabbed the stack of envelopes on my way out of the kitchen, walking slowly toward the stairs as I flipped through each one to see if there was anything more interesting than the usual bills and the slightly threatening overdue notices that had been coming in with an alarming frequency since Kit’s death.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t capable of handling the family finances, it’s just that Kit had always taken care of things. Even my father had told me that I was very clever with maths, something that had made my perfect older sister, Diana, positively green with envy. As if having all the poise and fashion flair in the family hadn’t been enough. I made a promise to myself that I’d finally sit down at Kit’s desk and open up all the account books to see what was what. Soon. When I could summon the energy. I was just so tired all the time now. So tired of wishing each day I’d feel better, that there would be some hope or purpose on the horizon. That I’d rekindle the joy I’d once had in the busyness of my old life.
I stopped, noticing an unusual postage stamp on one of the envelopes. It was a red US Air Mail eight-cent stamp showing a picture of aviatrix Amelia Earhart. My name and address had been scribbled in barely comprehensible letters on the front in bold, black ink. Definitely not a graduate of a British boarding school, then, so perhaps not a school friend of Kit’s offering condolences.
I looked at the top left corner to read the return address. A. Bowdoin, Esq., Willig, Williams & White, 5 Wall Street, New York, NY. I assumed Bowdoin was either a funeral director or a lawyer, having never clearly understood the difference between the two when it came to death and taxes.
Climbing the stairs, I slid my finger under the flap and began tearing the envelope, not wanting to go through the bother of retrieving a letter opener. Tucking the rest of the post under one arm, I pulled out a piece of letterhead paper and began to read.
Dear Mrs. Langford,
My condolences on the death of your late husband, Christopher Langford. I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but my father, Walter, was a huge admirer and shared with me many stories of your husband’s bravery and courage during the war.
We only recently became aware of your husband’s passing when an old war friend of my father’s mailed him the obituary from the Times. It took a while to find us, which is why it has taken me so long to contact you. I realize my letter might be a surprise and might even be an imposition at best. But I hope you will bear with me so that I might explain myself and perhaps even enlist your assistance.
In the obituary, it mentioned your husband’s brave exploits in France during the war as well as his involvement with the French Resistance fighter known only as La Fleur. As you may or may not be aware, she has reached nearly mythical proportions in French lore—to the point where some even say she never really existed.
My slow progress up the stairs halted, and I grabbed the banister, the other envelopes slipping from their hold under my arm before gently cascading down the steps. La Fleur. I closed my eyes in an attempt to regulate my breath before I passed out. Of course I’d heard the name before. But not from a history book or news article about the French Resistance. I’d once heard it on Kip’s lips, when he was quite out of his head after his return and I wasn’t sure if he planned to live or die, wasn’t even sure which he’d prefer. My Flower is what he’d said in a near whisper, the words spoken as one would speak to a lover. I’d seen the name written, too. In another letter.
I leaned against the wall, listening to the sounds of Mrs. Finch in the kitchen and my own breathing skittering from my lungs like angry bees. Opening my eyes again, I raised the letter and forced myself to continue reading.
My father has had a stroke, which makes communicating difficult as he can barely speak or write. But when I read the obituary to him and mentioned La Fleur he became quite agitated and upset. After I’d calmed him down, I was able to understand that my father had reason to believe that La Fleur was no hero but the grandest traitor of them all—and especially to my father. She ruined his life—something I’ve only just begun attempting to understand.
My father was OSS during the war and was scheduled to receive an important drop from La Fleur. He was told only that he was to receive something very valuable to the Resistance, something containing rare and expensive diamonds and rubies. It was not explained exactly what he should be looking for as it would be too dangerous, and he was told only in a message from La Fleur to look for the “wolf with a cross.”