He had signed the missive to his pen pal, Je vous prie d’accepter, Madame, l’expression de mes sentiments distingués. She smiled at the oddly formal closing: “I pray you accept, Madame, the expression of my distinguished sentiments.” His signature was bold, penned with a flourish:
Émile Paul Legrand
“It’s likely that Émile died—along with a million and a half others,” Emma had said.
Rosalyn felt a deep pang for all those who had lost their sons, boyfriends, husbands, loved ones during that horrific war. At the same time, she felt solace in their bereaved company.
She hated that.
Rosalyn searched for Emma Kinsley’s business card so she could let her know that she had one of her precious letters, but of course she couldn’t put her hands on it. Once upon a time, Rosalyn had been an organized person, almost compulsively so. Now, no matter how orderly she started out, things were soon topsy-turvy. Like everything else in her life.
She gave up after a brief search. She would look for the business card in the morning, after she figured out how to open the window and let some natural light into the room.
For now, images of Émile and Lucie’s meeting in her head, Rosalyn lay back down under the fluffy duvet and was finally able to fall asleep.
Chapter Nine
Lucie
Let me tell you about the house I grew up in: Villa Traverne.
The walls were made of the finest stone, a gold-veined travertine, and the wood throughout was mahogany, polished to a high sheen. It was four stories tall, with steep roofs of gray slate and tall windows made of blown glass that opened to delicate wrought iron balconies.
The grace of a ballerina combined with the sturdiness of a fortress.
Inside, the walls were stenciled and gilded, Art Nouveau and neoclassicism engaged in an uneasy truce. Columns topped with cupids studded the entry, elaborate mantels crowned every doorway, and carved stone fireplaces warmed each bedroom. Oak floors were inlaid with a Greek key design, covered in thick Turkish rugs.
My older sister, Marguerite, and I used to run through the wide halls, our little brother, Henri, limping behind. We would play hide-and-seek, or pretend we were characters in a novel. Our favorite was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; we would chase the white rabbit up and down the stairs, ducking into niches or behind curtains, ignoring our nanny’s attempts to curtail us.
It has been said that fortunate children take things for granted, and that certainly was the case for me. I didn’t see the beauty at the time, much less understand the indescribable pleasures of having enough to eat, a clean, warm bed in which to sleep. In truth, I was a spoiled child who did not appreciate the great privilege into which she was born.
When Marguerite was twelve, she fell ill with scarlet fever. I snuck into her death chamber, wanting to see her, talk to her, certain I could rouse her with a “fairy wand” made of a twisted beech branch that Marguerite had always insisted contained magic. The horrified adults shooed me out, and I never did get to say good-bye. But later from the pile of her belongings meant to be burned, I took a lace shawl I had always admired and wrapped it around me, thinking of Marguerite. I fell ill within a few days, but I did not die. I am quite sure I passed the sickness on to my brother; he, too, recovered, though it took him much longer. Henri had been frail ever since he was injured in a carriage accident at the age of five. I do believe I was responsible for that as well; he had been chasing me when he ran across the street.
Henri survived the fever, but ever after, his joints ached and he became forgetful and slow. He had to be cared for like a child after that.
* * *
One day a soldier arrived on our doorstep dirty, weary, and hungry, much like any other poilu.
But he was angry as well. It turned out he was Rémois, and this was the first time he had witnessed the destruction of our beloved cathedral. He had sought me out in particular, which made me think he needed nursing. But he looked whole enough, standing on what was left of our porch at the Villa Traverne. When I said so, he seemed confused.
“My name is Émile Legrand,” he said. “Your fiancé sent me.”
“My fiancé? Has he been wounded?”
“No, mademoiselle. He was well enough when I left him. He has been worried about your welfare.”
I held his gaze for a moment. His face was young under the whiskers and dirt, but his eyes looked a thousand years old. They were eyes of war, as I was coming to understand. Eyes that had seen too much. If only the ears were as expressive, for they had no doubt heard too much, the flesh felt too much . . . but it was the eyes that revealed the pain.
The understanding of things that should not be understood.
“You’d better come in out of the cold,” I said, inviting him into our once-fine foyer. The gilt ceilings soared twelve feet, but the winding staircase behind us, of course, was partially open to the sky, covered only in part by what tar paper and planks we could find.
Despite our devastated staircase, Monsieur Legrand was clearly unaccustomed to such a home, and paused, checking his boots for mud. I waved off his concern.
“Oh please, monsieur,” I said. “Come into the next room and you will see what we are dealing with every day.”
In the parlor-turned-sickroom, my mother was tending to a man with a leg wound infested with maggots.
I called to her to join us, and we moved into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a hunk of our last loaf of bread, with marmalade from the final jar put up last year. Most of the help had evacuated the city; we kept only one housemaid, Honorine, who now assisted us with the injured.
Monsieur Legrand held out a package. It was a gift from my fiancé.
A comb, I thought dully when I opened it. I would just as soon cut my tresses off.
“He would better have sent a wheel of cheese,” I said with bitterness, earning a sharp look from my mother. I sweetened my tone. “Please, monsieur, if you would be so kind as to wait a few moments, I’ll write a thank-you note.”
Monsieur Legrand nodded. Other than thanking us earnestly for the tea and toast, the poor fellow hadn’t uttered a word since he had entered the house.
“Are you sure you’re not injured?” I asked finally. “Your tongue, perhaps? We once had a man here, a poilu, with just such an injury. But that poor soul had also lost his nose.”
“No, of course not,” he said with a frown.
My mother gave me another sharp look, and suggested we open a bottle of champagne. Our cellar was nearly empty of preserves and jams, of the last canned peaches and cherries.
But we still had champagne, enough to share.
From the way his weary eyes lit up, I concluded Monsieur Legrand had gone far too long without tasting our beloved bubbly brew.