Leonie (78 page)

Even though it was anticipated, it seemed to happen all of a sudden. Armies were on the march across Europe, troops were massing on borders, and the young men of France were swept rapidly into uniform and off to the front.

Léonie was alone at the inn. Jim had left that morning for Paris and their good-byes had been calm and tearless, though for once Jim’s optimism had almost failed him. “I don’t know how long it’s going to be, Léonie,” he had whispered, holding her close, “and I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but remember I love you … will you ever know how much I love you?”

“Nothing will happen to you,” Léonie had said fiercely, “I’m sure of it. No war can destroy us!”

The little cat, sensing that something was wrong, had leapt into her arms and lay trembling, her high-pitched meow becoming a hoarse wail as Jim’s car disappeared into the distance.

It was almost anticlimactic when he called her from Paris the next day, and every subsequent night for a month. And then nothing for weeks. Then, suddenly, he was home—just for a few days—and they pretended life was normal again, until the dreaded time came for him to leave again.

After a few months Léonie could bear the waiting and inaction no longer. The war was being fought in the north, on hills and in trenches far away from her lovely blue and golden Provence, but the effects showed in the pinched faces of the women in the market
worried about sons and husbands, in the
boules
game in the square with only tired old men for players, and in the lack of young people on the streets.

It took her two days to get through by telephone to Caro in Paris, but the call accomplished exactly what she wanted. Within an hour clothes were packed, Chocolat was stashed in her basket in the back of the car, petrol was begged from an old friend at the garage, and she was on her way to Paris—and then to the war.

“They won’t let us fight,” Caro had stated, glittery-eyed with emotion, “but there are other ways we can help.”

“I want to be
there,
” Léonie insisted, “at the front, not hiding back here, rolling bandages. Can’t we at least help the wounded? They need ambulances, don’t they? Then let’s give them ambulances, Caro!”

Together they raised funds for a fleet of a dozen ambulances, driving them to the front with their troupe of once-glamorous Parisienne ladies, garbed in smart but serviceable gray-and-red uniforms designed by Caro’s favorite couturier. Nothing could have prepared them for the horror left by the aftermath of battle, but they drove their cargo of wounded men, hardening themselves to ignore the piteous cries, the screams, the sounds, and the smells of war. Edging ever closer to the front, inspired by a hatred of an enemy so implacably brutal, they rescued the shattered, bleeding remnants of what had once been the youth of France and Britain. “The Winged Victories,” the men dubbed them because of the way they drove—like bats out of hell—ignoring shells and fire, flying over rough muddy fields as though their vehicles had wings. And for Léonie the irony was that the ambulances they drove were de Courmont vehicles, the rifles the soldiers carried were made in de Courmont’s vast armaments works at Valenciennes, and the heavy guns whose ceaseless shelling left them deaf for days on end were fashioned from de Courmont steel.

Every now and again when it all became too much, when Léonie felt she could bear to see no more bloody gaping wounds, no more agonized frightened eyes, light no more cigarettes and place them trembling between dying lips, she and Caro would pack their vehicles with a dozen of the vacant-eyed young men, unwounded but shocked, seeming always to look into a hell too private to be mentioned and never to be forgotten. They would drive them to the south, to the ever-welcoming inn and the tender care of Monsieur and Madame Frenard, in the hope that its peace might make
them feel human again. And sometimes, when it succeeded, they would feel that there was hope once again.

Occasionally, on these visits, Jim appeared out of the blue and they had an ecstatic few days together, made painful by his imminent departure. He never spoke of what he did and on the surface he was the same cheerful, sardonic man, but she sensed the new bitterness that ran as deep as hers.

Alphonse, whose pride had suffered a bitter blow when they had told him he was too old for military service, had remained in Paris, deeply involved in negotiations for international loans to fuel the war effort. His work for France was invaluable, but it failed to compensate for his physical separation from the place he felt he should be: on the front line, fighting for his country.

It was Jim who brought the news of his death. Caro, newly returned from a long stint of ambulance duty, held her chin high as he told her what she already sensed he was going to tell her. Alphonse was a victim not of enemy bullets but of the influenza that was sweeping the country.

“I never married him,” said Caro quietly, shocked tears raining down her cheeks, “and I’ll never forgive myself for that—and for not being there with him. He never had his uniform, but he died for his country. I know he would expect me to behave like the wife of an officer and a brave man. I hope he knew, Léonie. I just hope he knew that I loved him.”

She had gone back to the front the next morning, dry-eyed and resolved that if she could not kill the enemy then at least she would save as many Frenchmen as she could.

Occasionally a letter would filter through from Amélie in Florida, as though from some other planet where the world was still full of colors instead of everlasting gray. Léonie delighted in the news of her twin granddaughters. They filled her with hope for a future whose problems had suddenly become greater than Monsieur’s personal threats had ever been. But the sadness of Roberto’s death, as savage and unearned as any on the battlefield, conveyed to her months after the event in a scrawled note from Amélie, added to her bitterness at her separation from her daughter, in whose joy of life she had never been able to participate and for whose sorrows she was never there to lend comfort.

As suddenly as it had begun, the tide turned. And in the summer of 1918, with the progress of the Allied armies toward victory, the skies of France lightened, too, and hope returned to all
their hearts. In November of that year, Paris and London celebrated the armistice with music and wine, with dancing in the streets and fireworks. For Jim and Léonie it was enough to be together, looking out over the dark sea from that great white bed in the simple room in the old inn.

There was one postscript to the war that for Léonie underlined “The End.” The report took several paragraphs in the newspapers because of the prominence of the man’s family—in particular his association by marriage to one of Germany’s biggest steel and armaments manufacturers, the Krummers. It was the day after the armistice had been declared, and Rupert von Hollensmark had been on his way to the Krummer factory at Essen when his car had gone off the road in dense fog. He had been killed instantly.

Walking alone along the beach, Léonie tried to recall their time together, how young they had been, so frighteningly young, how she had loved him so. All the important events of her life were shaped here at the inn where he had brought her, all the tangled relationships and loves: Monsieur, who had bought the inn for her; Charles, who had given her Amélie; and now her life here with Jim. Lost love leaves bittersweet regrets and she was saddened for Rupert and for Puschi.

–
• 70 •

Amélie made her way back through the grounds of the Palaçio d’Aureville toward the little white house with its private walled garden that was home to her and her little family. She checked the big sensible watch on her wrist, time was an important element in her life these days. Six o’clock. She had exactly an hour to bathe and play with the girls before their bedtime, and then she must return to the hotel and go over the bookings. They couldn’t afford a repetition of the overbooking that had happened last month, and she still hadn’t found out how that mistake had occurred. It was inexcusable and the fact that it had never happened before in the three years she had been in charge didn’t matter. It should never have happened at all and it was up to her to make sure it didn’t happen again. There was always something, she thought with a wry smile, as she pushed open the gate and strode up the path to the ever-open front door.

“Mama, Mama,” the children’s voices shrieked in unison as the girls burst through the front door—two blond heads haloed in curls, plump sun-bronzed legs running, arms pushing. Lais would be the one who pushed ahead, of course, while Leonore just smiled and let her get away with it.

“Me first,” panted Lais, throwing her arms around her mother’s knees. “Sebastião is here,” she announced as Amélie bent to kiss her.

“Here I am, Mama.” Leonore lifted her face for her kiss. “Sebastião is here.”

“What fun!” Amélie took their hands and walked back up the path with them. “I bet he brought you presents.”

Lais looked at her with Roberto’s blue eyes. “The biggest—the
biggest
—doll you ever saw.” Her hands described the size and Amélie laughed, she knew her daughter’s powers of exaggeration.

“No, it’s this big.” Leonore’s hands formed a more modest size.

“That still looks very big to me,” said Amélie cheerfully. “Let’s take a look at these dolls.”

“How’s the working woman?” Sebastião’s good looks never failed to remind her of Roberto. “Charming and beautiful as ever, I see,” he said, kissing her.

Amélie flung herself into a chair. “I don’t feel so charming.” She smiled. “But it’s nice of you to say so. And I feel a lot better for seeing you.”

“Those words are music to my ears,” he said, handing her a parcel. “I couldn’t leave you out, could I?”

“A present? Oh, Sebastião, you shouldn’t have bothered … you’re too kind, you’re always bringing us presents.” What would she do without him? she wondered. He’d been the rock she had leaned against these past couple of years. He heard all her problems, discussed all her worries, lived through all her self-doubts. He comforted her, encouraged her, and, when necessary, bullied her, and she loved him for it.

The white box was tied with a silver ribbon and bore the name of a smart New York shop. Inside was the prettiest lace blouse.

“They told me it was the latest thing,” he said anxiously, waiting to see if she approved.

Amélie held the fragile lace against her, beaming at him. “It’s quite the loveliest thing in my wardrobe,” she said. “How clever of you to choose it, Sebastião.” She laughed at the idea of him going into a women’s shop. “And brave!” she added. Amélie glanced at the dress she was wearing. It had been ages since she had bought anything new, there simply was never enough free time for shopping. There was no time for anything—just the hotel and the children—and she ticked between the two like the hand on a metronome, each minute allocated. There just wasn’t any time left over for
her!

“It’s really a bribe, so you’ll be sure to have dinner with me.”

“Oh, but Sebastião, I have to go back. I must check next month’s bookings and there’s Mr. and Mrs. Freeland’s wedding anniversary dinner and dance in the ballroom tonight. I really must be there to make sure there’s no disaster.”

“Amélie, didn’t anyone ever tell you that the secret of success is knowing how to delegate? Delegate, my dear, put part of the burden on your staff, that’s what they’re there for!”

Amélie smiled ruefully. “I know, I know. It’s just that … 
well … you know, Sebastião, ultimately the responsibility is mine and I don’t want anything to go wrong. Edouard trusts me.”

“I should think he trusts you after the job you’ve done. In three years this place is the most successful hotel in Florida. Why shouldn’t he trust you? And why shouldn’t you trust your staff? After all, you chose them.”

“You’re right, I should let them get on with it, I suppose. The trouble is, Sebastião, that I’m just so damned interested in it that I can’t bear not to be involved. I love every bit of it.” Amélie laughed, scooping Leonore onto her knee. “But this is
your
time, isn’t it, my darling?” she said, kissing her. “How about that bath?”

Leonore’s eyes were the same tawny amber as Amélie’s and as Léonie’s. “It’s my turn to sit at the end without the plug,” she said, tugging at Amélie’s arm. “Tell
her
, tell Lais
now
, Mama. You’re not to sit at my end,” she warned her sister.

Lais leapt to her feet and ran across the room to the door. “If I get in first, I’ll sit where I like,” she called, casting off her clothes as she ran.

Amélie and Sebastião laughed. “Don’t worry, Leonore, I’ll make sure you get the end without the plug.” Sebastião picked up the little girl and swung her onto his shoulders.

“Come on,” he called, “let’s see how you can swim.” He glanced at Amélie as they mounted the stairs together. “What about that dinner—or do I come all the way from New York to see you and then dine alone?”

“Ah, such pathos.” Amélie grinned at him. It really was so good to see him. “Will ten o’clock be too late?”

“Ten o’clock it is.”

Amélie wore the lace blouse with a swinging white skirt. Her hair was pinned up with pearl-studded combs, pearl drops dangled from her ears, and a silver belt sashed her waist tightly. She felt pretty. It wasn’t something she’d given much thought to lately, but it was definitely time to start. She wondered what Sebastião would think of her idea.

Sebastião was waiting for her at her special table in the restaurant of the Palaçio. It was ten minutes past ten and the room was crowded with guests enjoying Michel’s superb food and the elegant surroundings. Amélie’s touch was everywhere, in the palest mint green tablecloths and the heavy plain silverware, the Limoges
plates and the exquisite flowers. Her taste had been formed and guided by Isabelle and it was flawless. And so was she, thought Sebastião, pushing back his chair as Amélie came toward him. He wondered what she would think when he asked her. The time was right now, he felt it. They were so close already.