Lies Told In Silence (24 page)

“Then you must. I’ll come with you and pay my respects.”

Helene wiped away her tears. “Where does all that love go? All Jacques’s love for Germaine and hers for him. I was thinking about that on the way home. It’s such a powerful emotion, and suddenly, it’s gone.”

“I don’t think love disappears. It stays in the memories you have of that person and in the way that person’s love changed you. Germaine still loves her Jacques. He’s still by her side whenever she thinks of him. That’s what I believe.”

“Thank you, Maman. I’ll tell her that.”

Helene wrote to Edward before she went to bed. Writing brought him close, and she needed him close after such dreadful news. She told him about Jacques and said she was desperate to see him and feared for his life every day. Who, she wrote, will tell me if something happens to you?

* * *

Dearest,

I am safe, and you are correct about my current location. I am so sorry to hear about Germaine’s loss. Please send her my deepest condolences. She is a wonderful woman and has been very good to us.

There is no way for you to travel here to see me. Conditions change so rapidly that what might seem safe one day will not be
safe a day or two later. In any event, there are rumours that we’ll be on the move again soon.

I have given your address to two people–Eric Andrews, since he’s my closest friend, and Captain Earnshaw. They are aware
that you are very important to me.

All my love,

Edward

Chapter 32

January 1918

“Where are my glasses? Helene, have you seen them? I can’t possibly go to Paris without them.”

Helene’s mother bustled about the kitchen and salon looking in all the usual places. Since she only needed her glasses for distance, when reading or sewing she took them off, which often led to a rather frenzied search until they were found. As she helped her mother search, Helene tried to stifle her own anxieties. The sooner Maman left, the sooner Helene’s plans could commence.

A few days earlier, her father had written that because he had been unable to come to Beaufort at Christmas, he wanted his wife to come to Paris for a few days. January was bitterly cold, snow lying like a thick crust over the countryside, flurries erupting, dashing here and there like a swarm of angry wasps. Within the hour, Gaston would arrive with his horse and wagon to take Maman to the station. Nothing, not even Gaston’s magic, could make the Tonneau come to life in such weather.

“Found them,” her mother called out from the kitchen. “
Chérie
, can you get my black shawl? The train will no doubt be frigid.”

Maman hurried upstairs humming the same tune she had hummed all morning. Helene wished she would sing something else, but was so pleased to see her mother’s happiness she restrained
herself from saying anything.
Papa will be glad to see her
, she thought.
I wonder how he has coped without her for so long?

Now that she had experienced sexual intimacy, she could imagine the intense longing of her parents’ separation, a desire for skin touching skin, lip to lip, tongue to tongue. The very thought stirred emotions deep within Helene’s body.

Hurry, hurry
, she urged silently, wishing for her mother’s departure.

“Will you be all right on your own?”

“Maman, you know Jean and I have managed before. Papa needs your company. We’ll be fine.” She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I’m almost twenty, you know, and I look after the house every day.”

Maman’s smile faded. “Never would I have imagined this life for you. You’re much more capable than I was at that age. More mature than . . . oh, there’s my book.” Her voice drifted away as she gathered her toiletries and tucked several handkerchiefs and a book by Marcel Proust into a small valise.

As Helene and Jean waved good-bye, another flurry of snow descended, obscuring the wagon from view. Only the
clip-clop
of the horse and muffled rumble of wheels marked their mother’s departure.

“When will he get here?” Jean asked.

“Today or tomorrow. Promise me again that you won’t tell.”

Helene could think of no other way to spend time with Edward than to tell her brother that he was coming. It was serendipity that Edward had leave at the same time as her mother’s trip and pure luck that Helene had not already disclosed his visit, otherwise her mother would never have gone to Paris. Although Germaine had arranged a place for him to sleep, the cold was too severe for them to meet at their hut in the hills. Edward would have to come to Tante Camille’s.

“I’ve already promised a hundred times.” Jean looked up towards the ceiling and shook his head.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry to pester you.”

After Jean left for school, she climbed the attic stairs to her old bedroom. This would be their refuge, the one place in the house not claimed by her mother’s presence. She surveyed the room, trying to imagine how Edward would see it.
It should look more adult
, she thought and proceeded to gather reminders of her childhood—a rag doll with one button eye missing, a pillow embroidered with her date of birth, a music box Grandmere had given her when she turned eight, a red ribbon announcing the winner of a spelling contest, a scarf she knitted the first winter in Beaufort, several schoolbooks—and tuck them into the leather trunk that sat beneath one window. This trunk was where she already kept her diary, which now had many entries to hide from her mother.

Pausing again to check the room, she moved three books from the bedside table and placed them on top of her old dresser, then she went downstairs to retrieve a chair from her grandmother’s bedroom and arranged it so Edward could sit beside her. She dusted every corner, wiped the shelves, swept the floor and set a potpourri by the window. When she was satisfied with her efforts, she took a set of fresh sheets, their smooth whiteness promising intimacy, and made the bed.

He arrived as dusk was fading and Helene was beginning to think she would have to wait another day. At first, she saw a lantern bobbing in the distance and then a glimpse of him at the end of the lane, his tall figure stomping through the snow as if the drifts held no impediment. As Edward drew closer, he lifted his head, and she saw a brief smile penetrating lines of exhaustion. She left her spot at the kitchen window and opened the front door to greet him, oblivious to the snow that pricked her face.

As soon as she closed the door, Edward swept her in
to his arms, the buttons of his coat pressing against her chest. He stroked her hair, saying her name again and again, rocking slowly back and forth.

Helene thought she might faint from relief. Edward was with her, holding her, safe from the horrors she imagined every day. She touched his face, tracing her fingers along each contour, seeing red-rimmed eyes, deep lines marking the corners of his mouth, pale,
almost ghost-like skin and a ripe purple bruise on one cheek. She lifted her lips and submerged all thought in the taste of him.

At the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, Helene pulled away from Edward’s arms, composed her face and held out her hands for his coat. Without the bulk of winter clothing, she saw how thin he was, thinner than she remembered, as if a sculptor, dissatisfied with his work, had stripped away another layer.

“Monsieur, good to see you.” Jean grinned at Edward and extended his hand as his father or brother would have done.

“Hello, Jean. Good grief, you’re even taller than my last visit. My mother would say your body is catching up to your feet.” Edward chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “And please call me Edward. Monsieur makes me feel like an old man.”

Helene saw the obvious pleasure Edward’s suggestion gave to Jean, signifying friendship from a man he admired.

“Why don’t you two sit by the fire while I finish dinner?”

“Where is your mother?” Edward asked.

“Maman has gone to Paris, but I didn’t ha
ve time to write and tell you.”

A look of surprise crossed Edward’s face, quickly replaced by a smile, and she smiled in return. Over supper at the kitchen table, Jean asked Edward where he had been, and Helene did not protest, for she wanted to know what he had endured.

“I was near Ypres. I’m sure you’ve read about it.” They nodded. “The rain was endless, which made the roads impassable, so it was difficult to get supplies. Our communication lines failed, so Earnshaw sent us out on repair missions almost every day. We lost a lot of men that way. A lot of good men.”

She thought he must have been remembering some of them because he did not resume speaking for a while.

“Before each assault, we waited for hours in deep craters full of slime and listened to shells screaming overhead, never knowing where they would land. It’s an awful feeling, wondering if one of them is going to explode in the midst of where you are. When we did attack, the Germans sat in their concrete bunkers firing machine guns at us. I really don’t know how we survived. In November, when things finally turned our way, the Germans shot the men we’d taken prisoner. Their own men.” He pushed his plate away and closed his eyes.

“You have no idea how good it feels to be here. This house is like a warm, snug harbour, like a world I can barely remember. The fire, your basket of knitting, the ivy trailing from that planter by the window, Babette flicking her tail. After months slogging in the trenches wondering whether I will live or die, being with you makes me feel human again.”

Helene laid her hand on top of his.

“Thank you for telling us,” she whispered, holding back her tears.

Her brother looked as though he too might cry. “I’m sorry I asked you so many questions, Edward.” Jean cleared his throat. “I should go upstairs now. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“If your sister will have me.”

“There is no doubt about that.” Jean grinned at them and made his way to the stairs.

“I told him you were coming and swore him to secrecy. He won’t break his word. Maman does not know. She has gone to Paris to see my father. Come, sit beside me.” Helene patted the sofa cushion next to her. “Where did that bruise come from?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” She nodded. “The butt of a German rifle while we were clearing a trench. From a soldier we thought was dead.

“Simpson and Duff were with me, mopping up after retreating Germans. We had been cautious climbing down into the trench, which was well fortified and better established than ours. Not comfortable but at least less horrible than what we lived in. After finding the communications office, a little alcove carved out of the limestone trench, I bent over to check their switching equipment without noticing the German soldier lying underneath the table. He hit me with his rifle.”

“
Mon Dieu
. He could have killed you.”

Edward nodded. “Duff fired a round of bullets, and within seconds, the man was dead.”

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“Only the German.”

A part of her rejoiced, but she knew that Edward felt every death. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He did not reply, and Helene drew his head to her breast, soothing him like a small child.

* * *

The following morning, as soon as Edward shed his coat, Helene led him up two flights of stairs to the attic.

“Hold me,” she said.

He wrapped his arms around her, caressing the small of her back and the curve of her hip. He pulled her closer a
nd laid his cheek against hers.

“If only I could hold you every day like this.”

Helene looked up at him. “I want . . .”

He put his finger on her lips and undid her buttons one by one. He caressed each breast, circling his thumb over her nipples, now stiff with desire, then lifted Helene’s silk camisole over her head. She parted her lips and closed her eyes, inviting Edward’s touch.

When he shed his shirt and pressed against her, the feel of his skin sent pulsing waves through her. Edward undid her skirt and let it drop to the floor then stepped away to remove his pants. She pulled back the covers, her breasts hanging like ripe, pink-tipped peaches, her arms taut, her skin creamy. As she straightened, he stood behind her so that her back leaned against his front, his erection rising against her.

“Oh, God, Helene.”

Without hesitation, she turned around and took him into her moist body, holding him inside her, wrapping one leg around his calf to press him closer.

“Wait,” he said, withdrawing from her and reaching inside his trousers for a sheath.

Amidst fresh, fragrant sheets, touch and tongue mingled until once again he penetrated her and they moved together, at first slowly then faster and deeper as their passion spun out of control.

Chapter 33

March 1918

In late March, Edward sent word for her to meet him at the hut one afternoon. He was waiting for her, warming himself by a crackling fire, when she arrived.

“Am I late?”

“No. I got away early. Managed to scrounge some firewood so we would be more comfortable.”

“I have a few things to eat,” said Helene, removing a small package of cheese and a few biscuits from the pockets of her coat. “I couldn’t bring the picnic basket. Maman would have asked too many questions. I told her I was going to visit Germaine.” Helene unwrapped her scarf and set her mittens near the fire. “I hate lying to her. Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that she knows exactly what I’m up to.” She put her arms around him, expecting his kiss, and was surprised when he held back.

“Our division is leaving the area,” he said.

Helene frowned. “And . . . ?”

“I won’t be close enough to visit anymore.”

“Where are you going?” Her arms fell from his shoulders. “Papa says that we are beginning to succeed. Even though Russia has pulled out of the war, he thinks there will soon be a turning point. You won’t be fighting again, will you?”

“There’s more work to be done,” he said simply. “I can’t tell you where we’re going. I don’t even know myself. I can’t offer you false assurances, but I will be careful. As careful as I can. Will you wait for me? I love you, Helene, and I want to marry you when this is over.”

“You do?” she said in a low, wistful voice.

“Did you have any doubts about my intentions?”

Helene smiled just a little. “No.”

“I’ll write as often as I can.”

“Just hold me,” she said.

For months, she had hoped he would ask her to marry him, and now that he had, he was going away. How could she endure each day without knowing where he was or whether he was safe? How could she wait for his letters and worry each time they failed to arrive?

The warmth of the fire mingled with the heat of lovemaking and both cried out when they reached their peak. Then, in the quiet of late afternoon, Edward held her close, listening to falling embers and the occasional hiss of wet wood.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said.

She knew what he meant. “I’ll wait for you. Of course, I will. But promise you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

As he left, she stood by the door, offering him a fragile smile. One last kiss, one fierce embrace, and he strode off down the hill. Edward did not look back. She watched his tall profile shrink into the distance before disappearing behind dense brush. Her body collapsed, grief spilling into tears as she rocked back and forth.

* * *

“You’ve been crying,” Lise said as soon as her daughter came through the door. “Edward?”

Helene nodded. “He’s gone south, where there’s more fighting to be done. I won’t see him until it’s over.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I know how much you like him. Did he send you a letter?”

“He came to see me.” Lise drew her brows together and Helene quickly added, “We went for a long walk.”

“So you weren’t with Germaine?” Helene shook her head. “You know what your father would say.” She nodded, her face miserable.

Her mother gave her a hug. “No harm done.”

But afterwards, Lise wondered. Something about her daughter’s eyes when they looked off into the distance, the way she carried herself more upright than usual, a sigh followed by a smile of soft pleasure, made her think that Edward was more than an admirer. Every day she prayed Helene would be all right. And she prayed for Edward too.

* * *

“Maman! There’s a vehicle coming up our road,” Jean shouted from the second floor. “A soldier is driving.” He shouted more loudly than the first time and clattered down the stairs.

Menacing in its black bulk, Lise watched the car approach, fearful that a military vehicle appearing without notice signalled bad news.
Something must be terribly wrong
, she thought, standing behind Jean as if his height and broadening shoulders could somehow shield her. The driver brought the car to a stop, stepped out and saluted as he opened the back door. When Henri emerged, Lise rushed forward, hand over her mouth.

“Is it Guy,” she said, tears already forming.

“No, no. Nothing like that.”

Lise almost sobbed with relief. “You should
have told us you were coming.”

She stepped into his embrace, the cocoon of his arms and brush of his rough cheek making her feel warm and safe.
I’ve missed this so much
, she thought, clinging to him. Lise was about to lift her lips to Henri’s when she noticed Jean hanging back awkwardly. She eased away but kept her arm around her husband’s waist.

“I’m sorry,
chérie
. I didn’t know myself until yesterday when my plans came together.” He looked serious but said nothing more.

“What plans?”

“Let’s go inside where we can be warm. Where’s Helene?”

“She’ll be back soon.”

In truth Lise had no idea where her daughter was. Helene’s wanderings were frequent and worrisome, but Lise presumed she needed time to accustom herself to Edward’s absence and that a letter from him would restore her spirits. So far, no letters had arrived, though she knew her daughter wrote to him every night.

Jean went to the storage shed for more firewood while Lise warmed apple cider on the stove. When the fire was crackling, they sat in front of its cheery warmth, and Jean peppered his father with questions. What are the Americans doing? Why did Russia make peace with Germany? Are people in Austria really starving? Is it true that Germany has brought all its men and artillery for one last push? Will the British be able to hold out against them?

“Enough, Jean. Would you have me disclose all our state secrets?” Henri ruffled his son’s hair.

“Don’t, Papa, I’m not a little boy anymore. I can enlist soon, you know.”

Henri’s lighthearted tone vanished. “You will do no such thing. One son in the army is enough for this family.”

Jean scowled. “Why does everyone still treat me like a child?”

Lise caught her husband’s eye and made a downward motion with her hand, hoping he would understand the need to mollify their son. Henri wrinkled his brow and tipped his head to one side, indicating he had no idea what she wanted him to do.

The side door creaked, and grateful for a diversion, Lise called out. “Come into the salon, Helene. Papa is here.”

Helene did not enter the room; instead, she leaned against the arch separating the salon from the hallway. Her hair was pulled back into a rough knot, puffy red eyes dominating her face. Lise knew her daughter had been crying and wished she could take her somewhere quiet where they would be alone. But Henri had a plan. Instinct warned her it would unsettle them all.

“Papa? Why are you here? We weren’t expecting you.”

Henri seemed unaware of his son’s anger and his daughter’s distress. He got up from the sofa and stood with the fire warming his back. Lise watched him tighten his mouth and run a hand through his hair. He looked at her and then at Jean and Helene.

“I’ve arranged for you to return with me to Paris. The Germans are pushing hard from La Fère to Saint-Quentin. We have intelligence that they will try to break through west of Cambrai. They’ve amassed close to a million men, and there’s no telling how quickly they may move or how close they might come to Beaufort. I want you safe. My driver will take us this afternoon, so there’s little time. Pack one bag each. Gaston can send the rest of your things later.” Henri waited for a moment
then looked at his wife again.

Lise wondered what he expected her to say. Drop everything and leave for Paris; what was he thinking? They had responsibil
ities, people in Beaufort who depended on them. She had duties at the hospital. How could she abandon her soldiers?

“I can’t go to Paris, Papa,” Helene said.

“Why not? You used to plague me about returning to Paris. Marie and her family are back from London. It will be like old times.”

“I know Marie’s back, but I just can’t leave Beaufort.”

“Lise?”

“You’ve sprung this on us, Henri.” Lise understood Helene’s emotional state and wanted to silence her husband before the situation got out of control.

“But I . . .”

“We need time to adjust to the idea, Henri.”

“There is no time. The situation is urgent. And I want my family in Paris.” Henri’s brow furrowed deeply, a sure sign that he was annoyed and would demand his way.

“I will not be ordered about like a child.” Helene folded her arms in defiance and glared at her father.

Conflict encouraged Jean. “And I’ll enlist as soon as we get to Paris.”

Lise held up her hands like a referee signalling a stop in play. “Calmly, everyone. Jean, don’t be rude to your father. Helene, I know you’re upset, but we can sort things out. Henri, you can’t arrive and act like you’re in charge. We’ve been managing without
you for a long time.” She stood up. “Papa and I need some time alone.”

Henri’s
thick eyebrows flared, but he acquiesced and followed his wife up the stairs to their bedroom.

“Darling, I wish you had told me your plans. I could have prepared them.” Lise stood in the circle of Henri’s arms and laid her head on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I thought it would please everyone. But it’s your safety that’s uppermost in my mind. Lise, the Germans will do everything in their power to get to the sea and destroy the British. I had to pull a lot of strings to come here. There’s truly no time to waste.” He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. “And if you are in Paris, I can be with you almost every day.” He kissed her again. “Why is Helene so upset?”

“Her soldier has gone south. Perhaps she thinks his letters won’t reach her if she’s in Paris. She’s been moping for days.” Lise saw the pugnacious set of Henri’s mouth. “She’s in love, Henri. I wrote you about it on Tuesday.”

“And what about Jean?”

“He’s been talking about enlisting for months. Some of his friends signed up as soon as they turned sixteen. I’m sure he can be persuaded to wait until he finishes school. But you can’t forbid him to do these things. He’ll just become more defiant. You need to treat him like an adult.”

Henri looked reassured by her calm logic. “I’ve been absent much too long. I’m sure you’re right. If we can hold against this offensive, it won’t last much longer.”

“Do you really think so?”

He nodded. “With the Americans, we have the necessary strength to compensate for Russia’s withdrawal.”

In one way, Lise was relieved at the thought of Paris. She was worn out with the stress of her fears for Guy combined with managing their household and Henri’s absence. Still, her contrib
ution and accomplishments were satisfying, and she knew that in Paris her role would revert to the norms of their social circle. She would miss her freedoms.

Beaufort had changed them all. Beaufort and the war. She was a different person now. Many things had
contributed: the stimulation of ideas leaping from books, the satisfaction of self-sufficiency, the demands of volunteer work, the release from fashion and the need to parade the latest clothes from the best designers. When she stopped to reflect, Lise was amused at the simplicity of her toilette and the clothing she now wore. Occasionally, she thought the change sprang from time on her own and life without the presence of Henri’s decisions.

“I should speak to Helene,” she said.

“If it makes a difference, we can leave in the morning.”

Lise blew him a kiss as she left the room.