Lies Told In Silence (27 page)

Chapter 38

October 1918

October bellowed with wind and rain, rattling the shutters of Tante Chantal’s house and forcing the two women to spend much of their time indoors. In the gloom, fall leaves shook with colour before dropping to the ground like faded jewels.

Helene felt like a waddling duck, moving awkwardly from side to side, flopping into a chair then flailing to extract herself. Her ankles swelled, as did her fingers, and the baby’s kicks kept her awake at night. To make matters worse, she could eat little without experiencing heartburn.

“Tante Chantal, I don’t think I can stand this much longer. I look like a bloated cow, and I feel uncomfortable all the time.”

Her aunt chuckled. “That’s why I never had children. I looked at my friends and thought, no, that’s not for me. And I like my freedom too much to be confined by a man’s opinions.”

“Did you have men who . . .”

“Wanted to marry me?
Bien sur.
Several. But I enjoyed them all too much and could never decide which one would suit me best. A bit like Tante Camille, I suppose.” Her eyes sparkled with humour.

Helene had grown accustomed to her aunt’s candour. “You’re still a very good-looking woman.”

“Well, there is a man in Paris I see from time to time.”

“Is there? I hope I can meet him.”

“That’s not likely, dear. He’s married.”

Fortunately, a car drew up outside creating a diversion, as Helene had no idea how to respond. Chantal went to the window.

“Good heavens, it’s Francois Delancey.” She glanced at Helene with a puzzled look. “Did you know he was coming?”

Helene shook her head. She had heard nothing from Francois, though she had frequently wondered about the personal nature of their conversation and the painful weariness on his face when he thought no one was looking. She had no experience with male friends, only her brothers and Edward, but she doubted that men disclosed their feelings with ease.
Men and women certainly are different
, she thought, struggling out of her chair so she could greet him at eye level.

Her aunt opened the door with a welcoming smile.

“How nice to see you, Francois. Come in out of that nasty weather. Helene and I were just talking about the tedium of being indoors all the time, and here you are. A welcome distraction. I’ll make us some tea.”

Helene stifled her amusement at Chantal’s fabrication and echoed her aunt’s welcome.

“How is Marie?”

“Preparing for a visit from Victor.” Francois lifted his eyebrows to acknowledge the significance of Victor’s visit.

“Is he the right man for her?”

“I think they’ll suit.”

“Well, I hope they’ll do more than suit one another.”
Is that how he feels?
Helene wondered if passion ever entered into the equation for Francois.
Surely he’s loved a woman or two.

“Are you well?”

She smiled. “I’m not very comfortable, but the doctor says everything is fine.”

Helene found his cryptic statements and uncomfortable d
emeanour puzzling and thought it odd that he had not let them know he was coming. Courtesy demanded otherwise, and Francois had certainly been brought up to be courteous. From the kitchen, she heard the sounds of cups clinking, doors opening and closing, a kettle set with a
clunk
on the stove. She gestured towards a chair by the window and watched Francois ease into it with care and set his cane against a nearby table.

After tea, he asked her to take a walk.

“I think it’s too cold,” she said.

“Nonsense, a walk will do you good,” said Chantal. “Bundle up and borrow my shawl. Francois, please make sure she doesn’t slip.”

Helene took Francois’s arm as they walked along the road, avoiding spots that would be slippery from the rain. At the edge of town, they stopped to look at the waves crashing against a rocky point. Francois cleared his throat.

“Helene, I want to ask you a question.”

His tone warned her that he had something serious to say, so she turned to look at him, a brief furrow appearing on her forehead.

“With such close families, we’ve known each other for years. So perhaps you think of me only as Marie’s brother and a distant cousin.” He cleared his throat again. “You may not realize that I have admired you for a long time. That I’m quite . . . fond of you.”

Helene cleared her face of expression and remained very still.

“I had always hoped to pursue a different relationship with you, but the war made that impossible. And your condition made me realize that you fell in love with someone else . . .” She could tell he was searching for words. “But now he’s gone.”

“Francois, what are you saying?” His frankness surprised her.
What right did he have to talk about Edward as though he had failed her in some way?
Her voice was cool.

“If you will marry me, I’ll be a father to your child. You won’t have to give it up for adoption.”

“Marry you?” Helene was overwhelmed by his suggestion and the notion that he had harboured feelings for her for years. Her first reaction was to say no, but she stifled that response. Perhaps this was the miracle she had hoped for. “You would do this for me?”

Francois nodded.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said. Angry waves crashed against the pier beneath clouds that had gathered like granite peaks across the horizon.

“You and I are two lost souls,” he said, almost as though speaking to himself. “I can’t stop thinking of how many deaths I caused defending my country and how many tortured men we left behind who are wounded, blind, legless, unable to care for themselves. Sometimes I think of my own wounds as atonement.” He took her hand. “Perhaps we can comfort each other. Perhaps we can forget together and build something good from all this pain. Please think about it, Helene.” He stopped and studied her face. “I can see that I’ve surprised you. Don’t answer right now. We can talk again tomorrow, if you like.”

He looked at her with curious, gentle eyes and put one hand on her shoulder. She swallowed hard and nodded.

“I think I’ll watch the waves for a while. Do you mind walking back alone?”

“Not at all,” she said. Bright spots of colour in her cheeks betrayed her bewilderment, but otherwise she held her head high.

* * *

Despite her aunt’s questioning look, Helene said nothing about her conversation with Francois, instead letting her think that he had returned to Honfleur for further recuperation.

Lying in bed, she tossed and turned, grunting each time she moved her large belly into a new position.
You have to come out soon, little one; it’s impossible to get comfortable.
As if in agreement, the baby kicked vigorously, sending shooting pains down her back.
What are we going to do?
Would you like a father? He’s a nice man, you know. Not the same as your real Papa, but he would look after us
.

She wondered where her duty lay. Was it with Edward or with her child? Should she sacrifice the possibility of finding Edward for the security of having a husband and a child who would not be called a bastard? Is it the things you choose or the things you
don’t choose that make your life? She chased these questions around and around; the thought of giving up Edward was so painful she could hardly bear to voice it inside her head.

Her mind touched every part of him: his long, narrow fingers, taut forearms, wide lower lip, the burn mark above his right eyebrow, soft hair so dark it was almost black, chiselled chest, smooth hips, buttocks tight from endless physical labour, long legs, high cheekbones. She would never forget.

The baby kicked again, and she pushed a foot down and away from her ribs, hoping it would find another position. But tonight, the baby refused to budge.
You want me to make a decision, don’t you? That’s why you’re kicking so much.
She knew her reluctance to decide was tied to a shred of hope that Edward would miraculously appear. If she said yes, the baby would no longer be his. She would never be able to speak of the man who filled her with joy and, in some inexplicable way, made her feel complete.

Helene allowed the tears to gather and spill down her cheeks. Sobs shook her body, and she buried her face in the pillow so her aunt would not hear. “Good-bye, my darling,” she finally whispered as the sky eased from black to grey. “I will always love you.”

* * *

Helene was up before dawn, her eyes swollen and red from crying, her face pale from a sleepless night. She dressed with care in a dark blue dress and a long cardigan that partly hid her large belly and put a touch of rouge on her cheeks. Since her aunt was still in bed, Helene made coffee and nibbled on a piece of bread and jam while reading the previous day’s newspaper.

The hours came and went with no sign of Francois. Helene ignored her aunt’s probing looks and sidestepped her question of whether he would be with them for lunch. Finally, not long after Chantal had left the house to purchase extra food for lunch, she heard footsteps and the unmistakeable tapping of Francois’s cane.

Helene opened the door. Francois stood on the porch, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hair tousled by the wind
and his cheeks bright. He looked unexpectedly boyish and awkward.

“Come in from the cold,” she said. “Let me take your coat.”
As Francois removed his bulky black coat and red woollen scarf, her eyes met his for a brief moment before looking away. “Why don’t you sit in the parlour while I make coffee? The fire is warm,” she said, turning towards the kitchen.

She returned carrying a tray with two coffee cups and a small plate of fruit, the tray resting on the edge of her belly so that she
looked like the prow of a boat.

“We haven’t had sugar for ages,” she said, as if replying to his unspoken question, then set the tray down with care and busied herself pouring coffee and milk before handing one cup to him. She took a spoon and stirred her coffee. The unanswered question hung between them, hers to answer.

“I . . . I didn’t sleep very well last night,” Helene said. Francois nodded. “Your question surprised me. Very much, in fact.” She raised her eyes for an instant and lowered them to stir her coffee again. “And there was so much to think about. That’s why I didn’t sleep.”

“I see,” he said in a neutral voice that disclosed nothing.

“I would be happy to accept your offer,” she said in a rush.

“You accept my offer?”

She nodded, finally looking directly at him. He returned her gaze, a smile spreading across his face. The kind of smile she remembered from long ago before the war when a young man had asked her to dance.

“Helene, you’ve made me very happy. I promise I’ll be a good husband and father, a
nd perhaps we will have children of our own.”

Children
of our own
, she thought, imagining the act of intercourse required to achieve that result.
Making love with someone I consider a friend
. Helene forced a smile to acknowledge his comment.

“I have to speak to your father,” he said. “I didn’t speak with him before I came. I had no reason to believe you would say yes.”

“No doubt he’ll be grateful.” Her eyes filled. “Francois, are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said.

She patted the seat beside her on the sofa and, once he had resettled himself, took his face between her hands and kissed him gently.

“Thank you,” she said.

Chapter 39

October 1918

Dear Helene,

How happy I am to hear that you will be marrying Francois Delancey. You know he has been my friend for years, ever since we were little boys, I suppose. He’ll be a wonderful husband and I suspect will have a successful career, whatever he decides to do. Maman has told me about your soldier and about the baby who will soon arrive, and I imagine the last several months have been very difficult for you. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give you my support.

I am sending you and Francois a gift and hope that it will signal happiness in your new life together. I asked Marshal Foch for permission to attend your wedding, but unfortunately, he has said that with the war soon to end, he cannot spare me.

Tell Francois I wish you both
a wonderful marriage.

Your loving brother,

Guy

* * *

The church was located near the basin where fishing boats sheltered from fierce Atlantic storms. Moss gathered on the steep slate roof, and a small tower housed the brass bell that called parishioners to worship. Blustery winds swept a mix of white and grey clouds across the sky, brief bits of blue poking through from time to time.

“At least it’s not raining,” Helene said to no one in particular.

Her mother and father waited with her in a small room to the right of the sanctuary, a room where priests put on their vestments before Mass. Francois’s parents and Marie were already in the church along with Jean and Tante Chantal. Helene wondered where Francois was and whether he too was nervous.
I wouldn’t blame him if he has second thoughts. Why would he want to be saddled with a child within weeks of getting married? Another man’s child.
She shook her head, alternating between thankfulness and regret.

After dinner the night before, an event where both families attempted to act as if nothing unusual was occurring, Helene spent several hours talking with Marie. She needed someone to keep her calm, someone who understood her. Marie said she could not think of a better man for her best friend than her brother.

“I know he’s not your Edward, but he’s so right for you. He’s kind and funny and intelligent and hard working. He’s been fond of you for years, you know.”

“How will he feel when the baby’s born?”

“I’m sure he’ll love it. He’ll be a good father, Helene. I know he will.”

“But I’m so fat.”

“Wrong. You’re beautiful. Francois knows that. He’s known you since you were little. You have to trust him, Helene.”

While her mother wound a silk ribbon around a simple bouquet of yellow roses, Helene reconsidered Marie’s words. Would trust be enough for them to build a life together? And if she could trust Francois, could she trust herself?

Helene’s aunt knocked on the door and entered. “Father Michel is waiting.”

“Just a few more minutes,” Helene said as her mother set a white hat decorated with rose-shaped flowers on her head and secured it with two pins. Nothing could disguise Helene’s condition,
so they had decided on a simple blue dress. Her mother had found the hat in Paris and explained that it would be something special to mark the day.

“You look beautiful. Doesn’t she, Henri?”

Now that Helene was being married, her father had set aside his anger. “She certainly does.”

“Francois is a lucky man,” said Maman.

“Under the circumstances, I’m the one who’s lucky.”

Her mother kissed her and whispered, “I know you’ll be a good wife,
chérie
, and your baby will have a father.”

Marie smiled her encouragement as the families gathered in a semicircle behind the bride and groom. Standing beside Francois in front of the priest, Helene’s knees were shaking. During the prayers and the words of the marriage ceremony, she counted the candles lit to honour the dead, the stones surrounding the altar, the beads on Father Michel’s rosary, the colours of the stained-glass window, anything she could find to avoid thinking of Edward. When the service ended, Francois lifted the veil of her hat and kissed her cheek, a brief caress that gave no hint of his emotions.

After dinner at a hotel across the quay from the church, they rode in a horse-drawn carriage to the small cottage Francois had rented a short distance from Tante Chantal. Helene was pleased to see the glow of lights at each window as they approached, and when Francois opened the door, stepping aside so she could enter first, she saw a vase full of flowers and a basket of food on the table. On the mantel were a bottle of wine and two glasses.

She touched his arm. “You’ve thought of everything.”

They kept the conversation light while sipping a glass of wine in front of the fire. Though Helene sat on the sofa, Francois prowled around the room, picking up random objects and examining several books on a shelf next to the fireplace. From time to time he looked at her and smiled.

“I’m tired, Francois. I think I’ll get ready for bed.”

“I’ll wait in the living room.”

Looking in the mirror at her large belly and heavy breasts, Helene murmured under her breath. “Don’t be ridiculous, he won’t
find you the slightest bit attractive. But if he does want to make love, you know what to do.” She pulled a long cotton nightdress over her head and got into bed.

A few minutes later, uneven footsteps approached the room, and the door squeaked open.

“What are you doing?” she asked as Francois took a heavy blanket and pillow from the linen chest.

“I thought I should sleep on the sofa.”

Helene debated her response. The sofa meant she could avoid intimacy awhile longer, but how would that decision affect their ultimate survival as a couple? She remembered that her grandparents married without really knowing one another.
What would Grandmere do?

“A husband should be with his wife on their wedding night.”

“But . . .” He made a curving motion to mimic the bulge in her body.

“I’m sure the baby will be fine.”

After a moment of hesitation, Francois put the blanket and pillow back. His tight smile caused her to wonder whether the thought of sharing a bed with her made him uncomfortable. As he removed his clothing, she saw what the war had done to him: the scars along his leg where exploding shrapnel had met living flesh, the burns on his back, a bayonet puncture on his right arm. She wondered about the wounds she could not see, those on his mind and soul.

“It’s not pretty,” he said.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re alive.”

Helene lifted the covers and he slid in with his back to her, the weight of his body unsettling her balance so that she shifted towards him on the mattress. Francois did not move, and she felt his tension as he breathed deliberately in and out. When she touched his arm, brushing the hairs on his skin like a feather, he shivered. Then her fingers lingered on the space between his shoulder blades, stroking the burn marks one by one.

“Will you hold me?” she said.

Francois turned to face her, putting one arm beneath her
shoulders and bringing her close with the other so that her belly nestled against him. He smelled of soap and shaving cream, a hint of wine lingering on his breath. His free hand moved down her back, touching the curve of her hip.

“You’re
so beautiful,” he whispered, kissing her lips for the very first time, a kiss that was gentle and hesitant.

Helene put one hand on his cheek and deepened the kiss, her tongue mingling with his, his arm pulling them closer together, and she could feel his erection stirring.
Will he mind that I’m not a virgin? Will the image of another man come between us?
These thoughts came and went as their kisses continued and Francois’s breathing grew heavier.

As his hand slid beneath the edge of her nightgown, caressing the skin along her thigh, she star
tled and drew away.

“We can stop,” he said. “If you’re not ready, I can just hold you in my arms or sleep on the sofa.”

“No,” she said. “I want you here. Really, Francois, I do.”

She took his hand and placed it on her naked hip and lifted her mouth to his. He was exquisitely gentle, seeking permission without words, touching every part of her, and when he could wait no longer, he entered her.

She was surprised at how different the act of love was with another man. Although she thought briefly of Edward, she focused on giving pleasure to Francois, and then lost herself in the unexpected pleasure he gave to her.