ON A SATURDAY EVENING late in July, Niki got ready for the regular weekend open house at Birchfields. For some reason she felt less eager than ever to spend hours chatting and dancing. In spite of all her volunteer activities, she still couldn’t shake the restlessness she felt to be part of something bigger.
She put on the dress she had found at one of those obscure Paris boutiques where fabulous fashion bargains are possible. It was a silk print scattered with daisies, bluebells, and poppies, the wildflowers of French country fields. It had cap sleeves, a scoop neckline, flared skirt, and set off Niki’s petite figure flatteringly. Her hair had grown to shoulder length, and she tied it back with a scarlet ribbon.
She was downstairs when the first contingent of servicemen from the airfield began to arrive. Since the Dunkirk disaster there had been some foreigners among them, some who had managed to escape from countries overrun by the Nazis and were now training with British units in England.
Alair Blanding and Cilia Ridgeway had come over from Blanding Court for the weekend to help with hostessing. The cousins and Niki had become friends over the past few months. Cilla was still at boarding school, but Alair was helping at the village school. The facility had been taxed to overflowing by the sudden influx of refugee children from London. With the relentless nightly bombing raids, many parents had sent their children to the country for safety. Blanding Court had several of the children, with their teachers, billeted in the house. Some mothers of the smaller children had accompanied them and helped at the school.
Alair had volunteered to take over the kindergarten. As she dearly loved children and her sweet, quiet nature was perfect for such a job, she was busy during the week. She loved coming to Birchfields to assist at the weekend open house. She laughingly said, “It gives me a chance to talk with adults for a change. I spend most of my waking hours with tots under age five, and I’m afraid my vocabulary is shrinking as a result.”
Both girls were lovely, slender blonds with English-rose complexions, and were immensely popular as dance partners. Niki watched them almost enviously. Obviously enjoying themselves, they both had found their niche and were satisfied that they were doing their part.
That evening Niki tried to appear cheerful. But inside she was still depressed about her fruitless interview with the WRENS recruiting officer. No matter how Bryanne and Aunt Garnet tried to encourage her, Niki still worried that she would never have enough official clearance to get into any of the services. She felt particularly drawn to the WRENS, the women’s branch of the Royal Navy.
“A penny for your thoughts,” a deep, accented voice spoke.
Knowing it was somehow familiar, Niki slowly turned around. She saw a handsome face she recognized. Deeply tanned, leaner, older, but those dark, mischievous eyes, the slightly ironic smile, were unmistakable. It was Paul Duval, Luc’s French companion. Her gaze swept over him. The black curly hair that used to fall across his forehead in waves and curl around his ears and neck was now clipped in a military cut; the mouth, with its curve of humor, was now shadowed by a mustache. But still it was Paul, the boy she had daydreamed about, the young man who had ignored her, until … last summer in Paris …
“Paul!”
“Cherie!” he responded with a broad smile. “Niki! Yes, c’est moi!“ He caught her up in a quick hug, kissing her on each cheek, and swung her around before setting her down again. Still holding her around the waist, he gazed at her with delight. “Are you surprised?”
“Of course, I’m flabbergasted! But how did you get here? We’ve been so worried. Luc’s written me a dozen times, asking if there was any word of you….”
“I got out with some of the last from Dunkirk. Here I was reassigned to what remained of my unit. I’ve been training … but enough about me. What are you doing here in England? I thought you went home with Luc last September.”
“Come, I’ll tell you all about it.” Niki took his arm. “Let’s find a place where we can talk.”
There was so much to talk about, so much to share. First Niki took Paul to meet Aunt Garnet, to explain who he was and how dear he had become to the family in Virginia. Then she introduced him to Bryanne and Alair and Cilla. Aunt Garnet insisted he stay at Birchfields instead of going back to the airfield, where he had temporary quarters.
“You are very kind, but I cannot.”
“How long will you be at the airfield?” she asked.
A curious, shuttered expression passed over Paul’s face. He murmured something about waiting for reassignment. Garnet, who understood wartime security, immediately said, “Of course, but you must come as often as you can get away. Any friend of Luc’s is certainly welcome at Birchfields.”
Paul glanced at Niki, who was looking at him eagerly. For a split second something passed between them that made Niki draw in her breath. Then Paul smiled and, bowing slightly to Garnet, said, “You are most gracious, Mrs. Devlin. I accept your hospitality with thanks. Merci.”
During the next few weeks Paul was often at Birchfields. Sometimes he showed up without advance notice. He was always there on the weekends. The time she spent with Paul was like a dream come true for Niki. All her girlish fancies about Luc’s fascinating French friend were playing out as from some predestined plan. The Paul she had fantasized about was a reality.
In the years since he had been at Montclair, he had attended the university, acquired a sophistication, an urbanity far beyond that of an American of the same age. Whatever he had been through in the short but savage war France had waged, about which he did not speak, had also given him a maturity that a less experienced young man would not have. Yet underneath he was genuinely sweet, surprisingly sensitive and sincere. When he and Niki were together, they spoke of many things they both enjoyed and a great deal about Paris.
“How I would love to show you Paris. It is particularly beautiful in the spring—” Here Paul’s eyes would glaze a little, and a look of loss would pass over his face. Niki would try to bring him back to the present, making some remark about the future. Surely one day they would explore Paris together. Now it seemed enough that they were enjoying this English summer.
Paul talked little about what he had been through in the last, disillusioning days of France or about his time since its fall. He worshiped Charles de Gaulle, now the leader of the Free French, and of course despised Pétain, the WWI hero turned traitor, who headed the government at Vichy that collaborated with the Nazis. When Niki tried to draw him out on his thoughts of the future, he begged off. “Let’s enjoy the moment, Cherie,” he would say and quickly change the subject. They did talk about Luc. Niki told him Luc was in the U.S. Army officers’ flight training program in Texas. “I think he wishes now he’d stayed when I did, gone into the British Royal Air Force. He already has a pilot’s license. He hopes America will join the Allies, if it’s not too late—”
“There’ll be time enough,” Paul said. “I’m afraid it’s going to take a while to defeat the Nazis … as my country learned to its regret.”
“My country, too, Paul. Remember?” Niki said softly.
“Of course, Cherie. Now I do remember. I had forgotten. You seem so American.”
“I do?” Niki looked disappointed.
Paul threw back his head and laughed. “French, American, who cares? You are adorable.” He leaned over and touched the tip of her nose with his index finger.
One Saturday evening several weeks later, Birchfields was crowded. It seemed to Niki more servicemen than ever had flooded through the gates and filled the house. They were also several hostesses short. Cilla had gone back to school, and Alair had a cold, so neither had shown up to help. Niki and Bryanne and a few local girls did their best. Stationed at the punch bowl, Niki couldn’t get away long enough to be with Paul as much as usual. By midnight, men with early-morning duties began to leave. Others drifted off to escort home some of the hostesses who lived in the village. Finally the bus left to take the rest of the servicemen back to the base.
Niki looked around, afraid that Paul, seeing she was busy, might have gone without saying good-bye. Then she saw him and, relieved, she went to him. He smiled and said, “I’ve waited all evening to have a dance with you.”
Bryanne and one of the servants were going about extinguishing lights and pulling back the blackout curtains in the rooms that no longer needed to be darkened.
“Let’s go outside. It’s a beautiful evening,” Paul suggested. Holding Niki’s hand, he led her through the library, where a few people remained. Several airmen, not wanting to see their brief respite end, taking their chances of hitching a ride or walking back to the base, lingered still, gathered by the phonograph.
The moon was rising above the treetops, illuminating the garden.
“Bomber’s moon,” Paul muttered. “Poor London.”
They both stood there, momentarily anticipating the whine of German bombers that would soon be roaring overhead on their way to send death and destruction on that beleaguered city. Then through the open doors the sound of dance music floated.
Paul took Niki in his arms, and they began dancing slowly to a popular ballad she loved. Paul was singing the lyrics in French, but Niki also knew them in English:
Long ago and far away
I dreamed a dream one day and now that dream is here beside me.
Niki’s heart quickened. She closed her eyes, following Paul’s lead. They moved across the brick terrace as smoothly as if it were a polished dance floor. It was like a dream, she thought, almost imagining they were in Paris and all this was happening at another time … a time of peace, when anything was possible …
Paul whispered something, and slowly Niki moved back to reality. He had said something about having to go.
“So soon?” she asked dreamily.
He gave a low chuckle. “It is late, Cherie. I must go.”
There was something in the way he said it that caused her heart to tighten—something almost final about it.
“But you’ll be back next weekend?” she asked, as if needing reassurance. When he didn’t reply, she prompted, “Promise?”
“Niki, in wartime there are no promises, no farewells, only au revoir,” Paul said gently.
Niki felt as if two cold hands were squeezing her heart. She started to ask something more, but Paul pressed two fingers against her lips, keeping her from saying it. Then he kissed her, not on each cheek in the traditional friendship manner of the French, but on her mouth. It was a kiss of great tenderness, but in it was a sadness, a relinquishment of what might have been in some other time or place.
Paul did not return to Birchfields. Niki carefully questioned some of the airmen who continued to come to the weekend gatherings, and learned that a small group of French officers had gone from the base. Rumor had it they had been sent on some kind of secret assignment. The surmise was that they had gone to join General de Gaulle in North Africa.
Paul’s departure left an unexpected void in Niki’s life. Was she in love with him? She certainly had been swept away by his glamor. He was strikingly handsome in his French officer’s uniform, and his accent, his charm, were so different from the American boys she had known and dated in Virginia. It had certainly been a romantic interlude, but love? Niki wasn’t sure.