August 1915, Paris, France
Warren’s next furlough was several months after the plane crash. He usually spent leave in London and stayed with his grandmother. She had never approved of Warren’s father, but she’d been generous in supporting her oldest grandson through Oxford, and she’d seemed to understand his drive to become a pilot. He thought she would also understand if he took advantage of an invitation to spend his leave in Paris.
Warren visited Boyle in hospital outside the French capital on his way to the city. Boyle was in good spirits, and Warren made them even better by bringing chocolate and news of the squadron’s recent successes. Then Warren posted a letter to his grandmother and sought out Claire Donovan’s address.
The Donovan estate was located in a promising section of Paris. Thick ivy filled the wrought-iron fence, and the home’s architecture eschewed simple elegance and instead called out for attention. The home was large, but the oversized gilded lions would have been better suited to a building the size of the Paris Opera House, and two stories weren’t enough to do the Gothic lines justice.
The home was a sharp contrast to Claire’s understated fashion. The home was probably Mr. Donovan’s choice, like the heavy, gold cuff links Warren had noticed when he’d met Claire’s father in London last winter. Mr. Donovan was still trying to impress his late wife’s family. Warren’s father had been like that for a time, if Warren’s grandmother was to be believed, but he’d long ago given up and moved across the Atlantic.
Warren hesitated before ringing the bell. When they’d met, Mr. Donovan had invited him to spend his next leave with them in Paris. He had meant it, hadn’t he?
A uniformed butler answered the door and showed Warren into a parlor with windows overlooking the street. Warren heard low murmurs coming from a room on the other side of the front entrance, and before long, Mr. Donovan followed the butler across the entryway and into the parlor.
“Mr. Donovan, sir?” Warren stood as the tall, broad American entered the room.
“Ah, welcome, Mr. Flynn.” Mr. Donovan stretched out his hand, and Warren took it, trying to adjust to Mr. instead of Lieutenant. “We wondered if you would ever take us up on our offer. Are you here for leave?”
“Yes, sir. If the timing is convenient.”
“Quite convenient. Please stay as long as you can. I apologize that I’ll be the only one available to keep you company today. Claire’s gone to London to visit her grandmother.”
Warren swallowed back his disappointment. Perhaps if he stayed one day with Mr. Donovan, he could catch the good ship Victoria from Boulogne to Folkestone tomorrow and still have most of his leave in London. “Yes, I really ought to visit my own grandmother for most of my leave.” His Grandma Beatrice’s friendship with Claire’s grandmother Huntley was at least twice as old as Warren. Surely he’d see Claire’s grandmother and Claire if he went to London.
Mr. Donovan looked him over from head to foot. “Oh, and when do you plan to leave for England?”
“Perhaps as early as tomorrow, sir.”
Mr. Donovan laughed. “In that case, Claire will be sorry she missed you. She’s scheduled to return tomorrow.”
Warren tried to think of a way to extricate himself from the knot he’d gotten himself tied up in. “Well, sir, perhaps I could arrange to stay in Paris a bit longer. I would hate to disappoint your daughter.”
Mr. Donovan chuckled again and slapped Warren on the back. “Mr. Flynn, I was young once. I am not so vain as to suspect you’ve come to visit me. I have some business to finish, but Franke can show you the house. I’ll see you for supper at seven.” Mr. Donovan went back to his office on the other side of the entry, and Mr. Franke, the butler, showed Warren the dining hall, ballroom, library, gardens, and an enormous, elaborately decorated guest suite.
Supper was served precisely at seven, and the smells floating into the dining hall were infinitely superior to anything Warren had smelled at the aerodrome. Warren and Mr. Donovan sat alone at a table that could have seated two dozen. “Tell me, Lieutenant, how are things up your way? Ready to beat the Huns yet? I have a few countrymen placing bets on the various sides, and they keep pestering me for inside information.”
Warren’s first three spoonfuls of soup had been delicious, but the fourth was suddenly repugnant. Betting over the war as if it was a horse race? Warren set his spoon down, taking care not to show his discomfort. Mr. Donovan owned several munitions factories back in the U.S., but in Paris, all he saw were soldiers on leave, politicians stumping with patriotic fervor, and procurement officers bargaining for better shell prices. He couldn’t know how awful it was on the front line. “It’s turning into a contest of roughly equal sides, sir. I have my hopes that one more offensive will break through the lines, but that’s what the Germans did at Ypres with gas and what the French did at Artois with a massive artillery barrage. Neither side could get replacements up fast enough to exploit their success.”
“Perhaps if things were on a larger scale.”
“Perhaps.” Warren glanced at the soup—it was some type of tomato bisque—and the color reminded him of torn flesh. Maybe an attack on a larger scale would work better, but if it didn’t, wouldn’t it just result in casualties on a larger scale?
“Is something wrong with your soup?”
“Oh, no, sir.” Warren picked up his spoon again. He wanted to be on Mr. Donovan’s good side, and snubbing the first course was unlikely to help him with that goal. He’d endured far worse things than luxurious food, so he would eat and force his mind to think of something else. “It’s much better than what we humble airmen usually eat.”
* * *
From his room the next afternoon, Warren heard someone playing a spirited rendition of Haydn’s Surprise Symphony. He found Claire sitting in front of the grand piano in the library. Her back was toward him as he watched from the doorway and admired the way her fingers danced along the keys with a grace that came from a different world than the gore of the battlefields. Her auburn hair shone in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and her curls swayed in time with her hands. When she finished, she reached for another piece of music.
“Playing music written by an Austrian, Miss Donovan? Not very patriotic of you,” he said.
She swung around on the piano bench until she was facing him with an amused expression. “I’m an American, Mr. Flynn. We are officially neutral. And I shan’t hold a composer who died over a hundred years ago responsible for Europe’s current disaster.” Her Southern drawl was just noticeable enough to be interesting.
“Who would you hold responsible?”
“I suppose there is enough blame to spread across the leaders of most of Europe’s empires. But not much for Canadians pilots, so I shan’t hold it against you.”
Warren walked to the chair nearest the piano and picked up Claire’s wide-brimmed hat. He kept hold of it as he took its place on the chair.
She studied his hatless head and unbuttoned jacket. “How long have you been here?”
“I walked in about thirty seconds after you began playing.”
One side of her mouth pulled up, making the freckles on her left cheek more prominent. “Not the room, silly. The house.”
“Yesterday. And you? I suppose you walked in and came straight to the piano?” He held up her hat. She hadn’t even paused to put it on the rack.
“Yes. I suppose that’s why no one told me you were here. I haven’t seen my father or Franke, and Granny was so tired when we arrived that she went straight to her rooms.” Claire turned back to the glossy black piano and straightened her music.
“How is your grandmother, other than fatigued from your voyage?”
Claire’s blue eyes met his for an instant before she concentrated on her music again. “She is well, thank you. She asked if I’d seen you recently. She’ll no doubt find it a pleasant surprise that you’re in Paris. I think she’s rather fond of you.”
“As is my grandmother of you.”
“I had tea with your grandmother just yesterday. She expressed some sadness that your letters are frequent but shallow.”
“Do you think I should write to her less, then?”
Claire gave him an exaggerated smirk. “Of course not. But she wants to know more about what you’re doing, how you’re feeling.”
Warren leaned back in the chair, placing Claire’s hat on his knee. “She may not know it, but she doesn’t really want to hear about war.”
“Then tell her about things other than war.”
“Fine. I shall write to her about you. Even though she already knows all about you and approves of you in spite of it. I still wonder how the granddaughter of a Yankee carpetbagger and the daughter of the scoundrel who stole her best friend’s only heir became one of her favorites.”
Claire’s smile turned impish. “It’s my piano playing. And my genteel Southern manners. Not that you should talk. The son of a man who stole your grandmother’s daughter and took her to another continent to join some strange religion. How many wives has your father had?”
“Three.”
Claire’s eyes widened. “Three? Oh dear, that was supposed to be a joke. I didn’t know there was any truth to it.”
“He’s had them one at a time. The first died giving birth to my oldest sister. Then he found my mother, and they found religion and decided to immigrate to Canada. She died of cholera twelve years later. Now a third woman is happily married to him—no doubt happier since I left.”
“You don’t get along with your stepmother?”
“I don’t suppose I’ll ever get along with a woman who wishes to control me. I had absolute freedom from age eleven to fourteen. Then she came along and expected me to tell her where I was every second of every day, and I had to wash my ears nightly and suffer punishments of the most vexing nature for putting holes through the knees of my trousers.”
Claire took his chin and turned his head to either side. “Your ears appear clean now. Apparently her admonitions stuck.”
He could still feel the warmth from her soft fingers as she released his jaw. “Cleaning is fine when it’s a choice rather than a chore.”
“Good. Because I would hate to have a dirty Royal Flying Corps officer take me on a stroll through the Paris streets. Whatever would people think? It’s still an hour until tea time. I don’t suppose you’d go on a walk with me now?”
Warren handed Claire her hat and offered her his arm. “My pleasure, Miss Donovan. If you can bear to be parted from your piano so soon after returning to it.”
She slid her arm through his. “It’s only a temporary separation.”
When they were outside, he slowed his pace to match hers.
“So, Mr. Flynn, what is it about war that you don’t want your grand- mother to know?”
“I’d rather not talk about war during leave. Especially around someone with such genteel manners.”
Claire laughed softly. “You know as well as I do that my manners are far from genteel. I speak my mind much too often.”
“And I never complain when you do.”
“Not aloud anyway. A trait you perhaps inherited from your grandmother. She’s rather indulgent with my outspoken nature. But I would very much like to hear your thoughts on occasion. When you’re quiet, I find myself forced to talk about trivial things in order to keep up the conversation.”
“And what bits of trivia do you have stored up for today should I fail to keep up the conversation?”
Claire’s lips turned down as she glanced sideways at him. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.”
“But what if I’m in the mood for trivial conversation?”
She slowed and lifted one foot until her boot was sticking out from underneath her skirt. “I might could tell you about my shoes.”
“Please do.”
“They’re new. I didn’t mean to go shopping in London, but I only brought one pair of boots with me, and the laces broke. So I went to purchase new laces, and the cobbler suggested I buy these. It seemed silly to get a new pair of shoes when all I needed were laces, but the poor man said his oldest son lied about his age and enlisted, and he let him because he has nine other children to feed. Ten children total, all of them living. Can you imagine? Oh, but I mentioned the war. I’m sorry.”
“Never feel like you have to apologize to me, Miss Donovan.” Warren released her arm and took a few steps away to admire her new shoes. “Are they comfortable?”
Claire frowned again, making a dimple appear on her left cheek. “I’m hoping they will be after a few days. But no. Right now they’re something awful.”
“Let me take you home, then. You can change shoes, and we’ll go on another stroll after teatime.”
Claire wove her hand through the crook of his arm again. “My grandmother says you are practical to a fault, but today I think that’s an admirable trait.”
“And what of yesterday? Was it a good trait to have yesterday?”
“You assume you were on my mind yesterday.”
“Perhaps I assume too much.”
With her free hand, she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I was having tea with your grandmother. Of course you were on my mind.”
Claire had always been pleasant company, ever since he’d met her four years ago. Then one summer, he’d seen her again after she’d been in Charleston for eighteen months, and he’d realized she was not only pleasant but beautiful too. Now it seemed like she was also a good distraction. Claire was about as opposite from the war as Warren could get.
* * *
Warren didn’t make it to London during his week of leave. His stay with the Donovans soon fell into an easy pattern. In the mornings, he took Claire on a stroll, or they went into the garden to play croquet. They had a light midday meal together and usually spent the time between luncheon and tea in the library under the watchful eye of Claire’s Grandma Huntley. But Grandma Huntley had returned to London the day before, leaving them largely to themselves the last day of Warren’s furlough.
Claire finished another khaki sock and placed her knitting basket on the floor. While in London, she’d decided to “knit her bit,” and she’d made visible progress learning the new skill over the past week, even with Warren as a distraction. But as she sat at the piano and started to play, it was obvious her passion was for the piano keys, not the knitting needles.
“I’ve noticed you play only classical pieces when your father is home.” Warren ran his hand along Claire’s latest yarn creation. “But if you know he’s away, you pull out the ragtime.”
Claire smiled mischievously. “My father prefers traditional music.”
“And do you avoid playing ragtime when your father can hear because it’s forbidden or out of respect for his taste?”
“I don’t think he’s ever heard me play it, so he can’t forbid it.” She straightened her music. “Most respectable young women play something else.”
Warren chuckled. “Has my grandmother ever heard you play? This type of music, I mean?”
“Your grandmother is the biggest fan of ragtime I’ve met in all my born days.”
“What?” Other than her acceptance of Warren’s flying career, his grandmother had conservative taste in everything.
“Who do you think purchased this song for me?”
“Really?”
“Her butler did the actual shopping.”
Warren and his grandmother always found plenty to talk about when together, and he’d spent years living in her home, but he’d never heard her compliment anything newer than Wagner. “She had absolutely no interest in ragtime when the war began.”
“A lot can change in a year. Perhaps if you spent more time with her, you’d know of her new music interests.”
“So on my next leave, I suppose I should go to London.”
Claire’s fingers hesitated on the piano keys. “Your grandmother would be happy to see you, I’m sure.”
“And you wouldn’t have to occupy your days entertaining me.”
Claire frowned. “I have plenty of days without visitors. If you do decide to go to London instead of Paris, I might could arrange a visit to London at the same time because I very much enjoy entertaining you.”
Later, after their evening meal, Warren and the Donovans retired to the library, as they’d done all week. Mr. Donovan got out his pipe and settled into his favorite armchair by the coal stove. Warren didn’t use tobacco. For the most part, he’d left his religion in Alberta, but he imagined his mother, if she still existed in some type of afterlife, would cringe to see him flout the rules she’d so diligently taught him. Claire never stayed longer than it took to hear about her father’s day and find a way to make him laugh. When she left, Warren did his best to satisfy Mr. Donovan’s curiosity about the war.
When the questions lulled, Warren plucked up a three-week-old New York City newspaper from a nearby table. One article struck him so strongly that he read part of it aloud.
“‘This past July, a member of the German embassy fell asleep on the New York subway and neglected to collect his briefcase upon arrival at his destination. The item was collected by the American Secret Service, who yesterday disclosed some of its contents. It appears German diplomats have contracted with several Irish and German-American lowlifes to stir up labor unrest, sabotage munitions before they are shipped to Europe, and even recruit groups of willing Americans to invade Canada. Could such schemes cause our northern neighbor to hold back men for border defense and send fewer troops to Great Britain?’” Warren lowered the newspaper. “The United States invade Canada?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Mr. Donovan added tobacco to his pipe.
“It would be the first time in one hundred years. Do you think the idea will catch?”
“There are plenty of Americans who dislike the British. But, no, I don’t think German agents could muster a real invasion force. Even if they did, the U.S. Army might do a thing or two to prevent anything serious from happening.”
“Sabotage is a little more likely to succeed though.” Warren folded the paper and put it aside. “Like the men trying to blow up the Welland Canal between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. And the British Army is already short on shells. A few strikes at munitions factories, a bit of arson in the wrong places . . .”
“Are you so uncertain of victory? Do you think a few Canadian divisions held back to defend the border and a few less shiploads of shells will tip the scales?”
Warren wanted to project confidence. But he also wanted to be honest. “I don’t think it would take much to tip the scales, sir.”
Mr. Donovan leaned back in his seat, chewing on his pipe. “A few saboteurs here, a few saboteurs there. A shortage in the wrong area leading to a breakthrough.” He shook his head and puffed on his pipe. “Frightening stuff.”
Warren couldn’t agree more.