APRIL 25, 1944
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
Vi shot up in bed, waking with a start.
The fitful routine of sleeping like a stone and waking again had dogged her for more than two days. Beams of sunshine fought to break into every crack in the cottage’s walled façade. She scanned the room. All was quiet and still—as it should be in her hideaway.
Hunger slammed her, the aching in her stomach finally demanding its fair attention now that her weary body had restored its sleep reserves.
Julien had dropped provisions by sometime as she’d slept, leaving a crate of pears on the table. Vi swung her legs over the cot in a fluid motion and drifted to it, leaning the rifle against the tabletop. She took one, biting in, this pear too tasting heavenly as the fruit had in the chapel days before. But there was no savoring it. She ravaged through bite after bite, chewing and swallowing as if she no longer owned a sense of taste.
“Alouette, gentille alouette . . .”
The singsong melody of the French schoolyard song—and a little girl’s voice behind it—drifted, soft and seemingly unconcerned, from just outside the cottage door.
“Alouette, je te plumerai . . .”
Julien had left water and food, but she hadn’t spoken to him in days. He’d warned her to stay silent no matter what she might hear outside, but he hadn’t said a word about unexpected guests—certainly not a sprite singing her awake from the cottage doorstep.
The sound of a key invading the lock on the door nearly stopped her heart. Jiggling first, then clanking in the heavy iron keyhole, the key fought to turn.
Vi reached for the rifle. In her haste, it slid along the tabletop and slammed down in a great clap against the hardwood floor. An abrupt halt to the singing followed, and the key fell silent in the lock. And then the little singsong voice was replaced by foot stomps, quickly retreating. There could be minutes only before the little girl brought an adult to investigate the odd sounds in what was supposed to be an abandoned cottage.
Panic flooded her mind.
Clean up. Hide. Make it out as if you were never here.
The habit of removing any trace of her presence was something Vi had picked up early on. She’d already folded the towel and emptied the washbasin into the rubbish bin the night before. Now she swept up pears from the table, dropping what remained of the core in her jacket pocket. Turning to the cot next, she rolled the blanket and stowed it under. The last and critical thing for her, Vi slid the strap of her canvas bag over her shoulder, making sure it fit snug behind her back.
It wasn’t a few moments that the door jiggled again, with no singing to accompany the noise. The key turned in the lock with a precise click. The hands that turned it did not belong to a child this time.
Vi raised the rifle, praying beyond hope that it was Julien.
She swept up to the second-story shadows, keeping her shoulder pinned behind the stone fireplace with only a tiny fraction of her body and profile exposed.
The door creaked on weary hinges. Daylight flooded in a stream across the floor, illuminating the table and chair in the center of the room. The end of a rifle extended past the open door first, then light was cast on the arms that held it: surprisingly enough, a woman—her body lithe under a beige dress and mustard cardigan, unbuttoned over a belly round with child.
She was fearless, at least from every indication of her solid stance. An expert too, it seemed, as she scanned the space with her gaze leveled through the rifle’s sight.
“Sortez!” she shouted, her voice even and strong as it echoed against the rafters.
The woman paused, floorboards creaking ever so slightly as she shifted her weight to look over every corner of the ground floor.
“I said come out—now! Or I swear I will set this cottage ablaze with you locked inside.”
“That shall be very hard to do if you are dead.”
The woman froze. She kept the rifle fully raised but did not turn. Didn’t look up. Just kept breathing, her shoulders rising and falling with even strides.
“Drop it!” Vi’s voice matched the woman’s own brand of steady. “Slowly. No noise or I pull this trigger.”
The woman obeyed, lowering the rifle. With effort that strained the small of her back, she set the weapon on the floorboards at her feet. She righted herself again, slowly, hands raised to the waist.
“Now step back. Four paces. Keep those hands in the air.” Vi descended the stairs behind her, one by one, the aged wood creaking with each step. She kept the rifle raised, stepping down and around, stopping to face the woman.
Vi stared back into wide fawn eyes, a pert nose, and a youthfulness that managed to soften even her most ardent stone-face. The woman was young—probably a couple of years under her own twenty-two. Lovely olive skin was haloed by the sunlight behind her, making the fabric of the skirt around her legs almost translucent. Her hair was fashioned in an intricate braid, rich and dark, tumbling over the front of her shoulder.
They eyed each other, Vi’s rifle her sole companion for survival, and the woman in front of her staring back with an equally stern set to her jaw.
“Step back. Toward the door.”
The woman kept her hands raised waist-high, taking slow, measured steps in the direction from which she’d come. Vi took one forward to each she took back, knowing the woman was in no condition to spring for it, and stopped when the other rifle grazed the tips of her oxfords. She bent and scooped it up, keeping her rifle trained as she swept the other’s strap over her shoulder.
“Where is Julien?”
The woman’s face changed, a twinge cut into her brow, then smoothed away again almost immediately.
“You heard me,” Vi demanded, rifle raised and arm muscles tensed. She shifted her glance from the woman to the door. “And you obviously know who I’m talking about. So where is he?”
“Marie!” A tiny girl, the pigtailed owner of the schoolyard song, swept into the cottage on tiny feet and wrapped her arm halfway round the woman’s middle. “Please don’t hurt her, lady. Can’t you see? She’s going to have a baby.” She clung to the woman, palms spread wide in a tiny protection of the woman’s belly. “This is my cousin.”
“Go, Criquet.” The woman pushed the child behind her back, nudging in the direction of the open door. She pointed to the sun and the freedom beyond. “Fetch your brother.”
“Marie, stop!” A tall form moved in through the door, blocking the sun.
“It’s alright. This woman is with us. She won’t hurt anyone.” Julien stepped in, taking command of the woman and child, his hand raised in calm. He turned to Vi. “Lady, stand down. Please.”
Vi nodded and immediately lowered the rifle to her side.
“She won’t harm us, Marie.” He stepped over to Vi, holding his hand out palm to ceiling.
He looked dead in her eyes. No words needed; she knew what he was asking.
Hesitation still owned the better part of Vi’s judgment. She shifted her glance from the face she trusted, to the woman she didn’t, to the wide-eyed little girl, who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. All three souls looked to her, waiting while she calculated the risk.
“You may keep the one I gave you last night, oui? Just give me that one.”
Vi slipped the strap of the woman’s weapon down from her shoulder and, without a word, placed it in his outstretched hand.
“Who is this, Julien?” Anger flashed in her eyes.
“I was going to tell you. But if you’d honored my request not to venture into the woods on your own, none of this would have happened. How many times must I ask this of you?” He turned his attention from the woman’s obvious acrimony back to Vi.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration seeping out on a sigh. “This is Mariette—Marie for short. My brother’s wife. And this little troublemaker who found you this morning”—he sent a stern look over to the little girl, who lowered her head to stare down at her buckle shoes—“even though she knows she’s not to go into the woods alone—is Criquet. My sister.” He made a low whistle sound against his teeth, drawing her attention back to his face. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“My book, s’il te plaît?” Criquet turned, pointing to the bookshelf by the corner with the cot. A mishmash of goods occupied the shelf: a basket, soiled gardening gloves, a weathered hand spade, and a stack of books. “Last time we were here. I left it. I can’t sleep without it.”
“Ne t’inquiètes pas, Criquet. I will fetch your book for you.”
Vi stood, silently watching.
The explanations for who they were turned out to be quite suitable, though the thought of Criquet searching for a beloved book, only to be frightened by a stranger hiding in their cottage—it must have been terrifying. She felt sorry for the little girl, for an innocent devotion to reading had stirred such angst.
Marie, on the other hand, her venom was clear. Devotion or not, she couldn’t see past the intruder in their midst. Vi actually thought if she’d had the rifle in hand, the mother-to-be wouldn’t shy away from using it, despite anything Julien had to say. She stared up at him, an icy indifference evident in the lines of her face. Quite different from the hero-worthy gaze Criquet had lavished upon him.
“Your brother would never agree to this. He left you in charge, to look after his family. Is this how you would repay him?”
“You’re my family too.”
“And yet you hide stowaways in the cottage?” Marie’s words were spat, toxic and accusing, at the man who had defused the confrontation that could have ended so terribly. “I will not have”—she slid her steely glare over to Vi, inspecting her from lashes to toes—“this, under my husband’s roof.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Julien leaned on the rifle on a deep sigh, the same way he’d done the day before. “Do not question me for doing what is right, Marie.”
“Right?” she scoffed. “This is not right.”
“I had little choice in a matter you know nothing of. I understand this was abrupt, and in light of the shock you’ve just endured, I will overlook your hostility. I’d have explained when the time was right. But you must know I always have this family’s best interest at heart. I would not allow a threat under my brother’s roof. Not with you both here. Not for one single moment. Do you understand?”
The flex in her jawline eased, evidence that she’d backed down a shade by the softness in his tone and the authenticity in the words he’d chosen. Marie took Criquet’s hand in hers though, drawing the child closer, just in case the stranger was still a viper in disguise.
“I will not question you now. But you will make her leave from this house. This instant.”
“Take Criquet back to the estate house,” Julien countered, his voice steady. When she didn’t move, he just stared back with softened eyes. “Marie. Please? Do as I ask. We’ll discuss this later.”
Marie issued a seething glare in Vi’s direction before she turned in a huff and tugged Criquet out into the sunshine with her.
Vi watched them go, silently, until their shadows disappeared over the ridge.
Julien turned back to her.
He’d resolved the decision he’d made for her to stay, but something else looked to have lately knocked the stuffing out of him. Dark circles rimmed the underside of his eyes. His brow was furrowed and dark, partially covered under tousled waves that hung down, shielding his eyes from looking at her. He had a strong face—one that Vi might have thought handsome if he’d walked into the Blue Lagoon Club once upon a time in London. But here, in the mix of shadow and light streaming in through the cottage door, the young man in Julien looked more mature than his obvious years.
Embattled. Troubled and hopelessly worn out.
“I’m sorry for that. There was a problem in the vineyard this morning. Something I couldn’t avoid, and . . .” He cut his explanation short on an overt sigh. “I meant to come earlier. Now I know I should have.”
“Well, I suppose I know why she was so angry. I would be too if I found a drifter on my property, especially with the state of things, a child to look after, and since she’s . . .” Vi cleared her throat. Who talked of such things as babies with a man she’d spoken to in total for less than half a day? The proper Brit in her recoiled that she’d been clumsy enough to lead into it, with no way out.
“Nearing her time, of course.” He smiled then, a curious curve that spread wide on his lips, as if he enjoyed her lopsided attempt at discretion a little too much.
Grins like that didn’t exist in the heart of war-torn France; they belonged on the cover of LIFE magazine. Why, the office gals who filled the dance floor at 50 Carnaby Street wouldn’t have known what to do but buckle at the knees over a smile like that. And there it was, shining down on her.
“But you misunderstand. Marie thinks I’m, uh—” He cleared his throat. Straightened up and tried to add a more serious bent to his features. “Keeping you.”
“Keeping me?”
“Yes. That you’re kept. Here.”
His gaze flitted to the cot, and a rush of understanding fluttered the length of Vi’s insides. The nostalgia she’d felt in his smile melted faster than an icicle in summer. She turned away in shock, a blush burning her cheeks. “Oh . . .”
“Which I’m not, of course,” he rushed out, tripping over his words. “No expectation.”
Vi gripped the rifle a little tighter, issuing clear intention. “You’re right there’s no expectation!”
“Exactly what I said, no expectation whatsoever. The cottage has been used by soldiers in the past . . .” Julien shook his head. His turn to squirm through an explanation now. “That’s beside the point. You are here as our guest. I’ll make sure Marie understands that in full, and that there is no reason to mistrust you.”
Vi might have held on to her embarrassment if she hadn’t felt as weary as he looked. Even then, adrenaline was still fighting her on her way to calm, and her stomach had begun a fresh battle by once again clawing with hunger at her midsection. She needed food. Rest. A safe haven from dreams and imaginary planes blasting horror from the sky.
“Well, might I ask you then what your intentions are? Knowing, of course, that I am quite capable of using this rifle against you if you should dare to try anything at all.”
Julien’s smile had faded some, backtracking to what she read as kindness in the eyes again. He tilted his head toward the entrance. “The door’s open.”
“Are you asking me to go?”
“No.” Julien shook his head slightly.
The narrowing of his eyes, an arm braced in a loose fist at his side, the sturdiness in his stance—even with the weight he’d eased off the injured leg—showed he earnestly meant what he was about to say.
“I’m saying we’ll offer you shelter at the estate house. No more hiding in the woods. If you really are running from something or someone, it’s best to hide you in plain sight. We have laborers here. Dozens of them. Women and children mostly, and some of the aged men who were deemed unfit to fight. They’re not conscripted into labor for the Nazis because they work for me, and we supply a large portion of wine to Hitler’s fighting forces. They leave us be, as long as they believe we’re obeying their law, bringing in the harvest, and living under their yoke of fear.”
“And why would you do that for me, a complete stranger?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
Vi started, doubting anything in the grip of war could be that simple. “What about the little girl?”
“Criquet.”
“Where are her parents—your parents?”
“Dead.” He straightened, easing weight off his leg. He seemed to notice how her glance had drifted down and cleared his throat. “Our mother when Criquet was born. Father drank himself into the grave not long after.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” And he looked it. “My brother and I . . . and Marie. We’re her parents now.”
“Look, all jests of your sister-in-law’s wrath aside, why would you permit me to stay with your family? With your parents gone and your brother off fighting? You don’t know who I am.”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t trust you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then leave Marie to me. From my view of it, I’ll have someone else close by who knows how to handle herself with a firearm. And let’s just say we’ll all have an extra pair of eyes to keep Criquet and her curiosity from pitching over the second-story balcony of the estate house. Everyone wins.”
It was against her better judgment, but Vi couldn’t pinpoint a rebuttal he’d accept. So she nodded, figuring she could put up with Marie’s brusque attitude for a day or so anyway. All Vi needed was a safe stop for a few days. Then she’d move on, and the estate house would fade into another stop in a long line of war’s grim memories.
“Very well. I’ll stay.”
“One more thing.” He eyed her without filter. “How many trucks did you see the other night?”
Vi swallowed hard, trying to decide what kind of game he was playing.
Not one of those men had come within a hundred paces of the cabin. It was too dark and far too secluded for the truck drivers to have seen anything that far up on the ridge. No one could have known she was there . . . unless they already did.
“Is that why you look so tired?” Vi stared back at him, no longer caught off guard by Julien speaking as if she were his equal in matters of espionage. What mattered more was that he’d trusted her. “That was you out there with those men. How long has it been since you’ve slept?”
He brushed it off. Just stood, waiting for her answer. “Just answer the question. How many trucks, Lady?”
Without hesitation, she clipped, “Four.”
“And men?”
Vi drew in a deep breath, enough to cover a full explanation.
“No less than twenty. All able-bodied. Certainly enough that they could be conscripted to work for the Nazis, I’d say. But curiously enough, they’re scurrying about like worker bees in your woods. I’d say you spend more time in this cottage than you’d care to admit. Perhaps as a lookout? It’s a perfect vantage point to clock Nazi patrols on the road to the castle. And I’ll save you from inquiring further—there were over forty crates. Give or take a few. Some that required two grown men to carry. Stands to reason the wares in those trucks were more than crates of pears or bags of walnuts. Or cork for bottling wine. I’d say, more like antiaircraft weaponry. Or rifles, perhaps? Maybe ammunition. In any case, I’d say that should answer your next few questions. So, is that enough? Are we finished? Because even if you’re not hungry, I am.”
Julien nodded. The general retreated again. “Bien.”
“What’s good?”
“That my instincts about you were dead on.” Julien extended his hand, offering a shake on it. “We received word through the wire that His Majesty’s Special Operations Executive organization had a young linguist go missing in Paris a few months back. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
They have a wire?
Vi hesitated only a moment as the thought sank in, then, with her decision made, placed her hand in his. One firm shake and she let go, turning toward the cot and bookshelf in the back. “It’s SOE for short, you know.”
“I’m aware of that, Lady. But I said it for your benefit.”
“Then we know where we stand, don’t we?”
She knelt and, thumbing through the small stack of books, found the only title befitting a little singing fairy. She tucked the book under her arm and walked back, offering the copy of Histoires ou Contes du Temps Passé.
“Here. I’d wager Criquet will want her Mother Goose Tales for bedtime.”
Julien nodded. But instead of taking the book as she’d expected, he tipped his head to the door so she could take it herself. “Welcome to the resistance, Lady.”