Mirepoix, France, Summer 1981
Muffled words filtered to their hole in the ground while her eyes began to adjust. It didn’t sound like French to her, or English. If she had to guess, she would have suggested German. Maybe Polish. Benoit was calm and held her tightly, whispering in her ear that everything would be okay. One of his hands was clamped over her mouth, the other stroked her hair. Every now and again his lips found the cold skin of her shoulder, slick with the sweat of fear. Her body trembled to the rhythm of goods being toppled on the floor above.
How long they remained there, she wasn’t sure, but it was certainly long enough for her vision to adjust to the underground light. Slowly, items in the room bled like watercolors into view; a stack of paintings to her left, some framed and some rolled up as canvases on the floor. Once the footsteps from above faded, she shifted from Benoit’s hold.
Watching her with the expression of a small boy with his hand caught in a biscuit barrel, she leafed through each frame. Some seemed familiar to her, and then the sixth frame contained what she thought looked to be a work of Van Gogh. It was of a man walking, his shadow long and lazy under a dappled sun. The subject carried an easel, surrounded by trees and pastureland. Was this the stolen painting that her aunt had warned her about?
At eye level there were shelves, stacked full of jewels and silver, watches whose makers mark she couldn’t see but whose values she didn’t doubt. The stones in the items of jewelry were so large that they gleamed even in the dark. And then she saw it, the beautiful silver box that Alex had shown her and that had taken Benoit from her just a few short weeks ago, the piece that she had been told would go into his new home, one that she now realized she was never intended to share.
It had gone quiet above them by then. She dared a whisper.
“You’re a thief, aren’t you?” she said. Benoit was quiet, still. “My aunt was right. This is all stolen.”
He shook his head. “You cannot steal something that already belongs to you, Frances.”
“You’re trying to tell me that this all belongs to you. I’m not stupid.” The weight of the broach hung on her dress, pulling a dimple in the material. Reaching up she unclipped it and set it on the side; she didn’t want something stolen. Then she held back the frames to point to the painting she believed her aunt had referenced. “This must be worth thousands,” she said. “It’s a Van Gogh.”
He sighed then, shook his head. “Millions, Frances. And no, you are certainly not stupid. In fact, you are so wonderfully smart. What other person of your age would have such knowledge?” Cupping the back of her head with his hand she was reminded of his strength, and also how gentle he could be as he kissed her forehead. She let him, despite the mention of her age, which she knew to be a lie. “These things cannot be moved quickly. They are safe here, while we wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Restitution. These are all stolen works, yes, but not stolen by me. I recovered them. I am giving them back.” Even the minor doubts she harbored seemed to fizzle away then. His care for the work was great, his efforts not driven by selfish need, but an altruistic desire to preserve them for future generations. “I return that which is stolen to its rightful place in the world.” In that moment, she had perhaps never loved him more.
“And the men upstairs?” she asked, thinking of how Alex had told her that Benoit’s work made people unhappy. The silence ushered in by their departure had emboldened her.
“They want something they believe belongs to them. But it doesn’t, I swear it.”
“This?” she said, pointing to the Van Gogh.
He shook his head. “They would want it if they knew about it.” He removed her hand from the frames and set them aside. “That picture has been missing since the war from a beautiful German museum and will be returned in due course. No,” he said, reaching above her head. “They are here for this.” He pulled down the silver box, the same one she recognized from the photograph that Alex had shown her. “Isn’t it something?” Moments ago, she had him down as a common thief. But now, as he spoke with love for the object in her hand, she realized he was so much more. He dared turn on a soft light, and as the room came into view, she saw that it hadn’t been crudely gouged from the earth as she had first thought. Instead, it had been carefully constructed, gauges on the wall for temperature and humidity, soft cloths on the floor to protect the ancient canvases. He might have acquired the goods dishonestly, but he cared about what happened to them. He worked for the pieces, not himself. Letting her fingers run along the cool silverwork of the box, appreciating the rippling of the cherubs, the smoothness of the elegant plinth, she felt so foolish for misjudging him. The box was heavy, larger than she had anticipated. She found herself wondering who the men upstairs really were, and what they would do if they got their hands on something as special as this piece.
“Who were they?”
Anger laced his words. “Common thieves. They would rather see this piece destroyed than carefully preserved.” He looked to the paintings. “Each piece here has been taken because it belongs somewhere that it wasn’t. But this box, this beautiful silver Klinkosch box belonged to my mother. I was not yet born when this was taken from our home in Paris. My mother was just married, May nineteen forty. For years after she cried about that night. They took what they wanted, all the paintings my father had collected, the fine gifts he had bought my mother. Can you imagine how scared my mother must’ve been?” There was such anger in his voice, but not directed at her, only the injustice of what happened. “But this was perhaps the most special item of all that was lost, a gift from her own father, Jacob Ellison, who had died years before. Frances, this box you are holding belongs in my family, not in the collection of a descendant of some wartime thief.” He sat down then, his knees spread wide, his elbows resting upon them. “All of these pieces have their homes waiting for them. Each taken by me in the name of restitution. But I fear that I may not have enough time to get them to where they are supposed to be if those men come back.” He looked once again at the box. “I fear that once again this box will be lost from my family.”
“What do you mean?” The fear she held for herself only moments ago had been replaced by a concern for the item she was holding. What would become of it if it ended up in the wrong hands?
“They know where I am now. They will be back, no doubt about that. I might just have time to ship the rest of this out, but where can I send something like this? Who could I trust with it when I have no other family to help me care for it?”
“And everything upstairs,” she said somberly. “It sounds as if they destroyed it.”
But he shook his head. “All rubbish, Frances. A ruse. Everything on that floor is there to detract from what you see before you here.”
She realized that the implication was that everything he had told her until that point had been a lie. But she also understood that some lies were told to protect. Maybe not her, but other precious things that needed to be saved.
“You can’t let them get it back.”
“Then where will I send it? You can’t recruit just anybody, Frances, surely you must understand that. Who could I trust with such a piece? Something with such value. An item that people would kill for.” Then he looked up, at her. “Unless.” He paused, thinking to himself. “No, I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“Ask it,” she said, already knowing what he was going to ask, and knowing that she was going to say yes. There was no other choice, because despite it all, in face of the doubts, she knew she would help him in any way she could. Because he loved her, and she loved him. There was nothing more important than that.
Although they left their underground hideaway, it was another hour before they left the barn. They didn’t speak much during that time, their focus mainly on the damage, which was significant. But not even the precious books that had been torn apart could raise Frances’s interest, for her mind was stuck on what she had realized. Although she was going to keep the box for Benoit, she knew now that they had never been what she thought they were. A future for them was not about the long term. Even before they stepped out into the sunlight Frances could feel the clouds that normally followed her in England returning. The place she had found in the world was shrinking away from her, and she too was shrinking along with it.
Benoit didn’t try to comfort her as they drove away, the silver Klinkosch box heavy on her knees. When they pulled up at the gate of her aunt’s retreat he smiled at her, but it was a smile she didn’t recognize. Usually his joy was clear to see, his mouth wide and confident, but this time it was timid and cautious. Perhaps, she thought, it wasn’t real. Or then again, perhaps this was the real smile, and everything else had been fake.
“Benoit,” she said, one hand already on the door. Clouds had begun to form low in the sky, promising a summer shower, but she could feel rivulets of sweat running down her back. “Before I go, I need to ask you something.”
With a heavy sigh he turned to her. Lines covered his face, a pained expression that felt so alien to Frances. Something fundamental had changed about him, and he was no longer the man who had placed that stolen book on her bed. Then, to her surprise, and despite the fact they were in full view of the farmhouse, he reached up, touched her hair. Brushing it behind her ears, she wondered if she would ever feel something as generous as that touch again.
“Anything, my love.”
The words were the same but the tune was different. Hearing him call her his love hurt no less than a physical pain, but she pushed on through it, knowing there was harder still yet to come.
“I was wrong about us, wasn’t I?”
Part of her wanted him to deny it. He had the good grace to pause, but it wasn’t enough to stop the truth. “I thought you understood what we were. How could we ever be anything more than this, Frances? We are at different stages of our lives. You have a whole life in England, and I a life here. You were always going to return to complete your studies, and I am, well . . .”
“You are what?” she asked, every last shred of hope thrown into that final chance.
“Frances, I never told you because I thought it didn’t matter. Not in the face of how I felt about you. And what I’m about to tell you doesn’t change anything about what I said. When I said I loved you, Frances, it was the truth. But I am . . . Frances, I’m sorry, but I am married,” he said, stumbling over his words. His shoulders curled in on themselves, his hands, usually so free and wild, retreated into his lap, a love redacted. His gaze flickered around the car as if even his surroundings were unfamiliar to him now. Frances sat with her mouth hanging wide open. A whole other life that she had known nothing about.
“You are married?”
“From a young age. I married a woman who I was expected to marry. She lives in Nice. We share no love, Frances, not at least as I love you. But I could never leave her. I wish we had met in a different time. Because I do love you, Frances. Perhaps you doubt that now, but it’s the truth. I so wish things were different. Everything I said about my feelings for you was true, remains true, but our lives have different paths mapped out for us. And I promise, once you return to university this year you will never think of me again. Perhaps,” he said then, his lip quivering, “perhaps that makes this even sadder for me. You will move on, meet a man who can join you on your journey, but I will always be stuck in this age, in this car, here with you.”
Looking down at the box, the cold metal on her skin and the weight of it on her knees, she knew that wasn’t true. Every time she saw it, she would be here too, in that very moment, being let go. Being set free into what felt like subjection at her own hands. The truth that she had wanted to tell him was still right there on the tip of her tongue. Only in telling him could she know that he truly loved her for exactly who she was. But where was the sense in telling him about her age now? All it would do was introduce doubt about her own part in this, where there was no place or need for it. So instead she told him another truth, one that held much greater importance.
“I would have given up everything, you know. I would have stayed here with you, if you had asked me to.”
A tear skimmed his cheek as he reached across, held her head in his cupped hand the way she liked. Lips hot against her skin, he placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “I know you would have,” he said, a strain in his voice. “I felt it. And it is because of my love for you that I never asked you to stay. It is because I love you that I must give you up. Not for me, but for you.”
Leaving her aunt would be just as hard. Aunt Henrietta held her close as she cried, said it wasn’t possible to understand how she could decide to leave with such urgency. Frances gave the same excuse she had given to Benoit, about realizing she still had a huge amount of reading to do before her A levels began—although with Benoit it had been before her final year at university. After packing her bag she sat down on the bed with the stolen copy of The Great Gatsby in her hand. The thought of leaving it behind made her head hurt with sadness, especially knowing she would never come here again. That was another decision she took then. Everything about this place was finished for her. Glancing over at the box on the bed, she knew she had another job to do. If the love they had shared meant anything, protecting that box was the most important thing she could do. Every day she kept it safe was proof that what she had shared that summer was something more than a lie. Placing the book back on the shelf, she picked up her bags and didn’t look back.
The goodbyes were nearly over, Aunt Henrietta’s soft body still pressed against her own, when she saw Benoit’s 2CV blazing down the driveway only moments before she was due to leave. They had said their goodbyes already, so she had no idea what he was doing there, driving so fast that at one point it looked as if the little car might topple over on its side. Screeching to a halt, the skinny wheels skidded across the gravel, cutting tracks in the ground as plumes of dust encircled the car. Frances thought of how many times he’d done that before, how he had done it purposefully for her. Was he doing it for her now? This time, blinking through the cloud, all she could think was how the dust was stinging her eyes.
“Benoit?” Henrietta asked, stepping forward toward his car. “What are you doing here in such a rush?” Benoit hurried from the driver’s seat, his hair a mess, his cheeks red. Were his eyes swollen? Had he been crying too?
“Ah, I am in time,” he panted.
“What is it?” Frances asked, nerves pricking across her skin like static. Never expecting to see him again, the sight of him standing there brought sweat to her palms and sapped the saliva from her tongue. Looking as disheveled as he was made her fear that the thieves were back, and her eyes flicked to the road to see if somebody was following, the bag with the Klinkosch box heavy in her hand. When she spoke, her words came out like the gravel from the ground. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes,” he stuttered. “All is well, I suppose.” Laughter slipped from his lips, but it felt unnatural, without resonance or heart.
“Then what’s the hurry?” Aunt Henrietta asked. “What are you doing here in such a rush?”
“Well, I heard my assistant is leaving.” He tried a smile, but Frances could see it took all his effort.
“Your assistant?” Henrietta said as he took a step closer. “Frances?”
“I was helping him,” Frances said.
“I asked her, you see,” Benoit added. “She has been helping me catalogue all manner of items in my warehouse. A proper little archivist, this one.”
Henrietta looked as proud as she was surprised as she turned to Frances for confirmation. “You didn’t say?”
“I was just helping out. It was nothing.”
“No, no. It was not nothing, Frances. I hope you know that. You must continue to do this work. You are very talented,” he said, reaching forward and taking Frances in a tight embrace. It was the first time he had touched her in view of people they knew, and something caught in her throat as he spoke into her ear. Hot lips brushed against her skin. “You must never give up this calling of yours, you hear me? Never give up.”
“I won’t,” she said, pulling away. An invisible link tried to pull her back, but she couldn’t give in to it. He was in there somewhere, that person who loved her, who she had once expected to give up everything for her. Who would ask her to do the same. But the longer she stayed there searching for him, the harder it would be to leave. “I have to go otherwise I’ll miss my train. Alex is driving me to the station.”
“Good. Very good,” Benoit said, stepping back. “Then let me help you with this bag.” Before she could say no, he had slipped it from her arm and was guiding her toward the car. “Alex, could you open the boot,” he shouted, and as they arrived at the vehicle, he pulled Alex close. “Please, Alex, stall them. Whatever it takes.” Pulling Frances’s passport from the pocket of the bag, he slipped it into Alex’s hand. “Say this is lost, and give me a minute with her.”
Alex turned to the crowd and Frances heard him say something about a lost passport and each one of them headed into the house to look for it. Benoit turned to her once they were alone. Her heart was racing.
“You think everything I have said is a lie, and that I am sending you off now to cover my tracks. But I want to tell you that you would be wrong. You think badly of me, I know it, and perhaps you have every right. You think I have used you, but I hope one day you look back and know that everything I said in those letters, and since, was true.” Sunlight glinted from his eyes, wet with unshed tears. “I never told you what the broach was called, did I? The one you left in my safe.” She shook her head, and then followed his hand to see him pull it from his pocket. “Les Inséparables. It represents an indomitable love, something that nobody could have stopped or subdued. These are not just lovebirds,” he said, gazing down at the jeweled piece, “but us. I gave this to you because it is us. I don’t want you to leave here doubting how I felt about you. You were always more to me than what you think you were today.” He approached, seeking approval, and when she didn’t stop him she felt the warmth of his fingers against her skin for what she knew would be the last time. Pinning the broach back in place, he looked up, and for a moment their eyes met. “When I can, I will come to take back the box. Until then, protect it, and everything you know about it, including me. Hide it away, and never let it be seen, as safe as you would keep your own child. There are no lengths you wouldn’t go to in order to keep such a thing safe, right?”
“Right,” she confirmed. “Whatever it takes.”
They both heard Alex calling in the background. “It was on the stairs,” he shouted, holding the passport above his head. Cool air encircled her as Benoit pulled away, but he held on to the tips of her fingers as long as he dared. And then, just a second longer, just before they were in view of everybody else, he let her go for good.
“Well then, Frances,” he said, still at her side, his tone changed now that her aunt was back. “I wish you well. Going into your final year at university is a big one. Go forth and change the world.”
Her aunt Henrietta laughed, was speaking before Frances could cover it up. “University? Well, we hope so in a couple of years, Benoit, but she’s got to do her A levels first.”
Benoit looked at her, then Henrietta, and then back to Frances. “What did you say?”
“I said maybe in a couple of years. Once her A levels are done.”
Much in the same way it had when he explained his underground stash of paintings, the color drained from his face. “You are still at school?” And standing there with Benoit at her side, listening to his silent, desperate plea that her aunt was somehow inexplicably wrong, she realized that she had perhaps deceived him in a no less painful way than he had her. “Frances,” Benoit said, almost shouting. She realized her aunt and uncle shared a look of concern, and then their eyes fell to the broach. She felt herself covering it up. “Did you not tell me that you were at university?”
She stalled, before eventually saying, “I don’t know what I told you.” But she did know. Perhaps her words had been different, but she had implied it for sure, and allowed him to believe that very thing. And why had she withheld the truth? Because she knew if she hadn’t, she would have lost him before he was even hers to lose.
“Monsieur Benoit,” Henrietta said, more forceful than she had ever spoken before. “She is only sixteen.” And that was when she felt her aunt’s gaze fall upon her, begging answers to all the questions swirling around in her head. Then she felt her aunt’s hand on her shoulder. Frances looked up, and saw the disappointment, and yet still the kindness on her face. “Frances, darling. I think you better get in the car. Amélie,” she said. “You go with her.”
It was only a moment later that they pulled away. The sound of the gravel driveway faded under the burr of the tires, the green of the trees disappearing as they neared the entrance gate. Turning around for one last look, Frances saw her aunt with her hands raised in the air, Benoit rushing back to his car.
“At least it is over now,” Amélie said then from the front passenger seat. “Now you are apart, it will be easier.”
Reaching to the broach, Frances pulled it loose from her dress. “We will never be apart,” she said. Pulling a notepad from her bag, she wrote, Archive book 1, before opening the cover and continuing inside.
Les Inséparables. Maison Van Cleef and Arpels. Paris.
Scoring a line under the first entry, she began a second, thinking of the box in the boot of the car.
Silver Klinkosch jewelry casket, detailed with cast cherubs and foliage, lid in the shape of a plinth. Two handles at the side with lions and olive branches. Box is lockable and comes with a key. Origin, Ellison family, Paris. Date unknown.
“Frances,” Amélie said then. “Frances, please. Are you going to be all right?”
“I don’t know,” she said, placing the notebook back in her bag. “I really don’t know.” Closing her eyes, she made a promise not to love anything again as greatly as she had loved Benoit. In those moments before she left, she knew she had shattered the trust he had in her. Now, safe in her bag was the most valuable thing he owned, entrusted to her. She would hide it away, do as he asked, and hope it was never found. That was all she could do now, become steadfast in her task in the hope one day it might bring Benoit back to her. Because although he had lied about certain things, he had done it to protect her, to protect the box and other valuable items. She had lied to be with him, lied to her aunt and friends too, and it was those lies that had destroyed what she had once shared with Benoit. Was that how she treated the people she loved, the people and things most precious to her? That truth made her realize that despite her commitment to seeing it through, she would never be able to trust herself with anything as precious as the box or Benoit again.