Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

Emmy’s casual use of their catchphrase from the old days disarmed her. It was one more nearly irresistible reminder of the tie that had once bound them. That did bind them. For better or worse, they were sisters, and in it together, still.

As Genevieve came to that realization, the last bit of her reserve with her sister melted away.

Who could she trust in this matter if not Emmy?

“My manager,” Genevieve said. “Max Bonet.” She saw no need to add that Max was really Max Ryan, a Brit. A tiny sliver of caution on Max’s behalf? Perhaps.

“He’s based in Paris?” Emmy’s tone was all business.

Genevieve shook her head. “I’m constantly on tour. He travels with me. Before Paris, we were in Brussels. Next we tour France, and then we go to Madrid. As an artist, I can move freely between countries. I can do a lot of things ordinary citizens can’t. Max uses that.”

“How did you get involved with him?”

“He helped me out of a jam in Morocco and started acting as my manager.” She saw no reason to go into more detail. “I didn’t know he was with the SOE until later.”

“Must have come as quite a shock.”

“It did.”

“Ironic that we both took such different routes only to end up in the same place. Could you ever have imagined that we’d end up as spies?”

“Never.” Genevieve’s response was heartfelt.

“It’s an insane world.” Emmy grimaced. “My code name’s Merlin. As in the hawk, not the wizard. What’s yours?”

“I don’t think I have one. Max keeps me out of it as much as he can. In case something should go wrong.”

“Probably wise of your Max.”

“Believe me, he’s not my Max.”

“If you say so. For our network, your code name will be Lark. Anyone who works with me will know you by your code name only, if I have to mention you at all. If I send someone to you, or any message comes from me, that’s the name that will be used. If you get a communication that’s supposedly from me that doesn’t use Lark or Merlin, don’t trust it. It’s not from me.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Congratulations, you just officially became a War Bird.”

Genevieve looked a question.

“That’s what they call us, back in London. Because we’re women—birds, as the Brits say. They think it’s funny. Men can be so juvenile.” She made a face. “So I played right into it and picked bird names for my network. I don’t think Baker Street’s gotten the joke yet.”

Genevieve smiled. “Maybe one day.”

“Maybe. All right, let’s get on with this. The first thing to do is find out where Maman is being held. See if you can discover from your—oh, sorry, not your Max where he is looking, and if he should find her, let me know at once. Or if you have any other sources of intelligence, particularly among the boche, this would be the time to tap into them. If someone as prominent as Baroness de Rocheford is being imprisoned and tortured in Paris, there will be whispers of it floating around. If you learn anything, you can leave a message here. Put it beneath the rug on the left side of the fireplace.” She walked over and lifted the corner of the rug to demonstrate. “Right here. If you do leave a message, pull the pinwheel out of the flowerpot out front and lay it on its side among the flowers. That way I’ll know to come in and look. The flowerpot is a signal, by the way. As long as it’s out there, it’s safe to come into the house. If it’s ever missing, don’t come anywhere near. Understand?”

Genevieve nodded. “Yes. I may not be able to find out anything,” she cautioned. “A lot of German officers hang around backstage, but they don’t usually have anything on their minds but the girls. And Max tends to be closemouthed.”

“Well, do what you can. And take care not to let him or anyone else catch on to what you’re doing. If the Nazis get an inkling, they could lay a trap for us with Maman as bait. As for Max, you mustn’t tell him anything about me, or that I’m going to try to rescue her.”

“Why not?”

“He might try to stop me from interfering, by, say, reporting me to headquarters. This is outside the scope of what I’m supposed to be doing, and if they find out, I’ll almost certainly be ordered to stop and return to my assignment. Not that I’d obey, but it would complicate things. Or he might work faster to try to get to Maman before I do, so he can use his own judgment on how to deal with the problem she represents. The only people who care if she comes out of this alive are you and me, you know. Everybody else on our side just wants to silence her before she can tell what she knows.”

Cold gripped the nape of Genevieve’s neck as she faced the truth of that. “I thought of telling Max who I really am—he only knows me as Genevieve Dumont—and that the baroness is my mother, and asking him to take killing her off the table and concentrate on rescuing her instead.”

“Will he do that, do you think?”

Honesty forced her to say, “I don’t know.”

“Then it’s best to say nothing, rather than alert him to the fact that you have an interest in this. If he’s guarded in what he says to you, or if he lies outright, it might send us looking in the wrong direction. The time frame for saving Maman is so short we can’t afford to make a mistake.”

“Maybe you two could work together.”

“I doubt he would agree. And even if he did, what would happen if we reached her and he decided that the better course would be to execute her?” She shook her head. “That would end badly for one of us. No, I’d rather work on my own, with people I trust.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to rescue her?”

“I’m going to do my best.”

That wasn’t the guarantee Genevieve had hoped for, but she suspected it was honest. “You’ll keep me informed, won’t you? When you find her, and about what happens?”

Emmy nodded. “If I have a message for you, I’ll lay the pinwheel down in the flowers just as you’re to do for me. The message will be in the same place, under the rug. If we should have to stop using this house, if you come by and the flowerpot is gone, I’ll find a way to get a message to you. I saw you coming out of the Ritz. You’re staying there?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you are. You’re the Black Swan. A star. That is so you. You were always one to land on your feet, no matter what.” Emmy’s tone was fond, rueful. “One day you’ll have to tell me how that came about. We looked for you after you left, you know, and once we found you’d gone to America, I wrote, more than once. So did Maman.” She looked inquiringly at Genevieve, who shook her head: she’d never received the letters. Not surprising, since she’d constantly been on the road with the band. “Once we figured out that the famous Genevieve Dumont was our very own Genevra, we kept track of you. Maman wanted to come see you in person, but the war began—and then we didn’t want to pull you into this.” The slightest of smiles. “We should have known that you would find a way to get yourself right in the thick of it anyway.” She pulled her scarf out of her pocket and put it on again as she moved toward the hall. “Come, I must go. And so must you. It’s much safer to keep meetings like this brief.”

They were almost at the front door when Genevieve gave voice to something that had only just begun to trouble her. “Will I see you again?”

Emmy finished tying the scarf beneath her chin. “In Paris? I don’t know. I’m going to have to work fast if I’m to get to Maman in time. If I succeed, I may have to leave the country with her right away. If something goes wrong—well. Nothing in life is certain, is it? But let’s hope so. I hope so.”

Genevieve stopped walking. Having just found her sister again, her heart was heavy at the thought of losing her.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “I’m sorry I stayed away so long.”

Emmy stopped walking, too. The sisters stood facing each other.

“It hurt Maman badly.” The look Emmy gave her was stern.

“And—Papa?” The catch in her voice when she spoke of him would, she suspected, be there for a long time to come.

“He thought you were safe in Switzerland, well into the war. He was happy you were safe. And then, when he knew you were the Black Swan, he was so proud.”

“I should have come back,” she said. “I should have written. I just—I couldn’t. I—”

“Blamed us for your daughter’s death. I know.”

The pain stabbed through Genevieve, sharp as a knife. “I didn’t blame you, I—I didn’t want to pretend she never existed.” She couldn’t talk about Vivi still and so went mute as the familiar choking sensation strangled all utterance.

But Emmy had once known her well. And, it seemed, she still did.

“Oh, Genny, I’m so sorry about what happened.” Emmy wrapped her arms around her just as she had done when they were girls, and the younger one was hurt or suffering in some way, and held her tightly. Hugging her back, Genevieve found a surprising amount of comfort in the warm embrace of the big sister she’d always turned to in times of trouble. “I’m so sorry for what you’ve gone through. I’m sorry for everything I did that contributed to it. And I did contribute to it, even though I had no idea at the time. I found out—much later—that what you said about Alain and Madeline Fabron was true.”

Genevieve closed her eyes against the pain. “I told you,” she said into Emmy’s hair. Her voice was scratchy, but she was grateful to be able to speak at all.

“I know. I never should have brought him home, I never should have married him and I should have listened to you about him when you tried to warn me. My only excuse is I was so young. And so in love.”

If there was ever a time to hold on to a grudge, now—in the height of war, where life and family were more precious than anything—wasn’t it. “It’s in the past,” Genevieve said. Her voice was stronger, and she could breathe again.

Letting go, Emmy stepped back, only to catch Genevieve’s hands and look at her earnestly. “It is, but—there’s something I have to tell you. I was going to wait until after we deal with Maman, but who can say where any of us will be then? And you should know.” She took a breath. “Phillippe’s death...it wasn’t an accident.” She swallowed hard. “Alain killed him.”

Genevieve felt as if, for a moment, the ground shook. “What?”

Emmy tightened her grip on her hands. “That morning, the morning after our wedding, long before you came to talk to Maman and me, Alain went out very early for a walk, to smoke a cigarette and to check on the car. To get to the garages, it was necessary to walk along the path through the ornamental ponds, so that’s what he did. Phillippe saw Alain on the path, or was waiting for Alain by the car—I’m not sure about that part. Alain never said exactly. But he confronted Alain about betraying me, about being with Madeline Fabron. He didn’t say anything about you being with him when he saw them together, and I never told Alain what you said to me. I didn’t want Alain to hate you, and I suspect Phillippe wanted to keep you out of it, too. In any case, Alain never knew you knew. Which was well for you, for us all, because he attacked Phillippe over it, and killed him and threw him into the pond, and just...just walked away and went on our honeymoon with me, as if nothing had happened at all.”

Genevieve felt disoriented, dizzy. “My God, Emmy.” The crushing weight of what might have been settled like a vise around her heart until it seemed to struggle to beat. Her love for Phillippe rose up from where she had so long ago tucked it away to make every cell in her body quiver with pain. The difference that having him alive and with them would have made in her and Vivi’s life—the ramifications were so enormous that she could barely take them in. The one absolute certainty that cut through the rest was that if Phillippe had been alive, he would have married her, and she would never have been whisked away to Lourmarin in disgrace to have her baby—and Vivi would not have died. “How have you lived with this? How could you possibly have lived with this?”

“I didn’t know.” Emmy’s grip on her hands was all that was keeping Genevieve from sinking to the floor. Her own hands were icy. Her nails dug into Emmy’s palms. Far from noticing, Emmy held on tight and looked at Genevieve with sorrow and compassion and guilt all combined in her eyes. “Not for a long time. I was blind to what he was. Deliberately so, I think. He was handsome and charming, on the surface, at least, and rich—rich was important then. You know how things were with us, so bad Papa even feared losing Rocheford. So I saw what I wanted to see. I was a fool, I know. Underneath it all he was beastly, horrible, as I eventually found out to my sorrow.”

“Was it bad? The marriage?” Genevieve could scarcely get the words out. But it was obvious to her that Emmy was hurting, too.

Emmy grimaced. “After only a few months, he started to hit me. By the time we’d been married a year, everything I did made him angry and it kept getting worse. When I came with Maman to see you in Lourmarin that time? I was already worried about being gone too long, about what he would accuse me of doing while I was away and how angry he would be when I got home. If I even spoke to a man, he thought I had taken a lover. He was...cruel. He said if I told anybody what he did to me or left him, he would kill me. God forgive me, as bad as it was with him, I was sure those were just idle threats. Then one night he told me what he had done to Phillippe. He taunted me with it. That was too much—too terrible. I knew I couldn’t stay. I ran away the next day despite his threats and went home to Rocheford. But Papa wasn’t there, and Alain came after me. By then I was frightened to death of what he’d do, to Maman as well as me. I was going to go to the police, tell them about Phillippe, but I had no proof, and if Alain found out I told and they didn’t arrest him...” Emmy shivered. “As he kept telling me, his family was so rich and had so much power that by then I was convinced he could get away with anything. But he was actually almost nice, that day, and so polite to Maman, acting as if nothing were wrong. Trying to fool her. Trying to get me to come back to him. I had told Maman about all of it, about what he had done to Phillippe, about everything. She was so brave, so calm, playing along with him, letting on that she thought nothing of me arriving at Rocheford as I had and that I would go back with him as a matter of course. And I was thinking never, never, never, but I was so scared. And then... Alain died. That night, before Papa ever even got home. Just went into some kind of fit and dropped down dead. It was so unexpected—and such a blessing! The whole time afterward, up until we buried him, I kept saying thank you to God in my prayers.”

“Oh, Em.” Now it was Genevieve’s turn to hold on to and steady her sister, who was looking as pale and emotional as she still felt.

“It’s over,” Emmy said. “After he died, I just wanted to forget about him. I could have gone to the police about Phillippe then, but what would have been the point? And there was still no proof. So I did nothing, just stayed home with Maman and Papa and tried to forget it all, everything Alain had done, all the bad things that had happened. I thought my life was over, that I would live hidden away at Rocheford forever, and I was fine with that. Then I met David, who is the kindest bear of a man. So big and gentle. And he took me away, and the war came and... Now he’s in a POW camp at the mercy of the Germans, who have none.” Her lips quivered, and Genevieve could see the worry and fear for her husband in Emmy’s eyes. But before she could say anything, Emmy’s lips firmed and her eyes took on a determined glint. “Anyway, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Genevieve agreed. The sisters looked deep into each other’s eyes. Genevieve drew strength from what she found for her in Emmy’s gaze, and she thought Emmy did the same.

“But you—what I suffered doesn’t compare to what you suffered, and are still suffering. I can see it in your face. To lose your little girl as you did—it must have been hell. It must be hell.”

More pain squeezed Genevieve’s heart.

“I can’t...” Shaking her head, she tried to explain that she couldn’t talk about it, but the words wouldn’t come. She saw in Emmy’s face that her sister understood.

“One more thing you should know,” Emmy said, and Genevieve almost winced in anticipation of something else that would cause pain. “The last time we spoke, Papa said one reason he was fighting so hard to drive out the Nazis was so that France would be safe and life would go back to the way it was and you could come home and we could all be together again.”

Genevieve’s heart felt as if it were cracking in two. Papa, she thought, as all the love they’d shared rose up inside her like a dawning sun, filling her with its brightness and warmth. She pictured its rays expanding beyond her body through the universe to hopefully find and touch him, too.

He’s with Vivi now. A crystal-clear image of her tall, handsome father holding hands with her beautiful little girl appeared like a sunburst in her mind’s eye, comforting her with its promise of eternity, strengthening her with its assurance of the immortality of the bond they shared. Phillippe appeared in the picture, too, on Vivi’s other side, so young, so stalwart and handsome and just as she remembered him, and the thought that Vivi was with them, that the three of them had found one another, allowed her poor broken heart to finally begin to heal.

“The past is the past,” Emmy said with brisk resolve. “All we can do is think of Maman now.”

Taking a deep breath, Genevieve tucked that moment of precious communion away deep inside her heart and turned her focus to the present. “Yes.”

Emmy gave her hands one last squeeze before releasing them. “We should go. We don’t want to leave together. You go first. I’ll follow in a few minutes and head in a different direction.”

“All right.”

Reaching the door, Emmy stopped with one hand on the knob to give her a long look, as if to memorize a dear face she might not see again. Even as Genevieve recognized that look for what it was, Emmy opened the door. A gust of cool air swept in, disturbing the dust, making Genevieve clutch the brim of her hat to keep it from blowing off. Emmy swept a pseudocasual look up and down the street, then turned back, gesturing for her to exit.

“Be careful, bébé,” she said as Genevieve walked past her.

Genevieve’s chest felt tight at hearing the once despised nickname in her sister’s dearly familiar voice. Shades of their shared childhood twirled through her head. She ached for the innocence of those halcyon days.

She ached for her sister, her family. For what might have been.

“You, too.” The smile she threw over her shoulder at Emmy was tremulous. Then she stepped out into the bright spring sunlight. An unexpected whirring sound caused her to glance down, to find the pinwheel spinning merrily in the midst of the swaying flowers at her feet.

The door closed behind her with a whoosh and a click, and any chance for one last parting word with her sister was lost. There was nothing for it but to walk on down the stairs and head back toward the hotel.

More people were out and about now, patronizing the shops, occupying several small tables of an outdoor café, going on about the business of their daily lives. A car sputtered past her, its roof laden with the round tanks containing the natural gas that fueled it in this time of strict gasoline rationing.

As she neared the end of the street, she glanced back because she simply couldn’t help herself.

Her sister hurried in the opposite direction, a nondescript brown figure with her head lowered and her shoulders hunched against the wind. With a shopping bag hanging from her arm and a seam drawn up the backs of her bare legs to simulate the stockings she couldn’t obtain, she looked like one more anxious housewife whose primary preoccupation was finding enough food to feed her family, on her way to queue up for whatever her coupons might allow her to purchase for the day.

It took an effort to look away. But Genevieve did, and walked on. The next time she glanced back, Emmy was nowhere in sight.

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