An expression she couldn’t identify crossed his face. “There is no need, mademoiselle.”
They stared at each other and the silence stretched too long. Yvette cleared her throat. “I must be going,” she said, conscious that they were standing like statues on the busy pavement with people jostling to get past and his driver looking on. “Thank you for helping me.” She wheeled her new bicycle about. “Au revoir, monsieur.”
“Wait.” His hand gripped hers, trapping it around the handlebar, and she felt a strong jolt, like electricity, shoot through her. She stopped and looked up at him.
He was intent now. “How old are you, mademoiselle?”
“Nineteen. Why? I’m almost twenty.”
His eyebrows rose. “Almost twenty?” He gave an odd, harsh laugh and stepped back, as if to dismiss a notion that had occurred to him, and it felt like a loss when the warmth of his hand left hers.
“So?” she demanded as he busied himself lighting a cigarette. “You are, what, twenty-five? You are not so much older than I am.”
“Twenty-seven, but close,” he admitted, glancing around, then turning his focus back on Yvette. The hand that held his cigarette moved restlessly, then he rubbed his chin with his thumb and sighed. “Perhaps we will meet again, mademoiselle. When you return to the Ritz someday.”
She shrugged and tried to match his sangfroid. “Perhaps. It is true that I am often there.”
One side of his mouth quirked up and he gave a slight nod, as if he read her all too easily beneath the pretense of sophistication. “Goodbye, mademoiselle. Keep that bicycle safe.”
Chapter Seven
Paris, June 1944
GABBY
Catherine’s visitors would come tonight. If only Gabby’s duties occupied her thoughts as well as her hands. She’d been going over and over what Catherine Dior had said to her that morning. Visitors after curfew. Visitors Catherine did not wish anyone to know about. Worries revolved around Gabby’s mind. The danger to her mother, to Yvette. The Gestapo. The last thing they needed was a raid on number 10 rue Royale.
All Gabby had to do tonight was to turn a blind eye. She might well have slept through it anyway, if Catherine hadn’t warned her. If only she had remained in blissful ignorance! In the politest way imaginable, Catherine had thrust this complicity upon her. And Gabby, always desperate to please, had been too flustered and flattered to say no.
The night was silent and moonless, so that was a relief. Gabby lay beside her sleeping sister and listened intently for a telltale sound. The tick of the mantel clock and her mother’s snores were all she gleaned from the deep darkness of the blackout.
She was beyond tired, and only wished she could forget about Catherine and go to sleep. She’d been tempted to accept the glass of black-market calvados Maman had offered her as a nightcap, but she needed all her wits about her in case something went wrong with Catherine Dior’s mystery guest.
In bed next to her, Yvette sighed and rolled over in her sleep. Though grateful that her sister had been able to replace her stolen bicycle so quickly, Gabby was worried about the incident with this Swedish diplomat. Yvette was growing more beautiful every day, an exotic orchid flourishing among weeds, defying the lack of nourishment and attention that would have withered a lesser specimen.
If only she had more sense! Had she really come by her new bicycle in the manner she’d claimed? The story was so bizarre, Yvette couldn’t have made it up. But why had that Swedish diplomat taken such an interest in her in the first place? Gabby didn’t believe in altruism. Certainly not the altruism of strange young men.
However, she couldn’t see a way to approach the subject with Yvette without making her storm off in a rage. And Yvette enraged did reckless things.
What was that? Her heart gave a sharp pound. There it was again. A faint scuffling outside.
The street door opened with a click and a long, thin creak. No voices. No footsteps. No other noise at all. Gabby got out of bed and crept through the small parlor to the window. Carefully, she eased the drapes open the merest fraction and pressed her eye to the gap. The street was bare. No one outside. No one to see the late arrival of a guest at number 10.
She resisted dashing to the other window, the one that gave onto the vestibule that led to the courtyard. The less she knew, the better. Catherine was right about that.
She listened. Had they removed their shoes? The apartment building was silent.
Gabby waited several more minutes, heart drumming, ears straining, but no other noise came.
Realizing she’d been holding her breath, she exhaled slowly. Catherine Dior had carried it off. Gabby rubbed her hands over her face, trembling with relief.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The incessant tick of the clock scraped her nerves. After what seemed like an eternity of wakefulness, she jerked out of a doze to see sunlight streaming through a crack in the drapes.
Yvette sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”
Gabby looked at her watch. “You don’t have to be up for another hour. Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t once I’m awake.” With an energy Gabby heartily envied, Yvette leaped out of bed and padded over to the window to open the drapes. Golden light bathed their room.
“Sometimes I wake up and I forget,” said Yvette as she looked out to the street. “Just for a second.”
Gabby nodded. Occasionally, after a deep sleep, she woke disoriented, thinking she was free, that the war had never happened. She was young and life was full of possibility, and Didier was still with her. Then the truth would slam into her, flattening hope, dragging her under. Would there ever be an end to this war? And when there was an end, would France be free?
“I despise them,” said Yvette in a small, hard voice, without turning around.
“The Boches?”
Yvette shook her head and began to dress. “Our soldiers. Our men. They were arrogant. They didn’t train properly, they didn’t prepare to fight, they gave up before the battle began. And I have done nothing to fight the Boches, either. I am just as bad.”
Gabby closed her eyes. She didn’t want to hear it. Didier had fought and died for France. For nothing. She could not lose her sister, too. Gabby had learned not to argue when Yvette was in this mood, however. She threw back the coverlet and got out of bed, padding out to the kitchen to boil water for a tisane while Yvette dressed for work.
When her sister had gone, Gabby dressed slowly and tied a scarf, turban-style, over her hair, then went to the kitchenette to prepare a little meal for Madame LaRoq. She sliced off a piece of bread that probably owed much of its structure to sawdust and added a tiny scrape of precious butter, courtesy of Monsieur Arnaud. She poured the tisane into two cups and arranged them with the plate of bread on a tray to take to madame.
In the courtyard, she stopped short, observing with a dull sense of the inevitable that while she had been too scared to look out the window of her apartment, the vegetable thief had been at work once more. Dirt was scattered all around the flower beds. The few shoots that had remained after the last raid were gone. So that was that. She would clean it up later.
As she moved down the corridor, she thought she heard the rumble of a masculine voice coming from madame’s room. Hurrying forward, she pressed her ear to the door but heard nothing more. Perhaps she’d imagined it, or perhaps it had come from the next apartment. Monsieur Dior, maybe? But monsieur’s voice was a light tenor, not nearly so deep.
She knocked. “Madame LaRoq? It is me, Gabby.” She was much earlier than usual. She had not thought to check the time before she came up.
Silence. Then a thud and a scraping sound.
A long pause. “Enter.”
Gabby balanced her tray on one arm, unlocked the door, and went in, half-expecting to see that madame had company. But there was no one. She went through to the older lady’s bedroom and laid the tray on the dresser. “Is everything well, madame? Is someone here?”
“Not
a soul but the two of us.” Madame’s voice was even, but her eyes were bright.
Gabby handed madame her tisane, then took her own cup and sat in the easy chair near the bed. The two of them sipped in silence, then Gabby said, “I could have sworn I heard a man’s voice in your room.” She chuckled in what she hoped was a convincing manner. “You’re not stashing a secret lover in here somewhere, are you?”
“If only I were.” Madame shrugged, lifted her gaze to the ceiling, and laughed. “What fun I had when I was your age. My mother was aghast.”
That brought to mind Yvette’s strange encounter with the Swedish diplomat. She related the story and madame’s eyes sparked with interest. “A Swede, you say? Staying at the Ritz.”
“That’s right,” said Gabby. She wrinkled her brow. “Actually, I’m not sure if he was staying there. It’s where she met him, at least.”
“Did Yvette get his name?”
“It was something-or-other Lind, I believe. Why do you ask?”
Madame tilted her head, her eyes tracking back and forth, as if she were sifting through information in her mind. “Oh, no reason. I must tease her about it when I see her. But I know she is busy and works so hard. Please pass on my love.”
The tone of this speech and the nod that accompanied it indicated dismissal. A little disappointed to have her visit cut short, Gabby collected their cups and got up to go. Madame had not touched the bread and butter, so she left that on the bedside table.
Outside the apartment, Gabby nearly collided with Catherine Dior, who approached from the other direction with a plate of her own. It was covered with a cloth and Gabby wondered what delights lay beneath. She was sure it would cast her meager slice of bread and butter into the shade. Not that she begrudged madame anything. She simply wished she could do more.
“Good morning, Gabby,” said Catherine. Her smile was a little strained. “You are early on your rounds this morning.”
Gabby nodded, watching Catherine carefully. “I am ahead of myself today.”
Catherine’s glance darted to the door. “Is everything . . . Is she well?”
“As well as she ever is, I believe,” said Gabby. “Madame never complains. Actually, she seemed very bright just now. Almost as if she’s had exciting news.”
“Well, wouldn’t that be nice?” said Catherine. “There is so much bad news, these days.”
She seemed to be waiting for something. “Oh, would you like me to let you in?” Gabby felt in her pocket for her keys.
“That is quite all right,” said Catherine. “I have a key to madame’s apartment, too. See?”
Gabby stared at the key in Catherine’s hand, surprised. Then she said, “Of course.” Lowering her gaze, she went on her way.
But when she heard the door close behind Catherine, she crept back down the corridor and put her ear to the door. She hated herself for acting like a typical nosy concierge, but something wasn’t quite right about madame that morning and Catherine was hiding something, too. Surely, Catherine wouldn’t embroil madame in her resistance work?
Gabby didn’t hear a masculine voice as she’d half-expected after the mutterings she’d caught earlier. But she did catch Catherine Dior’s pleasant tones. The words were enunciated quite clearly, even though she said them in a low voice.
“How are you feeling today?”
Gabby frowned. Not because of the words themselves. It must have been the most common question Madame LaRoq was asked. But why had Catherine spoken in English?
* * *
GABBY TOOK A dustpan and broom out to the courtyard to clean up the mess the vegetable thief had made. She set down the dustpan on the raised edge of the flower bed and began to sweep. First Yvette and her communists; then the man who had given her sister a bicycle and might want something in return; now Catherine Dior’s secretive behavior, perhaps involving Madame LaRoq in her activities . . .
Even she, Gabby Foucher, the most cautious person in the world, had agreed to turn a blind eye to whatever Catherine Dior was doing in these apartments at night.
All she wanted was a peaceful life. Her mouth twisted. Peace! What a stupid thing to wish for in wartime. And yet, after the shock of Didier’s death, she had managed to get through the occupation without any major disasters. Now it seemed danger lurked in every corner.
One thing was certain: She was not going along with any more of Catherine’s schemes, even passively. She would simply tell her she did not want to know.
As if the thought had conjured the woman herself, Catherine Dior emerged from the east wing and hurried across the courtyard toward Gabby, a pretty blue scarf flattering beside her cheek.
Catherine stopped, eyeing the dirt and debris. “What’s all this, Gabby? As if you don’t have enough work to do.”
Gabby tried to brush off her concern. “It is nothing, mademoiselle,” she said in a formal, distant tone that made Catherine’s fine eyebrows draw together.
Catherine tilted her head and fixed Gabby with an intent, searching stare. “What is the matter, my dear? You do not seem to be quite yourself today. Has something happened?” Catherine glanced about them and lowered her voice. “If it’s about last night . . .”
Gabby shook her head. “It’s not that.” She wanted desperately to tell Catherine that she could no longer take any part in her schemes. But when it came to the point, she could not bring herself to speak her mind to this woman she had always admired, who was clearly working for France in some secret capacity. Doing something noble and right.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” mumbled Gabby. “It is a family problem. I cannot talk about it.”
Catherine’s shoulders eased and she exhaled a long, slow breath. Relieved, Gabby thought. She is relieved that I am not going to report her, that my troubles are all my own.
Ah, but she was being unfair, since Catherine knew nothing of Gabby’s troubles, save those Catherine herself had created. Still, there was the matter of madame. “I hope Madame LaRoq is safe. I would not want her to be . . . involved.”
“Madame knows what she is about.” Catherine hesitated, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “However, it might be best if you only visit her at set times each day.”
“If you say so,” said Gabby, unable to hide her annoyance that Catherine should dictate to her when she saw the woman who had been like a grandmother to her all these years. But clearly, something secret was going on in that apartment, and hadn’t Gabby just moments before vowed not to have anything more to do with risky undertakings? She ought to be pleased. She set her jaw. “I will visit madame each day at nine o’clock, and at midday, and again at six.”
Their gazes locked and Gabby sensed the steel in the other woman, her grim determination. She could not help but admire it and long for some steel of her own.
Catherine gave a curt nod, as if to accept a tacit rebuff. “Very well, my dear.”
There was a long pause and Gabby lowered her gaze, feeling herself redden under Catherine’s scrutiny. Something shifted then, and with a long sigh, Catherine put out her hand to grip Gabby’s arm—a bracing hold, yet a comforting one.
Gabby’s gaze met Catherine’s and she wondered at the warmth and compassion she saw in her face. Catherine said, “I hope that whatever family matter is troubling you may be resolved. Let me know if I can help, won’t you?”
Feeling petty and small, Gabby managed a nod and a whispered Thank you, and turned back to her sweeping once more.
YVETTE
When Yvette returned to the loge that evening, her sister greeted her with a chore.
“Oh, good. You’re here. Will you watch the door for me?” Gabby collected her tray from the kitchenette and headed for the door.
Yvette sighed. For pity’s sake, she had only just walked in! Pointedly, she said, “Good evening, Yvette, and how are you after your long day at work?”
But clearly, Gabby was in no mood for banter. “Maman is lying down and I have to check on Madame LaRoq and do my evening roun
ds.”
“Let me check on madame,” Yvette said. “I haven’t visited her this week.”
“No, I need to see her,” said Gabby quickly, whisking herself out the door before Yvette could argue further.
With a shrug, Yvette went to sit by the window, tucked her legs beneath her, and settled in to watch the passersby.
It was too early for the usual clientele to arrive at Maxim’s restaurant a little way down the street, but she had often sat at this window before, watching the parade of well-dressed guests go by. She’d dreamed of dining at Maxim’s herself one night, wearing a gown designed by Monsieur Dior, with diamonds glittering around her throat. Now she found herself imagining an evening there, escorted by a tall, handsome man with dark, world-weary eyes . . .
The buzzer broke her reverie and she saw Liliane Dietlin pressing the bell to number 10. Jumping up, Yvette released the street door and went out to greet her.
“Good evening, mademoiselle.” Yvette indicated the parcels Liliane carried. “May I help you with those?”
“That is kind.” Liliane handed her a shopping bag and Yvette followed the other woman up to Monsieur Dior’s apartment.
It was Catherine who opened the door. Sabine must have the evening off.
Mademoiselle Dior seemed to have been expecting Liliane. She handed her a liqueur glass of amethyst liquid as soon as the other woman put down her parcels on the console by the door. Yvette set the shopping bag next to the parcels, then hovered in the background, wanting to say hello to Catherine but unsure of her welcome.
“Thank you. I needed this,” said Liliane, taking the liqueur. She did not sit but downed the drink in one gulp. Her hand trembled as she gave back her glass. Silently, Catherine poured another.
“Will you join us, Yvette?” said Catherine, lifting the decanter in offering.
Sisters of the Resistance Page 8
