Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  Jean-Luc was shaking his head at her. “I thought you were a patriot. You’ve changed, Yvette. Now that you have movie star friends, you’ve become a dirty collaborator, just like the rest.” He jerked the handlebars of his bicycle around and rode off in the other direction.

  GABBY

  Perhaps the lowest point of Gabby’s day—and there had been many candidates for this honor—had been assisting Liliane and the undertaker to smuggle Madame LaRoq out of the apartments in a laundry bag. The horror of it, the gross indignity perpetrated on that lovely old lady, had made Gabby’s insides flail with shame.

  But then Liliane had whispered to her, “I expect she would have thought it a very good joke, don’t you? And something of an adventure,” and Gabby could not help but agree.

  The undertaker treated his burden with tender care despite the circumstances, thank God. As the laundry van drove away, Gabby said, “What will happen to her?”

  Liliane said, “Best you do not know. We must remember her spirit, Gabby, not all of this. She would want that, I think.”

  They had decided on a course of action that had Gabby praying fervently for forgiveness every time a new wave of guilt tumbled through her. They would keep Madame LaRoq’s death a secret so that Gabby could continue to visit the apartment with food and supplies without raising suspicion.

  “I have made contact with the network, but we can’t move your patient yet,” said Liliane. “Besides, you were right. He is in no condition to go anywhere.” She frowned. “We might well have to dispose of another body.”

  Not if Gabby could help it. Squeezing her eyes shut to block out the echo of Liliane’s words, she let herself into Madame LaRoq’s apartment.

  She didn’t bother to knock but fitted the key in the lock, balancing the meal tray on her forearm as she had done so many times before. This time, however, there would be no enchanting smile to greet her, no grandmotherly interest in all her doings, no calming words of wisdom about her squabbles with Yvette.

  Gabby paused for a moment to gather herself, then carried the tray to the second bedroom, where the injured man lay.

  “Oh, you have more color in your cheeks now.” She set the tray on the dresser and felt his forehead, which was a little warm. His eyelids were heavy and he gave a faint, muzzy smile. He must still be feeling the effects of the morphine she had given him.

  “So sorry to trouble you,” he murmured, his voice deep but threaded with pain. “I do apologize. I seem to have suffered a relapse.” He spoke French like a native but his excessive politeness was all British.

  “What happened this morning?” The shock of seeing him bending over Madame LaRoq was still imprinted on her mind.

  “I heard madame cry out.” He winced and shifted a little on his pillows, then winced again. She would check the wound, but she wanted to hear this first.

  He sighed and settled his head into the pillow, looked up to the ceiling. “I went to help, but by the time I’d managed to shift that blasted cabinet out of the way, I was too late. And I nearly fell right across the poor woman when the dizziness came. Clumsy oaf,” he muttered.

  “You could have ruptured your stitches.”

  He nodded. “To no avail.” He made a helpless gesture. “I am sorry.”

  Gabby blinked and clenched her hand into a fist, trying to keep her grief at bay.

  He tilted his head. “You were close to madame, I gather? My deepest condolences.”

  Gabby pressed her lips together and nodded. She tried to sound clipped and practical, like Liliane. “I was very fond of her, yes. But she was old and in pain. It was only a matter of time.” Did that sound stoic or heartless? She hoped he would not offer her more sympathy.

  “I must thank you for what you’ve done here,” he said, gesturing down at himself. “Binding me up.”

  “It was nothing,” said Gabby, smoothing the sheet and giving that activity all her attention. His eyes were the clear, stunning blue of the sky, and difficult to meet with any confidence.

  “But it is everything, is it not?” said the man softly. “You risk your life, harboring me.”

  Something inside her opened like a flower, basking in the light of his admiration. But she didn’t deserve any accolades. She made herself look at him. “Truthfully, I had no choice in the matter, monsieur.”

  His expression dimmed and she realized how ungracious she sounded. “But I am glad I have the chance to do something for the cause.”

  And I am glad to have met you, she thought. He was so very . . . masculine. Even weakened by injury and drowsy from the drug, he had that aura about him of a young, virile man. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be in the presence of a man like this, and the intimacies of the sickbed brought back memories of Didier, and other intimacies she had shared with her fiancé. When she helped the Englishman sit up so that he could eat, she was acutely aware of the heat of his body, of his breath stirring stray tendrils of hair against her neck as she bent over him. Once he was settled, she quickly turned away, conscious of the blush that had risen to her cheeks.

  At her patient’s bedside, she arranged a carafe of water and a glass, and brought the plate of food. Bread and a sliver of cheese and a bowl of watery vichyssoise.

  “Oh, no,” said the man. “I am not hungry in the least. The morphine dulls the appetite, I expect. Please.” He gestured to her. “You have it. I cannot take your rations.”

  “They are madame’s rations, not mine,” Gabby lied. “We thought it best to . . .” She trailed off, hoping he would understand what she meant without her having to admit they were covering up madame’s death because it was expedient. The shame of it would always haunt her.

  “Ah.” She was both intrigued and a little pleased to see that briefly, he looked appalled. Almost immediately, his expression turned blank. Even drugged and wounded, he was good at masking emotion.

  “May I?” She lifted the bowl of leek soup and the spoon, ready to feed him.

  A tinge of color edged his cheeks. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

  She’d embarrassed him. She bit her lip and set the bowl and spoon on the tray, then carried the tray over to him.

  He ate his soup without slurping or spilling it. He had excellent manners. “Will you share the cheese with me?” He cut the small slice in two and looked up at her, a smile in his eyes that was difficult to resist.

  She ought to refuse. Instead, she found herself saying, “Thank you, I will.”

  When they’d finished, she took the tray. “Can I get you anything else, Monsieur . . . ?”

  “Jacques.” His smile warmed her to her toes. “I’m sure you have other duties. Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

  Jacques. In English, his name would be “Jack.” If that was his real name, which she supposed was unlikely. However, it suited him. She thought of Jack, all alone up here, in pain and with nothing to occupy him.

  He was right. She should get back to work. However, she said, “Madame has many books. Would you like me to stay and read to you for a while?” Didier had always enjoyed it when she read to him. She would like to do that for this man, to show him he was more than a chore to her. More than a danger and a burden.

  “I would like that very much,” said Jack.

  “Do you have a preference?” she asked him, moving to the door.

  “Something with a good story to it.” She knew what he meant. It was the kind of novel she liked, too.

  Gabby went to madame’s bookshelves and retrieved a well-worn copy of Alexandre Dumas’s Queen Margot. It was a bloodthirsty tale of epic romance, and Gabby would enjoy losing herself in it for a while. But when she returned to her patient, she saw that his eyes were closed. He had drifted back to sleep.

  That was what he needed, of course. Silly to feel disappointed.

  She set the book by the bedside, covered him with the bedclothes, and slipped out of the apartment with her tray.

  YVETTE

  Yvette stared at her ref
lection in the spotty mirror over the mantelpiece and wished she had never agreed to go to dinner with Vidar Lind. She was so nervous, she thought she might be sick. “I don’t feel well, Gabby. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  Her sister inspected her closely. “You are a little pale. I’ll fetch you my rouge.”

  Surprised, Yvette stared after her. Gabby’s precious rouge. She was entering into the spirit of the venture, despite her misgivings about the diplomat’s intentions.

  Gabby returned, unscrewing the lid of the rouge pot. Frowning with concentration, she patted her third finger in the scraping of rouge powder that still lined the little pot and deftly dabbed some color along Yvette’s cheekbones.

  “Thank you.” Yvette admired her sister’s handiwork in the mirror. Gabby had always been good at makeup.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Yvette caught Gabby inspecting the residue of rosy powder on her fingertip. With a small smile, almost instantly repressed, she leaned in to the mirror beside Yvette and applied a dash of the color to her own cheek. After a moment’s hesitation, she dipped her fingertip into the pot once more and smoothed a little on the other cheek, as well.

  Yvette’s eyes widened. It was not like Gabby to waste anything, much less the last remnants of her makeup when she wasn’t going anywhere special.

  “Gabby?” Yvette whispered, conscious of their mother’s presence nearby. “What is happening with you? You look . . . different.” There was a gentle glow about her sister that owed nothing to rouge.

  Gabby’s eyes flared, then she laughed and gestured to her cheeks. “What, this? I suppose I am excited for you, and perhaps a little envious.” She didn’t meet Yvette’s gaze. “I wonder where he will take you tonight.”

  Maman came in with a hairbrush and pins. “Here, Yvette. Let me do this for you.” Gabby made room and Maman stood behind Yvette, brushing her hair with long, gentle strokes. “Up, I think.” Maman separated out thick hanks of Yvette’s long tresses and began to twist and pin them into a complicated chignon. “This will make you look more sophisticated,” she said.

  “I’m not sure if that is such a good idea,” Gabby began, but Yvette gasped when she saw the finished product. She might not wear couture or expensive jewelry, but the hairstyle made her look almost chic. Even if Vidar Lind considered her too young for him, he might be brought to think differently if he got to know her. The chignon was bound to help.

  “Liliane Dietlin came by earlier and brought me this for you,” said Gabby, handing her a small box.

  “Oh!” Yvette opened the box to find a jeweled hair barrette. It was very pretty, enameled in shades of topaz and bronze.

  “She thought it would go with your hair,” said Gabby. “Do you want me to put it on?”

  “How lovely. Yes please.” She handed Gabby the pin. “You told Liliane of my dinner appointment? Why?”

  Gabby shrugged. “It is not every day my sister has a young man come to call.”

  But Yvette wasn’t convinced. “Since when have you become friends with Mademoiselle Dietlin?”

  “I’m not,” said Gabby. “I hardly know her. There,” she said, putting her hands on Yvette’s shoulders as if to cut off further questioning. “You are ready.”

  Yvette stared at her reflection and felt an odd sensation, as if a stranger stared back. Gone was the ragged tomboy of the windblown hair, patched jackets, and threadbare skirts. In her place was an elegant creature worthy, she hoped, of a night out with a Swedish diplomat.

  She turned around, looking over her shoulder to make sure her dress fell correctly at the back.

  It was Gabby’s, kept in tissue paper and only brought out on special occasions. Yvette had outgrown all her nice dresses and hadn’t had any new party clothes since before the war began. The dress was black and simple, with a scoop neckline and a fitted bodice, the skirt flaring a little past the hips. Though longer on Gabby, it fell just past Yvette’s knees, so she didn’t flout the clothing restrictions by wearing it.

  “You look enchanting,” said Gabby. “Doesn’t she, Maman?”

  Maman nodded, blinking away a sentimental tear. “She takes after her sainted papa.”

  Finally, the buzzer rang. Maman spied out the front window. “He’s here!” She pressed the button to release the street door.

  When Gabby admitted him to the loge, Vidar seemed to fill the tiny apartment. He had not appeared quite so large at the Ritz.

  When he turned and saw Yvette, his gaze seemed to intensify. She hoped he might compliment her on how she looked, but he said only, “Good evening, mademoiselle.”

  She had spent the last couple of days trying to conjure Vidar’s face specifically in her mind but failed every time. Now that he was here, she was startled all over again by his magnetism. He was all edges—the set of his shoulders, his lean face with its high cheekbones and blade of a nose, the hard line of his jaw, the sharp, precise cut of this dinner suit. Only the warm expression in his dark eyes as they rested on her lent him the least hint of softness.

  The burn of a flush began at Yvette’s décolletage and swept over her face. With a start, she remembered her manners and made the introductions. Vidar exchanged a few words with Gabby and Maman, but she hardly heard what he said. He wore a dinner suit. They must be going somewhere special.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, and held out his hand to her. “Shall we?”

  She’d expected his driver to be waiting outside but was not disappointed to find they would walk. As it turned out, they did not have far to travel, only a few paces down the rue Royale.

  She laughed. “Maxim’s? I have always wanted to go here.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “It is not too familiar, then? I wasn’t sure.”

  “Of course not. Who can afford to go to Maxim’s?” A silly question. Clearly, Vidar Lind could afford to go there.

  He drew her closer, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm as they strolled inside. While he dealt with the maître d’hôtel, Yvette stared around her. The art nouveau wonderland was an enchanted garden made of wood and stained glass. The lighting was dim and romantic, and the setting, with its swirling sylvan décor, was so beautiful, she held her breath in case it all disappeared. It was as if a magical new world enveloped her in its scented embrace.

  She tried not to stare as they were led to their table. The Nazis had replaced all the principal staff at Maxim’s with Germans, and looking around, Yvette could see that the majority of the patrons were German officers and their guests. That dimmed her mood, but it was only to be expected. One could not eat at a fine restaurant in wartime without meeting the enemy.

  “You look very pretty tonight, Yvette,” said Vidar.

  For some reason, the word “pretty” made her think of little girls with ribbons and bows, not a grown woman. “So do you,” she said, then laughed. “Very pretty, indeed.”

  In fact, in his immaculately tailored suit, he attracted the attention of every woman present.

  A group of German officers laughed raucously at the next table and Vidar leaned in to her. “Perhaps this was not the right place to come, but I wanted to give you a treat. The food here is very good.”

  She had heard that at Maxim’s they were not bound by rationing restrictions. She wondered what Vidar would say if he knew that on some days, she did not eat at all.

  With her permission, he ordered for them both. The wine, a crisp Chablis, was brought, tasted, and approved. Yvette took a sip for courage but resolved not to drink too much. She needed to keep her wits about her for the conversation she intended to have with him. “I look forward to the meal.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps next time we will dine at the Ritz. You go there often, I understand.”

  “I find myself there frequently of late, it is true,” she said, wondering if he was fishing for information about Louise Dulac. “Mademoiselle Dulac seems to have taken a liking to me.” That brought her to the question she’d been wanting to ask him. “She has even invited me to go
with her to Chantilly. To the Château de Saint Firmin.”

  Vidar’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed?” His face seemed to harden, as if he didn’t like the thought of her visiting King Otto’s castle.

  “Is something wrong, monsieur?”

  He shrugged. “It is an honor, I suppose.” He met her gaze, then glanced away. “I would have thought your mother wouldn’t allow it.”

  She wanted to tell him she did not consider an invitation to a German ambassador’s country house to be any kind of honor. She considered it an opportunity. Among such influential people, she might find out something significant.

  “You disapprove of my going?”

  “Disapprove?” He gazed at her with those world-weary eyes and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “What right do I have to disapprove of anything you do?” After a pause, he added, “I trust you will be careful. It is a very . . . sophisticated crowd.”

  And I am not sophisticated at all, she thought. It was true and she ought not to be offended by his pointing it out. Clearly, one needed more than a fancy hairstyle to prove one could move in such circles.

  He sipped his wine and lowered his voice. “The war will be over soon. What do you intend to do with yourself then?”

  “I will continue to work at Lelong,” she said. “Maybe I can convince le patron to make me a mannequin.”

  “A worthy ambition,” said Vidar, his tone dry. Was he being sarcastic?

  “Those girls work hard,” she said. “You have no idea what it takes.”

  “Clearly not,” said Vidar, amused. “But with your intelligence and resourcefulness, would it not be better to do something more worthy of your talents?”

  “Like what?” Other than teaching or secretarial work, there were few options open to women, and she had not even completed her schooling before the occupation ruined everything.

  He sipped his wine. “Let’s see how you do at Chantilly. Then we’ll talk about it again.”

  Her gaze snapped to his. One minute, he had been against her going; now he seemed to imply it was some kind of test. Before she could question him, the waiter came with their food. Vidar sat back in his chair as the appetizer was laid down before them. Pâté de foie gras and crisp, paper-thin triangles of toast.