Sisters of the Resistance

by Christine Wells

  Her cheeks burned. She wished the ground would swallow her. “Sorry! So sorry,” she said to the people around her. She was only prevented from stooping to pick up the pieces of her broken glass by Catherine’s hand gripping her wrist. “Forget about that. Someone else will clean it up. Go to him. Go now.”

  Legs trembling, Gabby picked her way through the shards of glass. Jack. Here in France. She did not dare to assume he was here for her. But then there was this party and this house. Had he really decided to live in Cannes? Audrey had said something about it, hadn’t she? About bringing Isabelle here to convalesce . . .

  She reached him and he held out his hands to her, a tilt to his head and a rueful smile on his lips. “Gabby. My Gabby. I’ve been such a fool.” He glanced at the rest of the guests, who had all turned to stare at them both now. “Will you come with me? I have something to say to you in private.”

  She nodded and he indicated a flight of steps leading down. She moved toward it, her heart beating fast. He had done as she’d ordered him back in England. He had done something about his health. And . . . what? She did not dare to hope.

  Careful in her new high heels, she picked her way down the curving staircase and found herself on a smaller terrace than the one above, with a wrought iron balustrade and stone vases spilling pink geraniums.

  She stopped and stared out to the infinite blue of the sea, gripping the railing with clammy palms. After what he’d put her through, she ought not to forgive so easily, but life was short, and . . .

  “Gabby.” All he had to do was to say her name in that deep voice of his and her knees turned to blancmange. She had thought that money and independence would be enough. She’d thought she could be content without him. But that had been a lie.

  She turned to face him. He looked much better than when she’d seen him in grey old England. Lines of suffering still bracketed his mouth, but there was less strain in his face and his color was good. In fact, he had a golden tan that made his eyes seem lighter. Highlights of blond streaked his hair. He’d put on a little weight. Just enough.

  “Gabby,” he said softly, taking her hand. “Can you forgive me for being such a boor when you came to Burnley? My behavior was . . . appalling.”

  The warmth of his hand made her feel things she was not sure she wanted to feel, but she ached for him so badly that she could not seem to make herself draw away. “You are forgiven, if that’s what you want.”

  “That is the least of what I want.” He looked down at their joined hands. “Gabby, after I left you in Paris, I went on another mission. It was too much. I suffered a relapse and nearly died.”

  She knew this, but she let him speak anyway. “Go on.”

  He smiled a little. “I know you would dearly love to berate me for my foolhardiness, but believe me, there’s nothing Audrey hasn’t said a hundred times.”

  “When Audrey told me, I was furious,” she admitted. “After all that I went through to make you well again! But I realized that you would not be the man I—I had grown to admire if you had gone tamely home.” It had been a desperate time, and in his shoes, she probably would have done the same. They had all risked their necks in the name of liberation. Even Gabby.

  His face lit up with hope. He’d caught her slip. She’d almost said she’d loved him. He lowered his gaze and cleared his throat, as if he was telling himself not to overstep. “I was too ill to leave my bed for months. As I got better, I was given the news that I would never fully recover, that I would never be able to exert myself beyond a certain point without putting a severe strain on my heart.” His jaw tightened. “I am ashamed to say that I reacted . . . badly. I was very angry about it, in fact, and hated the world.”

  He stared out to sea but he didn’t seem to take in the spectacular view. “Audrey will tell you I can be very stubborn at times. This was one of them. I didn’t try to get better. My doctor suggested moving to a warmer climate, but my home—my life—was in England. I inherited Burnley from my father and he from his, down the centuries. I refused to leave it in someone else’s hands.”

  He turned her hand palm upward and began to trace the lines there. “But then you came to us and wrecked this uneasy truce I’d made with my condition. I hated you for doing that, for making me want what I’d thought I could never have.”

  Her fingers closed around his hand and held it tightly.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and returned the pressure. Then he opened them and held her gaze. “But it turned out that a slap in the face from you was just what I needed, because once I’d finished flaying myself for the way I’d treated you, it made me want to try everything and anything I could to get better, to prove myself to you. I’ve been living here in Cannes for the past three months and my health has improved tenfold. My lungs have cleared and I feel I’m getting stronger every day.” He gave a smile that went awry. “I can even carry my bride across the threshold. If she’ll have me.”

  Gabby could not breathe. She hadn’t let herself hope . . .

  “Marry me?” Jack said, raising her hand to his lips. “I don’t deserve it, but I love you so very dearly, my Gabby. Let someone take care of you for a change.”

  “But I do not need someone to take care of me,” she said, smiling up at him. “I am a woman of independent means, I’ll have you know.”

  “Is that so?” He looked intrigued but not at all cast down by this news.

  “And I’m going to write and illustrate children’s books,” she said with the certainty of one who had come to this decision years ago instead of that very minute on that very terrace. “So, I am afraid I will no longer have the time for things like housework and nursing people.”

  “Well, that’s simply marvelous,” said Jack. “I remember your talent well. But don’t keep me in suspense, Gabby. Will you have me? Because I think that I’ll probably throw myself off this terrace if you turn me down.”

  “So dramatic,” said Gabby, leaning out a little to peer over the edge. “You might not die if you fell down there. Then you really would need a nurse to care for you.”

  “We’ll take care of each other.” He caught her hand and pulled her back, roughly, into his arms. So, he had regained his strength. She laughed up at him, and as his arms wound around her tightly and his head bent toward hers, her heart seemed to ignite with happiness. There was a rush in her ears as he kissed her, but it might have been the distant roar of the sea.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Cannes, two years later

  YVETTE

  Ordinarily, Gabby and Jack would have left their villa in Cannes to spend the summer with Audrey at Burnley, but this time, Gabby was too big with her second child to contemplate leaving home.

  Yvette dined with the family early one sultry August evening, and afterward, while Jack enjoyed a brandy on the terrace, Gabby fed the baby while Yvette read to her from the social pages. When Gabby had settled little Tom in his cot, Yvette put her sister to bed in turn, tucking her in as if she were a child and Yvette the tender maman.

  Gabby smiled up at her sleepily. “We have everything we ever wanted. At least, are you happy, Yvette? I hope so.”

  “Yes,” Yvette said. And it was true. She had become one of Christian Dior’s mannequins, traveling the world, showing his collections, and meeting many interesting people. If she had regrets, she didn’t let them stop her taking pleasure in life.

  “I am happy, too,” murmured Gabby, her eyelids heavy. “And do you know? It would never have happened without Catherine Dior.”

  The name no longer carried pain in its wake. Guilt is mere self-indulgence if you cannot do anything to fix the past that created it. Yvette realized that while spending time with Catherine at Callian. So much had been taken from Catherine that summer in 1944, and in the months after that. She’d lived through it, and had the courage to keep on living, to work and love and find beauty in life after experiencing the depths of its ugliness and despair.

  That was courage. Not the kind that peo
ple talked about or awarded medals for, but courage all the same.

  “Isn’t there a party tonight?” said Gabby, breaking in on her thoughts. Gabby always seemed to sense when her sister was reliving the past. “Why don’t you go out? Have some fun.”

  She was right, as usual. “Yes, I believe I will.” Yvette kissed Gabby’s forehead. “Sweet dreams, sister.”

  * * *

  AS YVETTE STEPPED onto the marina where all the millionaires’ boats were docked, the hairs rose on the back of her neck. She turned, but no one was following her. Attempting to shrug off a feeling of unease, she quickened her pace, with the stiff sea breeze ruffling her hair and the sound of flags from all different nations snapping in the wind. Why, on this occasion, did she feel that breathless excitement, that stirring, that she had not felt since the war? But no, that was not entirely accurate. She had felt this at other times, whenever she thought she might meet Vidar.

  She hadn’t come across him again, however, and it wasn’t likely that she would do so now. He was a banker or a diplomat, and a spy. He was probably married to some society lady by now and had forgotten all about her and their time during the war. She wished it were so easy to forget him.

  Strings of lights twinkled in the distance. The chink of glasses, rumbles of laughter, shrieks, and hoots floated toward her, in counterpoint to the muted jazz melody from a lone trumpet. She guessed that might be her destination and headed toward it, wishing now that she had agreed to meet her friend Sylvie beforehand rather than turning up alone.

  The name lettered on the side of the boat told Yvette she had guessed correctly. She stepped up the gangway and gingerly climbed aboard, the tight skirt of her cocktail dress making elegance difficult but not impossible for a mannequin from Dior. She scanned her surroundings, the tension in her chest at odds with the careless good cheer of the crowd.

  “There you are!” Sylvie kissed her on both cheeks, then drew her hands wide so as to look her up and down. “That dress! Is it a Dior?”

  Yvette nodded. She could not afford Dior, of course, but his established mannequins were allowed to keep one sample garment per year. The fitted, knee-length black dress she wore was from Monsieur Dior’s new “scissors” line, strapless and low-cut across the bosom, but with a panel that went around her shoulders like a stole, then crossed in front.

  Sylvie took Yvette’s hand and dragged her toward a waiter, then scooped two glasses of champagne from his tray and offered one to her. “Have a drink. Gervase will be here soon.”

  Her friend appeared to have indulged already. The champagne spilled over and Yvette stepped back neatly to save her shoes. “He is missing his own party?”

  Sylvie waved her hand. “He had a business meeting that ran late. But he is most eager to meet you.”

  It didn’t seem so to Yvette. Looking around, she wondered why she had come. There was a distinctly raffish edge to the people aboard this yacht. Yvette could not imagine Vidar in such a milieu. “I’m leaving.” She drained her glass and put it back on a passing tray. “This was a bad idea.”

  Sylvie’s hand clamped her wrist. “No, no! There he is. Look.”

  With a jolt, Yvette saw that she was right. There he was. She recognized this man, though she did not know him as Gervase. It was the black-market villain who had smashed up Monsieur Arnaud’s shop. “Rafael.”

  “No, no, his name is Gervase Marron, remember? See? He is handsome, no?” whispered Sylvie in her ear.

  Yvette couldn’t answer. The blood had drained from her brain. Her tongue felt thick and dry and she gripped the rail beside her for support. She had hoped that the man who claimed to want to meet her was using an alias. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined he would turn out to be Rafael.

  “Yvette? Yvette! What is the matter with you?” Sylvie was like a gnat buzzing in her ear, but she didn’t answer.

  The nerve of him! Yvette watched the glint of a gold signet ring as Rafael lifted a champagne glass to his lips, the crinkle of his eyes as he drew on a fat cigar, then puffed a perfect ring of smoke that hovered briefly in the air like a dirty halo, before dissolving into the breeze. He slapped backs and shook hands with the men and kissed the women, moving through the crowd slowly, inexorably, in Yvette’s direction.

  All too soon, he was there, standing in front of her, close enough to touch. And with a wink and a wave of his hand, he made Sylvie vanish. Suddenly, it was as if the two of them were alone together on the foredeck of this crowded yacht. He looked Yvette up and down, an appreciative grin on his face. As if he thought she’d dressed this way for him.

  “How can you show your face in France?” she demanded, her voice hoarse and low. Why she should be concerned about their conversation being overheard, she didn’t know.

  He glanced around. “What can you mean, beautiful lady? This is my yacht.”

  “You wanted me to be here. Why? I could expose you to all these people. Tell the truth about you.”

  He contemplated the ash on his cigar. “Half these people are on my payroll. The other half . . .” He shrugged. “They are nothing. Hangers-on. Besides, they won’t believe you. Why should they want to? They don’t like to think too much about the war. Everyone has moved on.” His jabbed an index finger at her. “You should, too.”

  “There are enough patriots left in France to be disgusted by your profiteering,” she said. “Not to mention the rest.” She thought of Catherine Dior’s circuit, of the countless others who had suffered at the rue de la Pompe.

  “Still not married, Mademoiselle Foucher. Why is that?” Again, his gaze traveled up and down her until she wanted to punch him in his tender place. Just a quick, short jab and he’d be at her feet, rolling around on the ground. Then he would not be grinning at her in such a way. It was very, very tempting . . .

  But no, that was not the way to deal with him. She couldn’t do it on her own, but if she could find help, she might bring this war criminal to justice. Would Catherine have the contacts? Yvette didn’t know.

  “It’s too crowded at this party,” she said. “I’m leaving.” She turned to go but he caught her arm in a strong grip.

  “Not so fast. I have a message for you, little one.”

  Their faces were very close. She looked him dead in the eye, refusing to show her fear. “Let go of me or I shall scream.” His hold loosened but he didn’t release her.

  He leaned in, his hot breath stirring the hair behind her ear. “Take care, little one. You don’t know everything. Some of us were not all we seemed in the war. And some of us are on the side of the great and the good now, after all.”

  She reared back, her eyes widening as she stared into his face. Was he trying to tell her he worked for the Allies now? What next? Had Hitler himself been a double agent?

  “I have a message for you from a friend.” Rafael spoke softly, his graveled voice barely discernible above the noise of the party. “There is another yacht at this marina. The Mistral. Berth one-oh-three. Find it and you’ll see.”

  Then he let go of her and sauntered away.

  Yvette’s feet were moving in the direction of the gangway, even though her mind had not yet caught up with this turn of events.

  Rafael. Vidar had known about the raid on her home. He was there. They had been associates of a sort during the war. Were they associates still? Was Rafael now working for Britain, as Yvette assumed Vidar must be? Had Vidar used him as a go-between?

  The world seemed to be revolving in reverse. She nearly stumbled as she stepped off the gangplank and cursed under her breath. Scarcely hampered by the high heels she had chosen to wear, she ran along the marina in the gathering dusk, squinting to make out the numbers of the berths, the names of the sleek vessels moored there. Had Rafael sent her on a wild-goose chase? It seemed like there were hundreds of yachts, thousands. They multiplied the longer she searched.

  And then she saw him. A lone figure in a dark suit, silhouetted against the deepening sapphire of the sky. She stopped, the le
ap in her chest answering the question she had been asking herself over and over since the end of the war.

  With a burst of exhilaration, she started toward the Mistral.

  At the top of the gangway, she stood before him, not unsure of her welcome, precisely, but aware that they had not parted on the best terms.

  He held himself still, watching her. There was a lantern swinging gently in the breeze; it cast light, then shadow, then light again over that young, handsome face with its world-weary eyes.

  Yvette thought of his heroism in those final, tense days of the occupation, of the daring feats he had accomplished—many still unknown to her, she was sure—and she wondered what he saw in her at all.

  He said, “You came through for her in the end. Thank you.”

  It took her a second or two to register what he meant. The trial.

  She could have said she’d done it for him. “You don’t need to thank me. I was always going to support her story.”

  He inclined his head. “Then you lied to LeBrun. To me as well.”

  She shrugged, hardened by her wartime experiences, just as Louise had intended she should be. “Louise Dulac sent me to be raped by a Nazi. I caused her a little anxiety over the course of . . . what? A week or two? I think we are probably even.”

  His tension seemed to ease. “Well, I am grateful to you, whatever your motive. I would have been obliged to give evidence if you had not. That would have been . . .”

  “Awkward?”

  “Disastrous.” He removed his cigarette case from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket.

  Yvette didn’t know why she felt compelled to defend the movie star. “She wouldn’t have named you, you know. Even she has a code.”

  His gaze lowered, then lifted to hold hers. “Why do you think I recruited her?” He shrugged. “My recruit, my responsibility. But it didn’t come to that in the end. Because of you.”