All the Ways We Said Goodbye

by Beatriz Williams

  “Oh, Drew—no! I’m sure that’s not it at all. Who wouldn’t want to have children with you?” His eyes widened. “Oh, er, I meant that I think you’d make a wonderful father, that’s all. With anyone. Or I mean, your wife. Not your ex-wife, of course, as she’s married to someone else, but your new wife. I mean, if you had one.”

  At the look of confusion on his face, I drained my glass and reached for my baguette.

  “And I just found out that she’s pregnant with baby number three.” He sighed. “I think that’s why I was so eager to come to France. Yes, I want to do this for my dad so he can have peace before he dies. But hearing about my ex . . .” He shook his head slowly. “It’s made me feel so unsettled. Not unhappy or anything—I love my job, and I enjoy living in New York, but it just feels incomplete somehow. Like I should do something to shake up my life a bit, you know?”

  “I know exactly. It’s why I didn’t throw your letter away.” Our eyes met as a spark of mutual understanding passed between us. Flustered, I returned my focus to eating my baguette. A clump of brie clung to the end and as I lifted the bread, the cheese began to fall. Despite all of my mother’s teachings, I couldn’t stand the waste and instead of allowing it to fall to the blanket, I caught it with my tongue and licked the cheese off the tip of the bread.

  I glanced over at Drew, who was watching me closely, his face gone suddenly red.

  “Are you all right? Was it the oyster?”

  He swallowed and shook his head, then crossed his legs. “No. I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “But it’s getting late and we should go.” He began hastily wrapping up the food and I joined him, even though I wasn’t finished eating. The champagne and the warm sun had made me feel heated so I discarded my jumper as we packed up, curious as to Drew’s silence and hoping it wasn’t anything I’d said.

  When the picnic basket was securely stored in the boot and we were once again in the car heading toward Picardy, we reverted back to silence. I attempted to start conversation, but Drew apparently wasn’t in a talkative mood. He kept sending me short glances then swerving as he jerked his attention back to the road. I wondered if he might be thinking of his ex-wife and was upset with me for forcing out unpleasant memories. I spent the remainder of the drive replaying our conversation and thinking of the best way to apologize.

  After driving for another half hour, he slowed the car to turn off the motorway and into a small village. The cobbled street winding gently through the town was surrounded on both sides by charming stone buildings, many with iron balconies climbing with bright flowers and vines. Several of the buildings still possessed thatched roofs and it felt as if we’d traveled through time instead of just seventy miles from Paris.

  Drew parked the car on the street. “You can wait here if you like. I just need to ask for directions to the château.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said. “I’d like to stretch my legs.”

  A pained look crossed his face as he approached my side of the car. As he opened my door, he pointed at me while seeming to study the car’s paint at the same time. “You might . . .” He circled his finger in the direction of my stomach.

  Looking down I realized that somehow my top had disengaged itself from the waistband of my skirt again and seemed to be comfortably rolled up against the bottom of my brassiere, exposing my entire midriff. I quickly pulled it down, smoothed my skirt, then exited the car with as much dignity as I could muster. I gathered my composure and as we began walking, being careful not to get one of my new sandals stuck between cobbles, I said, “It must have happened when I got into the car. I promise you it wasn’t intentional.”

  Drew stopped in front of a café and held the door open for me. “I didn’t think it was.” And then, just as I passed in front of him, he added, “But I wouldn’t have minded if it were.”

  I was still blushing when we left the café ten minutes later after obtaining directions—in French—to the Château de Courcelles. The owner hadn’t spoken a word of English, for which I was eternally grateful because Drew couldn’t understand all the innuendoes and assumptions about our relationship the man was comfortable sharing with me despite my protests that we were merely acquaintances. When we returned to the car, I quickly put my jumper back on despite the heat and wondered if I’d imagined the look of disappointment on Drew’s face.

  With only one wrong turn, I managed to direct Drew out of the village and just a couple of miles to where the man had told me we’d find the château. Except it wasn’t there. I looked down at the pencil marks the man had scribbled on a paper napkin for me.

  “This is definitely the right place.” We’d left the car in a clearing at the edge of a dense forest, near a rocky path leading up a slight rise through the trees. I looked down at the drawing again, turning in a circle to reorient myself. “I’m quite sure of it. Although I’m beginning to understand the man’s look of confusion when I told him where we wanted to go. I’m wondering . . . ,” I began. I took a step toward the rocky path. “He kept on repeating the word brûle and I thought he was trying to get us to stay for dessert. But now I’m left wondering if he really meant burned—as in burned ruins. Because that would certainly explain why we’re not seeing turrets over the trees.”

  “True.” Drew shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded at the path. “You up for a hike?”

  I fought back disappointment. How were we to learn anything about a French spy inside the burned-out ruins of an ancient château? “We might as well. Maybe the view from the top will be nice.” With a sigh of resignation, I headed toward the path, wishing I had my brogues instead of the strappy sandals Precious had made me wear. At least I’d won the battle over high heels versus low ones or else Drew would have to carry me. Which had probably been her idea all along.

  Drew insisted on walking behind me in case I fell, and I kept my jumper on despite the sheen of perspiration clinging to my skin from the exertion. By the time we emerged from the forest, I was panting heavily. Drew showed no strain whatsoever, making me almost wish that I had asked to be carried.

  Parts of the wall that had once encircled the castle and its outbuildings remained, a sporadic puzzle with enough stacked stone pieces to be able to envision the length and breadth of the old château. Here and there an abbreviated set of brick steps rose to empty spaces. But of the château itself, there was nothing but random bricks protruding from the earth like little raised hands to remind the world that it had once existed.

  “It’s rather sad, isn’t it?” I asked, watching as Drew picked up a small stone from the grass, then carefully replaced it in the exact same spot.

  He simply nodded, and I knew he understood what I’d meant. How someone’s history could be obliterated in the space of a single day, with only the vague lines in the dust to testify that anything had been there at all.

  He indicated a simple white stone structure, nearly hidden by the shadow of the encroaching woods, its walls streaked with lichen, the masonry cross atop the peak of its gabled roof indicating its significance. “It appears that the chapel didn’t share the same fate as the château despite being within the perimeter of the defensive wall.”

  “Come on,” I said, walking toward it with renewed determination. “I don’t want the destruction of my brand-new shoes to have been in vain.” I hadn’t meant it to be funny, but he smiled that devastating grin again anyway.

  We climbed the front steps toward the arched door, the middle of each step sagging from the imprint of centuries of footsteps. He pushed open the door, hinges groaning, and a welcome respite of cool air from inside wrapped around us.

  Our eyes met. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.

  I grimaced. “Not the dead kind.” I stepped inside, ready to confront the other kind.

  Drew allowed the door to shut behind us, making us blink in the darkness as our eyes adjusted from the bright daylight outside. It wasn’t a large chapel, but the soaring ceiling lent it a grand airiness that made it ap
pear bigger. A ribbed vault cradled an alcove at one end, where I imagined an altar had once stood. Ribbons of colored light slipped through the stained-glass windows behind it, gradually showing us two short rows of wooden pews facing the alcove. As I moved inside, I could see effigies lining the walls, narrowing the nave.

  Disturbed dust rose from the ancient stone floor causing me to sneeze—rather loudly since I’d learned from my brothers.

  “Bless you,” Drew said at the same time another male voice said, “À vos souhaits!”

  Startled, we both turned to look behind us in the narthex, where an old man, stooped with age and wearing a dark brown cassock and sandals, peered out at us from the gloom. He was so thin and bent I wasn’t surprised that we’d overlooked him when we’d entered the chapel. A miasma of dust and disintegration clung to him like a garment, as if he were slowly moldering along with the ancient walls and floors.

  I wasn’t Catholic, but I wondered if we’d committed some sort of faux pas by not genuflecting or whatever they did. I’d had a Catholic friend at school and had been very perplexed by the list of rules of her faith that she’d shared with me and made me very glad I was Church of England.

  The man didn’t appear angry, merely curious as to our presence and began speaking in a barrage of French at Drew, who looked more confused than the old man. I shook my head and pointed at Drew. “Americain,” I said in explanation, and the man nodded with understanding.

  “I hope we are not intruding,” I said in French, after introducing Drew and myself. “We were looking for the Château de Courcelles and have discovered this is all that is left.”

  “You are not intruding, madame. I am Monsieur le Curé, and have been associated with this chapel since I first took my vows as a lad. Sadly, the château is no more, and this chapel is no longer consecrated. Which is oddly fitting, seeing as how it was once used as a pigeon coop—hardly a way to honor such a place. The last Courcelles was lost in the most recent war and the property now belongs to the state. I just come to tidy up and pay my respects to le comte, Sigismund the First.” He indicated the effigy of a man wearing medieval chain mail and holding a sword. A large wolfhound lay obediently at his feet. “He was a very great man, went on Crusade with Louis the Fat. He shouldn’t be forgotten.”

  “You’re right. He shouldn’t be,” I agreed wholeheartedly. I wanted to ask about the effigy next to him, apparently the great man’s wife, and the fluffy little dog at her feet that seemed so out of place in the gloom. But my feet were hurting so I focused on my task. “Does anyone know what happened to the family?”

  He shook his head, his eyes sad. “After the château was destroyed during the first war, there was no home for the family to return to. So they stayed away, although the taxes were still paid on the property. The Courcelles were a proud and old family. They would not walk away from their responsibilities. It was my understanding that the demoiselle would return one day to the château and rebuild what was once here. And then the Nazis invaded France, and the Courcelles were no more.” He gave me a familiar Gallic shrug.

  “The demoiselle?”

  “Yes. The daughter of the family. She was the last of the line, you see. She had no brothers or sisters. So after she was gone, there was no one.”

  I translated for Drew, who nodded with interest, his attention focused on the stained glass in the alcove. “Ask him if he knows why Joan of Arc is featured in the window—if there’s any significance there.”

  “Oui.” Monsieur le Curé nodded sagely after I’d asked the question. “The comtesse was blessed by Saint Jeanne herself and when the saint was martyred, the comtesse obtained a relic of cloth dipped in the blood of the blessed saint and made it into a talisman. The talisman is very powerful, but only if held in the hands of the demoiselle. The legend dictates that it can only be passed down by females in the de Courcelles family, and that France will never fall as long as the demoiselle holds the talisman.”

  Drew’s eyes narrowed as I translated. “Ask him where the talisman is now.”

  The curate waited for me to speak, then slowly shook his head. “It disappeared sometime in the last war. No one knows what happened to it.”

  Drew and I were silent for a moment, digesting this news, wondering how it all fit together. “One last question, if you don’t mind,” I said. “Have you ever heard of a connection between the famous spy of the French Resistance, La Fleur, and the Courcelles?”

  His eyes widened in shock. “No, madame. And I would know, having been intimately acquainted with the family for so many years. I never met La Fleur. I would have known her if I had. It is said her eyes could kill a man with their intensity, and that she spit fire from her mouth.” He made the sign of the cross. “It can’t be blasphemy, as she was on God’s side.”

  “Of course not.” A loud rumble of hunger pains came from Drew, who was busily studying the ceiling. After a quick glance in his direction, I said, “Merci, Monsieur le Curé. You have been most helpful.”

  “Thank you for visiting. Please come back.” He looked so singular and lonely that I almost promised that I would.

  Instead I thanked him again then waited for Drew to say his goodbyes before we exited the chapel together, the bright sun nearly blinding us. His stomach let out another loud rumble.

  “So,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m hungry,” he said. “And I can’t think on an empty stomach. Let’s go eat.”

  “But we just ate,” I protested, following him back toward the path. “How can you possibly be hungry again?”

  He stopped to grin at me, making something in my chest flutter. “Well, Babs, that’s something you should know about me. I’m always hungry.”

  There was something in the way he’d said it that made the blood rush to my face. I quickly ducked my head, then led the way to the path, ignoring him until he reached for my hand, bringing me to a halt. I looked up into his eyes, wondering—or hoping—for something I could not name.

  “It will be more slippery on the way down. Hold my hand so if you slide, I’ll be there to keep you upright.”

  Too embarrassed to speak, I allowed him to wrap his large hand around mine and hold it until we’d reached the bottom of the path and entered the clearing, not daring to look at him until both of his hands were firmly on the steering wheel of the car, and we were headed to a café en route to Paris.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aurélie

  The Château de Courcelles

  Picardy, France

  December 1914

  It would have been unthinkable in Paris, kissing Maximilian von Sternburg in a graveyard, at the dead of night. Kissing Maximilian von Sternburg anywhere, really. Not just because she was a well brought up young lady—well, somewhat well brought up—but because he was Herr von Sternburg, polite, attentive, reserved.

  He wasn’t reserved now.

  Maybe it was because the rest of the world had been stripped away. Maybe it was because it was Christmas Eve, and a time for magic. Maybe it had always been there and she just hadn’t seen it. He kissed her the way she drove a car, with complete assurance and more than a little recklessness. Aurélie found herself clinging to his shoulders, feeling as though they were careening down a mountain road, screeching along the corners, the wind in her hair and the world blurring around her, her pulse leaping, feeling alive, so very alive, dizzy and excited and drunk on it all.

  He smelled of violets, like springtime in the midst of winter. His hair was surprisingly soft beneath her fingers, not slicked back and stiff with cream the way some men wore it. The ends tickled her palm.

  Somehow, her hands found their way beneath his greatcoat, under his scratchy uniform jacket. She could feel the warmth of his skin beneath the linen of his shirt, not cold at all, but warm, so warm, his muscles shifting beneath her fingers—who knew a scholar could be so well-muscled—the whole animal apparatus of him that she had never noticed before, had never allowed herself to notic
e, because it was his mind one noticed first, his clever, clever mind. But under it all, all the learning, was this, this animal drive, that pulled them flesh to flesh and stripped her raw with pure, physical desire.

  “Aurélie. Aurélie.” Max pulled back, his voice hoarse, shaking. “Wait.”

  “What?” She rather minded the interruption. She felt cold without him, suddenly aware of the mess of her hair and the fact that her shawl was hanging drunkenly from one shoulder. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to go on like this, not thinking, not having to think. She held a finger to his lips. “Whatever it is, don’t.”

  He kissed her finger, took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm, before, reluctantly, folding his hand around hers. “There’s something you need to know.”

  “What can possibly be that important?” The magic was fading. It was midnight again and cold and the graveyard was sere and grim, the stumps of the old trees raw and ugly. “Do you have a wife back in Berlin?”

  “What? No! Nothing like that! Do you think I would . . . no!”

  “Men do.”

  “I don’t.” Before Aurélie could feel the relief of it, Max blurted out, “I was the one who told the major about your talisman.”

  Aurélie leaned as far back as she could, squinting at him in the moonlight. “You . . . what?”

  “I was the one who told him. About the talisman and the jewels and the legend around it . . . I never meant you to be harmed by it. I had thought we would move on in a few days, a week, at most. And you and the talisman were safely back in Paris. . . .”