Soline put down her fork and met Rory’s gaze squarely. “Rory, you must learn to separate Hux from the gallery. Right now, you’re thinking of them as the same thing, as if one cannot exist without the other. But it isn’t true. I had to learn this for myself—after Anson died.”
Rory blew out a breath. “Please don’t say you want me to get on with my life. My mother says that, and it makes me crazy.”
“All right, I won’t say it, but she’s not wrong. You were a person before Hux came into your life. And you will go on being a person, even if he leaves it. It’s not a choice. It’s how it works. The question is what kind of person you’ll be. What will you do with your life, your dreams, your art?”
Rory blinked at her across the table. “My art?”
“Yes, silly girl. Your art. You have a gift. You think you get those for nothing?”
“But I’m not—”
“If you’re having second thoughts, we can tear up the lease. You don’t have to go through with it.”
Rory stared at her. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t an offer to tear up the lease. The thought made her stomach lurch. “No, I don’t want that.”
Soline smiled knowingly. “I didn’t think so. You’re having—how do Americans say it—a case of cold feet. But if you want the gallery badly enough, you’ll make it work.”
“Like you did with your bridal salon?”
“I had nothing when I came here. I was a foreigner, broke and alone. It was a hard time, harder even than the war, because of what I’d lost. But I couldn’t just lie down and die, even when I wanted to.”
Rory watched as Soline tore a small bite from a garlic knot and slowly chewed. Her loss was still visible despite the patina of years. She had shared her story freely enough, but Rory couldn’t help feeling there was more, some heartache she still kept to herself. “You told me you and Anson were separated because of the war and that you learned he’d gone missing. Were you still in Paris then?”
“No. I had to leave. I didn’t want to, but Anson made me go. He was working with the Resistance, helping to get people out—people the Nazis were looking for. I began helping, too, until it became . . . problematic.”
Rory stared at her across the table. “You were part of the Resistance?”
“In those days, if you were living in Paris, you were either a collaborator or you were part of the Resistance. There were a few who tried to walk the middle road, but sooner or later we all had to choose. We did what we could. I was a courier. Women could get away with more. Especially if they were pretty.” She paused, smiling bitterly. “The Germans liked French girls. They were so busy flirting with us that they forgot to suspect us. But they found out about Anson and me—and they used me against him.”
Rory put down her glass, breath held as she waited for more.
“One night on the way back from a run, Anson’s ambulance broke down, and he was picked up by the Gestapo. They questioned him for hours. When he wouldn’t cooperate, they told him they knew who I was. They said if he didn’t give them the names they wanted, they would come after me. They used to do that, pick up wives and sweethearts and send them to terrible places. Prison camps and brothels. Anson refused to talk. They let him go eventually, but the next day he made me leave.”
“Alone?”
Soline reached for her water glass but found it empty. She refilled it with shaking hands and took a long sip. “The work he did was critical,” she replied finally. “None of the rest of it mattered if the men couldn’t get out. He couldn’t afford distractions. So he arranged to get me out with some of the others. I hated that he was making me go, but I understood.”
“Where did he send you?”
“Across the border and into Spain. Eventually to England and then here, to America. It was the usual route, so I knew what to expect, but not how long it would take or how hard it would be. It was strange being on that end of it. Until then, I could only imagine what happened once the men were handed off. And then all of a sudden, there I was, being handed off myself.”
Rory suppressed a shudder, imagining herself in Soline’s shoes, leaving her home and the man she loved at the mercy of strangers. “Wasn’t it dangerous? Traveling like that while the war was going on?”
“It was. But for many, staying in Paris amounted to a death sentence. We lost some, but there were more successes than failures, and that made the risk worth taking.”
“I can’t imagine it. To leave Paris and end up here in Boston. It must have been like landing in another world.”
Soline went quiet, her hands still and white on either side of her plate. “I didn’t come to Boston right away. I went to Newport first—to Anson’s father. Anson wrote to say I was coming.”
Rory was surprised by this. Soline had never mentioned Anson’s family. “It must have been a comfort to be with his people, rather than all alone in a new place.”
Soline shook her head very slowly, her eyes dark with memory. “No. It was not . . . a comfort.”
TWENTY-FIVE
SOLINE
Whosoever shall misuse la magie for selfish ends shall bring unhappiness on the family entire. Take care, then, to keep your needle true, and do not use your charms in pursuit of things not meant for you.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
22 September 1943—Newport
I arrive at the station in Newport on a chilly Wednesday morning, messy and creased after hours on the train. I’m as thin as a rake in my borrowed clothes, exhausted after weeks of seasickness and uncertainty. For days, all I’ve been able to think about is a hot bath and a real bed with clean sheets, but now, as I stand on the crowded platform, searching for a face that looks like Anson, my thoughts turn in a new direction.
I’ve done the best I can with my hair, but I didn’t have enough pins to do it up properly. Hairpins are hard enough to come by these days, but they’re especially hard to find on ships and trains and convoys full of men. I hate to think what I must look like. No hat, no gloves, no proper shoes. Not exactly the way a girl hopes to look when meeting her future father-in-law for the first time.
The crowd on the platform has begun to thin. I stand on my tiptoes, searching the remaining faces, but none of them seems right. A young man with a pinned-up sleeve. An old man clutching a rumpled paper sack. A pair of GIs in army green, carrying a trunk between them. But no one likely to be Owen Purcell.
My stomach turns over, wondering if there’s been a miscommunication of some kind, a missed call or lost letter. And then I see a man moving toward me on the platform. He’s wearing a plain black suit and a brimmed cap.
His brows lift as he eyes me up and down. “Would you be Miss Roussel?”
Relief floods through me. “Oui, I am—” I stop, reminding myself that I’m in America now. “Yes. I’m Miss Roussel.”
“My name is Stanton. I’m Mr. Purcell’s driver. If you’ll just point out your bags, I’ll take them to the car.”
“I don’t have any bags,” I tell him, holding up my battered box. “It’s just this.”
He gives the box a dubious glance but manages a nod. “Very good, miss.”
But when he reaches for it, I find myself taking a step back. It contains everything I care about in the world, and I haven’t let it out of my sight in weeks. “I’ll carry it, thank you.”
“As you wish.” His face is carefully blank, like Maman’s when dealing with a troublesome bride. “If you’ll follow me.”
He leads me to a great ship of a car, gleaming black with a shiny grille and tires with wide white sides. The sight of it makes my throat constrict. It reminds me of the Gestapo’s cars, long and sinister, prowling the streets of Paris. I peer through the window, expecting my first glance of Anson’s father, but the car is empty.
If Stanton notices my disappointment, he gives no sign as he whisks open the rear door. I step past him and climb in. It’s warm inside and comfortable, and suddenly I’m so
very tired. I let my head fall back against the leather seat and close my eyes, trying not to think about why Anson’s father didn’t come to the station to meet me.
When I open my eyes again, the car is easing up a long, brick-paved drive. I’m completely unprepared for my first glimpse of Anson’s childhood home. It’s a sprawling sort of edifice, three stories of cream-and-gray stone with diamond-paned windows on the upper floors and more gables and chimneys than I can count from the moving car. I run my eyes over the highest windows, the small panes turned to mirrors in the chilly morning light, wondering if Owen Purcell is standing behind one of them, awaiting my arrival.
I’m still fumbling with my box when Stanton opens the car door. I slide out, acutely aware of my shabbiness. Everything is so large and immaculate. The car, the house, even Stanton, towering over me in his somber black serge. He points me toward a set of double glass doors decorated with iron scrollwork, stoic as he steps past me.
The door swings back before I can ring the bell. Suddenly Owen Purcell is there, impeccable in a charcoal-gray three-piece that’s almost certainly tailor-made. He’s tall like Anson, with thick shoulders, a broad chest, and a middle that’s just starting to go soft. He has a head full of silver-gold waves, and his eyes are the same liquid blue-green as Anson’s. They miss nothing as they sweep over me, coming to linger briefly on my scuffed black shoes.
“Miss Roussel, here at last.”
I manage a wobbly smile. “Good morning, Monsieur Purcell.”
His eyes touch mine with no hint of a smile. “He said you were French.” He looks past me then, out to the drive. “Stanton, please bring in Miss Roussel’s things.”
“She hasn’t any things, sir. Only the box.”
Mr. Purcell eyes me again, brows lowered as he examines the dress box dangling from my hand. “Very well, then. Come in.”
I wipe my feet once, twice, three times before stepping over the threshold into a large entryway. The polished parquet floor makes the space feel more like a ballroom than a foyer. The walls are a soft, creamy yellow, the ceilings high and decorated with ornate plasterwork. A chandelier dripping with crystal pendants splashes small droplets of light on the walls and floor, and my head whirls as the lights dance around me. For a moment, I’m afraid I will crumple into a heap at my future father-in-law’s feet.
“Are you unwell?”
I swallow the thick sensation in my mouth and try to shake my head. “I’m just . . . I’ve been traveling rather a long time.”
“Yes, of course. Perhaps you should rest before lunch. I’ll show you to your room.”
There isn’t time to protest. He’s already heading for the staircase, not bothering to check that I’m following. He has a slight limp, a straight-legged gait that hinders his progress—likely the result of the war wound Anson told me about.
At the top of the stairs, a broad gallery lined with English hunting prints stretches in both directions. When I hesitate, he glances back briefly. “This way, please. The last door on the right.” At the end of the hall, he pushes the door open and stands aside. “I’ve had the room aired and the bed made up. You have your own bath, just through there, if you care to freshen up before luncheon.”
The drapes are drawn, the interior dim as I step inside. It’s a small room with a double bed, a nightstand and lamp, a bare bureau, and a long oval mirror. The walls are papered with enormous cabbage roses on a background of dull green. The pattern is too loud for such a small room, making it feel faintly oppressive.
“Thank you,” I say with all the politeness I can muster. “It’s lovely.”
He bows his head, clearly all the response I am to receive, and I find myself trying to make him out. He’s handsome for a man in his fifties, high cheeks, broad forehead, a bit of a bump at the bridge of his nose—as if it might have been broken. But it’s his mouth, full and yet hard somehow, that holds my attention—a mouth unused to smiling.
“Luncheon is served at twelve thirty. Someone will come to take you down.”
He pulls the door closed then, leaving me alone. Like a lodger, I have been shown to my room and left to my own devices. I put my box on the bureau and slip off my shoes, then lie down fully dressed and close my eyes. Not once has Owen Purcell mentioned his son’s name.
I’ve barely drifted off when I jolt awake again. The door is open a crack, an eye peering through, wide, watching. I sit up quickly, my head still muzzy. “Vous pouvez entrer,” I call thickly, then remember my English. “Come in.”
The door creaks open a few inches. A face appears, broad cheeks, blue-green eyes, a thick sheaf of wheat-colored hair. A younger version of Anson—and female.
“You’re Thia,” I say, smiling. “Anson’s sister. Your brother told me all about you. How you like to paint and play the guitar.”
She inches forward, shy but curious. She’s eleven or twelve, but tall for her age and a little awkward, with large front teeth and a liberal dusting of freckles. Her lumpy sweater and ill-fitting skirt make her look shapeless and plain, but beneath the dowdy layers there is a beauty waiting to bloom.
“Are you really French?” she whispers with a kind of awe. “Daddy said you were. He calls you Anson’s little French seamstress. What’s a seamstress?”
I register the slight but choose to ignore it. Instead, I focus on Thia, the way she tilts her head as she studies me. She’s Anson to a T, and I suddenly long to wrap my arms around her. “A seamstress is a woman who makes dresses,” I explain. “And yes, I’m from Paris.”
The corners of her mouth turn down. “They have the war there.”
It seems an odd way to put it, though perhaps not to a child. America is sending its men to fight, but they have been spared the horrors of occupation and bombs. “Yes,” I answer quietly. “They do.”
She sits beside me, hands pressed between her knees. “Anson’s there. He drives sick people around.”
I smile, charmed by her innocence. “Yes, he does. And he’s very good at it.”
“Did he drive you around? Is that how he met you?”
“No. We met at the hospital where we both worked. I was sick on my first day, and he helped me.”
She grins, wrinkling her nose. “Anson’s always helping people. He’s nice.”
“I think he’s nice too.”
“Please don’t tell my father I spied on you. He wouldn’t like it. I was only supposed to knock and then bring you down to lunch, but I was hoping we could be friends.”
I can feel my heart melting as I look at her face, shy yet hopeful. “Of course we can be friends. And you can come see me anytime. Is your room next to mine?”
“No.” She stretches out an arm, pointing to the opposite end of the hall. “The family rooms are at the other end of the gallery. Mine’s the first one on the right side, and Anson’s is across the hall. Mummy and Daddy’s room is way down at the end, but it’s only Daddy’s room now.”
“Who lives at this end?”
“Oh, no one lives here. It’s just where we put guests. Auntie Diane stayed in here when she came for Mummy’s funeral. She’s Mummy’s sister, but Daddy says she’s not really our family.”
I nod, understanding. To Owen Purcell, family means blood. Sisters-in-law don’t count. Neither do French fiancées.
“We’d better go down,” Thia says. “Daddy doesn’t like it when people are late.”
Thia waits while I wash my face and attempt to pat my hair into place. My reflection startles me. I’m so very pale, the bones in my face sharp after weeks of meager meals and little sleep. I run a hand over my clothes. My skirt and blouse are shabby and horribly wrinkled after too many wearings, but I have nothing better to put on and no money to buy new.
I step out of the bathroom to find Thia at the bureau, running a tentative hand over the lid of my box. For a moment, I feel a frisson of panic, a territorial instinct.
Thia snatches her hand away, but an instant later her gaze returns to the bureau. She points shyly. “Wh
at’s in there?”
I grin at her with a conspiratorial wink. “All my secrets. Let’s go down, shall we?”
Downstairs, in the dining room, Owen is already seated at a long linen-clad table laid for three. He glances up as Thia and I enter, his lips thinning as he takes me in. “I thought you might have changed,” he says coolly. “Were you able to rest?”
“Yes. Thank you. I’m feeling much better. Thia tapped on my door to let me know it was time to come down.”
Thia beams her gratitude as we take our seats, but Mr. Purcell continues to scowl. “Her name is Cynthia,” he says stiffly. “After my mother. We prefer not to encourage diminutives.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . It’s how Anson always referred to her.”
“Yes, well, my son has always indulged her. I suspect it’s to do with the difference in their ages. Cynthia, your napkin.”
Thia suppresses a scowl as she drags her napkin into her lap. I follow her example, wondering if his reproach was actually meant for me.
Seconds tick by without conversation. I run my eyes around the dining room, avoiding Owen’s gaze. It’s a beautiful room, everything white and gold and sparkling clean, and suddenly I feel conspicuous, like a dusty smudge amid all the loveliness.
A woman in a pale-gray uniform enters through a swinging door, bearing a soup tureen and a large silver ladle. Owen nods coolly as she sets the soup in the center of the table. “Thank you, Belinda,” he says dismissively as he lifts the tureen lid. “Cynthia. Your bowl, please.”
Thia holds out her bowl obediently, watching as her father ladles out a rich red bisque. She stares at it, nose wrinkled. “This is tomato, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he replies, filling his own bowl, then passing the ladle to me. “And you’ll eat it. Everyone must do their part for the war, Cynthia, and you’re no exception. That means making do with what we grow locally. Or would you prefer your brother go hungry halfway around the world?”
The Keeper of Happy Endings Page 19
