She unclipped her bag and removed the crumpled gazette that she’d carried to Paris, unfolding it. He stared at the picture before he sighed again. ‘I was very good that night,’ he quipped.
And that’s all it took for a wonderfully familiar shared laughter to wrap itself around them again and fill her with all the joy that had leaked away over his years of absence. Sophie bent to crouch alongside him, placed her hand over his and felt a trill of excitement to remember the shape of those fingers, the ridges of his knuckles, the silvery trace of a scar that she recalled from a wound he’d received falling from the same tree in the vineyard that she had sat beneath with Charlie. And his voice. That rich voice that had always excited her was back in her life . . . and he was still capable of using it for levity.
‘Do you know I can feel my other hand and it wants to cover yours . . . it wants so much to caress you,’ he said.
Her throat tightened with all the emotion it was trying to wrangle into composure. ‘Then use your beautiful mouth, Jerome, and kiss me.’
He didn’t hesitate, and the familiarity of everything she had loved and had felt safe about before the war returned in a cascade of pleasure as the first lips she had ever loved upon her found their spiritual pair and joined to speak of love found. They cried as they kissed and there was no shame in that and they kissed until Sophie could feel her crouching limbs pinging with the need to stretch. She admitted as much, laughing out of his embrace.
Sniffing and smiling at once, she urged him to talk. ‘Tell me everything, Jerome. I want to know it all.’
Without a care for protocol, she curled up in his lap and let him talk, allowing his voice and sad story to enter her and fill in the missing years since his last letter.
‘So you’re Jacques Bouchon? I mean, can they officially change it now?’
‘Immediately. You are the proof they seek.’
‘I’m your proof,’ she repeated, smiling. ‘I like that.’ She kissed him again.
There was a knock at the door and a sensible pause, which gave Sophie time to leap from Jerome’s lap as if stung and straighten herself. He stood too, presumably tired of allowing himself to look disabled. She walked to the door and opened it, expecting to see the colonel. He was there all right, beaming, but he had someone else with him.
‘Louis,’ she said, trying not to load any emotion into her voice.
‘Is it really him? Is he here?’ He sounded stunned, awe-struck, and he all but pushed past her into the room. ‘I cancelled everything to come. Jerome? It is you!’
‘Louis, oh dear brother, hello! I thought you were out of Paris.’
She heard Louis making an excuse, watched the brothers kiss and glanced at the colonel, who was finding the reunion jolly, it seemed.
‘So glad he came. Grand to have a happy ending,’ he whispered to her. ‘I’m so used to passing on only bad news to families. I’m thrilled for you, madame.’
She smiled with all the grace she could muster, trying not to feel the bile rise again at the sight of Louis. ‘I shall have to return to my married name,’ she said, unable to think of anything else to say.
‘Well, now, Lieutenant, this is wonderful,’ the colonel said aloud for everyone’s benefit. ‘I think we can safely say you have been reunited with your family and that you most certainly are Jerome Méa.’ Jerome looked fit to burst with pleasure, and Sophie realised she must not be the one to prick that happiness. ‘I’m going to organise all the relevant paperwork. Sound good?’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jerome nodded, returning his attention to Louis as the colonel departed. ‘Louis, I have to ask about the telephone call.’
‘Which telephone call, brother?’ He looked perplexed but Sophie sensed the guile that Jerome either overlooked or could never fully grasp.
‘There was a nurse called Agatha Huber and I begged her to call you. She had your number, told me she’d spoken to you.’
‘Yes, the colonel mentioned this – I have no detail, simply that a man claiming to be Jerome Méa was an internee in Switzerland, but I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about then, or what you are talking about now.’ He sounded horrified, as though he couldn’t believe it. ‘She said this?’
‘According to Agatha, she rang the number I gave her and the man on the other end agreed he was Louis Méa and then confirmed it.’
‘Then she is lying! Or a stranger is impersonating me,’ Louis said, sounding affronted now. ‘My brother, when did this supposedly occur?’
Jerome shrugged. ‘Not long before I left Switzerland . . . a fortnight ago, perhaps.’
‘It is a shock. I have taken no phone call from anyone in Switzerland. Do you think I would have left you languishing in Lausanne had I known?’
‘No, no, of course not, but . . .’ Jerome looked baffled. ‘She didn’t strike me as someone who would lie.’
‘You are home, brother, isn’t that all that matters?’ He looked at Sophie. ‘You must be so thrilled, Sophie, my dear.’
‘You can’t even guess, Louis,’ she said, so only he could hear the barb in her words.
The colonel was back with a staff member in tow. ‘Right, let’s get you all signed off, Lieutenant Méa. Er, perhaps Monsieur and Madame wouldn’t mind waiting for you in our reception room? Tea is being served.’
Sophie sensed it wasn’t a suggestion. ‘Of course. Louis, shall we? I’ll just be down the hall, Jerome,’ she said, still in awe that it was him standing there.
‘Don’t disappear,’ he said with a wink.
They walked politely enough into the reception room into which the colonel’s batman guided them.
‘Help yourselves,’ he said, gesturing at the silver tea tray. ‘Shan’t be long.’
When the door was closed, Louis rounded on her. ‘Well, well . . . all that faith you had in him has been borne out.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way,’ she remarked.
‘I wonder how he’ll feel about his unfaithful wife when he hears of the English captain who has been worming his way into her heart.’
‘He won’t have anything to worry about, Louis, because he isn’t going to hear about Charlie.’
‘Oh, is that so? And how will you prevent that?’
‘By warning you that if you so much as mention Captain Nash in any more than a formal way, I will tell Jerome of your intentions towards me and how you’ve blackmailed me.’
Louis flicked carelessly at some lint on his jacket collar. ‘I’d deny it. You have no proof,’ he said, his tone breezy, assured.
Her gaze narrowed. ‘How about the money you’ve accepted? I have proof of that being transferred.’
‘A gift, my dear. I came to you with my financial situation and in your incredible kindness and care for your brother-in-law you offered to cover my debt. It’s marvellous and I’m ever grateful.’ He smiled with cunning and licked his lips. ‘You are no match for me, Sophie, my dear. You do not scare me. And Avize will be mine again once I speak with my brother.’
Sophie stared at him and decided on one final threat. ‘Then let me just say this, Louis.’ He stepped forward as if to say, There’s nothing you can say that can hurt me. He even opened his palms to her to invite her try. ‘If you received no call from Switzerland and if the colonel gave you no detail, how did you know that Jerome was, as you put it, languishing in Lausanne?’
She watched as her brother-in-law’s expression clouded. All his amusement fell away as though the load were too heavy for his face; his cheeks suddenly drooped, turning the sneering curl of his plump, rosy lips into a frightened scowl. He blinked rapidly.
‘You slipped up there, Louis. We all heard your denial but we also heard you mention Lausanne. Now, while Jerome only thinks the best of you and in his confusion may not have made the link, I have. And I will not forget it and I will not permit Jerome to forget it if you don’t walk away from our lives once and for all. I want your toxic presence nowhere near me. The best you can hope for, Louis, is that Jerome ne
ver knows what a snake you truly are and that he will always think kindly of you and simply wonder why we don’t see more of you. Go away. Slither back to your den of iniquity in Pigalle, and don’t let your shadow darken Épernay again. If we meet by chance, we can be polite – pleasant, even – but we both know we’ll be pretending, and if you wish your brother’s love to continue and perhaps his largesse – that is his business to negotiate and not mine – then I suggest you keep our secret.’ Say it, she said to herself. ‘Quid pro quo, Louis.’
‘Rot in hell, Sophie,’ he snarled, starting towards the door.
Relief flooded through her but she refused to let it show in her voice. ‘Farewell, Louis. Oh, and one more thing.’
He turned, scowling at her.
In spite of all his hideous behaviour, Sophie found a moment of clarity that convinced her not to mirror his behaviour – she was better than that. She took a breath of calm. ‘Louis, I mean this sincerely when I say that even though we don’t like one another, and what’s happened between us will keep it that way, I have to say that blackmail aside, you are enjoyable company.’
He looked back at her, stunned in a different way now. ‘Pardon?’
‘No, I mean it. You’re fun, you’re witty, you’re elegant, you have poise and education. You read, you enjoy art, you love music. You appreciate all the finer things in life . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I found you engaging.’
‘What is this?’ he demanded in consternation.
‘It’s me trying to tell you that you have plenty to offer the right woman. There are so many single women after this war who would be thrilled to have your company, not to mention your name in marriage. Find her, marry her, have that child or even children and discover love, Louis. It’s what’s been missing in your life. It will change you. You will see the world through a different lens when you find someone who falls in love with you – in love with Louis Méa, exactly as he is, with all of his faults and all of his good traits. This isn’t an apology, but I do say let’s call a truce. We have no reason to hurt one another. I know you did what you did to Jerome out of fear about money, about your future, and you didn’t mean it to harm him. You said you love him in your own way. So keep doing that. You have the money you need to start afresh; I won’t begrudge you it any more. So start again. Live a good life in Paris as you choose but maybe stay open to finding a woman to love who loves you back.’
He searched her face as if looking for the sort of cunning that was second nature to him. He failed to find it. Finally, he nodded. ‘A truce, then . . . because we both love Jerome.’
‘We do.’
‘Farewell, Sophie.’
‘And Louis?’
He turned back.
‘I’ve let you off lightly. Don’t cross me again.’
‘I’m not scared of you, Sophie,’ he said, more amused than condescending. ‘I’m impressed by your nerve and your ability to look past my transgressions and, in fact, help my cause.’ He gave a tight chuckle. ‘But no, I do not feel intimidated.’
‘Well, as you journey home, congratulating yourself on how clever you’ve been, please think on this – the money I am providing is not as simple as you imagine.’
He blinked.
‘It is not a straightforward gift.’
‘More strings?’ he said, still sounding careless.
‘One more. The money I’m providing will be to pay off your immediate debt, but I have acquired your loan.’
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Let’s call it added security. I now own the loan on your most glorious apartment in Pigalle, Louis, and should you default, or should you decide to turn even nastier than you have been and think enough time has passed for you to reveal information to Jerome that could hurt our marriage, I will foreclose on the loan and I will bring all of my considerable wealth and connections towards bankrupting you.’ She smiled. ‘Are we very clear on where the line is that you will not cross?’
‘Perfectly.’ He sniffed.
‘Good luck,’ she said as she opened the door. ‘Close it behind you, Louis, and don’t look back.’
31
Sophie nestled close to Jerome as they made their way to the train that would take them back to Reims. ‘Thank you for coming home.’
‘Are you sure?’
She frowned. ‘About what?’
‘Being happy that I’m back?’
Sophie sat back, aghast.
‘It’s just that I’ve struggled to imagine my beautiful wife by my side while I hobble around as a cripple with half my features gone, one arm missing and —’
She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d slapped her. ‘Jerome, you’ve lost an eye, not your features. And do you think so little of me that you believe how you look is the reason I married you? Can you not come to terms with the fact that you remain one of the luckiest men who walk this earth – that you are alive, that you are loved? You have a whole town that will welcome you home as a hero. You have a life you can return to. You have survived what millions of your fellow men have not.’
‘You’re right, I’m sorry . . . truly. I have had nightmares since my memory came back of someone else taking my place.’
Guilt twisted like the bottles being riddled in one of her pupitres. ‘Leave Jacques Bouchon behind. I fell in love with what lives in here,’ she said, prodding his thin chest, wondering how to build him back up to the robust, burly man he’d been. ‘Not because you had two eyes that could see and a right leg in perfect working order, or two arms. I think your eye patch makes you look heroic,’ she said, leaning in to kiss it. ‘And I think this scar here where your hair doesn’t want to grow will tell people that you’ve been through battles and survived.’ She kissed the scar. She touched where his arm should be. ‘You gave this to protect France. How could I not admire you all the more? And your limp. I’m proud to walk alongside you.’
‘I’m half a person,’ he said.
‘And I’m your other half,’ she answered. ‘And I know I didn’t marry a coward. No more self-pity, my love. Let me take you home. Let me show you your brave vineyards that have remained strong, waiting for you.’
‘Can you forgive me for forgetting you for so long?’
She didn’t hesitate so much as pause to search his face as she considered telling her truth. ‘Yes,’ Sophie answered firmly so he had no doubt. She was going to add that he might need to forgive her too, but that secret would only serve to hurt them and this simply had to be a time of healing. Only she and Charlie – and Louis – knew. That was how it must remain, she decided.
Her romance with Captain Charlie Nash had effervesced with all the joy and enthusiasm of a newly opened bottle of champagne, but just as her bubbles had to die almost as soon as they’d lived, that was the reality of her love for Charlie. It was real, it erupted brightly, but now it must fade and their worlds must separate as hers realigned with its former trajectory.
She could smell soap and the English Vaseline Jerome had used to comb his hair neatly this morning.
‘I don’t enjoy you looking this tame.’ She pushed away thoughts of Charlie, knowing she had to find a place to store him that could never be found. ‘I like you wild and tousled,’ she said, ruffling his hair.
He stood straighter and she remembered now just how tall her husband was. He was still broad, and his voice hadn’t changed from that low, mellow burr.
‘I want to kiss you.’
‘You don’t need permission.’ She smiled, grief for Charlie fluttering like a trapped bird, and then she opened her heart so it could escape. The beautiful bird that had offered so much promise for her in its sad song understood it was free. And it flew . . . as it knew it must.
Jerome closed his eyes and touched his lips to hers. More memories flooded back. Their bodies recognised each other. As if invisible hands pushed them together, they leaned into each other intuitively and the kiss deepened, neither of them prepared to let the other go again.
The riddling w
as Charlie’s favourite; the repetitive work was good for his healing arm, wrist and especially fingers. He’d learned fast how to do it properly, swiftly, allowing the wine and its lees to instruct him, although he’d had patient tutors in Sophie and Étienne. Charlie now believed he was an asset to the riddling team, rather than someone they all had to keep an eye on. He enjoyed listening to the low chatter of the women, trying not to blush when they made a saucy remark deliberately spoken to shock him. Those who were not widows had an extra spring in their step and a lightness in their voices as more news filtered in of Allied victories. He prayed they would all get their men home.
All except Sophie? No. That was cruel.
But he couldn’t avoid his private joy. Her change of heart had felt like the morphine they’d administered when he was in the field hospital. Like the drug, it took all the pain away. For those few brief hours last week Charlie Nash had known he was where he belonged, where he had always been headed . . . he was home. And yet something in his heart where Sophie resided told him she was not to be his. She never had been. Did she love him? Yes – but that wasn’t where his doubts lay. His uncertainty sat with the other man she loved, the one who had been there first, the rightful love of her life. Charlie understood that their romance, under any other circumstances, would never have occurred. Random decisions – from him running in the wrong direction when the apocalypse of the spring had occurred, to an Arab soldier fishing him half-dead from the river, to a French commandant tiring of not being able to make sense of him and sending him to the Reims hospital underground, and Sophie Delancré happening to be on shift as he was brought in. In a confluence of tricks by whichever forces were amusing themselves at his expense, they had been pushed together to discover a pair of broken souls that knew how to mend one another.
How sad then, he thought as he twisted the bottles in the pupitres, that while his heart wanted to believe otherwise, his intuition was telling him that there would always be three people in their relationship, even if Jerome was dead.
The Champagne War Page 36
