by Lynn Sheene
A man emerged from the office. He had the nonchalance of a patient leaving his dentist, but at the end of the block, his eyes flicked over his shoulder to the street behind him before he abruptly descended the stairs to the Métro.
He was the man who had handed her the package on the way to the Gestapo. Dropping coins on the table, Claire hurried across the street and down the steps. She kept his head in view along the long tunnel to the platform. He slipped on the train as the whistle blew.
Claire jumped into the nearest car as the train began to move. She saw him exit the train at Europe station. She shoved her way out onto the platform and scanned the crowd. Not seeing him, she chose the nearest of three possible exits. She hurried through the tunnel, up the steps to rue de Madrid.
A busy street, but the man was not there. She had lost him.
“What a coincidence, running into you here.”
Odette was at her side. Her smile did not make it up to her eyes. She shoved her arm through Claire’s. “Let’s talk.”
Claire pulled her arm free. She was done being intimidated. “I’ll talk. You listen.”
They walked on rue Portalis toward the dome of Église Saint-Augustin de Paris. Passing the statue of Joan of Arc, they entered the church doors and sat. Claire faced straight ahead and spoke about the farm, the messenger who came for Grey and the pilot, the soldiers and her escape with Anna and Marta.
Finally, Claire turned to Odette. “I need two things. One, to know where Grey is now. Second, Anna and Marta need safe passage out of France.”
Odette stared into Claire’s eyes. From her somber face, Odette appeared to read more there than Claire wanted to reveal. “I knew it wasn’t you that betrayed us. I can do nothing for the girls. I am sorry. About Grey, I will do what I can.”
Odette nodded at a figure by the door as she left. The man Claire followed from the train slipped a pistol in his jacket as he followed Odette outside.
Sunlight through the stained-glass rosette window painted the church in blues. As the priest moved to the front of the church, Claire stood and walked out.
Chapter 10
THE CHTEAU
52, rue du Colisée, Paris. October 30, 1943.
Claire turned up the lapel of her coat as she locked the shop’s front door two mornings later. The light was soft grey, an unseen sun hid behind a heavy mist that blanketed the street. The buildings were faint outlines; her steps muffled in the heavy air. Head down, eyes darting from side to side, Claire hurried toward parc Monceau.
She slid through the side gate from avenue Hoch and took the center path. The apartments surrounding the park were invisible except for soft light from a single window, several stories up. Trees and sculptures seemed to come out of nowhere as she hurried down the passage. The ache in her head, the mist itself, tamped down any fear for her own safety.
She fingered the note in her pocket that had been tucked under the door after closing last night. Meet at the Roman pond in the park at 6 tomorrow morning. She struggled to keep her pace natural. The wait felt far too long for this meeting.
A tall man faced the pond, face half-hidden in a scarf, hat pulled low. “Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
“Danielle sent me. As you thought, you were betrayed. The one you asked about was captured.” He handed her a slip of paper. “Memorize this address. Outside Paris. It’s near Noisiel.”
Her eyes skimmed over the crisp letters. 31, rue de Jardin, Champs-sur-Marne. It was an address she didn’t recognize. Captured. The word chilled her. “Is Grey alive?”
“For now. But you must go today to this address and search for materials that might incriminate anyone. Names, locations, dates, photos. Destroy anything you find.”
Claire gripped the paper. “How would the Gestapo know to go there?”
“It was his home. We must expect him to break. Everyone does.”
“Show some respect.” She slapped him hard across the face.
His eyes narrowed. A red splotch marked his freshly shaved cheek. “This is our life, Madame. He got caught, well, then he will break. If he is lucky, he will die first.”
He fished a cigarette from his pocket, brought it to his lips and lit it with a match pinched between his thumb and the side of his first finger of his other hand. Her eyes were drawn to his fingers. They’d been shattered, four twisted digits curled under his palm.
He took a deep draw from the cigarette and peeled back his lips in a bitter smile. “Everyone breaks a little.” He shoved his ruined hand back into his coat pocket. With the other, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and pointed toward the note. “Go today.”
Claire caught the eastern train from Gare du Montparnasse out of the city at midday. The sunlight was brittle on the bleached countryside and scattered villages that passed outside the window. The Marne River snaked back and forth beneath the tracks; small boats loaded down with cargo sailed along their route.
The rhythmic chugging of the train’s wheels on the tracks sounded like a heartbeat. She remembered a warm afternoon, the sunlight on her skin, she and Grey lying tangled on their castoff clothes in a small grassy hollow. Her head rested on his chest, her eyes closed. She felt his heart beating against her cheek, strong and calm.
“Madame?”
Claire opened her eyes.
A French policeman stood in front of her. “Vos papiers, s’il vous plait?”
Skin prickling, she pulled the card from her purse.
“Reason for travel?”
“A friend in Noisiel is very sick. I am going to visit her.” Chin down, a sad sigh.
“Il est regrettable.” He handed her the card.
Her gaze returned to the window as his footsteps faded. Who could have betrayed them? She knew so few people. That was how the Resistance worked. Small cells that didn’t know each other, so one leak couldn’t bring them all down. Grey was apparently high enough that he knew more. She would damn well look through everything he had. If there were documents to be found, perhaps they would lead to the traitor.
The train reached Noisiel station in less than an hour. Claire exited with a small crowd. Even here, a patrol awaited on the platform, guns ready.
It took nearly an hour of asking in shops in Noisel to find Champs-sur-Marne. In the end, she paid a little boy to draw a map in the dirt to rue de Jardin. You will see it, he promised her. Another hour of walking along a picturesque lane before she found an ornate wrought-iron gate.
Gripping the curling bars, Claire peered in. A long straight gravel lane led to a château in the distance. On each side, cut green lawn was bound by tall hedges formed into curving parterre. Three rows of high windows marked the stone building. A grand portcullis was set out in the center. A second-story balcony overlooked the path and entrance.
A push and the gate opened with a creak. Claire slipped inside and started down the path, her mind racing. The challenge of carrying out her mission began to dawn on her. Near the house, the path split into two and circled a large fountain, with some sort of sea god crashing through limestone waves. She ran a hand over the marble edge. It looked like something at Versailles, designed by Le Nôtre. How did she know this? She sighed. An afternoon’s walk at jardin du Luxembourg. Grey had told her.
The massive stone portcullis shaded intricately carved wood doors at the château’s entrance. Claire gripped the gilded lion door knocker and rapped.
The heavy door swung open with a wheeze against wood parquet flooring. A woman stood before her, her face guarded but friendly. She was in her fifties with the polished look of aristocracy, strong bones, luminous eyes, firm mouth. “Yes?”
“Grey—Thomas Grey asked me to come by. I am Claire Badeau. A friend.”
The woman’s expression clouded. She looked in the distance behind Claire as if Grey might be there. “Where is he? He hasn’t called—”
“No, he can’t call, not now. He can’t come. That is why he sent me here.” Claire tried a reassuring smile.
&n
bsp; The woman studied her a moment. “Your accent. You are l’Américaine?”
The American? Claire nodded.
“I am Yvette Wyles.” She squeezed Claire’s hand and led her inside the door. “If you are a friend of Thomas, you are welcome to our home.”
Yvette led her to an intimate salon filled with paintings and books. On one wall, a row of oversized windows overlooked an estate that stretched into the distance. In the corner, against the windows, a table was set for two. A man sat hunched on a chair, blankets bunched about his shoulders, slender hand clutching a cup. Thinning blond hair was combed carefully back. His face was chalky and drawn, as if aged by sickness.
Yvette stepped over to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. “This is my husband, Peter Wyles.”
With a shaking hand he set a tea cup on the table. He tipped his head forward. “Enchante,” he said, a clipped British accent bleeding through the French.
“I am Claire Badeau.”
“A friend of Thomas. L’Américaine,” the woman completed.
Claire was shown into a seat with a cup of tea set in front of her. Yvette disappeared then returned with a cup, pulled up another chair and sat next to her.
“You know our Thomas? Wonderful. How is he doing?” Peter asked.
Their kindness cut into her. She took a sip to give herself a moment before answering. She looked at Peter and formed a casual smile. “I was with Grey about a week ago. Outside of Paris. He asked me to check up on you.”
Peter turned to Yvette and smiled, as if to say I told you he was fine. Yvette played with her cup. She didn’t look convinced.
“Grey’s home is much grander than he spoke of,” Claire said.
Peter laughed, the sound died into a wheeze. “He can be rather circumspect. Can’t he, Yvette?”
Yvette only arched an eyebrow, sipping her tea.
Claire leaned forward in her chair. “You said the American. What did you mean?”
Peter chuckled, he glanced to Yvette.
She returned the smile. “Forgive my rudeness, Madame Badeau. Thomas has not remarked upon many Americans.”
“What did he say?”
The couple shared a glance and a small smile.
“Very little, actually,” Peter said. “Like I said. Circumspect.”
“I noticed your accent. Is Thomas your son?”
He chortled. “Oh goodness, no. Thomas is solid upper-crust British merchant wealth. My father was a tailor. I was a gentleman’s gentleman.”
Claire examined the room, her eyes seeking out open doorways, counting rooms in her mind. It was going to take a while to find Grey’s room or rooms, before she could even hope to search them. She noticed their stares. “This is an amazing house.”
Yvette smiled. “You are kind to say.”
Peter coughed and wiped his mouth. “This château was in Yvette’s family since it was built in the sixteen hundreds. Marie Antoinette walked these dusty halls.”
Yvette glanced around the room, her expression fond. “This place has seen better days.”
Claire looked around at the furniture. Obviously well cared for, it was a bit worn and faded. “Haven’t we all.”
Peter coughed, his thin form twisting in the chair.
Yvette stood. “Peter must retire to his room to rest. If you’d like, afterward, I will offer you a tour and we might speak.”
“That would be wonderful,” Claire said with a warmth she didn’t feel.
Yvette sturdied Peter as he pushed himself off the chair, said his good-byes and shuffled on her arm from the room.
“Please, finish your tea,” Yvette said. “I will only be a moment. I need to get him settled. He had a difficult summer.”
The sound of shuffling feet faded down a corridor. At the click of a door lock, Claire stood and peered down the long hall. She crept down the corridor, silently opening and closing doors. The rooms were musty with high ceilings, lightly furnished, the walls heavy with old paintings of landscapes and portraits. She heard voices and hurried back to the salon, returning to face the windows. Yvette joined her a moment later.
The estate was laid out like a dramatic painting framed by the château’s windows. They overlooked a grand parterre, coiling evergreen hedges inside two basins on either side of an extended central axis that led the eye all the way to the Marne River.
Yvette looked over to Claire. “You are interested in the gardens. You share Thomas’ passion?”
At Claire’s questioning glance, she continued. “For gardens?”
Claire remembered the long walks lost in Luxembourg garden. “Of course. I do. I am a florist myself.”
“How appropriate.”
Claire nodded, but her face must have shown her confusion.
“You don’t know what he does?” Yvette looked doubtful.
“Well.” Claire smiled. “It seems Grey learned everything about me, but you know how secretive he can be when it suits him.”
“Yes, he can be maddening.” She turned to the window. “Thomas is a noted landscape architect. He has been commissioned to create gardens in Britain, New York and here in France. His expertise is in French gardens of a certain era.”
“Le Nôtre,” said Claire, without thinking.
Yvette smiled. “Yes, gardens based on André Le Nôtre’s designs in the eighteenth century. He has told you more than you thought.”
Claire turned away from Yvette and stared out over the landscape. Her chest ached. No wonder he loved meeting her in the Parisian gardens. It was the Paris he loved and he had shared it with her.
Yvette gestured toward the gardens. “It’s a bit overgrown now, with Thomas traveling.”
Claire’s mind churned, her heart anxious. She had to search the place. If there was evidence, and she did not find it, people, including herself, would be captured, tortured and likely killed. Yvette and Peter may be in great danger. But she ached to know what this place was to Grey. What he had said about the American. She turned to Yvette. “I can’t imagine growing up in a place like this. It must have been like living in a fairy tale.”
“I had a privileged youth, although I didn’t realize it at the time.”
“How did Grey—Thomas—come to live here?”
Yvette gazed over the landscape, her attention far away. “My family was once considered important. As befitted my status, I was sent to the finest schools, traveled across Europe, associated with the best families. Then my grandfather, the Baron de Langon died. We learned, as did all of France, that the family was completely impoverished. The servants were sent away. I was sixteen and brought home from school. All that was left to the de Langon name was this château. Nothing more.”
“What did you do?” Claire asked.
“I became a governess, employed by a family in England. An upper-class family with a young boy. The parents were cold, but Thomas—he was kind, warmhearted and so curious. When he turned nine, I got permission to bring him and his family’s gentleman on a trip to the château for the summer. His gentleman was Peter.” Yvette stopped, lost in the memories.
Claire stared at Yvette. A boy of a priggish family, destined to be more of the same. Into his young life saunters a beautiful, sophisticated Frenchwoman. Of course he was enchanted. Of course he changed his life. She was suddenly grateful to old de Langon for losing the family’s wealth.
“These gardens were designed by Claude Desgotz, the nephew and pupil of Le Nôtre. But for years, this looked nothing like what you see today. My parents, then myself, hadn’t the means to keep this up. By the time Thomas was grown, the château had fallen rather badly into disrepair.”
Claire shrugged. “It looks amazing now.”
“Thomas restored much of the gardens to their original state. He also created his own private gardens near the château. I believe Le Nôtre himself would enjoy this view.” She turned to Claire, her schooled voice charged. “Of course, the last couple of years Thomas has been gone. To Paris. Other places. Perhaps
, you know more about that than I?” Yvette’s expression was polite, but her eyes searched Claire’s.
“A bit,” Claire said, her mind working.
“I would enjoy hearing about Thomas’ life away from here.” Yvette smiled, but Claire saw the worry in her eyes.
“I think Grey should tell you that.”
Yvette sighed; she turned back toward the window. “It is impossible to get back to Noisiel this evening. There will be no train until morning. You will stay tonight.”
“You are so kind,” Claire said.
Claire helped Yvette prepare a simple dinner. Potatoes, a piece of beef from a neighbor down the road. For Peter, a broth. They ate in the salon; the small table pulled close to the fire crackling in the hearth. Yvette and Peter regaled her with stories about Thomas when he was a boy. The summer he decided to be a farmer and secretly bought a goat from a boy down the road. He kept it hidden and fed it grass and apples for nearly a month. His secret was discovered when they woke up one morning with the goat standing in the fountain on Neptune’s head.
Claire soaked up the gentle stories and laughed alongside the pair. The warmth of their affection was like a fire on a cold night. “Grey was lucky to have you,” Claire said as she mopped up the last bite of potato with a slice of bread.
Peter gazed at his wife, a smile in his eyes. “Yvette certainly did brighten up a number of lives. Before that, well, the Greys were cold fish. Then his father died and left Thomas to deal with the finances and help raise his baby sister.”
“Mary Jane,” Yvette said. “She was born when Tommy was nine.”
“Did she come to France?”
Yvette stood. Stepping behind Peter, she repositioned the blanket wrapped around his waist. She squeezed his shoulders, her face tender. “No. Peter and I married in ’21. Mrs. Grey didn’t approve. We came back to live here year-round. Mary Jane was still too young to know us.”
“And how is Mary Jane now?”
“She is well, we understand. She and her daughter, Abigail, have a nice home now outside of London. Away from the bulk of the bombing,” Yvette said.
