The Paris Agent(11)
“Good,” I said, even as my stomach buzzed with nerves. Noah’s face was suddenly transformed by a wide smile as he stared at me. “What?”
“We’ve always worked so well together. This is going to be brilliant.”
“Yes,” I agreed, but I looked down at my tea, avoiding his gaze as the nerves in my stomach shifted suddenly toward butterflies.
“My only concern is…” I looked back at him, alarmed, and he winked at me. “Chloe, do tell me you like children? It’s one of the few things I don’t know about you.”
I had always avoided the topic of my childhood when Noah and I spoke, despite the endless, rambling conversations we’d shared on our journey and over the course of our correspondence since then. I was diagnosed with Coeliac Sprue as an infant and had suffered from its ill effects my entire life. Too poorly for school for much of my childhood, I was instead schooled at home by a series of nannies, and spending so much time on my own, I learned to be content with my own company. Even when I was well enough for school, I found the carefree, playful ways of other children baffling.
And now, as an adult, I didn’t have children of my own or even siblings to give me nieces or nephews. I had never so much as changed a diaper.
But despite all of that I loved children, and desperately wanted some of my own one day. I didn’t begrudge a single decision my mother had made along the way, but I wanted a different life for myself—a house full of laughter and contentment, a loving husband, as many children as my body would allow me to have.
From the moment I heard about this mission, I decided I would use the nannying aspect as an opportunity to learn. I’d use my experiences with the Travers children as fuel for my own dreams for a future after the war.
“I don’t have much experience with children, but I’ll find a way to manage,” I assured Noah.
“I didn’t doubt that for a second,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve seen firsthand how capable you are. I can’t imagine you failing at anything.”
That warm rush once again returned to my belly at his quiet, unfailing confidence in me. I liked a lot of things about Noah, but perhaps I liked this best—he always saw me as endlessly competent, and endlessly capable.
C H A P T E R 3
ELOISE
Paris, France
February, 1944
There were virtually no motorcars on Parisian streets in those days, and the buses no longer ran at all, so I had planned to walk from my temporary accommodation in an apartment in the Rue St. Peres to the Gare St. Lazare, but I woke to threatening skies. My hostess, a quiet Parisian woman named Célestine, suggested I rethink my walk.
“Best not to be boarding the train sopping wet when you have such a long journey ahead or you’ll catch your death of cold. A bicycle taxi will get you to the station quickly and on a day like today the sidecar will be covered so you’ll stay dry.”
Madame Célestine reminded me of the new, softer version of my mother, the one I had come to know since her latest marriage broke down and she came to live with me. Célestine, just like Maman in recent years, had mastered the perfect balance between offering support and smothering. I took her advice and flagged down the taxi almost as soon as I left her apartment.
At first, I was pleased with my decision. The clouds above me grew heavier even as the bicycle taxi swifted me through the streets. I watched the buildings pass, and found myself almost fixated on the Germans, visible in every conceivable public space—Wehrmacht and SS and SD officers in their uniforms, countless ordinary German citizens, unmistakable in their starkly utilitarian clothing, especially alongside our more ornate French fashions. I knew those German civilians were probably in France to conduct business, and once upon a time they would not have seemed at all a threatening presence, but the war had changed everything. I was getting a glimpse of the future the Nazis wanted, one where France was more theirs than ours.
I was so distracted thinking about this that it took me some time to begin to suspect that the bicycle driver was not going directly to the station. I left Paris for London as an impoverished fifteen-year-old and even then, I’d never spent much time in the 7th Arrondissement. But I had familiarized myself with maps of the city when I was planning my mission back at the SOE’s Baker Street offices in London, and something about our direction seemed off. When I caught a glimpse of Les Invalides I finally understood that the driver had veered west at some point instead of traveling north.
“Sir,” I said, alarmed. “You are supposed to be taking me to Gare St. Lazare!”
“This is the way,” he called back to me, his tone calm but firm. I grasped the sides of the sidecar and shook the thing until he cried out in protest. “Easy, mademoiselle! I mean you no harm. This is just the fastest way to the station!”
“You take me for a fool, sir. You’re going to tell me the ride took longer than you anticipated, and you’ll demand more money.”
“How dare you insult my integrity!” he said, but he sounded defensive and guilty, and I was sure now that I’d caught him out in the scam. “You are a visitor to this city so you’ll have to trust me. I have lived in Paris my whole life and I know all of the shortcuts.”
“What do you mean… I’m a visitor to the city?” I frowned, momentarily distracted from my outrage at the scam. “I’m every bit as Parisian as you are.”