A car was put at her disposal. Not her car, her beloved long-lost car, but a stuffy black car with a driver paid by the government. Aurélie was ferried triumphantly from village to village, displayed with the talisman, the Demoiselle de Courcelles bringing hope to France. They dressed her in white with a tricolore pinned to her chest; she was Liberty, she was the Spirit of France, she was a living sign of defiance against the Germans.
And if she was quietly ill by the side of the road, only her mother noticed.
“Here, take this,” said her mother, handing her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. They were en route to yet another engagement, at which her mother and the local mayor would speak and Aurélie would stand there looking symbolic, holding the talisman. Then contributions would be taken for the war effort. “How far along are you?”
Aurélie looked at her blankly.
“The child,” said her mother matter-of-factly. “How many months gone are you?”
“Child?”
“Yes, the child that’s making you miserably ill—and will also make you lose your waist,” her mother added drily. “That child.”
The car was parked at the side of the road, the driver smoking a cigarette. It was September again, and the air was starting to get that autumn smell, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves.
Aurélie stared at her mother. “I thought—I thought I was ill because I was sad.”
For once, she had the satisfaction of rendering her mother entirely speechless. “I knew I shouldn’t have left your education to the nuns,” her mother said at last. “Have you the slightest idea how babies are made?”
“I . . . no.” She supposed she should have thought it. But it wasn’t something one discussed. And she’d never had female friends to share things with her.
“What about the father?” Her mother’s voice was carefully neutral.
“I—I don’t want to discuss it.” The father. Max would have adored being a father. It was what he wanted more than anything. A family. A large family.
“Were you forced? Never mind. This isn’t the place,” her mother said hastily, when Aurélie looked at her in alarm. “It doesn’t matter. What’s a father, anyway? This is your child, not anyone else’s. We’ll raise it together, you and I. You’re not alone in this.”
“We should—we should be getting on.” Aurélie couldn’t help putting her hands to her stomach. It didn’t feel any different. It seemed strange to think that a child might be growing there. Max’s baby, their baby, who was supposed to grow up in a town with an unpronounceable name, surrounded by brothers and sisters and dogs. “Wouldn’t I feel something?”
“Not necessarily. How long has it been since you’ve had your courses?” Her mother nodded, without waiting for an answer. “I’ll have my doctor examine you when we return.”
“A child,” said Aurélie, testing out the notion. She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or elated. Her mother might be wrong—except her mother didn’t believe in being wrong. If her mother said something, it must be so. The world would conform itself to her wishes or face the consequences. Aurélie suddenly, fiercely, hoped her mother was right.
Her mother was still talking. “You’ve no husband, of course, but we can manage that.” Her mother pursed her lips, thinking. “I saw Jean-Marie d’Aubigny’s name on the casualty lists.”
“Oh no.” Aurélie pressed her eyes shut. Her playmate, her childhood friend. She should feel more, she should weep for him, but she felt drained of emotion. Horror had succeeded horror until there was nothing left. “Not Jean-Marie, too.”
“Yes, it’s very sad,” said her mother absently. “Papers disappear in wartime. Marriage records, for example. Or there’s that spineless priest your father keeps on at Courcelles. Surely, he could be persuaded to . . . to remember what ought to have happened. We’ll tell people you were married in secret. A moonlit wedding at the chapel. A few stolen moments together before he had to leave for the front . . . Who is there to say otherwise?”
“Everyone in his regiment!”
Her mother waved that away. “He must have had leave at some point. Jean-Marie was a younger son, there’s no inheritance to be disputed. And who would give the lie to the Demoiselle de Courcelles? You’re an emblem of France. I’m surprised they aren’t putting you on the coins yet.”