I leaned against the wall, listening to the sounds of Mrs. Finch in the kitchen and my own breathing skittering from my lungs like angry bees. Opening my eyes again, I raised the letter and forced myself to continue reading.
My father has had a stroke, which makes communicating difficult as he can barely speak or write. But when I read the obituary to him and mentioned La Fleur he became quite agitated and upset. After I’d calmed him down, I was able to understand that my father had reason to believe that La Fleur was no hero but the grandest traitor of them all—and especially to my father. She ruined his life—something I’ve only just begun attempting to understand.
My father was OSS during the war and was scheduled to receive an important drop from La Fleur. He was told only that he was to receive something very valuable to the Resistance, something containing rare and expensive diamonds and rubies. It was not explained exactly what he should be looking for as it would be too dangerous, and he was told only in a message from La Fleur to look for the “wolf with a cross.”
La Fleur never appeared that night, leaving my father empty-handed. A few months later, however, the wives of Nazi officers began appearing in public with beautiful diamond and ruby jewelry leaving many to speculate that my father had lied and had profited from the treasure meant for the Resistance.
He was questioned relentlessly and his reputation permanently damaged, yet he consistently maintained his innocence. For all these years he has been dogged by not only La Fleur’s betrayal, but how he himself was forced into the position of being hailed a traitor and a thief. Unbeknownst to me, he has unsuccessfully spent his entire life attempting to clear his name and find the elusive La Fleur. I’m afraid my father is near the end of his life, and it is his last wish that I might be able to succeed where he has failed.
I have sent many inquiries to various government offices both here in the States and in France for more information and have hit a brick wall, as many records from the war are still confidential. However, after doing quite a bit of research as well as trying to piece together my father’s story, I came to understand that at least part of the answer might well be with your husband’s effects, or even in any of the stories he might have shared with you of his war years.
I apologize if this letter is unwelcome during this time of your grief, but a part of me hopes that you are not only able to assist me, but also willing to revisit some of your husband’s past.
I have arranged to be assigned to my firm’s Paris office for a brief period of time starting April 20th. I understand that this is short notice and you most likely have a very busy life and would be unable to make the trip across the Channel. Yet I feel compelled to at least ask—very brazen and American of me, I know. But I believe that being in Paris while searching for La Fleur is what I must do, and it is my strongest wish that you might be able to join me in this quest. My father never met you, but he was certain that the woman Kit Langford married had to be a force to be reckoned with. I’m not a betting man, but I’d like to wager that he was right.
I will be staying at the Ritz and you may address any correspondence there as they have instructions to forward to my office if a letter arrives prior to my own arrival. I look forward to hearing from you or, even better, meeting you in Paris.
Yours truly,
Andrew Bowdoin, Esq.
My hands shook when I read the letter again, and then a third time. Then, carefully, I refolded the letter and returned it to its torn envelope. Ignoring the rest of the post scattered on the steps, I climbed the remaining stairs and headed down the long hallway to the door at the end, each step more purposeful than the last, my anger at the enigmatic woman I had been forced to share my husband with for almost twenty years growing with each step. The grandest traitor of them all.
I yanked open the door to the attic steps, ignoring the puff of dust that blew in my face and made me sneeze, the stale, icy air of the unused space making my teeth chatter. I made my way to the trunk in the corner, a place I hadn’t returned to since I’d thought I’d buried the memory of La Fleur. A ticking bomb, indeed.
With another sneeze, I knelt down in front of the trunk, lifted the latch, and opened the lid. I pulled out a linen-bound book, allowing it to rest in my hands while I sat back on the floor, ignoring the coating of dust. Smoothing my hand over the title, I read it in the murky light. The Scarlet Pimpernel. It was the one thing Kit had managed to keep in the camp, hidden again and again to prevent it from being confiscated. Kit had once confessed that it had been his token of survival, his lucky card. When he’d recovered enough, he’d asked me to throw it away as it was a part of his past. And then he’d asked me to marry him.