“That’s terrible.” I managed to hold back a belch just in time to save my dignity. Even in my mental fog, I felt great pleasure knowing that La Fleur wasn’t the angel she was rumored to be. “What was her real name?”
Drew shrugged, and I found myself noticing his very broad shoulders and wondering if he played football—American or British, although at the moment I couldn’t recall the difference. “Nobody knows. Even my father. She’s quite the enigma.” He seemed to be leaning toward me, an odd expression on his face. “Are you all right, Babs?”
“Just fine, thank you,” I said, grasping the edge of the table so I didn’t fall out of my chair.
He studied me for a moment, as if considering my response before continuing. “After the war, did she ever try to contact your husband? A phone call? Or letter?”
I stared at the mostly full glass in front of me, hearing the strident voice of Mrs. Schuyler over the din and through the alcohol haze in my brain. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she screeched. “It’s the Battle of the SOMMAY. I thought you said you knew French.” I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Because I was thinking of the letter inside my bag. The words written by another woman to my husband. I will always love you. Always.
“No,” I said. “There was no contact.” Then I picked up my glass and drained it.
“But he called out her name,” he said gently. “That must have been difficult for you.” He reached over and pressed his large hand on top of mine and I didn’t mind. It was the first act of compassion I’d received in a very long while. And I learned something about Drew “not connected to the university” Bowdoin right then. He knew what it was like to love someone who wasn’t really his.
He leaned back in his chair. “How is your French?”
I almost blurted out Better than yours but thought that would be rude. “I learned French in school, but I got much better at it after Kit came back from the war. I think I was attempting to be more cosmopolitan.” I swallowed, a bitter taste settling on my tongue. “So that my husband would find me more interesting than I was. He loved all things French, and I was . . . not.” I hadn’t meant to say all that, but there was something so kind, so understanding about the way Drew was looking at me that I felt compelled to share things with him I’d never shared with anyone else.
I straightened in my chair, aware of how incredibly attractive he was. How incredibly attractive I found him to be. I snatched my hand away, feeling as if I’d just been unfaithful to Kit, even though I’d been a widow for over a year. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the small folder I always carried with me of my important papers and photographs of my children. I suppose it was a leftover from the war days when one wasn’t sure if one’s house would still be there at the end of the day.
“Have I shown you pictures of my children? I have three of them.” Without waiting for an answer, I slid several photographs onto the table. They weren’t the most recent ones, all being taken before Kit’s illness at Robin’s fifteenth birthday celebration out on the lawn at Langford Hall. I pointed to each photo, identifying the subjects. “That’s Robin, the eldest. He’s seventeen. He’s named after his grandfather, Robert Langford.”
“The spy novelist? That Robert Langford?”
“The very one,” I said, inordinately pleased that Drew knew who Robert was. “And this,” I said, pointing to my second son, “is Rupert. He’s fourteen and very smart and very sweet. Not as athletic as Robin, but they’re good friends as well as brothers. And this,” I said, tapping on my daughter’s face, “is Penelope, but we call her Penny, and she’s eleven. She’s very clever and gets along with her brothers—although she’s closest to Rupert. Most likely because he enjoys playing with her dolls and dressing up. He’s very kind to do that as I know Robin would never consider it.”
He smiled and pointed at another figure who appeared in each photo. “And who’s that?”
“Oh, that’s Walnut. He’s a whippet. It’s sort of a requirement—having a whippet at Langford Hall. They’re passed on from generation to generation. Like the Langford signet ring.” I stopped suddenly, remembering.
“A signet ring?” Drew prompted.
I nodded. “Yes, it was gold with two swans engraved on it. Sadly, Robin won’t get a chance to wear it. Kit came home from the war without it. He never mentioned it, so I assumed the Germans took it when he was interred in the prison camp.”