A waiter wheeled in the tea tray and I dismissed him so I could pour the tea. I fixed a plate of small sandwiches and pastries for Margot, although she didn’t touch them no matter how many times I pushed the plate toward her.
“Tell me more about your children,” I said. “Are the oldest two finished with school?”
“They are, but I’d rather not talk about them right now. It makes me miss them too much. Tell me instead about you. You said you are a widow?”
I nodded, and took a sip of my tea. “Yes. My late husband, Kit, died a year ago. He’d been ill for about a year so it wasn’t a shock, but still . . .”
“But it’s still as if your heart was ripped out of you without warning.”
“Yes. That’s it exactly.”
She plucked at the satin blanket covering her knees, her tea growing cool on the table beside her. “I see you still wear your wedding ring. Because you feel you are still married to him?”
I stared at the plain gold band on my hand, remembering Kit sliding it on my finger on our wedding day. I no longer wore the sapphire engagement ring, having long ago put it away to give to Penny on her twenty-first birthday. It was too dainty, too decorative for my hands, and I’d always felt as if it should have belonged to someone else.
I met her eyes again. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I wear it because I don’t know who else I am supposed to be if I’m not Kit’s wife.”
Her intense gaze bored into me. “You are a strong woman, Barbara. I know this already about you. Sometimes we don’t know how strong we are until we are left with no other choice, yes?” She smiled. “What is it they say? Some women are lost in the fire, and some are built with it. It’s too easy to quit when our lives don’t turn out the way we expect. But you and I are strong enough to imagine a new life. Something different, perhaps, but even better than what we’d hoped.”
A most annoying lump had formed in my throat and I forced it down with a gulp of tea so I could speak and not embarrass myself with silly tears. “I’m not sure you’re right about me. I seem to have a particular gift for wallowing in my misery.” I frowned. “Why are you being so kind to me? You barely know me.”
She shrugged, her bony shoulders mere shadows under her bed jacket. “Perhaps because you appear to need someone to be kind to you.”
I laughed nervously. “And here I was, thinking it was the other way around.” Uncomfortable with her scrutiny, I pushed her plate closer to her. “You haven’t eaten a thing. Should you at least try? I imagine you need to keep up your strength.”
“I will try for you, although I have no appetite.” She picked up a small cucumber triangle and took a tiny bite. “You are very young to be a widow. How are your children coping with the loss of their father?”
“I’m thirty-eight, so not very young. Our youngest two, Penny and Rupert, are handling it as well as can be expected. Stiff upper lip and all that.” I tried to smile at my little joke, but failed miserably. “Our oldest, Robin, has had the hardest time. He and Kit—my husband—were very close. Robin was just sent down from Cambridge for drinking. He’s with my sister and her husband now, which is probably the best place for him since I’m not exactly the icon of strength at the moment.”
She put the little sandwich back on her plate without having taken another bite. “You do see, Barbara, that’s why you are strong. A weak woman would never have admitted that her son was hurting and needed help elsewhere. And, of course, you are here on a lovely vacation. So not exactly ‘wallowing in your misery,’ hmm?”
“Oh, I’m not on holiday. I’m actually here to . . . well.” I drew a deep breath. “I’m here to find out about my husband’s time in Paris during the war.”
She looked surprised. “Did your husband never talk of it?”
I shook my head. “No.” Only in nightmares. “He was in a German prison camp and when he was released at the end of the war and sent home, he was in very bad shape. He wanted to forget about the war and everything that reminded him of it.” I looked down at my teacup, the cream clumping in the now cold liquid. “So he never talked about it, and for the same reason, I never asked.”
“How very difficult for you both. But then you married and had three wonderful children. It was a good life, yes?” She seemed to be genuinely interested in my answer.
“Yes,” I said without having to think. “It really was. And it still can be,” I added hastily. “I just need to stop grieving so I can get on with things.”