“Well, what?”
“No one suspects the gendarme’s wife.”
THIRTY-NINE
BEATRICE
Amiens
December 1916
“You’re a madwoman to come here.” Captain Furlaud’s blue eyes burned despite the snow that dusted the dark wool of his officer’s coat and frosted his mustache. “And I’m a madman for helping you.”
A year and a half had passed since last we laid eyes upon each other, and seeing him again was a bittersweet pain. “Yes, well, madness is part of my charm,” I replied, still stinging from a marital argument with Willie, who insisted it would be dangerous to travel without him, and from my efforts not to state the obvious—that because of his lameness, my trip would be safer and swifter if I went to Amiens on my own.
None of that did I wish to share with Captain Furlaud, especially not with so much else still left unsaid between us, so I settled instead upon, “I don’t fancy that I can be in much danger here at a hospital.”
“It’s illness and exposure that’s killing us here,” he said, motioning to the rows of beds and staff nurses bustling to attend them in the ward behind us.
When arranging this visit, it had seemed prudent to meet him somewhere public. I’d hoped it would make it impossible to speak with any degree of intimacy, but Max dug his hands down into the pockets of his coat and said, “I was grieved to hear about your nephew’s death. I know how much he meant to you.”
“Thank you,” I said, staring at my feet.
“How is Mr. Chanler?”
I didn’t hear a note of bitterness, only honorable concern. What a sincere man he was . . .
“Mr. Chanler is regaining his strength,” I said, which was more hopefulness than fact. “Thank you for helping me find Lafayette’s great-grandson. Is Monsieur de Chambrun’s artillery unit nearby?”
Under the visor of his officer’s cap, Max raised a well-groomed brow. “Surely you don’t think I’d bring you to the trenches. No. I convinced the commandant to stop in Amiens to visit wounded friends on his way home for Christmas leave. He can spare you a few moments, but wonders why you must speak to him in person . . .”
“Because my person is more persuasive than my pen.”
The corner of his mouth tilted into an unbidden smirk, which he tried to smother. “Yes, well, I might agree, but I have too few letters from you by which to judge.”
I didn’t know if it was a rebuke or a plea to resume a correspondence, and I dared not ask. Thankfully, in that moment, a staff nurse approached us, a baby in her arms. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Captain Furlaud, but the Red Cross can’t take this one yet.”
I watched in astonishment as Max took the child from the nurse. “Ah, poor little jolie fille, this war is no place for you!”
The nurse smiled. I smiled too, with a pang, for the sight of a baby in Max’s strong arms was like a glimpse of a life I’d never have. I’d chosen Willie. Even if Max understood and forgave that, I wasn’t sure I could forgive myself. Was my heart really so fickle? Thankfully, I was distracted from these thoughts by the little pink creature in Max’s arms, who looked about with such curiosity. She could be no more than a year old, but it was difficult to tell, with all the children in France being so small and starved. “Who is she?”
He gave a sad shrug. “One of my soldiers found her abandoned in a bombed-out village. He tried to find her parents but was shot dead in the attempt. I brought her here, but the ambulances and Red Cross are too busy with urgent cases to take her somewhere better.”
My heart lurched to think some mother might be wandering the rubble searching for her daughter. “Which village? Maybe—”
“There was no one left alive,” he said, as if divining my thoughts. “Those who could flee did so. Those rest are corpses in the rubble. Sadly, not so rare an occurrence.” It was a desolate statement for what it said about the fate of the village, of this fair little babe, and for others just like her. Her cherub cheeks drew me close enough to tickle under her chin. Then she reached for me. I laughed as her fingers grasped my pearls, and to keep her from tugging them, Max released her into my arms.
“That’s right, darling,” I said, kissing her forehead. “Reach for what you want in life and never let go . . .” I stole a glance up at Maxime. “Does she have a name?”
Suddenly, he couldn’t find his tongue. It was the staff nurse who answered, “The captain told us to call her Marthe . . .” My heart snagged upon this name, for Max had, in some way, made this child my namesake. The bittersweet ache of it must have shown on my face, for the staff nurse said, “Sorry for interrupting. I’ll take her now.”