I could see this appealed to Chambrun’s old-fashioned notions of noblesse oblige. What, after all, was a castle good for if not to offer shelter? Then my gift for ideas on a grand scale came to the fore. “Chavaniac can be a school for these children,” I continued. “The war is swallowing up an entire generation of young men. Once we’ve won—and we must win—a new generation will have to follow. One ready to make the world over with new and better ideals. What better ideals than those of Lafayette?”
Chambrun’s gaze drifted to the windows as they rattled with the biting cold wind. “Ambitious.”
“Yes, but why not? We can train these children into distinguished careers . . . and with my husband’s connections, secure them internships in American companies, so that they can return to France and rebuild. The chateau can foster diplomatic relations, and the Franco-American alliance of sister republics shall be renewed.”
As he stared down at horses in the street, snorting steam as they pulled wagons filled with munitions, his expression revealed a sentimental crack in the hard facade. And at length, he said, “Well, madame, if that is your aim . . . you have my blessing to try.”
* * *
—
I returned to Paris with three things that would change my life. The first, an option for the purchase of Lafayette’s chateau. The second, a baby girl named Marthe with fair hair and eyes as steely blue as the winter sky. The third, concealed within my coat, a sealed letter that Max had asked me not to open until Christmas.
The last burned like a guilty secret as I found myself torn between the impulse to tear it open or tear it to pieces. Especially when my husband’s relief at my safe return was so evident, and his praise so unstinting. “Your plan is marvelous,” Willie declared. “By George, it could make a real difference in this world.”
Together we worked the phones, dashed off cables, and applied ourselves to the necessary paperwork. My friends greeted the news with equal zeal, and philanthropist John Moffat agreed to be the primary financier. Given the heavy snow, it would be quite impossible for us to journey into the mountains of Auvergne until spring. But we didn’t wait—we purchased it right away for four thousand pounds, which included both the house and the ancient grounds. “Just think,” Marie-Louise said, bouncing baby Marthe on her knee. “This little girl might be the first to find a home on Lafayette’s mountain.”
“If only she were a boy,” said Clara sarcastically, flicking ash from the end of her cigarette and giving Emily an amused look that recalled their earlier dispute. “Just today I had to listen to important men talking of the uselessness of educating girls. The war has made men so resentful, as if it was our idea. They seem to fear women will take their place in everything from the bedroom to the factory and beyond.”
“We might have to, if the war keeps on,” I said, tucking a cushion behind Emily’s back, which obviously pained her. “You needn’t be such a stoic about your pregnancy, Emily.”
“To the contrary, I think we all must be stoic,” she replied. “Whenever I’m of a mind to grouse, I think of the poor shivering soldiers, or of Amaury—he says the air is very cold in the sky. I don’t think he’ll get leave for Christmas.”
“We shall make it a merry Christmas for you anyway,” I resolved.
We tried, decorating a tree and making a spare holiday feast. Coal was incredibly scarce. The midnight mass for Catholics was rescheduled to conserve fuel, and even pagan souls prayed for another Christmas truce . . .
I worried Willie would resent my devotion to Emily, but he declared himself anxious to celebrate with us. And he remained on his best behavior, rising to Clara’s bait only a few times. She loved to poke the bear, and in days of old he would have engaged her in brilliant debate, but I scarcely recognized this man who suddenly stared aimlessly into the distance, almost as dull as he was dazed.
Our fevered work in purchasing the castle must have taken a toll, but Willie roused himself for the holiday gift giving, pronouncing the tie I had given him the very thing he wanted most in the world. For me, Willie had somehow procured a fur hat in the Russian style. “Since your hatbox cannot be found . . . I wonder who is responsible for that stupidity?”
Rather than blame a servant, I said, “Someone who gave you an excuse for a very nice present. With this new hat, I can now retire the other, which has become a veritable landmark in Paris.”
I kissed his cheek, knowing it must have cost him a pretty penny, as it was nearly impossible to find a reasonably priced coat, blanket, shawl, or warm anything anywhere in the city. More frivolous luxuries were affordable. Thus, I’d purchased a beaded handbag for Emily, lace for Marie-Louise, and for Clara, an ingenious trench lighter embossed with an owl. I also gave a doll to Marthe, since Emily felt it best to keep the little urchin with us for the holiday. “I have a nursery ready, after all.”