Happy but bewildered, I asked, “What are you doing in New York?”
“I heard your ship would come later this afternoon and meant to take your boys to meet you at the docks!”
“But last I heard Amaury was in Washington training American pilots.”
“I took the train up,” she explained. “Now, tell me, how is my baby?”
“Anna is thriving in the care of her grandmother,” I said.
Ashley tugged at my sleeve. “Mumsie. Aren’t we going for ices?”
I laughed. “You little rogue. Let’s all go to Coney Island!”
That afternoon we stood in lines for the Helter Skelter and Shoot-the-Chutes rides. We went in a gondola too, which was no competition for Venice, but had its charms. I enjoyed the sound of children’s laughter—children who were, by and large, untroubled by war.
On a shady park bench where we watched my boys play, Emily explained that she’d not been idle—she’d arranged an art exhibition that would be called The Sky Fighters of France. The monies collected would go to the children of French aviators killed in action to be cared for at Chavaniac.
“We must invite the Chapmans to take part.” My nephew had been the first American aviator to die at war, and it would not be right to leave him—or his family—out of such an exhibition.
Emily nodded her understanding and sympathy. “Speaking of, there has been some music composed in your nephew’s honor. A string quartet. It would be nice to play it at the exhibition, and of course our Lafayette work seems to take on a grander scope every day.”
“That’s true,” I said, for I dreamed of transforming Chavaniac into an international school. “Clara and Marie-Louise send their regards.”
“And Mr. Chanler?” she asked. “How does he fare? There’s a rumor going round—something about a nasty altercation in a Parisian restaurant.”
The story apparently traveled faster than I did. “How he hurled his wooden leg at the headwaiter like a spear? Oh, yes, it’s true. I was there.”
Appalled, Emily’s jaw dropped. “I never knew he had a violent temper.”
It was my instinct to defend Willie. To explain it was the pain. The alcohol. Still, the excuses had worn thin. The Chanlers had explosive tempers. I’d once seen Willie stab a knife into the table while spatting with his brothers. He’d always been a man of self-proclaimed medieval temperament; it’s only that he used to curb it for my sake, so the kindest thing I could think to say was, “Mr. Chanler means well, but age and habit have conquered. I fear the day has passed where a change might be expected.”
How grateful I was for Max—a man who never got drunk in public, never lost his temper, never let his manners slip. “Furlaud is here.”
Emily’s eyes narrowed. I waited for questions or accusations. She hadn’t approved of our romance before Willie’s amputation; she’d approve even less now. At least she knew me too well to suppose I’d done this lightly. “You’re on a dangerous path. Is it too late to warn you off it?”
“I’m afraid so. I know you have misgivings, but please don’t darken my skies. Rejoice in this hour of happiness with me.”
“Is he at least a decent man?”
“More than decent! He’s a most attaching person. A remarkable person, truly. His devotion is enough to inspire love, and added to this a charming personality, the effect becomes irresistible.”
Emily took a breath. “It’s one thing to find love in the crucible of war, quite another for it to flourish in everyday life. This might be your chance to know if this man is worth upending your life for after the war.”
Must it upend my life? The war had ingrained a habit in me of living hour by hour, rarely thinking about what would come. “I see you’ve regained your pragmatic footing. Has daily life with your baron knocked the stars from your eyes?”
“No.” Her eyes still burned with love. I imagined mine did too. So then, we were both in love and in America with our soldiers. Surely that was a thing to celebrate!
And I meant to celebrate, if only there hadn’t been so much to do. From the office, I sent countless letters recruiting coal industrialists and newspaper magnates and college presidents to provide internships for the boys who would graduate from the school at Chavaniac. Still, the most important priority was the orphanage. Accordingly, I made phone calls to every prominent writer I knew in an effort to collect essays, poems, and stories for an anthology to be published, the proceeds going to fund my work there. When Max learned that I’d convinced Theodore Roosevelt to write the foreword, he teased, “Now you have presidents at your beck and call!”