Beatrice really was asked to do work by the embassy, in addition to being sent on a dangerous labor mission before the end of the First World War. The story of how she was nearly torpedoed and refused to get out of her bath comes from an unpublished biography written by her son, and is corroborated by other accounts. She braved the front at least three times and crossed a war-torn sea at least seven times; for having risked this trip more than any other war relief worker, she was made a chevalier in the Legion of Honor. After the First World War, Beatrice would undergo surgery and hospitalization for an illness having to do with her thyroid. Her husband and friends make reference to her ill health and to their certainty that she was overworking herself. Yet she survived until just after the Second World War, dying of a heart attack on a train at the relatively young age of sixty-six. It is likely that when she died, she was on her way to be reunited with the Baroness de LaGrange, who was en route to America, but the two friends never saw each other again in this life. Her companion on that last journey was the Nobel Prize–winning poet Saint-John Perse, aka prominent French diplomat Alexis Leger. （When an interviewer asked about this relationship, Beatrice’s eldest son confined his remarks to his late mother’s admiration for Leger’s work, but confirmed that they spent every summer together for a decade.）
I was thrilled to bring the facts of Beatrice’s large life to the page, but of course, a few liberties were taken. For example, though Beatrice’s oldest son went by Willie, like his father—or Blue Willie, because he had his mother’s eyes—the novel calls him Billy to distinguish. To keep the cast list manageable, I had to omit people like Tebby Dearborn née Evans, who served as Beatrice’s secretary and de facto governess. I also couldn’t explore the deeply important contributions made by Beatrice’s friend and philanthropist John Moffat, but he deserves much of the credit for keeping Lafayette’s legacy alive.
It also pained me to all but leave out mention of Valentine Thomson, an irrepressible magazine editor who befriended Beatrice, found homes for thousands of displaced refugees, and dedicated a large part of her life to Lafayette’s chateau. I attributed many of her attitudes and accomplishments, including her brainchild about French dolls, to the equally important Clara Simon, who served as secretary for the Lafayette Memorial Fund from its foundation until she was denounced in an anti-Semitic newspaper and dismissed by the Baron de LaGrange in 1941.
I also combined, condensed, or moved historical events—for example, Victor Chapman saw his parents to safety in London before deciding to enlist, but to streamline the story, I had him decide in Amiens. In fact, Beatrice and her boys stayed as guests of the Baron de LaGrange’s sister at Hardelot until the German offensive came straight at them. Beatrice’s husband had already left for Switzerland when she returned to France in the spring of 1915, but she did find out about his impending amputation from the Chapmans. Woodrow Wilson did make a speech declaring war that asserted America’s role as a defender of democracy, but I condensed his powerful words. And Willie really did throw his prosthetic across the restaurant, and he did examine what were probably Victor Chapman’s exhumed remains, but both incidents happened later than this novel posits. The baron’s mother, Clémentine de LaGrange, mentioned Beatrice’s visit in her memoirs, Open House in Flanders; but Clémentine had already fetched her granddaughter, and if Maxime Furlaud was present, we have no record of it.
Also, it was Emily’s daughter Amicie who was born 1917, not Anne, but Beatrice was present for both births, so I combined them.
Other times, I had to make educated guesses, like how Beatrice Chanler became such a knowledgeable person or what rank Maxime Furlaud held at the end of his service. And occasionally, I had to invent things entirely. For example, Mitzi Miller is a fictional character based on a number of similarly situated members of the Woman’s Peace Party. And since I had no idea how Beatrice met Furlaud and I wanted to show how relationships could blossom quickly in wartime, I was inspired by an interview with Beatrice’s good friend Valentine, in which an incident was recounted about having been lost in the dark after the opera and being helped home by a stranger.
As for Beatrice’s name, her grandson suggested she might’ve plucked it from literature or the stage, so I went with Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, which was remarkably applicable. The historic Victor Chapman had a Jewish comrade and good friend who died in his arms—a Polish mathematician named Kohn. And Victor did ask his family to be in touch with “Madame Kohn.” Because this relationship helped illustrate the continuing thread of France’s struggle with religious liberty, I included the Kohns at the Picpus ceremony in 1915 and invented descendants among those who suffered under the Nazi regime in the next generation.