We met Victor at the city’s centerpiece—a magnificent Gothic cathedral that had been spared, thus far, the ravages of war. We found Victor inside, wearing his legionnaire’s uniform, staring up at the tympanum with all the wonder of the architect he’d been training to be. In my nephew’s reverent gaze, I sensed the hint of a pious crusader sent to fight back forces of darkness. And in that moment, I could believe it to be true.
My sister-in-law rushed to embrace him. “Oh, my dear boy!”
Victor wrapped one arm around her, then slung the other arm over his father’s shoulder, and the three pressed their foreheads together in such familial tenderness that I hung back, not wishing to intrude.
From behind me, someone said, “A touching scene.”
I turned to the man who had made it possible. “Why, Captain Furlaud, I hoped to see you again.”
I enjoyed the look of him in the light of day. I gauged him to be not yet forty, with brown hair and clear blue eyes. I liked his fine Gallic nose and wanted to run my sculptor’s thumbs over his jawline, especially now that I knew he’d been too humble by far when we met in the dark. For one thing, I knew the name and the cognac label. What’s more, I knew the bank. Dupont-Furlaud. Here was the scion of a family fortune, and I felt a little satisfaction that I still attracted men of quality, even by chance.
“Now, madame,” he said, “since I’ve kept up my end of the bargain . . . your name?”
“What if I want to be Marthe a little longer?”
“Why the pretense?” He sounded faintly as if he didn’t approve.
“Habit. I’m an actress, you see.”
“A singer, an actress . . .”
“An artist too,” I replied with a grin.
He leaned against one of the pillars. “I have a confession to make.”
“Well, a church is the place to confess . . .”
His mouth turned up at one corner. “I already know who you are.”
No you don’t, I thought, disappointed that the game was already over. Nobody knows who I am. I’ve lived in disguise so long I scarcely know myself.
At my fallen expression, he gave a rueful shrug. “I’m sorry. I had to make inquiries. In wartime a good officer doesn’t pass messages from mysterious foreign women he meets on the street.”
I sputtered. “You think I’m a spy?”
“I think you’re Mrs. William Astor Chanler.”
I’d rather he thought me a spy.
I was fairly certain that I no longer wanted to be Mrs. William Astor Chanler. Especially when it foreclosed all other options . . . But Furlaud went on, apologetically, “I’ve read your husband’s book about his explorations. I thought he was extraordinarily lucky, and now that I meet his wife, I know it to be true.”
“We’re separated,” I said bluntly.
The frank admission shocked us both into silence. This wasn’t something I admitted to new acquaintances. Still, here I was, saying it in public. Saying it to this man, because I wanted him to know. And it was his slow-blooming smile that prompted me to ask, “And is there a Mrs. Furlaud?”
A twinkle came to his eye. “Not yet.”
A moment of delicious possibility floated between us.
Then my nephew called, “Aunt Bea!” Victor bounded over and spun me round against my yelps of protest. When he put me down again, I kissed his cheeks, overcome with his transformation. He was still a big overgrown pup with a gleaming smile, but he’d grown into a strong soldier, and I told him so.
“It’s from digging trenches all day!” he said.
Years ago, when he was still a boy, I’d glanced up from my chair on the lawn of the family estate to see the shadow of him cavorting on the rooftop with perfect sangfroid in an escape from a nest of hornets he’d discovered. Reminding him of the incident, I said, “Look what a hornet’s nest you’ve stirred up this time. All your family crossing an ocean just to set eyes on you.”
Amused, my nephew turned to Furlaud. “Captain, I really must thank you again for getting word to me that my parents were in France.”
“Anything for a fellow Frenchman,” said Furlaud, and when he saw my American nephew’s confusion, he added, “You were wounded in the line of duty, no? That makes you fran?ais par le sang versé. French by virtue of spilled blood. One of our customs.”
Victor grinned wider. “Please allow me to introduce you to my family. This is my mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. John Jay Chapman. And this is my—”