Adrien returned to his own apartment, and Noah and I were soon alone at our little place in Montbeliard. Our temporary home was charming, almost romantic—a former garden shed that had been converted into a tiny apartment. French doors led to a small courtyard off the kitchen, and a wooden ladder hung from the ceiling, adorned with well-used cooking utensils. But the apartment was even smaller than I’d expected—just a studio space without so much as a separate bedroom, the double bed jammed in beside the small circular dining table where Noah and I sat now nursing cups of tea. Given how intimate the space was, it was a strange blessing that the toilet was an outhouse, and we’d have to bathe in the laundry room beside it.
“This mission,” I said quietly. “I understand Baker Street is concerned about a large factory near here?”
“That’s right. It’s owned by a local family and run by its patriarch, Fernand Sauvage. By all accounts he’s a reasonable fellow stuck in a very bad position,” Noah told me. “The factory has always manufactured the Sauvage line of cars but since the Nazis took control of it in 1941 it has been churning out tanks. While that’s bad enough, there are growing whispers that the factory is being retooled. Within months, it will be producing munitions and perhaps even a new range of rockets. Something called the ‘V1.’ Have you heard of it?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “No one has seen them in action yet, but intelligence suggests they’re some kind of pilot-less flying bomb. Baker Street isn’t sure of the range of the things or how accurate they will be, but they know enough to be nervous.”
“They want us to destroy the factory, and that’s no small task given the size of the thing. Tens of thousands of locals come from all over the region to work there every day—the facility is the size of a town itself. It even has its own power plant, for God’s sake.”
“So the plan is for me to work for the factory’s accountant?” I asked, motioning toward a very large house a few doors down from our humble little studio.
“His name is Jullien Travers. His wife Mégane has some health issues, and their nanny recently left to have a child of her own.”
“And you—we—won’t move around much? We’ll stay in this apartment?”
“Yes, setting up the circuit in the region from scratch has been more challenging than I’d anticipated.” Much like the operational names of individual agents, SOE circuits were each assigned a code name. The circuit Noah had established was called Postmaster. “When I landed here, I didn’t have any secure contacts, let alone a network of safe houses to move between. I needed to stay close enough to scope out the factory, so I decided to rent a place longer-term. As the circuit leader I’d have tried to remain a step removed from the local contacts but starting from scratch, it hasn’t been possible to stay anonymous. I managed to recruit a mechanic shortly after I arrived and the locals think I work with him.”
“And this ‘job’ you’ve lined up for me. I’ll be working with the Travers children?”
“I’ve been looking for a way to determine if Jullien and his wife might be sympathetic to the cause, so when I saw him out taking his girls for a walk last week, I stopped for a chat. He told me their nanny had recently left and they’ve struggled to replace her. I told him my wife would be arriving soon and would be looking for work.”
“Well done for thinking on your feet.”
“Even if we can’t recruit him, it seemed like an incredible opportunity to get someone into that house,” Noah said. “You’ll try to form a good rapport with them, see if they’re receptive at least to assisting us. Plus, you can search Jullien’s home office if and when the opportunity arises. I’ve watched him come and go so I know he does carry a briefcase to and from work, so it’s possible there is documentation in his study that might confirm our fears about the retooling. We have our work cut out for us, but I’m certain that we can do something to throw a spanner into the works of that damned factory.”
“Good,” I said, even as my stomach buzzed with nerves. Noah’s face was suddenly transformed by a wide smile as he stared at me. “What?”
“We’ve always worked so well together. This is going to be brilliant.”
“Yes,” I agreed, but I looked down at my tea, avoiding his gaze as the nerves in my stomach shifted suddenly toward butterflies.
“My only concern is…” I looked back at him, alarmed, and he winked at me. “Chloe, do tell me you like children? It’s one of the few things I don’t know about you.”
I had always avoided the topic of my childhood when Noah and I spoke, despite the endless, rambling conversations we’d shared on our journey and over the course of our correspondence since then. I was diagnosed with Coeliac Sprue as an infant and had suffered from its ill effects my entire life. Too poorly for school for much of my childhood, I was instead schooled at home by a series of nannies, and spending so much time on my own, I learned to be content with my own company. Even when I was well enough for school, I found the carefree, playful ways of other children baffling.
And now, as an adult, I didn’t have children of my own or even siblings to give me nieces or nephews. I had never so much as changed a diaper.
But despite all of that I loved children, and desperately wanted some of my own one day. I didn’t begrudge a single decision my mother had made along the way, but I wanted a different life for myself—a house full of laughter and contentment, a loving husband, as many children as my body would allow me to have.
From the moment I heard about this mission, I decided I would use the nannying aspect as an opportunity to learn. I’d use my experiences with the Travers children as fuel for my own dreams for a future after the war.
“I don’t have much experience with children, but I’ll find a way to manage,” I assured Noah.
“I didn’t doubt that for a second,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve seen firsthand how capable you are. I can’t imagine you failing at anything.”
That warm rush once again returned to my belly at his quiet, unfailing confidence in me. I liked a lot of things about Noah, but perhaps I liked this best—he always saw me as endlessly competent, and endlessly capable.
C H A P T E R 3
ELOISE
Paris, France
February, 1944
There were virtually no motorcars on Parisian streets in those days, and the buses no longer ran at all, so I had planned to walk from my temporary accommodation in an apartment in the Rue St. Peres to the Gare St. Lazare, but I woke to threatening skies. My hostess, a quiet Parisian woman named Célestine, suggested I rethink my walk.
“Best not to be boarding the train sopping wet when you have such a long journey ahead or you’ll catch your death of cold. A bicycle taxi will get you to the station quickly and on a day like today the sidecar will be covered so you’ll stay dry.”
Madame Célestine reminded me of the new, softer version of my mother, the one I had come to know since her latest marriage broke down and she came to live with me. Célestine, just like Maman in recent years, had mastered the perfect balance between offering support and smothering. I took her advice and flagged down the taxi almost as soon as I left her apartment.