“It’s all over your face, poor thing.”
Suddenly Rosalyn was drowning, her eyes stinging and filling with tears. She scolded herself—not now not now not now—wishing she were back home, ensconced in her little cottage in the vineyard, where she could curl up on the cold tile of the bathroom floor and keen into one of Dash’s old T-shirts, even though they’d long since lost the scent of him.
She took a long pull on her wine, gulping twice, breaking any number of rules of etiquette about taking small, graceful sips in order to appreciate the full flavor.
Ten long, slow breaths.
Rosalyn felt a surge of gratitude when the older woman turned her attention back to the letters. It would only make things worse ifEmma reached out to rub her shoulder or grasp her hand, asking her what was wrong—or, worse, apologizing for making her cry. That always made Rosalyn feel as ifsheshould apologize for making the other person feel bad in the first place. C. S. Lewis wrote that grief felt a great deal like fear: the fluttering in the stomach, the repeated swallowing, the impulse to flee. That was all true, but to Rosalyn, it was so much more. Still, in a strange way, the grief itself helped her cope; it muted everything so that she could rarely summon the energy to dwell on all she had lost.
Not just Dash, but the life they’d had together. The future they had dreamed of. Even their past.
Rosalyn had lost the person who had accompanied Dash to Paris.
She had no idea who she was anymore.
Chapter Three
It’s going to take forever to put these back in order,” Emma muttered as she opened one set of folded sheets. “Listen to this: ‘April 26, 1916. “Lucie says the blind woman must be granted the prettiest teacup, because who understands beauty more than those who have lost their sight?”’ Isn’t that lovely? By his own admission, Émile Legrand was not an educated man, but if you ask me, he had the soul of a poet.”
“You mentioned he was a farm boy,” Rosalyn said, grateful for the distraction. “I’m surprised he was so well-read.”
“Émile’s fascinating. I wonder whether he was this charming in person, or if he simply had a way with the written word. He wrote two or three letters a week to Doris; I have the sense they were an important outlet for him, helped him survive the trenches.”
“Who is the Lucie he mentions?”
“Mademoiselle Lucie Maréchal. She was living in the caves under the city of Reims.”
“Why was she in the caves?”
“During the war, Reims was surrounded by the German army, which shelled the city for years. Something like ninety percent of thebuildings were destroyed, and thousands of civilians were killed. A lot of the citizenry sought shelter in the caves beneath the champagne houses. You’ve never been to Reims?”
Rosalyn shook her head. “Just Paris.”The lamppost on the corner, shaking off snowflakes. “A lifetime of laughter for my beautiful bride. I promise.”“So, what are you going to do with the letters?”
“At the moment, I’m just curious to see how many I can find. My grandmother used to tell me stories about Doris when I was little, and for whatever reason, I’ve always felt a special connection to her. I’m going to try to find a historian or someone to write a book about their story.”
“Why not write it yourself?”
Emma smiled. “Prose—not to mention organization—is not my strong suit. And it will take a lot of work to get everything translated. But I figured while in Champagne, I should search the archives. And I’ve put out some feelers with a few people who will let me root through their attics; and there may still be some Legrands in the area. It’s a long shot, but in my experience a lot of Frenchies have ancient family homes that are passed down through the generations, and since they never throw anything away, it’s entirely possible something might be tucked away in some corner of a dusty attic. Maybe even some photos; can you imagine? It would mean the world to my mother, if I could find them. She’s a nut for family history.”
“Your mother’s still with you?” Rosalyn asked.
Emma nodded but said nothing; her lips pursed slightly.
“Did... did Émile survive the war?” Rosalyn asked, suddenly sure she knew the answer.
Emma hesitated. “I don’t know. I haven’t found an official announcement from the war bureau, or anything like that. But like I said, I haven’t gotten to the last letter. Not even sure where it is. Istarted to put them in order, but it’s not easy reading with that stylized script and fading ink, not to mention the censorship.”
“I noticed bits and pieces of the letters are cut out, or blacked out.”
“Yup. Wartime correspondence was subjected to ‘Anastasia’s scissors.’ Thepoilusweren’t allowed to tell anyone where they were, or where they were headed. Anything that evenhintedat their location or destination was censored. Every once in a while some of the letters slipped past the censors, but it was rare.”
“Sorry—who were thepoilus?”
“The French soldiers—the regular boys, not the officers.”
“Doesn’tpoilumean...?”
“‘Hairy,’” Emma confirmed with a nod. “Living in the trenches for days or weeks or months at a time, it was hard to shave or get a haircut, so the soldiers started to wear their hair as a badge of honor. Being hairy was associated with masculinity, being fierce and brave.”
