I scarcely believe I can call her this. Ours was the humblest of ceremonies; a few friends, and Lucie’s family, gathered to share champagne and special “cakes” made by the baker for the occasion. But I did not care if we drank only water and ate hardtack. I cared only for my dearest, loveliest, strongest Lucie.
Our wedding chamber was in the attic of Dakar, through a rabbit’s hole, strewn with flowers and candles. We had only a few days together, a painfully brief honeymoon. When the fighting is over, I hope to take her to Paris, where she has never been.
Rosalyn sat back, elated that Émile, the poetic farm boy, had married his astonishing Lucie. That they could find joy together under such grim circumstances. Unfortunately, the missive ended abruptly and without a farewell, as though this page had been separated from the rest of the letter. She searched for its fellow pages.
Her hands stilled when she found a letter written in an unfamiliar hand.
December 18, 1917
My dear Madame Whittaker,
My name is Lucie Maréchal Legrand.
I am so very sorry, sorry beyond belief, to tell you what I must.
Émile has fallen. I received official notice that he has been buried atChâlons-en-Champagne. He lies beneath one of the millions of horrifying white crosses marking the final resting places of too many young men, studding the land in a painful mockery of the vines.
I am told his mother is inconsolable; I doubt she’ll survive the final blow after so very many others. Émile was so vital a person, the repository of so many dreams for the future. He was beloved.
Heisbeloved.
A soldier who passed by the old Legrand farm told me his beehives still hum with life.
My only consolation is our child, safe in my belly. It breaks my heart that Émile never knew he was to become a father; I waited to tell him when next I saw him, selfishly wanting to see the light in his beautiful, sad eyes as he heard the news.
I wish to thank you for being such a solace to him. We in Reims are often cut off from the rest of the world, and not all of my letters made it to my dear Émile. But each time he visited, he would read yours to me. Your care and sympathy were a balm to him at the very worst of times.
I wonder if we shall meet one day? I used to dream of sailing away on the ocean I have never seen, perhaps all the way to Australia. But I no longer dream.
Cordialement,
Lucie Maréchal Legrand
Rosalyn sat with the letter clutched in her hands for a very long time as tears stung her eyes. After all this... how could Émile have simplydied? Disappeared, just like that.
Just like Dash.
Leaving in his wake yet another grieving widow.
Chapter Forty
Doris
1918
Doris swept the contents of the table to the floor with a crash, then hurled her silver-handled brush into the vanity mirror. It shattered, sending shards flying, bullets of silvery glass showering onto the plush Aubusson wool carpet.
Sally the maid rushed into the sitting room. “Is everything all right, ma’am?”
“Get out!” Doris screamed.
“Seven years’ bad luck,” Sally muttered with a shake of her head, taking in the damage. The servants were no longer cowed by Doris, having become accustomed to her mercurial temper. “I’ll fetch the broom.”
“Later,” Doris snapped. “Close the door—and bring me some tea.”
As if the threat of bad luck would frighten me,Doris thought. What were seven more years of misery to crown the wretchedness of a wasted lifetime? Bitterness filled her, leaving an acrid taste in her mouth. Sally had best not dawdle with that tea.
Émile. Gone.
