Impossible.
Doris had never shed a tear for her husband, and her stoic acceptance of God’s will had earned her accolades at Richard’s funeral. She should have been praised for not bursting out with glee and tap-dancing on his coffin. Losing Émile, on the other hand...
She collapsed into her chair, dropped her head onto her arms, and sobbed, hot tears and mucus flowing unhindered down her face. She wailed and keened, made wretched by the death of a young man she had never met.
For years, Doris had been waiting hungrily for the daily post, hoping for one of his missives, wishing her money could somehow make them come more frequently. Often weeks passed with no letter from France, and then a bonanza of three or four arrived at the same time. Doris sequestered herself in her study and devoured the letters all at once, absorbing Émile’s descriptions of war: the carnage and the beauty, the butchery and the moments of grace. Then she would ask Sally to bring her tea and cakes, and would read the letters over again, more slowly, this time searching for meaning in how Émile had formed each sentence, the emotions conveyed by his choice of words.
She had been so happy for Émile when his Lucie said yes, when they found each other—and love—in the middle of the blood and the violence. Doris had had Sally bring her a bottle of champagne and she had drunk to the young couple’s connection and their joy. She had drunk to their future.
And then it was snatched away, just that quickly.
Just like that.
Still crying, Doris moved to the other side of the room, to her most unusual and most recent dollhouse. It was a series of caves, complete with a little school within the muddy walls, and a little cave within a cave leading off the nook labeled “Dakar.” There was a tiny,fierce gargoyle, and a wedding bed of clean white linens, encircled by candles.
Two figures sat on the crude steps, drinking champagne as they toasted each other and their future. A future stamped out by cruelty, by a war that had no reason.
Doris returned to her desk and reread the letter.
My only consolation is our child, safe in my belly.
A child. Now here was something Doris’s moneywouldbe good for. Émile’s widow, and her dear child, would never want for anything.
Doris would make sure of it.
Chapter Forty-one
Lucie
My dearest husband,
I shall never believe it. I think I shall go to my grave not believing it. How could someone like you disappear from this earthly plane?
Since this war began, I have made a game of asking myself: What was the worst moment? The head of the Smiling Angel crashing upon the pavement. The breaking of the blind woman’s teacup. The look on your face at that very last moment, when you turned back to smile at me.
Never before had you turned back.
This page is stained with tears, as yours are with blood.
?I wipe the tears from my swollen eyes. According to the notice from the war department, my dear husband, my Émile, had been dead nearly a month by the time I received word. I cannot accept that: How could I not have known? I am appalled by my betrayal. I had carried on living, eating, sleeping, organizing a play with the children—allthe while my Émile, my husband, had departed this world, and yet I did not know it.
Now everything makes me angry: the need to ingest water, to relieve myself. To breathe. Every breath makes me angry.
I don’t know why I am writing a letter to a dead man, except that I cannot believe he is truly dead. Would I not feel his absence in the world if he were?
But there is nowhere to send my letter. If I post it to his military address, it will come back, forwarded to me as his wife.
Still. I have to speak to him. I have to share my news.
I have stared at the butcher knife, pondering death. I know they would say my death was a victory for the enemy, but I know differently. My death would not be an escape but a triumph, a statement of my power. I would lay down my arms and walk into the arms of the abyss.
But I cannot, because our child keeps me here. Did you know,monamour?Did you sense it, somehow? Our child grows within me. I wish I had told you.
I hold out hope that this has been a mistake, that you are out there, somewhere, still. Your Australianmarrainewrites you still, and I will keep the letters for you. She has yet to receive the terrible news, to read the words that cannot be taken back.
You must be out there. Wouldn’t I feel it if you were not?
The bubbles continue to buoy us. The vintage holds its promise of a future. So I have hidden a package for you: bottles of Victory Vintage champagne, and a sweater—one of my mother’s last, as her health is fading—in our special nook.
