Fleur De Lies (14 page)

“But then I will have to explain the iPhone to her.” Madeleine lifted her brow and puffed out her lips in a comic expression. “Better I tell her it happens by magic. In grandmama’s world, magic is much more believable.”

I took a sip of wine, steeling myself to broach a subject that Madeleine Saint-Sauveur might think I had no business broaching. “Seeing her with Osmond at your house … They had their own magic going on in the war, didn’t they?”

“The war threw them together for less than three weeks, but during that time, they kept each other alive. He needed her to help him survive physically. She needed him to help her survive emotionally. When they found each other—” She smiled. “You saw them together. There is probably not one detail of their encounter that they have forgotten.”

“Osmond told me she’s the only woman he’s ever loved. He apparently wrote to her after the war ended, but his letters were returned as undeliverable, and when he tried phoning, the operator couldn’t find a number. I think he eventually just gave up. It seems so unfair that two people who were so deeply in love ended up spending their lives apart. Do you think your grandmother ever tried to contact him? Do you suppose she ran into the same problem?”

“
Non
. I’m sure my grandmother
never
tried to contact him.”

Her certainty surprised me. “Why not?”

“Because her husband would not have approved.”

“
Ahh
. So she married again shortly after Osmond left?”

“Again? I do not know what you mean by ‘again.’ She was married to my Grandfather Spenard for over fifty years.”

“But … her name is no longer Spenard, is it? You introduced her by another name.”

“
Oui
. Ducat. Three years after my grandfather died, she married a man who had been a widower for many years, but they were only married a brief time before he passed away, too.”

“Okay, but Osmond told me that when he met her, she was a
widow. That her husband had died in a German prison. ‘Barely a bride,
and then a widow’ is the way he stated it.”

“
Oui
. My grandfather was arrested for engaging in subversive acts against German soldiers, so he was thrown into Amiens Prison. You have heard of Amiens, yes?”

I shook my head.

“It was a brutal place. No prisoner ever walked out of Amiens alive. It was where the Wehrmacht sent Resistance fighters to die. My grandfather was imprisoned for three years. He was never allowed to send a letter home, receive packages, communicate with
anyone
outside the prison. When my grandmother finally petitioned the German authorities to allow her to visit, they told her that my grandfather was dead and his body disposed of.” She sat back in her chair and took a slow sip of wine. “But they were lying.”

The down at the back of my neck stood on end. “He was still alive?”

She nodded. “He most likely
would
have died, if not for a British bombing raid four months before the D-Day invasion. Two hundred and fifty-eight prisoners escaped through a breach in the prison wall, my grandfather among them. Barely alive, but determined to survive. They searched for him with their dogs, but my grandpapa was too clever for them. He hid in the woods. In caves. He foraged for food. He crossed over into Belgium, in a direction completely opposite where Grandmama was. He knew the Germans would be l
ooking for him at home, so he stayed away. Only after the Allied
invasion did he think it safe to find his way back to his bride. And as you might imagine, after June 6, 1944, German troops found them
selves battling American tanks and infantry, so they had more pressing problems to address than the escapees from Amiens Prison.”

“Oh, my God. What must your grandmother have thought when he showed up at her door?”

“She tells me that for the first and only time in her life, she
fainted. Her husband come back to life?
Non
. Such miracles did not happen in occupied France.”

I couldn’t imagine the elation Solange must have felt when she regained consciousness to find the husband she’d presumed dead standing over her. There was probably no word in the English language that could adequately describe it. But this turn of events certainly cast doubt on the notion of Osmond’s fatherhood. It might all boil down to a question of timing.

I knocked back a swig of my wine. “Did you say what your grandfather’s name was?”

“Henri. Henri Spenard.”

“How long did it take him to work his way back to Normandy? Weeks? Months?”

“He was traveling on foot, so it took many weeks. And he was further delayed by the fighting in Caen. The Allies met strong German resistance there after the invasion. The town was virtually leveled. But when the Americans finally broke through, he was able to return home.”

“So when was that … exactly?”

“The Battle of Caen ended on July twentieth. Grandpapa managed to make it home four days later.”

About three weeks after Osmond had shipped back to England to recuperate. Boy, I wouldn’t even dare to hazard a guess about—

“It was a glorious homecoming, and so much celebrating that, as you might expect, late the following winter, my grandfather was presented with the son he never thought he would live to sire. Grandpapa wanted to name him Eisenhower, in honor of the American general who liberated France, but Grandmama insisted on naming him for the man who singlehandedly saved her and her family from the Germans. So she named him Osmond.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet.” But I couldn’t help wonder if that was the only reason she named him Osmond.

Madeleine laughed. “The next baby they named Eisenhower. And my mama was called Betsy after the woman who sewed your first American flag. The Spenards became known as the most American family in the village. Should I bore you with a photo?”

“Please! I’d love to be bored.” If there was a resemblance between Osmond Spenard and Osmond Chelsvig, maybe I’d be able to spot it.

Madeleine pulled her wallet from her purse and removed a small photo from a plastic sleeve. “It was taken in the early sixties when all seven children were in their teens. They were like little stepping stones.” She laid the photo in front of me and recited the names as
she glided her finger over the faces. “From youngest to oldest—Amelia, Eleanor, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Betsy, Eisenhower, and Os
mond. All still living, and with large families of their own, many of whom are named after my Uncle Osmond.”

Yup. Did I call that, or what? Osmond was definitely going to need the senior discount if he invited the entire brood to Iowa.

I studied the handsome face of the teenaged Osmond Spenard with his angular face, narrow nose, expressive eyes, and mop of wavy black hair. Yes! There was a resemblance. But not to Osmond.

To Solange.

Osmond Spenard was the spitting image of his mother.

I sighed my disappointment. “It’s a wonderful photo.” I plucked it off the table and handed it back to her. “Your grandmother experienced the emotional rollercoaster of her life during the war, didn’t she? Henri pronounced dead. An American literally falling out of the
sky to save her from a German assault. Henri returning from the dead
like the risen Lazarus, and fathering seven children in quick succession.”

Madeleine smiled coyly. “But of course! He was French.”

“Did … did Solange ever confide to you how close she and Osmond became during those short three weeks?”

She averted her gaze as she slid the photo back into its sleeve. When she looked up again, the warmth in her eyes had disappeared. “My grandmother has never made a secret about the part an American soldier played in her life during the war. It’s a story she has told and retold for decades. But there is nothing more to the story than what she has shared. She lived through one of the most brutal periods in the history of the world, and for that she deserves our admiration and respect.
Whatever
my grandmother did to survive is entirely her business. Our family has never questioned
any
of her decisions or motivations, and we don’t expect anyone else to either. Ever.” She drilled me with a fierce look. “Do you understand?”

I did indeed. Whatever happened between Osmond and Solange had the family’s blessing and was to remain private. No speculation allowed. Violators would be refused future access. So if Osmond Chelsvig had fathered Solange’s first child, the family didn’t want to know.

I nodded. “I understand.”

“And you will help Mr. Chelsvig to understand?”

I nodded again. “I’ll,
uh
… I’ll see that he abides by your family’s wishes.”

“
Merci.
It would not be right to introduce scandal into my grandmother’s life after all these years, even if there is truth in it.”

But how would I break the news to Osmond that it seemed unlikely he was a father? And even if he were, the Spenards didn’t want to hear about it.

“You will be able to walk back to the boat without your um
brella,” said Madeleine as she nodded toward the street. “You see? The sun is coming out.” She marked the time. “And I must be leaving.
I promised to bring Grandmama a decadent confection from Les Larmes de Joan d’Arc, so she’ll be wondering where I am.”

“Is she feeling better? I’m sorry Mr. Jolly upset her so much the
other day. Apparently, a funeral director can’t always gauge how some
one’s going to react to his marketing pitch, but when the potential customer starts screaming, you’d think he’d know enough to stop. Poor Mr. Jolly is proving to have something of a tin ear.”

“Grandmama refused to tell me what provoked her outburst, but for the past two nights, she has wanted to sleep with the light on.
Pourquoi?
I do not know. All she will say is that she no longer has the energy to poke the hornet’s nest.”

“What does that mean?”

Madeleine shrugged. “Perhaps she mistook him for someone, yes? Someone she once knew? Someone she feared? You heard her. ‘
C’est toi, c’est toi.
It’s you, it’s you.’ And then the anger and tears. But to me, she will say nothing.”

Which, in a roundabout way, reminded me of another enigma. “Out of curiosity, could you tell me the significance of the framed embroidery piece that sits on your sideboard? The one with the chopped-off petal on the fleur-de-lis? I didn’t notice it initially, but it got included in one of the thousands of photos Bernice Zwerg strong-armed you into taking of her when we visited your house.”

She frowned Etretat as if trying to recall the thing. “Grandmama brought so many pictures with her when she moved in with us. They’ve become invisible to me. But I know the piece you describe. Grandmama embroidered it when she was a new bride. It’s so old, I fear the pressure of the frame may be the only thing holding the threads together.”

“Is there a story attached to it? I mean, do you know why Solange embroidered a fleur-de-lis with a broken petal?”

“
Mais oui.
Grandmama’s village boasted a metalsmith who created the broken-petaled fleur-de-lis as his trademark. He made lovely jewelry—broaches, pendants, bracelets. But since Grandmama could afford to buy none of it, she embroidered the design instead. She was known to boast it was a fair likeness to the original trademark, and it cost her far fewer francs. The only problem was, she couldn’t wear it.”

“Did the metalsmith ever design a line of rings?”

“There was only one ring. He never made another.”

A chill feathered up my spin. “Do you know why?”

“He apparently complained that rings were too complicated and too heavy on a man’s finger, so he was going to stop at one. Perhaps if he’d chosen another precious metal for his designs, he would have made more. But he worked exclusively in brass.”

The chill crawled down my arms and spread to my fingertips. “Do you know if he ever sold the ring?”

“He wore it himself, and the only reason I know that is because when he visited my grandmother after grandpapa was imprisoned, he cracked her best china with that ring, so she was always short one teacup. She still curses his name every time we set the table with her china. ‘Damn Pierre Lefevre.’” She regarded me oddly. “You look so shocked. The elderly in America do not curse?”

“What would you say if I told you that Woody Jolly is wearing a brass ring designed with a broken-petaled fleur-de-lis that looks exactly like Solange’s embroidery?”

“I would say it was impossible.”

“Why impossible?”

“Because the other reason the metalsmith fabricated only one ring was because the war greatly foreshortened his career. He died on the morning of the D-Day invasion. He was part of the five-man team who went to Pointe du Hoc and never came back.”

_____

Dodging puddles the size of kiddie pools, I retraced my steps back to the Church of St. Joan of Arc to take a picture of the commemorative plaque for Nana’s Legion of Mary meeting, then set a course back to the boat by way of the cobblestoned mall with the giant clock.

Madeleine had been right. With the skies clearing, I didn’t need my umbrella anymore, but the sun was doing little to cast light on the mystery of how Woody Jolly could be in possession of a one-of-a-kind ring worn by a Resistance fighter whose body had been incin
erated in the Allied bombing of Pointe du Hoc on the morning of the D-Day invasion. Had Pierre Lefevre removed the ring before un
dertaking his mission? That would have made sense. A shiny object
like a brass ring might have given away their position. But how would
the ring have then found its way to America to become an heirloom in the Jolly family? Had it become one of the spoils of war, pocketed by an Allied soldier as a souvenir? Yet Woody had said the ring had been in his family for as long as he could remember, so that didn’t square.

Well, some cryptic chain of events had allowed the ring to survive the war, because Woody was wearing it.

Turning the corner onto the Rue Grand Pont, I slowed my steps as another explanation suddenly occurred to me.