Lies Told In Silence (4 page)

Marie’s face shone with anticipation. “Excuse me, Helene, while I find Jean-Paul.”

Standing next to Francois, Helene was mesmerized by the sights and sounds of celebration. The music paused. A few couples drifted off the dance floor while others held their places and the conductor raised his baton.

“Will you dance with me?”

Helene straightened her shoulders and smiled. “I would love to.”

During their second dance, she relaxed, confident in Francois’s ability to negotiate the room and her ability to follow. Looking around as other couples dipped and swayed, gliding with the music, skirts billowing with every turn, she saw her mother partnered with a man in uniform.

“Is the man dancing with my mother a German officer?” she asked Francois.

After their next turn, he answered, “Yes. Definitely German. I wonder who he is. I don’t recall Maman inviting anyone German except the ambassador, and
they had to ask him because of my father’s duties. I remember a fierce discussion one morning at breakfast when Maman said she could not abide the thought of having Germans at Gabrielle’s wedding. Perhaps the ambassador brought him along. Odd though, you’d think he would have brought his wife.”

“And why is my mother dancing with him? She even looks like she’s enjoying herself. You know Papa is sending us away because he thinks Germany might attack Paris.” Francois nodded. “What do you think? Is your father worried?”

“He is. He frequently talks about what might happen, but as a diplomat, he’s always searching for solutions involving compromise. I think he hopes compromise will prevail.”

“You’re lucky he’s not sending your family away.” Helene’s frown was quickly replaced with a smile. “Papa said he would
reconsider in a few months.”

“An extended holiday, then. That’s the way to think of it.”

* * *

Standing with Paul Delancey and German Ambassador Wi
lhelm von Schoen, Henri observed Captain Heldbrigg escorting Lise off the dance floor with his hand beneath her elbow. As soon as his wife reached him, Henri tucked her arm into his and glowered at the German, who had been arrogantly boasting to Paul and Henri about his country’s military strength prior to dancing with Lise. He could tell Lise would prefer to extract her arm from his but knew that she would not embarrass their hosts with a display of marital discord, especially not at Gabrielle’s wedding, so they remained standing together like a devoted married couple.

“Captain,” said Henri, “you haven’t told us what brings you to Paris. We don’t see very many German officers these days.”

“An officer always obeys orders, Monsieur. I’m here at the request of General Moltke. Ambassador von Schoen has kindly put me up in his home.”

“Are you gathering information, Captain? Details that would offer some advantage to your country?”

“Of course not, Monsieur Noisette. Our countries are at peace. Germany doesn’t spy on its neighbours.”

Henri knew the man was lying. Heldbrigg and others like him regularly stayed with the German ambassador, spending their days in innocuous activities and their nights pumping a network of individuals with information to sell. France did the same, as did Austria, Russia and Great Britain. Probably the United States too, although he had yet to hear any specifics. Under the guise of diplomacy, all countries gathered information.

Lise tugged on his arm to indicate that such conversation was inappropriate, but Henri ignored her.

“On the contrary, Captain, just last week one of your compa
triots was caught with highly classified information. We have him in custody as we speak. But I’m sure you are already aware of the circumstances. Must have been careless, your man.”

Paul Delancey stepped into the conversation. His look was pleasant, but Henri could see the warning in his eyes. “Henri, perhaps we should allow Captain Heldbrigg the courtesy of enjoying Gabrielle’s wedding. Ambassador von Schoen, are you taking a holiday this summer? If I recall, you travelled to the south of France last year.”

The ambassador was about to reply when Captain Heldbrigg interrupted, his cheeks flushed, his back and shoulders stiff with anger. “Just as we have one of yours, Monsieur Noisette.” The captain’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Witless fellow.”

“So you admit to spying, Captain Heldbrigg. And you think it fitting to enjoy Monsieur Delancey’s hospitality at the same time? With apologies to Ambassador von Schoen, I call that reprehens
ible. Paul, you deserve my apologies as well. Under the circumstances, Lise and I will excuse ourselves and circulate amongst the other guests.”

As Henri began to step away, the captain took hold of his shoulder and pulled him back. “You should be more careful, Noisette. When France is controlled by Germany, I will remember your insult.” The man’s voice was harsh and threatening, his eyes black and hard.

Paul Delancey stepped between Henri and the captain. “Heldbrigg!” he said. “You were invited here as my guest. This is my daughter’s wedding, not a time for such behaviour. Under the circumstances, I must ask you to leave.”

Captain Heldbrigg clicked his heels together and offered a mocking salute to his host. “As you wish, Monsieur. I hope our next meeting is more cordial. Please convey my regrets to your lovely wife.”

With the captain’s departure, Ambassador von Schoen also excused himself, mumbling something vague about needing to speak with a friend. Henri, Lise and Paul watched him disappear into the crowd.

“I’m sorry, Paul. I shouldn’t have provoked him. Heldbrigg epitomizes all the German characteristics I dislike. Insufferable man.”

“I know he was obnoxious, Henri, but you embarrassed us, and made Paul uncomfortable,” said Lise.

“Don’t worry, Lise. No one else overheard, and I was actually enjoying the way Henri got under his skin. Diplomats can’t normally do that sort of thing. Not in public anyway.”

Chapter 6

June 1914

On a hot June day, humid air pregnant with rain, their train drew into Beaufort. The screech of metal brakes, hiss of steam and loud cry of a lone conductor marked their entrance. No grand hallway bustling with porters and echoing with footsteps greeted them. No marble arches, no vendors selling croissants, no shoeshine men, no newsboys yelling the latest headlines. In fact, no one at all except a dishevelled driver waiting next to an automobile, the likes of which Helene had never seen.

“How will the six of us fit into that?” Helene’s mother said wit
h a dismissive wave of her hand.

“I’m sure we’ll manage.” Helene’s father approached the driver. “Gaston?”

“
Oui
, Monsieur.” The man chuckled. “I’m sure I look much older than the last time you saw me. Madame Lalonde asked me to meet the train.”

Papa had inherited the Beaufort property when his maiden aunt died six years ago, and Madame Lalonde, who oversaw Tante Camille’s house, had prepared it for their arrival. But who was this man? Whiskered, angular, bow-legged, an Adam’s apple that bobbed every time he spoke, the man looked nothing like the drivers they used in Paris. Helene knew it was rude to stare, so she
shifted her gaze to the pile of suitcases and boxes they had brought with them and began to count.

“If Monsieur will agree, I think it best for me to take passengers first and return for your baggage.”

“Hmmm. You’re right. We haven’t a hope of fitting everything in. What sort of automobile is this?”

“Tonneau, Monsieur. Built in 1903. Your aunt was very proud of it. God bless her soul.”

Papa walked all around the vehicle. The Tonneau was red, the colour of ripe cherries. And it had no roof. Instead, it looked like a fancy horse-drawn carriage without the horse. On the driver’s side, a large bulbous horn sat ready to clear the way with a purposeful squeeze, and the polished wooden handle of a steering stick protruded where the driver would sit. Brass-encased lanterns were mounted near the front wheels, and large wicker baskets were strapped to e
ither side. Crude metal springs positioned above the rear wheels promised passengers a modicum of comfort.

“Was it always red?”

“Always, Monsieur.” Gaston held out his hand first to Helene’s grandmother and then to her mother, assisting them into the backseat. Helene scrambled in after the two women while her father and Jean sat next to Gaston. “We had best go before it rains,” he said.

“Thank heavens,” Helene’s mother muttered through pursed lips.

Since their train had been scheduled to depart at 8:03 that morning, they had been up at six, attending to last minute preparations and eating a light breakfast before saying farewell to Tout Tout and Guy. Despite her father’s worries, they had boarded the train a full twenty minutes before departure, but the long, hot trip had been tiring, leaving tempers frayed and no one willing to accommodate further inconvenience. Only Jean seemed excited.

“We’ll pass through the main square then head south.” Gaston turned to glance at the women in the backseat. “Beaufort isn’t large, but it’s a pretty town.”

Helene thought the dirt road crowded with unkempt houses and ragged gardens anything but pretty, however, she held her tongue. Maman might seize on any complaint as a reason to escalate her feud with Papa. The tension between them had been growing for weeks, and Helene feared it might soon reach a breaking point.

The Tonneau continued on past a slaughterhouse smelling so horrid she held her breath until they were well past, a farm equipment shop, its front yard crowded with broken parts, and a long, low building with narrow windows and black smoke billowing from each of four chimn
eys. The only pleasing sight was a windmill, perched on a rise not far from the road, its wide white sails turning in the breeze.

Soon they turned onto Rue Principale, where cobbled streets lined with squat, red-roofed houses ran perpendicular to the road. Down one lane, Helene saw a group of children playing skittles and an old woman in a black dress sweeping her front step.
Faded coveralls, rough linen shirts and long aprons hung from clotheslines strung across the lane from second storey windows. As they neared the centre of Beaufort, the houses were larger, with wide front doors and lace-curtained windows, and the shops looked more prosperous.

Gaston talked as he drove, pointing out the doctor’s
clinic, a
brasserie
known for local beers, the school Helene and Jean would likely attend and roads leading south to Amiens and north to Lille. He slowed the car to a crawl as a horse-drawn wagon drew in front of them.

“This is the main square,” Gaston said.

The circular space was dominated by a fountain with a central plume of water shooting high into the air, ringed by six smaller plumes, the entire structure enclosed by a stone wall no more than a metre high. A church and its tall belfry anchored the far side, and five streets fanned out in all directions, one marked by the statue of a rearing horse.

“Rather quiet today, but on Saturdays the shops are bustling. Farmers set up stalls over there well before seven.”

“I remember that,” Helene’s father replied. “We used to come into town every Saturday and always went home with something special: an ice cream, a jar of honey, a pack of sweets. Once a travelling circus came to town. That was the first time I saw a lion.” Papa chuckled as if lost in long ago memory.

Gaston turned down the road next to a florist. “The road will get a little bumpier now.”

Since no one except her father and Gaston had spoken, Helene felt she should say something, if only to be polite.

“How long will it take, Papa?”

“Not too long now. Perhaps another ten minutes.”

Birds scattered as they passed, and brown cows lifted their sleepy heads. Rounding one corner, a boy, no more than six or seven, waved at the car. Helene listened to the jounce of springs and the clash of gears as Gaston shifted for each change of speed. Pungent scents of summer barnyards and freshly mown hay permeated the air, each one new to her, their newness enticing despite her reluctance to be away from Paris.

“There it is.”

Her father pointed to their left where a cluster of low buildings and a winding driveway flanked by tall oak trees and a hodgepodge of stone fences came into view. Swans floated on a small pond.

“Who lives on the farm next door?”

Helene pointed at a farmhouse with a tangle of bushes on one side and two sturdy outbuildings on the other, wondering if their neighbours might have a daughter close to her age. Tante Camille’s house turned out to be a good distance from Beaufort, and she could not imagine living without people nearby.

“Used to be the Doucet family. When I was little, they raised cows and chickens. And rabbits. We loved seeing the newborn rabbits, as tiny as your little finger. We’ll ask Madame Lalonde who lives there now.”

As they drew closer, Helene saw that Tante Camille’s house was larger than she had imagined, made of faded limestone and accented with green shutters. Its overgrown gardens were bursting with white hydrangeas, deep purple dahlias and random clusters of yellow lilies.

No one spoke and again she felt the need to fill the void. “It looks charming, Papa.”

“Different than I remember,” he said. “Looks like it needs a few repairs.”

The front door opened and a tall woman with grey hair and large hands emerged from the house. She wore a loose-fitting dress and smiled without opening her lips.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Henri. Mariele, it has been a long time since we’ve seen one another.”

Helene’s grandmother inclined her head. “A long time indeed, Blanche.”

“Madame Lalonde, how wonderful to see you after all these years. May I present my family?”

After introducing Lise, Helene and Jean, he explained that Guy remained in Paris.

“Camille would be happy that you have brought your family.” Another brief smile. “Come in. Come in.”

Smells of fresh bread, cloves and cedar greeted Helene as she looked around the salon, the first room encountered upon entering the house. Ground floor windows brought sunshine into the house. Sofas and chairs decked with stuffed pillows offered calm comfort. Two armoires flanked the front window, each one painted with simple designs in primary colours. Piles of books and framed photos occupied almost every available surface.

“This is the salon,” said Madame Lalonde. “The kitchen is at the back of the house and the dining room through that door.”

She gestured with her left hand and led the way into the dining room, where ten wooden chairs surrounded a rectangular table, and several ceramic bowls were stacked on top of an ornate buffet. Helene’s attention was drawn to three paintings set along one wall, each painting a vibrant mass of unstructured colour.

“Tante Camille enjoyed unusual art,” Papa said.

“And their artists,” Grandmere said.

“Maman! The children,” her father said.

Helene’s grandmother arched her eyebrows. “Many artists did their painting here,” she explained, “and became friends with Tante Camille.”

Helene did not understand this exchange but was intrigued that her grandmother, normally so reserved, was instead speaking with a light, teasing tone as if unexpectedly released from a gloomy character she had been playing.

Madame Lalonde gestured towards the hall. “Let’s go upstairs. You’ll want to see your bedrooms.”

The stairs creaked and groaned from years of solitude, but here, as in the main rooms, everything was immaculate: crisp white linens and lavender sachets on each bed, freshly pleated curtains drawn back to let in the light. In the spacious master bedroom, a lounge chair was arranged by the window, inviting hours of comfortable reading with a view of the garden, grassy fields dotted with poppies and the tall steeple of a distant church.

Helene thought the rooms on the second floor charming in their simplicity but noticed that her mother had only criticisms to offer—that bed looks lumpy, this window doesn’t shut properly, the floor creaks—while her father attempted to cajole his wife with little anecdotes from the past.

He’s trying so hard, what is wrong with Maman?

“Would you like to see the attic?” Papa said. “We always thought it was a special place. My aunt kept all sorts of treasures up there.”

“I think I’ll go downstairs,” said her mother. “I doubt that a dusty attic will be of interest.”

Papa’s smile stretched tighter.

“I’ll come with you,” Helene said.

“Me too,” said Jean.

The attic was a large room divided roughly down the middle by a wall that doubled as bookshelves. On one side was a single bed, covered by a blue and white quilt, a pillow encased in crisp white cotton and a calico cat that raised her head and swished her tail either to acknowledge or protest those who disturbed her sleep. The window next to the bed looked out towards the pond and a ridge in the far distance.

“Humph. It doesn’t look at all like I remember it. There used to be trunks stuffed with old clothes, large hatboxes and piles of books. And a leather case with duelling swords.” He turned around. “We spent hours up here playing, especially when it rained.”

“Papa, may I have this room?” Helene imagined creating a refuge for herself away from Maman, who looked so distressed, and Jean, who always got in the way, and her grandmother, who was locked in the past.

“Of course.”

* * *

“Thank you, Madame Lalonde. Everything looks charming,” Papa said after they returned to the main floor.

“Gaston and I will stop in tomorrow to see if you need anything. We can drive you to the station, Henri, and Gaston can return at another time to take the family into Beaufort. The town is buzzing with news of your arrival.”

Helene’s grandmother chuckled. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to live in a small place. Does Doctor Valdane still run the pharm
acy?” Madame Lalonde nodded. “Good. He will understand what I need.”

Outside
Gaston helped Madame Lalonde into the Tonneau and they drove off with a wave and three short blasts on the horn, while Helene and her family looked on.

“Helene, will you help me prepare lunch?” Grandmere said
turning towards the front door.

The kitchen was a large, rambling space that looked as though it had once been two separate rooms. One end housed a stove, a long, narrow counter, a deep sink, an ice box and a pantry while plain wooden cupboards lined three walls at the other end. In the middle, a wooden table was set for five.

Madame Lalonde had already assembled vegetables, cold meat, cheeses and rolls, a well-used cutting board and two sharp knives. Her grandmother pulled an apron off a hook near the sink, smiled and began to hum.

“You sound content, Grandmere.” Helene could not recall the
last time her grandmother looked anything but sad.

“I used to love being in Beaufort. Such wonderful times
we had. I was younger then. You might not see it now, but Madame Lalonde was a real beauty. And Tante Camille was always so lively. Your grandfather would shake his head at some of our escapades.”