Lies Told In Silence (6 page)

“Bertrand was at my side, helping me through all those trag
edies.”

Should I disclose the rest?
she wondered.
If I do, Henri might find out.
Mariele considered whether loyalty to her husband should outweigh the needs of her daughter-in-law. She took a deep breath.

“My husband had two affairs that I know of. Both hurt me very much. At the time, I told myself he would always come back to me. You see, I was convinced he needed me. And he always did. He told me once—I suppose he was about fifty at the time—that the other women were never serious, more of a diversion. I don’t know if he thought that would make me feel better, but that’s what he said. Despite our trials, I loved Henri’s father. A
nd not a day goes by without missing him, wanting to tell him something, wanting the reassurance of his love.”

Mariele turned to face her daughter-in-law. The look of asto
nishment on Lise’s face almost made her laugh.

“Maman Noisette, you have surprised me more than I can say, and I’m very grateful for these confidences. But I still don’t know what to do, and I’m so angry with Henri.”

“Anger is like a prison, Lise, and you are the prisoner. I know you’re strong enough to forgive him. He will know you love him, if you do.”

Chapter 8

June 1914

Lise felt like a trapped animal in a shrinking cage. Each important aspect of her life—love, marriage, family, security—was threatened by circumstances beyond her control, and she alternated between anger and despair. It was well past midnight and she had yet to begin her nightly ritual. Instead, she sat on her reading chair as if confined by invisible shackles, picking at the edges of her handkerchief and occasionally staring blankly at a seascape on the far wall. Clear thinking was impossible.

Maman Noisette’s advice was forgiveness, but Lise did not know if she had the strength to forgive Henri. And what would be the cost of that forgiveness? Would she live every day in anticipation of another transgression? Would she look at every woman he spoke to with jealousy? Before his return to Paris, he had said he loved her, and she wondered whether she could believe him.
And if I can’t believe him, what’s the point of being married to him?

Would her course of action become clearer in a week or two? A month or two? Lise shook her head. Nothing was clear. Nothing at all.

After her mother-in-law’s astonishing revelations, Lise had spoken further about her fears for Guy and, in contrast to the compassionate discussion about marriage, had been treated to a thin-lipped pronouncement that war was madness and that the men involved were outside the grip of rational thought.

She twisted her handkerchief.
Why is Guy so impulsive? He’s barely more than a child
.
Does he not fear for his life? How can it be that he wants this path? Does he desire the glory of battle as if that somehow proves his manhood? Does he not remember that I have already borne the inexpressible pain of losing a son?
The spectre of Guy’s death would haunt her every day.

Lise rose and went to the window. From some distant perch, an owl hooted. A rabbit scampered across the lawn. A cat shrieked. She had a sudden urge to shout her frustrat
ions into the night’s darkness.

The following morning, eyes stinging from tears and sleeples
sness, she drank strong, scalding espresso while standing at the sink.

“Did you sleep, my dear?” Mariele said, tying the belt of her long blue housecoat into a knot.

“
Un peu
,” she said. “But only in snatches.”

“I’ll make breakfast for Helene and Jean. Why don’t you have a hot bath?”

Lise ignored her mother-in-law’s suggestion. “I’m going into Beaufort this morning with some letters to post and a few errands to do. Is there anything you need?”

“A baguette for dinner. Some sugar. I’ll make a list. Do you want company?”

Lise forced a smile to her lips. “I’ll be fine. A brisk walk will do me good.”

She was grateful that neither Helene nor Jean wanted to come along. Her daughter was pouting again, and Jean said he had plans to go swimming with Gaston’s great-nephew. Dressing in a simple white blouse and a practical navy skirt wide enough for
taking long strides, she was ready to go by nine.

There were two roads into Beaufort, and Lise decided
on the longer route, which swung past the lake and the ruins of an ancient Cistercian abbey, so at the end of the drive she turned left instead of right, passing the Doucet farm, where cows clustered around a saltlick not far from the road. To her right, a gentle arc of fields rose and fell with the shape of the land, and Lise tried to clear her mind of tangled thoughts. Walking briskly, she concentrated on her immediate surroundings: a flock of birds flying overhead, the heat of the sun, wildflowers bobbing blue and pink and yellow, a squawking crow, the distant rumble of a tractor. A dense patch of bushes dotted with orange berries marked the next turn, and in the distance, a crumbling red brick wall formed the southern boundary of what had once been the abbey. She kept a punishing pace, legs striding, arms swinging, and was breathing so heavily by the time she approached Beaufort that she was forced to sit on a large rock to catch her breath.

In the three weeks since arriving at Tante Camille’s, Lise had been in Beaufort on several occasions, and once she had idly wandered up and down the side streets merely to explore. When she was alone or with Mariele, she stopped in to visit Madame Lalonde, who shared bits of news and was a source of information about those who held positions of authority or wealth. It was Madame Lalonde who told her about the large estate owned by the Galliard family that anchored the north end of town. They made their money from coal, Madame Lalonde had explained. Filthy money, she had said with a snort. Lise was beginning to enjoy the older woman’s company, her unequivocal positions and wry sense of humour.

After stopping in at the grocer, the bakery and the charcuterie, Lise bought a newspaper and collected the mail, tucking the bundle of letters into her basket for the return trip. She would read them later, perhaps in the garden with a glass of fresh cider.

* * *

“Did you see the news about Archduke Franz Ferdinand? He’s going to Bosnia to conduct a review of their army. It says that the Serbs are inflamed over his visit. There’s some secret society spreading anti-Austrian propaganda, and according to the paper, there are even hints of a planned assassination.”

Because the temperature was so warm, Lise and Mariele were sitting outside after dinner. With the summer solstice having just
passed, plenty of light remained and Lise was passing the time with a novel she had discovered on Tante Camille’s bookshelves while her mother-in-law read the paper. Unexpected shouts of laughter could be heard from the bottom of the garden where Helene and Jean were playing badminton.

“Then why would t
he archduke go?” Lise said.

“Not only that, but why would he take his wife? Apparently, they’re on a wedding anniversary trip. Let me read you what it says.
‘As Inspector General of the Army, Franz Ferdinand accepted the invitation of Bosnia’s governor—some impossible name to pronounce—to inspect army manoeuvres being held outside Sarajevo.’ I suppose because Austria-Hungary annexed Bosnia, the Bosnian army is part of the Austrian army.”

“It’s a complicated part of the world. They’ve already had two Balkan Wars.” Lise picked up her book but paused before
returning to her reading. “Henri will know what’s happening. We can ask him. He said that he and Guy will visit at the end of the month.”

* * *

Dear Papa,

Each day I hear the rooster crowing very early in the morning. On most occasions, I can return to sleep now that I am used to the sound. The cat sleeps on my bed every night. Her name is Babette, but we have no idea how old she is.

Grandmere is enjoying cooking. Often she concocts something new, and she seems particularly fond of baking. To think that I did not even know she could cook! She also tells us stories about coming here when you were young. Do you remember the time you tried to build a fire in the attic? Grandmere says that you almost burned down the house.

Maman spends much of her time in the garden. She has disco
vered many books in the house that she takes out to the bench near the birdbath. I think she is a little sad about missing her friends and worried about Guy. She is now working on a large piece of embroidery. So with Grandmere’s cooking and Maman’s embroidery, we are becoming quite domestic. I have a small sampler of my own to embroider, which I can hang in the attic when completed. I suspect it will take me a long time!

As you suggested in your last letter, Marie and I are now corresponding in English. Could you please bring my dictionary when you visit? She tells me that Gabrielle has returned from her wedding trip and settled into
an apartment with her husband.

Yesterday, Gaston took us into Beaufort for provisions. Ever
yone seems to know who we are. So different from Paris.

Your affectionate Helene.

* * *

My dear Henri,

Our little family is beginning to adjust. You would be amused to see me amongst the pots and baking pans, making dinners, pies and breakfast rolls as I used to when you were little. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed being creative, and I am pleased that being in Beaufort is easing the sadness of losing your dear Papa.

Helene alternates between sulking and mild interest in our new circumstances. I am trying to encourage her to cook, so whenever she expresses a desire for a particular dish, we make it straight
away. For the moment, baking seems to be our most successful venture. She writes regularly to Marie and in turn receives weekly letters with news about Marie’s activities and stories about their classmates. At times Marie’s letters cheer her and at other times they leave her feeling quite grumpy. I’m sure her mood will improve.

Jean has made friends with Gaston’s great-nephew. His family is called Picardie, and they live about a kilometre away. They spend hours exploring the fields and hills near the house and laugh together over the silliest things. I believe it is good for him to have male companionship. His three housemates are much too sedate for his liking. I chuckle when he returns home dirty or with bumps and scrapes from being outside. Such a change from Paris life.

Lise keeps to herself, and my attempts to engage her in conversation have yet to be fruitful. I believe she needs time to reconcile herself to our circumstances.

We are all looking forward to seeing you.

With great affection,

Maman

Chapter 9

June 1914

“When will Helene realize she isn’t the only person who is missing Paris? She’s acting like the world revolves around her,” Lise said, pursing her lips into a tight line.

“It’s probably best to let her come to that conclusion on her own.” Mariele was repairing some of the linens they discovered with tiny stitches that demanded concentration. She stuck the needle into a pincushion and stopped to rub her eyes. “If you press, she might become emotional, which will only make it worse.”

“You may be right.” Lise sighed and picked up her crochet needle once again. Although she disliked needlework, the nights were proving long with no entertainment at hand and only her mother-in-law for adult company.

Their world was quiet, a quiet that Lise was only now begi
nning to accept. At first, she had found the lack of noise deafening, as though Paris with its crunch of carriage wheels, screech of trams, church bells and chattering citizens was somehow calm and serene, a feeling born of long familiarity. At Tante Camille’s, she wandered through the house and around the garden, her ears straining for sounds to remind her of home. Instead, only birds and insects filled the air, although water dripped from the leaky pump by the back door, and from time to time a cow mooed or a train whistled in the distance.

Nothing happened in their little corner of the world unless Gaston came or Adrien Doucet, the son of the man Henri knew when he was little, paid a neighbourly visit. The first time the farmer dropped in, he brought a dozen eggs, and the second time, a rabbit skinned earlier that week and hung in their barn to age. Lise found the small, lifeless body repugnant, and were it not for Mariele’s good manners, she would have offended their neighbour by refusing his gift. Since then, Lise was growing accustomed to visits from Adrien and his wife, Suzanne. Their neighbours were kind, if not sophisticated, hard-working souls who took pride in rural traditions and their thriving farm.

To return their kindness, Mariele had recently taken two pots of raspberry jam and a bottle of red wine and gone next door for a visit. Lise had declined to accompany her; she was not ready to socialize.

* * *

Helene’s gloom persisted despite tantalizing smells of baking, night skies inscribed with stars, Babette’s soft tail and the gentle lull of country living. She missed her friends, Marie in particular; she missed the streets of Paris, always so lively at this time of year, the shops full of tantalizing goods; Monsieur Labelle’s
tarte tatin
that Maman purchased every Sunday; she even missed school.

“Would you like to come shopping for dress fabric?” her grandmother asked after breakfast on Saturday.

“I suppose so.” Helene shrugged her shoulders. “But there’s so little choice at Madame Larouche’s. Nothing like the fabrics we can buy in Paris.”

As she got ready, Helene grumbled to herself, a list of life’s inequities that had lengthened as the days passed. When she clumped down the stairs and into the front hall, her grandmother was waiting with a warm smile.
How can Grandmere be so content? Doesn’t she miss her friends and the theatre and the beautiful shops of Paris? Here we are, stuck in a tiny backwater because Papa is worried about something that may never happen.

She put on her shoes, grabbed a cloth bag from the kitchen hook and pushed the front door open. Leaves sparkled from overnight rain, and the cobbled path looked slick.

“Be careful, Grandmere. It’s slippery.”

The gate squeaked in protest as Helene opened it for her grandmother. On the far side of the road, she noticed a farmer’s wagon filled with grass and pink hollyhocks waving in the breeze. Marigolds with bright copper faces bordered the stone fence, and clumps of damp, rotting leaves lined the ditches. The two women, one slightly stooped, the other blossoming, turned right to begin their journey into town.

“Grandmere, why did Tante Camille own this house in Beaufort?” Helene asked to pass the time rather than out of interest; she was impatient with their deliberate pace, but walking faster made her grandmother wheeze.

“She suffered a disappointment.”

“A disappointment?”

“Ah, perhaps you don’t know that term. It means a love affair that went badly.”

“Was she married?”

“No. She was engaged. Twice, in fact. Her first fiancé drowned in a boating accident. So tragic. The second man disappointed her.”

“Was she in love?” Losing one fiancé must have been very sad; losing two sounded unbearable.

“Tante Camille was always falling in love. But not everyone who is in love gets married. And sometimes people marry who aren’t in love.”

“Why would they do that? I would never marry someone I didn’t love.”

Mariele smiled. “You can grow to love someone, you know.”

Helene raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“I didn’t love your grandfather when we married. But our families thought we would suit.”

“Grandmere!” Helene was appalled. “But you had children together.”

What she really wanted to ask was how her grandmother could have been intimate with her grandfather if they didn’t love one another. The thought was shocking.

“Yes, we did. At first, things were difficult. But I would give anything to have your grandfather back.”

They walked in silence for a while, the road occasionally cres
ting so they could see farther away. Beside their path, spindly stocks of bluebells stood near a crumbling stone wall covered in vines; beyond were fields separated by low bushes. Neat rows of potatoes, turnips and carrots created a patchwork of colour and texture. In the distance, Helene could see a small, rough building with narrow slits for windows and pigs grazing nearby.

“What village is that?” Helene asked, pointing at a faraway spire flanked by clouds.

“Perhaps Villers-Au-Bois or Carency. But I’m not really certain.”

Over the next rise, they encountered a green gate bordered by white lilies. Beyond the gate, a sheltering plane tree, its trunk larger than the combined arm span of two men, presided over the dirt courtyard, and a curving path led to a spacious two-storey farmhouse. Along one wall of the house, thick vines reached the roof, and in the front, matching second-storey windows were
enhanced with iron balconies too narrow for anyone to use. Beside the front door were hydrangeas, bursting with blue and white blossoms.

“This home belongs to Monsieur Garnier and his wife,” said Mariele. “I met them last week when I was out walking. He’s a very jolly man, apparently famous for his pigs. He insisted on showing me Emmeline, who won a prize this spring. Such an enormous animal, looking at me with beady little eyes and snorting through her wet snout. Makes me shiver thinking about it.” Her grandmother chuckled. “Monsieur seemed very enamoured with Emmeline.”

Helene feared Grandmere would stop to visit and thought she would rather wash the kitchen floor than listen politely while a pig farmer and his wife entertained her grandmother. She held her breath as they passed the farmhouse, hoping no one would emerge.

“About twenty more minutes. Perhaps we can have cider when we get there.”

“That would be lovely, Grandmere.”

Helene lapsed into silence again, thinking of her parents in light of her grandmother’s earlier revelation. Did they love one another, or was theirs a marriage of convenience? She recalled incidents of affection between them: her father squeezing her mother’s shoulders as he passed by her chair, her mother’s smile when Papa came home at night, occasional strolls arm in arm through the park. Were these evidence of love or mere courtesy? And why was her mother still angry with her father?

“A frown on such a beautiful day?” said Mariele.

“Just thinking about something.”

“Hmmm. Can you tell me?”

Helene’s discontent and her grandmother’s earlier candour prompted impertinence. “Will you answer truthfully?”

“I’ll try.”

They were closer to Beaufort now, the parish church steeple just visible to the right of the next rise in the road.

“Why is Maman angry with Papa?” she asked without looking up.

“Oh. That’s a difficult question. I’m not sure . . .” Her gran
dmother took a moment to clear her throat. “Perhaps I should begin at the beginning. When your father met your mother, he talked about nothing except how wonderful she was. I remember one evening not long after they met, he told me that she was the woman he wanted to marry, and within a few months, he insisted that your grandfather speak to your mother’s father—that’s the way it was done then—to make his intentions known. They had a whirlwind courtship and married six months later when your Maman was eighteen. Such a beautiful girl. Your Papa is a very forceful person and was so much in love with her; I think he swept her off her feet.”

Helene listened carefully as her grandmother spoke of her parents’ early years of marriage, the babies that ensued, her
father’s career ambitions. She did not interrupt for fear that her grandmother would stop talking.

“After your brother Marc died, your mother changed. She became withdrawn at first, then brittle. She lost the spark that attracted your father. Even when Jean was born, that spark did not fully return. I don’t know why, and I’m ashamed to say that I never spoke to her about it. It’s difficult to have that kind of conversation with a daughter-in-law.”

Helene contemplated the word
brittle
, a harsh word for her grandmother to use.
Grandmere’s right, Maman is brittle
. The thought made her sad. A moment or two passed, their feet crunching on the small stones at the side of the road.

“Living with the family, I see things I didn’t see before. I see that your Papa is distant from your Maman. I see your mother watching him when he doesn’t realize it, as though she’s trying to fathom where they went wrong. They’re both brittle now. I think your Maman is very unhappy, Helene. And she needs us to help her.”

Helene had never heard her parents described with such candour. They always seemed a little removed from normal people, as though they fit in a special category. Marie had expressed the same opinion. “They’re parents, not people,” Marie had said one day. “We’re supposed to love them because we belong to them.”

But what if Maman and Papa remain at odds? How will that affect our family life?

“What should we do?” Helene said.

“Talk to her. Not about these personal matters but about your thoughts and day-to-day activities. Be kind and helpful. Spend time with Maman so she knows she can rely on you.”

“I can do that.” Even as she agreed, Helene wondered if these actions would be sufficient to change her mother’s mood.

“We both will.” Her grandmother squeezed Helene’s hand as if sealing a bargain.

They crossed the bridge into Beaufort, following its winding main street crowded with flat-fronted shops, painted shutters protecting second-floor rooms from both heat and cold. Wooden crates were piled beside the green grocer, and a bicycle leaned against the wall under its window. Next to the green grocer was an unoccupied store, its stuccoed walls marked with a large crack. Above the lintel, a gnarled vine clung to life, snaking around a wrought iron lamp full of cobwebs. Beyond the vacant store was La Fontaine Fleurie, the local florist, its door open to welcome shoppers. Stacked on either side of the door were buckets of fresh-cut flowers as well as pots in all manner of colours and shapes overflowing with houseplants.

“I need to stop at the pharmacy before we go to the dress shop,” Grandmere said.

When they opened the pharmacy door, a bell jangled and a thin, moustached man with steely grey hair soon emerged from behind striped curtains.

“Good morning, Dr. Valdane.”

“Madame Noisette, a pleasure to see you. Is this your granddaughter? A real beauty, just like you.”

While her grandmother spoke to the pharmacist, Helene looked around. One wall contained a picture of a beautiful, full bosomed woman holding a mirror while contemplating a selection of powders and perfumes. It was an advertisement for Savon Blanche Leigh, a miracle soap, or so the sign said. On the opposite wall was a desk topped with five concentric rows of narrow shelves, each shelf jammed with carefully labelled glass bottles, and in the middle of the desk, a set of scales and weights ready for Dr. Valdane to prepare his prescriptions. While Grandmere and the pharmacist continued their conversation, Helene occupied herself reading the labels on each glass bottle until her grandmother was ready to leave.

Chez Larouche, the dressmaker, was situated on the corner opposite the pharmacy. A brass bell attached to the door clanged as they entered, and a woman with curly hair and a pointed chin bustled forth to greet them.

“
Bonjour
, Madame Noisette. Such a lovely day. Mademoiselle Helene, how are you settling in? Beaufort is quiet compared to Paris,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“
Merci
, Madame Larouche. We are enjoying the peace and quiet of Beaufort, aren’t we Helene?”

Although nothing could be further from the truth, Helene smiled and nodded.

“We are on a mission, Madame Larouche. We need at least four different fabrics. I am rediscovering my dressmaking skills, and Helene deserves something new for the summer. What can you show us?”