“Stand back and I’ll widen it a bit more so we can crawl through.”
Once they were able to squeeze through, they carefully climbed the crude, shallow steps. At the top, Rosalyn jumped at the sight of a squat, chubby gargoyle.
“I’ll bet that came from the cathedral,” Jérôme murmured.
They arrived at an opening that was nothing more than a small, claustrophobic loft. Shallow ledges held very old candle stubs, encrusted with dust, and a broken piece of mirror.
But Lucie’s humble little “attic” also held a treasure.
The walls had been decorated with bas-reliefs of sirens and sailing ships, clouds and trees and flowers. There were three bottles of champagne, one from each vintage that Lucie helped to harvest. In a folded pile were a heavy wool sweater, a balaclava, and several pairs of socks, all suffering from mold and rot. Next to these was Émile’s military kit, sent to Lucie as his wife, along with the official notice of his death.
Rosalyn snapped more photographs with her phone, and then she took the lid off a small wooden box and took a picture of the contents.
Within were six bundles of letters tied with twine, all from Doris Whittaker. One letter from Lucie to Émile, penned after he died, had been added to the stack. Unfortunately, the paper was in terrible condition, spotted with mold and falling apart.
“Doris’s letters. At long last.”
Tucked into the side of the box was a small book of stories by Edgar Allan Poe, translated by Charles Baudelaire. The frontispiece was dedicated “with much affection” to Lucie Maréchal, with a dramatic signature Rosalyn would recognize anywhere:
Émile Paul Legrand
“I wonder what finally happened to poor Émile,” Rosalyn said softly. The space was cramped and not appealing to a claustrophobe, but there was nonetheless something sacred about it. It felt like a chapel. “Did I tell you? We thought he had died in the war—Lucie had received official notification—but it was a mistake. He survived with severe injuries, but no one here knew the truth until after the war.”
“That wasn’t uncommon. My grandmother’s father was a veteran of the Great War. She told me he was referred to as an ‘unknown soldier’ because he was lost for a while due to his injuries, andonly reunited with his family several months after the end of the war.”
Rosalyn stilled. “What was his name?”
He shrugged. “I’m not the historian my father was. I never met my great-grandfather, only heard stories. He was originally an apiarist—a beekeeper—but his family’s farm in Reims was destroyed in the war, so he worked for one of the big champagne houses for a number of years until he was able to save enough to buy land here in Cochet, which became Comtois Père et Fils.
“Was he missing a hand, by any chance?”
“How did you know that?”
“Jérôme, could your great-grandfather have been the Émile whose letters we’ve been reading all these weeks?”
“I’m sorry?”
“We’ve been searching everywhere for more information on what happened to Émile Paul Legrand, but Emma’s research didn’t find any connection to Cochet or the surrounding area.”
“She was probably looking for the wrong name. My grandmother was one of four girls; the family name wouldn’t have passed on through them.”
“This could mean you’re Émile’s great-grandson! Do you have a family tree in your library or a family Bible—something that might list his name—to see if I’m right?”
“We can certainly look. Now, what about these letters? They’re in terrible shape, as bad as the wine.”
He shone the flashlight through one of the bottles, displaying the sediment floating within.
“It’s a Victory Vintage,” Rosalyn said. “Even at the time, I think it was more about the making of it than the drinking of it.”
Rosalyn picked up Lucie’s letter from the top of the stack. It had been written by Lucie to her husband, after she had been told he hadbeen killed. The paper was spotted with mold and falling apart. She held it as gently as she could as she read aloud:
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.
Tears bubbled up and spilled over as Rosalyn reached the end of the letter. Wordlessly, Jérôme put an arm around her and hugged her close. She turned her head and let her tears stain his white shirt.
