Page 74 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Your love for Frieda sounds wonderful, and I congratulate you on feeling this way! Those moments you describe remind me of my early days courting my dear Amélie – treasure these days, these moments, as much as you feel frustrated. Women are strange creatures, Michel, and it sounds as though she may feel something for you too – but you say she cannot be yours, for a reason you have not expanded upon. I do wonder whether that is because you still have hope that maybe you are wrong?

I must close soon; I am due at Odette’s who has procured me a pound of butter and some fresh meat with her wily ways! But before I depart, I am going to sit here and look out at the street, letting my mind wander as I think of the colours and sounds of the circus show, of where you may be now, and what you may be doing. This daydream I am sure will keep me going for some time, until I receive your next letter – which, Michel, I dearly pray that I do.

Take the best care, Michel.

Bertrand

Michel folded the letter and placed it on top of the other. He thought of Bertrand’s words. In his last letter he had explained the situation with Frieda and Werner – did that mean he had given up hope? To write it on paper made it too real – a defeat – yet Michel realised that he was not yet ready to be defeated.

He stood and put the letters in his pocket, leaving the river behind and heading into town, wanting to be alone for a little while longer.

Very little had changed in Vodable. The Madame’s café was still open, though now it served a few uniformed soldiers who sat and laughed with the locals. Michel spied a man, his legs long and thin, his arms the same, but with an enormous potbelly as if he were pregnant, perched on a bar stool close to the door, his feet dangling, his face round, flushed and joyful. He wore a uniform too, but his was unbuttoned and messy, as if he wore it only because he had to. Oberfeldwebel Gehring.

Michel did not go in, but turned instead to the patisserie and bought himself a slice of rich chocolate cake layered with cream. He found a bench by the side of the church overlooking the cemetery and ate his cake slowly, luxuriating in the sweetness. It had cost him more than he could afford, but it was worth it, just this once.

He waited in the quiet until the sun began its descent, and then stood to walk back to the farm before dark set in.

Then, he saw her. Frieda.

She sat down on the bench and he did the same.

‘I wondered where you were. Jean was sent to get some extra bread before the baker closed and I said I would go with him. Have you been here this whole time?’

‘A little while. I just wanted to walk and clear my head.’

‘Is there much on your mind?’

‘Just one thing,’ he said.

‘Werner is thankful you have found us a nice spot to stay for the evening. Lucien has been keeping him company – talking of wine and women and animals. They are making their way through their second bottle.’

‘Lucien is a wine connoisseur. He is good company.’

‘As are you, Michel.’ She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder.

‘Frieda, you shouldn’t be here. I’m not allowed to speak to you – remember?’

Frieda lifted her head from his shoulder. ‘I know, but I miss your voice.’

Michel turned to look at her, their eyes locked.

‘There you are!’

‘Jean!’ Michel stood quickly.

‘Bread – here, take a loaf. I could only get two. Hopefully it will be enough.’

‘I’m sure it will be plenty. It’s time to go home.’

The trio walked back, Jean out in front, whistling a tune. Michel felt his hand brush against Frieda’s, and in a moment of spontaneity he took her hand in his. She did not pull away and her thumb stroked his, just once. It made him feel breathless with the want of her.

He knew in that moment that he would fight to be with her. She was Werner’s, but she had shown him that perhaps she would someday be his.

They walked silently back to the farm, Michel enjoying her warmth, her scent, even her silence.

Just before the turn in the bend that would lead them down the track, she pulled her hand away.

The following morning broke with a frost on the ground, blue skies and a light breeze that stirred up the crunchy golden and bronze fallen leaves. Michel woke in an uncomfortable position, balled up on Lucien’s couch as Kacper had taken the spare room. He stretched and realised he would have to erect his tent, as cold as it was – he couldn’t sleep on this again.