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“You’re speaking in hypotheticals,” says Henri. “I’m talking about the flesh-and-blood woman I love.” He’s so resistant to the idea he can’t think clearly, and I suppose I am too. Even if it was only four more years, that’s four years without Henri. Cece would be six when she caught up with me, Lucien, seven, Charlotte, ten. And if I have to return to my own time, it would be so much longer. I’d need to wait until our child was eighteen before I returned to them. They’d all be adults by then. Adults who barely remember me.
“I’m sorry,” Marie says. “I’m not trying to ruin these months for you. I hate that this may mean Amelie is leaving. But...what’s being asked of her is a gift. Don’t you see? Anyone, anywhere in the future could appear and take this away from us. They could go back to kill us as children and even remove the times we’ve already had. With this child coming, I understand now why our mother hated that so much. I wouldn’t want to be in Amelie’s position, but if I were, I know what I would do.”
“The prophecy is a prediction,” Henri says. “If the child is supposed to be hidden, it should happen naturally, because circumstances dictate it. Not because we followed what it said like a play book.”
He’s right. And yet, when I think of all the people who died or suffered, hoping to bring this to fruition...a part of me thinks I owe it to all of them to do this the right way.
Henri and I retreat to the cottage a few minutes later, both of us worn down by worry and guilt. Maybe Marie is right, but when I picture raising this baby alone, away from Henri and the children, I can feel how painful it will be, how lonely. My heart would break a little more every single day.
We are quiet as we get ready for bed. It’s only after we’ve lied down that he raises up on his forearm to meet my gaze.
“I’d like to marry you before she’s born,” he says. “I know it won’t be official until the state can sanction it, but I still want to do it.”
I smile for the first time since our discussion with Marie began. “Fortunately,” I reply, “we happen to know a priest.”
* * *
On a sundrenched June morning, I walk with Charlotte to the small chapel in the woods, part of the estate dating back to the 1600s. I wear a dress recovered from the ruins of the chateau and altered to fit my growing stomach—what was once a diaphanous ballgown has been turned into a maternity wedding dress that goes down to my ankles, tied under the bust with a white satin sash. Charlotte beams beside me, swinging the basket of flowers she and Lucien spent the morning picking.
“Can I wear that dress when I marry Daniel?” she asks.
I laugh. “Yes, though I hope you’ll give it a few years.” And won’t be pregnant. We’ve reached the top of the church steps. “Are we ready, my loveliest flower girl?”
She nods and we enter. Henri waits at the end of the aisle, resplendent in a suit borrowed from Edouard. His eyes meet mine, and despite the situation I feel nothing but joy. This moment is happening because of all the things we went through, all the ways we suffered. I’d have fought so many things tooth and nail, had I known ahead of time—the broken ankle that stranded me with Henri the first summer we met, being held captive, Cecelia’s birth, remaining behind with Charlotte and Lucien when the Germans invaded, letting Henri know who I really was—but they’ve brought us here, and because of that I would change none of them.
He pulls me against him when I reach the altar. “You’re so lovely,” he says, low enough that only I can hear. “I can’t believe you’re finally going to be mine.”
I smile. “I was yours all along. Even back when I insisted I wasn’t.”
His mouth finds mine and I sigh happily. At last, at last, at last...I feel like I’ve waited my entire life to get here.
“Papa,” scolds Charlotte. “You’re supposed to do that at the end.”
Everyone laughs and Edouard, smiling, begins to read.
Our vows are simple and said quickly, given that the church is full of restless children. But as Henri kisses me for the first time as his wife, I feel new again. As if God has, once more, decided to forgive me for what I became.
* * *
That night, Marie takes the children and we have the cottage to ourselves.
We retire early, and Henri carries me over the threshold, tugging the sash of my dress loose before he’s even set me down. He crosses the room to light a lamp and I object.
“What do we need light for?” I ask. “I sort of assumed we’d be...going to bed.”
He laughs. “Oh, we definitely will be.” He removes his jacket as he crosses the room to me, then turns me away so he can unbutton my dress. “But for the last two months, I’ve made love to you furtively.” His mouth presses to my neck, and then my ear, making me shiver. “Tonight, I want all of you—the sight of you, the sounds you make. All of it.”
He pulls the dress down my shoulders and to the floor before holding out a hand so I can step out of it. I turn toward him, and his hands go to either side of my belly. “I never dreamed that in the middle of a war, my life could be so perfect,” he says.
I reach up and begin to unbutton his shirt. “Not perfect yet,” I reply, going on my toes to find his mouth as I pull the shirt off. “But it’s about to be.”
49
SARAH
June gives way to July.
I’m six months pregnant, and I’ve never longed for a respite from the heat the way I do now. I want air conditioning and ice. I want a shower.
