Page 51

On the third day, all of us are hollow-eyed from the fighting. I’m so tired I can barely remain awake through dinner, and Henri hardly looks better. Only Yvette, who continues to rest most of the day, appears refreshed.

I’m just drifting off that night, my thoughts scattering like ash, when, from downstairs, Yvette’s voice wakes me.

“You stared at her all night!” she cries. “You stare at her every night, just as you did at the dance! Does it torture you, the thought of her with Luc?” Cecelia begins to cry and I go downstairs and scoop her up. I can’t hear his words but I hear the anger in them, the inherent threat.

“Did she spread her legs for you like she does the rest of the town?” Yvette screams. “She did, didn’t she? Did she spread her legs like the whore that she is?”

Their door opens and he stands at the threshold, unaware of my presence, so I hear every word he says in reply. “No, she didn’t. But you did, and the child that resulted is the only reason I allow you to stay.”

It’s only when he turns that he sees me there, with Cecelia. His face falls.

“I have her,” I tell him.

He tugs at his hair with those hands of his, tortured and desperate. “I’m so sorry you heard that.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him, though as I say it the weight of this whole thing seems to press down on me. Loving Henri and his daughter when I can’t keep either of them, watching Yvette take everything I want in the world when she’s not even grateful for it…it’s too much. I feel like marsh grass in high wind, barely able to stay upright, sustaining one blow after the next and feeling as if it will never end. “But I’m leaving in the morning.”

* * *

I take Cecelia upstairs and, tucking her into the crook of my arm, the two of us fall asleep. I hear more shouting, later, but I’m so exhausted it doesn’t matter and Cecelia will sleep through anything as long as she’s being held. At some point, Marie comes in and takes her from me, and the next time my eyes open the house is blissfully quiet at last and flooded with sunlight.

I walk down the stairs to find Marie sitting at the table. Her hands are idle for the first time ever, and she stares out the window.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

She blinks, as if surprised to find me here. “Yvette is gone.”

“Gone?” I ask.

“She left early this morning. She says she’s going back to Paris.”

My head swivels. The crib is empty, and it feels as if everything inside my chest is sucked out by a vacuum all at once. “Cecelia?” I gasp.

Marie gives me a small smile. “Yvette left her. Said the baby was our problem, not hers. Henri is walking her. He thought we should let you rest.”

I collapse into a chair, leaning forward. My limbs are still shaking from that single moment of terror. “Thank God.”

When I look up there are tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“For all of this. It’s because of me that you went to 1918 in the first place. It’s because of me you got stuck there. Because of me that Henri thought you were dead and wound up with her at all. You’ve suffered so much and it’s entirely my fault.”

I shake my head. “All of those things had to occur for Cecelia to exist. How can we regret any of them?”

Her eyes close. “I know. But now Yvette’s gone and I hope—” She trails off.

“You hope what?”

“I hope you’ll stay,” she says. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to. And with the baby…all our lives are in jeopardy in a way they weren’t before. Whether Henri remains here or goes off to fight, Cecelia will need a woman’s care, and she can’t jump with us, which means one of us will always have to stay behind. What I’m trying to say is that I hope you will stay, but I’m asking far more of you with that request than I once was.”

I’m not sure how to respond. The truth is that I am still so in love with Henri I feel like I can barely breathe at the thought of leaving him. But I am also hurt, even if I shouldn’t be. I know that I will probably stay—how can I not, under the circumstances: with his whole family in danger, with a new baby more defenseless than the rest of us?—but I’m not sure how it will be with us. Or if it will ever be the same.

The door opens. Henri stands there with Cecelia on his shoulder, so impossibly tiny by contrast with her father. His eyes hold mine and I freeze, without a clue what to say. It is Marie who swoops in, brushing her hands against her dress and walking briskly toward him. She pulls Cece from his arms and begins cooing to her as she walks outside, shutting the door firmly behind her.

“You heard?” he asks. He hasn’t moved an inch.

My eyes slowly lift to his. I suppose I should tell him I’m sorry, but the words don’t come. Cecelia has lost her mother, but Yvette was already proving not to be much of one. “Yes,” I reply. “I heard.”