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I lead him to the table and he sits with Cece in his lap, chatting with Lucien and Charlotte, while I get him a plate.
He glances up at me as I place the food in front of him. “It’s late. I’m surprised Marie isn’t home.”
My teeth sink into my lip. Marie’s been gone so long I’d almost forgotten he would expect her to be here. There’s a lot he doesn’t know, and he will definitely not be pleased. “She’s...gone. She went to Paris right after you left. I—”
“She left?” he repeats incredulously. “She left you here in this situation alone?”
I shoot a quick glance at the children. “The situation here didn’t change until she was gone, and it’s...complicated.”
He looks sick. “But she’s alright?” he asks. “She survived the bombings?”
I bite my lip. “I assume so. I think we might have heard from Edouard if she didn’t.”
He raises a brow. “Edouard?” he asks. “Why would we hear from Edouard?”
“You’re going to be an uncle,” I tell him, and his jaw falls open as he puts it together. I can see his thoughts even before he voices them: in his mind, his sister is painfully sheltered and innocent, still fragile from the ordeal in 1918. If she’s pregnant, it’s because she was forced, or manipulated. “I know you want to blame Edouard, but Marie played a heavy role. She admitted it herself. And the fact that she never came back means they’re probably married by now,” I reply.
His nostrils flare. “If he hasn’t married her, I’ll—”
My hand folds over his. “I know. But right now, you need to focus. The child she carries might be…what everyone has waited for. You’re home and safe, and hopefully she is too. Under the circumstances, it’s more than we could hope for.”
We both take a quick glance at the children: Cecelia, who could easily have been swept away by Yvette, and Lucien and Charlotte, who’d lost both their parents before the war had even begun in earnest. “You’re right,” he says softly. “There were many times when I thought I’d never have a moment like this again. Thank God I was wrong.”
He digs into his food, eating like a starving man, which is likely not far from the truth. He tells us he dove from his ship just before it was sunk, swam in icy water for hours before he was rescued by three British soldiers, and then was taken captive. He managed to escape in late September, and has been traveling by night ever since.
“How did you eat?” I ask, grinding my teeth not to cry. Now that he’s here, and safe, I’m finally able to picture how awful it must have been.
His eyes—the softest green—meet mine. “I managed, little thief. But I’m so glad to be home.”
* * *
I draw him a bath and then take the children upstairs to bed. When I return he’s still in the tub. “You have no idea what a luxury clean water is,” he says with a laugh, “and warm water, no less.”
My eyes fill at the sight of him there and I go to the tub’s edge. “I’m shocked the water’s so clean.”
“I’ve had to empty and refill the tub twice,” he admits, and then his crooked grin fades. “What happened to Jeannette? If you stayed back because of the children, she must have died before the bombings even began.”
I sigh. “I’m not sure we’ll ever know. She went to Paris two days before we were due to leave. There was a stampede at the train station and many people died, but I have no idea. And by the time I knew where her mother lived, the whole block had been destroyed. But someone could come for them after the war. There might be aunts and uncles,” I tell him, before taking a deep breath. “I won’t give them back if that happens.”
His tongue darts to his lip, considering what I’m saying. “Legally, I’m not sure you’ll have a choice.”
“I don’t care what the law says. Anyone who would take children from the family that’s raised them for more than half their lives doesn’t deserve them.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’re my wife in spirit, if not in name, and I trust your decisions,” he says.
My eyes sting. I’m not sure I deserve his faith. In fact, I know I don’t. But I feel so unspeakably lucky to have it. I kiss him, unable to say all the things I’d like to say. “Give me the pitcher and I’ll wash your hair,” I tell him.
He hands it to me, and I fill it with clean water, trying not to look at his naked lower half. He’s exhausted and half-starved from his journey, so certain things may need to wait.
I tip the pitcher over his head and fill it again, before lathering the soap in my hands. He groans as my fingers press to his scalp.
I still. “Am I hurting you?”
“Just the opposite,” he says. His hands rise to clasp my face and pull my mouth to his. He holds me there, exploring me with his lips and his tongue, dragging his teeth over my lower lip on his way to my neck. “Christ, I’ve missed you. Night and day, for months, I’ve missed you. And now you’re here and it seems almost too perfect to be real.”
“Henri,” I gasp, as his lips pull at the skin of my neck, “I have to rinse your hair.”
He slides under the water and then emerges, climbing to his feet and towering above me—leaner than before, bruised and glorious. I want to eat him whole.
