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Angelique
October 1943
France
* * *
Sunday morning, Bridgette walks into the bedroom and opens the blackout curtains. It’s been four days since the bullet grazed my calf, leaving a two-inch path in my flesh.
Yesterday, when she examined my leg, she told me to give it another day. The wind and rain hammering the window also conspired against me returning to the farmhouse.
But today, the sky is cloud free and I cannot stay any longer. Even the morning sickness is giving me a reprieve so I can bike to Jacques’s vineyard.
Bridgette unwraps the bandage from my calf. The pain has improved considerably during the past three days, transforming to a stinging ache that is more bearable. If the bullet had been a fraction of an inch closer to the bone, I would not have been so lucky.
She inspects the healing wound. “I think you should stay for another day or two.”
I twist around to look at it. It’s not even close to healed, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s good enough for me to get home. “I can’t. I have to get back. But I promise I’ll pedal slowly.”
Shaking her head, she heaves out a short breath, consternation lining her face. “You won’t stay no matter what I say, will you?”
I grin because she sounds like Hazel did whenever I got sick and grew tired of her mothering me. They both share the same exasperated huffed tone. “Probably not.”
She fists her hands on her hips, and a small grunt escapes her. “God, the lot of you are impossible.”
An abrupt laugh comes from the doorway. Laurent enters the room, their baby in his arms. He kisses the crown of his wife’s head. “She thinks we’re a stubborn bunch of imbeciles. She might be right about that.”
She glares at him, but that only succeeds at making him laugh harder, something he probably doesn’t do enough of.
“Well, you do take a lot of risks.” The sadness in her tone weighs down the room, defusing the lightness Laurent was clearly aiming for.
“I know,” he says softly. “I wish it wasn’t like this. But I don’t just want this war over. I want our daughter to know what it is like to be French and free. I want her to grow up not wondering where her next meal will come from, or be forced to pledge her allegiance to a dictator.”
Bridgette cannot argue against that. None of us can.
“I’m grateful for what you have done for me, Bridgette,” I say. “I really am. But I need to get back to the house I’m staying at. I need to return to my job of ridding us of the vermin.”
“Alright, then. I’ll rewrap your leg so the bandage stays put while you cycle home. But I cannot promise you that you won’t cause more damage to the wound. I am a nurse. I am not a doctor. I can only do so much.”
“I know. It’s a risk I must take. But I will take it easy, and I’ll push the bike up the hills if they prove to be too difficult.”
The sun isn’t high in the sky yet by the time I climb on my bicycle, my dress barely hiding the bandage on my lower leg.
“Come on, ma petite,” I whisper to my baby. “Let’s get home before Johann and Jacques become overly fretful.”
The journey to the farmhouse is slow as I take care not to overly tax myself. I arrive more than eight hours later. My calf aches. My body aches. And I’m so very tired.
I lean the bike against the barn and turn to the house. All I’m interested in doing for now is napping before I make the evening meal.
Johann steps out of the farmhouse, spots me, and stares at me for a heartbeat as though I’m one of the mythological creatures his sister loved so much. Then he is sprinting to where I am standing.
Without a word, he gathers me in his arms and kisses me, seemingly not to care that we’re in the open.
The kisses aren’t sweet or hungry. They’re powered by a core-deep desperation. I loop my arms around his neck and return his kisses with the same fervour. I had needed so badly to be in his arms again.
“I thought you were dead,” he says, and guilt lurches inside me. “Jacques said you were due back three days ago. When you didn’t return…” Johann resumes kissing me, and I eagerly return each one. “I really thought you were…” A long kiss. “I love you, Angelique. I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost someone else I love.”
He continues kissing me, not giving me a chance to squeeze in a word. His words buoy me, carry me to the heavens. But at the same time, they fill me with dread. Love alone might not be enough when it comes to the war. Not enough to help us survive, to end the death and destruction.
