The Winemaker's Wife(81)

“The blood will never come out,” he said. “We must burn it. Your clothing, too.”

“But we have so little . . .”

His eyes flashed. “We will have nothing if the Germans come. Come on, Inès, you know better.”

His tone stung, but she turned anyhow and stoked the fire smoldering in the hearth. She thrust his soiled shirt in, watching as the flames licked greedily at the cotton, reducing it to ashes.

Michel returned a few minutes later. “Come. We must wipe the cellars clean of blood before the sun is up. You can burn your clothes when you’re done.”

Inès nodded, and together they filled buckets and hurried out back and down the stairs to the cellars. They worked on their knees in silence, scrubbing as hard as they could with old rags until the blood on the floors, and the crimson streaks on the walls, faded into the forgiving stone. When they were done, Inès was so exhausted that she could barely stand, but Michel helped her to her feet, and supported her as they walked upstairs in silence.

“Rest,” he said when they reached the back door of the house. “Just give me your clothes, and I will take care of things.”

“But you must be very tired, too.”

“Inès, you saved Céline. You saved the baby.”

When Inès didn’t move, Michel whispered, “Go,” and she was surprised to see his eyes filled with tears. It was only later, after she had left her bloodied clothing in a pile at the door and fallen naked into bed, that she realized it hadn’t even occurred to her to comfort her husband, to ease his pain, to wrap him in her arms and promise everything would be okay.

Was it because she knew that it wouldn’t be, that her words would be meaningless? Or was it because she herself was empty, drained of everything that made her who she was? The questions gnawed at her as she finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

? ? ?

For three days and two nights, they waited, hardly acknowledging each other, jumping each time they heard the distant hum of vehicles passing by on the main road, flinching each time a flash of motion cut through the dusk. It seemed inconceivable that there wouldn’t be a price to pay for Richter’s life, but as the minutes ticked by, Inès let herself begin to believe that perhaps Richter hadn’t told a soul where he was going, that maybe no one would think to follow his trail to the Maison Chauveau. Maybe there were other women Richter had leered at, threatened, attempted to violate. There was a chance Richter’s colleagues didn’t even know about Céline and the way her curves and forbiddenness had become bait for a cruel animal.

Céline’s wound began to heal, the ragged edges knitting themselves together into something dark and hard, but it didn’t appear infected. Inès knew the scar would always remind Céline of the terrible night, but within her, the baby continued to move. And though she walked around with a blank expression, dark circles swelling under her bloodshot eyes, Céline seemed to draw solace from the fact that her baby would be all right. Inès was proud of having preserved one innocent life, at least, but even that feeling couldn’t erase the growing sense that a storm was coming.

And then, on the third night, Inès woke with a start from a deep, dreamless sleep to find Michel’s side of the bed empty and cold. She sat up, her heart thudding. It was nearly midnight.

She slipped from the bed, lit a lamp, pulled on a coat and a pair of boots, and made her way outside. The moonlit property was still and silent, no sign of any German officers. But if Michel wasn’t dealing with questions from the occupying authorities, where was he? He had promised to hold back on his work with the underground until the Richter storm blew over, but had he lied? Inès scanned the vineyards, the drive, until finally her eyes came to rest on the entrance to the cellars. The slightest bit of light slipped out from underneath the closed doors, and Inès knew in an instant that her husband was belowground. Anger swept through her; how could he make the decision to put any of them at additional risk at a time like this? Especially Céline?

She considered going back to bed, confronting him in the morning, but she knew she’d never be able to sleep. So she wrapped her sweater more tightly around herself, an armor of indignation, and hurried toward the entrance to the caves, ready to berate him for his disregard for their safety.

Then again, what if it was just that he couldn’t sleep and had retreated under the earth to find some solace? She softened slightly as she made her way down the winding stairs. She had done the same more than once, and what would it prove other than the fact that her husband was human? Perhaps she shouldn’t bother him. But she was already belowground, and there was movement in one of the caves far ahead to the right. If nothing else, she could comfort Michel. If this was his hour of darkness, maybe she could be his light.

She crept along quietly, not wanting to startle him, and as she turned the final corner into the cave with the hidden room where Céline had helped her hide Samuel and Rachel Cohn not that long ago, the words were in her throat. We will handle this together, she would tell him. I am by your side, my love.

But Michel wasn’t in the cave thinking or weeping or even storing arms. He was on the floor, amid a mound of blankets, on top of someone he was kissing passionately.

Inès screamed, the sound splitting the silence, and he whipped his head around, his expression a mask of horror as he saw her. He scrambled to his feet, a blanket clutched in front of him, his face crimson as he groped around for his trousers. “Inès, please, I can explain,” he began.