The Gown(75)

The dining room was as pretty as the rest of the house, its table set with blue-and-white china, heavy silver cutlery, Battenburg lace mats instead of a cloth, and a sparkling crystal bowl massed with white chrysanthemums. They began with a soup of pureed vegetables, and then, for their main course, there were game birds braised with mushrooms and leeks. To finish, they were served a dessert that reminded her of pain perdu, though it was richer and sweeter.

“Bread pudding,” Ruby explained. “It’s Bennett’s favorite. I’ll bet Cook used up our entire egg ration to make it.”

Miriam found the conversation difficult to follow at first, for it moved back and forth across the table, from topic to topic, and she was never quite sure which thread to pick up. It was pleasant, all the same, to listen as Walter and Bennett debated one topic after another, often interrupted by Ruby, and to marvel at the obvious affection they had for one another.

At the end of lunch, Walter and Bennett stayed on to clear the table and help Cook with the washing up. Miriam began to gather their water glasses, but was promptly deflected by Bennett.

“Guests aren’t allowed to help. House rules. You can keep Ruby company in the sitting room, or you can poke around outside. I’ll keep the dogs shut away.”

As much as she wished to spend more time with Ruby, she also needed a few minutes to herself. “I think I would like to see the garden. Where shall I go?”

“Door’s at the end of the hall. That’ll take you to the kitchen garden. Things get wilder the farther you get from the house.”

The garden, hemmed in on three sides by the house, was set out in symmetrical parterre beds of vegetables and herbs. Rambling roses, their faded blooms fattening into rosy hips, climbed three-sided wrought-iron trellises set in the center of each square, while espaliered fruit trees spread expansive boughs across a south-facing wall.

Miriam walked around each bed, taking stock of the flowers and herbs, and then stood in the center and let herself breathe. The sun felt so lovely on her upturned face.

She turned at the sound of footsteps. Bennett. “It is beautiful,” she said.

“My mother’s creation. Inspired by memories of her childhood home in Normandy.”

“So that is why you have no accent.”

“Maman was relentless. Always insisted on French at home. But it has served me well.” He turned his head, caught her gaze, kept it. “I was in France during the war. I saw terrible things. And the memories of what I saw will never leave me.”

She nodded, not quite understanding.

“I expect you saw worse,” he said. “I expect that worse things were done to you.”

“How?” she asked.

“A guess. I understand your reluctance to discuss your past. I do. But if ever there were a safe place to do so, this is it. I promise you that.”

“I want to tell him. I do.”

“There isn’t a drop of hate in Kaz. None at all. As I think you know.”

“He is important to me,” she said. “He has become precious to me.”

“I can see it. But you— Hello, Kaz. Didn’t hear you come out.”

“I know. The two of you were as thick as thieves.” Walter had Miriam’s coat over one arm. “Shall we go for a walk? Cook insists rain is on the way.”

“Excellent idea,” Bennett seconded. “I’d come with you, but I need to keep an eye on Ruby. Otherwise I’ll return to find her at the top of a ladder or doing something else that stops my heart.”

Walter led them down the hill, through a stand of beeches, and into a grassy meadow that was crisscrossed with mown pathways. They walked in silence, the sun hot upon their backs, and after a few minutes he reached out and took her hand in his.

“What were the two of you rabbiting on about?” he asked.

“France. The war.”

“I thought so,” he said, and his hand tightened around hers for an instant. “Earlier, when you were frightened by the dogs, you told me you’d once liked them. ‘Before,’ you said.”

“Yes. Before I was imprisoned. Before I was sent to Ravensbrück.”

“The guards there had dogs,” he said, and there was something odd about his voice. He was angry, she realized, so angry that he could barely speak.

“They did.” They walked on, and she knew she had to tell him the rest of it. “There is something else you must know. I am a Jew.”

He squeezed her hand even tighter. He did not let go. “I thought you might be.”

“How?” How was it that he was not surprised?

“I’m not much of a detective. But you did speak of your grandmother’s Friday-night chicken. And there’s your name. Miriam isn’t a very typical name for a Catholic. Combined with your reluctance to speak of your life before the war, it seemed likely.”

“Why did you not say anything?”

“I was waiting for you to tell me. I didn’t want to push you. I certainly didn’t wish you to feel threatened.”

“And you do not care?”

“I think the better question is if I mind. To that I say, no, I don’t mind at all. But I do care. Very much so.”

“I do not understand the difference.”

“Your being Jewish is a part of you. It’s a part of your family and your history, and also your suffering. How can I truly know you without also knowing you are a Jew?”