The Nightingale(50)

He moved in close to her. “With some effort, Madame, I believe I can find your husband’s address and mail a package for you, also. Would this be sanguine?”

“‘Sanguine’ is not the right word, Herr Captain. You mean to ask me if it would be all right.” She was stalling and she knew it. Worse, she was pretty sure that he knew it.

“Ah. Thank you so much for tutoring me in your beautiful language. My apologies.” He offered her a pen. “Do not worry, Madame. It is clerical, merely.”

Vianne wanted to say that she wouldn’t write down any names, but what would be the point? It was easy enough for him to get this information in town. Everyone knew whose names belonged on the list. And Beck could throw her out of her own house for such a defiance—and what would she do then?

She sat down and picked up the pen and began to write down names. It wasn’t until the end of the list that she paused and lifted the pen tip from the paper. “I’m done,” she said in a soft voice.

“You have forgotten your friend.”

“Did I?”

“Surely you meant to be accurate.”

She bit her lip nervously and looked down at the list of names. She was certain suddenly that she shouldn’t have done this. But what choice did she have? He was in control of her home. What would happen if she defied him? Slowly, feeling sick to her stomach, she wrote the last name on the list.

Rachel de Champlain.





TWELVE

On a particularly cold morning in late November, Vianne woke with tears on her cheeks. She had been dreaming about Antoine again.

With a sigh, she eased out of bed, taking care not to waken Sophie. Vianne had slept fully dressed, wearing a woolen vest, a long-sleeved sweater, woolen stockings, a pair of flannel pants (Antoine’s, cut down to fit her), and a knit cap and mittens. It wasn’t even Christmas and already layering had become de rigueur. She added a cardigan and still she was cold.

She burrowed her mittened hands into the slit at the foot of the mattress and withdrew the leather pouch Antoine had left for her. Not much money remained in it. Soon, they would have to live on her teaching salary alone.

She returned the money (counting it had become an obsession since the weather turned cold) and went downstairs.

There was never enough of anything anymore. The pipes froze at night and so there was no water until midday. Vianne had taken to leaving buckets full of water positioned near the stove and fireplaces for washing. Gas and electricity were scarce, as was money to pay for them, so she was miserly with both. The flames on her stove were so low it barely boiled water. They rarely turned on the lights.

She made a fire and then wrapped herself in a heavy eiderdown and sat on the divan. Beside her was a bag of yarn that she’d collected by pulling apart one of her old sweaters. She was making Sophie a scarf for Christmas, and these early-morning hours were the only time she could find.

With only the creaking of the house for company, she focused on the pale blue yarn and the way the knitting needles dove in and out of the soft strands, creating every moment something that hadn’t existed before. It calmed her nerves, this once-ordinary morning ritual. If she loosed her thoughts, she might remember her mother sitting beside her, teaching her, saying, “Knit one, purl two, that’s right … beautiful…”

Or Antoine, coming down the stairs in his stockinged feet, smiling, asking her what she was making for him …

Antoine.

The front door opened slowly, bringing a burst of ice-cold air and a flurry of leaves. Isabelle came in, wearing Antoine’s old wool coat and knee-high boots and a scarf that coiled around her head and neck, obscuring all but her eyes. She saw Vianne and came to a sudden stop. “Oh. You’re up.” She unwound the scarf and hung up her coat. There was no mistaking the guilty look on her face. “I was out checking on the chickens.”

Vianne’s hands stilled; the needles paused. “You might as well tell me who he is, this boy you keep sneaking out to meet.”

“Who would meet a boy in this cold?” Isabelle went to Vianne, pulling her to her feet, leading her to the fire.

At the sudden warmth, Vianne shivered. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d been. “You,” she said, surprised that it made her smile. “You would sneak out in the cold to meet a boy.”

“He would have to be some boy. Clark Gable, maybe.”

Sophie rushed into the room, snuggling up to Vianne. “This feels good,” she said, holding out her hands.