The Nightingale(80)

Then came another sound, like a scraping of wood on wood.

“Someone is in this apartment,” Papa said.

“Don’t be absurd, Papa.”

He rose quickly from the table and left the room. Isabelle rushed after him. “Papa—”

“Hush,” he hissed.

He moved down the entryway, into the unlit part of the apartment. At the bombé chest near the front door, he picked up a candle in a brass holder and lit it.

“Surely you don’t think someone has broken in,” she said.

He threw her a harsh, narrow-eyed look. “I will not ask you to be silent again. Now hold your tongue.” His breath smelled of brandy and cigarettes.

“But why—”

“Shut up.” He turned his back on her and moved down the narrow, slanted-floor hallway toward the bedrooms.

He passed the miniscule coat closet (nothing but coats inside) and followed the candle’s quavering path into Vianne’s old room. It was empty but for the bed and nightstand and writing desk. Nothing was out of place in here. He got slowly to his knees and looked under the bed.

Satisfied at last that the room was empty, he headed for Isabelle’s room.

Could he hear the pounding of her heart?

He checked her room—under the bed, behind the door, behind the floor-to-ceiling damask curtains that framed the blacked-out courtyard window.

Isabelle forced herself not to stare at the armoire. “See?” she said loudly, hoping the airman would hear voices and sit still. “No one is here. Really, Papa, working for the enemy is making you paranoid.”

He turned to her. In the corona of candlelight, his face looked haggard and worn. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be afraid, you know.”

Was that a threat? “Of you, Papa? Or of the Nazis?”

“Are you paying no attention at all, Isabelle? You should be afraid of everyone. Now, get out of my way. I need a drink.”





EIGHTEEN

Isabelle lay in bed, listening. When she was sure her father was asleep (a drunken sleep, no doubt) she left her bed, went in search of her grandmère’s porcelain chamber pot, and holding it, stood in front of the armoire.

Slowly—a half inch at a time—she moved it away from the wall. Just enough to open the hidden door.

Inside, it was dark and quiet. Only when she listened intently did she hear him breathing. “Monsieur?” she whispered.

“Hello, miss” came at her from the dark.

She lit the oil lamp by her bed and carried it into the space.

He was sitting against the wall with his legs stretched out; in the candlelight, he seemed softer somehow. Younger.

She handed him the chamber pot and saw that color rose on his cheeks as he took it from her.

“Thank you.”

She sat down opposite him. “I got rid of your identification tags and flight suit. Your boots will have to be cut down for you to wear. Here’s a knife. Tomorrow morning I will get you some of my father’s clothes. I don’t imagine they’ll fit well.”

He nodded, saying, “And what is your plan?”

That made her smile nervously. “I’m not sure. You are a pilot?”

“Lieutenant Torrance MacLeish. RAF. My aeroplane went down over Reims.”

“And you’ve been on your own since then? In your flight suit?”

“Fortunately my brother and I played hide-and-seek a lot when we were lads.”

“You’re not safe here.”

“I gathered.” He smiled and it changed his face, reminded her that he was really just a young man far from home. “If it makes you feel better, I took three German aeroplanes down with me.”

“You need to get back to Britain so you can get back to it.”

“I can’t agree more. But how? The whole coastline is behind barbed wire and patrolled by dogs. I can’t exactly leave France by boat or air.”

“I have some … friends who are working on this. We will go see them tomorrow.”

“You are very brave,” he said softly.

“Or foolish,” she said, unsure of which was more true. “I have often heard I’m impetuous and unruly. I imagine I will hear it from my friends tomorrow.”

“Well, miss, you won’t hear anything but brave from me.”

*

The next morning, Isabelle heard her father walk past her room. Moments later, she smelled coffee wafting her way, and then, after that, the front door clicked shut.