Page 46 of The Widows of Champagne

Gabrielle

P aulette left for Paris a few months after Hélène disappeared. Gabrielle had wanted to send her away sooner, but a few tangles needed unraveling, the most problematic being Mademoiselle Ballard’s initial reluctance. It had taken several conversations and a book of Paulette’s sketches to convince the woman to agree. The rest of the details fell into place from there. Then, on a rainy afternoon in November of 1942, Gabrielle escorted her sister to the train station.

Their parting was stilted. There was no more sobbing on Paulette’s part. No conversation from either of them. Nothing but the wind striking their faces, the hot steam pouring out of the locomotive’s engine, and the grinding of gears as the train pulled to a stop.

Gabrielle offered no words of advice to her sister as they stood huddled together under the shelter of her umbrella. Paulette didn’t ask for any.

“You will let me know once you arrive at Mademoiselle’s apartment?”

From beneath her hat, Paulette’s eyes slipped past her, brushed over the train, then slid back. “I’ll get word to you, yes.”

There was nothing more to say. The girl needed to leave. She’d made terrible choices, and had nearly ruined them all, and now their mother was gone. Gabrielle needed to forgive Paulette. She knew this in her heart, as sure as her Christian faith dictated. She also knew, as she stared at the bent head and hunched shoulders, that sending her sister to Paris was the best solution for their family.

And still, saying goodbye was not as easy as she’d expected. Surely, she could give Paulette some small word of hope. She opened her mouth to tell her sister that everything would be all right, that the war would be over soon, then immediately came to her senses. Lives were still at stake and Paulette must face the consequences of her actions. That was the underlying truth that had brought them to this train platform and the reality that Gabrielle had to say goodbye to another family member.

She reached for Paulette, not sure if she meant to pat her arm or tug her into a fierce hug. The blast of a high-pitched train whistle had her stepping back and doing neither. “Take care of yourself, sister.”

Paulette stared at her hands and said nothing. In the ensuing silence, a porter took her bag, reviewed her ticket, then sent her to the proper section of the train. When she mounted the steps, Gabrielle lifted her hand in farewell. A pointless gesture. Paulette didn’t spare a single glance backward.

Gabrielle left the train platform, her breath puffing before her, rain splattering at her feet, the tension of the past few weeks unspooling in her stomach. Back at the chateau, another coded telegram was waiting for her, the first in over a month.

Mueller wanted her to meet him in the wine cellar at midnight.

The air was eerily quiet as she entered the caves five minutes early and shut the door behind her. She moved through the corridors at a sedate pace, the racks of champagne standing like silent sentinels poised and ready to be called into service.

There was little sound beyond the strike of her heels to the limestone, the drip, drip, dripping of water from a small fracture in the ceiling. The crackling of electricity through frayed wires. Gabrielle tried to picture her ancestors making this same trek through the labyrinth of hallways. But her mind wouldn’t conjure up the images, Instead, it brought her to the night she’d taken her first step in her personal battle against the Nazis.

At first, she’d waged war for the future of the champagne house and preservation of her family’s legacy. Her actions had been driven by the memory of the ones they’d lost and her love for the women in her home as well as the people they employed. With the German invasion, Gabrielle’s battle had become simpler, and yet somehow weightier, bigger than herself, than the champagne house, than even France. A single life saved was reward enough.

Now, another purpose, a new calling, an alliance with a man who wore the enemy’s uniform. He’d taken the name Wolfgang. Der wolf. Fitting, after all. She’d thought him a predator. But no, he was the other kind of wolf. A protector. The alpha male, willing to sacrifice himself for the survival of his pack.

Gabrielle came to the end of the wine cellar and stopped when she saw the lone figure leaning against the makeshift wall. Something moved in her chest, and she suddenly felt light-headed, the quick jolt of pleasure as unexpected as the fast beating of her heart.

She forced her feet to stay in motion, each step accomplished without conscious thought. She watched him watch her, his look soft and full of masculine appreciation. She didn’t ask how he’d gotten past the locked door at the cave’s entrance. Some secrets didn’t need solving. “I received your message.”

“I tried to stay away,” he said, still lounging against the wall, looking deceptively casual. “For your safety, as well as your family’s.”

“I’m pleased you lost the battle.”

There were no more words between them for several long seconds, their individual breathing punctuation to an otherwise profound silence.

“It’s impossible,” he said, and not for the first time in this hallowed space. “This.” He waved a hand between them. “Us.” Another wave, then he was no longer leaning, but standing tall and coming away from the wall. “It cannot be. It will not happen.”

She swallowed, aching for what they couldn’t have. “No, it will not. It cannot.”

“Another lifetime. Perhaps then,” he said, leaning forward, close enough now for her to inhale the scent of sandalwood and leather. “Or perhaps in a different world, at a different time in history, it would have been conceivable.”

The ground shifted beneath her feet. She felt cold to her center and there was a strange twist in her stomach. “But not now,” she said, finishing his thought for him.

He nodded and his face changed, as if he had pulled away a mask, leaving his features bare of the subterfuge and lies that kept him alive. This was a man, who had a heart for a woman. To know and accept that she was that woman, that she brought out his truth, it slayed her.

She’d been prepared never to find love again.

She had not been prepared for him.

Nothing stood between them now, nothing but a foot of air. And a war. And a duty to a higher calling. Silent promises passed between them, none of which they would say aloud. It was enough for Gabrielle to know what might have been.

He was talking again and shifting the tone of their conversation. Whatever moment had passed between them was gone. “Von Schmidt was located in Portugal this morning.”

“He ran off, after all.” She tried not to show how furious she was at this news. Her mother had been suspected in a murder that had never taken place.

“The man was not so cunning, or so smart. He did not try very hard to cover his tracks. The arrogant mistake has sealed his fate.”

The arrogant mistake. Yes, she could believe it of the man who’d seized her home and made demands on her family, the greatest of her mother.

“He is currently en route to Berlin, where he will be tried for treason.”

“He lives to face trial, while my mother has been forced to disappear.” Her bitterness bounced off the chalky walls. Had Mueller waited to arrest her mother...

The thought had no easy conclusion. Regardless of what they knew now, von Schmidt had been a high-ranking official in the Wehrmacht. His disappearance would have required retribution. Had Mueller not arrested her mother, someone else in the Gestapo would have. Paulette would have gone to her lover. The sequence of events would have been the same, with one exception. Had anyone other than Mueller arrested her mother, Hélène would have been sent to her death.

Gabrielle could see God’s hand in this. His providence. “Will you tell me what happened to my mother?”

He hesitated but for a second. “She is safe.”

“Can you tell me where she is?”

“The details are better left unspoken.”

Gabrielle let out a shaky breath, accepting the need for her to stay in ignorance. This man risked much for her and her family. Humbled, and more than a little awed, she allowed herself to think of a time when they could meet again, without the war between them. Then shut the possibility deep within her heart. “What happens next?”

He gazed at her without expression, though she felt strong resolve in him. “I have been called back to Berlin, to oversee von Schmidt’s arraignment and trial.” There was a hardness in his voice that reminded her too much of his alter ego. “I leave at daybreak.”

“So soon?” She recognized the feeling of loss in her chest. She was no stranger to the sensation. Another man taken from her by war.

“My stellar police work has caught the attention of Heinrich Himmler himself. He is eager to meet me.” His tone held a trace of bitterness, but was replaced with resolve. “I will soon be deeply embedded at the very seat of Nazi power.”

Detective Wolfgang Mueller would be feet away from one of Hitler’s most trusted accomplices, perhaps even the führer himself. Because of her. And the journal entry she’d given him. A boon for the Allies, but also very, very dangerous.

“I am here to say good—”

“ Non , do not say the word.” Reaching up, she touched his lips, lingered less than a second, then dropped her hand. “This is not an end. It is simply a pause. One day, this war will be over, and we will meet again.”

“I’ll find a way back to you,” he vowed.

“However long it takes, I will be here, waiting.” The words were as true as her feelings. So strong. So quickly changed. No, not changed, revealed. Illuminated.

Uncovered.

They stood silent, staring hard, breathing harder. Gabrielle could not find tears for this parting. Her sorrow wedged too deep for weeping. She hardly knew this man, and yet, in her heart, she accepted that he was her greatest ally in the war. They would live separate lives, for the good of others, connected only through memory and the silent promises neither dared to speak aloud, even in this private, intimate moment.

“Stay alive,” she said.

And then, they were in each other’s arms and his head was lowering to hers and what had seemed complicated seconds before was suddenly very, very simple. Separate, but together. The kiss lasted no longer than three beats of her heart. He set her away from him but kept his hands on her waist, and his gaze locked with hers. “I will pray for you.”

“We will pray for each other. I want to lift you up by name.” She cupped the sculpted lines of his cheek. “Will you trust me enough to leave that small piece of yourself in my care?”

He took her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. “My name is Richard. Richard Doyle.”

So very British, she thought, so perfectly suited to the man standing before her with such tenderness in his eyes.

Again, sorrow and hope shared equal space in her heart. She touched his lips and then pressed a kiss to where her fingertips had been. “I will pray for you,” she said. “Richard.”