Page 19 of When Stars Dream at Midnight (The Midnight Stars Saga #3)

19

PETER

S everal weeks went by, and I found myself in a comfortable routine. I’d wake early for our exercise sessions, run in a military spirit by my dear sister. She’d decided at some point we all needed to work our core and arms as well, and had added exercises aimed to do so. Mireille and I complained endlessly, but it was half-hearted at best. I couldn’t speak for Mireille, but I looked forward to the mornings with two of my favorite ladies. After I parted ways with them, I would clean up and dress, have a leisurely breakfast, and then take a walk around the property. I had to use my cane for support, but I could feel the strength returning to my limbs.

Cool spring days were replaced by warm, sunny days. By the end of April, flowers were in bloom, and the orchard trees had lost their flowers to be replaced by green leaves and fruitlets.

Once I began to feel better, my afternoons had felt a little aimless. Father, sensing this, had asked if I’d be interested in doing some work for him. The tasks he’d assigned me tapped into my strengths—strategy and communication. Now, my late mornings began with stacks of reports and letters spread across the desk in my father’s study, where I diligently sorted through them, doing what I could to help Father.

At first, I balked at Father giving me pity work, but I soon came to understand that the help I provided gave him more time to be at home with my mother instead of long evenings at the factory. It wasn’t naval intelligence, but it required the same meticulous attention to detail and long-term thinking I’d grown accustomed to during the war.

My first priority was strategic planning. Father tasked me with analyzing reports on production efficiency and supply chains, identifying bottlenecks caused by wartime restrictions. Factories now had to juggle shortages of raw materials, rationed energy, and a reduced labor force, but I was confident we could streamline some of the operations to make us more efficient. I drafted proposals outlining ways to conserve resources and pivot into postwar recovery, offering suggestions on diversifying our markets and preparing for the economic boom I believed would follow the war’s end. It wasn’t just about keeping the business afloat—it was about positioning it for a stronger future.

Alongside that, I took on correspondence with key clients and suppliers, my father trusting me to maintain relationships that were critical to the company’s survival. I spent hours at the typewriter crafting responses to inquiries, negotiating adjustments to contracts, and smoothing over potential disputes. It felt strange, this new kind of diplomacy. In one letter, I was reassuring a supplier about delivery schedules; in another, I was responding to a frustrated client’s complaint about delayed shipments. There was satisfaction in the work, though—a sense that I was contributing to something steady and tangible, a far cry from the constant uncertainty of war.

When he first arrived home in the late afternoons, Father would come by to discuss my progress, providing praise for what I found easy. As I had as a boy, I basked in the glow of Father’s compliments and encouragement. No one could make a man feel like a king quite like Father. For all the difficulty of my physical recovery, this work reminded me that my mind was still sharp, my ability to think strategically still intact.

The best time of day, however, were my late-afternoon rides with Mireille. She had made it a habit to get home by five so we could ride for an hour or so before cleaning up for dinner. On one warm evening on the last day of April, we set out across the field.

The sky above the estate was painted in hues of gold and lavender as Mireille and I rode along the familiar path across the meadow, the rhythm of the horses’ hooves against the soft earth familiar and comforting.

“Oh, it’s a lovely evening,” Mireille said as she and Marigold appeared on my right.

Scents of spring were in the air—freshly turned soil from the garden, the faint sweetness of blossoms just beginning to bloom. Marigold trotted with her usual calm grace, while Apollo, spirited as ever, nickered at the sight of a rabbit darting across the path.

Most days, we didn’t talk much at first, getting settled and feeling the horses under us. But after the first fifteen minutes or so, it was as if the act of riding had somehow loosened us up, allowing words to flow as easily as anything had ever been in my life. In fact, we had a kind of shorthand, honed from years of friendship. We needed fewer words to communicate with each other than we would have had we not grown up together. Or, maybe, it was what I’d suspected since the first day I met her. We were connected in a profound way. Soulmates.

She told me stories of her father and mother and the villagers and friends they had often welcomed into their home and vineyard. More so than ever before, I had a sense of how bucolic her early life had been and how jarring it had been to be sent away.

For my part, I shared stories about George and me when we were boys and funny memories of Betsy. We kept the discussion light, perhaps sensing in the other a need for reminiscing rather than focusing on the harsh truths of what had happened to us.

Now, we reached a clearing where the setting sun bathed the fields in amber light. Mireille slowed Marigold to a walk, and I followed suit, letting the reins slacken in my hands. Breeze rustled the tall grasses, creating a soft, whispering cadence as their blades swayed and brushed against one another.

“I’ve been feeling better,” Mireille said. “And I hate myself for it.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But you do, too, don’t you? Feel a little better and then immediately flood with guilt.”

“Sure. As in, why am I here and they’re not? And I shouldn’t find joy in anything because she’s dead and isn’t here to experience it with me.”

“Do you think we’ll forget them someday? Love someone else?”

“If we loved someone else, it would not mean we forgot them.”

Her eyes glistened as she gazed out over the field. “At first, after I got the telegram about George, I cried myself to sleep. Every night. For weeks and weeks. Then, and I don’t know when it happened, I didn’t anymore. I don’t know what feels worse, crying or not crying.”

I nodded, understanding exactly what she meant, and gripped Apollo’s reins a little tighter. “I dream of that day, again and again. I wake up some nights drenched in sweat, convinced I’m back there, hearing Diana call my name.”

“Oh, Peter, that must have been so awful.”

“I kept yelling for her, but it was too smoky and dusty to see anything. But she was gone by then. I’m haunted by those last moments. Could she hear me calling for her, and did it provide her comfort or grief? Or did it all happen so fast that she wouldn’t have had time to have a last thought about me or anything else?”

“Yes, I’ve wondered that about George, too. Was he aware he was dying, and if so, did he think about me? Did it comfort him, knowing how much I loved him? Or was he in agony, knowing how bereft I would be?”

“These are questions we’ll never have the answer to,” I said. “At least not on earth.”

We rode in silence for a while before turning around in our usual spot to cross the field and back to the stables.

Soon, the estate came into view. Mireille turned to me. “I think I’m ready to write to Estelle.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I’m going to write and tell her I have recently learned the truth and wondered if she had any interest in meeting me.”

“I can help you write the letter. If you want.”

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

By the time we returned to the stables, the groom was waiting to take the horses. We handed them off and made our way into the house, agreeing to meet back in the study in an hour. We’d have just enough time to write the letter before dinner.

“I’ll bring the letter my mother sent me,” Mireille said. “So you can read it for yourself.”

Touched that she would ask, I nodded. “I’d be honored.”

Soon, bathed and dressed, I hustled down to the study. Mireille was already there, holding an envelope in one hand and a glass of sherry in the other. She turned away from the window when she heard my footsteps.

Without a word, she handed me the letter. I opened it, nervous, even though I knew the contents. Reading through it, however, was different than having Mireille describe it. By the time I was finished, my hands trembled.

“What a shock this must have been,” I murmured.

“Yes. You could say that. I still can’t quite believe it’s real. I’m not who I thought I was. It’s impossible not to feel uprooted and adrift.”

As she sat down at the desk, I stood behind her, watching as she picked up the pen and hesitated. “What should I say?”

“The truth. You’d like to meet her now that you know about her.”

“Just like that, huh?” She looked up at me, smiling. We locked eyes for a moment, the amusement in hers quickly fading. Replaced by what? Admiration? Gratitude? Love? My heart thudded to a halt for a split second and then dived into my stomach. This woman still made me dizzy. Even loving Diana as I did, there it was. The old feelings I thought I’d shaken.

But God, no. Not my best friend’s wife. She belonged to him and always would.

I cleared my throat and looked away. She smoothed the front of her blouse and reached for the pen and a piece of my mother’s stationery. She wrote for a few minutes while I paced around the room, finally landing at the bar, where I poured myself a scotch.

“Come read and tell me what you think.” She stood up from the desk, gesturing for me to sit.

I did so, reading the words she’d written to the mother she never knew she had.

Dear Mrs. Bancroft,

I am sure this letter will come as a shock to you. Unfortunately, I have bad news. My mother, Mauve Perrin, has been killed by German soldiers who took over our chateau. She died defending a child. Regardless of anything else, I thought you’d want to know what happened to her.

We think it’s likely my father is dead as well, but we don’t have confirmation. Several months after my mother’s death, I received a trunk of her things, including a letter to me in which she told me the truth of my birth. She gave me your name and address and left it up to me whether or not to contact you. After much consideration, I’ve decided it would be in my best interest to meet you.

Before the war broke out, they sent me to the States. I’m safe, living with my best friend’s family. I’m recently widowed. My husband, George Winchester, was a Navy officer and was killed just before Christmas of last year.

If you would like to meet, please write back to this address. I am not far from the city. In fact, I commute by train every weekday morning. It would be easy for me to come to you if that is your wish.

Sincerely,

Mireille Perrin Winchester

“What do you think?” Mireille asked me.

“It’s brief and to the point.”

“We’ll wait and see if we hear from her.”

I felt certain we would, but instead of giving false hope in the event of my error, I held my tongue.

A week after we sent the letter, Mireille and I found ourselves alone in the parlor after dinner. Mother and Father had gone into the city for a party, and Betsy hadn’t yet come home from work.

Mireille sat curled on the settee, her legs tucked beneath her and an open book on her lap. The afternoon had been warm, thus the windows were open, letting in the sweet scent of fresh grass and the lilacs that bloomed nearby.

Outside, the sky had darkened into twilight, streaked with the last light of day. I stood at the window without my cane, marveling at how well I felt. Our daily exercise and horse riding had done what they were supposed to do. A recent visit from the doctor confirmed what I thought. I was almost fully healed. Luck. That’s all it was. I’d made it out of there alive, and Diana didn’t.

“Do you want a drink?” I asked.

“No, thank you. Maybe later.”

I poured myself a glass of scotch and sat across from her. I’d started reading a new novel but had found it hard to concentrate.

Mireille closed her book and looked at me. “Tell me about your work in London.”

“What made you ask me that?”

“It occurred to me today that we hadn’t talked much about our work. I’m curious, I guess.”

I had a feeling it was about more than that, but I nodded. “In summary, I spent hours translating intercepted messages. Most of it was routine—troop movements, supply lines. But some of it…” I paused, remembering the horror of what I’d seen. “Some of it was about civilians. Entire villages burned to the ground. Whole families gone.”

“How terrible.”

“Yes. Like everything else in this blasted war.”

She rose up from her chair. “I’m going to have that drink after all.” She put up her hand. “No, stay seated. I’ll get it myself.”

I watched as she crossed the room. She looked fine in a pair of trousers and a white blouse. Her hair curled around her pink cheeks. Soon, she returned, glass in hand.

“There were many nights I lay awake wondering if I made any difference at all,” I said.

She stared down at her hands, her fingers curling around the glass. “I’ve felt that way too. It’s strange, isn’t it? To think of how similar our work has been.”

“Yours makes sense. How I ended up in intelligence is not totally clear.”

“It is to me. They were right to put you there.” Her eyes met mine, tender and full of admiration. “No one knows that better than me.”

Before I could ask her what she meant, Betsy appeared, breathless and clutching a letter in her hand. “The mail arrived. It’s a letter from Estelle Bancroft.”

Mireille whimpered, and all color drained from her face. “Oh dear.”

Betsy held the letter out to Mireille. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Mireille took the envelope with trembling hands. For a moment, she just stared at it, her thumb brushing the edge of the seal. Finally, she broke it open and unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the words. When she was done, she read it out loud to us.

Dearest Mireille,

I received your letter. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. It took me a full day to realize it was real. Thank you for writing to me. Of course, I want to meet you, although I’m terrified too. I would love the chance to tell you more about what happened and how the decision was made. I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I’ll answer anything you want to know.

While grieving for my sister, I’m glad to know what’s happened to her. I had not been sure if she’d gotten any of my letters since the breakout of the war. The last time I heard from her was in 1938 when she told me she’d sent you somewhere in the States and that you were safe. We agreed that it was best to leave you be. The last thing any of us wanted was for you to be hurt.

If it suits your schedule, would you care to join me for lunch at our New York City apartment on the eighth of May? Unless I hear otherwise, I’ll expect to see you at noon.

This may come as a further shock to you, but you have sisters.

All my love,

Stella

Betsy perched on the arm of my chair. “Are you all right?”

Mireille looked up at her. “She calls herself Stella, not Estelle.”

“Do you want us to join you?” I asked.

“No, this is something I should do alone.”

She was probably right, but the idea of sending her in there by herself was too much for me. I wanted to protect her from hurt and harm and anything this woman might inflict upon her. On the other hand, maybe it would go well, and Mireille could find some peace.

Excuse me for not feeling completely optimistic. Lately, life had been too cruel to offer much hope.