“You can work for Schiap,” she whispered. “Not in design. You’re not creative at all, and you can’t sew.” She laughed and I laughed with her.
When we were young and I got us into scrapes, Mrs. Dulles taught us to mend our own dresses. Caro loved it. She was the one who loved everything quiet, everything home, everything cozy. She was going to stay there, happy forever. I was the one who couldn’t wait to leave and set the world on fire, explore new continents, dig up treasures, and make history.
How differently we grew.
She continued in a gentle, pleading whisper, “You’ll love it here and you’re stronger than you think. You always were. You led. I followed.” She tugged one of my curls. “You’ve just forgotten.”
We lay silent and comfortable, dreaming of a world that we once imagined could be ours, before she spoke again. “Does Father talk about me?”
“He wants you home,” I replied.
“That’s not the same thing and you know it.” She rolled over. Her back to me. She felt I’d betrayed her, again, and perhaps I had. After all, we promised to always be honest and I hadn’t answered her question.
But other than to demand her return, Father doesn’t talk about Caro—ever.
Paris
19 July 1938
Dear Margo,
I miss you already. Martine agrees you should have stayed. In contrast, I believe I should have sent her with you. It’s only been two weeks since you left, but much has changed. Or maybe you put thoughts into my head and I see demons where there are only misunderstandings.
Yet misunderstandings didn’t paint words across buildings all over Paris. They are real and evil. Gangs have defiled the city by painting “Death to the Jews” on buildings and bridges over the past several nights.
Martine was trembling when I entered her studio this morning. She is Jewish and she is scared. Her parents died a few years ago and she looks to Schiap for guidance. But Schiap is a Communist, hates the Nazi Party, and declares they will never take over France. She may be right, but her blustering feels overly brash and bold for what I see around me. What’s worse is that I know she’ll go to any lengths to preserve all she has built. The salon’s clientele is increasingly German and she has no problem with that.
Yesterday Schiap dismissed Martine’s fears and ordered her, along with a whole group of us, outside to wash walls. My heart broke for Martine having to scrub away such hatred. I fear Schiap’s insensitivity, bravado, maybe even greed, will harm Martine in the end.
Paul Arnim came in today. I shared with him Father’s concerns and your observations. He is German and he is kind. I expected reassurance from him. He didn’t offer any and he didn’t dismiss your fears as I did. He did say, however, he doesn’t expect the Germans to show any interest in France.
It was the first ray of hope I’ve had in days.
There’s so much I want to tell you, Margo. So much I didn’t say while you were here. I will be home soon and we can talk. Not to stay, please don’t misunderstand, but for a visit. Life is too short, Margo, to cut out the ones we love. I refuse to be the one who stops trying to bridge the gap between us. If you won’t come to see me more often, I must come to you.
All my love,
Caro
Paris
30 September 1938
Dearest Margo,
Are you all feeling better now?
I must confess, you got into my head during your last visit and I’ve been glancing over my shoulder into dark shadows all summer. But now I feel the weight lifted. There is truly nothing to worry about. The wireless reported today that the Munich Agreement is signed. England, France, Italy, and Germany all agreed that part of Czechoslovakia rightfully belongs to Germany and, now that it has been given over to them, there will be peace.
Prime Minister Chamberlain said it himself, “peace with honor,” adding that it was “peace for our time.” It makes my heart soar. I didn’t realize how tense I’d become over all this until this morning. Father must breathe easier now. He must believe our own prime minister.
On another bright note . . . George was here yesterday! He is working with the Cunard-White Star Line and showed up at the salon before lunch. He gave me no word of warning and what a stir he created!
He walked in with such a confident swagger that every woman stared at him, looked him up and down, and rushed to assist him. Their reaction surprised him and he tried to act all shocked and modest, but he loved every minute.
“Il est à moi, mesdames.” A little singsong “He is mine” and everyone stepped away. George’s eyes lit like fireworks. It was a tantalizing and powerful feeling.
Then he kissed me. Right then and there. He pulled me close and dipped me just like in the cinema. You should have heard the giggling. He never would have done such a thing in all England, but it’s different here. It was right and wonderful and I wish it had lasted longer.
But all good things must come to an end. After a quick lunch and a few more kisses around quiet street corners, he left for meetings. Last night he had meetings as well, and I saw him only briefly before he left early this morning.
He promised he will come again. He promised he will schedule more meetings in Paris. I hope he does because while I had convinced myself I needed this period of my life, Margo, and I have enjoyed every moment, I miss George. Desperately. He’s been so patient, and we’ll be twenty soon . . . a very marriageable age, don’t you agree?
He mentioned me coming home. Not to Parkley, not to the London House, but to him. He danced around it, though, and if he wants a reaction from me, he must get braver. He’s seen a lot of pain, Margo—more than I think we can understand. His trust is hard to win, and he’s wary of family, of love, and he’s so tender. He breaks my heart while lifting it high.
Goodness! I’d marry him tomorrow if he asked. Don’t you dare tell him that!
How I wish you were here so we could talk about this. I could share with you every moment of those few short hours and you could reassure me that all will be well, that he will ask, that we will marry, and that we will live happily ever after, like Briar Rose all those years ago—my prince will come.
He also mentioned Adele is expecting a baby. The idea of Frederick as a father gives me the shivers. That poor baby!
I must go, dear one, but write to me soon.
Love,
Caro
10 October 1938
Dear Beatrice,
Caro ended her last letter with “write to me soon” and I should. I get out the pen. I pull out the paper. I write “Dear Caro,” and I go blank. For ten days I have gone blank each time I start to write anything. I couldn’t even write to you. Writing makes it real and I—I’m having trouble bearing it.