“So, Paris?” She rocked back to sitting on the floor again.
“Yes.” I nodded, back to business. “We may not find anything, but we have a few hours to search today, not to mention all day tomorrow. Mat’s ordering files from the Police Prefecture right now. We’ll take the noon Chunnel, go straight there, and hope for the best.”
She twisted a strand of hair that had fallen from my loose bun and tucked it behind my ear. “And . . . Can I come to Boston? Will you come back here?”
“I’d like that.” I felt my heart swell. “Both options.”
Mom glanced to her watch and pushed up off the floor. “You go throw your things together and I’ll make a lunch you can take with you and, while you’re on the train, I’ll get you a dinner reservation and a place to stay.”
“You don’t need to do all that.” I faced her. “Mat says he knows a cheap place by Notre Dame.”
“My darling.” She cupped my cheek within her hand before pulling me into another hug. “I want to do this for you. Please let me.”
Thirty-Two
During our train ride, Mat and I dug into the letters and the diaries we’d brought with us. As he opened Margaret’s final diary, I unfolded the first of the small letter pile my mom had given me. Here again was the swirling fast script and large loops of a hand seemingly incapable of keeping up with the pace and emotion of the heart that drove it.
London House
20 August 1934
Dear George,
London is not the same without you. I will drive home to Parkley tomorrow. We will both be gone and summer will be a memory. A beautiful memory. It didn’t start out that way, but you made it that way.
Yes, write to me. I didn’t answer your request last week because I couldn’t believe you were serious. I thought you were making fun of me. You did once tease that sixteen was awfully young.
But I will take you at your word and believe you are not laughing at my age or my gullibility. Write to me. Tell me all about life at Oxford, tell me about your studies, share with me your friends, regale me with all the stupid things you University boys do. I want to know it all. I want to know you.
If I have assumed too much interest on your part, forgive me, and tear up this letter.
And write to me—if you want.
Yours,
Caro
Brilliantmont, Lausanne, Switzerland
10 June 1936
Dearest George,
Two dozen red roses? A girl could get ideas—all my friends certainly have. And I didn’t dispel a single one. Let them imagine all sorts of things. I certainly am. Just looking at them, I feel your arms around me. Touching the soft blooms, I feel your touch and your kiss.
How I wish you were coming to graduation next week. You’re the only one I want here—well, you and Margo. How I miss her! But having her here wouldn’t change that. I’d still miss her.
Do you sense she is gone as I do? Do you miss your friend? You used to ask about her more. Do you not because you feel she has stepped away? Does she confide in you? I hope she does. You and she have always been close and she needs that. She shares, or always used to, more naturally than I ever did. I don’t want her to be alone, George, but I won’t be there with her at Parkley or in London. I can’t.
Thank you for your encouragement. I don’t think I could be so brave without you. It still feels like a dream, but the tickets are purchased and I head to Paris with Renée right after the ceremony. I promise I will spend my first weekend mapping out perfect evenings, restaurants, cafés, and walks, so that when you visit I’ll be a capable guide.
Oh . . . Thank you for the roses! I don’t think I actually thanked you. Goodness, my head is all over the place today. Blame it on these gorgeous roses and this heady scent. I am wrapped up in you when I must be about other things. I have final examinations, and packing, and we’re having a special dinner for those who are leaving next week.
Write again soon and plan your first visit to Paris now.
All my love is yours,
Caro
Paris
14 September 1938
Dear George,
What do you want from me? I will not come home simply because you say I should. I will not leave my friends and my work here—work I love—simply because it’s on the wrong side of the Channel for you and my family. I am not some girl you can order about on a whim or for your convenience. And never question where my loyalties lie.
I love you.
I love you so much more than you know. Some days I almost think you understand and believe me. Other days you choose not to—you let other voices drown out my love.
Frederick’s marriage is a disaster, yes, but Frederick is a disaster—and Adele isn’t much better. I may be quite a bit younger, but girls talk and Adele was always a very spoiled girl. I can’t imagine that marrying your bother matured her.
But you are nothing like your brother and I am nothing like his wife. How can you not see that, my darling?
I’m sorry about your parents . . . I didn’t know everything you shared during your last visit. Growing up in that tension must have been terribly difficult. But again, that is your past, not your future. You must not project their pain onto our love. Not every marriage is like theirs nor like Frederick’s. You and I? We talk, we fight, we are honest with one another, we listen, we make up, we kiss with more passion than I thought could exist in the world, and we love each other. Why can’t you accept all that to be true and rest in it?
Honestly, my darling, if you can’t believe in us and you can’t trust me, how do we go from here?
This isn’t an ultimatum, it’s an honest discussion. Please do not write or telephone with another frantic sideways marriage proposal. Like I told you—when it’s real and not a reaction to some horror you’ve created in your head, I will say yes.
But I am not returning to England right now. I’m not staying in Paris to punish you or to punish my parents. I’m staying because my life here works and the dangers are far less than all your imaginings.
I can breathe, think, create, and debate here. I feel like “me” here—the best version of me. The only time I feel even better is when I am with you. And someday we will be together. You have to believe that. Otherwise we are not moving forward. We are stuck, and for the wrong reasons.
Believe that, darling. Believe in me. Believe in us.
And don’t fret . . . I’m right here.
Always yours,
Caro
Paris
16 April 1940
Dearest,
I’ve been foolish, dangerously foolish. I’m sorry I haven’t listened. I’m sorry for all I’ve put you through . . . And I hope . . . I hope I can deliver this apology in person, darling.