“A good p-plan,” Eve agreed, and I flushed with pride at her approval. “Take that pistol apart one more time.” I field-stripped the Luger again, and Eve began another story: the weekend she and René Bordelon had spent here in the summer of 1915. “We came on the train, and he took me to buy a new dress. It was one thing for me to come to his rooms in a work dress, but he wasn’t going to be seen on the promenade or at the theater with me in an old shirtwaist. It was a Poiret, almond green corded silk trimmed with black velvet, forty-three velvet-covered buttons down the back. He’d count them off as he undid them . . .”
I reassembled the firing pin, wondering what Eve planned to do when she found her old enemy. Have him arrested? Everyone knew the French dealt harshly with collaborators. Or simply trust the Luger to make an end for her? I did not at all put that out of the realm of possibility.
What did he do to you, Eve? And what did you do to him?
She was telling me how the river in Limoges had looked gray when she was last here, not the bright blue it was now. How the leaves had fluttered around the heels of her new patent-leather shoes, bought to go with the almond green dress. “You remember it so clearly,” I said, presenting her with the cleaned and oiled pistol.
“I should.” Eve downed the rest of her whiskey. “That was the weekend I missed my monthly, and started fearing René had got me pregnant.”
CHAPTER 22
EVE
September 1915
Autumn had barely begun, and already the cold had clamped down like a vise. Lille was a city of two worlds living side by side, the falling temperatures making a demarcation clearer than any line. On one side the Germans, who had all the coal, candles, and hot coffee they needed. On the other side the French, who had almost none of those things. The two worlds had been described as French and German, or conquered and conqueror, but now they were simply cold and not cold.
Eve didn’t notice. She was pregnant, and the thought had driven every other from her mind.
It hadn't been very long, but the signs weren’t difficult to read. Two monthly bloods missed—some women in Lille whispered that their courses now came irregularly due to semistarvation, but Eve didn’t think she was so lucky. She’d grown thin as a wafer, but she still had enough black-market scraps from Le Lethe not to starve. Besides, other signs had been quick to follow: her breasts had begun to feel tender, she was suddenly tired at all hours, and she had to swallow down unexpected shafts of queasiness when a juicy roast passed from the kitchens, or when she had to carry a pungent slab of Morbier in for the cheese course.
Eve was certain. René Bordelon had made her pregnant.
It was a realization that should have driven her to utter despair, but there was no time for that. The Alice Network was busy. French lines in Champagne had been pushing a sustained assault; the German Kommandant and his generals had spoken a good many terse words about it over their coffee. Words Eve reported. She marked hours waiting tables and then marked more hours in René’s bed, at work one way or another at least nineteen hours of every day. She passed information about artillery placements, about casualty lists, about train schedules and supply depots. She was so used to the knife edge she walked that it seemed almost normal; she kept her face and her voice so continuously locked that she sometimes wondered if she had a single spontaneous expression left. She could not panic and fall into despair simply because her body had decided to betray her. She could not.
Eve opened her door that Saturday to Violette, come to stay on her usual round through Lille, and nearly cried with relief. All week she’d had nightmares of Violette getting arrested, now of all times. Eve never much liked Violette, but oh, she needed her.
Violette must have seen some flash of her relief, because surprise flickered behind those round glasses. “You look glad to see me,” she commented, scraping mud off her worn boots. She frowned, adding, “Is there news?”
“No news,” Eve said. “But I need help, and you’re the only one I can ask.”
Violette took off her gloves, rubbing her chilled hands as she looked at Eve curiously. “Why me?”
Eve took a deep breath. “Lili s-s-s—she said you were a nurse.”
“Red Cross, yes. Though not for long. The war had just begun.”
Eve pushed down a sudden surge of doubt, but forged on anyway, because what choice was there? “I am pregnant,” she said bluntly, and made herself look Violette in the eye. “Can you help me take care of it?”
Violette stared at her a moment, then let out an explosive breath. “Merde, are you stupid enough to mix a love affair with work like this? Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with Antoine or—”
“I’m no idiot schoolgirl,” Eve snapped. “I had to sleep with my employer for information, Violette. Didn’t Lili t-tell you?”
“Of course not.” Violette pushed her spectacles up her nose. “You didn’t think to take some precautions?”
“I tried. They didn’t w-work.” Tiptoeing out of his bed at night to rinse herself out in his luxurious bathroom had felt more squalid than what took place in the bed, but Eve had never skipped doing it. If only it had worked. “And before you ask, nothing else has w-worked either. Jumping down the steps, hot baths, d-doses of brandy. Nothing.”
Violette gave another sigh, less explosive, and perched on the edge of the bed. “How long?”
“Two m-months, I think.” By Eve’s best guess, it must have happened very early. Maybe just the second or third time.
“Not very far along, then. Good.”
“Can you help me or not?” Eve’s heart lodged in her throat, and her voice rasped around it.
“I saw more battle wounds than pregnant women.” Violette folded her arms tight across her chest. “Why don’t you tell Bordelon? A rich man like him, he might pay a real doctor.”
Eve had already thought of that. “What if he wants it?” She wasn’t sure he would—René was hardly a family man—but Eve suspected he had something of a dynast in him. What if he decided Eve might have a boy, and found that thought . . . interesting?
“If so, you could still get it taken care of on the sly. Tell him you miscarried.”
Eve shook her head. She knew René; he hated mess and expense. To him, a mistress was something pretty that never caused trouble. Whether she miscarried a child he wanted or he had to pay to get her taken care of, she was trouble. She might easily lose her place at Le Lethe. No, her best chance to continue her work for Lili was to have things continue as they were.
“Hm.” Violette didn’t suggest telling Captain Cameron or the other officers who oversaw the Alice Network. “You know the procedure can be dangerous. You’re sure it’s what you want?”
Eve gave a single violent nod. “Yes.”
“You might bleed to death, doing it this way. It’s still early days; if you wait you might still miscarry, or—”