BY THE TIME MARCEL RETURNED, late that night, Ruby had gone over the strange encounter again and again in her head, and with each repetition, she’d felt more unsettled. The man’s accent had been hard on the consonants, a bit like the way Nazi soldiers spoke when they were barking orders. My God, she thought, her stomach turning. What if Marcel is helping the Germans?
And suddenly, the pieces were falling into place, and Ruby felt ill. His long absences. His lack of regard for the German regulations, as if they didn’t apply to him. The war of morals she could see going on inside him. It all made sense. But how could he do such a thing? To collaborate would be unconscionable.
“You had a visitor today,” she said when he slipped in the door. He visibly startled; he hadn’t expected to find her glaring at him from the dining table.
“What are you doing out of bed?” It wasn’t the reply of an innocent man.
“Waiting for you.”
He stared at her across the flickering darkness. “What do you mean I had a visitor?”
“A man,” she said slowly. “A man who seemed stunned to realize I existed.”
As Marcel opened and closed his mouth like a fish, she could feel her heart hardening. He had put them in danger, Ruby and the baby, and he had the gall to stand there looking affronted.
“Well, who was it?”
Ruby looked him straight in the eye. “Your handler, I assume.”
“What?”
“Or perhaps that’s not the right term. Der Meister, is it? Is that not how they say it in German?”
His face turned white. “Der . . . what? The man who came here was German?”
Ruby stood slowly, her hands cradling her belly. “You’re going to deny it, Marcel?”
He blinked rapidly. “How do you know he was German, Ruby? What did you tell him?”
“What did I tell him? Nothing. He just seemed appalled that you had a pregnant wife. I’m sorry if I’m getting in the way of your Nazi scheming. How inconvenient.”
Marcel stared for another moment before moving toward her. She took a step back, putting her hand protectively on her belly, and he halted. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ruby.” He sounded suddenly weary. He took a seat at the table and gestured to the chair she’d just vacated. “I would never, ever hurt you. Sit. Please.”
Ruby moved the chair away from the table, putting some distance between them. “What could you possibly have to say that would make this all right?”
“I’m not helping the Germans. I would sooner die, Ruby.”
“Don’t lie to me. He certainly wasn’t French.”
He bit his lip. “You must take me at my word. I need to leave you out of this. For your own safety.”
“It’s hard to feel safe with Germans at our door.”
“He wasn’t German. For the love of God, Ruby!”
“Then who was he? What was he doing here?”
Marcel didn’t answer right away. He stood and began to pace. “You’re speaking of a man who’s a little shorter than I? Bald? Glasses?”
“Yes.”
He was silent for a long time. “He goes by Neville, although I assume that’s not his real name. He’s British intelligence.”
“What?”
“I’ve been working with him. For him.”
“But—” Was he telling the truth? And if he was, how had she read him so wrong?
“He shouldn’t have come here. But now you know.”
“I don’t understand. You’re working for the Allies? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re in danger now, don’t you see that? You weren’t supposed to be involved in any of this, ever. It’s my risk, not yours.”
“But I’m your wife. And if you get caught—”
“I’m not going to get caught!”
Ruby took a few deep breaths to calm herself. The baby was kicking again. “I understand the stakes, Marcel.”
“Do you?” His face twisted into a sneer. “As far as I know, you’ll be telling the neighbor’s girl in no time.”
“I would never do that! You don’t think I know how important this is? How dangerous?”
He looked balefully at her belly. “You don’t understand things the way I do, Ruby. That much is clear.”
“How can you say that, Marcel? I’m not the fool you’ve decided I am! I’m your wife, and I’m carrying your child. We’re all in this together, whether you like it or not!”
He looked at her for a long time before his expression darkened. He smashed his fist against the wall with such force that he left a mark.
“I’m—” Marcel began, looking down at her. She was sure he was about to apologize for his temper, but then he stopped. “You will stay out of this,” he said once more firmly. “That isn’t a request.” And then he strode across the apartment, slamming the front door behind him.
BY THE TIME RUBY MANAGED to fall asleep a few hours later, she knew in her gut that Marcel was telling the truth; she had played and replayed the visit from the bald man in her head, and she had to admit, his accent had sounded British. But wasn’t Marcel’s decision to work for the Allies—without telling Ruby—a betrayal too?
She awoke just before dawn with an intense pain in her lower back. She cried out and rolled to her left, looking for her husband. But his side of the bed was cold and empty, as it so often was these days. She struggled to sit upright, a hand on her belly, as if she could protect the baby from whatever was happening. “It’s okay,” she murmured, as much to the child as to herself. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
But then there was a searing pain in her abdomen, and she doubled over, nearly falling out of bed. She grabbed the edge of the mattress to steady herself and pushed herself onto the floor. She needed help. She needed to make it to the Dachers’ apartment. They would know what to do. She collapsed at the bedroom door as her body was racked by another wave of agony.
Her cotton nightgown was soaked with sweat by the time she made it down the hall. She cried out and fell to her knees at the Dachers’ doorway, but she managed to knock once and then again more insistently until she heard hurried footsteps approaching. The door swung open, and she looked up to see Monsieur Dacher standing there, white-faced, a candlestick hefted like a weapon. His fierce expression softened when he saw her.
“Madame Benoit, what has happened?” He put a hand under her elbow to help her up.
She was startled to realize she was crying. “I don’t . . .” she attempted, trailing off. “I can’t . . .”
“Sarah!” Monsieur Dacher called into the darkness of his apartment. “Come quickly! It’s Madame Benoit!”
A moment later, Ruby looked up to see a bathrobe-clad Madame Dacher rushing down the hall, tailed by a stricken-looking Charlotte.
“I’m okay, Charlotte,” Ruby managed. “Don’t worry. Go back to bed.”
Madame Dacher turned and said something to the girl, and although Charlotte looked worried, she retreated into the apartment, leaving the three adults alone.
“Madame Benoit?” As Madame Dacher bent down beside Ruby and placed a cool hand on her cheek, her voice was soft and comforting, the way Ruby imagined a mother would speak to a child. She would speak to her own child that way, Ruby decided. Reassuring, gentle, firm. It was perfect. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” Ruby managed. “It’s just . . . Something is wrong with my belly.”
Another sharp pain crackled through her, radiating out from the center of her body, and she moaned again. When she looked up, something had changed in Madame Dacher’s face. “Oh, my dear,” her neighbor said in that same soothing tone. “Let’s get you up, shall we? Yes, that’s right. Hold on.”
Ruby couldn’t seem to feel her legs, so she wasn’t quite sure how she got to the couch, the ornate, gold-legged one in the Dachers’ living room that she’d admired on the one occasion she’d been invited inside. But there was Madame Dacher beside her, placing a cool, damp washcloth on her forehead and murmuring for her to lie back. “What’s wrong with me?” Ruby managed. “Is the baby all right?”
“Oh, dear,” Madame Dacher said, kneeling beside Ruby and squeezing her hand. “I’m afraid your baby might be coming just now. My husband has gone for a doctor.”
“Coming now?” Ruby repeated in disbelief, struggling to sit up. “No, no, it’s too early. Far too early. I’m only six months along. And what about Marcel? Marcel should be here.”