Chapter Seven #2
“How am I being?” Her tone sounded steely even to her own ears.
“Alarmed that you’re abandoning the organization we’ve put years of our lives into for a slim shot at glory?
Hurt that, at the first glimmer of ‘action,’ you deem all this not worth your time anymore?
Resentful that you value my opinion so little you don’t even ask for it when it comes to something you deem actually important? So sorry. My apologies.”
“Zelie.” He took a step forward.
Her hands flew up, palms out. “Don’t! If you’re entitled to your decisions, then I’m entitled to my reaction to them.”
He sighed. “Let’s not part on a sour note. Tell me how things went in Paris.”
Why, when he clearly didn’t care about Alliance, when his dream was to make it irrelevant? She squeezed her eyes shut. That wasn’t fair. That was her dream too—to win this war, to not need a network of spies anymore. She just wanted to play a part in the victory, that was all. Her own pride.
She swallowed it down, opened her eyes, and said, “It went well. Henri got in and out of the submarine base and was successful at the naval base. And Marcel Laurent should know soon if he’s getting the appointment to the youth orchestra—the meeting was at noon today.
But even if not, his contacts among the artist community in Paris are extensive and we have dozens of willing players, now. ”
“Good, good.” He turned to the window, face contemplative. “It’s good we have everything still in place, as a fallback plan. And I trust the move from Vichy will go off as planned. To Pau? Or did you decide on Marseille?”
“Marseille.” She’d already decided, albeit bitterly. She’d wanted him to arrive when he’d promised so he could choose. She pressed her lips together, but the words still slipped through them. “I’m not the leader Alliance needs, Jean. You are.”
“Nonsense. You’re the heart and soul of this organization, I’ve said so a hundred times.”
“I realize this may come as a shock, but you’re not God. You saying something is does not make it so. I’m not the man for this job.” She held her arms out to illustrate the very obvious point.
He rolled his eyes. Then frowned, gaze snapping to the window again. “Are you expecting guests?”
A car was coming up the drive, and her shoulders relaxed at the sight of its familiar lines. “Yes. The three Laurents promised to fetch Marcel for me and bring him here to report on how his meeting with the committee went.”
“Ah. Good.” That seemed to be his new favorite word.
Perhaps this time because it provided him a handy escape.
He was already making for the door. “Let Josette know where you decide to move operations—she’ll be at our home in Pau with the children.
I’ll get out of your way. Much to do in preparation for my trip.
I’d say I’ll get you word on how it goes, but you’ll see it in the news.
” He sent her a fatherly wink and hurried from the room.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she mumbled to the empty space he left behind. But her fears and insecurities belonged in the privacy of her room, not out here for all to see. She shoved them down, slammed a metaphorical lid on them, and sealed it with a few deep breaths in and out.
She had navigated the streets of Shanghai as a child. She had managed to escape convent school with her skepticism fully intact. She’d held a marriage together for a decade despite its crumbling foundations.
She could do this.
Ciel. Tears burned her eyes despite her fastest blinking. Though she heard the Laurents’ car doors, she ran from the room, down the corridor, and into the kitchen, where she could hide until she got herself under control.
The room sat empty, forlorn. They’d hired a cook, but Zelie had ordered everything packed up and shipped to a house outside of Marseille that the mother of an agent had offered to them, so she’d already said goodbye to the grandmotherly Suzel.
They’d dine on leftovers tonight and load up and leave tomorrow.
Still. A kettle sat on the stove, so she filled it with water and dug the tea out of a box. Just being a good hostess, that was all. Never mind the way her hands shook, or how she couldn’t seem to drag in a steady breath.
She wished Henri had lingered, to joke with her. She needed a friend . . . but she couldn’t afford another one of those, and she’d already assigned those she had to tasks more important than coddling her.
“Zelie?” Marcel’s voice should have startled her, but instead it wrapped around her like a blanket. She hadn’t heard his footsteps over her own sniffling, but his hands landed gently on her shoulders. “Are you all right?”
She fully intended to lie. Assure him she was fine.
But when she opened her mouth, out slipped the truth.
“No. Navarre is leaving, off to participate in a conspiracy to overthrow the government in Algiers, and I have the worst feeling.” Apparently that need for a friend was more deep-rooted than she’d thought.
His breath whooshed out, tickling her cheek on its way by. “That’s why he called you back early?”
“And then didn’t bother showing up until now.” She shook her head, wishing she could dislodge the bitterness from her throat with the movement. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t push this on you.”
“If a friend can’t help you shoulder disappointment, he’s not much of a friend.” He gave her shoulders a light squeeze and then let his hands fall away. “He left you in charge, I assume.”
She turned, nearly bumping into him, as close as he stood.
He backed up a step, and she sidestepped to lean against the workbench.
Marcel was a friend, despite how short their acquaintance was.
That was clear from the concern in his eyes, the very posture he held, as if ready to reach out again to support her if she needed it.
She shouldn’t need it. But she did. “I tried to tell him he shouldn’t. He’s the one England trusts, not me. He’s the only reason we ever had any credibility.”
Marcel shook his head, sending his curls dancing.
Did the man never wear a hat? Even if he’d taken it off upon entering, his hair should have shown signs of it.
“Perhaps his name meant something to our compatriots in England. But it meant nothing to me, nor to the dozens of people we spoke to in Paris. You are the one we trust, Zelie.”
She folded her arms across her chest to keep from doing something foolish like reach out to touch his curls. “I don’t know why. I’m not qualified for this.”
His smile unfurled slowly, like a gentle swell of music. “Perhaps that is why. You’re not a military officer, and we’re not your soldiers. We’re only ragtag, ordinary people doing what we can to help. Who better to lead us than a mother with an addiction to adventure?”
The description brought an unexpected burst of laughter to her lips. Which, of course, did more to help her relax than any words could have. “Are you likening yourself to my children, Marcel?”
“Me? No. Those three out there?” He motioned toward the exit, and at his words, she became aware of laughter coming from the drawing room—his brother and cousins. “Absolutely. Though that may be unfair to Blaise and Elise. They are certainly better behaved than the triplets.”
He really was a friend—he knew exactly how to soothe her.
She pulled the kettle off the heat when it whistled and poured the water into the teapot Suzel hadn’t yet packed.
Setting the pot on a tray along with the tea and cups, she nodded.
“Well, let’s go bring them to order, shall we?
And you can tell me how everything went. ”
Ten minutes later, the five of them sat huddled around a tea table meant for two, with Raoul and Gustave resorting to the floor as Marcel regaled them all with the tale from his meeting—as well as his unexpected overseer.
They hadn’t counted on that. But if the SS officer kept his involvement limited to giving musical advice, it wouldn’t be too bad.
“So you’ve got the job, with the blessing of the overlords themselves,” Raoul pronounced at the end with a nod. Fraternal pride saturated his tone and painted his face. “Never doubted for a moment that you would. Bring your orchestra to Pau as soon as you can, would you? That’s where I’ll be.”
“Oh, and I suppose you expect a free ticket.” Marcel winked and cuffed his little brother playfully in the head. Easy to do since Raoul’s head was even with his arm, given their choice of seats.
Raoul batted his hand away. “No. I expect two. Can’t come without a date, you know.”
Marcel laughed. “All right—it’s on Vichy’s account. And who will you bring? Anyone special?”
Raoul shrugged. “Hard to say who it might be by then.” His grin was mischief and charm, sure to wreak havoc with the young women.
Emile brightened. “I want two tickets too—I’ll bring Marie. I want you to meet her. Our parents are all wild about her.”
Gustave rolled his eyes. “Never thought I’d see the day you’d settle for one pretty girl, Em.”
“Marie is far more than a pretty face.” Emile looked offended that his brother would ever think otherwise, though no doubt it was as much tease and exaggeration as true affront.
Zelie shook her head. They were handsome, the lot of them—and the younger three, at least, were all too aware of it. “Am I going to have to issue warnings to all the girls in Pau to steer clear of you, Raoul?”
He splayed a hand across his heart. “I am a perfect gentleman, I assure you. If our mother ever got wind of anything less, she’d flay me alive.”
That had rarely proven to be incentive enough to keep young men on the straight and narrow, but she let it go and focused on the eldest Laurent again. “And they said you can set up wherever you like?”