Chapter Nineteen #2
“No.” But the clouds in her eyes said it wasn’t the simple word it sounded like. “Germany bombed London for eight months straight—who’s to say they won’t start again? No, you can’t go to England. I’d worry every day.”
“Switzerland,” Marcel said. One of the few options, really, if they wanted a neutral country, and it wasn’t recovering from a civil war like Spain was. Marcel had played in Geneva once. It wasn’t too bad a trip, and it wouldn’t even require passing into occupied France to get there.
“Grand-maman has a friend in Switzerland, doesn’t she?”
Zelie nodded, the movement slow enough to attest to a parade of thoughts through her mind. Then she blinked, focusing again on Blaise. She brushed his hair off his forehead. “You are the most amazing boy in all the world, and I love you more than life itself.”
“I know.” Blaise gripped his mother’s wrists. “I love you too, Maman.”
She sighed. “I’ll give this thought. Don’t say anything to your sister.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not dumb.”
“No.” She smiled and leaned in to kiss his forehead.
“You’re definitely not dumb.” She stood as Elise skipped back out and straight into the kitchen, looping her arms around her mother’s neck.
Zelie gave her a smile and hooked her own arm around the girl’s waist, then looked back to Marcel.
“Henri is out now, seeing who all is still around.”
Marcel could have named them for her—and would, if it came down to it. For now, he nodded.
She went on. “We brought some treats with us from Spain—chocolate, real coffee, whiskey. We thought we’d have a party for New Year’s Eve. Get everyone together.”
A time to regroup, she meant. Plan for the year ahead. “That sounds good.”
“Do you think . . .” She paused, swallowed, frowned. “Do you think your parents would let me stay here? I can take the sofa—”
“No. To the sofa.” He motioned to the kitchen wall. Or rather, the house on the other side of it. “Tante Charlotte and Oncle Germain have an extra room. You’ll stay there.”
She paled a bit. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
He understood why she’d feel that way. “Please, Zelie. Let them do this for you. When they heard what Emile had done . . . They need this. They’ve already offered, for whenever you returned.”
“Tante Charlotte makes good cookies. You’ll like them.” Elise gave her a grin of pure innocence. “If you’re scared, I’ll stay there with you, Maman.”
“Thank you, precious. I’d like that.” Zelie kissed her daughter and then struggled back to her feet with a wince.
He was about to ask what was wrong, but Elise beat him to it, spreading her little hands over her mother’s hip. “Is your displaced-ment hurting you? Mine did a little, after I was sleeping in the car.”
Displacement? There was clearly still much he didn’t know about Zelie.
She offered her daughter a smile. “A little. It’ll feel better after I’ve had a chance to walk around. Is yours better now?”
Elise nodded. Then grabbed her mother’s hand and tugged. “Let’s finish the piano.”
“All right.” The two of them left, and a moment later the plunking began.
Marcel looked back to Blaise, who hadn’t budged, other than to look to Marcel again too.
“Make sure she does it,” the boy said. “It’s the only way. I’ve been thinking about it all week.”
Marcel sighed. “I don’t think what I say will really matter, Blaise. But she saw the wisdom in your suggestion.”
“Good. And once we’re safe—then I need you to promise to keep her safe.”
There were many men of Alliance far more capable of that than him—men with military training, with daring, with qualifications beyond knowing his way around instruments. Maybe Blaise would ask this of all of the ones he met. It wouldn’t surprise him.
But he could answer only for himself, with a somber nod. “I’ll do all in my power. You have my word.”
Blaise held out a hand and, tamping down his smile, Marcel shook. He expected the boy to hop up after that, but he didn’t. Instead, he frowned. “Don’t be like Père.”
Marcel’s brows shot up. “Pardon?” Was he going to put words to the lecture about not growing too close to them that Zelie had already silently delivered? If so, he wasn’t sure he could take it.
“He yelled at her all the time, when he thought we were asleep. Told her she was a disgrace, that he was ashamed of her. Always asked why she couldn’t be more like other women.” The same hand that had slapped the table now curled into a fist. “But she’s not supposed to be like them.”
“No. She isn’t.” And all he thought he knew shifted. He’d barely known Colonel Bellerose, but in his mind, their marriage had been strong. Sound. In his mind, she was still mourning him. This was a different picture entirely.
“Before he left for the war, I heard him tell her to stop pretending she was something special and to stay home and take care of us.”
Marcel’s jaw clenched. Stop pretending to be special? The man had really said that?
When Blaise lifted his chin, he looked so very much like her. Stubborn and determined and too clever for his own good—or no. Perhaps clever enough for everyone’s good. “But she is special.”
“She is,” Marcel agreed. “And capable. More capable than any man I know.”
“But she still needs a friend. One who understands her. One who won’t ever tell her she’s not special or is a disgrace or that he’s ashamed of her.” His gaze said in no uncertain terms that he was willing to let Marcel be that friend, as long as he obeyed the terms.
It was perhaps the most precious gift anyone had ever given him. “You have my word on that too, Blaise. I have the utmost respect for your mother.”
“Good.” He pushed to his feet. “Grand-maman will take care of me. I’ll take care of Elise. You take care of Maman—”
“And your maman will take care of all of France.” Their gazes met again, and they both smiled. “It’s a deal.”
Blaise headed toward the bedroom, perhaps needing a moment to himself after that conversation. Marcel belatedly filled a glass with water and brought it into the drawing room, where Zelie sat in his mother’s chair, nearest the piano, while Elise played “Alouette.”
He handed her the glass, and she took it with a questioning smile. “What were you two still talking about?”
“Manly things.” He grinned, winked. “How to belch and make rude noises and make girls wrinkle their noses in disgust.”
She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. “Now I know you’re lying—he doesn’t need those lessons. He’s a boy, he was born knowing those things.”
He chuckled too and took his usual seat on the sofa. “Well then. I guess you’ll have to keep wondering.”