6. Mireille
6
MIREILLE
T hree weeks passed at school, and soon, it was time for Betsy and me to return to Greenwich for the Christmas holiday. I’d been thrilled to receive a letter from my mother with a little spending money for the holidays. She had sent a letter to Mrs. Westbrook as well, thanking her for taking me in during the holiday breaks. I’d written to Mama of all my adventures at the estate after I got back to school, and from what I could tell, she’d enjoyed hearing my stories, including how Peter had taught me to ride a horse. I left out the part of about the conversation at Thanksgiving dinner, not wanting to worry her that I was dealing with anything unpleasant during my time here.
Just as we were leaving for the train, Miss Mayfair came running out with a letter from my mother. “This just arrived. Also, she asked me to give you this—to buy Christmas gifts or whatever you choose to do with it.” She pressed a ten-dollar bill into my hand.
I stared at the bill, shocked. “How did she…?”
“She arranged it with me when we first spoke of your enrollment here,” Miss Mayfair said. “Take it. Enjoy your time with Betsy’s family.”
I thanked her, spontaneously throwing my arms around her.
She hugged me back, calling me a dear girl before nudging me toward Betsy.
Soon, Betsy and I were comfortably seated on the train, and I opened the letter from my mother.
Bordeaux, December 10, 1938
My Dearest Mireille,
We’re having a quiet winter, made more so by your absence. Your father says the vines look strong this year, their roots holding firm in the soil despite the chill in the air. He’s immersed himself even further into his work, perhaps trying to distract himself from missing you. Enjoying a holiday without you seems impossible, but it is what we have to face. I pray that soon we’ll be together again.
I miss your presence terribly. The little things I took for granted, like the way you’d hum while helping with supper or doing your pirouettes down the hallway. When I wake in the morning, I forget for a second that you’re not here, that I don’t have to rouse you for school. Then, of course, the truth comes rushing back to me, and I fill with longing only a mama can feel when her child is so far away.
There are days I question whether we made the right decision to send you to America. But then, we hear whispers of unrest in the city and at the ports, talk of what’s happening in Austria and Germany. Your father paces about the house, worrying about what is to come, and yet there is nothing we can do. I worry not only for us but for what kind of world you will inherit. Please, ma chérie, focus on your studies and your future. The world is in turmoil, and we must dig deep inside ourselves to uncover how to use our particular gifts for good.
Please, let yourself take pleasure in the time with the Westbrook family. I grew up not far from there and remember with fondness the white Christmases we had. It pleases me to think of you exploring the area with dear Betsy. She’s a godsend, isn’t she? Peter and George sound delightful. I wonder if you are smitten with either of them? Perhaps you’re still too young for such feelings, but whether I like it or not, you’re growing into a young woman. I’m sorry to miss it all.
Your father sends his love and reminds you to be brave and that you’re stronger than you think you are.
Write soon and tell me everything about your visit with the Westbrook family. I want to hear about the food, the people, the music.
I’ll be with you in spirit, my love. No matter how far the distance between us, we are never truly apart because of the love we share.
Love,
Mama
P.S. Mrs. Westbrook wrote to me, telling me how much they enjoyed having you for Thanksgiving and how pleased they are that Betsy has such a steadfast friend. I couldn’t be prouder of you.
I read the letter as we pulled out of the station, tears traveling down my cheeks. Betsy didn’t say anything, but she understood. When I tucked the letter back into the envelope, Betsy squeezed my hand and let me rest my damp cheek on the shoulder of her wool jacket.
“It hurts,” I said. “So much.”
“I know. I know. But you have me until all this gets settled, and you can return home. Tell me what your Christmas was like in Bordeaux.”
For the next hour, I talked of home, of our traditions, and our employees, who we thought of as family. I told her about my very American mother and that she had once lived not far from Greenwich. Betsy asked if I knew exactly where she’d lived, but I didn’t.
“There’s only Mama left. And me, obviously. So there’s no one to ask.”
“Thank God for you,” Betsy said. “I can’t remember the time before you arrived at school.”
“It’s as if we’ve known each other forever.”
We arrived not much later. As they had at Thanksgiving, the boys picked us up to take us to the Westbrooks’. Instead of going home right away, they told us Mrs. Westbrook suggested we do some shopping in downtown Greenwich. Remembering the cash in my handbag, I happily agreed. I couldn’t wait to pick out gifts for my new American family.
“It’s nice to see you,” Peter said, holding out his hand.
“You too. You’re looking well.” We clasped each other’s hands for a moment, sharing a smile. There was something about Peter that made me feel as if we had a special club that no one else could enter.
Next, George gathered me up in his arms, spinning me around. “At long last, we meet again.”
I giggled as he set me down. “It’s only been a few weeks.”
“A few weeks longer than we should ever be parted.” George bowed at the waist. “I’m at your service.”
“For heaven’s sake, you should be on the stage,” Betsy said before George pulled her in for a hug.
We all climbed into the car, with Peter at the wheel, and drove downtown. Soon, we’d parked and were standing on the sidewalk in front of a toy store on Greenwich Avenue. Snow from a storm earlier in the week lined the edges of the streets, and holiday decorations adorned every lamppost and shop window. A quartet of Victorian carolers sang “The First Noel,” making everything that much more festive. Shops and sidewalks were packed with the bustle of holiday shoppers. From this view, it was hard to imagine that the Great Depression existed at all.
Betsy led the way, her scarf fluttering behind her as she brought us to her favorite shop. “Wait until you see all the divine trinkets in here.” Betsy pulled me into the store with her. The boys immediately followed.
Inside, it was warm, and scents of pine and cinnamon filled my nose. Indeed, the store was full of glorious items. Betsy had already moved toward a glass counter displaying ornaments, scarves, and delicate brooches. George followed not far behind. Peter wandered over to a display of watches. I stayed near the entrance, enjoying the splendor of it all until a delicate music box with an intricate gold pattern caught my attention.
When I turned the key, a soft “Au Clair de la Lune” began to play—a traditional French folk tune that dated back to the eighteenth century. My mother used to sing it while cooking or cleaning. For a moment, the melody transported me back to Bordeaux on an ordinary evening. Mama and I worked compatibly in the kitchen, preparing a simple dinner of roast chicken and potatoes. The air smelled of spices and herbs. My father opened a bottle of wine, sniffing the cork before pouring us each a small glass.
“Do you like it?” George’s voice startled me, pulling me back to the present, his broad shoulders blocking the cold light of the window. I snapped the lid shut, embarrassed to have been caught looking at something with such childlike awe.
“I love it, but it’s much too expensive.” I placed it back on the shelf. “The song reminds me of home. My mother often sang it to me when I was little. Papa had taught her all the French folk tunes when they first married. She has a beautiful voice.”
George studied me, his laughing eyes dulling. “What’s the name of the song?”
Before I could reply, a young woman stepped up beside us, drawn by the sound of the music box. She was a few years older than me, with striking dark hair and a confident air that made her stand out even among the fashionable crowd in the shop. She reached for the music box, her gloved fingers brushing the lid.
“Forgive me for eavesdropping, but my mother used to sing this to me when I was small. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“Is your mother French?” I asked.
“No, but she said a friend from her past had taught it to her. I don’t know who.”
A dark-haired young man approached. “Clara, have you found something for your mother?”
“Not yet.” The woman named Clara looked up at the man, beaming. “But this jewelry box is tempting. It’s the song she used to sing when I woke from a nightmare.”
The man took a good look at it. “Shall we buy it for her?”
“No, she has so many jewelry boxes from Papa. Anyway, this lovely young lady spotted it first.”
“Oh, no, you must take it if you’d like. I can’t afford something so expensive for myself.”
The shopkeeper came running up. “We have more than one. Shall I get the other from the back?”
Clara smiled as she returned the music box to the shelf. “No, thank you. I’ll search for something else.” She turned to me. “You remind me of my mother. You should buy it for yourself. Merry Christmas.” Her gaze lingered on me for a moment before she turned and walked away.
I watched her go, something about her presence lingering even after she disappeared into the crowd. “Wasn’t that funny?” I murmured, mostly to myself.
George shrugged, flashing his grin again. “Like she said, a coincidence. A common French tune, nonetheless, so not so strange, I suppose. Although I agree. You should get it for yourself.”
I shook my head. “No, I only have enough for gifts for you and the Westbrooks. Christmas is about giving to others.”
“So it is.” George smiled at me, sweeping me away from thoughts of home with his warm, twinkling brown eyes.
I wandered away, looking for gifts. Not much later, I had found an exquisite silk scarf for Betsy, a leather journal for Peter, and a small flask for George that I’d seen him eyeing earlier. For Mr. Westbrook, I bought a tin of candy. I’d noticed what a sweet tooth he possessed while here at Thanksgiving. That left only Mrs. Westbrook. I’d had the idea of ordering embossed stationery for her at a stationery store I’d spotted, so I would head there next.
Meanwhile, Betsy and Peter had left the shop to search for gifts elsewhere, agreeing to meet at a café up the street in thirty minutes.
I left with my wrapped packages and stepped back outside to the cold but festive street. As I wandered down the sidewalk, enjoying the displays in windows, the tune from the jewelry box played in my mind. I passed a jewelry store, where I saw Peter bent over a glass case. Probably buying something for his mother or Betsy.
I walked by a tea shop, a bakery wafting scents of butter and cinnamon, a dressmaker, and a pharmacy, stopping finally at the stationery store. A friendly shopkeeper greeted me as I stepped inside and promptly showed me what she had to offer. I ordered an elegant set of embossed stationery for Mrs. Westbrook. The shopkeeper said I could pick it up in two days’ time, promising to imprint them with the letter W .
The moment I was back on the sidewalk, I ran into George. “Hello there. Have you completed your shopping?”
He held up several bags. “Yes, I’m all done. Shall we walk together to the café?”
“Why not?”
As I adjusted my scarf against the cold, we fell into lockstep, chattering away about the gifts we’d found.
My foot hit an icy patch on the sidewalk, and I lost my balance and gasped, sure I would fall. However, George’s hand shot out, catching me by the arm and pulling me upright.
“Got you.” We stood for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes.
His hand lingered on my arm for a moment longer than necessary.
“Thank you,” I murmured. “I thought I was going down.”
“I’m glad to be of assistance.”
Just then, Peter came out of the jewelry shop, his brow furrowed as if he were thinking about something important. He stopped short when he saw George and me standing together. His jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, I thought he was displeased. However, a second later, he smiled, waved, and headed our way.
“Have you had enough of all this?” Peter asked. “Should we get something warm to eat and drink?”
“Absolutely,” George said. “This has been a most successful shopping spree for old George here. You’re all going to be delighted by my gifts.”
“We always are,” Peter said. “You have a gift for finding gifts.”
“Your talents will save the world, whereas mine are somewhat useless.” George winked at me before offering his arm. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before the ice makes another attempt on your life.”
Peter cocked his head to the left, clearly confused by George’s comment.
“I almost fell,” I said. “George saved me.”
“Of course he did.” Peter nudged George’s side with his elbow before gesturing toward the café.
Betsy appeared suddenly, her arms laden with packages. “Hey, gang. I’m half-starved. How about you?”
“Yes, go inside and order something warm,” Peter said.
We stepped into the café, its windows fogged from the heat inside. Scents of cocoa and fresh pastries greeted us as we found a table near the fireplace. Betsy and Peter slid into the booth first, leaving George to sit beside me. He leaned close as he handed me a menu, his shoulder brushing mine.
“This may not be up to your French standards,” George said. “But it’ll have to do.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said.
Betsy closed the menu with a dramatic flourish. “I’m getting the French onion soup.”
“You won’t be able to kiss anyone under the mistletoe with onion breath,” George said.
“Who said I want to kiss anyone under the mistletoe?” Betsy lifted her chin.
“Do you have your eye on anyone?” George asked. “Either of you?”
“You’re the only boys I know,” I said.
“So the answer is no,” Betsy said, grinning.
We all laughed as the owner approached to take our order, a rotund, round-faced man with a friendly smile. In the end, we all decided on the soup, too, joking that we would have bad breath together.
After he’d taken our order, promising to return with coffees, George leaned close, speaking in my ear. “I’d kiss you under the mistletoe any day, onion breath or not.”
My cheeks burned. Palms dampened. Heart raced. George wanted to kiss me? Me? How strange and wonderful. Even though I knew he was a terrible flirt, his words thrilled me.
Nervous, I avoided George’s eyes, looking across at Peter instead. His expression was the same as earlier when he’d spotted us together on the sidewalk. What did it mean? Before I could decipher the look in his eyes, George nudged my arm and said something funny, pulling my attention back to him.
On Christmas morning, the entire family, in addition to myself, gathered in the Westbrook parlor. They had the prettiest Christmas tree I’d ever seen, branches heavy with silver tinsel and glass ornaments. Beneath it, a pile of presents wrapped in colorful papers and satin ribbons waited for the lucky recipients. A fire in the grand hearth crackled as we enjoyed a breakfast of pastries and fruit.
That was the thing about the Westbrook household. Everything seemed to magically appear, always laid out and ready for our enjoyment. I knew the staff must work hard, even on holidays. All of which made me feel a little guilty, especially when I thought of the workers in our village back home. How grand they would think all of this.
My thoughts drifted to my mother. Had she had a childhood like the one enjoyed by the Westbrook family? It was hard to imagine her not working hard every day as she did back home. Had she ever resented Papa for making her move to France? If so, she certainly never let me see it. I’d never once heard her complain. About anything.
“Shall we open gifts?” Mrs. Westbrook touched her manicured nails to the back of her elegant chignon. As always, she was dressed impeccably. This morning, she donned a fitted wool dress the color of our cabernet wine. The A-line skirt was spread perfectly over her lap, and her ankles were crossed modestly. “I do enjoy this part of the holiday.”
“Because you spoil us so,” Betsy said. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“It’s my favorite time of the year. I’m reminded of all my blessings, including everyone in this room.” She turned toward me. “I’m especially delighted to have you with us this year, Mireille. I imagine you’re homesick, and we’ll do our best to keep your mind off it.”
I returned her smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Westbrook. I’m grateful to be here. We’ve been having a marvelous time.”
“I’d say so.” George lowered himself into the chair next to me. “I’ll be sad to return to school and the old grind.”
It was true. The days had been full, happy ones. Peter had taken me out for a ride every morning, usually accompanied by Betsy and George, but sometimes alone. In addition, we’d been sledding, hiked in the woods, and sat outside enjoying a bonfire and hot chocolates. In the evenings, we’d enjoyed festive meals and card games afterward. One evening, Peter had hitched two of the horses to a sleigh, and we’d gone all around the estate and into the woods, singing Christmas carols. On another night, we’d played records until midnight, dancing and making merry. Several times, George had entertained us by playing the piano while Betsy sang along. They were quite good. Peter and I enjoyed listening to them, glad we didn’t have to participate.
George kept us all laughing through it all.
“It’ll be so lonely when you all return to school,” Mrs. Westbrook said now. “I’ll fall into melancholy that will last weeks.”
“Or perhaps you’ll be happy for some peace and quiet?” Peter asked, reaching for the silver pot that contained nutty hot coffee.
Mr. Westbrook looked fondly at his wife. “We have you to thank for all the wonderful memories we’ve made this week. You always make everything nice for all of us.”
“Oh, William, you flatter me.” Mrs. Westbrook flushed prettily. Like Betsy, she was stunningly beautiful. But she was equally gracious and lovely inside as she was outside. “Betsy, you’re in charge. Bring us all a gift to open.”
Betsy sprang to her feet, bringing me the first package. “Mother wants you to open this one first.”
“Yes, all right.” I blushed, a little overwhelmed, as all eyes turned to me. The box was long and flat, telling me it might be a piece of clothing. Excited to see, I untied the bow and lifted the lid of the box to peer inside. For a moment, I froze, unable to believe what I was seeing. An exquisite evening gown in a deep sapphire blue lay between sheets of tissue paper. I brought it out of the box and held it up for everyone to see. The neckline was modest but elegant, with subtle beading along the bodice and a soft, flowing skirt.
I clutched it to my chest, the fabric soft beneath my fingertips. “I’ve never seen anything as pretty in my life. But it’s too much. You shouldn’t have.” It must have cost a fortune.
Mrs. Westbrook, clearly pleased by my reaction, smiled warmly at me. “Every girl should have a dress that makes her feel beautiful.”
“More than one,” George said. “And you will be splendid in that one.”
I glanced at Peter, who watched me, a soft expression in his blue eyes. “You will indeed.”
“That is going to look so fine on you,” Betsy said. “Like a queen.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you in it tonight,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “For our dinner.”
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. “This was so very thoughtful of you. I shall wear it with pride.”
“You’re very welcome, my dear,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “It makes me happy to have given you something you love.”
“Who’s next?” Betsy asked, her voice bright as she reached under the glittering tree for another package. She handed a long, narrow box to her father. “This one’s for you, Daddy. From Peter.”
Mr. Westbrook unwrapped the package with deliberate care, revealing a fine bottle of scotch whiskey. “Ah, now this is a proper Christmas gift. Thank you, Peter. You know me too well.”
“You’re welcome,” Peter said. “George and I won’t mind if you share it with us.”
“Not a chance,” Mr. Westbrook replied with a chuckle. He dramatically tucked it behind his back.
Betsy was already handing Mrs. Westbrook a small box. “This is from me, Mother.”
Mrs. Westbrook opened it to reveal a set of luxurious bath oils and soaps. She ran her fingers over the delicately embossed bottles. “You always know exactly what I like. Thank you, darling.”
“I do hope you like the scent. The shopkeeper said you could bring it in and exchange it for something else if you prefer.” Betsy smiled, folding her hands on her lap. “But to me, it smelled the best.”
“Then I predict it will to me, too,” Mrs. Westbrook said.
A twinge of pain pressed into my chest, seeing the two of them exchange such words of love. I missed my mother so badly it hurt.
Next, Betsy picked up a package and passed it to Peter. “Here you are. From your favorite sister.”
Peter unwrapped the box to reveal a set of fountain pens in an ebony case. He inspected them with genuine appreciation. “These are perfect. Thank you, Betsy.”
“I figured your old ones must be running dry with all that writing you do but never show anyone,” Betsy teased.
“Someday, perhaps.” The corners of Peter’s mouth twitched. “When I have something good enough.”
Betsy handed George a present in a small box. “For you, even though I’m certain you’re on the naughty list.”
George tore the wrapping open to find a pair of silver cuff links. “What did you do? These are two fine for a joker like me.”
“You’ll need them for all the grand affairs coming up in your life soon,” Betsy said. “When you’re the toast of New York.”
“That sounds promising.” George winked at Betsy. “These are perfect. Thank you.”
Betsy opened gifts from her brother and George. Peter had gotten her a book she’d been wanting. George gave her a small bottle of her favorite perfume. Her mother had gifted her a set of pearls that had caused Betsy to tear up.
“Mother, really? Am I old enough?”
“I got my first set when I turned seventeen, so I believe so.”
“I’ll treasure them,” Betsy said.
Mr. Westbrook gave his wife a gold brooch in the shape of a flower encrusted with tiny diamonds. She gasped softly when she opened it, her fingers brushing the delicate piece. “William, it’s stunning.”
“Just like you,” he said.
They looked at each other with such love that it took my breath away.
Peter handed his mother a framed photograph he’d taken of Betsy standing in front of the stables at Thanksgiving. “For your study. Or wherever.”
Mrs. Westbrook’s eyes softened as she studied the image. “You have such an eye, darling. What a splendid thing. How did you do this?”
“School has a darkroom,” Peter said modestly. “And they like all the journalism students to learn how to take photos and develop them.”
When the time came for me to hand out my own gifts, my nerves fluttered. They were small things, modest compared to the lavish presents they’d all exchanged, but I’d chosen them carefully and with love in my heart. I hoped that would be enough.
“This one’s for you, Mrs. Westbrook,” I said shyly, offering her a neatly wrapped box with the embossed stationery I’d picked out for her.
“How did you know I needed this?” Mrs. Westbrook asked after she opened it. “I keep up a lot of correspondence, as you may know.”
“I thought they were pretty, which made me think of you,” I said.
“I’ll write to your mother this very afternoon using my new stationery,” Mrs. Westbrook said.
I turned to Mr. Westbrook next, handing him a round tin tied with a festive bow. He untied the ribbon, revealing rows of fine chocolates.
“I noticed how much you like sweets,” I said.
“You’re very observant,” Mr. Westbrook said. “And no, I’m not sharing any of these with you lot. You all keep your claws off my scotch and chocolates.”
“You’d better keep them under lock and key,” George said. “Betsy’s not to be trusted.”
Betsy rolled her eyes. “I’m certain I’m not the likeliest culprit.”
“For you,” I said, handing her a slender package. She tore into it eagerly, revealing the dusty-rose-hued silk scarf I’d found in town.
“It’s so elegant,” Betsy exclaimed, draping it over her shoulders. “I love it.”
“The color reminded me of your complexion,” I said. “When you’re excited or happy.”
“You’re the best friend a girl could have.” Betsy leapt up to give me a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you.”
Next, Peter opened the leather-bound journal I’d chosen for him. He turned it over in his hands, running his fingers over the cover. “I love it. Thank you.”
I smiled, relieved that he seemed to genuinely like it. But before I could move on, Betsy held out a package to me.
“Here, Mireille, this one’s from Peter,” she said, a knowing grin lighting up her face. “Wait until you see it.”
I opened the package carefully, and my breath caught as I saw that he’d gotten me a journal very similar to the one I’d gotten him.
“For your thoughts about home,” Peter said.
“This is so funny, isn’t it?” I murmured, my cheeks warming as I ran my finger across the leather. “Getting each other the same gift?”
Peter gave a sheepish smile. “I suppose great minds think alike.”
“I suppose they do.” I smiled back at him.
Lastly, I turned to George, holding out his present. “Here you are.”
George opened it with exaggerated care and then pulled out the polished silver flask inside and held it aloft to catch the light. “A flask? You must think I’m quite the rake.” He grinned. “This could get me into trouble.”
“As if you need any help with that,” Betsy said with a playful glare.
George laughed, tucking it into his coat pocket. “I don’t really, but I shall use this with pleasure and think of the pretty girl who gave it to me every time I do.”
“I saw you admiring it,” I said.
“You clever thing,” George said.
It was George’s gift that left me speechless. After everyone else’s gifts had been opened, he leaned forward and handed me a package wrapped in plain brown paper. When I unfolded it, the familiar sight of the music box I’d admired in town made my breath catch.
“When did you sneak back and get this?”
His grin turned serious for just a moment. “I saw the way you looked at it. There was nothing on earth that would keep me from giving it to you.”
I teared up as the music started to play. “My mother sang this to me when I was small,” I said in explanation to the others. “Now I’ll have a small part of the past with me. Thank you, George.”
“You’re welcome.” And the way he said it sounded as if he would give me the world if I asked.
Later that afternoon, after a leisurely lunch of sandwiches and savory pumpkin soup, Mr. and Mrs. Westbrook excused themselves for an afternoon nap. Peter disappeared somewhere outside, and Betsy curled up in a chair to read the book she’d gotten from Peter. I was perusing the library shelves for a book to read when George entered the room with his coat slung over his shoulder.
“Would you like to take a stroll with me?” George asked. “Get some fresh air. The sky’s clear of clouds.”
My heart leapt at the chance to be with George. “Yes, I’d love to.”
“You’ll want to bundle up. Despite the sun, it’s frigid out there.”
“I’ll sneak up and put on my trousers over wool stockings,” I said, already heading toward the hallway.
Soon, we were outside, dressed in our wool coats, scarves, and hats. My boots were sturdy, plain, and a little worn, but they held up well in the snow. I squinted as I looked upward at the bright blue sky. Sun sparkled against the fresh snow that had fallen overnight.
We set out at a leisurely pace across the field where we often rode the horses.
“What a marvelous day.” I drew in a deep breath, enjoying the scents of pine and woodsmoke.
“Indeed.”
We walked side by side, following the gentle slope of the field toward the woods in the distance. Our steps left crisp impressions in the untouched snow. Bare trees bordered the field, their spindly branches frosted with delicate icicles. Every now and then, a breeze stirred loose snowflakes from the branches, sending them swirling through the air. A few evergreen trees stood among them, their dark green needles heavy with snow.
I turned back to look at the estate, now only a faint outline peeking through the trees, its chimneys puffing out steady streams of gray smoke into the crisp air.
“It’s almost too beautiful to believe, isn’t it?” George asked quietly, as though he didn’t want to disturb the peace.
I glanced up at him, admiring his ruddy cheeks. “Some things are like that. Such perfection that it defies logic. My mother says that’s when mortals can see the work of God.”
“What a wonderful way to think of it.”
Halfway across the field, George stopped abruptly and held up a hand. “Wait.” He nodded toward a cluster of bushes ahead.
A mother deer and her fawn nibbled at a bush laden with red winterberries. Their tawny coats stood out against the white snow, ears twitching, alert to danger. The fawn lifted its head first, a single red berry caught between its lips, and stared at us with wide, dark eyes.
The mother deer froze, her slender body tense, her head raised to scan the field. Wind rustled through the bare trees, breaking the silence. Perhaps deciding we posed no threat, the mother dipped her head back to the bush, the fawn following her lead.
A mother and child.
Oh, Mama, I miss you so.
We stood there watching, holding as still as possible to keep from spooking them until the pair turned and bounded gracefully into the woods.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Such grace. If only I could dance like they run.”
“People hunt them for food. They have for centuries in this part of the world. I understand it’s necessary, but I can’t imagine killing a living creature.”
“At home, I had to kill chickens for supper. It was awful, but Mama said it was necessary and that we were lucky to have chickens to eat. I wasn’t allowed to make a fuss over such things.”
George smiled, his eyes lingering on the spot where the deer had disappeared for a second or two before turning back to me. “Tell me more about your parents.”
We continued walking toward the thicket of trees. I told him of my family’s routines, dictated by the weather and the seasons of our crops. We passed an old wooden fence, its rails bent and weathered. I noticed small tracks crisscrossing the snow and asked George what they were.
“Rabbits. For sure.”
Nearby, a pair of cardinals perched on a branch, the bright red feathers of the male vivid against the snowy backdrop. He chirped, his voice clear and sharp, while the female tilted her head, watching us as if we were a curious sight.
Ahead, a small creek wove through the trees, its outer edges glazed with a thin layer of ice.
“Let’s sit for a moment.” George brushed snow from a fallen log, and we sat side by side, watching the water slip over rocks in the quiet of the afternoon.
He asked that I tell him more about my family’s vineyard. “Each season has its own type of work. In the winter, our vines are pruned back to prepare for spring. Once it’s warm enough, new shoots grow. Papa keeps a close watch on them.” I smiled, thinking of Papa bent over his beloved vines, speaking encouraging words to them. “He talks to them sometimes—believes they’re like people—they thrive under praise.”
“My father was the opposite. He thought the way to motivate a person, namely me, was to criticize him.”
“George, that’s awful.”
“Nah. Made me tough.” He rubbed his gloved hands together. “Tell me more. What happens in summer?”
“In the late summer, grapes start to ripen. Papa has to be diligent, then. When we pick is the most important thing of all. We call it the vendanges. If we pick too early, the grapes don’t have enough sugar. Too late, and they’re overripe. The whole village waits for Papa to tell them when it’s time to pick. We hire many of them to help us in the harvest.”
“And how does it become a great French wine?”
“The grapes are pressed, and the juice is put in barrels to ferment. The yeast turns the sugar into alcohol, and the wine starts to take on its character. Mama didn’t know anything about wine-making before she moved to France with my father, but it became a passion for her, just as it is for him. She says the magic is in the fermentation.”
“It’s more art than farming,” George said.
“A little of both. The art’s in the blending. Mama and Papa work as a team to blend our merlot, cabernet sauvignon, cabernet franc. Each grape brings something different. My parents spend hours tasting, finding the perfect balance.”
George was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “What a different life you’ve had from mine.”
“The vineyard’s been in my family for generations. With all this talk of war, my parents worry about what will happen if the vines are left untended.”
“They’re willing to stay to take care of them,” George said. “There’s honor in that.”
I nodded, my throat tightening. “I suppose.”
He glanced at me, a sweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I know it must be hard to be away from your family, but selfishly, I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’ve been happier here than I thought possible. Leaving—getting on that ship—it felt like a part of me was dying. But now, here with the Westbrooks and you, I feel less alone. I’ve learned that there are ways to be happy even when one is homesick.”
He glanced at me then, his expression pensive. “What were your Christmases like? Different from here, I suspect.”
I hesitated before answering. “Everything’s simpler there. We cook for most of the day, and then good friends or anyone without a family comes for supper. Papa opens bottles of wine, and we feast on my mother’s roast pork or beef or whatever we can afford. The scarcity never occurred to me. Not until I came here. We might not have been financially rich, but we were wealthy in friends and traditions. My parents’ parties during harvest, which the whole village is invited to, are looked forward to every year. Everyone has a story to tell of this year or that. I love every one of them.” I wrapped my arms around my waist. “When I think of what could happen to all of the people I love, it fills me with such anxiety that I can scarcely breathe.”
George shifted on our log, turning slightly to look at me. “You must trust that it will all be all right in the end.”
“Sometimes I think if I only knew when or if I would see them again, I could rest easier. It’s the not knowing that’s the hardest.”
He nodded, his mouth curving downward. “I hope it won’t come to that. Losing my parents was…awful. If I’d known I was going to lose them, would I have done anything differently?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know exactly. Perhaps I would have been more aware, more appreciative, of the small moments. The ones that felt insignificant at the time. It’s those I miss the most. My mother’s expression when I came down in the morning—she always greeted me like I was the most important person in the world. No one looks at a person like their mother does.”
“True. Mama looks at me that way, too.”
“I don’t know what would have become of me without the Westbrooks.”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” I said.
“They’re family. The only one I have.”
We sat for another moment in silence until a rustle in a nearby bush pulled our attention. A bunny hopped out from under thick branches, its nose wriggling, unaware of us. George laughed, which scared it back into the bush. He stood and held out his hand. “We should probably head back. It’s getting colder, and the sun will be setting before we know it.”
I took his offered hand and straightened, coming to my feet. “Thank you for this. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you.”
“As I have you.” His brown eyes twinkled down at me. “It’s hard to believe you’re only sixteen.”
“Too young for you?” The question popped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
He raised one eyebrow. “For now. But soon, you’ll catch up to me. I’ll wait for you. And when you’re all grown and out of school, I’ll get down on one knee and beg you to marry me.”
My cheeks flooded with heat. “You will? What about all the other girls?”
“Other girls?” He shook his head, chuckling. “My exploits have been highly exaggerated. Betsy tends to embellish when it makes for a better story. But I can assure you of something, Miss Perrin. It would be an utter fool who walked away from you. If he had a chance, that is. Which he may not, given your brains and beauty.”
“He would. Have a chance, I mean. If he was you .”
George grinned, lighting up his rugged features and making my stomach flutter. “It’s a shame I can’t kiss you now, but I’m a gentleman. I promised Betsy to keep my—how did she say it—dirty paws off you. But the minute you turn eighteen, I’ll come knocking.”
“I’ll be ready.” I sounded as though I’d just run across the field at breakneck speed.
He offered his arm. “Then shall we return to the warm house?”
“We shall.”
The two of us walked out of the woods in silence. I couldn’t say what he was feeling or thinking, but as for me, it was as if I walked without any weight at all.