12. Mireille
12
MIREILLE
T he first frost came in the beginning of October, turning the maple trees lining the driveway to crimson and gold. One Friday afternoon, I took the afternoon off from work, having promised Betsy and Mrs. Westbrook that I would. They’d been worried about me. Concerned gazes followed me wherever I went. I’d spent more and more time at the office since learning of my mother’s death, but even I had to admit I was emotionally and physically drained.
I went out to walk the grounds and say hello to the horses, which I’d neglected of late. The crisp air carried notes of decaying leaves and woodsmoke. I wrapped my scarf around my neck and then stuffed it under the collar of my coat. I’d been so cold since Maria’s letter had arrived, even through the last of the summer weather. I’d not heard that a broken heart could make one cold. Perhaps it was only me?
The horses welcomed me with various snorts and head nods. I breathed in the scents of leather and hay—scents that made me think of Peter. Our stable manager, Louis, greeted me with a kind smile before leaving me be. I did my rounds, saying hello to Apollo first, who I swear still looked at me with longing for Peter in his dark eyes.
“How you doing, old boy?” I asked, stroking his nose.
Apollo shook his head, whinnying.
“I know. I miss him too.”
I grabbed a carrot, his preference, from the bin and fed it to him, hoping to cheer him, if only for a moment.
Marigold was in her stall and greeted me with the swish of her tail and a head bump. “I know. We haven’t been out together. I haven’t had the heart to ride without Peter.”
She nodded, clearly understanding. I gave her an apple, not wanting her to feel jealous of Apollo’s carrot, and whispered to her in French. “Ne sois pas jalouse, tu es ma douce fille.”
You’re my sweet girl.
My mother had often said those words as she tucked me into bed at night. I’d catch a whiff of the perfume my father bought her every year at Christmas—Houbigant Quelques Fleurs—when she’d knelt to kiss my forehead. In those moments, I felt safe and loved, as if nothing bad could ever happen to us.
Then, as it happened with grief, a wave hit, sharp and relentless. I doubled over as if someone had struck me with a blade, and my legs collapsed beneath me. I sank onto the hard dirt that made up the stable floor, brought my knees to my chest, and wept, the sound hard and jagged in the quiet stable. Longing for my mother was like a fever that raced through my bloodstream. I could not stop thinking about her last moments, how brave she’d been and the pain she must have endured. Had she thought of me as she drew her last breath? Was Jesus waiting to welcome her to the promised kingdom?
After I’d cried out all the tears for the time being, I dried my face with one of George’s handkerchiefs that no longer carried his scent. Brushing off the dust and stray straw that clung to the back of my coat, I said goodbye to the horses. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”
Marigold nudged me. She understood.
I walked back out to the sunny autumn day just as Betsy was driving into the garage. She waved as she stepped out of the car and then charged over to greet me. “You did it. You actually took the afternoon off?” Her expression went from delighted to concerned. She always knew when I’d been crying.
She held out her arms, and I went into them, letting her take my weight into her strong, athletic body. “Bad one today?” Betsy asked.
“I couldn’t stop it.”
“That’s all right. No one expects you to.” She held me for a moment more before stepping back to look into my eyes. “If only there was something I could do.”
“You’re doing it now,” I said.
“I’m always here. Whenever you want to talk.”
“I know.”
I allowed her to loop her arm though mine as she’d done so often when we were schoolgirls. Those carefree girls seemed far away, replaced by world-weary career women.
“Walk for a minute?” Betsy asked.
“Sure.”
We strolled out to the gardens, waving at the head gardener when he looked up from clearing out the last of the tomato plants, their leaves now yellow and brittle. A bit like Betsy and me.
“How’s your Charlie?” I asked.
“He’s the same. Flirtatious. Handsome. Funny. No idea who he is.”
“I wonder if he’ll ever remember?”
“The doctors say he might not, or he might. It’s maddening.”
We passed the rosebushes, all cut back and ready for winter. The gold fields beyond the formal gardens stretched out before us, dotted with the silhouettes of grazing horses. We passed by the pond, its glassy surface rippling as a pair of ducks landed, their calls startling in the quiet afternoon.
“I’m thinking of putting an ad out in the newspapers,” Betsy said. “With his photo. Asking if anyone knows him.”
“Will the hospital allow that?”
“They won’t care as long as it’s on my dime.”
Our attention was drawn toward the low hum of a car coming up the driveway. We both turned to see that it was the postman’s truck rumbling up the gravel road. “Oh, I do hope there are letters today,” Betsy said. “Anything that will cheer you a little.”
We headed back toward the house without speaking, our steps quicker than before, boots crunching through the fallen leaves.
We reached the front steps just as the sturdy, navy-blue boxy truck with “US Mail” painted in white on its side pulled up. Our postman stepped out, a broad-shouldered man with a wool cap pulled low against the chill.
“Morning, ladies.” He greeted us with a polite nod before opening the back of his vehicle. I happened to notice a heavy, battered trunk nestled among stacks of letters and parcels in the back of the vehicle. Something about the trunk seemed familiar.
“Good morning,” Betsy replied, stepping forward as he handed her the mailbag.
“I’ve got a trunk here for Mrs. Winchester,” he said. “Came all the way from France. Took some doing to get here, I’d imagine.”
My chest tightened as I stared at the trunk, its scuffed leather edges and tarnished brass latches unmistakably familiar. It was from my mother. She’d kept mementos in there. At least, that’s what I’d always assumed. She’d kept it under lock and key, forbidding me to ever look inside, which, of course, had made me all the more curious. But I’d never known where she stored her key.
“It’s from my mother.” My voice sounded far away, almost like an echo in a canyon.
Betsy glanced at me, her expression shifting from curiosity to quiet understanding. “Will you take it inside for us?”
The postman nodded, stepping back to lift the trunk from the truck, then followed Betsy and me up the steps and into the front hall.
She’d sent me her secret trunk. Had she wanted me to have it? Or had Maria taken upon herself to send it?”
“There are these for you too.” The postman handed Betsy a small bundle of letters tied with twine. My eyes caught the familiar handwriting on the top envelope—George’s looping scrawl—and beneath it, Peter’s neat and precise script.
To me, he handed a separate letter. “This came with the trunk. From what I can tell, the key’s inside the envelope.”
A quick glance told me it was indeed from Maria. I thanked him, staring at the envelope in my hand before opening it and pulling out a letter.
The postman tipped his cap. “Have a good afternoon, ladies.”
When he was gone, I unfolded the letter and began to read.
Chère Mireille,
Your mother asked that I send this to you if anything should happen to her. I’ve no idea how long it will take to get to you. She never said what was inside; she simply told me where she kept the key and instructions to have it shipped to you.
Thank you for your kind letter. I shared your words with those of us who are left with guilt over your mother’s death. It was most generous of you to exonerate us. It did little to assuage our guilt, but we were comforted knowing you hold no animosity toward us.
With all my love,
Maria
I stared at the trunk. Why would she have had it sent to me when she didn’t want me to see what was inside when I lived at home?
My heart thudded in my chest. I felt as if I might be sick. Whatever was inside, I was not ready to see it.
Betsy came to my side. “Do you want to open it?”
I shook my head. “Not now. I can’t.”
Mrs. Westbrook had appeared silently in the doorway, her face etched with quiet sympathy. “Shall I have it sent up to your room? You can open it when you’re able.”
I nodded mutely, unable to form words.
“What can I do?” Betsy asked, her voice soft.
“Nothing,” I whispered. “I just can’t face it right now.” My voice broke, and I turned away, my throat burning.
Betsy touched my arm but didn’t push. “Whatever you want. It’s your choice.”
“Come sit with me in the parlor,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “Both of you. I’ll have Mrs. Burns bring us some tea and sandwiches. You both look dead on your feet. You can read your letters from George.”
Numbly, I did as she asked. A few minutes later, we were all seated near the fire. Betsy sorted through the stack of envelopes. There were letters from George and Peter to me. Another was addressed to Mrs. Westbrook from Peter.
I opened the V-mail from George, reading his words greedily.
My dearest Mireille,
I’m sorry it’s been a week or so since my last letter. Things here have grown more intense, leaving little time for me to write. I can’t say much, of course, but we’re seeing more U-boat activity than ever. The attacks have increased. Every convoy feels like a gamble. We’re all feeling the strain of it, worried about what will come when we least expect it.
We’re careful. Meticulous even. And the men around me are smart and quick. You must not worry too much. They haven’t managed to take us out yet.
I hope you’re doing all right. I assume the grief feels crippling at times. It was for me. I did my best to hide it, but in hindsight, I probably wasn’t as good at it as I fancied myself to be. Mrs. Westbrook knew my heart was shattered. I’m not sure it was put together again until you came into my life.
I think of you every moment. I’ll be home eventually and we’ll start our life together. Thinking of that day keeps me going.
All my love,
George
I put the letter away, tucking it into my pocket to read again later. Mrs. Westbrook was still reading the letter from Peter. When she looked up, her eyes were brighter than I’d seen them in some time. “You won’t believe it. Peter’s getting married.”
“What? When?” Betsy asked.
“This is written to all of us. I’ll read it out loud,” Mrs. Westbrook said.
Dear Mother, Father, Betsy, and Mireille,
I hope this letter finds you all well. I’ve been thinking about autumn at the estate and miss it with a dull ache that never leaves. I love the changing of summer to fall when the leaves grow colorful and the air crisp. It always gave me the feeling of endless opportunities.
As I have said in previous letters, Diana and I have fallen in love. She took me by surprise. I’d not imagined love would come my way. She doesn’t mind that I’m quiet and bookish. In fact, she loves me just as I am. I never thought I’d ever be able to say that about a woman. I’m going to ask her to marry me. I’m fairly certain she’ll say yes, since she’s dropped more than a few hints that she’d like to marry before Christmas.
She took me to meet her parents last weekend. I was nervous, but they welcomed me graciously. At one point, I spoke with her father alone, and he gave me permission to ask for her hand. You should have seen me, all shaky and sweaty. However, he took pity upon me and didn’t make me suffer long before giving his blessing. He’s a kind and charming man, with a clever wit that served him well during his career as a diplomat. Diana’s mother is quiet and shy but a steady kind of person. Diana says I remind her of her mother. I took that as a great compliment.
The wedding will be a simple ceremony at her parents’ home in the countryside, nothing grand or elaborate—just a small gathering of family and a few of our friends from the office.
I wish more than anything that you could all be with us for the wedding. It pains me that I can’t share this day with the family I love so much, but perhaps someday, when the world settles and the war is behind us, I’ll bring my bride home to meet you. Until then, I ask for your blessings and your prayers.
With all my love,
Peter
Mrs. Westbrook’s eyes shone with tears as she looked up from the letter. “This blasted war. Keeping me from my son’s wedding.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. But I’m very happy for him.” Betsy smiled and held out her hand for the letter. “I cannot believe he’s found love in such an unlikely place.”
“Yes, it’s a true blessing,” Mrs. Westbrook said. “In the dark days of war, love still finds a way.”
“She sounds delightful,” I said. “I do so wish we could meet her.”
“As do I, darling.”
“We will,” Betsy said. “Just not yet.”