The Nightingale
She slammed the door shut behind her and went to the kitchen, where she lit the stove and put a pot of water on to boil. Then she went to the bottom of the stairs and called her daughter down to breakfast.
She had to call two more times—and then threaten—before Sophie came trudging down the stairs, her hair a mess, the look in her eyes sullen. She was wearing her sailor dress—again. In the ten months Antoine had been gone, she’d outgrown it, but she refused to stop wearing it. “I’m up,” she said, shuffling to the table, taking her seat.
Vianne placed a bowl of cornmeal mush in front of her daughter. She had splurged this morning and added a tablespoon of preserved peaches on top.
“Maman? Can’t you hear that? There’s someone knocking at the door.”
Vianne shook her head (all she’d heard was the thunk-thunk-thunk of the axe) and went to the door, opening it.
Rachel stood there, with the baby in her arms and Sarah tucked in close to her side. “You are teaching today with your hair pinned?”
“Oh!” Vianne felt like a fool. What was wrong with her? Today was the last day of school before the summer break. “Let’s go, Sophie. We are late.” She rushed back inside and cleared the table. Sophie had licked her plate clean, so Vianne laid it in the copper sink to wash later. She covered the leftover pot of mush and put the preserved peaches away. Then she ran upstairs to get ready.
In no time, she had removed her hairpins and combed her hair into smooth waves. She grabbed her hat, gloves, and handbag and left the house to find Rachel and the children waiting in the orchard.
Captain Beck was there, too, standing by the shed. His white T-shirt was soaked in places and clung to his chest, revealing the whorls of hair beneath. He had the axe slung casually against one shoulder.
“Ah, greetings,” he said.
Vianne could feel Rachel’s scrutiny.
Beck lowered the axe. “This is a friend of yours, Madame?”
“Rachel,” Vianne said tightly. “My neighbor. This is Herr Captain Beck. He is … the one billeting with us.”
“Greetings,” Beck said again, nodding politely.
Vianne put a hand on Sophie’s back and gave her daughter a little shove, and they were off, trudging through the tall grass of the orchard and out onto the dusty road.
“He’s handsome,” Rachel said as they came to the airfield, which was abuzz with activity behind the coils of barbed wire. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“Is he?”
“I’m pretty sure you know he is, so your question is interesting. What’s he like?”
“German.”
“The soldiers billeted with Claire Moreau look like sausages with legs. I hear they drink enough wine to kill a judge and snore like rooting hogs. You’re lucky, I guess.”
“You’re the lucky one, Rachel. No one has moved into your house.”
“Poverty has its reward at last.” She linked her arm through Vianne’s. “Don’t look so stricken, Vianne. I hear they have orders to be ‘correct.’”
Vianne looked at her best friend. “Last week, Isabelle chopped off her hair in front of the captain and said beauty must be verboten.”
Rachel couldn’t stifle her smile completely. “Oh.”
“It’s hardly funny. She could get us killed with her temper.”
Rachel’s smile faded. “Can you talk to her?”
“Oh, I can talk. When has she ever listened to anyone?”
* * *
“You are hurting me,” Isabelle said.
The man yanked her away from the wall and dragged her down the street, moving so fast she had to run along beside him; she bumped into the stone alley wall with every step. When she tripped on a cobblestone and almost fell, he tightened his hold and held her upright.