I slammed my fists into the beech tree, wishing I could cry, wishing I could wrap myself in my old insulating numbness. But the tears were tied up tight inside me in a huge ugly knot, and stabs of fury and pain cut me too deep for numbness. So I just hit the tree until my knuckles were stinging through my gloves.
My eyes were hot and burning when I finally turned away. My aunt stood watching from the back door, frail and hunched. “Tell me the rest,” I said, and she did, her voice flat. My uncle had sent Rose to a little town outside Limoges to give birth away from anyone she knew. She didn’t write when the baby was born, told them nothing about it, and they didn’t ask. Four months later, Rose sent a brief note saying she was going to work in Limoges, and would pay her parents back for every franc they’d spent on her confinement. Money had come, and two more sets of letters had been exchanged: announcement of first her father’s death and then her brothers’, and Rose’s awkward tear-splotched condolences. No, Tante Jeanne couldn’t remember Rose’s address; she hadn’t saved the letters or the envelopes—and after mid ’44, no more had come. “I don’t know if she’s still in Limoges,” my aunt said, and paused. “I asked her to come back, you know. Rose’s father would never hear of it while he was alive, but after he . . . well, I asked. She never answered me.” I didn’t ask if Rose’s baby had been included in that offer of hospitality. I was trembling too hard. “Are you staying the night?” Tante Jeanne sounded mournful. “It gets very lonely here.” Whose fault is that? I wanted to lash out. You’re the one who threw Rose away like trash. You should have left her in that café in Provence. The words burned at my lips, aching to come out, but I bit them down. My aunt was so thin a breeze could blow her away, finally looking like the invalid she’d always claimed she was. A husband and two sons dead. She’d lost so much. Be kind. I didn’t want to be kind, but at least I managed not to say the things I was thinking. I just said stiffly, “No, Tante, I can’t stay. I have to go to Roubaix.” Tante Jeanne sighed. “Well, then.” I couldn’t make myself hug her. I couldn’t bear it. I jerked out a stiff good-bye and moved unsteadily across the weedy lawn, back to the dark blue shape of the Lagonda. Finn looked up from The Autocar’s tattered pages. I don’t know what expression he saw on my face, but he sprang out of the car. “Miss?” “Why’d you go to prison?” I heard myself ask. “Stole a bearskin hat off a Buckingham Palace guard,” he said with no expression. “Are you all right?” “You’re lying about the hat.” “Yes. Get in the car.” I moved toward the convertible, but tripped in the graveled path. Finn caught me around the waist before I could fall, lifted me up and helped me into the front seat. Eve was awake, regarding me with those hooded eagle eyes of hers. “Well?” I rubbed my hot cheek with a cold hand as Finn slid back behind the wheel. “I found out why Rose left. Because—because she was pregnant.” The silence was deafening. “Well,” Eve said at last, aiming a deliberate glance at my stomach. “Unless I miss my guess, so are you.”