The Paris Apartment, page 18
“You’re not listening to me. Talent is only part of the equation, and even then, it is a fickle and capricious creature, subject to whims and luck. It cannot be relied on. So, yes, while I seem to have inherited a love of art, I have not inherited the mistaken notion that it is enough. I married that love to common sense and the knowledge that whatever skill I possess can be used for a far better purpose.”
“That sounds very…practical.” And not a word that had any place amongst the emotion and brilliance of the canvases that surrounded her.
“I’ll take that as a compliment. The men in my family have long been considered hopeless romantics, indulged by their families. I have no interest in being indulged.”
“And you think I’m expressing admiration to indulge you?”
“Look, I appreciate the vote of confidence, and my ego thanks you. But I have found my niche within my chosen field, and there I have realized immense satisfaction and happiness.”
Lia turned back to the two dancers and ran her finger lightly along the bottom lip of the easel. “Sell me this painting.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m asking to buy this painting.”
“I don’t sell my paintings.”
“Fine. Let’s trade, then.”
“I—what?”
“Pick a painting that you took off the living room wall in that Paris apartment. One of the landscapes that I’m fairly certain actually belonged to my grandmother. Whichever one catches your fancy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gabriel scoffed. “Each of those paintings is worth a significant sum.”
“And they mean nothing to me. I look at them, and I feel nothing.”
“I will not let you do that.”
“Then sell me this painting.” She turned and looked him squarely in the eye. “All the practicality and common sense that you just boasted of—I can’t think of a better way to demonstrate them. A sale will save you the hassle of transporting it to Norfolk to be hidden away. That manor must be running out of rooms three generations later, no?”
Gabriel scuffed the floor with his toe and looked distinctly awkward. “I…”
“Please.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“If you insist, I will sell it to you. I do not wish to argue.”
“Good.” Lia felt absurdly pleased. “And I’ll buy the ballet dancer too.”
“You’re shameless.”
“No. Captivated. Moved.” She set her hands on her hips. “We can talk price on the way to Norfolk.”
Chapter
14
Sophie
Bedfordshire, England
1 August 1943
Tempsford Hall sprawled elegantly, surrounded by lush greenery. Sophie immediately pictured dignified Victorian ladies and gentlemen in lavish dress and dashing hats speaking about nothing more important than the pheasant served at luncheon. In her vision, there were carefree children running and playing across the lawns, balls bouncing ahead of them, puppies barking at their heels.
Silly, Sophie knew, but just for a moment, she wanted to imagine Tempsford Hall in a happier, more tranquil time. Before it became the staging ground for agents flying out of the nearby airfield. Before the people who crossed its grounds wore uniforms and walked quickly with grim purpose while casting suspicious glances at newcomers. Before its guests and residents were continually deposited into enemy territory.
“How are you feeling?” Sophie asked the man walking beside her as they entered the house. Gerard had said nothing on the journey from London.
In fact, in the time they’d spent together since they’d been given their orders, Gerard Beaufort had spoken only rarely to Sophie and only when absolutely required.
“Hungry,” he snapped.
“No, that’s not what I meant. I was wondering if you had given any more consideration to how we might best—”
“God’s teeth, woman, I’ve made my expectations of our…partnership clear. I don’t need you pecking away at me incessantly for the next two weeks until we depart.” He jammed his hat farther onto his head and then cursed when it slid too far down his brow. “I don’t need you at all, in fact,” he mumbled, shoving the hat back up his forehead.
“I understand that you might be anxious—”
“I’m not anxious,” he sneered. “Nor am I frightened or intimidated or worried or whatever else you’re feeling and projecting onto me right now. I am a soldier, and soldiers do not fear anything.”
Sophie sighed. “That’s not at all—”
“Good afternoon.” The greeting came from a harried-looking middle-aged woman. She had a tailor’s tape around her neck, spectacles perched on top of her greying hair, and a pencil stub impaled in the bun at the back of her head.
“Good afternoon,” Sophie replied.
“Merde,” the woman said as she stared at Sophie, her fingers sliding on the tape as if itching to start taking measurements. “The best couture houses in Paris would have fought over dressing you.”
Sophie bit her lip. “You are too kind.”
“I’m not. Not at all. Kindness does not build a label. Only appearance does that. Careful maintenance of a mirage that can convince people they can be something they’re not if they possess the right things. All the best houses in Paris know this too.”
“You’ve worked in these houses,” Sophie said. When she had lived in Paris, she had often walked by the couture houses along the Place Vendôme. And she had seen the women who shopped there.
“In another life. It’s what makes me good at this now, no? Dressing people who are something they’re not.” The woman gave a very Gallic shrug. “I am Marie. Major Reed, he says you need to be dressed, yes? Socks, coats, luggage, shoes?”
“Yes. Everything down to our knickers.”
“Bonne. Follow me, s’il vous plaît.” Marie led them to what had probably been the study or the library before the war.
Now the space looked like a haphazard department store, full of coats and suits and dresses hanging on wheeled racks and draped over chairs and tables. Boxes of what Sophie could only imagine were shoes and accessories were stacked along one wall, and nearby, two women bent industriously over sewing machines.
“Is it really necessary I be here?” Gerard asked, looking around. “Surely my…associate can pick out something for me. She is supposed to be my wife, after all, and this is most certainly women’s work.”
Sophie kept her expression impassive.
Marie’s lips thinned. “All agents must personally get fitted. No exceptions.”
Gerard sighed loudly. “I’d rather just pick up my papers and go for a pint while we wait.”
Wouldn’t we all, Sophie wanted to say. She refrained.
“Clothes here first,” Marie intoned, her annoyance clear. “Papers, money, weapons at the airfield. You will be searched there too. No part of England can go to France, yes? That is how agents do not come back.”
“Fine.” Gerard sighed loudly again as if to underscore his displeasure at the inconvenience.
Marie turned her attention back to Sophie. “Tell me what you need. What mirage you wish to create.” She yanked the pencil from the back of her head and snatched a tiny notebook from a cluttered tabletop.
“Clothes that might have been expensive at some time but have seen wear. Something that would belong to a wealthy business owner and his wife. But something forgettable.”
“Hmmm.” Marie made a notation and looked critically at both Sophie and Gerard. “Yes, yes. This is no problem.”
“And I’ll need a dress that would not be out of place in a more glamourous setting. Gloves. Accessories.”
Marie brightened and rubbed her hands together. “Something not so forgettable, yes?”
“Yes. And anything that you might have with a laundry mark or label that might have been found in Marseille would be an advantage.”
“We have labels and items from many French cities,” Marie said, almost proudly. “Some come to us as…gifts, others we copy for ourselves. This also is no problem.” She settled her spectacles on her nose and considered Sophie more carefully. “Mais, your height, Madame, may be more of a problem. I will need to see what I have.”
Gerard scoffed under his breath.
Marie’s eyes snapped to him. “You, on the other hand, are a nice, small man, yes? Finding you clothes will not be a problem. We can hem right here.”
Gerard flushed, and Sophie suddenly found a loose thread on the cuff of her sweater fascinating.
“Come,” Marie said, beckoning them deeper into the study. “I will make clothing for Madame and Monsieur that is both forgettable and unforgettable. I will make sure you are ready for your time in France.”
Sophie lay on the cold metal floor of the Hudson bomber, feeling the vibrations from the engines right through her bones. At the front of the plane, the pilot and the navigator were absorbed in their duties. How these men could know where they were in the dead of night with only math and the moon and the occasional blackout-defying soul to guide them amazed Sophie. As did the gunners at the front and rear who scanned the ground and air with unwavering intensity. They had been told to expect flak from antiaircraft guns, explosions that could toss the plane even if they were too far out of range to cause real damage, but thus far, the flight had been blissfully uneventful.
Around her were over a dozen cylindrical containers as tall as she was, each attached to its own parachute. Their luggage and a suitcase full of silver powder compacts, tubes of bright lipstick, and an assortment of mascara and eye shadow pots were in one. The contents of the others were a mystery to her, though it didn’t take much to guess that they contained weapons and supplies for the Resistance forces that would meet them.
Across from Sophie, Gerard also rested on the floor of the plane. The unrelenting din from the bomber’s engines prevented any sort of casual conversation, not that her partner seemed any more interested in speaking to her than he had earlier. In fact, he hadn’t said a word since they’d both stuffed themselves into their coveralls and helmets and securely strapped on their parachutes.
Sophie tried not to worry about his recalcitrance. She had to believe that, once they were on the ground, he would come to the realization that they were truly in this together. She didn’t need him to like her, but she needed him to trust her.
She turned her head and watched as a squadron crew member moved through the plane, expertly double-checking the parachute harnesses attached to each cylinder, the beam of his small torch bobbing up and down. He stopped by Sophie and crouched down.
“First jump?” He shouted to be heard above the engines.
The glow from the little torch illuminated an airman who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, with bright blue eyes that instantly reminded her of Piotr.
“Yes,” Sophie replied. “But not your first time at this, I take it.”
“This is my thirty-eighth visit to France. Over France, at least. You lot keep us busy.” He rapped on the fuselage fondly. “Never been to Paris though. Always wanted to go. Me mum went once and thought it was the most beautiful city she ever saw. She said Sacré-Coeur was like standing on the top of the world.”
“She was right,” Sophie told him.
“Not so beautiful now, I imagine, with all those feckin’ Nazi flags hanging everywhere.”
“Working on it,” Sophie said, smiling. It was impossible not to like him.
“Pilot reckons we’re about five minutes out.” He gestured to the cylinders. “Just remember, once the pilot verifies the ground signal and gives the all clear, we’ll drop the cargo first so it doesn’t land on top of you,” he said with an easy grin. “’Cause that would put a damper on things.”
His expression, coupled with the color of his eyes, so reminded her of Piotr that Sophie put a hand to her mouth and sucked in a harsh breath.
The airman’s grin faded. “Oi, you’ll be all right. Nothing to jumping.”
“It’s not that. You just…you just remind me of someone. My husband,” Sophie finished awkwardly.
The airman glanced across the fuselage to where Gerard lay silent and motionless.
“He’s not my husband. Just my…partner.”
“Ah. That makes more sense.” Another grin split his young face. “Lucky man, your husband. Maybe one day I’ll be so lucky to find a wife willing to jump out of a plane with me.”
Oh, Piotr, you would have liked this boy, Sophie thought, a shard of grief driving deep into her chest. Years gone and still those lingering fragments caught her at unexpected times, the pain as excruciating as it had ever been.
“Best of luck to you,” the airman said. “Blow the feckin’ Jerries right out of France.” He stood and continued his inspection of the cargo.
Sophie crawled carefully around the opening that they would be jumping through shortly. “Five minutes,” she shouted at Gerard.
He looked at her and then looked away just as quickly. Even in the dim light, she could see that his face was set in grim lines.
“They’ll drop the cargo and then we go after,” she continued.
He didn’t respond.
“Did you hear me?” she asked. “We wait for—”
“I heard you the first time,” he snarled. “I know what I’m doing. I don’t need you nagging me like a bloody fishwife.”
Sophie raised her hands in a placating gesture and returned to the far side, ahead of the drop chute. The young crew member, with the help of a second, was working his way back now, this time hooking up the cylinder harnesses to the static line with practiced efficiency. She remained where she was, out of the way, as the sound of the engines changed and the plane banked. The pilot dropped the big bomber, flying low, presumably looking for something on the ground. The signal from the reception committee, Sophie surmised, though how a pilot of a bomber this size could spot the lights from a handful of torches on the ground was a mystery.
The engines rumbled and whined, and the plane rose again sharply.
“We’re good to go!” the crewman shouted. “Holding for altitude.”
The plane leveled off again after a moment, and Sophie watched as the two men manhandled and dropped each cylinder through the chimney-like opening with practiced movements. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, visualizing what she would need to do in the next few minutes once the plane banked and made its final pass. Stand up, she recited her training orders in her head. Hook static lines. Wait. To the door. Jump—
“Oi!” A panicked shout just to the rear made her eyes snap open.
“Jesus feckin’ Christ!” the second airman was yelling at the same time, though his words were nearly drowned out by the roar of the rushing air and the growl of the engines.
The two airmen had finished dropping the cylinders and were resuming their positions near the front of the plane but both were now looking back in horror.
Sophie twisted and followed their gaze to see that Gerard had stood and hooked his harness to the static line. He was standing on the edge of the drop chute.
“Wait!” Sophie yelled, scrambling toward him.
Gerard barely glanced at her. “You won’t have it in you. Better if I’m on my own.” He straightened his arms by his sides and clutched his coveralls.
“You need to wait—”
Gerard jumped.
“Shit, shit, shit.” The young airman had reached the drop chute and was looking down in disbelief.
The pilot and the navigator were both yelling questions at the two crew, though Sophie couldn’t hear what they were asking.
“He was supposed to wait for the second pass,” the airman blurted, looking up at Sophie, wide-eyed. “He’ll be in the feckin’ trees.”
“What?”
“There’s a forest on the eastern side of the potato fields. It’s why we do two passes. First for cargo, second for jumpers. Shit.” The plane was banking again.
“I’ll look for him,” Sophie yelled.
“You’ll need to backtrack east. He’ll have come down on top of the trees. No way he’ll have made it through the canopy to the ground. If he’s lucky he’ll just be hung up.” He didn’t need to say what the consequences of unlucky were. “He’ll be a sitting duck in the trees if he’s discovered.” The plane straightened. “Get ready!” he shouted and moved back toward the front of the plane to speak to the pilot.
Worry for Gerard and the damage he might have inflicted on their mission with his foolishness overrode any fear about the jump itself. Above her head, the red light blinked on. She stepped to the edge of the dark opening, the air howling and shrieking beneath her. The light went green, and Sophie jumped.
Falling unchecked through space was a peculiar sensation, terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Training on familiar ground was one thing but hurtling downward toward the unknown was something else entirely. It was also, Sophie reflected, oddly peaceful—the teeth-rattling vibrations abruptly ceased, and the thunder of the engines receded to a distant whine.
The air rushed by her, the small strings in the folds of her parachute snapping in quick order until the last one snapped off and the parachute opened. Sophie was jerked upward, her fall suddenly slowed. Above her, the moon shone brightly. Pale light glittered off a river that curled away to her right and created uneven shadows on the ground below her. To her left, beyond an inky black strip of what she assumed were trees, she caught a glimpse of what looked like a roof, the smooth surface a pale canvas against the dark.
Sophie concentrated on the ground, trying to anticipate the landing. As she drew near, she reached up as far as she was able, grasped the harness, and yanked it down. Her feet made contact with the ground, and she let herself fall to the side, landing hard on her hip. Her parachute billowed and yanked her forward a few feet before it collapsed like a spent balloon.
Sophie lay still for a moment, catching her breath. The ground beneath her was damp with dew, the faint scent of decomposing vegetation mingling with the more earthy tones of rich soil. Sophie pushed herself to her knees and disengaged her harness. She pulled her helmet from her head and glanced around. She was on the edge of a long field, a dark wall of bushes or trees surrounding all four sides and swallowing any moonlight. There was no sign of any of the canisters that had been dropped prior to her jump. She had no idea where or when the reception committee that was supposed to meet her would materialize but for now she needed to take care of her parachute and get out of the open. Quickly, she gathered the lifeless silk in her arms and dragged it toward the nearest tree line, away from the exposed field.
