Authors: C. Marie Bowen
Aubrielle couldn’t stop trembling.
What’s wrong with me?
She replied to the officer’s questions with John Larson’s handkerchief tight beneath her nose.
I’m freezing.
Tears slipped from her eyes, and she dabbed them in frustration. In an instant, her trust in her judgment had been taken from her.
Was this my fault?
The warmth of John’s hand beneath her elbow reached through her coat. His touch provided comfort, strength, and support. If she could have huddled inside his jacket—her bruised face tight to his chest until the shudders stopped—she would have.
She recognized Henri as he reached for her arm. Without thought, she leaned back against the solid comfort of the American. “Henri, I’ve no wish to argue with you right now.”
John angled her toward the step, away from the crowd, and Henri slipped from her mind.
“I’m an old friend.” The rumble of his deep voice was a pleasure and reassurance against her back. “I’ll make sure Aubrielle gets home safely.”
Was he an old friend?
The familiar embrace of his arm around her shoulder unsettled and confused her.
Is this d
éjà vu?
His touch and voice were at odds with her reasoning. She’d never met John Larson before.
I would remember him.
As he helped her o
nto the pony cart’s front
seat,
Aubrielle couldn’t recall the last time she’d sat on the bench behind her pony.
Had Mama still been alive?
John looked at her old pony, checked the straps and breast collar, and then glanced back at her and raised one brow.
“There are no reins, only a lead.” She sniffed, shivered, and pulled her coat tight around her throat. “I always walk beside Éclair.” Bits of leaves and soil clung to her jacket, and she brushed at the material, only to realize the contact stung her palms. The heels of her hands were scraped raw from her ordeal. For a moment, she couldn’t look away from her injuries. His voice brought her head up.
“Éclair?” John chuckled as he patted the small horse’s neck and scratched the hair along his crest. “He doesn’t mind being named after a pastry?” John grinned at Aubrielle.
A short laugh mixed with a sob escaped, and she pressed her knuckles against her lips. She shook her head. “
Non
.
Mama
named him.”
“Well, then. Come along, Éclair. Let’s take our Lady home.”
She rested her sight on the width of his shoulders as he led Éclair through the park. Without prompting, he turned along the Seine and crossed the
Alma Bridge.
Uneasiness curled in her stomach, and she sat straighter, staring a hole in his back. She had seen the American before, watching her through the fog at the park, and again, standing at the window, outlined by light.
“You followed me,” her voice choked out. She cleared her throat. “Stop!” She rapped her knuckles against the wooden seat. “Is that how you know where I live? You followed me home?” Panic turned to nausea, and she swallowed a bitter lump in her throat.
John eased Éclair to a halt along the side of the road. He stroked the pony’s neck, then squinted up at Aubrielle, sunlight bright on his face. “I bought a bouquet of lilies from you yesterday.” He shrugged and watched a couple cross the street, arm in arm. “I know no one in Paris. I had hoped to speak to you, and ask if you knew of an apartment for rent near the park.” John ran his hand across his mouth and faced her. “But you hurried off before I could make your acquaintance.”
Aubrielle leaned forward and whispered at him, aware of the people around them. “So you followed me home? Do you think that is acceptable?” Aubrielle blinked. For a split second, an American cowboy stood before her, one hand on his hip, while the other rubbed along his chin. The image so clear, she gasped, and her heart clenched. Her eyes fluttered in time with her heart, and the tall, well-dressed man who saved her in the park stroked Éclair once again.
“It shames me to admit it.” John bowed his head. “But I did follow you home.” He looked into her eyes and held out his hand in supplication. “I never meant to frighten you.” His face and eyes were sincere. “And I would never harm you.” He dropped his arm to his side. “I rented an apartment not far from where you live, and I returned to the park today to introduce myself.” He shook his head. His eyes pleaded with her to understand. “I didn’t even know your name.”
Aubrielle pulled her dark hair back from her face. A breeze had picked up, and she crossed her arms across her chest, chilled in the cold sunlight. “Just take us home.”
John nodded, and without comment, continued to lead Éclair down the street.
He walked beside her pony until they reached her back gate. He opened it and waited as Éclair pulled the cart into the yard. As she passed, their gazes met.
She looked away. “You don’t need to stay. I can take care of Éclair.”
“I’ll look after your animal,” he said as he closed the gate. “But first, I’ll see you inside with your feet up and a warm drink in your hand.”
Her brows rose at his audacity. “
Non,
you shall not.” She scooted to the edge of the high seat and began the short climb to the ground. Her arms felt unaccountably weak and her knees burned when her legs bent. In the short drop from the cart, her ankle caught wrong and twisted. She yelped in surprise and pain, but instead of falling to the ground, strong arms captured her.
“You couldn’t wait for my help?” He lifted her and settled her weight against his chest. “You’re always so stubborn.” He walked past the small horse and mounted the stairs to the residence.
Aubrielle put her arms around his neck and ducked her head. It was too much. She ached from head to toe and continued to tremble. She’d been shoved into the dirt and attacked, and now her savior, her knight, called her stubborn.
Tante
Mae opened the door at the top of the stairs. “Saints, what’s happened to the lass?”
Her neighbor’s voice, so familiar and filled with concern, brought Aubrielle’s head up and she pressed her lips to stop them from quivering.
John carried Aubrielle through the door and into the front parlor.
Mae followed them into the room.
“Aubrielle was attacked at the park.” He sat her in a well-worn green armchair and pulled the footstool close. “The police arrested the man, but Aubrielle still needs care.”
“I don’t need your care.” Aubrielle’s voice splintered. She covered her face and gave in to the tears.
John rose from his crouch beside Aubrielle and held out his hand to the older woman. “John Larson.”
“Mae Moroney.”
Tante
Mae grasped his fingers for a moment. “Please, call me Mae.” She released John and ran her hand along the back of Aubrielle’s head. “Where are you hurt, child?”
“I’m not.” Aubrielle turned away and gulped into the handkerchief.
“Her hands and knees are skinned. They need to be cleaned and bandaged. Her nose and chin look scraped as well.” John removed his overcoat and tossed it onto the couch. “She twisted her ankle just now, and I thought I saw a scratch on her right thigh.”
Aubrielle’s watery look jumped to John as he spoke. “What?” she whispered, and pulled up her skirt. The three long inflamed scratches from thigh to panty shocked her. Her mouth fell open as she glared at the proof of her violation. “
Non. Non. Non.
” The room spun, and her heart fluttered.
Warm hands captured her face. Dark kind eyes, filled with sadness and understanding stared into hers. “Breathe, Aubrielle,” his voice, soft and low. Intimate. “Mrs. Moroney will clean your scrapes and bandage your leg.” His thumb brushed a tear from her cheekbone. “You are home. You are safe.”
Pots clanked in the kitchen as
Tante
Mae filled a pan with water and set it on the stove to heat.
Aubrielle exhaled. She placed her hands over his, relishing the warmth and nodded. “
Oui
. You are right.”
“I will stand between you and every terror in the world, but I can’t when the terror is inside your mind.” He brushed the hair from her forehead. “There is a warrior in you. I’ve seen her. She’s strong and stubborn.”
Aubrielle shook her head. “Warriors don’t cry.”
“That’s not true, my dear. Warriors do cry, and they know fear.” He offered her a smile as he moved back to let Mae take his place. “But they don’t let fear win.”
Tante
Mae set the tub of soapy water beside the footstool, then helped Aubrielle out of her coat. “Here ye’ go, darlin’. Let’s clean you up a bit.”
The hot water both stung and felt divine on her cold hands. Goosebumps marched up her arms, and she shivered. Whatever magic John's words held had helped. The tight knot of panic inside had loosened. Her gaze caught his just as
Tante
Mae took hold of her chin to clean her face.
“What’s this? What’s happened?” Aubrielle’s father tottered into the room. His trousers hung on his thin frame by narrow black suspenders. His sleeveless undershirt stained from breakfast. Her Papa stopped short and stared at John. His mouth fell open, and his eyes widened.
Tante
Mae handed Aubrielle the washcloth and stepped around the footstool. “All is well, Lou. Your girl took a tumble in the park, and we’re cleaning her up.”
“Marguerite?” He blinked red-rimmed eyes at Aubrielle, then lifted his shaking veined hand and pointed at John. “I remember you.”
“Papa isn’t well,” Aubrielle told John.
Tante
Mae gripped Lou’s shoulders. “Lou, this is Aubrielle’s friend, John Larson. He’s over from America.” She nodded at John. “John, this is Aubrielle’s father, Lou Cohen. He isn’t feeling his best right now.” Mae guided Papa toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry, Lou? It’s almost time to eat.”
The old man shuffled toward the kitchen staring over his shoulder at John. “I remember you, sir. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Who does he think I am?” John asked in a hushed voice as Mae Moroney ushered Aubrielle’s father into the kitchen. John’s gaze dropped to Aubrielle, and the desire to fall to his knees and take the washcloth from her torn hands surged inside his chest.
I wish she remembered me.
Aubrielle dabbed her skinned knee with the wet cloth. “It’s hard to tell.” Her tangled hair swung as she shook her head, then she looked up at John through long dark strands. “Perhaps an officer he knew in the war?” She glanced toward the kitchen and shrugged. Concern clouded her large dark eyes. “He’s getting worse.”
John gave up trying to maintain his distance and dropped to his knees beside the chair. He held out his hand for the washcloth. “Let me do that.”
“
Non, non.
” Aubrielle hooked a long curl behind her ear. “I made a terrible mistake today,
m
onsieur.
I trusted.” She shook her head and her expressive eyes filled with sadness. “Now you ask for me to trust again. I am unsure—and more so—I am embarrassed by such kindness.” She released a deep breath and lowered her chin. The rosy tint in her cheeks confirmed her words.
“Don’t be.” His hand trembled as he placed her foot on his thigh. “The water has run down your leg and into your stocking.” He untied her shoelace, set the saddle shoe aside, and rolled the ankle-high hosiery over her heel. “You’re still too cold.” He clasped both hands around her foot and silently caught his breath as her chilled skin touched his. The ache in his chest crawled up his throat, and he blinked to clear the moisture from his vision.
Aubrielle shuddered and closed her eyes. “You cannot know how delightful that feels,” she whispered as she leaned her head back.
John cleared his throat. “You’ve had a shock. We need to keep you warm.” He lowered her foot into the hot water, stood, and pulled the crocheted blanket from the back of the couch and draped it around Aubrielle’s shoulders. “Now the other foot.”
“Why do you do this for me?” Her eyes fluttered open, and her gaze followed his movements.
John set her sock and shoe aside and lowered her other foot into the warm water. “Why?” He raised a brow and smiled. “There’s a long answer and a short one. The long one is filled with tales of adventure and damsels in distress and should wait for a better time.” He picked up the washcloth from the water then glanced up to find her curious gaze following his every move.
“Anyone would have helped you at the park, Miss Cohen. I was simply the closest and heard your cry.” He squeezed the water from the cloth and wiped the dirt from her knee. “As for helping you home, and cleaning your legs—what man could say no to this?” He raised his brow at her bare feet and winked.
“Now you play the fool to make me laugh.” Aubrielle matched his grin.
Mae set a small bottle of Merthiolate on the side table. “I’ll take care of the rest, Mr. Larson. I’m familiar with treating injuries.” She took the washcloth from his hands. “I was a nurse in the Great War.” She knelt beside the washtub. “Dinner is at seven. We don’t dress, but try not to be late. Lou likes his meals on time.”
“Thank you.” John shrugged into his coat. “But there’s no need to feel you must repay me.”
“Nonsense.” Mae held the medicine dauber suspended above Aubrielle’s knee. “It’s the least we can do. Brie is like a daughter to me.”
Aubrielle touched his arm as he passed the chair. “Thank you again, Mr. Larson.” Her attention darted back to the red drop of antiseptic above her knee. “I would like you to have dinner with us as well.”
“All right. But please, call me John. Both of you.”
Mae gave a short nod and turned to Aubrielle. “This will sting, darlin’.”
Aubrielle buried her face in the blanket. “I know,” came the muffled reply.
John hurried from the room, through the kitchen to the back door.
Aubrielle’s father looked up from his lunch as John strode past. “Good to see you again, sir.”
John paused at the door and studied Lou Cohen, certain he had never met the man before today.
A wisp of gray hair hung from Lou’s balding head and dangled between his eyes. Skin blemishes covered his head and hands. Both trembled as he struggled to lift the utensil to his mouth. His dark eyes shone as he tipped his head and his attention shifted to the soup. The bright light of recognition faded from his face. He stared vacantly at his empty spoon.
Aubrielle’s yelp from the front room encouraged John to grip the door handle and hurry from the house.
After he had taken care of Éclair, the afternoon stretched before him, empty time until he could be with the woman who owned his heart again. He made his way down the alleyway and across the street. He strolled through the market and purchased a bottle of French wine to gift Mrs. Moroney for tonight’s dinner. He passed a flower cart and smiled. Aubrielle would not appreciate a floral present.
He stopped at the tailor and waited to be measured for another shirt. The tailor found three shirts intended for tall men and assured John the alterations could be completed in an hour.
Down the row, he found a tanner’s shop. Leather wallets and hats filled the wall to his right. Since he already had a belt and wallet, he turned to leave when he beheld a display case of women’s leather gloves.
“
Avez-vous trouvé quelque chose à votre goût
?” The clerk reached into the case and laid several pairs of gloves on the glass top.
“
Oui.
” John tapped the glass above a pair still inside the case. “I would like to see the white ones.”
The clerk pursed his lips when John switched to English. “These are size six,
ivory
-white kid gloves. The reverse seam stitching around the fingers and down the side is exquisite.” He laid the gloves on the counter. “As you can see, there is raised wave stitching on the back of the hands, a lovely detail.”
John lifted a glove and placed it on his palm. From his wrist, the longest finger of the glove barely brushed the inside of his first knuckle.
The length is perfect.
“Can they be exchanged if the size is wrong?” His regard rose to the young man.
The salesclerk nodded. “But of course.” He reached below the case and retrieved a shallow box. “Would you have this wrapped with a bow?”
“
Oui, s'il vous plaît.
”
John paid for his purchase, picked up his shirts from the tailor, and returned to his flat.
On the landing outside his door, he rearranged the packages in his arms to search his pocket for the key. Inside his apartment, he looked out the window at the back of Aubrielle’s home. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the alley and glinted from her back window. He grinned in anticipation of presenting her with her soft new gloves. He couldn’t help but think that if she’d worn gloves this morning, her hands would not have become scratched by twigs and mulch.
He set the packages on the couch, and his cheerful mood evaporated. Her life, so precious and fragile, would flash by soon enough compared with his. He exhaled through clenched teeth and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
I’ve missed her so much. To lose her now would be unbearable.
The foreknowledge he had of the coming war did not provide the specific details he needed. Vague dates and a rough outline of the conflict had been miraculous when he received the prophetic information sixty years ago.
I must convince Aubrielle to leave France. To leave Europe altogether and return with me to America.
He glanced across the room at the clock on the dresser. The tick of the second hand caught his attention. He’d gone from having too much time, an eternity of waiting, to an uncertain amount of time to take Aubrielle to safety.
John shook his head as he loosened his tie. He pulled the cloth from beneath his shirt collar and tossed it on the couch beside the packages. For now, for tonight, he need only wash, change his shirt, and be on time for dinner with his love. He had to secure her heart before he could secure her future.
The afternoon's winter sky had darkened into the night as John prepared for dinner with Aubrielle and her family. A bath and one of the new shirts he’d purchased had him feeling like a new man. Anything was possible.
Aubrielle is alive and well, and will remain that way as long as I am by her side.
He smoothed back his hair in the mirror and straightened his tie.
Faltering footsteps pounded up the stairs. Instead of a knock, a heavy thump stressed the hinges, then a scrape down the door to the landing.
John opened the door and stared in disbelief as Billy, the British smuggler, fell across the threshold.
A dark stain bled down the left side of Billy’s slacks. “They’ve shot François.” He blinked up at John then grimaced as he curled, holding his side and gasped. “We need your help.”
* * *
Aubrielle stood at the front window long after
Tante
Mae had called her to supper.
He didn’t come
.
She listened absently to the stilted conversation between Mae and Papa in the kitchen. Beside her, the radio played an orchestral song she recognized, but couldn’t name at the moment.
Purple something I think, or is it blue?
A sudden thought sparked, and she spun from the window and hurried to her room at the back of the house.
Both
Tante
Mae and Papa raised their heads from supper to watch her stalk through the kitchen.
Where could he be?
Aubrielle pushed back the drapes from her window and stared at the darkened apartment across the alleyway. John had rented the vacant apartment above the butcher. He’d acknowledged as much when he admitted to following her this morning.
Had that really been just this morning?
It felt as though a lifetime had passed waiting to see him again.
Why hasn’t he come?
The sharp rap at the front door propelled her headlong back through the kitchen, her stomach aflutter. Her rapid pace pulled at the bandages on her knees.
“Qu'est-ce que c'est?”
Her father looked up in confusion from his plate.
“My gracious, child. No need to run.”
Tante
Mae wiped her lips with her napkin. “Invite Mr. Larson in. His place is set.”
Unable to hide the wide grin on her face, Aubrielle pulled open the front door and blinked.
Henri Vogl held up a handful of wilted lilies. “I told you I would stop over and check on you.” He looked past Aubrielle into the living room. “What is that amazing aroma?”
“Don’t make him stand out on the porch, Aubrielle, invite him in. His supper is getting cold.” Mrs. Moroney came to a sudden stop as she entered the living room. Her mouth formed an awkward O as she stared at the unexpected guest.
“
Merci beaucoup
.” Henri stepped through the door and thrust what appeared to be the last of Aubrielle’s flowers into her hands. “These are for you.” He removed his hat and nodded at
Tante
Mae. “Supper would be delightful. Thank you.”