But while this earned him the respect of his comrades, it was his enduring good humour, particularly at times when other men were beginning to show signs of battle fatigue, which earned him their abiding affection.
Your son could raise a smile in the most onerous of circumstances, Mrs Finchley, and you have my word, as a man who has endured countless such situations, that doing so is no mean feat. The intercompany football league that has proved so popular with our battalion that others have begun their own, was the brainchild of Private Finchley, and while not all of his initiatives were strictly above board, they were universally successful.
Private Finchley was mortally wounded by a sniper while on reconnaissance duty. The bullet hit him in the head, killing him instantly. Sometimes we officers gloss over the details in order to spare relatives pain, but in this instance, it is the truth. You have my word that your son died instantly and did not suffer.
I believe you have already been informed of the location of his grave, but if there is any other way I can be of service, then please do write to me.
Yours very sincerely,
Robert J. Carmichael, Capt., ASH
15th March 1917
Dearest Sylvie,
I am afraid that if I write it down it won’t happen, but I am fairly certain that I can wrangle a few days’ leave in a couple of weeks. I know that your teaching and your work must come first, but is there any chance you can arrange for cover? It’s a lot to ask, and as usual I can’t give details, but after that, it looks like I’ll be otherwise engaged for some time.
We’ve said so much in these letters of ours, but there are some things that words can’t say. I want to see you, touch you, hear you, and, yes, I want to kiss you again, too! I don’t even have a photograph of you, and yet you have become— No, I don’t want to speculate.
All very well for us to spill our guts in our letters—forgive the crudeness of that, too much time spent with soldiers—but is our affection for each other as real as it feels? I think so, but perhaps you don’t. It’s a risk I want to take, but if you don’t, then tell me now. No, you probably won’t be able to tell me in time.
I’ll send you a telegram and you can decide whether to meet me or not. I’ll understand.
With all affection,
Robbie
20th March 1917
Dearest Robbie,
I know this won’t get to you before I see you—oh, please God, let me see you—but I wanted to write, just so you’d have proof if anything went wrong, of how
very much
I do want to see you, just as
desperately
as you do. I have arranged for someone to take my classes. I have arranged cover at the nightclub. I have bought a new dress and I’ve had my hair cut. I sound like a silly girl. I feel like a silly girl. I do know what you mean, though; I am almost afraid to think about it because the disappointment would be unbearable. I can’t stop thinking about you.
Two more days. Yes, I worry that you might have changed your mind about me, but what I don’t worry about is that I might have changed my mind about you. Two more days—I shall count the hours. No, that would be fatal. I shall work extra hours to avoid watching the clock.
Oh, Robbie.
With deepest affection,
Sylvie
21st March 1917
Café le Buci, 13.00.
I will wait and hope.
Hope is indeed a mixed blessing!
Robbie
Chapter Seven
22nd March 1917
S
ylvie emerged from the Métro at Pont Neuf station and began to make her way over the bridge across the Seine. She paused halfway across, pulling her coat tightly around her, for although the sky was azure-blue, the breeze was chilly. Downstream, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower was hazy, looking like a watercolour painting of itself. Her stomach fluttered with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Every time she tried to imagine this rendezvous, her mouth went dry and her blood heated. It scared her how much she was looking forward to it.
She crossed to the Left Bank and began to walk up Rue Dauphine. Was this encounter really only their third? They had said nothing overtly, made no demands or promises, but it was clear from their letters that they both wanted more than a few stolen kisses. She could feel her face flushing under the narrow brim of her hat. Almost five months ago, that first time. And second time. And only time. She was a different person now. And Robbie—yes, so, too, was Robbie. It was nearly three months since they had even kissed. The desire she felt clawing at her, keeping her awake even after the busiest night at the club... Would she be able to surrender to it in the cold light of day? And would it be the same between them, now that they knew each other?
She turned onto the Rue de Buci, her heart thudding in her chest. It was not yet twelve-thirty, but there was already a smattering of people drinking aperitifs at the cluster of little tables under the red awning. Sylvie sat down with her back against the café’s long glass doors and ordered a kir. The glass clattered on the table as she set it down, but the cold, sharp wine and fruity cassis calmed her a little. She closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, for already her mind was flying in a myriad of directions, telling her that he wouldn’t come, that his train would be late, his leave cancelled yet again, that he had been wounded, or worse. Would she get a telegram? But they only sent telegrams to family, and she was not family. Unless Robbie had specified— But then, why would he?
His last letter had intimated things had quieted down. He wasn’t even at the front line, but men were killed in accidents behind the lines all the time. No, she was being ridiculous; he had been alive yesterday, remember? He’d sent the telegram telling her to meet him here. If he didn’t turn up, it would simply mean that his leave had been cancelled, not anything more sinister. She was desperately trying to rid her mind of the image of his lifeless body lying broken and unattended in a no man’s land when a tap on her shoulder made her jump to her feet with a little yelp.
‘Sylvie, I didn’t mean to startle you—you’re as white as a sheet.’
‘You’re here!’ She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, pressing herself tight against him, oblivious to the stares of the other customers and the sardonic smile of the haughty waiter hovering by the doorway. ‘You’re really here,’ she whispered, fluttering her fingers over the nape of his neck.
His arms were tight around her waist. ‘Of course I am, silly,’ he said, his voice husky with emotion. ‘Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.’
‘Oui, moi aussi.’
‘You’ve got a new coat. It suits you.’
She touched his cheek. ‘Your scar has healed.’
He tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘You’re so lovely it takes my breath away.’
She ran her fingers along his jaw. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Robbie.’
He kissed her forehead. ‘
Moi aussi
, Sylvie.’
She linked her arms around his waist and pulled him closer, running her hands over the breadth of his shoulders. ‘How long do we have?’
Robbie smiled. ‘Two whole days,’ he said, and kissed her.
Not a polite Parisian kiss on both cheeks, but one where their lips melded and they clung to each other for many seconds before he pulled away. ‘I don’t have to work,’ Sylvie said, already breathless, her blood already heating. ‘We can spend the whole time together, if you want?’ she said, though it wasn’t really a question. All her doubts had vanished the moment she set eyes on him, the moment he put his arms around her.
‘I know exactly what I want, Sylvie Renaud.’ Robbie’s smile was new to her. His mouth was the sensual, teasing curve it was designed to be.
Her breath caught in her throat and she flushed, but was relieved to note that the waiter was studiously looking elsewhere. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ she asked.
Robbie nibbled her ear. ‘Extremely. Are you?’
She felt as if she had been caught up and tossed into the air. She felt as if she had just drunk a large glass of Calvados in a single gulp. She felt... Sylvie laughed, a husky sound she barely recognised, sensual and carefree. ‘Ravenous,’ she said, grabbing her bag from the seat under the little table and throwing some change down. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
Robbie barely registered the journey back to Sylvie’s apartment. They took the Métro. They sat beside each other, thigh to thigh, in the first-class carriage, holding hands. Did they change trains? He couldn’t remember. He studied her profile, fascinated by the shell-like delicacy of her ear, the long line of her elegant neck, the shape of her nose, her jaw. Then she turned in her seat, and they gazed into each other’s eyes like lovelorn adolescents. Her mouth had such a delightful curve. Her eyes were the colour of toffee today and the shadows under them were not so pronounced.
When she smiled at him like that, he could imagine himself ravishing her there and then. She would sit astride him. He’d hold her by the waist. Her hair would fall over her cheek as she leaned over to kiss him. He’d slide his tongue into her mouth as she took him inside her.
The train jolted to a halt. Sylvie took his hand. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. Her hand trembled, echoing the rumble of the departing train. He was hard. Just as well he had his greatcoat on. What a preposterous thing to think!
She led him up the stairs, out into the street. He blinked. He had forgotten it was only just afternoon. He liked that she didn’t try to hide her desire. He was incapable of hiding his. He couldn’t believe he had been so nervous he almost hadn’t come to Paris. Stupid wartime superstitions. It was bad luck to want something too much. War destroyed what was precious. Was Sylvie precious?
He looked at her profile as they finally turned into the Rue des Martyrs. Best not to dwell on that. Then she smiled at him, that amazingly sensual smile he’d always imagined, so rarely seen, and he slipped his arm around her waist, hurrying her the last few yards, and she laughed and quickened her step, and Robbie thought,
I can be happy after all.
* * *
At the entrance to her apartment Robbie swept her up in his arms, causing a customer emerging from the pharmacy next door to applaud, and Sylvie laughed, twining her arms around his neck as he climbed the stairs. Her hands shook as she put the key in the lock. Behind her, Robbie was nuzzling her neck. The door burst open and they staggered in. She had laid a fire before she left. She had cleaned the rooms, bought coffee and bread and a small selection of food, which she stored in a box on the window ledge. The room looked so plain. She had never really felt at home here, had never made much of an attempt to make it her own. ‘Flowers,’ she said. ‘I wish I’d thought to buy flowers.’
‘You smell of flowers.’ Robbie dropped his kit bag on the floor and pulled her to him. ‘You smell of flowers and Sylvie. I lie in my bunk and close my eyes and I conjure up your scent. Your new coat is very stylish, but would you mind terribly taking it off?’
She did so, conscious of him watching her, and as he watched her, her confidence began to grow. His eyes, more blue than grey today, were feasting on her. His mouth was still curved into that sensual half smile. In the daylight, there were dark streaks of autumn-red in his hair. ‘Shall I take off my hat, also?’ she asked teasingly.
‘I think that might be advisable.’
‘And you must take off your coat. And your boots. And those horrible things on your legs.’
‘Puttees. Supposed to keep out the damp.’
‘Stop the circulation, more like.’ Sylvie dropped her expensive hat onto the sofa. ‘Let me help you,’ she said.
‘No, I can...’
‘I want to.’ She led him into the bedroom, and knelt before him and began to unlace his boots, then unbuckle the puttees, which were leather, held on with straps. She glanced up at him and smiled, running her fingers over his muscular calves, an unexpectedly slim ankle. She pulled off his socks. They were thick, woollen, rather badly knitted. There was a hole halfway up one, where the stitches had been dropped.