The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [101]
Claire soaked up the gentle stories and laughed alongside the pair. The warmth of their affection was like a fire on a cold night. “Grey was lucky to have you,” Claire said as she mopped up the last bite of potato with a slice of bread.
Peter gazed at his wife, a smile in his eyes. “Yvette certainly did brighten up a number of lives. Before that, well, the Greys were cold fish. Then his father died and left Thomas to deal with the finances and help raise his baby sister.”
“Mary Jane,” Yvette said. “She was born when Tommy was nine.”
“Did she come to France?”
Yvette stood. Stepping behind Peter, she repositioned the blanket wrapped around his waist. She squeezed his shoulders, her face tender. “No. Peter and I married in ’21. Mrs. Grey didn’t approve. We came back to live here year-round. Mary Jane was still too young to know us.”
“And how is Mary Jane now?”
“She is well, we understand. She and her daughter, Abigail, have a nice home now outside of London. Away from the bulk of the bombing,” Yvette said.
Abigail. A burst of warmth flowed up Claire’s body. Grey’s silence had been discretion for his sister’s sake. The conversation flowed around her as she soaked up the information. A wartime indiscretion wasn’t unheard of. But in that sort of family, it just might take a protective older brother across the channel to help.
He hadn’t been untrue. The glow in her chest turned into an ache.
After dinner, Claire followed Yvette up the grand staircase to a small room, simple and spare. A bed and nightstand were tucked next to a compact marble hearth set with logs.
Yvette kneeled and coaxed the fire to life. “I apologize for the simple quarters. Thomas stays mostly in Paris now. Except for his rooms, we closed up this floor last winter. Heating . . .” She shrugged.
“I understand. Your home is magnificent. Thank you for letting me stay.”
Yvette moved to leave then stopped. “It is Thomas who lets us stay. We couldn’t pay; we would’ve lost this place. Thomas bought it. He couldn’t bear to let it go.” Yvette faced Claire. “He did mention un femme américaine. Not by name and without details. But when he spoke of her, he could not help but smile. He said her eyes were blue, like the ocean. Made to be drowned in. I know you are more than a friend.” She reached for Claire, laid a warm hand on her arm. “Please, I must know. Where is he?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t say.”
Yvette’s expression hardened. “Thomas is a good man. Whatever he is doing, it is because it is the right thing to do for us. For France. Tell me, do you do the right thing for Thomas? Will you?”
Claire held her gaze and forced herself to nod. But inside she felt her chest begin to throb.
Yvette exited the room. Claire leaned against the door, listening as the woman descended the stairs. After a moment, the faint light shining under her door faded to black and the only sounds were the creaks of the ancient house settling in for the night. She took the lit candle from her bedside and crept outside.
The hallway was black. Claire could see no more than the faint area surrounding the flickering flame. She remembered doors evenly spaced along the wall; hers was closest to the stairs. She felt her way along. A few steps later, her hand connected with the cold metal of a doorknob. The hinges squeaked as she peered in with the candle brandished high in front of her. Dust. A near-empty room. The furniture sold or burned for warmth. The next three doors opened more easily, but the contents were the same.
She found Grey’s study behind the fourth door. Heavy velvet curtains thrown open, a full moon lit the room. It was a man’s library. A leather chair waited behind a heavy wooden desk. Stacks of books lined the shelves that extended well above Claire’s head. She walked over to his desk. On top, a silverframed