“But can’t I stay here?” Clare ignored her grandfather and went to Maman. “I won’t be much trouble. I haven’t been, have I?”
Maman’s face softened and she reached to Clare’s cheek. “No, no trouble at all, chère. But your place is with your family.”
She took a step back. “Family? I don’t have any family.” Her face twisted. “My father is dead.”
It was the first time she’d said the word aloud, and it hung in the air. She still stood straight, but quivering like a poplar.
“My father is dead and my mother, she’s never coming back, is she?”
Her back to her grandfather, she didn’t see when he bent to pick up his hat, didn’t see the quick wash of anguish on his face. As Maman took Clare’s shoulders, murmuring soothings and endearments, I alone watched the lanky old man blink and worry the edges of his straw hat.
“I needed my mother there with me at the funeral. I needed her to come for me afterwards.” Clare’s voice broke. “I needed someone to want me and stay with me and not disappear.”
“Patricia Clare,” her grandfather said. “I won’t disappear again.”
Clare turned to him, flushing, as though she’d forgotten he was right there listening to every frustrated word. “Grandfather, I didn’t mean—”
“You did and I can’t fault you.” He sighed. “I should have been there and I’m sorry I wasn’t. But I’m here now.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I know.”
“And I won’t disappear again.” He met her eyes. “You have my word.”
She wrapped her arms across her chest. “Everyone leaves me in the end.” Eyes glistening, she hurried from the room.
He blinked, once, twice, and then held his eyes shut for a moment too long.
“Really, monsieur,” Maman said. “We could keep Clare for you. She’s no trouble at all and I know your studies take you away from home.”
A wild hope leapt in my chest.
“She’d have many opportunities here and you can visit as often as you’d like.”
“Madame.” He spoke French, gliding his vowels in an odd way. “I made the mistake of staying in one place once before, all in the name of ‘opportunity.’ Both Maud and I regretted it.” He sighed and passed a hand over his face. “But leaving Patricia Clare behind, that’s another regret entirely. She’ll come with me.” He twisted the straw brim of his hat. “I want the chance to know her.”
Maman didn’t argue any further. “I’ll call for Yvette to begin packing her things.”
“Tonight, if you will. I’ve left my bags at the station.”
“Tonight? But surely the lass needs time to get used to the idea.”
“We have years, don’t we?” He clapped his battered hat on his head. “I’ll call back for her after I’ve arranged our tickets.”
“Sir.” I stepped forward. “She doesn’t show much, you know. All this summer, she’s kept her grief hidden.”
He stopped and regarded me with eyes as gray as Clare’s.
“You should know, too, she’s stubborn as anything, and can’t resist a challenge. She’ll wear herself down to the marrow to succeed.” I didn’t know what I was saying, but knew it needed to be said. “She’ll spend all day drawing, even if she has nothing more than a stick and a flat patch of dirt. She detests bananas, but loves oranges and apricots, especially when they’re underripe. You know when they’re tart like that? She can eat a bowlful without making a face.” I spoke all in a rush, before Maman could interrupt me, before Monsieur Muir could dismiss me and take Clare away forever. “But, she doesn’t want anyone to know when she’s frightened. Ever. One of her biggest fears is being seen, even for an instant, as vulnerable.”
“I see.” He folded his hands, reminding me of those tattoos.
I was terrified of him, with his marked skin and new-penny face. But Clare, she was worth being bold for. “Sir, she may seem strong and impervious and wholly self-reliant, but she’s not. Inside, she breaks, and she never tells a soul.” I took a deep breath. “Please don’t let her fall to pieces.”
He held out his hand, like a gentleman. “Young man, you have my word.”
Perthshire
4 September 1911
Dear Luc,
I don’t know if you’ll welcome a letter from me, but you did once and, besides, I have no one else to talk to. I don’t know how to talk to my grandfather. I haven’t had a proper conversation with him since we left Mille Mots. He spent the journey up to Scotland talking to me as though I were nine, which I suppose is the last time he saw me. He kept asking if I still read Father Goose and collected china dolls. Conversation faded after that and he seems unsure of what to ask me next.
I miss all of our easy conversations beneath the chestnut tree. I miss the walks through the woods, the songs you would teach me, the dogs weaving between us. Back here at Fairbridge, I miss all of that more. I’m remembering the muteness of regular life. The days that could go by without me talking to a soul. The emptiness. The way everyone seems to forget me in the silence of the house. It’s almost as if the past few months never happened.
I hope that you write back, if for no other reason than to remind me that there was a summer in Picardy, where I made the best friend I’ve ever had.
Clare
Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, Paris
Mardi, le 19 septembre 1911
Dear Clare,
I’ve never received a letter from across the Channel, apart from the time I was twelve and Maman sent a letter from Perthshire lecturing me on that term’s marks. That letter was accepted red-faced; know that yours was received with a smile.
