Sharon glances at her watch. She’s stretching Amiot’s and Christine’s patience. “Let’s do it fast,” she whispers to the guide, and dons her coat and gloves. She is glad to step outside of the vast château and its cold enormous walls.
At a cottage constructed of half-hewn timber, the guide taps the knocker, and when a dog barks from inside, he opens the door for Sharon to step in.
The room is lit by several lamps and sconces, yet its heavy furniture makes it seem dark. The fireplace glows orange, and an old man with a large belly and sparse tufts of hair sits near it, a plaid blanket covering his knees. The man’s hand is resting on the head of a hound to quiet him. The dog seems unsure if the newcomer poses a threat. Its tail wags at the end of a coiled body, prepared to pounce.
“Please meet Vincent Voclain, whose family has been in the service of Valençay since 1814,” the guide says.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Sharon Bloomenthal, and I promise not to take too much of your time.”
“Sit down, please, young lady.” The old man points to an ornately carved chair upholstered in brocade. “What can I do for you?”
She sits at the edge of the chair, ready to leave after a polite exchange of niceties. “You wouldn’t happen to know a family named Pelletier? They may have lived in the area around the time of the Second World War.”
“I don’t know a family, but there was a seamstress in the service of the duchess by that name. Claudette Pelletier. The duchess took her along when she fled to Spain after the invasion.”
“Do you know if she was Jewish?”
“I know she wasn’t, although she got involved with them.”
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head sadly. “Such a shame she brought upon herself, getting herself in the family way. She acted as if she were blessed. I would have forced the man to marry any house staff so tricked, but Claudette refused to reveal the identity of the father of her baby.”
“Was the baby a boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
Sharon grabs the arms of her chair. “Was his father Jewish?”
Vincent Voclain rubs his rheumy eyes. “Only when Claudette returned from Spain and asked me to notify her if he came looking for her—only then did she admit that he was Jewish.”
The little wine Sharon has drunk must be making her swoon. Could this be the beginning of the thread? An unwed Catholic mother and a Jewish father? Every possibility Sharon imagined is unraveling with this implausible version. “Did she give his name?”
The old man sighs. “I can’t recall. Such mayhem at the time.”
“Was her baby in Spain too?”
Vincent Voclain’s face turns red. He waves his finger at Sharon. “Don’t you start with me about that baby too!”
The dog at his feet rises and growls.
Sharon’s heart races. She leans forward and reaches out toward the dog. “I’m here on a friendly quest,” she says quietly to Monsieur Voclain. “I don’t mean to upset you. I’m just curious about this story.”
“There’s no story. During the war, children disappeared. Many died. This one was lucky that he didn’t.” Monsieur Voclain raises his voice. “I did all I could for the many members of the staff who had problems. Don’t you barge in here blaming me, young lady! He was saved after Léonie’s death.”
“Who was Léonie?”
Vincent Voclain’s agitation grows, and he yells, but his words are jumbled and shot out at machine-gun speed, and Sharon can’t decipher any of them.
The guide touches her arm. “Mademoiselle, it’s better if we leave.”
A woman comes into the room and hands the old man a vial. She holds his forehead as he gulps down its contents, then flattens the flying hair. “Look what you’ve started,” she says to Sharon.
“Sorry.” She is not. She’s not responsible for his temper. Questions swirl in her head. The old man’s memory might mix up events; the seamstress and her connection to the boy that was saved after Léonie’s death is not fully established. At the door, Sharon stops and looks at the old man, who has calmed down. “Thank you, monsieur, for your time.”
His eyes closed, he nods.
She takes a deep breath. “Did Claudette Pelletier ever find her baby?”
“She should have.” His voice is tired. “How many babies have a Jewish star tattooed on the bottom of one foot?”
Sharon walks around the château. She would skip like a little girl if it were not for the guide in costume. Claudette Pelletier, her heart sings.
Early dusk casts the fields beyond in a purple haze. On the open ground in front of the château, the helicopter is waiting, its engine thrumming. Félix Amiot and Christine come out of the guest quarters.
“I’m bored.” Christine yawns. “Can we leave now?”
Sharon is so close, she can taste her success. She’s annoyed at the spoiled teenager who’s gotten what she wanted from the trip. Muster chutzpah, she tells herself. A motor is revving in her head. Somewhere around here, there must be someone who knows more about Claudette Pelletier.
“I truly apologize for holding you up, but it’s important,” Sharon says. “You’ve been so generous. But I haven’t been to the church, which was my destination in the first place.”
“I knew you were a spy,” Christine says.
Sharon smiles to placate her. “Only a private detective.”
“We promised,” Amiot tells his granddaughter. “How about if we take an after-lunch walk?” He gestures to the helicopter pilot to kill the engine and asks the guide to drive them.
