Crossings

“It was unbelievable … they got us fore and aft….” The young man's eyes were wild and glazed, his face a mass of charred flesh, and Liane had to fight back tears as she listened to him and murmured softly.

“It's all right now … you're all right …”It was what she would have said to the girls if they'd been hurt, and she found herself holding him tenderly as the doctors worked over him. The next thing she knew, she was watching them in surgery and Nick was outside. And when one doctor was through, he asked her to stay as he applied salves to burns and tended wounds and amputated one hand. It was a night they knew they would never forget.

And at six o'clock the next morning, the doctors sat down for an instant and looked at someone's notes. There were 204 survivors of the Queen Victoria on board, and there was no further sign of life outside. Hundreds of charred bodies had floated past, and a lifeboat of walking wounded had come on board half an hour before with only minimal wounds. They had been taken to one of the vacated cabins that had been prepared. There were twelve and fourteen men to a cabin now, in hammocks hung side by side, on beds, and on sleeping rolls on floors. The dining room still looked like an infirmary, and everywhere was the smell of burned flesh. They had been covered with tar and oil as they came on board. Washing the wounds had been the worst of it, and that fell to Liane as the doctors observed her gentle hands, but now as she sat beside them, she knew that she could not do one more. Her entire body ached, her neck, her arms, her head, her back, and yet if they had brought one more in, she would have stood up again, as they all would. The passengers of the Deauville wandered slowly inside now. They had done what they could and done it well, and many of the survivors of the Queen Victoria would live because of what they'd done.

For many of the men who had formed teams on the deck, it was their first real taste of war. For the doctors, the work was not yet done, and already there had been volunteers to work in shifts who would nurse the survivors until they reached New York, but the worst was over. And silently, on deck, they watched the Queen Victoria sink at eight o'clock, belching horribly as she went, plumes of steam shooting into the sky, and the captain and crew scanned the sea for two hours afterward. There was not a single soul left, only the dead floating horribly amidst the gentle waves. Already nine of the survivors of the night before had died, reducing the survivors aboard to 195, all of them housed in the cabins the passengers had given up. The passengers would sleep now with the crew, in hammocks or on sleeping rolls, their luggage shoved under beds or out in the halls. The only exception in the midst of the chaos was to have been Liane and the girls, but she had insisted that their cabin be used too. And at 4:00 A.M. she had hastened briefly downstairs with one of the crew, to carry the girls to the quarters of the first mate. He would sleep in the captain's cabin for the remainder of the trip, and the two girls were to sleep in the first mate's narrow single bed.

“Et vous, madame?” The crew member had looked at her with awe, she had worked all night like Florence Nightingale, but she shrugged quickly.

“I can sleep on the floor.” And then she had hurried back to the doctors in the dining room, the hands to hold, the wounds to clean, the limbs to set. The sounds of sheets being torn into bandages, of groaning men, became as monotonous as the sounds of the sea, hour after hour. But as the Queen Victoria sank, there was no sound on the deck. And moments later the captain spoke to them all on his bullhorn.

“Je vous remercie tous … I thank you all…. You have performed the impossible tonight … and if it seems that so few have lived, remember that nearly two hundred more would have died, without your help.” They had learned that thirty-nine hundred men had died on the ship.

The passengers and crew worked in shifts, attempting to keep the survivors they had fought so hard to hold on to alive and stave off infections that would cost them limbs and lives. There were men so fever ridden that they were delirious but only two more had died, and many of the problems were under control. The doctors were ready to drop as the trip wore on, as was Liane, but they were still less than halfway there. They had lost more than a day in assisting the men from the Canadian ship, and their zigzag course cost them still more time, but the captain was even more cautious about encountering the Germans now as they made their way to the States.

It was only on the second day after the rescue that Liane was persuaded to go to the first mate's cabin, and there she fell into bed. The girls were somewhere on the ship, crew members had taken them in charge and she knew that they had spent much of their time on the bridge. But she could barely think of that now as she lay down on the narrow bed, and it felt as though she hadn't slept in years as she fell into a deep black pit and slept. And when she woke, the blackout was in force again and the ship was dark. She heard a soft scuffling sound somewhere in the room and sat up in the unfamiliar bed, wondering where she was, and then she heard a familiar voice.

“Are you okay?” It was Nick, and as he approached the bed she could just make out his face, from the moonlight that snuck in through the corners of the windows around the black paint. “You've been asleep for sixteen hours.”

“My God.” She shook her head trying to wake up. She was still wearing the same filthy clothes she had worn for two days, but he looked even worse. “How are the men?”

“Some of them are better.”

“Have we lost any more?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Hopefully we won't and they'll hang in until they get to shore. A few of them are walking around the ship.” But he was more concerned now with her. She had been amazing in the makeshift operating room. He had seen her each time he had brought another man in. “Do you want something to eat? I brought you a sandwich and a bottle of wine.” But the thought of food made her feel ill. She shook her head and sat up in the bed, patting it for him to sit down.

“I couldn't eat. What about you? Have you had any sleep?”

“Enough.” She saw him smile, and she took a deep breath. What an incredible experience to live through.

“Where are the girls?”

“Asleep in my hammock upstairs on the deck. They're safe there and the officer on watch is keeping an eye on them. They're all wrapped up in blankets. I didn't want them coming down here to wake you.” And then, “Come on, Liane, I want you to eat.” They were all living on reduced rations now with more than three times as many people on board than before the rescue, but the cook was working miracles and everyone was still being fed. The coffee and whiskey were holding out, miraculously, and there was enough for all. He handed her the sandwich then and uncorked the half-full bottle of wine. He pulled a cup from the pocket of the borrowed jacket he wore and poured her some.

“Nick, I can't … I'd throw up.”

“Drink it anyway. But eat the sandwich first.” She took a tentative bite, and felt her stomach contract at the shock of food, but after an initial wave of nausea, she had to admit that it tasted good, as did the first sip of wine. She handed him the cup then and he took a sip too.

“I should get up and see what I can do to help.”

“They've survived this long without you. They'll make it for another hour.”

She smiled at him in the dark, their eyes were accustomed now to the lack of light. “What I wouldn't give for a hot bath!”

“And clean clothes.” He smiled. “Mine are ready to get up and walk away.” And then suddenly they both thought again of the Normandie the year before and they both began to laugh. They laughed until the tears streamed from their eyes. Here, in the first mate's cabin, in the dark, they were far from the nightmare reality of the men who had survived, and it was a relief to think of the absurdity of gala nights and dinners in white tie and tails. “Do you remember all the trunks we brought?” The two collapsed in mirth again; it was laughter born of tension and exhaustion and relief. In torn filthy clothes, on a ship carrying almost three hundred men, including the original passengers and the crew, the Normandie seemed like a ship of fools, with its kennel and promenades and deluxe suites and fumoir and Grand Salon. It had been a lovely ship, but it was a thing of the past, and here they were, sharing a bottle of wine on a narrow bed, wondering if a U-boat would torpedo them within the hour. They both sobered again eventually and Liane watched the shadows on Nick's face in the dark.

“Look at how our lives have changed. It's extraordinary, isn't it?”

“Soon the whole world will change. This is only the beginning. We just got involved in it earlier than most.” His eyes looked deep into hers, and even in the darkness he could feel their pull, and without a second thought he spoke what was on his mind. Who knew, maybe in another hour they'd all be dead and he'd never have another chance. “You're beautiful, Liane. More beautiful than any woman I've ever known … beautiful inside and out. I was so proud of you last night.”

“I think I was able to do it because I knew you were there. I felt your thoughts with me.” Suddenly there was no other world but this, no life but theirs, alone in the tiny room, and he reached out and took her hand, and without saying another word he pulled her close, and they kissed, her lips as hungry as his. They clung to each other for a long time, and they kissed again with a desperation and a passion born of tasting death and still being alive.

“I love you, Liane … I love you. …” His mouth devoured her neck, her face, her lips, and another voice than hers seemed to answer him.

“I love you, Nick …” Her voice was soft and his words were a caress as their clothes seemed to fall away as they lay on the bed and their bodies meshed, other lives forgotten, other faces, other times … they were the only two survivors left of a forgotten time, and the only thing left to remember was this brief moment of passion as they made love and then, holding each other close, slept until the dawn.

ick and Liane woke up slowly in each other's arms with a bright sun peeking through the black paint, and he looked down at her with no regrets, watching her face to see the same peace mirrored there. He looked down at the long, graceful limbs, the big eyes, the tousled blond hair, and he smiled at her.

“I meant what I said to you last night. I love you, Liane.”

“I love you too.” She didn't understand how she could say the words. She loved Armand, yet she knew that in some way, she had loved this man for a long time. She had thought of him often during her lonely months of watching Armand drift away, and she had always felt some deep, inexplicable respect for Nick from the first. It was a different kind of love from the one she had known before, but she felt no regrets for what they had done. They had survived, together, alone, in a world no one else could know, and she belonged to him. Perhaps she never would again, but she knew that she did with all her heart and soul right now. “I don't know how to tell you what I feel …” She sought the words but she could see in his eyes that he understood.

“You don't have to. I know. And it isn't wrong. We need each other right now. Maybe we have for a long time.”

“And when we go back?” She was groping to understand, but he shook his head, watching her eyes.

“We don't have to think about that now. Right now, we live here. With these people on the ship. We've all survived. It's something to celebrate, to make us love each other more. We don't have to look further than that.” And somehow she knew he was right. He kissed her gently on the mouth, and she let her hands wander up and down his back, his arms, his thighs. She knew that she wanted him again, and wondered if that was wrong or if it was only their way of confirming life. She asked him no more questions then as they made love again, and then regretfully she got up and began to wash in the room's tiny sink as he watched. It was as though they had been lovers for years, and there was no shame or modesty between them. They had watched death together only hours before, and now this was far more natural and something they shared. It was life. “I'll go check on the girls while you dress.” He smiled at her, and felt happier than he had in years. Side by side, they had helped to save almost two hundred lives, and now they had a right to this … two more. “And then I'll see if I can find an empty shower somewhere. I'll meet you upstairs for a cup of coffee before we go back to work.”

“Okay.” She smiled openly at him, not the least embarrassed at having him see her like that. She kissed him once more before he left, and as thoughts of Armand threatened to make her question it all, she forced them from her mind. That would do her no good here. Later she and Nick would have to sort it all out. But not yet. They had not yet really survived, and they were less than halfway home. It was too soon for anything but living what they felt, day to day, hour by hour. For the first time in a long time she was grateful that she was alive.

She met him outside the galley with the girls. They looked as bedraggled as everyone else by now, but they seemed perfectly happy with Nick. They told her about the hours they had spent on the bridge, explained to her about the radio, and were apparently on first-name terms with the cook, who had brought out a small cake from God knew where and given it to the girls the day before. In remarkable fashion they had adjusted to this strange new life, and they didn't seem afraid. They told Liane about sleeping under the stars, and then they went back to the bridge again as Nick and Liane went slowly downstairs. They had shared a large steaming mug of coffee and a piece of toast, and she looked at him as they reached the first room filled with the men that had been saved. She touched Nick's hand before they went in and looked into the deep-green eyes.

“Do you suppose we've all gone mad?”

But he shook his head, and he didn't look crazy at all. “No. People are strange beasts, Liane. They adjust to almost anything. Strong people cannot be defeated.” And he was not embarrassed to add, “You and I are very strong. I knew that the first day we met and I loved it about you then.”

“How can you say a thing like that?” She spoke in whispers so no one would hear. “I've had everything I've wanted all my life. I've been comfortable, pampered, loved. I don't even know myself if I'm strong or not.”

“Think back over what you've lived through in the last year. Doubt, fear, loneliness, the first months of a war. And I know even without having seen you then, that you didn't even waver once. And I put my son on a ship not knowing if it'd be sunk or not. I let him go because I knew that even with the risks, he would be safer at home, if he got home all right. I've lived through years of loneliness with my wife … and I've survived, and so have you. We survived what we went through the other night, and neither of us had ever seen anything like it before.” He looked down at Liane. “We'll make it through the rest, my love.” And then he added softly, “We have each other now.” And then they walked into the room, and Liane almost had to hold her breath, the stench was so great, of sweat and bodies, and vomit and blood, and burns. But they worked on, side by side, for hours, and did everything the doctors told them to as they made their frequent rounds, and when they met with the other passengers to divide their rations on the deck, a kind of camaraderie and humorous toughness had been born. It did not make them immune to the tragedies they saw, but it let them put the sorrows aside and laugh at the little things. It gave Liane new patience with the girls when she saw them later on for a while, and it filled her with a fresh passion for Nick she had never known herself capable of. She had never been so in love with a man, and had never felt quite so strong and young. Her life with Armand had been part of a different world. She loved him, respected him, looked up to him, and yet she had found something different now, a man with whom she seemed to move with a powerful force, each one stronger from knowing that the other was at his side. It was not unlike what she had with Armand, and yet it was something more.

Liane and Nick shared a shift that night from nine o'clock until one, and then they went back to the room she was using. The girls were in Nick's hammock again, having begged him to let them sleep there, and now he and Liane fell into her bed, and made love as never before. They slept peacefully in each other's arms and then woke again, and made love, and then snuck into a shower together before the others got up, and went outside on deck to watch the dawn.

“This will sound crazy to you”—she looked at Nick with a smile—”but I've never been this happy before. It's almost sinful to say that with all the suffering on this ship … but that's how I feel.”

He put an arm around her shoulders and held her close. “That's how I feel too.” It was as though this was the life for which they had been born. And she no longer asked what would come next. She no longer wanted to know.

For the next six days they shared the same shifts, working with the ailing men, took their meals with the girls, and at night made love in her borrowed room. Their life fell into a comfortable routine and it came as a shock to both of them when the captain made a quiet announcement the next day that they would reach New York in two days. The journey so far had taken thirteen days. Now they looked at each other and said not a word. They moved as skillfully as they had before as they made their rounds, but when they went back to their room that night, Liane looked at him with big sad eyes. They both knew that the end was near, and it was important that the wounded men get home soon, and yet she wished that the crossing could go on, and she saw the same wish in his eyes as she looked at him. She sighed as she sat down in the familiar darkness of the room. It had become their home in the past week. And she didn't want to ask him now what they would do, but he heard her words without her saying them.

“I've thought about it a lot, Liane.”

“So have I. And the answers don't come. Not the ones I want.” She wanted to have met him before ever meeting Armand, but fate hadn't arranged things like that, and she had her life with Armand to think of now. She could not simply brush him away. Yet how could she forget Nick? She felt as though she was committed to him now. And what was more, she needed him. He had woven himself into the very fiber of her being. And now what to tell Armand? Or should she say anything at all? All their life together, she had been totally honest with him. She knew what she owed Armand, yet she couldn't bring herself to give up Nick. It was an impossible decision. Yet Nick seemed to have already made up his mind.

He looked soberly at Liane now and spoke in a calm voice. “I'm going to divorce Hillary. I should have done it years ago.”

“And John? Will you be able to live with yourself if you leave him?”

“I don't think I have a choice.”

“That's not what you thought when this ship set sail. You were determined to go home and get him back from his grandmother. Could you be really happy, Nick, only seeing him a few times a month, and knowing that he's being neglected by Hillary?” There was sorrow in her eyes as she asked, and she saw the same pain in his but he struggled to answer her.

“It's his life or mine. Ours.” He smiled, but his eyes were sad.

“Is that a choice you can make?”

“What are you telling me?”

“What I know you feel deep inside. If you divorce your wife to be with me, a part of you will never forgive yourself. Every time you look at Elisabeth and Marie-Ange, you're going to think of John and what you gave up to be with me. I can't ask you to do that. And to tell you the truth, I'm not ready to make a decision myself. I don't know what to do. I've tried not to think about that for the last week. I've always been honest with Armand. And now suddenly I can't. When I think of telling him … or writing to him … or waiting until after the war to tell him … something inside me shouts, I cringe at what it would do to him, and the girls.” She looked sadly at the man she had come to love on the ship. “He believes in me, Nick. I have never betrayed him before and I cannot do so now.” Tears filled her eyes and she grew hoarse. “But I cannot leave you.”

“I love you, Liane. With all my heart.” Nick's voice was distraught.

“I love you too, if that's what you want to know.” Her eyes never left his. “But I love Armand too. I believe in the vows we made eleven years ago. I never thought that I would be unfaithful to him. And the funny thing is that I don't feel I have been. I opened a door and there you were, and now you're someone I love. I want to be with you … but I don't know what to do about him. If I told him now, it might kill him, Nick. It might make him careless about himself in France. We are going back to peace. He stayed to fight a war. What right do I have to walk away? Is that what I promised to do eleven years ago? To get out when I'd had enough? It isn't fair.”

“Life never is. And one of the things I've always loved about you is that you are. But there's no way to be fair about this. Whatever we do, someone gets hurt, we give something up, there's someone who'll lose … Johnny, or Armand, or you and I.”

“That's an impossible choice to make.” Her voice sounded strained. “It's like standing with a gun and deciding who to kill.” He nodded and took her hand and they both sat lost in their own thoughts for a long time, and then, putting the others out of their heads, they made love again. They reached no resolution that night, or the next day, as they took their shifts and made their rounds, and when they went to bed they held each other tighter than before. It was their last night on the ship, and they both knew that nothing would ever be quite the same again. If they chose to make a life of it together, they would have to climb over the obstacles that lay ahead, causing themselves and other people pain, and if they chose to let each other go, there would be a sense of irreparable loss. Only tonight, for this one last night, could they love each other as before.

It was almost morning when they spoke of it again, and it was Liane who brought it up this time. She sat up in bed and touched his face, kissed his lips, and looked down at him as she would a child. She had been putting the moment off for hours, but it couldn't wait much longer now. They would leave the ship in a few hours, and some decision had to be made. But she had made hers, and by doing so, she had also made the decision for Nick.

“You know what we have to do, don't you?”

He looked up at her and for a long time neither spoke.

“You have to go back to your son. You would never be happy with us, without him.”

“And if I fight for custody?”

“Would you win?”

He was as honest with her as she was with him. “Probably not. But I could try.”

“And tear the child in half. You couldn't live with yourself, and you know it as well as I do. No more than I could live with myself if I left Armand. We're decent people, you and I. We have consciences and responsibilities, and other people we love. It's different for people who aren't like us, Nick. They can walk off and wave good-bye. We can't. I know you can't, and neither can I. If you didn't care about Johnny so much, you'd have left your wife years ago. But you didn't. And I can't let you do that now, for us.” He nodded. And she sighed softly. “Besides, it's not that simple for me.” Her voice dropped down to a whisper. “I still love Armand.” Tears filled her eyes, and she looked away as Nick watched her.

“What will you do now, Liane?” He took her hand and stroked her arm, his eyes locked in hers. He almost wished that they could turn the ship around and start again, but he knew it couldn't be done. They had to move ahead, no matter how painful it was. “What happens to you?”

“I wait for the war to end.”

“Alone?” He ached for her. She was a woman who needed a man, to give all the love she had to give, and there was so much love in him that he wanted to give her.

“Of course alone.” She smiled.

“Do you suppose …” An idea crossed his mind. It had occurred to him before in the past few days, but he hadn't known how she would react. But almost as soon as she heard his opening words, she shook her head.

“I couldn't do that. If we let this go on for a long time, we would never be able to let go. It's only been less than two weeks and I can barely let go now.” She could already feel her flesh and soul being torn from his and it was more than she could bear as she held on to his hand tightly. “In a year or two it would be worse, unbearable.” She sighed as she looked at him. “I think, my friend, that the time has come for us to be strong, as strong as you say we are. We have no choice. We fell in love. We've had two weeks. A miracle … a lifetime in itself that I will remember all my life, but there can't be more, for either one of us.” Her voice began to crack and tears slowly filled her eyes. “And when we leave the ship today, my love, we must look ahead, and never look back … except to remember how much we loved each other and to wish each other well. …”

There were tears in his eyes now too. “Could I call you from time to time?”

She shook her head no and then with a sob that flew from her like a small injured bird, she threw herself into his arms, and he held her that way for an hour, fighting back his own tears as he lay awash with hers. There was simply no other way to do what had to be done. The bond they'd formed had to be cut, and it would be as painful for them as it had been for the man they had watched in the dining room a week before, when the doctors had cut off his hand.

hey left each other in her room shortly after eight o'clock with a last kiss and eyes filled with pain. He sent the girls back down to her, and she helped them dress. The three of them looked like vagabonds now, as did everyone else on the ship, as they gathered on the deck. The captain told them that they would reach New York by noon. He had long since radioed ahead for help, ambulances to collect the wounded from the rescue at sea. Another three had died from infections of their burns, but the Deauville was returning victoriously with the surviving 190. There was a jubilant atmosphere on the deck as the ship moved ahead, and everyone spoke animatedly. The girls had made friends with all the original passengers aboard and the crew, and the walking wounded were on deck now too to watch the ship come in. Everyone was too excited to eat or drink, and one would have thought that they had been together for a year as they stood side by side at the rails, calling to each other by name. Only Nick and Liane seemed to stand slightly apart from it all. He wore a dazed look, and she hovered over the girls, and now and then their eyes met and held, and once when the girls went downstairs to get their dolls, he held her close for just an instant, and she left her hand in his. Neither could imagine how they would survive the rest of their lives, and yet they had no choice. As intransigently as the Deauville steamed ahead, so too were they being forced out of their dream and back to real life. The moments on the ship were about to end, and they had to go their separate ways, wondering if they would ever meet again. He wondered if one day, on another ship, he would run into Armand and Liane again. The war would be over, and the girls grown, and he would still be married to Hillary, for the sake of their son. For a second, but no more than that, he almost hated Johnny. But it wasn't the boy's fault, any more than it was Armand's. They wanted something they couldn't have, and now they had to face what they owed, to themselves as well as Armand and John. He knew Liane was right, but as they finally glimpsed the skyline of New York ahead, Nick knew that in all his life, he had never felt greater pain. He was barely able to keep his mind on his son. It was the only thing he had to cling to now. And yet for these last few moments all he wanted was to cling to Liane.

There were shouts of joy on the deck as the Statue of Liberty appeared, the sun glinting on her torch on a hot July day, and shortly after that, the tugboats came to the Deauville's side and they sailed into the harbor of New York. Fireboats joined the procession they made and shot streams of water in the air, and when they reached the dock, the ambulances were lined up in rows to take the wounded off the ship. Immigration proceedings had been waived, and the Deauville tied up at the dock as cameras flashed and journalists attempted to interview anyone they could.

Liane seemed to know almost each survivor by name, and a camera went off in her face as she bent to kiss one man on the cheek. The rest of the passengers seemed almost reluctant to leave, and they hugged each other and exchanged home addresses, slapped each other on the back, and congratulated the captain and the crew for getting them across, and then at last, one by one, they took their bags and left the ship. Liane and Nick and the girls were almost the last to leave, and when they finally reached the dock, they looked at each other in disbelief.

“Well, we're home.” Nick looked at Liane over the girls' heads, both of them were unable to rejoice, and all she wanted was to reach out to him.

“It doesn't feel like home yet.” She still had to get the girls to Grand Central Station, to take the train to Washington, D.C.

“It will.” He sounded calmer than he felt, and he insisted on hailing a cab for them, and accompanying them to the train, and suddenly, as they stepped inside, Liane began to laugh and Nick grinned. “We must look like a bunch of tramps.” He looked down at the borrowed clothes he still wore, and it was the first time he could remember that he hadn't left a ship by limousine.

They bantered back and forth with the girls on the way to Grand Central, and they reached it all too quickly. They walked inside to the tracks after Liane bought their tickets. She had thought about staying at a hotel in New York, but it was just as well for them to get back. If she had stayed in town, the temptation would have been too great to see Nick. He put their few belongings in their compartment, and then stood for a moment looking down at Liane as she and the girls looked up at him.

“Good-bye, Uncle Nick. Come to see us soon.” Elisabeth extended the invitation, echoed by Marie-Ange. They had abandoned “Mr. Burnham” long since on the ship.

“I will. And you take good care of your mother.” Liane could hear his voice grow hoarse with emotion, and once again she had to fight back tears. But they came anyway as she hugged him and he held her close and whispered softly in her hair. “Take care of yourself, my friend.” And then he backed away slowly, and with a last mute wave, he left them, and hurried on to the platform, brushing away the tears before the girls would see him again. He stood there waving, smiling broadly, as the three of them hung out the window, and then Liane forced the girls back inside as she blew him a kiss and he mouthed I love you, and he stood there for as long as she could see him, and with a terrible gulp of sorrow to stifle a sob, she pulled her head back inside.

She sat back on the maroon velvet banquette as the girls squabbled over the assorted knobs and lights and levers, and she closed her eyes for a moment, seeing Nick's face before her, and longing with every ounce of her soul to touch him, just once more … for an instant … She saw herself back in the first mate's cabin, in Nick's arms, and felt a pain of loss almost beyond bearing, and then unable to stifle her sobs a moment longer, she said something to the girls and walked out into the hall, closing the door behind her.

“May I help you, ma'am?” a tall, immaculate, white-coated Negro porter asked her, but she was unable to speak as she shook her head and the tears flowed. “Ma'am?” He was startled by the agony he saw but she only shook her head again.

“It's all right.” But it wasn't. How could she tell him that in the last two weeks she had left her husband after the fall of Paris, and they had crossed the Atlantic on a freighter in defiance of German U-boats, watched a ship sink, and seen men lying dead in the water all around them, that she had nursed almost two hundred men suffering from wounds and burns … and fallen in love with a man she had just said good-bye to and may never see again … it defied words as she stood there, leaning against the window of the moving train with her heart breaking.

And in Grand Central Station, Nick walked slowly toward the exit, his head down, his eyes damp, looking as though his best friend had died in his arms that morning. He hailed a cab on the street and went home to find the apartment empty. Mrs. Burnham was in Cape Ann with friends, a new maid told him. And the train to Washington sped on.

iane and the girls checked into the Shoreham hotel at eight o'clock that night, and she felt as though she hadn't slept for days. They were exhausted and filthy and the girls were weepy. They had all been through too much in the last few weeks, and months before that, and now it was difficult to fathom that they were back in the United States. Everyone looked so happy and unconcerned and normal. There were none of the strained faces one had seen in Paris before the occupation, or the swastikas they had seen flying after the fall, there were no wounded as there had been on the ship. There was none of what had become familiar to them, and which was far from normal. And hour after hour, as Liane lay in bed in her hotel that night, she had to fight not to call Nick in New York, and reverse all the reasonable promises they'd made to each other based on their responsibilities to other people. Suddenly all she wanted was to be in his arms again. And in his bed in New York, Nick had to fight just as hard not to call her in Washington at the Shoreham.

The next morning, she sent a cable to Armand to tell him they had arrived safely. The story of the Deauville was all over the morning papers, including a photograph of her kissing the cheek of the young Canadian on the stretcher as he left the ship. And in the background she could see Nick, watching her with a look of sorrow as others smiled with tears running down their faces. She felt the same lead weight on her chest again as she stared at the photograph in the paper, and the girls found her suddenly very hard to get along with. So much had changed so quickly for all of them that the girls were whiny, Liane nervous. They had been through so much and suffered so many losses that the backlash from it all was taking its toll, and when she finally decided to call her uncle George in San Francisco, to tell him they were back in the States, Liane almost snapped at him. He made an endless series of tactless remarks about the fall of France, and how the French had literally given Paris to the Germans on a silver platter and deserved what they got as a result. And Liane had to fight not to scream at him.

“Well, thank God you're back. How long have you been here?”

“Since yesterday. We came back on a freighter.”

There was a pregnant silence. “The Deauville?” It was in the San Francisco papers that morning too, but without the picture.

“Yes.”

“What kind of crazy fool is your husband to put you on a ship like that? For God's sake, there must have been some other way to get you out of France. Were you part of that rescue at sea?”

“I was.” Her voice sounded exhausted and defeated. She didn't want to have to defend Armand to him. She didn't want to think, because all she could think about was Nick. “We saved a hundred and ninety men.”

“I read that. And there was only one woman on board, a nurse with two children.”

Liane smiled. “Not a nurse exactly, Uncle George, just me, and the girls.”

“For God's sake …” He spluttered on and asked her when she was coming back to San Francisco, and she said she wasn't. “What?”

“We came to Washington last night. I'm going to rent a house here.”

“I won't have it.” After what she had been through, fighting with him was too much.

“This was our home for five years, we have friends here, the girls like their school.”

“That's ridiculous. Why didn't Armand send you to me?”

“Because I told him I wanted to stay here.”

“Well, if you come to your senses, you're welcome here. A woman alone doesn't belong in a strange city. You could stay with me here at the house. It was your home before Washington ever was. What a lot of nonsense, Liane. I'm surprised you didn't try to go back to London or Vienna.”

She was not amused by his remarks and spoke in a quiet voice. “I wanted to stay with Armand in Paris.”

“At least he wasn't foolish enough to let you do that. And I imagine he won't be there long anyway. That fool De Gaulle is already headed for North Africa, and the rest of the government is scattered all over France, from what I hear. I'm surprised Armand is still in Paris. Did he retire?”

She spoke in a quiet voice. She was not going to tell him that Armand was with Pétain. “No, he didn't.”

“Well, he'll be on the run like the others, then. You were smart to come home with the girls. How are they?” His voice softened as he asked, and Liane gave him the latest report and then let them speak to their great-uncle, but it was a relief when the conversation ended. She and her uncle had never had anything in common. He in no way resembled her father. He had always disapproved of the way she had lived with her father, sharing his life and his concerns, and being informed of world affairs. He thought it no way to bring up a girl, and disapproved of her as a young woman. “By far, too modern for my taste.” He had made no secret of his disapproval. And he hadn't thought much of Armand when they had met. He thought him much too old for Liane and said so, and when she had married him and moved to Vienna, he had wished her luck and told her she'd need it. And in the ensuing years they had met seldom, and when they did, they found they disagreed on everything, above all, his policies for Crockett Shipping. But at least the firm had continued to flourish, and although she disagreed with him, she had no complaints on that score. Thanks to Uncle George, business was booming, and one day it would leave her all the more to will to the girls, and that pleased her. But not much else about Uncle George did. He was opinionated, overbearing, old-fashioned, and extremely dull.

She also called a real estate agent that morning, and arranged to see three furnished houses in Georgetown. She wanted something small and unpretentious, where she could wait out the war in peace with the girls, entertain a few friends from time to time, and lead a quiet life. Gone were the days of grandeur at the French Embassy and other places like it, but she knew she wouldn't miss it.

She rented the second house she saw and arranged to move in in a week. Then she hired a maid to live with them, a very pleasant elderly black woman who cooked and loved children. She shopped for the girls and herself and they began to look as they once had. She even bought them some new toys, since they had brought none with them. And she was grateful for every single moment of activity and all the arrangements for moving. It helped to distract her from thoughts of Nick, at least for a few minutes at a time, but there were times when she really thought she wouldn't survive it. She kept wondering what he was doing, if he had gone to Boston and gotten John back. Her mind kept drifting back to the ship and it was almost as though that had been the bulk of her lifetime. It was impossible to believe that it had been only thirteen days. Again and again, she had to remind herself that she should not be thinking of Nick, but of Armand.

She wrote to her husband and told him the address of the new house, and two weeks after they moved there, she got his first letter. It was brief, because he said that he was in a hurry when he wrote it, and half of what he had written had been blacked out by the censors. But at least she knew that he was busy and well, and he hoped that she and the girls were comfortable among their old friends. He asked her to give his best to Eleanor, and she knew that the President was also included in the greeting.

But all in all, for Liane and the girls it was a long, lonely summer. All of their friends were away from Washington, in Cape Cod and Maine and other places. The Roosevelts were, as always, in Campobello, and it was September before they saw a soul. But long before that, Liane thought she would lose her mind trying to entertain the girls, and keep her mind off Nick. Every day she hoped he'd call, or that she would find a letter despite the vow of silence they'd made. Instead, every few weeks she received one from Armand, in which he told her almost nothing, and most of the letter would be blacked out by the Nazi censors. She felt as though she and the girls were living in a vacuum, and often wondered for how long she could bear it.

And the world news only made her feel that she had left Europe to come to another planet. Three thousand miles away the war raged on, and here people bought their groceries, and drove their cars, and went to movies, while her husband existed amidst the Nazis in Paris, and the Germans continued to ravage Europe. And on the first page of a Washington paper, was carried the story that Tiffany and Co. in New York, the jewelers, had moved uptown to fifty-seventh street after thirty-four years in their old location. The new building was a marvel, with air conditioning, as they called it, which kept the store cool no matter what the temperature outside. With that item on page one, Liane wondered if the world had gone mad, or she had.

On the seventeenth of August, Hitler had declared a blockade of British waters, and Armand had phrased it in such a way in his letters, that the censors hadn't touched it. But Liane had heard the news by then anyway. And on August 20, she read in the papers, Churchill had made a deeply moving speech to the House of Commons. Three days later London was bombed and the blitz began, with the shelling of houses and streets and people night by night until Londoners spent more time in bomb shelters than their homes. And by the time Elisabeth and Marie-Ange went back to their old school, the English were attempting to get their children out of London. Houses were falling, with entire families killed every night. Several ships had already left Britain, sending children to Canada for the duration of the war.

And then finally, in mid-September, Eleanor called her, in her familiar, reedy voice, and Liane almost cried with relief, it was so good to hear her.

“I was so pleased to get your letter in Campobello, my dear. But what a ghastly crossing you had on the Deauville.” They talked about it for a while, and it only fanned Liane's thoughts of Nick. And she sat alone in the garden for a long time after she hung up, thinking of him, and wondering how he was. She wondered how long she would feel that way, as though she were only half alive, as she pined for him. It had been two months since he had left her on the train in Grand Central Station and still he lived on in her heart. Every article she read, every thought, every letter, every day, seemed somehow to relate back to thoughts of him. It was a private hell she lived in, and she knew that his life had to be much the same. But she did not dare to call him to see how he was. They had promised not to call each other, and she knew she had to be strong. And she was, but she cried more easily than she had in the past, and the girls frequently found her testy. The benevolent maid they'd hired told them that it was because their father was away, and their mother would be happy again once he came home. And the girls agreed that they would all be happier when the war was over.

Liane had no social life in Washington at all. The people who had invited her so constantly when they were stationed there, no longer knew whether or not to invite her. She was a woman alone, which made it awkward for them, and they promised themselves they would invite her eventually, but as yet no one had. Except, finally, Eleanor, who asked her to a small family dinner in the last week of September. Liane felt relieved when she arrived at the White House in a cab, and saw the familiar portico. She longed for intelligent conversation with someone. And she wanted to hear all the war news from Eleanor. She enjoyed the dinner to no end until Franklin took her aside quietly after dessert and spoke frankly to her.

“I've heard about Armand, my dear. And I'm very, very sorry.” For a moment her heart almost stopped. What had they heard that she didn't know? Had the Germans ravaged Paris after all? Was Armand dead? Was there a secret communiqué of which she was not aware? She grew deathly pale and the President touched her arm. “I understand now why you left him.”

“But I didn't leave him … not in that sense. …” She looked at him, confused. “I left because Paris was occupied and he thought we'd be safer here. I would have stayed if he had let me.”

The President's face went taut. “Do you realize that he's working with Pétain, in collaboration with the Germans?”

“I … yes … I knew that he was going to stay in Paris with—”

But Roosevelt cut her off. “Do you understand what that means, Liane? The man is a traitor to France.” He said it like a death knell over Armand, and Liane felt tears sting her eyes. How could she defend him? She could not tell anyone what she knew, not even this man. She could do nothing to clear her husband's name. And she hadn't realized that news of it would reach the States. She looked helplessly at the President.

“France is occupied, Mr. President. These are not … normal times.” But her voice faltered.

“Those faithful to France have fled. Some of them are in North Africa now. They're equally aware that the country is occupied, but they are not working for Pétain. Liane, you might as well be married to a Nazi. Can you accept that?”

“I'm married to a man I love, whom I have been married to for eleven years.” And for whom she had just given up someone she cared for deeply.

“You are married to a traitor.” And it was clear by the tone of his voice that she was now considered a traitor by association. As long as he had thought she had left Armand for good, then it was all right. But if she insisted on standing by Armand, then she was as guilty as he. It was written all over his face and in the way he said good night to her.

Eleanor did not call her again, and within a week word was all over Washington that Armand was a traitor to France, and working for Pétain and the Nazis. She was shocked at the gossip that she heard. Two or three troublemakers went out of their way to call and tell her. And she wasn't sure what she was more grief-stricken over, the gossip about Armand being a Nazi, or the news that on October 2, German U-boats sank the Empress of Britain, a British ship carrying a shipload of children to safety in Canada. She felt sick as she remembered the Queen Victoria and the bodies floating in the water a few months before, and now the bodies would be those of innocent children.

She felt as though she were living a nightmare underwater as she fought against her own depression over events, and her constant sense of loss. Somehow she managed to crawl from one day to the next, waiting for letters from Armand, and fending off phone calls from her uncle George, badgering her to move back to California. It had only taken him a few weeks to hear the gossip that was circulating like wildfire around Washington. There had even been a veiled slur in one of the gossip columns about the shipping heiress who now flew Hitler's flag over her Georgetown house.

“I always told you the man was a son of a bitch,” George roared into the phone from San Francisco.

“You don't know what you're talking about, Uncle George.”

“The hell I don't. You didn't tell me that was why he stayed in Paris.”

“He is faithful to France.” She was beginning to feel as though she were repeating empty words. Only she and Armand knew the truth. And there was no one she could tell. She wondered if by now Nick had heard it too.

“My ass he's faithful to France, Liane. The man is a Nazi.”

“He is not a Nazi. We're being occupied by the Germans.” She sounded as tired as she felt and she was near tears.

“Thank God ‘we’ are not occupied by anyone. And don't you forget it. You're an American, Liane. And it's goddamn time you came back where you belong. You've been living in international communities for so long that you don't know who the hell you are.”

“Yes, I do. I'm Armand's wife, and don't you forget that.”

“Maybe one of these days you'll come to your senses. Did you read about those children killed when the British ship sank? Well, he's one of the people that killed them.” It was a cruel thing to say and Liane's whole body went tense. She knew only too well what the sinking of a ship looked like.

“Don't you dare say that! Don't you dare!” She sat trembling and then without another word she hung up. The nightmare would never end. Not for a long, long time, and she knew it. And she had to remind herself every day of what Nick had said: “Strong people cannot be defeated.” But as she lay in her bed and cried every night, she no longer believed him.

fter Nick had got to the apartment in New York, and had been told by the maid that Hillary was in Cape Ann and Johnny was still in Boston, with his face grimly set, he had taken his car out of the garage, where it had sat for a year, and had driven the bottle-green Cadillac directly to Gloucester. He knew exactly where she was, or he guessed, and a few careful phone calls confirmed it.

He did not call to tell her he was coming. He arrived, like an expected guest, on the enormous handsome old estate. He walked with determination up the front steps and rang the bell. It was a beautiful July night, and there was obviously a party in progress. A black-uniformed maid with a cap and lace apron appeared and smiled as she opened the door for him to enter. She was a little surprised at the grim set of his face, but he very pleasantly asked to see Mrs. Burnham, who he understood was a guest there. It was clear by then from his lack of formal attire that he wasn't planning to stay for dinner. He handed the maid his calling card, and she disappeared with it immediately and, returning a moment later, looking even more nervous than before, she asked him to come into the library with her, and there he found the formidable Mrs. Alexander Markham, Philip's mother. He had met her many years before, and knew her immediately as she glanced at him through a lorgnette, her hands littered with diamonds, and her long elegant frame in an ice-blue evening dress. Her hair was so white, it was almost the same color as the dress.

“Yes, young man, what do you want here?”

“How do you do, Mrs. Markham. It's been many years since we've met.” He was wearing white linen slacks, an impeccable white silk shirt, his blazer, and a bow tie, and he very properly shook her hand and introduced himself. “I am Nicholas Burnham.” Beneath the powder, she blanched slightly, but her eyes gave nothing away. “I believe my wife is here for the weekend. You've been very kind to have her.” He smiled and their eyes met, each knowing exactly what was going on, but he was willing to play the game, for the old woman's benefit at least, if not Hillary's. “I've just returned from Europe at last, a little later than expected. She doesn't know I'm back, and I thought I'd drive up here and give her a little surprise.” And to prove that he was not malicious, he added, “I'd like to drive her to Boston tonight so that we can pick up my son. I haven't seen him since I put them on the Aquitania in September.” There was a moment of silence in the room as the old woman watched him.

“I don't believe your wife is here, Mr. Burnham.” She sat down with the utmost grace and total composure, her rigid spine never touching the back of her chair and the lorgnette never flagging.

“I see. Then perhaps your cousin made a mistake. I called her before I came up.” He knew how close the two women were. They had married brothers. “She mentioned that she saw Hillary here last weekend. Since she hasn't arrived home, I assume she's still here.”

“I really don't know how—” But before she could finish her sentence, her son burst into the room.

“Mother, for God's sake, you don't have to—” He stopped but he was too late. He was going to tell her that there was no need for her to trouble herself with Nick Burnham. Nick turned where he stood and looked Philip full in the face.

“Hello, Markham.” There was total silence among all three, and Nicholas proceeded. “I came to pick up Hillary.”

“She's not here.” He said it with pure derision in his voice as his eyes glittered.

“So your mother tells me.”

But Hillary proved them both liars. She was the next one through the door to the library, in a gossamer-thin gold-and-white evening gown made of Indian sari fabric. And she was a vision to all eyes, with her dark hair swept up, her deep tan, and long dangling diamonds at her ears and on her neck. She stood still and stared at Nick. “Then it is you. I thought it was a bad joke.” She made no move to approach him.

“A very bad joke, Hillary dear. Apparently you're not even here.” She looked from Philip to his mother at Nick's words and then shrugged her shoulders.

“Thank you anyway. But it doesn't matter. Yes, I'm here. So what? The point is, why are you here?”

“To take you home. But first we're going to pick up Johnny. I haven't seen him in ten months, or had you forgotten?”

“No, I haven't forgotten.” Her eyes began to blaze like the diamonds hanging from her earlobes.

“And how long has it been since you've seen him?” Nick's eyes burned into hers as he asked the question.

“I saw him last week.” Her words gave away nothing.

“I'm very impressed. Now, go and pack your bags and we'll leave these nice people to their party.” He spoke to her in a smooth, even tone, but it was clear that he was on the verge of exploding.

“You can't just yank her out of this house.” Philip Markham stepped forward, and Nick stared at him evenly.

“She's my wife.”

The elderly Mrs. Markham watched them all and said nothing. But Hillary was quick to speak up for herself.

“I'm not leaving.”

“May I remind you that we're still married. Or have you filed for divorce in my absence?” He saw Hillary and Philip exchange a quick nervous glance. She hadn't, but had meant to, and Nick's sudden arrival would hamper their plans. They were practically ready to announce their engagement. Mrs. Markham was unhappy about it. She knew what Hillary was and she didn't like her. Not at all. And so she had told Philip. The girl was worse than any of the wives he had had, and she would cost him a fortune. “I asked you a question, Hillary.” Nick pressed the point. “Have you filed for divorce?”

He heard the old familiar petulance in her voice. “No, I haven't. But I'm going to.”

“That's interesting news. On what grounds?”

She glared at him. “Desertion. You said you'd come back at Christmas, and then in April.”

“And all this time, poor love, you've been pining for me. Funny, I never got an answer to any of my letters or cables.”

“I didn't think you could get mail—with the war on and all.” Her voice faltered and he laughed.

“Well, I'm home, so now it doesn't matter. Get your things and we'll leave. I'm sure Mrs. Markham is very tired of us.” He looked at the old woman and for the first time saw a smile.

“Actually, I'm quite amused. It's rather like an English drama. But more entertaining because it's real.”

“Quite.” Nick smiled pleasantly and turned to his wife. “For your information, although we can discuss it later, what has kept me in France all this time were matters of national defense. Major contracts that affect the economy of our country, and defense matters that involve us against the Germans, should they ever become a threat to us directly. You would have a very hard time convincing any court that you'd been deserted. I rather think they'd sympathize with the reasons for my staying so long.”

She was furious at his words, and Markham didn't look pleased either. “I thought you were selling to the Germans. You were last year.”

“I canceled all my contracts, at a considerable loss, but the President was very pleased when I told him.” Not to mention his gift to Poland, which had pleased the President too. Checkmate, friends. Nick smiled at his audience. “So, desertion won't do, and adultery doesn't apply.” He forced the image of Liane out of his head as he spoke, although thoughts of her hadn't left him for an instant since he had walked out of Grand Central Station. “I'm afraid that leaves us still married, with a son waiting to be picked up in Boston. Let's go, my friend, the party is over.” The three of them stood there for a long moment, with Mrs. Markham watching and she decided to step in at last.

“Please go and get your things, Hillary dear. As the man says, the party is over.” Hillary turned to her and then Philip, with a look of total frustration on her face, and then she turned to Nick.

“You can't do this, damn it. You can't disappear for almost a year and then expect to pick me up like a piece of furniture you left somewhere.” She made a move as though to slap him and he caught her arm in midair.

He spoke in a clear, even voice. “Not here, Hillary. It's not pretty.”

And with that she stormed out of the room, and returned twenty minutes later with two large bags and her maid and a French poodle. Philip had left the room instantly on her heels and Mrs. Markham had invited Nick to sit down and have a drink while they were gone. They both had double bourbons, while he apologized for keeping her from her guests.

“Not at all. Actually”—she smiled—”I've enjoyed it. And you're doing me a great favor. I've been very worried about Philip.” They sat in silence again for a time, with their drinks, and she glanced at Nick again. She had decided that she liked him. He had one hell of a lot of balls, and she had to admire him for tackling that bitch he was married to. “Tell me, Nick … may I call you Nick?”

“Of course.”

“How did you get saddled with that little baggage?”

“I fell madly in love with her when she was nineteen.” He sighed, thinking of Liane, and then looked back at Mrs. Markham. “She was very pretty at nineteen.”

“She still is, but she's a dangerous woman. No,” the old woman reconsidered with a shake of her head, “not a woman, a girl … she's a spoiled child.” Her eyes met Nick's over their drinks. “She'll destroy my son if she gets him.”

“I'm afraid she'll destroy mine.” He spoke in a quiet voice and she nodded, as though she were satisfied about something.

“You won't let her. Just don't let her destroy you. You need a very different kind of woman.” It was the oddest half hour he had spent in years, and he had to smile as he thought of Liane. She was indeed a very different woman. And he almost wanted to tell Mrs. Markham that he had found her … and lost her….

And at that moment Hillary walked back into the room with her bags, the dog, the maid, and Philip. Nick politely thanked Mrs. Markham then for a lovely time, and Hillary said good-bye to her and her son, with another fulminating look of rage directed at her husband.

“Don't think this is for good. I just don't want to make a scene while they're having a party.”

“That's a new touch. Very thoughtful of you.” He shook hands with Mrs. Markham, nodded at her son, and took Hillary's arm as they walked to the door while a butler carried the luggage. Moments later it was stowed in the car, and Nick turned on the ignition and headed for Boston.

“You won't get away with this, you know.” She was sitting at the extreme other side of the car, practically steaming as the dog panted in the heat, its nails painted the same color as Hillary's.

“And neither will you.” The charming, well-modulated tone he had used at the Markhams' was no longer evident. “And the sooner you get it into your head, Hillary, the better for all of us.” He pulled the car over to the side of the road once they had left the estate, and looked at her with eyes that told her he was not going to take any more nonsense from her. “We are married, we have a son, whom you neglect shamefully. But we are going to stay married. Period. And from now on, you are going to goddamn well behave, or I'm going to kick your ass for you in public.”

“You're threatening me!” she shrieked.

But Nick roared, “You're goddamn well right I am! You've practically deserted our son for the last year, from what I hear, and you're never going to do that again. Do you understand me? You're going to stay home for a change and be a decent mother. And if you and Markham are madly in love, then terrific. Nine years from now, when Johnny is eighteen, you can do anything you goddamn well please. I'll give you a divorce. I'll even pay for your wedding. But in the meantime, my dear, this is it.” He lowered his voice. “For the next nine years, like it or not, you are Mrs. Nicholas Burnham.” It sounded like a death sentence to her and she began to cry.

When they reached Hillary's mother's house, Nick got out of the car without another glance at her, rang the doorbell, and rushed inside the minute the door was opened. Johnny was already in his room, in his pajamas, and he looked like the most forlorn little child Nick had ever seen, until he looked up and gave one wild whoop as he saw his father.

“Daddy! Daddy! … You're back! … You came back! Mommy said you were never coming back.”

“She did what?” He looked at the child in horror.

“She said that you liked it better in Paris.”

“And did you believe that?” He sat down on the bed as his mother-in-law watched from the hall, with tears streaming slowly down her face.

“Not really.” The child spoke in a soft voice. “Not when I read your letters.”

“I was so lonely there without you, tiger. I almost cried every night. Don't ever think that I'm happy anywhere without you, 'cause I'm not, and I'm never going to leave you again. Never!”

“You promise?” There were tears in Johnny's eyes too, and Nick's.

“I swear. Let's shake on it.” They shook hands solemnly and Nick pulled Johnny into his arms again.

“Can I go home soon?”

“How soon can you get packed?”

Johnny's face was ablaze with joy. “You mean now? Back to our house in New York?”

“That's what I mean.” He looked apologetically over his shoulder at his mother-in-law. “I'm sorry to do this to you, but I can't live another day without him.”

“Or he without you,” she said sadly. “We did our best but—” She began to cry in earnest and Nick put his arms around Hillary's mother.

“It's all right. I understand. Everything will be all right.”

She smiled at him through her tears. “We were so worried about you. And when Paris fell, we were afraid you'd fall into the hands of the Germans.” She sighed deeply and blew her nose. “When did you get back?”

“This morning. On the Deauville.”

“The ship that made the rescue?” He nodded. “Oh, my God …” Johnny had overheard a few words and insisted that his father tell him all about it. Nick thought about telling him that he had seen the De Villiers girls on the ship, but he decided not to. He didn't want Hillary to know anything about it.

They left the house half an hour later, amid tears and goodbyes and promises to call and write. But Johnny was so obviously ecstatic as he climbed into the car with the dog his father had given him in Paris, now full grown, that even the leave-taking wasn't overly sad. And his grandmother knew it was best for him to go home to his parents. The only further surprise was when he saw his mother in the car.

“What are you doing here, Mom? I thought you were in Gloucester.”

“I was. Your father just picked me up.”

“But you said you'd be there for three weeks …” He looked confused and Nick tried to change the subject. “Why didn't you come into the house to see Grandma?”

“I didn't want to leave the dog in the car, and she gets nervous in new houses.” The explanation seemed to satisfy Johnny. Nick noticed that there hadn't been so much as a kiss between them.

The boy fell asleep long before they arrived in New York, where Nick carried him upstairs to his own bed, and tucked him in as an astonished maid looked on. They had actually come home again, all of them. That night Nick walked around the house, pulling dust covers off the furniture and looking around, getting accustomed to his home. Hillary found him sitting quietly in the den, staring out at the New York sky and the bright summer moon, his thoughts so far away that he didn't even hear her come in. And as she stared at the man who had almost literally kidnapped her from Philip Markham in Gloucester that night, she didn't have the energy left to be angry with him. She simply stood there and watched. He was a stranger to her. She could barely remember what it was like being married to him. It seemed a hundred years since they'd made love, and she knew that they never would again, not that she cared. But she was remembering what he had said to her in the car before they picked Johnny up. The next nine years, he'd said … nine … and as she thought the word aloud he turned around to look at her.

“What are you doing up?”

“It's too hot to sleep.”

He nodded. He had so little left to say to her. And yet he knew that if he was with Liane, he could talk to her all night. “Johnny didn't wake up, did he?”

She shook her head. “He's all you care about, isn't he?”

He nodded. “But it didn't used to be that way. And in a lot of ways, I still care about you too.” In the ways that affected their son, but that wasn't the same thing. They both knew that.

“Why do you want me to stay your wife?” She sat down on a chair in the dark and he looked at her.

“For him. He needs us both. And he will for a long time.”

“Nine years.” She echoed his words again.

“I won't give you a rough time, Hil. As long as you're decent to him.” He wanted to ask her how she could have left him for almost the entire year. He ached to think of how lonely the child must have been. And to think of how lonely he himself had been in France, without Johnny.

“Don't you want something more than this for yourself, Nick?” He was a mystery to her, and she didn't want to be here with him. They both knew that. She didn't have to hide it from him anymore. She still couldn't believe he'd actually made her come back, but he was a powerful man, too powerful for her to fight. It was part of why she hated him sometimes.

He looked at her now, wondering who she was, just as she wondered about him. “Yes, I want something more for myself. But this isn't the time.”

“Maybe you just haven't met the right girl.” He didn't answer her, and for a moment she wondered—but that wouldn't be like Nick. She knew how faithful he'd been to her, not that it had ever meant much to her. In fact it annoyed her.

“Maybe not.” He answered at last and stood up with a sigh. “Good night, Hil.” He left her sitting in the darkened room alone, and went upstairs to the guest room, where he'd put his things. They would never again share a bedroom and hadn't since the night he'd moved out of their suite on the Normandie the year before. Those days were over.

He rented a house that summer in Marblehead, and took the month of August off so he could be with Johnny. Hillary came and went. He knew that she was with Philip Markham, but he didn't care. She was more discreet now than she'd been in the past, and once she saw that he wasn't going to stop her, she was less unpleasant when she was around. In a funny way, he sensed that Philip Markham was good for her. They were a great deal alike. And he wondered if Markham was responsible for calming her down.

Nick was happiest when he was alone with Johnny. He had longed for moments like these with his son, and during the long months in Paris he had thought of times such as this. And the days in Marblehead gave him a chance to think of Liane. He would take long walks on the beach, looking out to sea, remembering their trip, the rescue at sea, the hours they'd talked, the passionate lovemaking in the tiny cabin. It all seemed now like a distant dream, and each time he saw his son, he knew that she'd been right to set him free, yet they had both paid such a high price for their love. He thought often of calling her, to find out how she was, to tell her how much he loved her still and always would, and yet he knew that reaching out to touch her for even an instant would be cruel.

It was in the fall that he actually went so far as to pick up the phone, late one night in the apartment. Hillary was away for a few days, and Johnny was asleep, and he had been sitting in the living room for hours, thinking of the sound of Liane's voice, the feel of her skin. He knew that he'd never get over her. But perhaps by now, he told himself, she had got over him. And he put the phone down gently again, and went outside for a long walk. It was a cool, breezy September night, and the air felt good. He knew that the maids would hear Johnny if he woke up, and he was in no hurry to get home. He walked up and down the New York streets for hours, and then finally went back. He was still awake when Hillary came in at two in the morning, and he heard her bedroom door close. He remembered too well the days when something like that would have driven him mad, but it no longer did. He was going mad instead with loneliness for Liane.

n November 11, 1940, the Vichy government was officially formed, with Pétain as its President, and Armand de Villiers in its highest ranks. His alleged perfidy to the old France was no longer a secret anymore. By then, Liane was accustomed to being shunned. She had long since become a pariah in Washington. She never expected the phone to ring, there were no invitations anywhere. On many days now she just sat at home, waiting for the girls to arrive from school. In many ways it reminded her of the days in Paris after war was declared and Armand was at the office fifteen hours a day. But then at least, no matter how late, she knew that eventually he would come home to her. Now God only knew when they would be together again. There were times when she wondered if she had been mad to tell Nick they couldn't go on. What harm would it have done? Who would have been hurt by it? Who would have known? But she would have, and perhaps eventually the girls, and one day Armand. She had done the right thing, but it tasted bitter in her soul as she thought of Nick. She had been tormented now for four months over thirteen bright days on a freighter, following a zigzag course from France to the States.

Armand's letters were infrequent and brief, brought out by members of the Resistance now, and left unsigned. They reached her through intricate, elaborate underground routes, eventually reaching London or some British port, and sent to the States on freighters or troop ships or whatever was coming across. There were odd gaps in the letters also at times, and she wondered always if the messengers had been killed or the troop ships sunk. There was no way to know. But what she did know, or sensed, was that Armand was in constant danger now. He was so high up in the ranks, that were his treason to Pétain and the Nazis known, he would have been killed at once.… We are very busy now, my love. We have been salvaging treasures as well as lives, spiriting pieces from the Louvre and having them disappear into barns and sheds and haystacks all over France before they can be shipped to Berlin. It may take us a lifetime to retrieve them again, covered with hay and goose manure, but it is one thing less for them to steal from us … even one tiny piece of history remaining ours is a victory for our side … that and the people who have managed to disappear, in order that their lives be saved. Knowing that we have done this, saved even one life, makes it bearable to be without your gentle touch, your love, your smile …

The letters tore at her heart now, and made her wonder again if what he was doing was worth the risk. One painting, one statue … one piece of history … and all of that perhaps in exchange for his life? Could he really think it worth the risk? And yet she sensed in his letters the same devoted passion he had always had for France. His country was truly his first love, above all else. He had served her well all over the world, and now he was saving her from those who would leave her bleeding and dead, squeezed dry and lying by the roadside.

Liane admired the principles behind Armand's work, and yet now as she began to see their daughters shunned by their friends, she once again questioned the wisdom of what he had done. Better to have gone to North Africa or London with De Gaulle, to fight there, to work with the Free French openly, than to remain in France to undermine the Nazis at every turn, but earn no glory at all, wearing the banner of Pétain. She knew that there was far more important work he did than saving the artwork of France, yet she also knew that just as he had been forced into secrecy in the year before Paris fell, now it was even more important that he share none of that with her, lest it risk other lives and his as well, so she had almost no way of knowing what agonies he really suffered, what risks he ran.

And at his desk in Paris, with the swastika spread across the wall, Armand would look out at the Paris sky, remembering Liane's touch, her face, the sunshine in her voice, the way she had looked at nineteen and twenty-one, and then he would force her from his head and go back to his work. He had grown deathly thin since she had left France, from overwork, from lack of sleep, from strain. He had developed a nervous tic in one eye, but other than that he always appeared steadfastly calm. He appeared to believe in the Vichy cause, and by November of 1940 he was carrying an important load of trust, placed on him by both sides. His only fear was the knowledge that time wasn't on his side. He had aged fifteen years in the last two, and the mirror didn't lie to him. He was approaching fifty-eight, and felt more like ninety-five. But if he could give his last days to France, and serve her well, he knew that he would die with honor on his side. And he felt sure that Liane knew it too. He hinted at that to her in letters once or twice—“Si je meurs pour ma patrie, mon amour, je meurs en paix”—If I die for my country, I die in peace. But the words made her hands tremble each time she read something like that. Losing Armand was not what she had in mind. But at other times there were anecdotes, or reports of funny things they'd done, an artistry of confusion committed by the comrades of the Resistance. She marveled now and then about the things the Resistance did, and the tales that Armand dared to tell. She marveled too that the Nazis rarely found them out. But “rarely” still made it a dangerous game. There were constant close calls, far more than she knew.

In November there was one that almost cost Armand his life. He was delivering a series of important papers he had copied in minute detail, carried taped to his chest, and he had been stopped by the police on his way out of town. He explained that he was going to visit an old friend, and had rapidly shown the documents, which proved him a henchman of Pétain. The German officers had hesitated for a time, and then waved him on. The papers had been delivered into the right hands, and he had returned that night, almost limp with fatigue, but he returned to the house he and Liane had shared, and he sat down slowly on the bed, aware of just how close he'd come, and that the next time might be his last. But even as he looked at her empty side of the bed, he had no doubts. He never had. “Qa vaut la peine, Liane … ca vaut bien la peine … pour nous, pour la France,” he said aloud. It's worth the pain … well worth the pain … for us … for France….

But that was not a sentiment shared by Liane as the doorbell rang in the Georgetown house on a Friday afternoon. The girls had been due home from school half an hour before. And she had glanced at her watch several times. Marcie, the maid, had told her to calm down, but there was no calming her once she saw the girls. They had walked home alone, as they often did, but as they stood now on the front steps, their dresses in rags, with red paint in their hair and ravaged looks on their faces, Liane gasped and began to shake as she led them inside. Elisabeth was trembling from head to foot and hiccuping through her sobs, but Liane could see that there was more than grief to Marie-Ange's tears, there was also fury.

“My God … what happened?” She was about to lead them into the kitchen, where she was going to peel their clothes from their backs, but she stopped as though she had been slapped when she turned Marie-Ange around. There on her back, in a broad slash of red paint, was a swastika. And without a word she turned Elisabeth around too and saw another one there. And choking on her own sobs, she clutched them to her, their painted little bodies smearing red all over her, and the three of them stood in the kitchen like that as Marcie watched with tears pouring down her own withered black cheeks.

“Oh, my babies … what they done to ya?” She pulled them slowly free of Liane and began to take off their dresses, but the girls were crying harder now and Liane had to fight to regain control. She was crying not just for them, but for herself, and France, and Armand, and what the horrors there had done to them all. There was no turning back now. And she knew too that there was also no staying. She couldn't go on exposing the girls to that. They had to leave. They had no choice now.

Liane walked them quietly into their bathroom and ran a warm bath. Then she tenderly bathed both of them. Half an hour later they looked like the same little girls they had always been, but she knew they weren't, and would never be quite the same again. She threw away the ravaged dresses, her brow furrowed in anger and fear.

She brought them dinner in their room, and they sat and talked for a long time. Elisabeth looked at her as though her entire childhood had melted in one afternoon. At eight she knew more than most children at twice that age, she knew pain and loss and betrayal.

“They said Papa was a Nazi … Mrs. Muldock told Mrs. McQueen and she told Annie … but Papa isn't a Nazi! He's not! He's not!” And then, with a look of sorrow, she asked Marie-Ange and Liane, “What's a Nazi?”

Liane smiled for the first time that afternoon. “If you didn't know what a Nazi was, why were you so upset?”

“I think it means a robber, or a bad person, doesn't it?”

“Kind of. The Nazis are very bad Germans. They're on the other side of the war from France and England, and they've killed a great many people.” And she did not add, “and children.”

“But Papa isn't German.” To the pain in her eyes, she now added the obvious fact that she was completely baffled. “And Mr. Schulenberg at the meat market is German. Is he a Nazi?”

“No, that's different.” Liane sighed. “He's Jewish.”

“No, he isn't. He's German.”

“He's both. Never mind. The Nazis don't like Jewish people either.”

“Do they kill them?” Elisabeth looked shocked as her mother nodded. “Why?”

“That's very hard to explain. The Nazis are very bad people, Elisabeth. The Germans who came to Paris were Nazis. That's why Daddy wanted us to leave, so we'd be safe here.” She had explained that to them before, but it had never really sunk in until this moment, until it touched them, having had red paint in their hair and swastikas on their backs. Now the war was theirs too. But now Elisabeth had an added worry.

“Will they kill Papa?” Liane had never seen her eyes so wide, and she wanted to tell them it could never happen, but should she? She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“Your papa won't let that happen.” She only prayed that it was true, that he would outwit them for as long as he had to. But at tea, Marie-Ange knew more than Elisabeth, and tears slid slowly down her face again as she sat on her bed, still in a state of shock. She hadn't touched her dinner.

“I'm never going back to school … Never! I hate them.”

Liane didn't know what to answer. They couldn't give up school for the duration of the war, but she couldn't let this happen again either.

“I'll talk to the headmistress on Monday.”

“I don't care. I won't go back.” They had bruised something deep within her soul, and Liane hated them too, for what they had done to her children.

“Do I have to go back, Mommy?” Elisabeth looked openly scared and they both tore at Liane's heart, each in her own way, each cut to the quick by something they didn't understand. How could she tell them that their father was not a Nazi, not what he seemed to be, a henchman of Pétain, but a double agent? One day, when it was all over, when it was too late, then she would be able to tell them. But what would it matter then? They needed to know now, and she couldn't tell them. “Do I have to, Mommy?” Elisabeth's eyes pleaded with her.

“I don't know. We'll see.” She kept them close to her all weekend. The three of them were quiet and subdued, they took a long walk in the park, and Liane took the girls to the zoo, but neither of them was her usual self. It was as though the children had been beaten, which was exactly what she told the headmistress on Monday. The girls had stayed home, but Liane appeared at the school before nine o'clock, and when the headmistress, Mrs. Smith, reached her office, Liane was waiting. She described the condition the girls had come home in and what it had done to them, and she turned to her with an expression of grief. “How could you let something like that happen?”

“But I had no idea, of course …” She was instantly defensive.

“It happened here at the school. Marie-Ange said that seven little girls in her class did it, and they even did it to her younger sister. They took scissors and paint and they dragged them into a room. It's like hoodlums in the ghetto, for God's sake, only it's worse. The children are punishing each other for things that they don't understand, that have nothing to do with them, because of gossip that their parents circulate.”

“Surely you can't expect us to control that?” The headmistress looked prim.

And Liane raised her voice. “I expect you to protect my daughters.”

“Outwardly it may appear that your children were the victims of other children, Mrs. de Villiers, but the fact of the matter is that they are suffering because of your husband.”

“What in hell do you know about my husband? He's in occupied France, risking his life every day, and you tell me that my children are suffering because of him? We lived through a year of Europe after the war was declared, we were there when Paris fell, we spent two days on a goddamn fishing boat sitting on a load of stinking fish in order to meet a freighter and come home, and then we spent two weeks dodging U-boats on the Atlantic, and we watched almost four thousand men die when a Canadian ship was torpedoed. So don't tell me about my husband or about the war, Mrs. Smith, because you don't know a goddamn thing about either one, sitting here in Georgetown.”

“You're absolutely right.” Mrs. Smith stood up, and Liane didn't like the look in her eye. Maybe she had gone too far, but she didn't give a damn. They had all had enough. Washington had been worse than Paris before or after the occupation, and she was sorry she had come home. They would have been better off living with the Germans in Paris with Armand. And if she could have, she'd have taken the next ship to him. But of course there was none, and she knew very well that Armand would never let her. They hadn't risked their lives to get back to the States just to turn around and go back again four months later. She felt half crazy with frustration.

And now the headmistress of the school was glaring at her with ill-concealed contempt and anger. “You're right. I don't know anything about the war, a ‘goddamn thing,’ as you put it. But I know children, and I know their parents. And parents talk, and children listen. And what they're saying is that your husband is with the Vichy government, that he's collaborating with the Germans. That's not a secret. It's been all over Washington for months. I heard it the first week the girls came back to school. I'm sorry to hear it. I liked your husband. But his children are paying for his political choices, and so are you. That's not my fault, it's not yours, but it's a fact. They're going to have to live with it. And if they can't, they'll have to go back to Paris and go to school with all the other little French and German children. But there's a war on, you know it, I know it, and so do the children. And your husband is on the wrong side of the war. It's as simple as that. I suspect that that's probably why you left him. There happens to be a rumor around too that you're getting divorced. At least that might help the children.”

Liane's eyes blazed as she stood up to face the other woman. “Is that what people are saying?”

Mrs. Smith didn't flinch for a moment. “Yes, it is.”

“Well, it's not true. I love my husband and I back him up one hundred percent in everything he does, including now—especially now. He needs us. And we need him. And the only reason we left Paris is because he wanted to be sure that we weren't killed.” Liane began to cry, like her daughters three days before, out of frustration and hurt and anger.

“Mrs. de Villiers, I'm sorry for what you're going through. But I can only assume from what you say that your entire family is sympathetic to the Germans. And as such, you're going to pay a price for that—”

Liane interrupted her at once, she couldn't bear it a moment longer. “I hate Germans! I hate them!” She walked to the door and pulled it open. “And I hate you, for what you allowed to happen to my children.”

“We didn't allow it to happen, Mrs. de Villiers. You did.” Her voice was frigid. “And I'm sure that you and they will be much happier with another school. Good day, Mrs. de Villiers.” Liane slammed the door to the office and walked out into the fall sunshine. When she reached home, the girls were anxious to know what had happened. Marie-Ange immediately came running down the stairs.

“Do I have to go back?”

“No! Now go to your room and leave me alone!” She walked into her bedroom and closed the door and sat down on her bed and cried. Why did it all have to be so goddamn difficult? And a little while later her daughters came in, not to pry, but to comfort their mother. She had got control of herself by then, but her eyes were still red from crying and she was angry at Armand as well as everyone else. He had placed them in an untenable position. She feared for him and she loved him, but she hated him too. Why in God's name couldn't he have come home with them? But it wasn't his home, she knew only too well. France was, and he had stayed there to defend the country he loved, but in a way she could explain to no one.

“Mommy? …” Elisabeth advanced slowly toward the bed and put her arms around her mother.

“Yes, love?”

“We love you.” The declaration brought fresh tears to her eyes as she hugged them.

“I love you too.” She looked at Marie-Ange then. “I'm sorry I shouted at you when I came home. I was just very angry.”

“At us?” Her eldest child looked worried.

“No, at Mrs. Smith. She doesn't understand about Papa.”

“Couldn't you explain it to her?” Elisabeth looked disappointed. She liked her school, even if no one invited her to their houses to play anymore. But she liked going to school, even if Marie-Ange didn't.

Liane shook her head. “No, I couldn't explain it, sweetheart. It's much too complicated to explain to anyone right now.”

“So we don't have to go back?” Marie-Ange hammered the point home.

“No, you don't. I'll have to find you both a new school.”

“In Washington?”

“I don't know.” For the last half hour she had been asking herself the same question. “I'll have to think it out.” The next weekend was Thanksgiving, But that afternoon was the last straw. She saw Elisabeth standing near the hall phone, crying. “What's the matter, love?” She suspected that she missed her friends, if she still had any.

“Nancy Adamson just called to tell me that Mrs. Smith told everyone we had been kicked out of school.”

Liane was horrified. “She said that?” Elisabeth nodded. “But it's not true. I told her …” She rapidly reviewed the conversation in her head, and realized that Mrs. Smith had told her that the children would be happier somewhere else and she had agreed. She sighed and sat down on the floor beside her youngest child. “We agreed that you shouldn't go back. No one kicked you out.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive.”

“Do they hate me?”

“Of course not!” But after what they had done to the girls on Friday, that was a tough one to prove to either child.

“Do they hate Papa?”

Liane considered her words. “No. They don't understand what he's doing.”

“What is he doing?”

“Trying to save France so that we can all go back someday to live.”

“Why?”

“Because that's what Papa does. All his life he has represented France in a lot of different countries. He takes care of France's interests. And that's what he's doing now. He's trying to take care of France so the Germans don't ruin it forever.”

“Then why does everyone say he loves the Germans? Does he?” She was exhausted by the child's questions, but each one needed a thoughtful answer. What she said now would stay with the children for years, and she knew it. They would always remember what she said, and it would color their views about their father and themselves for a lifetime.

“No, Papa doesn't love the Germans.”

“Does he hate them?”

“I don't think Papa hates anyone. But he hates what they're doing to Europe.” Elisabeth nodded slowly. It was what she had needed to hear, and it made her father a good guy.

“Okay.” She stood up then and went slowly upstairs to find her sister. And that night, Liane thought long and hard. She had to do something, and putting them in another Washington school wasn't a solution. She already knew the answer to her own questions, but she hated to do it. She decided to sleep on it one more night, but the next morning, she still had the same answer. She dialed the operator and asked her to place the call. She had waited until noon eastern time to call, which was nine o'clock for him in California. He came to the phone at once, his voice gruff.

“Liane? Is something wrong?”

“No, Uncle George, not really.”

“You sound sick or tired or something.” He was a canny old man. In truth, she was both, but she wouldn't admit it now. She was going home with her tail between her legs and that was bad enough.

“I'm all right.” She decided to get right to the point. “Do you still want us to come out?”

“Of course!” He sounded pleased, and then, “You mean you've finally come to your senses?”

“I guess you could call it that. I want to change the girls’ school, and I thought that as long as I was doing that, we might as well make a big change and come out to California.” He sensed instantly that there were deeper reasons than that. She was far too stubborn to have given in unless she was almost beaten. And she was. More so than he knew.

They made arrangements, Liane all the while holding back tears of anger, but she was grateful that she had somewhere to go. Things could have been a lot worse. There were people all over Europe who were homeless. “Uncle George?”

“Yes, Liane?”

“Thank you for letting us come.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Liane. This is your home too. It always has been.”

“Thank you.” He had made it easy for her and he hadn't mentioned Armand. She went to tell the girls.

Marie-Ange looked at her strangely then. “We're running away, aren't we, Mom?”

It was almost more than she could bear. She felt so drained that she couldn't stand one more question. “No, Marie-Ange”—she spoke to her daughter in a voice that surprised the child—“we're not running away any more than we were when we left Paris. We're doing the right thing, at the right time, in the best way we know how. It may not be what we like, but it's the smartest choice we've got, and that's why we're going to do it.” And with that she told the girls to go out to play. She needed some time to herself. And she stood at her bedroom window, watching them. They had grown up a lot in the last four months, and so had she, more than some people grow up in an entire lifetime.

iane and the girls had a quiet Thanksgiving dinner alone in Washington before they left. It was as though they were living in a town where they were strangers. No one called, no one dropped by, no one invited them to share their turkey dinner. Like millions of others in the nation, they went to church that morning, and came home to carve their turkey, but they might as well have been on a desert island when they did it.

And the next weekend they packed up the things they had bought when they arrived, and Liane put everything on a train to the West Coast. On Monday, they boarded the train, and for just a brief moment, as they sat down in their sleeper, Liane thought of Nick and when she had last seen him at Grand Central Station. It seemed a thousand years ago now, though it had been only four months. But they had been very long months for Liane and the girls. She felt relief as the train pulled slowly out of the station. None of them were sorry to leave Washington. It had been a mistake to come back. Armand had told her to go back to San Francisco, right from the first, but she couldn't have known then what they knew now, the price they would pay for his association with Pétain and the Vichy government.

The trip across the country was both monotonous and peaceful. The girls played and read, kept each other amused, and sometimes fought, which kept Liane busy. But much of the time she slept. She felt as though she were regaining her strength after almost five agonizing months of tension, not to mention the months of tension before that. In truth, life hadn't been normal for them for over a year. It never had been since they arrived in Paris nearly eighteen months before. And now suddenly she was able to relax and think of absolutely nothing. Only when they stopped in various stations and she read the papers was she reminded of the rest of the world, and their troubles. The British were being bombed day and night, and the streets were apparently filled with rubble. Children were still being evacuated whenever possible, and Churchill had ordered the RAF to bomb Berlin, which only redoubled Hitler's efforts to destroy London.

But all of that was hard to believe as they rolled through the snow-covered fields of Nebraska, and watched the Rockies appear in Colorado. And at last on Thursday morning, they awoke, within hours of San Francisco. They pulled into the city from the south, through the ugliest part of town, and Liane was surprised that it still looked so familiar. Very little had changed since she had come back for the last time after her father's death eight years before.

“Is this it?” Marie-Ange looked shocked. The children had never been to San Francisco. There had been no reason to bring them here. Her father was gone, and Uncle George had passed through the various cities where they had lived over the years.

“Yes.” Liane smiled. “But it's much prettier than this. This isn't a very nice part of town.”

“It sure isn't.”

Uncle George and the chauffeur were waiting for them at the station, and they were escorted to his home in grand style, in a Lincoln Continental. It had just arrived from Detroit and the girls thought it a very luxurious car. She could tell that they were suddenly excited to be here. And George had brought them each a new doll, and when they reached the house on Broadway, Liane was touched to see the trouble he had gone to, to arrange rooms for the girls. They were filled with toys and games, and there were pictures of Walt Disney characters on the walls. And in Liane's old room, waiting for her, there was an enormous vase of flowers. Even though it was the first of December, the weather was balmy, the trees were still green, and there were flowers in the garden.

“The house looks wonderful, Uncle George.” He had made some changes after her father's death, but on the whole the place had actually changed less than she had feared, and everything was well run and well staffed. He had settled down in his old age, abandoning the wild party days of his youth. He had done well by Crockett Shipping too. And in a funny way it was nice to come home. After the painful rejection they'd met in Washington for nearly five months, it was a blessed relief to be here, or so she thought until after dinner. The girls had gone to bed and she was sitting in the library, playing dominoes with George, as she often had with her father.

“Well, Liane. Have you come to your senses yet?”

“About what?” She pretended to concentrate on the game. She was stalling.

“You know what I'm talking about. I mean about that fool you married.”

She raised her eyes to his, with a cold, hard look, which surprised him. “I'm not going to discuss that with you, Uncle George. I hope I make myself perfectly clear.”

“Don't take that tone with me, girl. You made a mistake and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort. I've been married for eleven and a half years and I love my husband very much.”

“The man is practically a Nazi. And maybe ‘practically’ is being too kind. Could you really live with him again after knowing that?” She refused to answer. “For God's sake, he's almost six thousand miles away and you belong here. If you filed for divorce now, they would grant it to you under special circumstances. You could even go to Reno and have it over in six weeks. And then you and the girls could start a new life here where you belong.”

“I don't belong here. I'm here because I have nowhere else to go while France is occupied. We belong with Armand, and that's where we'll be as soon as the war ends.”

“I think you're crazy.”

“Then let's not discuss it anymore, Uncle George. There are things about the situation that you don't know.”

“Like what?”

“I'd rather not discuss it.” As usual, her hands were tied. And she didn't thank Armand for that. But she was growing used to living in silence.

“That's crap and you know it. And there's plenty I do know. Like what drove you out of town on a rail—the girls were kicked out of school, no one invited you anywhere, you were a pariah.” Her eyes looked sad as they met his. What he said was true. “At least you had the sense to come here, where you can have a normal, decent life.”

“Not if you go around calling my husband a Nazi.” Her voice was tired and sad. “If you do that, the same thing will happen here, and I can't pull up stakes every five months. If you talk like that, the girls will pay for it just like they did in Washington.” She didn't ask him where he'd gotten his information, he had connections and associates everywhere, and it really didn't matter. What he said was true, but what she was saying now was also.

“What do you expect me to say? That he's a nice guy?”

“You don't have to say anything, if you don't like him. But if you do, mark my words, you'll cry, the way I did, when the girls come home with paint in their hair, and their dresses torn off their backs, with swastikas painted on them.” There were tears in her eyes as she spoke, and he looked at her with fresh compassion.

“They did that to the girls?” She nodded. “Who?”

“Other children in school. Little girls from nice families. And the headmistress said she wouldn't be able to do anything to stop it.”

“I'd have killed her.”

“I would have liked to, but that wouldn't have solved the problem. As she put it, parents talk and children listen, and she happens to be right. So if you talk, Uncle George, so will everyone else, and the girls will end up paying for it.” That she did by now seemed normal. He was pensive for a long moment after she had spoken and he nodded slowly.

“I understand. I don't like it, but I understand.”

“Good.”

He looked at her gently then. “I'm glad you called me.”

“So am I.” She smiled at him. They had never been close, but she was oddly grateful to be with him now. He was giving her shelter at a time when she desperately needed it. And here life seemed so civilized and so far away from the war, one could almost pretend that it wasn't happening. Almost. But not quite. But it seemed blissfully distant.

They chatted on for a little while then, on safer subjects, and at last they went upstairs to their respective rooms, and when Liane went to bed that night, she fell into her old bed and slept as she hadn't in years. “Like the dead,” she told George the next morning. And after he left the house, she made several calls, but not to old friends. She hardly knew anyone here anymore, and he had already arranged a school for the girls. They were going to Miss Burke's and they were starting the following Monday. But there was something else Liane had in mind, and by late that afternoon, she had arranged it.

“You did what?” George asked in consternation.

“I said that I got a job. Is that so shocking?”

“I think so, yes. If you're anxious to do something, why don't you join the Metropolitan Club, or a women's auxiliary or something?”

“Because I want to do something useful. I'm going to work for the Red Cross.”

“For money?”

“No.”

“Thank God.” That would have been too much for him. “I don't know, Liane. You're a strange girl. Why would you want to work? And every day?”

“What do you think I should do? Sit here and count your ships going by?”

“They're not just my ships, they're yours too, and it wouldn't do you any harm. You look exhausted and you're too thin. Why don't you rest, or play golf or tennis or something?”

“I can do that on the weekends, with the girls.”

“You're a nut, and if you don't watch out, in your old age you'll turn eccentric!” But he was secretly proud of her, as he told a friend at his club the next day. They were playing dominoes at the Pacific Union Club, and he was boasting about Liane over a Scotch and soda.

“She's a hell of a woman, Lou. Intelligent, quiet, poised, she's a lot like my brother in some ways, and smart as a whip. She's had a very rough time in Europe.” He explained that she had been there during the fall of Paris, but heeding Liane's words, he refrained from saying that she'd been married to a man who turned out to be a Nazi.

“Is she married?” His friend looked at him with an interested eye. And George recognized it as an opening. He wanted to help Liane. He had been thinking about it for days, and he knew just how he wanted to do it.

“More or less. She's separated. And I think in a while she'll be going to Reno. She hasn't seen him in six months”—it was true, after all—”and she has no idea when she'll see him again.” That was true too. And then the biggie. “I'd like to introduce her to your son.”

“How old a woman is she?”

“She's thirty-three, and she has two lovely children.”

“So does Lyman.” George's friend won the game and sat back with a smile. “He's thirty-six, thirty-seven in June.” And he was one of the best attorneys in town and handsome as hell, or so George thought. He was from an excellent family, had gone to Cal, was respectable, and lived in San Francisco. He was perfect for her, and if she didn't agree, there were plenty of others like him. “I'll see what I can do,” Lou said.

“Maybe I'll arrange a little dinner.” George spoke to his secretary the next day, and a few days later he made some calls, and that night he told Liane when she got home from the Red Cross. She liked her job and she was in good spirits, and she had gotten a letter from Armand that day, it had been forwarded to her from Washington the day they had left. He sounded well, and didn't appear to be in any immediate danger. For her, it was a constant worry.

“How was your day, Uncle George?” She kissed him on the forehead and sat down to have a drink with him. Life was so easy here that she almost felt guilty, particularly when she thought of Armand, precariously perched between the two hostile governments he served. She knew what a toll it was taking on him, and here she sat, in a splendid house, with a lovely view, surrounded by servants and a doting uncle.

“My day was pretty fair. How was yours?”

“Interesting. We're coordinating additional locations for some of the British children.”

“That's a nice thing to do. How are the girls?”

“Thriving. They're upstairs doing their homework.” And the best news for them was that in ten days they would have Christmas vacation.

“You know, I had a thought today. Would you mind helping me give a little dinner? You used to be awfully good at that, when you lived with your father.” She smiled at the memory, and it brought thoughts of Armand back to mind—everything did—for she had done it for him too after Odile died, and for the eleven years they'd been married.

“Thank you, Uncle George. I enjoyed it.”

“Would you mind helping me out? I've fallen a little behind with some of my entertaining.”

“Not at all. Did you have something special in mind?”

“I thought a little dinner next week.” He didn't tell her that everyone had already accepted. “How does that sound? About eighteen people. And we could have a few musicians, and a little dancing in the library after dinner.” “Dancing? Isn't that rather elaborate for a ‘little dinner’?”

“Don't you like to dance?”

“Of course.” And then she smiled. She had forgotten what a gay blade George used to be, and apparently still was, although he was seventy-three years old, for he was spry for his age. She suddenly wondered if he had an ulterior motive, maybe some dowager he was wooing. “I'd be happy to help. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“I'll invite the guests, you handle the rest. Get yourself a pretty new dress, order some flowers. You'll know what to do.” Of course she did, and on the night of the dinner party she came down to check everything out. The entire group of eighteen was being seated at the large oval Chippendale table. There were three large arrangements of white and yellow roses on the table, tall ivory tapers in the elaborate silver candelabra, and she had used one of the lace tablecloths that had been her mother's and that she had left behind when she left the house. She had hired musicians, just as her uncle wanted. They were already playing gentle strains in the enormous living room before the guests arrived. She looked around and decided everything looked all right, when she caught a glimpse of Marie-Ange and Elisabeth peeking over the banister.

“What are you two doing?”

“Can we watch?”

“For a little while.” Their mother smiled and blew them a kiss. She was wearing a pale-blue satin evening dress she had bought at I. Magnin the day before and it was exactly the color of her eyes. Her hair was swept up and she felt more elegant than she had in years.

“You look like Cinderella!” Elisabeth whispered loudly from the stairs and Liane ran up to give her a kiss.

“Thank you, my love.”

And then Uncle George came down, the guests began to arrive, and the party got under way. Liane thought that it went very smoothly. George had done the seating himself, since he knew all the guests, and Liane sat between two very pleasant men, a stockbroker named Thomas MacKenzie, who was about forty years of age and was divorced with three sons, and an attorney named Lyman Lawson, whom she guessed to be about her own age, and who was also divorced and had two little girls. And as she watched her uncle watching her a little later, she suddenly understood. He was trying to introduce her to the bachelors around town. She was shocked at the thought. After all, she was a married woman.

It was a beautiful dinner, and the musicians were marvelous, but she was suddenly terrified about what George was trying to do, and very gingerly she brought it up at breakfast the next morning.

“Well, my dear, how did you enjoy last night?” He looked immensely pleased with himself, and she smiled at him over her coffee.

“Very much. It was a beautiful evening, Uncle George. Thank you.”

“Not at all. I've been meaning to reciprocate a number of invitations for quite a while, but with no woman in the house …”He tried to look mournful but didn't succeed, and Liane laughed.

“I'm not sure I believe that.” And then she looked quietly at him and decided to take the bull by the horns. “Uncle George, may I ask you a very rude question?”

“That depends how rude it is.” He smiled at his niece. He was liking her better than he had in years. She had a lot of spunk, even if she had made a miserable choice of a husband. But that would be remedied soon enough. He knew she'd come to her senses. She was a sensible woman, and she had the girls to think of. “What did you want to ask?”

“You aren't trying to launch me with … er … ah … the single men around town, are you?”

He feigned innocence and looked amused. “Do you prefer married ones, Liane?” Personally, he had always had a weakness for married women.

“No, Uncle George. I prefer my own husband.” There was a sudden silence at the table.

“I don't think there's any harm in your knowing a few of the men around town. Do you?” But that was a loaded question.

“That depends on what they know of my marital status. Do they think I'm married or divorced?”

“I can't remember what I said.” He cleared his throat and picked up his newspaper. But she very gently took it out of his hand and looked him in the eye.

“I'd like an answer. I think this is important.”

“So do I.” He looked her squarely in the eyes. “I think it's time you looked around and thought this thing through. That man is nearly six thousand miles away, doing God knows what, which we won't discuss, since you don't want to discuss it. But you know what I think about that. And I think there's a lot better out here for you.”

“I don't agree with you.” And as she said it she found herself thinking of Nick Burnham. She forced thoughts of him from her head and faced her uncle. “I'm a married woman, Uncle George. And I intend to stay that way. I also intend to remain faithful to my husband.” Again her single indiscretion flashed into her mind and she pushed it from her. She couldn't allow herself to think of him anymore. Dreaming of Nick led nowhere.

“Whether you're faithful or not is entirely your affair. I just thought it might do you good to meet a few San Franciscans.”

“And that was a very nice thought. But trying to break up my marriage isn't.”

“You don't have a marriage, Liane.” The force with which he said it took her by surprise.

“Yes, I do.”

“But you shouldn't.”

“You have no right to make that decision for me.”

“I have every right to try to bring you to your senses. You're wasting your youth on an old fool who must be blind to what he's doing.” Liane clamped her mouth shut and he went on. “And you're a damn fool if you don't do something about it.”

“Thank you.” She got up very quietly and left the room, feeling guilty and ungrateful. He had meant well, but he had no idea what he was doing. She would never betray Armand again. Never. She was not a debutante to be auditioning at dinner dances. And she felt suddenly foolish for having unwittingly played her uncle's game.

She felt even more so when Lyman Lawson called her that afternoon at the Red Cross. He invited her to dinner the following night, but she said that she was busy. He wasn't the only one who called, the stockbroker who had been sitting on her other side called her too, and she felt extremely uncomfortable about the impression her uncle was obviously creating, that she was a single woman. But if she told them that she was not, she would make a liar of her uncle. Matters got even worse when an item appeared in the paper a few days later about George Crockett's attractive niece from Washington, D.C., who was separated from her husband and had come back to San Francisco to live. The item even inferred that in the near future she would be making a six-week visit to Reno.

“Uncle George, how could you?” She stood in the library that night and waved the newspaper at him.

“I didn't tell them a thing!” He didn't even look embarrassed. He was convinced that he was right.

“You must have. And Lyman Lawson called me again this afternoon. What in hell can I tell these men?”

“That you'd like to have dinner with them sometime.”

“But I wouldn't!”

“It would do you good.”

“I am married. Married! M-a-r-r-i-e-d. Married. Don't you understand?”

“You know how I feel about it, Liane.”

“And you know how I feel about it too. How exactly would you explain my cheating on my husband to my children? Do you expect them to simply forget that their father ever existed? Do you think I can?”

“I hope so in time.”

It was a campaign she had no idea how to deal with. He brought people home at night, showed up with them for drinks, picked her up at the Red Cross for lunch with friends. By Christmas she felt as though she had met every single man in town, and not one of them understood that she was very seriously married. It was almost funny, except that it was driving her crazy. She sought refuge in her work and with the girls, and she dodged every single invitation.

“When are you going to get out of this house, Liane?” He roared it at her one night over their domino game and she threw up her hands with exasperation.

“Tomorrow, when I go to work.”

“I mean at night.”

“When the war ends and my husband comes back. Is that soon enough, or do you want me to move out now?” She was shouting at him and he was an old man and she felt very bad about it. “Please, Uncle George, for God's sake, leave me alone. This is a very difficult time for us all. Don't make it any harder for me. I know you mean well. But I don't want to go out with your friends' sons.”

“You should be grateful they want to go out with you.”

“Why should I? All I am to them is Crockett Shipping.”

“Is that what's bothering you, Liane? They see more than that in you. You're a very pretty girl and damn bright.”

“All right, all right. That's not the point. The point is that I'm married.” And eventually the girls overheard them.

“Why does Uncle George want you to go out with other men?”

“Because he's crazy,” she snapped as she dressed for work.

“He is?” Marie-Ange looked intrigued. “You mean senile?”

“No, I mean—damn it, you leave me alone too. For God's sake …” But the real problem was that she hadn't had a letter from Armand in two weeks and she was sick with worry that something had happened to him. But that wasn't a fear she could share with her daughters. “Look, Uncle George means well, and it's too complicated to explain. Just forget about it.”

“Are you going to go out with other men?” She looked worried.

“Of course not, silly. I'm married to Papa.” It seemed as though that was all she said these days.

“I think Mr. Burnham liked you when we came back on the ship. I saw him looking at you sometimes as though he thought you were very special.” Out of the mouths of babes. Liane stopped what she was doing for a moment to look at her daughter.

“He's a very nice man, Marie-Ange. And I think he's special too. We're very good friends, but that's all. And he's married too.”

“No, he isn't.”

“Of course he is.” Liane was already tired before she began her day, and she could hardly wait to leave the house as she pulled on her stockings. “You met his wife on the Normandie last year, and his son, John.”

“I know. But it said in the newspaper yesterday that he was getting a divorce.”

“It did?” Liane felt her heart stop. “Where?”

“In New York.”

“I mean where in the paper.” She had only read the front page, for news of the war, and she had been late for work.

“I don't know. It said that they were having a big fight, and he's suing her for divorce, and he wants to keep their son and she won't let him.”

Liane was numb. The maid helped her locate the paper in the pantry. Marie-Ange had been right. There it was. An article on page three. Nicholas Burnham was allegedly pitted against his wife in an ardent dispute. She and Philip Markham had created a scandal in New York, and Nick was suing her for divorce, naming Markham as the co-respondent. And in addition he was demanding custody of his son, but there was no way of telling if he'd win.

When Liane got to the Red Cross office, she was tempted to call him. But as always in the past, she hung up the phone before she dialed. Even if he was getting divorced, she was not. Nothing had changed for her, including her feelings for Nick. And Armand.

he week before Christmas Nick Burnham strode into his lawyer's office.

“Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Greer, sir?”

“No, I don't.”

“I'm afraid he's with a client, and after that he's going to court.”

“Then I'll wait.”

“But I can't—” She began to give him the party line, but when he looked into her eyes, she almost took a step backward. He was a good-looking man, but he looked as though, with very little provocation, he would be willing to kill. She had never seen such total fury in any man. “May I tell him who you are?”

“Nicholas Burnham.” She knew the name and disappeared instantly. And ten minutes later, when the client left, Nick was ushered in to see Ben Greer.

“Hello, Nick. How've you been?”

“I've been fine. More or less.”

“Oh, boy.” He took one look at Nick's face and knew that things were rough. There were circles under Nick's eyes, and his jaw was so tense that Greer could almost see him choking back rage. “Would you like a drink?”

“Do I look that bad?” Nick began to relax a little and sat back in the chair, producing a tired grin. “I guess things haven't been so hot after all.”

“I guess not, or you wouldn't be here. What can I do to help?”

“Kill my wife.” He said it as though it were a joke, but Ben Greer wasn't entirely sure. He'd seen that look on men's faces before, and at least once in his career, he'd ended up defending a man for murder instead of getting him a divorce. But Nick took a deep breath, sat back, and ran a hand through his hair. And then he looked sadly at Ben Greer. “You know, I've tried to make this thing work for ten years, but it just never has.” It was no secret in New York, and Greer knew it too. “And when I came back from Europe in July, I tried to impress on her that I wanted to keep the ship afloat. By then it was”—he groped for the words—”a marriage of convenience at best, but I wanted to stay married for the sake of the child.” Greer nodded. He'd heard the same tale ten thousand times before. “She was involved with Philip Markham by then. It had been going on for about a year. And I let her know, as best I could, that she could have free rein with him, but I wouldn't agree to a divorce. And do you know what the son of a bitch did yesterday?”

“I'm dying to hear.”

But Nick didn't smile. “He put a gun to my son's head. When I came home from work, there he sat in my living room, cool as hell. And he pointed the gun at John and said that if I didn't let Hillary go, he'd kill my kid.” Nick grew pale as he told the tale, and the attorney frowned. Things were desperate after all.

“Was the gun loaded, Nick?”

“No. But I didn't know that then. I agreed to the divorce, he put the gun down …”He thought back to the moment and clenched his teeth and his fists.

“And then what did you do?”

“I kicked his ass all over the room. He's got three broken ribs, a broken arm, and two chipped teeth. Hillary moved out last night and she tried to take Johnny with her. I told her that if she ever laid a hand on him again or showed up in my house, I'd kill her and Markham. And by God, I mean it.”

“Well, you've got grounds for divorce.” But that was hardly news. “Do you think you can prove adultery?”

“With ease.”

“But what grounds do you have to win custody of the boy?”

“Do I need more than that? He pulled a gun on my child.”

“The gun wasn't loaded. And Markham did that. Your wife didn't.”

“But she was a party to it. She just sat there and let him do it.”

“She probably knew it wasn't loaded. I'll admit, it was a cheap trick, but it's not grounds to get custody of the boy.”

“Everything else is. She's a rotten mother, she doesn't give a damn about John, and she never did. She wanted an abortion before he was born, and she's never given him a second glance. When I was stuck in Europe after war was declared, she dumped him with her mother for ten months and almost never saw him until I got home. She's a rotten mother to him! Rotten, do you hear?” Nick was frantic, and he began to pace the room. He should never have listened to Liane. He should have left Hillary six months before and fought for custody of the child then. But he hadn't. And now he had lost her too. If he had been free, who knew what would have happened. It was a loss that he still felt, as he had for nearly half a year.

“Is she willing to give up custody of the child?”

Nick forced his thoughts back to Hillary again and shook his head. “She's afraid of what people will think if she gives him up. She's afraid they'll think she's a drunk and a whore, which she is, but she doesn't want to admit it to the whole town. She might as well, she's slept with them all, for chrissake.” But not lately, he had to admit. She had been faithful to Markham, as she had never been to him.

“You're going to have a tough fight, Nick. Very tough. The divorce will be a snap, on these grounds, and she wants out, but custody cases are a bitch. The court almost always rules with the mother, unless she's a mental case locked up somewhere. Even if she's a drunk, as you put it, or a whore, most of the time that isn't enough. The courts believe that mothers should have the kids, not men.”

“Not in this case.”

“You may be right. But we have to prove that, and it's going to be an ugly fight. You'll have to pull out every ounce of dirt you can get. Do you really want to drag your son through that?”

“No. But if I have to, I will. And if you tell me I have no choice, then we'll start a smear campaign that won't quit. She's given me the ammunition over the years, and I'm going to use it all now. It's for Johnny's good in the long run.”

Greer nodded. He enjoyed a tough case. “And if you're right and she doesn't really want the boy, she may give up.”

“She might.” But he didn't really think she would. “And in the meantime, I want a restraining order on Markham to keep him away from my son.”

“Where's the boy now?”

“He's still at our apartment with me. I told the maid not to let Hillary back in for her things. I'll send them to Markham's place myself.”

“She has a right to see the child.”

“The hell she does. Not as long as she's consorting with a man who pulled a gun on him.”

“That was to impress you, Nick.” Greer's voice was painfully calm, but Nick was too wound up to hear him.

“Well, guess what? It did. Now, will you take the case?”

“I will. But I want to make something clear to you right now. I can't guarantee the outcome, Nick.”

“I don't care. Give it the best shot you've got.”

“Will you do what I say?”

“If it makes sense to me.” He smiled, and Greer wagged a finger at him from across the desk. “All right, all right. How long do you think it'll take?”

“You can agree to let her go to Reno for the divorce. That way it would only take six weeks. But the custody matter could take a long time.”

“How long? I don't want Johnny living with this thing over his head, or mine.”

“Maybe a year.”

“Shit. But if I win, she's out of his life for good?”

“Could be. You could also try to buy her off.”

Nick shook his head. “That won't do. She's got a trust for six million dollars, and Markham's worth a small fortune too.”

“So much for that. We'll have to win this one fair and square.”

“And if you can't, cheat.” Nick grinned, and Ben Greer did too.

“You tell me how and I will. Anyway, I'll get that restraining order for you today. I have to be in court in half an hour.” He glanced at his watch. “And I want to meet with you to plan our campaign. How about next week?”

Nick looked disappointed. “Not before that?”

“You won't get to court on this for at least six months.”

“All right. But, Ben”—he looked intently at his lawyer across the desk—“remember one thing.”

“What's that?”

“I intend to win.”

ick didn't see Hillary again for several days and when she came back to the apartment, he was waiting. She let herself in with her key when she thought he'd be at work, and tiptoed quietly upstairs. But Nick had suspected she'd do something like that and he hadn't gone to the office since she'd left. He'd taken all his calls at home, and kept Johnny home from school. He was in his room when Hillary opened the door, but Nick was right behind her.

“Get out of our house.” She jumped a foot when she heard his voice behind her, and when she turned, she saw that he was rigid and pale and she was suddenly afraid that he would hit her.

“I've come for my son.” She tried to look nonchalant but he saw that she was shaking. And then she turned to John. “Pack your bags. You're coming with me.” The child looked immediately to his father.

“Johnny, please wait for me in the den. I want to speak to your mother.”

“Pack your bags.” Hillary's voice was shrill, and Nick crossed the room then and gently led the frightened child from the room.

“Daddy, is she going to take me?”

“No, she isn't, son. Everything's going to be all right. She's just upset. Now, wait for me downstairs. That's a good boy.” He watched the boy scamper down the hall to the den, and then turned back and walked back into the child's bedroom, where Hillary was throwing clothes into a valise. “Don't waste your time, Hil. I'm going to call the police and they're going to throw you out on your ass. Or would you like to leave now and spare me the trouble?”

“You can't keep my child here. I'm taking him with me.” She turned and there was fire in her eyes.

“You're a whore. You don't deserve to be his mother.” She slapped her husband and he grabbed her arm. “Now, get out of my house. Go back to that son of a bitch who wants you. I don't.”

Hillary glared at him in impotent rage. She knew she wasn't winning the battle. But she would. Come hell or high water, she was going to. “My son belongs with me.”

“Not with a man who'd hold a gun to his head to get me to agree to a divorce. I assume you got the restraining orders.” She nodded. Markham had been served with them the previous morning. “Good. Now, get out of this house before I call the cops.”

“You can't take my son away from me, Nick.” She was beginning to whine, and he had to fight himself not to hit her. Instead, he yanked open the door and waited for her to leave the room.

“You never wanted him before, and I don't see why that should change now.”

“If I don't have him, my name will be ruined. …” She began to cry. Philip's mother was already giving them trouble. He had gone through most of his own fortune on his first four wives, and now he needed Mama to bail him out of his debts and eventually leave everything to him. He had told Hillary that she had to get the boy, or God only knew what his mother would think. She had to get him, no matter what, but she had told Philip this would happen. She knew Nick, and as she looked at him now she knew she was in for a world of trouble.

“Get out!”

“When can I see him?”

“After we go to court.”

“When will that be?”

“Maybe next summer.”

“Are you crazy? I can't see my child till then?”

It was not what Nick's lawyers had told him, but he didn't give a damn. He was not going to let this woman near Johnny. He still trembled when he thought of Markham putting the gun to the child's head, and she had peacefully sat there and let him. And maybe she had known that the gun wasn't loaded, but Johnny did not. He had been terrified, his face deathly pale, his breathing labored. Just thinking about it made Nick want to kill her.

“You don't deserve to ever see that child again, after what you've done.”

“I haven't done shit!” she shouted at him. “Philip was just trying to scare you.”

“Congratulations. I hope you'll be very happy. He's the perfect man for you, Hil. I'm just sorry you didn't meet him sooner.” He grabbed her arm, pulled her out of Johnny's room, into the hall, and shoved her into the main hallway. “Now, get out of here before I kick you out the door.” She looked at him strangely for a moment, his threat would have suited her plans. She was pregnant, and she wanted an abortion. But Philip had sworn to her that he'd find someone to do it in New Jersey. He didn't want a baby any more than she did, but just in case he couldn't find someone decent to do the abortion, he thought they should get married, and soon. Hence the gun. They had to get married before his mother got wind of the situation.

“If you threaten me, Nick, Philip will kill you.”

“Let him try.”

She glared at Nick then and walked slowly toward the front door. It was hard to believe this had once been her home. She felt nothing for it now. She never did., She had never felt anything of what she felt for Philip, for Nick. And when she reached the front door, she turned around and looked at him long and hard. “You'll never win this in court, Nick. Never. They'll give Johnny to me.”

“Over my dead body.”

“That”—she smiled sweetly at him before closing the door—“would be a pleasure.”

And with that she was gone and he went to the library to find John, who was crying softly as he lay on the couch. Nick sat down next to him and gently stroked his head. “It's all right, son. It's all right.”

Johnny turned to look up at his father. “I don't want to live with her and that man.”

“I don't think you'll have to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Almost. It's going to take some time, but we'll win. I'm going to go to court, and we'll fight a good fight.” He bent down and kissed the child's hair. “And after Christmas vacation, my friend, you're going back to school, and everything will be just like it was before, except that it'll be just you and me around here, without Mommy.”

“I thought that man was going to kill me.”

Nick's jaw clenched again at the thought. “I would have killed him if he had.” And then he forced himself to smile down at the boy. They had to get back to some kind of normal life, he knew. “Nothing like that will ever happen again.”

“But what if they come back?”

“They can't.”

“Why not?”

“It's too complicated to explain, but the court served him with some papers that say he can't come near you.” And that afternoon, when Johnny was playing in his room, Nick made some new arrangements. He hired three bodyguards on loan from the New York police force to work a twenty-four-hour shift. There would be one of them with the boy at all times, in the apartment, in school, in the park. They were going to become Johnny's shadows.

The next day they were both relieved to read in the gossip columns that Hillary, and Philip Markham, had left for Reno. Nick's lawyer had notified her at once that Nick would agree to the Reno divorce and that, as long as he didn't contest it, it would be legal. Hillary had lost no time. She was in a big hurry to get divorced and marry Philip Markham. And Nick was glad, it was Christmas Eve and he wanted to spend the evening peacefully with Johnny. They shared Christmas dinner quietly in their apartment, and on Christmas Day they went out to the park to play. Nick had bought Johnny a new bicycle, a new football, and a pair of skis. He tried the skis out on a little hill covered with snow as the bodyguard watched, grinning. Johnny was a cute kid, and Nick was a good father. He hoped he won his case. And in the meantime, nobody was going to lay a hand on Johnny.

erry Christmas, Uncle George.” Liane handed him a large package and he looked, surprised. They were sitting around the tree he had set up in the library downstairs. There hadn't been a Christmas tree in the house in years, but he wanted the girls to have a beautiful Christmas.

“You're not supposed to give me presents!” He looked embarrassed as he opened his gift, and seemed very pleased as he took out the dark blue and wine-colored silk dressing gown. And she had bought him navy blue suede slippers to go with it. She had teased him about the raggedy bathrobe he wore, and he always said that he'd had it for forty years and liked it. The girls gave him a new pocket watch, and they were as excited about it as he was. Liane had helped them pick it out at Shreve's, and they had also made him little gifts at school, ashtrays, and decorations for the tree, and pictures, and Elisabeth had made him an impression of her hand in clay. It was a Christmas that brought tears to his eyes, and Liane was pleased. He did so much for them that it was a good feeling to do something for him for a change.

They had Christmas dinner at home that afternoon, and then they all went for a drive to see the decorations around the city. But as they sat in the car, Liane found herself worrying about Armand and what kind of Christmas he was having in Paris. She suspected that it was grim, and knew how much he must have missed her and the girls. It was the first Christmas in eleven years that they had been apart, and she felt a dull ache in her chest to be without him.

Uncle George saw the look in her eyes as they got out at the St. Francis to have tea, and he was sorry too. He wanted her to forget him and meet someone else, but he knew that on Christmas it was inevitable that she think about her husband.

“Uncle George, look!” The girls distracted them both. They had discovered the enormous gingerbread house set up in the lobby. It was so large that the girls could have walked inside, and it was covered with thousands of tiny candies and tons of spun sugar. “Look at that!” Liane stood beside them with a smile, but her thoughts were far, far away. For days now, she had had a desperately worried feeling about Armand.

“Monsieur de Villiers?” He looked up from his desk. It was Christmas night, but there was no reason for him not to be working, and a few others had also come to the office. There had been an aura of tension in the office for weeks. The Resistance had stepped up their efforts so enormously in the past month that it was a struggle for Pétain's people to keep one step ahead of them. And the Germans did not find it amusing. In order to make their point, they had held their first public execution only two days before. Jacques Bonsergent had been shot for “an act of violence against an officer of the German Army,” and a pall of depression had fallen over Paris. Even the softening of the midnight curfew after that, for one day on Christmas, had had no effect. The cafés were allowed to stay open until 2:30 A.M. that night, and all traffic had to cease by three. But after the shooting of Bonsergent, no one wanted to be out anyway, except the Germans.

It was bitter cold in Paris that year, and it suited Armand's mood. His hands were almost numb as he sat at his desk, thinking of Liane and his daughters.

“Monsieur, have you seen this?” His zealous young assistant handed him a sheet of paper with disdain. It was entitled “La Résistance” and dated December 15, 1940, and it claimed to be the first edition of the only bulletin of its kind, published by the National Committee of Public Safety, giving news “as it really was,” as opposed to the propaganda being spread by the Occupied Forces. It spoke of the student demonstrations that had taken place in November, and the Faculté being shut down after that on November 12, and it reported the increased strength of the underground now. The little bulletin said that as of December, the Resistance had never been stronger. “Soyez courageux, nos amis, nous vainquerons les salauds et les Bosches. La France survivra malgré tout… Vive de Gaulle!” … Be brave, our friends, we will best the bastards and the Germans. France will survive in spite of it all… Long live De Gaulle! … Armand read it and was instantly sorry that he couldn't show it to Liane, and he didn't dare send it out in one of his letters, lest in some way it be traced back to him, and he couldn't afford to keep it on him. He handed it back to the young man, and wondered how Jacques Perrier had fared. He had gone to Mers-el-Kebir, in Algeria, the summer before, to be with De Gaulle. It was there that the French fleet had been seriously damaged, with the loss of more than a thousand lives. But Armand had heard several months earlier that Perrier was still alive, and he hoped he'd survive the war. But now his new assistant was looking down at him, expecting a reaction.

“Ça ne vaut pas grand-chose.” It isn't worth much. “Don't worry about it.”

“The little pigs. They call themselves the true press.” Thank God for that, Armand thought silently, wondering why this young man was so fond of the Germans. He was ecstatic working for Armand, who was the official liaison now between Pétain's men and the German occupying forces in Paris. They were expected to report the collection of artifacts to be handed over to the Germans, the rounding up of Jews, and the discovery of any possible Resistance agents. It was a draining job and Armand looked ten years older than he had when Liane had left. But it was an ideal situation for him, giving him ample opportunity for reporting falsified facts, hiding the treasures he had spoken of to Liane, and assisting others in getting to the South of France, most often by shuffling and falsifying reports and papers. The young man who had handed him the newspaper was his greatest obstacle. He was much too interested in his job, like now, when he could have been home on Christmas with his family or his girl friend, but he was too busy trying to impress Armand.

“Don't you want to go home now, Marchand? It's getting late.”

“I'll leave with you, monsieur.” He smiled. He liked Armand. He was a great man for France, not like the other traitors who had gone to North Africa with De Gaulle. If he could have read Armand's mind at that moment and discovered the hatred there, he would have shuddered. But the years in the diplomatic service had served Armand well. He was ever charming and calm and efficient, and at times nothing less than brilliant. It was why Pétain had wanted him so much, and why the German High Command liked him, although they weren't always sure that they trusted him absolutely. In time, but not quite yet. The Pétain government was still too new, and they were only French, after all. But there was no doubt, Armand had been very useful to them.

“I may not leave for hours, André.”

“It's all right, sir.”

“Don't you want to spend at least some of Christmas at home?” They had been there all day, and the young man was driving him crazy.

“Christmas is much less important than this.” And what had they done? Gone over endless lists of names of possible Jews, some only quarter Jewish, or half, and some allegedly being hidden in the suburbs. It was work that made Armand sick, but the younger man loved it. And Armand had skimmed over entire groups of names whenever he could, burning the lists quietly in the fireplace in his office.

At last, in desperation, Armand decided to go home. There was nothing left to do here, and he couldn't hide any longer from the fact that his house was silent and empty. He dropped André Marchand at his home in the Septième, and went on to the Place du Palais-Bourbon, aching, as he always did. for Liane and his daughters.

“Good night, girls.” Liane kissed them in their beds in the house on Broadway. “Merry Christmas.”

“Mommy?” Marie-Ange picked up her head after the light was out, and Liane stopped in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“How long has it been since you heard from Papa?” She felt the familiar mixture of worry and longing slice through her.

“A little while.”

“Is he all right?”

“He's fine. And he misses you very much.”

“Can I see his letters sometime?”

Liane hesitated and then nodded. There was much in them that she didn't want to share, but the child had a right to some contact with her father. And he had precious little time and paper to write very often to the girls, he saved most of his energy and thoughts for Liane. “All right.”

“What does he say?”

“That he loves us, and he talks about the war, and things he sees.”

Marie-Ange nodded and, in the light from the hallway, looked relieved. “No one at school here says that he's a Nazi.”

“He's not.” Liane sounded desperately sad.

“I know.” And then after a pause, “Good night, Mommy. Merry Christmas.” And with that Liane walked back across the room to kiss her again. She was almost eleven now and growing up very quickly.

“I love you very much.” She swallowed to hold back tears. “And so does your papa.”

Liane saw that her daughter's eyes were damp. “I hope the war is over soon. I miss him so much.” She began to sob. “And I hated it—when—they called him—a Nazi—”

“Shh … darling … shh … we know the truth. That's all that matters.”

Marie-Ange nodded and held her mother close and then she lay back on her pillow with a sigh. “I want him to come home.”

“He will. We just have to pray that we can all be together again quickly. Now, go to sleep.”

“Good night, Mommy.”

“Good night, love.” She closed the door softly and went to her own room. It was eight o'clock at night, already five o'clock in the morning in Paris. And Armand lay in his bed in the Place du Palais-Bourbon, in a deep, exhausted sleep, dreaming of his wife and daughters.

n December Roosevelt took a two-week vacation and went fishing in the Caribbean, and when he returned, it was with a revolutionary new idea, the Lend-Lease program for England. It was a system by which America could supply Britain with a large stream of munitions, free of charge, in exchange for which the United States got leases on naval bases from Newfoundland to South America, and the program allowed the United States to maintain neutrality and at the same time help the English. On the whole, America had changed her tune by the end of 1940. Everyone acknowledged at last that Hitler was a deadly threat to the survival of Europe, and admiration for the British had reached its height. They were a brave, noble people fighting for their lives. And Churchill's pleas from London did not fall on deaf ears: “Give us the tools and we will finish the job. …” And on January 6, Roosevelt spoke before Congress. With his Lend-Lease program he wanted to give the British the “tools,” and a savage debate began that raged for two months. It was still raging when Hillary Burnham returned from Reno on February 8, a free woman.

She and Philip Markham had stayed at the Riverside Hotel for a little over six weeks, and like all the others, when she got her divorce, she threw the narrow gold wedding band Nick had given her into the Truckee River. The diamond ring he had given her along with it, she saved to sell when she got back to New York. But there were other things on her agenda first. She tried to see Johnny outside his school, but the bodyguard on duty wouldn't let her near him. Instead, she turned up at Nick's office without an appointment and forced her way in, despite his secretary's futile attempts to keep her out. She stood in the doorway in a new sable coat, wearing a new large pear-shaped diamond ring, which did not escape his notice.

“So, the great man is in. It's like trying to get in to see God.” She looked very confident, and very vicious, and terribly pretty. But he was immune to her now. He looked up from his desk as though he were in no way surprised to see her.

“Hello, Hillary. What do you want?”

“In a word, my son.”

“Try for something else. You'll have better luck.”

“So I notice. Who's the goon who stands over him like a mother hen?”

Nick's eyes glittered unpleasantly. “I gather you tried to see him.”

“That's right. He's my child too.”

“Not anymore. You should have thought of that a long time ago.”

“You can't wish me away, Nick, no matter how much you'd like to. I'm still Johnny's mother.” But there was something very ruthless in his face as he got up and crossed the room.

“You don't give a damn about that child.” But he was wrong. She did. She was getting married on the twelfth of March, and Mrs. Markham was already making comments about the scandalous legal proceedings between Hillary and Nick. She wanted Hillary to have custody so there would be no scandal. Philip and Hillary were creating enough of one by living together.

“I'm getting married in five weeks, and I want Johnny there.”

“Why? So people won't talk? Go to hell.”

“He belongs with me. Philip and I love him.”

“That's strange.” Nick leaned back against his desk. He didn't want to come any closer to her. It was as though she exuded poison. “I seem to recall that he's the man who held a gun to my child's head.”

“Oh, for chrissake, stop talking about that.”

“You came to see me. I didn't come to see you. If you don't like what I have to say, get out of my office.”

“Not until you agree to let me see my son. And if you don't”—her eyes were just as vicious as his—“I'll get a court order and you'll have to.” Philip had already taken her to see his attorneys, and she liked their style. They were a tough bunch of bastards.

“Is that right? Well, why don't you have your attorney call mine and they can discuss it. You can save the cab fare coming down here to see me.”

“I can afford it.”

“That's true.” He smiled. “But your fiancé can't. I hear he's gone through his money and he's on an allowance from his mommy.”

“You son of a bitch …” He had hit a nerve, and she walked to the door then and yanked it open. “You'll be hearing from my lawyers.”

“Have a nice wedding.” The door slammed, and he reached for the phone and called Ben Greer.

“I know you don't like it, Nick. But you have to let her see him. You have bodyguards for the boy, she can't do any harm.”

“He doesn't want to see her.”

“He's not old enough to make that decision.”

“Says who?”

“The State of New York.”

“Shit.”

“I think you'd be smart to let her see him. She may lose interest after she sees him a couple of times, and that would look good for us in court. I really want you to think it over.”

Nick did and he was still adamant when he met with Greer in the man's offices a few days later.

“You know, if you don't, she can get a court order and force you to let her see the boy.”

“So she said.”

“She happens to be right. By the way, who are her attorneys?”

“They must be Markham's men. Fulton and Matthews.” Greer frowned at the names. “Do you know them?”

He nodded. “They're very tough, Nick. Very tough.”

“Tougher than you?” Nick was smiling but he looked worried.

“I hope not.”

“You hope not? That's some lousy answer. Can you beat them or not?”

“I can and I have, but they've beaten me a couple of times too. The fact is she's gotten herself the toughest bastards in town.”

“She would. Now what?”

“You let her see the boy.”

“It makes me sick.”

“It'll make you just as sick if they force you.”

“All right, all right.” He had his secretary call Hillary that afternoon and suggest a visit on the following weekend. He expected her to say that she'd be away, but she agreed, and she appeared at the appointed hour at the apartment. Nick had instructed the bodyguard to call the police and have Markham arrested if he showed up with her. With the restraining orders still in force, that was fair play, but Markham was smart enough not to show up. Hillary came alone, looking demure in a navy-blue suit and a mink coat Nick had given her.

Nick stayed downstairs in his study, and the bodyguard was posted outside the child's room, and instructions had been given to leave his door open. It was not an easy visit by any means, and as she left, Hillary dabbed at her eyes and kissed Johnny.

“I'll see you soon, darling.” And when she left, it was obvious that he was confused and torn by his mother's tears.

“Dad, she says she cries herself to sleep every night. She looked really sad. …” Johnny looked desperately unhappy as he showed his father the presents she'd brought him, a new baseball hat, some toy guns, a big stuffed bear he was much too old for, and a toy train. She had no idea what the boy liked so she had bought it all. And Nick had to restrain himself from further comment. It just upset the boy and he knew it. She was playing a game with him, and Nick thought it best not to confuse him any more than he already was. But the situation did not improve. She arrived every Sunday, laden with gifts, and sobbed in anguish in her son's room. Johnny was beginning to lose weight and look extremely nervous. And Nick reported it to his lawyer.

“Look, she's driving the kid nuts. He doesn't know what to think. She sits there and she cries, and she feeds him a lot of crap about crying herself to sleep every night.” Nick ran a hand nervously through his hair. He had had an argument with the boy that morning when he'd called his mother a bitch. Johnny had defended her.

“I told you it was going to be rough, and it's going to get a lot worse before we're through. Fulton and Matthews are no fools, they're telling her exactly what to do. They've written the script and she's playing it to perfection.”

“That's quite a little drama she's playing.”

“Of course. What do you expect her to do?”

“She's capable of anything.”

She continued the visits until the day of the wedding, and then she and Philip spent a three-week honeymoon in the Caribbean. And actually, she needed the rest. She hadn't felt quite herself since the abortion Philip had arranged in Reno, and the visits with Johnny were a hell of a strain. She was sick and tired of buying him gifts and waving a damp hankie.

“Look, damn it,” she told Philip on the beach in St. Croix, “he's not an easy kid, and he's crazy about his father. What do you expect me to do next? I've bought out goddamn Schwarz. Now what?”

“Well, you'd better think of something. My mother says that if this scandal continues when we get back, she's cutting off my money.”

“You're a grown man. Tell her to drop dead.” The blush was off the rose, and the heat in the Caribbean was making her nervous. “What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“I don't know. What about your trust? That might be easier than trying to force Burnham to give up the kid.”

“I can't touch my trust till I'm thirty-five. That's another six years.” The income she got had helped a lot, but it was not enough for them to live the way they liked to. They needed Mrs. Markham's help to do that.

“Then we have to have the kid. Nick's a fool, if we go to court, he won't win.”

“Tell him that.” She sighed and looked up at the sun. “He's a stubborn man.” As she knew only too well.

“He's a damn fool. Because he'll lose, and in the meantime my mother's going to drive me crazy.” He stared out to sea, and Hillary got up and walked along the beach. It annoyed her now that Philip was so much under his mother's thumb. He hadn't seemed to be before, but he was now. When she came back and lay down next to Philip again, she sighed and closed her eyes in the bright sun. And the problem of Johnny was quickly pushed out of her head as her husband rolled over on top of her and began to pull the top of her bathing suit down.

“Philip, don't!” But she was laughing. He was an outrageous man, and she had liked that about him from the first.

“Why not? There's no one around for miles.”

“What if someone comes along?” But his mouth silenced her words and a moment later the bathing suit was down, then off, tangled with his discarded trunks in the sand, as they lay on the beach and made love. And the last thing on either of their minds was Johnny.

t was the first of April when Hillary and Markham got back to New York and another week before Nick heard from her. It was unusually warm and Hillary said she wanted to take Johnny to the zoo. Her call dashed his hopes, because he had thought that maybe she wouldn't resume the visits when she got back, but here she was again. He sat in his office, looking annoyed as he spoke into the phone.

“Why the zoo?”

“Why not? He always liked it before.” He did, but Nick felt better having her visit in the house, where he knew what was going on. And then he realized that if he refused, she'd probably tell the boy, and then he'd be the bad guy with his son.

“All right, all right.” He'd send the bodyguard along, although he knew he had nothing to fear. She was biding her time until the court date, buying out F.A.O. Schwarz to impress their son. But it still made him feel better to have the guard along.

She showed up promptly at two o'clock on Saturday afternoon, in a bright red dress and a matching hat and white gloves, looking innocent and very pretty.

“Hi, sweetheart, how've you been?” She chirped at Johnny like a little bird, Nick thought to himself as they left. She had even had the forethought to wear flat shoes. He went back into his library after they left. He had some work to do. They were getting enormous contracts from Washington now, tied in with the new Lend-Lease program that had finally gone through in March. Nick had even gone to Washington twice to watch them lobby for the bill, and he was pleased with the results. It created an enormous new workload for him, but it tripled his income too. Burnham Steel was doing very well thanks to the war in Europe.

And he had almost gotten halfway through his stack of work when there was a pounding on his door and suddenly the bodyguard flew in, still breathless. He had run all the way home from the zoo. He looked at Nick with wild eyes now, his gun still in his hand.

“Mr. Burnham … Johnny's gone.” The man's face was deathly pale, but Nick's was more so as he jumped up.

“What?”

“I don't know what happened … I don't understand … they were right there, next to me, and she wanted to show him something near the lion's cage, and suddenly they were running … and there were three men. They had a car parked on the grass. I ran like hell, but I was afraid to fire and hurt the boy. …” Suddenly there were tears in the man's eyes, he liked the boy and he liked Nick, and he had failed dismally. “Christ … I don't know what to say …” He looked bereft and Nick took the guard's shoulders in his own powerful hands and shook him like a little child.

“You let her take my son? You let her—” He was almost incoherent with rage, and he had to fight to hold himself back. He threw the man against the desk then, grabbed the phone to call the police, and then called Greer at home. His worst fear had come true. His child was gone, God only knew where. The police arrived in less than half an hour, and Greer just on their heels. “She kidnapped my son.” He spoke in a trembling voice, and the bodyguard filled them in as Nick turned to Ben. “I want him found and I want her put in jail.”

“You can't do that, Nick.” Ben's eyes were sad but his voice was calm.

“The hell I can't. What about the Lindbergh law?”

“She's his mother, that's not the same thing.”

“Markham isn't. He's behind all this. Goddamn—” Ben touched his shoulders with a quiet hand.

“They'll find the boy.”

“And then what?” There were tears in Nick's eyes and his chin trembled like a child's. “I lose him in court? Goddamn it, isn't there any way I can keep my son?” And then he went upstairs and slammed the door to his own room, and he dropped his face into his hands and began to cry softly.

iane read the newspapers in San Francisco the next day. JOHNNY BURNHAM GONE! the headline read, and just below, BURNHAM STEEL HEIR KIDNAPPED. She felt her heart leap in her chest as she read, and it was only as she read the paragraph beneath, as she held the paper with trembling hands, that she realized that Hillary had kidnapped him. She knew Nick must be beside himself and once again she thought of calling him. But what could she do now? Offer her condolences, her regrets? There was no point asking him how he was. She knew that from reading the newspaper. He must have been frantic, looking for Johnny.

She followed the news over the course of the next two months, and still Johnny had not been found, and the news was grim everywhere.

During this time, in a moment of madness, Hess, one of Hitler's chief commanders, had made a solo flight into Britain to try to get them to give up. Instead, he crashed, and was arrested on the spot, and Hitler declared him mad. But he wasn't as mad as all that. By the end of June it was apparent what he had tried to do. He had wanted the British to give up, so Hitler wouldn't open what the Germans called the Western Front. On June 22, Hitler invaded Russia, nullifying their mutual nonaggression pact and crossing their borders at all points, costing an incredible number of lives, much to everyone's horror. And within eleven days the Germans had occupied an area larger than France. The only good to come out of it was that on July 25, Roosevelt's right-hand man, Harry Hopkins, flew to Moscow to suggest a Lend-Lease program to the Russians. But they refused it and it became clear that the only good Hopkins had done was to arrange a conference between Churchill and Roosevelt on August 9, which took place in Argentia Bay, in Newfoundland, and the Atlantic Charter was born there. It was the first meeting between Churchill and Roosevelt, and each arrived on board ship, Churchill on the Prince of Wales, and Roosevelt on the Augusta. They moved back and forth between the two ships, both vessels in full wartime camouflage. Both men were extremely pleased with the results, and Britain was to receive further aid. And still Johnny Burnham had not been found by his father.

The court date had long since been postponed, and in the four months since Johnny had disappeared, Nick Burnham had lost thirty pounds. A fleet of investigators and bodyguards had combed the States, ventured into Canada, and looked everywhere. But the boy was simply nowhere. For once Hillary had really outsmarted him. He only hoped the child was safe. And then, miraculously, and out of nowhere, Nick got a call on August 18. A child who looked much like John had been spotted in South Carolina, near an antiquated, once-fashionable watering hole. He was with his parents though, and his mother was blond. Nick had chartered a plane and flown down himself with three bodyguards, and a dozen others met him there, and there they were—Johnny, Philip Markham, and Hillary, with dyed blond hair. They had rented a little antebellum house, and were living there with two black maids and an ancient butler. Markham had sworn to his mother that the scandal would end, and he thought it would, but the kidnapping had only made things worse. She was terrified now that her son would go to jail. It was she who was financing their secret lair until the fuss died down. But she wanted them to return the boy. And finally, in desperation and out of decency to Nick, it turned out that it was Mrs. Markham who had called him.

When Markham first heard the megaphones as the bodyguards surrounded the place, his first inclination was to run. But it was much too late. He was faced by two men with guns pointed at him.

“Oh, for chrissake …” He tried to bluff his way out. “Take the kid.” The two men did, but Nick advanced on Philip with a murderous look in his eyes.

“If you ever come near us again, you son of a bitch, I'll kill you myself. Do you understand?” He grabbed his throat, and the armed guards watched as Hillary ran up to Nick and Philip and yanked hard on Nick's arms.

“For God's sake, let him go.”

“God has nothing to do with this.” And then he turned to Hillary and struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand. Philip grabbed him then and punched him in the jaw. There was a grinding sound in Nick's head and he lurched toward the ground, but he stood up again and punched Markham back as Hillary screamed.

“Stop … stop!” But Nick was already out of control and he grabbed Markham's head and slammed it into the ground, and then he stood up and left him there, bleeding profusely from a cut over his eye and groaning softly in the dirt. Hillary flew at Nick then and scratched his face, but he pushed her away from him and walked steadily toward his son.

“Come on, tiger. Let's go home.” The jaw ached horribly but he felt no pain when he took Johnny's hand and walked him to a waiting car as the bodyguards covered them. But there was no fight here. There was only Hillary, and Markham, lying on the ground, and two black maids watching from the front porch of the little house. And Nick pulled his son close to him in the car, and then without shame he kissed the boy's face and let the tears come. It had been four months as close to hell as he had been, and he hoped to never come that close again.

“Oh, Dad.” Johnny held him tight. He had just turned ten, and he looked as though he'd grown a foot. “I wanted to let you know that I was all right, but they wouldn't let me call you.”

“Did they hurt you, son?” Nick wiped his eyes, but Johnny shook his head.

“No. They were all right. Mom said that Mr. Markham wanted to be my father now. But when his mother came to visit us, she said he had to give me back, or at least let you know that I was okay.” And then suddenly Nick knew how he'd gotten the call. He vowed to thank her himself when they got back. “She said that she'd never give him any money, ever again, and that he'd probably wind up in jail.” But Nick already knew that wasn't true. He wished it were. “She was always very nice to me, and asked how I was. But Mom says she's an old bitch.” The guards and Nick smiled. Johnny had a lot to say on the way home, but all that Nick could glean was that the plan had got out of hand, and they'd had no idea what to do with him once they'd kidnapped him. “Will we still have to go to court against Mom?”

“As soon as we can.” He looked crestfallen at that bit of news, but safe at home in his own bed that night, John held his father's hand and smiled. And Nick sat watching over him until he fell asleep, and then he walked slowly to his own room, wondering when it would all end.

But at least the next day in San Francisco Liane read the good news, JOHNNY BURNHAM FOUND. And a week after that the court date was set again. The trial was to begin on the first of October, and when it did, it was eclipsed in the news by the conferences in Moscow between Averell Harriman, Lord Beaverbrook, and Molotov, Stalin's foreign minister. They resulted in a signed protocol that the United States and Britain would send supplies to Russia, and Harriman had made a Lend-Lease agreement with the Soviets for up to a billion dollars worth of aid. Stalin had wanted the United States to enter the war, but on Roosevelt's instructions, Harriman had refused. Russia had to be satisfied with supplies and arms, and they were. And by the time the news of that had died down a little bit, Liane read that the Burnham-Markham trial in New York was in full swing.

illary walked into court in a dark-gray suit, a white hat, her hair its natural color once again, in the company of both senior partners of the law firm representing her. And as she sat down in a chair between them, she looked extremely demure. And on his side of the court, Nick sat with Ben Greer, who had to remind him not to look so ferocious as he frowned in Hillary's direction.

The issue was set before the court—the matter of the custody of their ten-year-old son, John—and each side was given a chance to explain. Ben Greer depicted an image of Hillary as a woman who had never wanted a child, had rarely seen her son, went on extended trips without taking him along, and was allegedly promiscuous in the extreme while married to Nick Burnham.

Messrs. Fulton and Matthews, on the other hand, explained that she had a passion for her son, and had been rendered hysterical and distraught at her husband's refusal to let her take her child with her when she left him. Mr. Markham was depicted as a man who adored children and wished to assist his wife now in providing a home for Johnny. But, they continued—Nick Burnham was so consumed with jealousy and was such a violent man that he had threatened his wife and had done everything to undermine her relationship with the boy, all because he couldn't bear the feet that his wife had wanted to divorce him. The story went on and on. The issue of the kidnapping was one they handled with great care. Totally destroyed by the loss of her child, and helpless in the face of Nick's threats, Hillary had taken John, hoping to wait until they would all go to court. And then the matter had got out of hand. She was too afraid of Nick to return … she was afraid that Nick might hurt the child. … As Nick sat in court and listened to the yarn they spun, it was all he could do not to stand up and scream. And worse yet, he recognized how respectable a troop they were. Fulton and Matthews were the best, and although Ben Greer was good, Nick was beginning to fear that he was no match for them.

The trial was due to go on for two or three weeks, and Johnny himself was to be a key witness at the end. But in the third week of the trial he came down with the mumps, and the judge granted a continuance. The trial was due to resume on November 14. And in the end Nick and his attorney felt that the interruption did them good. It allowed them time to regroup and dig up additional witnesses, although Nick was disappointed at how few would testify. People didn't want to get involved. No one knew for sure … it had been a while … even Mrs. Markham wouldn't testify for him. She had done what she could in letting him know where the child was, the rest was up to him. In her eyes the damage had already been done. His name and theirs had been dragged through the papers for too long, and she didn't thank him any more than she thanked her son for that. Who got the boy now was of no importance to her, and she wished them all in hell. All that Nick could get was a handful of maids who had hated Hillary, but had never seen her actually neglect the child, they said. At the end of the second day back in court Nick threw up his hands when the Markhams left and he and Ben Greer went to confer.

“Jesus Christ, why is she doing this, Ben? She doesn't even want the child.”

“She can't back down now. She's gone too far. Most court proceedings are that way. By the time you reach the end, no one wants to be there. But the machinery of justice is difficult to turn back.”

In desperation the next day, he tried to buy her off, and for a brief moment he thought the battle was won. He saw the glimmer of interest in Markham's eye as they met in the halls of the court, but there was no interest in Hillary's eyes. And when Nick had walked away in despair, Philip grabbed her arm.

“Why the hell did you turn him down? How do you think we're going to live for the next few years? You can't get your hands on your trust, and you know what my mother said.”

“I don't give a damn. I wouldn't take a dime from him.”

“You fool.” He grabbed her arm again and she shook him off.

“To hell with you both. I want my son.”

“Why? You don't even like kids.”

“He's mine.” Like a fur coat or a jewel or a war trophy she didn't want but would reclaim. “Why should I give anything to Nick?”

“Take the money, for chrissake.”

“I don't need the money.” She stared at him in icy hauteur.

“Oh, yes, you do. We both need it.”

“Your mother will come around.” It was a possibility he was counting on too. But if she didn't, there was a struggle ahead he wasn't looking forward to. He might even have to go to work, something he didn't intend to do. And he knew Hillary never would. But she had thought of something that had escaped him. “Haven't you ever heard of child support?” She smiled sweetly up at him. “Nick is going to want to make sure Johnny has everything he wants. And so will we. Voilà.” She curtsied to him and he grinned.

“You're awfully smart for a pretty girl.” He kissed her on the cheek and they walked back into court, and the battle raged on. The judge had estimated that they would be finished by Thanksgiving Day, and Nick tensed at the thought. What if he lost? What would he do? It was inconceivable to think of a life without his son. He dared not even think of that. And then suddenly they'd reached the end, and the attorneys were making their closing statements. Johnny had already taken the stand, but he sounded childlike and confused, torn between both his parents, a father he adored, and a mother who sobbed loudly in open court, and whom he clearly felt sorry for.

The judge had explained to all of them that normally he took a week or two to make up his mind, but given the tension that had already existed in both households for almost a year, the publicity in national press, the strain on the child, he was going to try to reach a decision more speedily this time. They would be notified when to convene again, and in the meantime everyone was to go home and wait. And when Nick left the courtroom that day, flashbulbs went off in his face, and as usual the press appeared. “What'd they say, Nick? … Where's the kid? … Who wins? … Do you think she'll kidnap him again? …” They were used to it by now, almost, and that day, when she left the court, Hillary stood on the front steps of the courthouse with Philip and gave them a charming smile. And as Nick climbed into his limousine he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. He'd gained back some of the weight he'd lost while Johnny was gone, but at forty, he felt twice his age.

He looked over at Greer, poring over some notes next to him, and he shook his head. “You know, sometimes I think this thing will never end.”

“It will.” Greer looked up at him. “It will.”

“But how?”

“That we don't know. We have to wait for the judge to decide that.”

Nick sighed. “Do you have any idea what it's like to have all that you hold most dear, in other people's hands?”

Greer slowly shook his head. “No, I don't. But I know what you're going through, and I'm sorry as hell.” He looked at him for a moment not as an attorney, but a friend. “I hope to hell you win, Nick.”

“So do I. And if I don't? Can I appeal?”

“You can. But it would take a long time. My advice to you would be to wait. Give her six months with the boy and she'll come running back to you with him. I've been watching her all this week, and she's everything you said she was. Tough, cold, shrewd. She doesn't care about him. You started something and she's going to get you back, where it hurts most.”

“She has.”

“But she won't. She'll give the boy back, mark my words. All she wants right now is to win. Publicly. So she looks like a good mother. America, motherhood, and apple pie, you know about that stuff.”

Nick smiled for the first time in a week. “I didn't think she did. She's more interested in sable and Van Cleef.”

Greer smiled too. “Not in court. She's a smart one, and her attorneys have been very good.”

Nick looked at the man who had become his friend. “So have you.” And then with a lump in his throat, “Win or lose, Ben, you've been great. I know you've done your best.”

“That doesn't mean a damn unless we win.”

“We have to.”

Greer nodded, and both men fell silent as they watched the winter sky as the limousine glided swiftly uptown.

The next week was agony for them all as they waited for the call from the judge. Nick paced his room night and day, went to the office, ran home, tried to spend each spare moment with his son, and Greer felt like an expectant father. He had never cared so much about a case as he had come to care about this one in the past year. And in the Markham apartment, Hillary was as nervous as a cat. She wanted to go out and play, and for once Philip exerted some influence on her and insisted she stay home.

“How do you think it'll look if some gossip columnist sees you at El Morocco?”

“What am I supposed to be doing? Sitting here building a hobbyhorse for my son?”

“Don't be so smart. Sit tight. It's almost over.” He didn't want to aggravate his mother. She was beginning to feel sorry for him, and one slip could spoil everything. He almost had to sit on Hillary, but she didn't go out. It made her very hard to live with, but Philip insisted. He played backgammon with her for hours, and bought her gallons of champagne to keep her happy, which only made him hope more ardently that his mother would relent soon. Hillary was an expensive woman to support, and his tastes weren't simple either. They had a great deal in common, as his mother pointed out whenever she could, in an unpleasant tone. Not that either of them cared. And once they had the Markham funds, or Johnny's child support, they would be happy again. Philip was just playing it safe, he told his wife as he carried her to their enormous bed. He had just pulled off her clothes and thrown them on the floor when they heard the phone ring.

It was the firm of Fulton and Matthews. Court was to convene at two. The judge had reached a decision at last.

“Hallelujah!” she told Philip with a grin as she stood naked beside the bed. “Tonight I'm free!” And not a word about Johnny was said as Philip pulled her roughly into bed and spread her legs with his own.

he judge walked somberly into the courtroom, his robes flowing, his face set. The bailiff made the necessary announcement. All rose and then sat down again. And in his seat, Nicholas sat waiting with bated breath. Johnny was waiting at home for the news, Nick hadn't wanted to expose him to the tension here, and the corridors outside were already thick with reporters. Like vultures, they had sensed meat, and someone from the courthouse had tipped them off. The parties involved in the case had been barely able to fight their way in.

“Mr. Burnham,” the judge began, “would you be good enough to approach the bench?” Nick looked at Ben, surprised, he had not been prepared for this, nor was Ben, it was a departure from the usual proceedings. And then the judge turned to Hillary and asked her to do the same.

They both got up and walked toward the bench and one could have heard the proverbial pin drop, and then the judge looked at them both. He was an old man with wise eyes, and he looked as though he had given the matter a great deal of thought. It had been a bitch of a case, and a tough decision to make, although to Nick the right solution to it all was clear.

“I would like to tell you both,” the judge began, “that my heart aches for you both. And I have been given the ungrateful task of Solomon. Who does one give a child to? Does one cut him in half? In truth, in a situation like this, whatever one does injures the child. Divorce is a very ugly thing. And whatever decision I make, I hurt the child and I hurt one of you. It is a source of great sorrow to me that you couldn't work your problems out, for the sake of the child.” He looked at them both and then went on. Nick could feel his palms sweating and his back was damp, and he could see by the way Hillary stood that she was nervous too. Neither of them had anticipated this speech and it only made matters worse. “In any case, you did not work your problems out. You are already divorced. Remarried, in your case”—he glanced at Hillary—”and because of that”—he glanced at Nick, who was in no way prepared for what came next—“I feel that the child will have a more stable home with you, Mrs. Markham. I award the child to you.” He looked down at Hillary with a fatherly smile, he had been completely taken in. And suddenly Nick realized what had been said and he exploded into life, forgetting where he was.

He turned to the judge and almost screamed.

“But he held a gun to my son's head! That's the man you're giving him to!”

“I'm giving the child to your wife. And it was an empty gun, Mr. Burnham, as I recall. Your wife knew that. And … The voice droned on as Nick felt faint. He wondered if he was having a heart attack or only dying of grief. “… you will be able to visit the boy. You may submit a visitation schedule to the court, or arrange it among yourselves, as you prefer. You will turn the child over to Mrs. Markham by six o'clock today. And in light of your income, sir, the court has set the sum of two thousand dollars a month as child support, which we do not feel will be a hardship for you.” Hillary had won all around and she beamed as she ran back and hugged Philip and both of her attorneys before the judge was through, and Nick stared at him and shook his head as the judge stood up and the bailiff called out “Court is adjourned!”

Nick turned on his heels then and rushed out of court, his head bent low, with Ben Greer running right behind. They pushed their way through the crowd outside, refusing to say anything, and at last they almost fell into the limousine as a cameraman shot a last flash at the car, and Nick turned to stare at Ben.

“I don't believe what I just heard.”

“Neither do I.” But he did. Ben had heard it all before, but it was not the same for Nick, who sat stony-faced all the way home, wondering what he would tell his son. He had until six o'clock to pack Johnny's things, and send him away to a life he knew was wrong. And for an instant he thought of doing what Hillary had done. Kidnapping his son. But he couldn't stay hidden forever, and it would be too hard on the boy. He had to do what the court said, for now anyway.

Nick left the car and walked into the house like a man facing a guillotine. Ben walked slowly behind, not sure if he should leave or stay, and when he saw the child's face, he wished that he had left. There was more grief there than he ever wanted to see anywhere.

“Did we win?” Everything within the small boy strained and Nick shook his head.

“No, tiger. We lost.” And without another word the boy began to cry, and Nick pulled him into his arms as Ben turned away, tears running down his face too, hating himself for what he hadn't been able to do. But all he could think of now were the child's sobs.

“I won't go, Dad. I won't!” He looked up at him defiantly. “I'll run away.”

“No, you won't. You'll be a man and do what the court says, and we'll see each other every weekend.”

“I don't want to see you on weekends. I want to see you every day.”

“Well, we'll do the best we can. And Ben says we can try again. We can appeal. It'll take time, but we might win next time.”

“No, we won't.” The child was bereft. “And I don't want to live with them.”

“There's nothing we can do right now. We have to wait a little while. Look, I'll call you every day. You can call me any time you want …” But his eyes were too full and his voice was shaking too. He simply held the boy next to him and wished that things had turned out differently. Life was so unfair. He loved the boy so much and he was all he had. But there was no point dwelling on that. He had to help the child, and it was difficult for them both. “Come on, tiger. Let's go pack.”

“Now?” The child looked shocked. “When do I have to go?”

Nick swallowed hard. “At six o'clock. The judge thought we should get it over with right away. So that's the way it is, my friend.” He held open the door, and Johnny stared at him. The boy looked as though he were in shock, but no more so than Nick. It had been the worst day of his life, and John's. And then, as he dragged his feet to the door, with tears running down his face, he looked up at Nick again.

“Will you call me every night?”

He nodded, fighting back tears with a tremulous smile. “I will.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.” He held up a hand and then Johnny threw himself into his arms again.

They got upstairs and as the maids watched they packed three bags full of toys and clothes. Nick wanted to do it himself. When he was finished, he stood up and looked around. “That ought to do. You can leave the rest here for when you come to stay.”

“You think she'll let me do that?”

“Sure she will.”

The doorbell rang at exactly six o'clock and Hillary stood outside. “May I come in?” She wore a sickly sweet smile and Nick hated her more than he ever had before. “Is Johnny packed?” She was putting salt in all the wounds, and he looked into her eyes. They were still beautiful and black, but there was no one there.

“You must be very proud of yourself.”

“The judge was a wise man.”

“He's an old fool.” He only hoped that Ben was right and she'd tire of the child soon. Johnny came and stood beside him then and looked at his mother through his tears.

“Ready, love?”

He shook his head and clutched at Nick. And she looked into Nick's eyes.

“Is he packed?”

“Yes.” He pointed to the bags in the hall. “And I want to discuss visitation with you.”

“Of course.” She was prepared to be magnanimous now. Nick could see him whenever he wanted. She'd made her point. The boy was hers. Let him say what he wanted about her past, it hadn't lost her custody of John. And even Philip's mother had called to congratulate them that afternoon. “I wanted to ask you something too.”

“What?” He threw the word at her like a rock.

“Could we step inside?” He had never invited her to come in.

“Why?”

“I'd like to speak to you alone.”

“There's no need for that.”

“I think there is.” Her eyes bore into Nick's, and he moved Johnny gently aside and strode into his library. She was quick to follow him in.

“I want him this weekend, if that's all right with you.”

“I'll check and let you know. I'm not sure of our plans.”

His hands itched to slap her face. “Call me tonight. The child's going to need time to adjust to all this. It'll do him good to come back here soon.”

“How do I know you won't run off with him?”

“I won't do that to him.” And she knew Nick well enough to know it was true. “What did you want to talk to me about?” His eyes were hard.

“My check.”

“What check?”

“The child support. Since Johnny's coming with me now, I assume that begins today.” He stared at her in disbelief, and then without a word he yanked open a drawer, dropped a checkbook on the desk, and bent to scrawl her name and his and the amount, and then handed it to her with a shaking hand.

“You make me sick.”

“Thanks.” She smiled at him and left the room and he followed her back to the front hall, where Johnny stood beside his bags. There was no avoiding it. The end had come. The war was lost. Nick gave him a powerful hug and rang for the elevator to take him down as Johnny cried. The bags were loaded one by one, and Hillary firmly took Johnny's hand. They stepped inside, and as the child bent his head and cried, the doors closed and they disappeared and Nick stood in the doorway, all alone, his head bent against the wall as he cried.

ohnny moved in with his mother on the night of December 3. Liane read the results of the trial with grief for Nick three days later. She had feared it would come to that. It was rare for a father to win custody, yet like him, she had hoped and prayed. That morning, she folded the newspaper with an air of despair as her uncle looked at her.

“What's wrong?” He had never seen her look quite like that before, and it was a moment before she spoke. He wondered if something awful had happened in France, but he hadn't noticed it when he read the paper himself, and at last she spoke.

“Something rotten just happened to a friend of mine.” “Anyone I know?” She shook her head. He had probably read all about the trial, but she had never told him that she knew Nick Burnham. She felt a lead weight on her heart as she imagined him handing over the child. She stood up then. She had work to do. But all that day thoughts of him preyed on her mind, and this time when she picked up the phone, she didn't set it down again. She asked New York information for Burnham Steel, and when the operator dialed and the phone was answered at the other end, she asked for Nick. But they told her that he was away. She did not leave her name, and she wondered where he'd gone to lick his wounds. She even wondered if in desperation he might call her, but he had no way of knowing she was on the West Coast. Their ties to each other had long since been cut, and it was just as well. She knew that she could never have gone on with the affair without tormenting herself about Armand, yet in Nick's case precisely what she had wanted to avoid had happened anyway. He had lost custody of his son. And now he had nothing at all. And then she smiled at herself, and realized how absurd she was. They hadn't seen each other in seventeen months and he'd been divorced for nearly a year. He probably had a charming lady friend by now, perhaps that was why he'd gotten divorced. But if he did, she hoped that the woman was kind and put balm on his wounds now, if one could. She knew how desperately he would feel the loss of his only child to a woman he hated.

“You look like someone died.” George remarked on her mood again later that night. “I think you work too hard at that foolish Red Cross place.” And it was Saturday too. He disapproved of that even more than her working there on weekdays.

“What we do isn't foolish, Uncle George.”

“Then why do you look so depressed? You should be out having fun.” It was an old refrain between them now.

She smiled at him. At least he's stopped trying to fix her up with his friends’ sons. He had realized a year before that she wouldn't budge. All she lived for were the letters she got from Armand. They arrived dog-eared and limp, smuggled out through the Resistance in the South of France, and sometimes they were stalled for weeks before someone went to England or Spain, but eventually the letters reached her, and each time she would heave a sigh of relief and report to the girls that Papa was well. It still amazed George that she was so determined to hang in. There were plenty of women he knew who wouldn't have been as true. He had known some of them during the last war, he thought, smiling. But Liane was more like her father than like him. He admired it about the girl, although he thought her foolish too.

“You would have made a good nun, you know,” he teased her that night.

“Maybe I missed my calling.”

“It's never too late.”

“I'm in training now.” She always played dominoes with him and they bantered with each other night after night. It was hard to believe now that another Christmas was at hand, and she'd been in San Francisco for a year. It seemed as though the war had already gone on for a thousand years, actually more than two years in France, and Armand was still all right, she thanked God every night. He hinted now sometimes at the work he did, and she knew about André Marchand. But there was no sign anywhere that the war would end. The bombing in London still wore on, as the British carried on their brave fight, and although Germans were dying by the thousands behind Russian lines, they showed no sign of giving up the fight. And it all seemed very far from where she sat, until that same night, December 6, when she lay in bed, unable to sleep. She got up and walked around the silent house, thinking of Armand, and at last she wandered into the library and sat down at the desk. She liked writing to him late at night, it gave her more time to gather her thoughts, and she often did that. She hadn't slept well in months, and tonight she wrote for a long time, knowing that much of her letter to him would be blacked out. He could write to her through the underground, but she could not reach him by the same channels. Her letters had to reach him through the German censors in Paris. She tried to be aware of it as she wrote, and at last she yawned as she wrote the address, and stood looking out into the December night. And then, feeling better again, she went to bed.