At All Costs

by Denise Lux-Bridges

“Mademoiselle Dupont?”

Her shoulders tensed, imperceptibly. Her eyebrow lifted, so it was almost hidden under the waves she had artistically arranged to frame her face. She had been completing her crossword puzzle with speed, but her delicate fingers paused, as if she had momentarily forgotten the answers. Yet, she did not respond.

“Mademoiselle Dupont?” he asked again. “C’est toi, n’est-ce pas?”

She would not lift her eyes, but she did shake her head. Warning him not to approach her.

He approached anyway.

And sat in the plush velvet chair across from hers.

And placed the silverware onto the porcelain plates, brushing them to the side so he could lean forward to lift her chin.

She recoiled.

“You are mistaken,” she said. “My name is Mrs. Cyril Hutton.”

Her voice was deeper than he remembered, and she spoke in English, with only a slight affect betraying that she was not British by birth.

He studied her carefully. From the blonde-brown waves secured by the diamond clip, to the soft pink rouge of her cheeks and lips, to the blue Schiaparelli frock that tied beneath her breasts, to the gleaming sapphire on her fourth finger.

“When I knew you, your name was Cécile.”

She sighed, and lifted her eyes. His fist was clenched, and so was his jaw.

“That was a lifetime ago, Albert. I had forgotten.”

“No. Non. It was eight months ago. You remember. We remained in the hospital at Etaples following the Armistice. The Matron requested you stay, tend to those who were too invalid to return home. You stayed with me. You stayed for me. You remember; you do! You… never said goodbye.”

She had not forgotten.

“Did you know I was alive? The surgeon, he said it took all the skill he had to save me. He worked all night, and in that time, all I dreamed about was waking up to you. I might have gone with God, but for the thought of returning to you. But you... Did you even wait long enough to know I had survived?”

She said nothing, just tapped her fingertips lightly from pinkie to thumb, like a pianist. Causing the sapphire to glint in the lamplight. It was subtle, but he knew what she was doing.

He reached for her hand. She pulled it away.

“Your husband,” he said, quieter, but not resigned. “Does he travel with you?”

She shook her head reluctantly. “Cyril was detained on business in London. He is to meet me in Paris when I disembark.”

“He is a businessman, and not a soldier?”

She paused, drew a deep breath.

“Cyril, he was a child in Assam during the earthquake. He received injuries that make him unsuitable for combat. Do not sneer, Albert, he is still very much the British man. He may be polite and well-mannered, and hunt with his gun and dog rather than his fists, but he is not meek. He is a lion. Even with his stoop, he is taller than you, and stronger, and more passionate. He has friends whose names you will know from the newspapers, and he has friends whose names you will never want to know. He has taken audience with the Prince of Wales and with the Prime Minister, and on both occasions he has acquitted himself well. So you must understand that I belong to Cyril. He would find the liberties you are taking right now objectionable, and he would not stand for them.” 

She lowered her eyes back to her crossword and completed an answer in perfectly rounded letters. It may have been correct, and it may have been incorrect. She did not care.

“I never thought I would see you again,” he breathed, when the silence became too loud.

“I never wanted you to.”

He could not help it. He placed his hands onto the white linen tablecloth, pushed himself up, leaned forward to stand over her. He raised his voice, but only loud enough for her to understand. The porter was nearby, serving tea and scones, disinterested. He should not become interested.

“Yet, you are here, and I am here, and Cyril is not. So you are mine again, Céce. Maybe I will let him have you when we arrive in Paris. Probably, I will not.”

“I should ask you to leave this carriage.”

“I will not.”

She held his gaze as she scraped her chair back, hard. The floor was carpeted – thick, brown, luxurious. It did not make the noise she had intended.

“Then I shall.”

“I will see to it that you do not leave. Not this time.”

She swayed as she stood. She was not accustomed to keeping her balance on a rolling train. Not in the heels she still wore, and definitely not in her condition.    

He did not reach for her, not to steady her, not even to detain her. He was struck still. Transfixed. The dress was exquisite – it must be so, for the price Cyril had paid for it – but, while it provided an adequate disguise when she was seated, it accentuated her growing figure when she stood.

She took advantage of his surprise to walk, as briskly as she could manage, to the carriage door.

“Wait!” he called.  

She did not stop.

“Mrs. Hutton!” he cried again.

She could hear the desperation in his voice. She turned in the doorway. One last moment of attention. Maybe she owed him that.

“Is it mine?” he asked. Only the table was keeping him upright.

Her eyes flashed, blue as ice.

“He belongs to Cyril,” she said.

She could not sleep on the train.

The bed was comfortable enough, but, truth be told, she had not slept properly for eight months. She became unwell if she lay on either side; her back stiffened and ached if she slept on it, and her stomach was no longer a viable option. She had wanted to remain upright so she could rest, or perhaps read if her nausea allowed it, but there was no space to do so. She had a single berth; she had insisted upon it, but it was small as a result – small enough to fit only a bed, and a washbasin, and an overhead rack for her suitcase. The porter had been most insistent that he convert her settee to a bed once evening had fallen. He was already quite perturbed that she remained in her cabin rather than take supper while he worked. She did not want to cause any further concern.

At least it was quiet, and at the end of the hallway. She had insisted, she would not be disturbed.

She should not have been disturbed.

Yet, in the small hours, she heard footsteps shuffle along the carriage, stopping to look at door numbers. They quickened when they found the right door, made a production of appearing hurried.

“Madame! C’est une urgence! You must open the door.”

The voice was poorly disguised.

It was not an emergency.

She opened the door anyway.

He had been drinking. He had discarded his suit jacket and hat, leaving his vest and belt exposed, and his blonde hair tousled. He leaned into her doorframe, hands jammed in his pockets.

“He is mine,” he said. It was not a question. Then, he added, “And he is a he.”  

“I supposed,” she responded.

He pushed on the door with his shoulder, to force it further open, to force himself inside. The alcohol had made him weak. It didn't take much strength to hold it firm.

“Let me in,” he growled.

“No.”

“Please, mon cheri. I want to talk.”

“I do not.”

He took half a stumble backwards. She should have slammed the door, then. She heard that unmistakable click, though, as he straightened. She could smell the gunpowder through his pocket.

With a sniff of annoyance, she retreated to the bed, perching in the exact middle of the inward-facing edge. She swept her legs to the left, as gracefully as her physique would allow. She crossed her feet as close to the doorway as they would reach, and adjusted her robe to cover as much as it would. The only space he would be afforded was in the corner, and he hovered there, awkwardly, with the washbasin jutting into his hip. This may have been her first time held at gunpoint, but he would not have her control.

He rubbed the trigger with his index finger. It was not calming, as he expected. He had not thought any of this through.

She stared into him. She did not intend to make things easy.

“You knew, when you left.”

That was not a question either.

She sighed. “It was too early to be certain. But, yes. I think a woman always knows.”

If he had the space to throw himself at her feet, he would have. It didn't even matter that she might see him cry.

“Did you think I would not take care of you? I’ve loved my baby more in the hours that I have known of his existence than I have loved anyone in my life, except maybe for you.”

“You are a liar, Albert.”

She spoke with such disinterested certainty, she might as well have said that the tracks needed oiling. It was an indisputable, unwavering, fact.

“I always told you the truth. I would swear to you, on anything you would have me swear, before God and Jesus and any Saint you might name. I would take any oath you would write for me, if you would only believe it.”

“Albert,” she said. He could hear the impatience hiding underneath her words. “Before today, you told me three lies, each bigger than the last. Today, you continue, and then you elaborate. But I know who and what you are. I know you are German. I know you are a spy. I know you have a wife, a child, already. And yes, I know what is in your pocket, but I also know you do not have the stomach to use it. So you are a liar, and you do not deserve my time.”

He twisted sideways, wrestled himself out from beside the basin, and made to approach her. She swung her legs outward, blocking his path. He would be afraid to come closer. She would not hesitate to kick.

When he spoke, it was low, and confused, and unnerving. “I may not be from Belgium, but if you will remember, I never said so directly to you. I am at a loss as to why you believe the rest.”

“The Matron, the nurses, they told me. A man shot in the backs of the knees, he is running away from someone. The surgeon said, his grandmother was Belgian, your accent is not quite correct. I would not believe them, fool that I am. I believed you.

“When you went into surgery, the Matron, she said, ‘come with me.’ So I followed her to your bedside, and together we opened your knapsack. ‘See?’ she said, ‘There is nothing.’ No spade, no canvas. No weapons larger than that toy you carry. Whomever you stole that knapsack from, you did not get their equipment. You stuffed it full of blankets to make it look like you did. Who would do this, but a spy?”

“I…”

“You will let me finish. Because I will tell you what we found among your blankets. We found the photograph of you, and your fair-haired wife, and your little girl in pigtails. I am prettier than your wife, I think. That is why you chase me. But you have a child. If you survived, you would choose to return to her. I would not give you a choice.”

He sank onto the washbasin, wincing as it creaked beneath his weight.

“You do not understand! That photograph… I will show her to you.”

For a moment, he might have left her in the cabin, might have allowed her to lock the door behind him and call for the porter. Just for a moment, before he came to his senses.

He pulled the pistol from his pocket, pointed it directly at her, and gestured at to her to stand. Would he use it? That look in his eyes, she was no longer so sure.

“Come with me,” he said.

He had a double berth in the lower classes, but there was no second occupant. The room was slightly larger than hers, though it was shabbier.

He took the lower bunk before she could. She could sit with him, climb the ladder, or stand.

She chose to stand.

The picture had been kept under his pillow, creased and cried on a thousand times.

“Her hair, it is more auburn in real life,” he said, pointing to the woman, as he handed it over.

She studied it closely. Now she could see, under the faded colouring. The squareness of her jaw, the corners of her forehead. They were familiar.

She bit the inside of her cheek. The ice in her eyes was melting.

“Gretchen married a man who publicly opposed the war. Henri was conscripted anyway, and was to march on Belgium, but even after they arrested him, he refused to go. She moved home, so Mama could help her. Straight away, we got letters, threats, from the neighbours. Not against him, no. At their best, against Gretchen. At their worst, against Rita. She was two years old when the war broke, Céce. These things... No Onkel would want to read about his nichte.”

He swallowed, hard.

So did she.

“Quickly, it became too unsafe. We made a plan. We had a French au pair when we were children. She had long passed, but her daughter sent cards at Christmastime. We would meet her in Belgium. Nanette would shelter Gretchen and Rita in France. I would get them to Brussels, then I would return to Mama. So I lied about my age; Gretchen lied about being a woman, and we dressed as soldiers. We would carry Rita in one knapsack, supplies in the other. It would work.

“The night we were to leave, a guard let Henri into the yard by mistake, or maybe on purpose. Some other prisoners made an example of him. I still am unsure if he is alive. Gretchen refused to leave him. She said I would take Rita, but she would not go. There was nothing I could say to make her. So we went alone.

“By divine hand, we made it to Belgium. It was slow. Rita would wriggle and cry, and I would need to find a place to calm her. At all costs, we had to avoid the fighting, so we took routes that were indirect. We would steal food, sometimes we would not get any. I met other soldiers, and, from them, I would hear stories of home. This is how I found out the fates of Gretchen and Mama. They… Non. I will not. Believe me, mon cher, you are too delicate to know.

“Brussels had fallen by the time we reached it, but yet, we found Nanette. I could not go back to Germany, but I could not care for Rita. I had no money, no job. I passed her over and I… walked away.

“I had no forwarding address to give. I tried to reach Nanette when I felt I could, but she had changed address. It has been five years; I have looked for Rita all this time. She cannot be found.”

She sat beside him on the bed. Slowly, she reached over and plucked the pistol from his hand, placing it in her own lap. She kept her right hand over it, took his hand in her left.

He let her.

“You did not tell me,” she said.

He smiled, but it would not reach his eyes. It never did, not in the last five years.

“Now you know. You carry the only family I have. I won’t let you leave me.”

She withdrew her left hand, placed it over her right.

“It is unfortunate,” she said. “But it changes nothing.”

He drew back, drew a breath. Drew himself up to sit straight, alert.

She fingered the metal beneath her hands.

“Cyril, he is the son of my mother’s cousin. His family made their money in iron; it has only increased by the war. His injuries from the earthquake made him unfit for fathering a child. This does not matter; he has a brother who will marry and have children, and pass inheritance onto his son.

“But the brother, he dies at Ypris.

“So Cyril, he needs an heir, but he cannot produce one. Besides, his interest in taking a wife is, shall I say, purely political. I, on the other hand, am penniless, ostracised; I have an heir without a father. But the family blood is in my veins, also in my son’s. Voilà, our mothers arranged it. When I say to you this baby belongs to Cyril, it is the truth.”

His nails were suddenly sharp in the back of her hand.

“You cannot do this. He is mine. I made him. I love him. You love me.”

“All of that is irrelevant.”

“It is enough.”

“This child will go to Eton. What he will make of himself, that is enough.”

“Do you not see how this has made you? The girl I knew was fire. She is not there now.”

“That is also irrelevant.”

Again, he stood over her. His grip grew firmer. She grimaced as his nails cut into her skin.

“I will not let you leave.”

He scrabbled at her, pulling her hands to the side.

She knew what he wanted. That he was capable of it.

She had the advantage.

She had seen it many times. Soldiers in the hospital sometimes let the horrors of war drive them to death. If she pressed the pistol hard to his temple, the matter would fill its chamber. It would not splatter on her.

She kicked out, hard. He was dazed, fell to his knees.

She pulled the trigger. It was quick.

He was close to the bed. It was nothing to arrange him, wipe the handle, place it in his hand. There would be no note. That was a pity, but it could not be helped. If they found him before Paris, she could concoct a story to tell.

The porter was not in the hall. She could leave unseen.

She returned to her bed and slept.