Page 41 of Across Eternity

SARAH

On the morning of the dance, Yvette and even Marie are aflutter, girlish and giggling.

I am not. What could possibly change in the next few hours? I admit to myself, reluctantly, that I’d hoped the change might have to do with Yvette. People died in childbirth in 1939, still. Especially women in the country. I’ve tried not to actively wish for it, though there’s part of me that would like to. But I did, at the very least, wonder if it might fall in my lap.

But Yvette is the very picture of health. Still not due for six weeks, and ready to dance. So, what exactly is coming tonight that somehow requires me to be here?

Preparing for it seems to eat up the bulk of the day. Marie does my hair and I let her apply cosmetics before I start work on hers. She’s glowing tonight. Perhaps what should happen is that I tell Father Edouard to open his eyes. But even that wouldn’t require that I stay another two weeks.

I descend the stairs when we’re finally ready, and my eyes go to Henri, so beautiful in his suit—the shirt crisp and white, the jacket straining around his broad shoulders. And he is looking at me too, as if he’s helpless to do otherwise, as if there is no one else in the room. It’s not until Yvette coughs politely that I realize she’s here as well, also in red, and looking none too pleased to see me.

“Poor Amelie,” she says. “You’re truly skin and bones, aren’t you? And tan as a day laborer. But don’t worry. Someone will still dance with you, I’m sure. Henri, who’s that friend of yours always going on about wanting a wife? Gerard? Will he be there?”

Henri’s jaw sets. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, walking out of the house.

I sigh, internally. As bad as the last dance was, this one is shaping up to be worse.

* * *

The dance is held in the same mansion where, once upon a time, I watched Henri flirt with Claudette Loison. It’s still daylight when we arrive, and it seems as if the entire town is walking there. I raise a brow at Marie. “Are we the only ones who drove?” I ask.

She cuts a quick glance at Yvette. “Most people are saving their rations in case they need to flee.”

Henri parks right in front of the mansion, and together the group of us enter the ballroom, where there’s no sign of war or deprivation. The mood is festive, and there’s a glass in every hand.

“I can’t wait to dance,” squeals Yvette, squeezing Henri’s hand.

Henri and I have only danced once, really. In the moonlight, while he hummed a tune next to my ear. If anyone comes out here, they’ll see you dancing with your cousin, I’d said.

He’d smiled at me then, a smile I’d come to know well, once we became intimate. I’m sure you realize they think we’re doing a lot more than that, he’d replied.

The memory steals the breath from my chest and I turn, pushing through the crowd to escape them, only to find myself face-to-face with Andre Beauvoir.

“I would like to apologize,” he says.

I stiffen. I’m not interested in Andre’s apologies. A man who was completely sober when he shoved his hand up my skirt and then called me a whore has not suddenly realized he behaved unbecomingly. He’s just realized he should have been smarter about it.

As much as I’d like to offer him a few choice words, though, and as much as I’d like to tell him that I’m now capable of far worse than swinging a crutch at him to defend myself—I can’t make things worse for Henri and Marie. Andre’s family employs much of the town, and with the Germans coming, he’ll have even more to hold over the Durands’ heads than he did before.

“What I did was unforgivable,” he adds. “I was misinformed about you and your cousin, but that’s no excuse. I just don’t want there to be any ill will between us, as I understand you’ve decided to stay.”

You’re so full of shit, Andre. It’s only for the Durands that I offer him a tight smile. “No harm done,” I reply. “I appreciate the apology. But I’m definitely not staying.”

His gaze flickers to Henri and Yvette—who both watch us. Henri’s eyes are so dark they look black from where I stand.

“Not everything was as you thought it would be?” he asks.

Yvette’s hand rests on her stomach and she smiles up at Henri. It’s a full-wattage smile, but it strikes me, suddenly, how normal she is. A pretty girl, certainly, but without the advantages Marie and I share. She doesn’t glow when she smiles. A man wouldn’t slow to look at her or whip his head back as she passed. It should make me feel better, but instead does the opposite. After all of Henri’s assurances that normalcy was overrated and that there was nothing wrong with my gift, she’s the one he chose. Not me.

“It’s exactly as I thought it would be.” I can hear the sound of my teeth sliding against each other. It’s exactly what I should have expected. My mother taught me countless times that no one could truly love me as I am, and it turns out she was right.

With another forced smile I go to the bar. The gift that saved my life, the one that keeps me from getting drunk—it’s not absolute. I was still drugged in 1918, just not as much as the others. So perhaps drunkenness isn’t an impossibility for me.

I’ll just need to work a little harder at it than anyone else.

“Four shots of whiskey, please,” I tell the bartender.

“Make it eight,” says a voice behind me.