Danielle Steel: Crossings

When she came down to dinner that night, George thought she looked especially tired. She had looked bleak and exhausted for weeks, and he suspected that there was something she wasn't telling him.

“Have you heard from Nick?” In the past she had told him when she got a letter. But she hadn't for a while. She shook her head now.

“I had a letter from Armand this morning. He sounds tired, and his leg is still troubling him.” She wanted to tell him the truth then, about Armand, but she'd wait until he was in England.

“What about Nick?” He pressed her again and she flared up at him.

“Armand is my husband, not Nick.”

But the old man was tired that night too. He was quick to answer. “You didn't remember that all this spring, did you?” He could have bitten out his tongue, particularly when he saw the stricken look on her face.

She answered him in a barely audible voice. “I should have.”

“Liane, I'm sorry … I didn't mean—”

She looked at him bleakly. “You're quite right. I was very wrong. It was unfair to Armand and to Nick.” And then she sighed. “I wrote to Nick a few weeks ago. We won't be writing to each other anymore.”

“But why? The poor man …” He was aghast at her news.

“I have no right to, Uncle George, that's why. I'm a married woman.”

“But he knew that.”

She nodded. “I'm the only one who seems to have forgotten it. I've repaired the damage now, as best I could.”

“But what about him?” He was incensed. “What do you think that'll do to him, while he's out there fighting a war?”

Tears stung her eyes. “I can't help that. I have an obligation to my husband.”

He wanted to slam his fist into the table, but he didn't dare. The look on her face was one of total desolation. “Liane …” But he didn't know what to say. There was nothing he could say to her. And he knew that she was as stubborn as he was.

She left the table and went to work, she seemed to work longer and longer hours every day. And it was a week after she had received the letter from Armand that she came home to find a letter from London, with unfamiliar handwriting. She couldn't imagine who it was and she opened it as she walked slowly up the stairs. Her whole body ached. She had spent the entire day comforting the boy who'd lost his arms. He had a raging fever and there was still a possibility that they might lose him.

And then suddenly she stopped and her eyes froze on the words. “Chère Madame …” It began like a perfectly normal letter, but after that, the letter went mad.I regret to tell you that your husband died shortly after noon yesterday, in the service of his country. He died nobly, a hero's death, having saved hundreds of lives, and many of the treasures of France. His name will be engraved on our hearts and the heart of France, and may your children be proud of their father. We grieve for you in your loss. Your loss is ours. But the greatest loss of all is to his country.

The letter was signed by Moulin and Liane sank slowly onto the top step as she read it again and again but the words did not change. “Chère Madame … I regret to tell you … I regret to tell you …” But he lied. The greatest loss of all was not to his country. She crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it across the hall and she began to pound the floor as she cried. He was dead … he was dead … and he was a fool to have stayed there … to fight the Germans … to … She didn't even hear her uncle calling her name. She heard nothing as she lay on the floor and screamed. He was dead. And Nick would die too. They would all die. And for what? For whom? She looked at her uncle with unseeing eyes as she screamed, “I hate them! … I hate them! … I HATE THEM!!!”

he told the girls that night and they cried when they heard the news, and they talked for a long time when she put them to bed. She had regained her composure, though she was deathly pale. She was so relieved to be able to tell them the truth now. The girls were startled to hear that their father was a double agent, appearing to work for Pétain, and actually working for the Resistance.

“He must have been very brave.” Elisabeth looked at her mother sadly.

“He was.”

“Why didn't you tell us before?” Marie-Ange was quick to ask.

“Because it would have been dangerous for him.”

“Didn't anyone know?”

“Only the people he worked for in the Resistance.”

Marie-Ange nodded wisely. “Will we ever go back to France now?”

“One day.” But it was a question she herself hadn't yet answered. They had no home anymore, no place to return to after the war, no one to wait for. And she had no husband.

“I didn't like it very much,” Elisabeth confessed.

“It was a hard time. Especially for Papa.”

The girls nodded and she put them to bed at last. It had been a long night for them all. But she knew that she wouldn't sleep and she didn't want to go to bed. It was strange to realize that he had been dead for three weeks and she hadn't known. She had read his last letter after he had died, and she hadn't even known it. And all he had spoken of was his love for France … and for them … but for France above all. Perhaps to him it was worth it. But she felt an odd mixture of anger and despair as she walked into the library and sat down. Uncle George was still up, and worried about her.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.

“I'm sorry, Liane.” His voice was gentle. He felt so helpless as he watched her. As helpless as she had felt that day as she tended to the boy who'd lost his arms. “Is there anything I can do?”

She opened her eyes slowly. She felt paralyzed and numb. “Not really. It's all over now. We just have to learn to live with it.” He nodded, and in spite of himself he thought of Nick, and wondered if she would write to him now.

“How did it happen?” He hadn't dared to ask her before, but she seemed calmer now.

She looked him straight in the eye. “The Germans shot him.”

“But why?” He didn't dare add “Wasn't he one of them?”

“Because, Uncle George, Armand was a double agent, working for the Resistance.”

He opened his eyes wide and stared at her. “He what?”

“He appeared to work for Pétain as a liaison with the Germans, but he'd been feeding information to the Resistance all along. He was the highest-ranking official double agent they had in France. That's why they shot him.” There was no pride in her voice, only sorrow.

“Oh, Liane …” The things that he had said about Armand came to mind instantly. “But why didn't you tell me?”

“I couldn't tell anyone. I wasn't even supposed to know, and for a long time I didn't. He told me just before we left France.” She stood up and walked to the window and stared out at the bridge for a long time. “But someone must have known.” She turned back to look at her uncle. “The Germans shot him three days before he was to leave for England.” She had pieced that much together from his letter and Moulin's. And her uncle came to her now and took her in his arms.

“I'm so very, very sorry.”

“Why?” She looked at him strangely. “Because now you know he was on our side? Would you care as much if you still thought he worked for the Germans?” Her eyes were sad and empty.

“I don't know …” And then he wondered about something. “Did Nick know?”

“Yes.”