All the Ways We Said Goodbye Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One: Babs

  Chapter Two: Aurélie

  Chapter Three: Daisy

  Chapter Four: Babs

  Chapter Five: Aurélie

  Chapter Six: Daisy

  Chapter Seven: Babs

  Chapter Eight: Aurélie

  Chapter Nine: Daisy

  Chapter Ten: Babs

  Chapter Eleven: Aurélie

  Chapter Twelve: Daisy

  Chapter Thirteen: Babs

  Chapter Fourteen: Aurélie

  Chapter Fifteen: Daisy

  Chapter Sixteen: Babs

  Chapter Seventeen: Aurélie

  Chapter Eighteen: Daisy

  Chapter Nineteen: Babs

  Chapter Twenty: Aurélie

  Chapter Twenty-One: Daisy

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Babs

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Aurélie

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Daisy

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Babs

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Aurélie

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Daisy

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Babs

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Aurélie

  Chapter Thirty: Daisy

  Chapter Thirty-One: Babs

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Also by Beatriz Williams, Lauren Willig, and Karen White

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Babs

  Langford Hall

  Devonshire, England

  April 1964

  It was always worse at night. The shadowy figure that followed me each waking hour yet seemed just beyond my reach, just around the corner. That fleeting flash of movement out of the periphery of my vision became mortal at night. It slipped into my bed and rested its head on Kit’s pillow, melded itself against my back under the counterpane, exhaled a breath against my cheek in the darkness.

  Sometimes, if I was in that half-world between wakefulness and sleep, I’d imagine Kit had come back to me, that he slept in his spot on the bed that even a year later I hadn’t encroached upon. Other times, like tonight, it would only remind me that Kit was truly and completely gone, and the tight ball of grief that resided in my chest would unfurl its sharp talons, stealing all hope of sleep.

  With a sigh, I threw back the bedclothes and slid from the bed, shivering. I was always cold in the house, even more so now that it was almost unbearably empty. After sliding on my slippers and pulling on Kit’s dressing gown that rested at the foot of the bed, I wandered aimlessly through the drafty, cold hallways and rooms of Langford Hall, Kit’s ancestral home.

  Although I’d been raised with three older brothers at the neighboring estate, I’d always considered Langford Hall mine as much as Kit’s, having spent as much time growing up there as in my own home. Since the time when I’d been a little girl, I’d adored the elegant rectangle of red-brown Georgian brick, the three stories tucked under a hipped, dormered roof. The sash windows, twelve panes each, evenly spaced on either side of the door. Or maybe I’d simply adored it because it was where Kit lived.

  I’d been in love with Kit since I was four years old and he’d lifted me up onto the saddle in front of him when I’d announced that ponies were for babies. When I was eight I’d told my eldest brother, Charles, that I would marry Kit one day despite our ten-year difference in age. He’d laughed but had promised to keep my secret. And he had, taking it with him when he’d been shot down over the Channel during the war.

  Clutching Kit’s robe tightly around me and trying my best not to personify a tragic heroine from one of my sister’s novels—those gothic romances that she thought nobody knew she read—I walked slowly down the upstairs hallway and visited the three vacant bedrooms of our children, all but one away at school. Even the family dog, Walnut the whippet, had abandoned me, allowing pity cuddles now and again but vastly preferring the warm kitchen and the prickly housekeeper, Mrs. Finch. It made no sense that Walnut would choose to align himself with a woman who professed daily that she didn’t like dogs, but I had long since given up trying to make sense of a world that refused to make itself logical.

  Moonlight through the tall windows guided me across the foyer to the closed door of Kit’s study. I paused, my hand on the knob, still feeling as if I might be intruding. I was beyond exhausted of feeling that way. Tired of pretending and acting as if everything were normal, that Kit had merely been away for a short trip and would be returning soon. But he wouldn’t. I knew this, but I still found myself turning toward him in the evening to say something or tiptoeing past his office so not to disturb him. It was all so foolish of me, yet I couldn’t seem to resurrect the sure-footed and unwavering young woman I’d been when I’d first married Kit. The same woman he might have even been a little in love with. Turning the handle, I pushed gently on the door and stood in the threshold for a long moment. The spicy scent of his pipe smoke wafted toward me and I found myself peering inside the room expectantly, as if Kit might be sitting at his desk or in his favorite reading chair by the window. But the scent quickly evaporated, and I was left with the empty room again. With a resolute jut of my chin for encouragement, I walked forward as memories like water threatened to drown me.

  The large leather couch was where Kit had done most of his convalescing in the year following the war. He’d been in a prison camp in Germany for nearly two years before that, and he’d been returned to Langford Hall with a racking cough and an insatiable hunger that merely tormented him as he couldn’t keep down more than a spoonful at a time. His blue eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, his cheekbones bird-wing sharp. His parents had hired doctors to oversee his care, but it had been I who’d slept on a cot beside him, first in his bedroom and then in his study when he’d threatened mutiny if he was kept in his bed one more moment, dropping water onto his tongue and feeding him soup until he was strong enough to hold a spoon.

  It’s where I’d cooled his fevered brow with water-soaked cloths, held his hand, and listened to his almost incoherent ramblings that only hinted at the horrors of what he’d experienced. Of how he’d prayed for death just to end the constant hunger, cold, and pain. He’d spoken of other things, too, things he never mentioned again. Things that I never brought up afterward, either. The absence of the signet ring with the two swans that he’d always worn was never mentioned as its memory, too, became entangled with his time in France. It was as if those years hadn’t existed if we never spoke of them, surviving only in the occasional outburst fueled by nocturnal nightmares. And I found that ignoring unpleasant things made it easier to pretend they didn’t exist.

  I had always been a stickler for the truth, for facing unpleasantness and dealing with it forthwith. But I’d discovered that there were some things too fragile to touch, the threat of shattering too imminent. It’s why when the letter arrived for Kit after he’d been home for nearly a year, after he’d slipped his mother’s sapphire engagement ring on my finger and we’d made plans to marry in the new year, I had gone against everything I believed myself to be and hidden it. I was too pragmatic to destroy it, its continued existence a balm to my conscience, never truly forgotten but more like a ticking bomb whose day of detonation I knew would be as sudden as it would be devastating.

  My gaze traveled to the study window, seeing the white path of moonlight that led to the folly where Kit’s father, Robert Langford, had written most of his bestselling spy novels. In a testament to her grief, his widow, Tess, had ordered it locked up after he’d died. I stared at the gray glow of stone in the middle of the lake, like a monument to a broken heart. I had never considered myself the sentimental sort, but the sig
ht gave me pause, made me wonder if I needed to make some grand gesture to acknowledge my own grief. Or if wandering Langford Hall like a nocturnal wraith might be sufficient.

  With one last look at Kit’s desk, where his pipe still sat in the empty ashtray, I let myself out of the study, then paused at the bottom of the stairs, loath to go up and return to bed. Maybe I could change bedrooms or rearrange the furniture. Or do what everyone had been telling me to do since Kit’s death and the resulting taxes—deed the hall to the National Trust. But how could I? Langford Hall was Kit’s legacy, the place where I’d fallen in love, where we’d raised our children. It was inconceivable, really, to imagine strangers traipsing over the Exeter carpets and staring at the portraits of the Langford ancestors that glared down from their perches.

  My feet were already leading me away before I realized where I was headed. I pretended I’d heard Walnut whimper, which was why I needed to be in the warm kitchen, making sure he was all right and had water in his bowl. I would be the last person to admit that I needed the warm comfort of a living creature, even a four-legged one, to face the rest of the night.

  I sat down in the chair at the marred kitchen table and watched as Walnut stirred from his bed. He lifted his head, his eyes martyr-like as he issued a heavy sigh before heaving himself out of his warm comfy bed to amble over to me. He dutifully sat down next to my chair and rested his head in my lap so I could stroke his silky ears. Tired now, I rested my head on the table, feeling inordinately comforted by the soft snoring and fuggy dog breath coming from my lap. I closed my eyes, my last waking thought wondering how on earth I was meant to face another day.

  I was awakened by the sound of the heavy slap of something hitting the table by my head. My head jerked up, and I regretted the quick movement as my neck revolted from being in an awkward position all night. My lap was cold; my canine companion had long since deserted me to the more comfortable confines of his bed and was enjoying the heat of the cast-iron stove that had apparently been lit.

  “You shouldn’t be sleeping in the kitchen, Mrs. Langford. It’s not proper.”

  I blinked up into the pinched face of Mrs. Finch, the housekeeper’s eyes enlarged by the thick lenses of her glasses causing her to resemble her namesake. She was of an indeterminate age, the tightly permed hair and shapeless housedresses giving no clue as to her exact age. Mrs. Finch’s mother had been the housekeeper at Langford Hall for years until she’d moved to a cottage closer to the village and Mrs. Finch had taken over. Her mother had been called Mrs. Finch, too, and I rather hoped it was because the name came with the position rather than because of any improprieties in the family tree.

  I blinked again, staring at the stack of post that had been dropped on the table beside me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Finch. I just wanted to rest my eyes for a moment.”

  “You were up wandering again, is more like,” Mrs. Finch said between tight lips. She jutted a pointed chin at the post. “That’s been piling up for a week now. I’ll put the kettle on and bring your tea and toast to the breakfast room, where you’ll be more comfortable sorting through it all.”

  The kitchen was Mrs. Finch’s domain and she resented any interlopers, including the mistress of the house. I could manage an entire cadre of forceful women in the Women’s Institute, supervise dozens of small children and live barnyard creatures for the Nativity play at the local church, as well as organize the annual gymkhana on the grounds at Langford Hall with ease and aplomb, but I couldn’t bear to argue with Mrs. Finch. Maybe it was because I always suspected that Mrs. Finch thought that Kit could have done better in choosing a wife. Someone who retained her good looks and youthful bloom and didn’t “let herself go” as my sister called my lack of interest in clothes and other feminine things meant to retain one’s attractiveness postchildren. And maybe it was because I knew that Mrs. Finch was probably right.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, looking down at my lap, mortified to see that I still wore Kit’s navy-blue dressing gown. “I suppose I should wash and dress first.”

  Mrs. Finch looked at me with what could only be called disappointment and gave me a brief nod.

  I grabbed the stack of envelopes on my way out of the kitchen, walking slowly toward the stairs as I flipped through each one to see if there was anything more interesting than the usual bills and the slightly threatening overdue notices that had been coming in with an alarming frequency since Kit’s death.

  It wasn’t that I wasn’t capable of handling the family finances, it’s just that Kit had always taken care of things. Even my father had told me that I was very clever with maths, something that had made my perfect older sister, Diana, positively green with envy. As if having all the poise and fashion flair in the family hadn’t been enough. I made a promise to myself that I’d finally sit down at Kit’s desk and open up all the account books to see what was what. Soon. When I could summon the energy. I was just so tired all the time now. So tired of wishing each day I’d feel better, that there would be some hope or purpose on the horizon. That I’d rekindle the joy I’d once had in the busyness of my old life.

  I stopped, noticing an unusual postage stamp on one of the envelopes. It was a red US Air Mail eight-cent stamp showing a picture of aviatrix Amelia Earhart. My name and address had been scribbled in barely comprehensible letters on the front in bold, black ink. Definitely not a graduate of a British boarding school, then, so perhaps not a school friend of Kit’s offering condolences.

  I looked at the top left corner to read the return address. A. Bowdoin, Esq., Willig, Williams & White, 5 Wall Street, New York, NY. I assumed Bowdoin was either a funeral director or a lawyer, having never clearly understood the difference between the two when it came to death and taxes.

  Climbing the stairs, I slid my finger under the flap and began tearing the envelope, not wanting to go through the bother of retrieving a letter opener. Tucking the rest of the post under one arm, I pulled out a piece of letterhead paper and began to read.

  Dear Mrs. Langford,

  My condolences on the death of your late husband, Christopher Langford. I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but my father, Walter, was a huge admirer and shared with me many stories of your husband’s bravery and courage during the war.

  We only recently became aware of your husband’s passing when an old war friend of my father’s mailed him the obituary from the Times. It took a while to find us, which is why it has taken me so long to contact you. I realize my letter might be a surprise and might even be an imposition at best. But I hope you will bear with me so that I might explain myself and perhaps even enlist your assistance.

  In the obituary, it mentioned your husband’s brave exploits in France during the war as well as his involvement with the French Resistance fighter known only as La Fleur. As you may or may not be aware, she has reached nearly mythical proportions in French lore—to the point where some even say she never really existed.

  My slow progress up the stairs halted, and I grabbed the banister, the other envelopes slipping from their hold under my arm before gently cascading down the steps. La Fleur. I closed my eyes in an attempt to regulate my breath before I passed out. Of course I’d heard the name before. But not from a history book or news article about the French Resistance. I’d once heard it on Kip’s lips, when he was quite out of his head after his return and I wasn’t sure if he planned to live or die, wasn’t even sure which he’d prefer. My Flower is what he’d said in a near whisper, the words spoken as one would speak to a lover. I’d seen the name written, too. In another letter.

  I leaned against the wall, listening to the sounds of Mrs. Finch in the kitchen and my own breathing skittering from my lungs like angry bees. Opening my eyes again, I raised the letter and forced myself to continue reading.

  My father has had a stroke, which makes communicating difficult as he can barely speak or write. But when I read the obituary to him and mentioned La Fleur he became quite agitated and upset. After I’d calmed him down, I was able
to understand that my father had reason to believe that La Fleur was no hero but the grandest traitor of them all—and especially to my father. She ruined his life—something I’ve only just begun attempting to understand.

  My father was OSS during the war and was scheduled to receive an important drop from La Fleur. He was told only that he was to receive something very valuable to the Resistance, something containing rare and expensive diamonds and rubies. It was not explained exactly what he should be looking for as it would be too dangerous, and he was told only in a message from La Fleur to look for the “wolf with a cross.”

  La Fleur never appeared that night, leaving my father empty-handed. A few months later, however, the wives of Nazi officers began appearing in public with beautiful diamond and ruby jewelry leaving many to speculate that my father had lied and had profited from the treasure meant for the Resistance.

  He was questioned relentlessly and his reputation permanently damaged, yet he consistently maintained his innocence. For all these years he has been dogged by not only La Fleur’s betrayal, but how he himself was forced into the position of being hailed a traitor and a thief. Unbeknownst to me, he has unsuccessfully spent his entire life attempting to clear his name and find the elusive La Fleur. I’m afraid my father is near the end of his life, and it is his last wish that I might be able to succeed where he has failed.

  I have sent many inquiries to various government offices both here in the States and in France for more information and have hit a brick wall, as many records from the war are still confidential. However, after doing quite a bit of research as well as trying to piece together my father’s story, I came to understand that at least part of the answer might well be with your husband’s effects, or even in any of the stories he might have shared with you of his war years.

  I apologize if this letter is unwelcome during this time of your grief, but a part of me hopes that you are not only able to assist me, but also willing to revisit some of your husband’s past.