A million thank yous, as always, to WriteOnTime, for beta'ing and for just being a nice person in general.
Stephenie Meyer owns any Twilight characters that may appear in this story. The remainder is my original work. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without my express written authorization.
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June, 1943
"Hans said he has a friend who's just been put in command of a regiment in the Baltic."
"Did he say where, specifically?" he presses.
"No, but he mentioned that there was a spa near a river that his friend was hoping to visit if he had time."
"A spa near a river. Alright, then. Anything else?"
"I tried to get him to tell me how many troops. Hans said it was more than he'd had command of when he was a General Major. I have no idea how many troops Hans commanded then, but perhaps there's a way to find out. I couldn't get any more out of him at that point."
Esme sighs and absently rubs between her eyebrows with her fingertips. It's a habit he's noticed she's developed of late. She has never in the past had little nervous gestures like this.
"You're tired," he says gently.
She raises her head, fixing her eyes on the now-familiar red shape of Mary Magdalene's robe in the glass straight ahead of her, and smiles weakly. He can only see the side of her face; her temple, her cheekbone. He can just make out the curve of her cheek as her mouth turns up. He wishes for the ten-thousandth time that she could look at him.
"A little, perhaps."
"Late nights?" he means it to be light and teasing, but his voice has an edge to it, and Esme hears it immediately.
The smile drops off her face.
"Yes." There's nothing else she can say, nothing else he needs to hear.
"He's there every night, then?" He's stopped trying to keep the tension from his voice.
"Nearly."
He says nothing. And as much as Esme doesn't want to talk to him about this, now she wishes he'd say anything at all rather than this angry, tense silence.
"I have to," she finally says softly. "You know I have to."
"I know."
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December, 1943
He clears his throat. She smiles.
"How are you today, Mrs. Platt?"
"Better now." She can't keep the smile off her face or out of her voice. She's always loved his nickname for her, but she loves it even more since she finally forced the confession of its origin from him. Yes, it was the name of a friend of his mother's. He failed to mention in the beginning that his mother's friend was young and beautiful and that he'd fancied her for his entire childhood. "And you, Mr. Stoker?"
"The best I've been all week."
"I'm delighted to hear it."
"You know, I've stared at these bloody stained-glass windows for so long that I really will have to write a book about them some day."
"Pardon?"
"Oh," he laughs a little at his own absent-mindedness. "It's my cover story as to why I'm here so much. I'm writing a book about the windows. Remarkable glass in this church."
"Mmm, yes. I have heard that the windows in this church are exceptionally fine."
"A splendid example of Renaissance glass work."
"I want to break every one with my bare hands," Esme says lightly.
He chuckles softly. "I've never been so sick of a work of art in my life."
She laughs, too, as softly as she can.
"Promise me I'll never have to step foot in another church as long as I live once this…."
She is about to say "once this is over", but the words feel all wrong, too daring. It's dangerous to even hope for such an outcome. To imagine that one day this will all be nothing more than painful memories, that they might be together someplace outside of these old stone walls, face-to-face and free- she can't imagine that, because if she imagines it, she will begin to hope for it, to count on it. And that can't happen. She can't hope…
"I promise," he says quietly.
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April, 1944
"Darling, the weather is finally turning. Please come out and walk with me."
"Hans, I was up so late last night…" Esme moans, wanting nothing more than to retreat to her room, close the shutters and take to her bed for a year. Late nights never used to be a problem for Esme. When it was her old friends, when the house was full of her beloved artists and writers, she never slept. She stayed up till dawn, talking. But what she does now, entertaining Nazi officers every night, it's nothing but work and she's exhausted from it.
"Esme, you should see the streets. Everyone is out enjoying this glorious weather. The walk will do you good."
He is standing closer now, rubbing his palms up and down her arms, crouching a little so his face lines up with hers. Once again, Esme is struck with the thought that he is so very handsome. Or would be, except for the black evil of his soul. The dichotomy always astounds her. He can be so gentle with her, so courtly and mannered. He is so cultured and sophisticated. His tastes might be a bit narrow, but he has them, and considered opinions as well. He is well-read and has works of art and music that he feels passionately about.
And yet…
There is this evil there. He doesn't acknowledge it, and she would never know, except that she does know. How many have been fooled by them, she wonders?
"Alright," she finally concedes. "Just let me get my gloves and bag."
"You'll see, darling. You'll be glad you came." He leans forward and presses his lips to her cheek and lingers. His hands curl in, gripping her arms. Not with force, he never forces. But he wants. She can't ever forget that he wants.
"Madame?"
Esme takes a stumbling step back out of his embrace. Tati is standing in the doorway, her hands twisting in front of her. She drops into a hasty, flustered curtsey. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Madame. I only heard you say you were going out. Shall I get your things?"
Esme runs a hand over her hair and then twists her hand, letting the back of it subtly swipe her cheek where he kissed her. "Yes. Yes, Tati. Thank you." They exchange one brief, loaded glance. Tati knows exactly what she was interrupting.
She doesn't look back at Hans as she prepares to go; he doesn't need any more invitations to invade her personal space when they are nearly alone in the house. She doesn't know how much longer she can hold him off. She has used the excuse of her husband, made it seem as if there is something like a relationship there still, when she hasn't seen the man in almost twenty years and doesn't even know if he's still alive. But in all the time Hans has been coming here, no husband has appeared. Esme has blamed the war, the difficulties involved in travel, for his prolonged absence. But her excuses and her manufactured inner struggle are starting to wear thin. Hans wants her, and he never lets her forget it. The thought of giving herself to him makes her ill.
"Are you ready, darling?" he beams at her, touching her elbow. Esme adjusts her glove and retrieves her bag.
"Yes, let's go. Where are you taking me to, Hans?"
"I thought we might walk over to the Quai de Conti. The view is incomparable there, you know."
"Yes, I know." It's my city, she thinks spitefully. I know.
Hans is right, the weather is lovely. The bite of winter has gone, and the air has a softness and a hint of warmth. The trees are covered in a froth of pale green. New leaves, new life, and yet Paris…Europe, is still in the grip of war. The dead are everywhere.
Hans is also right about the Quai de Conti. It's filled with Parisians looking to soak up these first soft days of spring. In the sun and the gentle breeze off the Seine, one can almost forget it's an occupied city. One can almost forget that millions are dying in battles and in camps all across Europe. Almost.
Hans tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow as they stroll slowly along the quai in the middle of the flow of pedestrians. He's smiling, contented. Esme forces herself to lean into him, to turn her face up to his whenever he looks down at her and return his smile warmly.
"The way the sun hits the river here at this bend reminds me a bit of the Dosse, near my family's estate outside of Wittstock," he says, his voice gentle and far away.
"They have land?"
"Oh, quite an estate. The house dates to the eighteenth century. There's a proper little farm and we keep cattle and sheep. And the grounds! The grounds really are superb. The lawns roll right down to the edge of the river. It's so lovely on a summer's evening."
"It sounds lovely."
He turns his head and tips his face down to hers. When he speaks, his voice sounds almost anxious. "I hope you'll see it some day. With me."
Esme swallows hard.
"I hope I do, too."
"I can fix it, you know," he says urgently.
"Fix what?"
"The difficulties with your husband. I have connections in the church. I'm sure they could be convinced to free you from your…situation."
"Oh…that's…it's just…"
His left hand closes around hers where it rests in his elbow. "Just think about it, Esme."
She manages a weak smile that she hopes looks sufficiently grateful. Hans lingers, his face still close to hers. She can feel his hot breath across her cheek. His hand tightens around her fingers. Esme ducks her head and presses herself further into his side.
"I am glad you convinced me to come out today, Hans. You're right, the weather superb."
He pulls back a little and exhales as she shifts directions in the conversation. He doesn't press her, and she could weep with relief.
"It's a little crowded down here. I hope you don't mind," he says.
"No, not at all. I like all the people."
"I like it, too," he says, and his voice is lower now. His face is back near hers, his lips perilously close to her ear. One inch closer and he'll be kissing the side of her face. "I like to show you off. I like having you on my arm."
Her impulse is to twist out of his grasp, but she only smiles and dips her chin a little.
They walk on for a few minutes more. She asks Hans a question about his family's estate in Wittstock and he's occupied for some time, extolling its virtues, describing its many beauties. It buys Esme a few moments to regain her bearings, and to refocus. She lets her eyes flit across the pedestrians crossing back and forth in front of them, and it's then that she catches just a glimpse of the gold between moving heads. She would know that color anywhere. Another person crosses and she sees his face and she's certain, even at this considerable distance.
No, no, no, no.
It's him, walking slowly through the crowds directly towards her. Hans is still talking, Esme angles her body and her head into him, but she keeps her eyes locked on Mr. Stoker. It's the first time she's seen him anywhere but inside of the church, and she's struck all over again by his handsome face. Except that, unlike Hans, she knows what lies behind this handsome face and there is nothing but goodness there. That gold hair, the color is almost otherworldly and so beautiful. He still looks tired, his eyes shadowed, but the sun has given his skin a hint of color. She loses herself for just a moment watching his walk, smooth and graceful. He's wearing a light tan trench coat but it is unbelted and open, billowing slightly behind him as he walks. He's tall, so much taller than she realized in the church. They've never stood side by side, so how would she know? He's still far away, but she fancies she can make out the blue of his eyes. The eyes that she now notices are skimming the crowd in her direction. She prays that she escapes his notice.
She doesn't.
Even if she weren't watching his face, she feels sure she would know the second his eyes fell on her. An electric shock runs through her system, then a flush of cold. He's about to see her up close with Hans Dekker. He knows all about him, of course. They've talked about him and his visits to her house for nearly two years now. But she's not foolish. She knows very well that his seeing her with Hans is entirely different than knowing about his presence in her life in some detached, intellectual sense.
Esme panics. Or rather, she wants to panic. She wants to pull her arm free from Hans, turn back and flee into the crowd. But she can't, she can't, she can't. She has to keep leaning on Hans, keep smiling, and under no circumstance can she betray even with a flutter of an eyelid that she knows him. It will be the end of them both if she does.
Her eyes shoot back to his and he's still staring, moving towards her inexorably. His expression is unreadable. So tense… disbelieving, perhaps? Angry? Repulsed? Then his eyes flick to Dekker and linger for just a moment and there is fury. Unmasked, unbridled fury. It's only there for an instant before he hides it away again, turning his face towards the river. Esme feels her heart contract in her chest and she can hardly breathe. She breaks the contact and looks at the ground.
"Don't you think so, darling?" Hans is turning to look at her again, smiling softly down at her.
"Mmm-hmmm." She can only hum and nod stiffly to answer his unheard question, forcing one foot in front of the other. She glances up one more time, when she calculates that they have nearly drawn abreast of one another. He's there, just a few feet away. At that moment he looks back, too, his eyes connecting with hers for an instant. His face is stone. There's nothing of his warmth and gentleness. He might be a stranger except for the way his eyes bore into hers in that split second. His eyes shift away from hers and the connection is broken. It splits her in two.
"Only if you'd like to, of course," Hans is still carrying on.
"Pardon?"
He stops and peers at her face.
"Darling, you look quite undone. Is everything alright?"
"I'm afraid I have a rather nasty headache, Hans. Perhaps I should go rest."
"Of course, darling. Let's get you home at once."
He turns them, and they're walking away from the quai. There are almost no taxis these days, with fuel so scarce, but that's never a problem for General der Infanterie Hans Dekker. He steps to the curb and a car is there. Esme feigns illness all the way home, her eyes closed and her head tipped back, and it keeps Hans quiet.
She allows Hans to escort her to the door, to squeeze her hand and to kiss her cheek again before she slips inside and falls against it with a dead thud. One hand comes up to clamp down hard over her mouth, to stifle the raw sobs bubbling up from her chest. She doesn't want Tati to hear her and come find her in this state. Her knees give out and she slides down the door, sinking to the floor.
Esme has lived her life well outside the confines of acceptable behavior for most women, and for that she's often been called base names by the less open-minded people of the world. It's never bothered her for an instant. She's had little concern for what others might think of her and her choices, and is dismissive of the largely hypocritical judgments of others. There's a word that has been uttered to her before, and she's always tossed it off with a shrug. But today it settles over her like hot, damp wool, suffocating, impossible to get free of. Today she saw it reflected in his eyes, and today, for the first time in her life, that word feels true: whore.
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She's brought a book this week. She needs something, anything, to keep her fingers occupied as she struggles to control her anxiety. She's alternately dreading seeing him and desperate to see him. The look in his eyes on the quai is still burned in her mind. She's not sure how to broach it, or even if she should. After all, who they are outside of this church is strictly off-limits.
As always, even though she's been straining, listening for the sound, she's still startled when she hears his steps on the stone floor behind her. She imagines she can hear hesitation in them.
She says nothing as he slides into the pew, she just turns over Madame Bovary over and over in her hands, her fingernails scraping lightly across the cloth cover.
No sound comes from him, not even his throat being cleared. Esme waits him out, wanting him to show her how to proceed, what the way forward will be. But he gives her no clues, no sounds at all. Finally she can't take the silence, and this is not a conversation she can have without seeing his face. She takes a swift glance around. As always, no one is watching, no one is even in her line of sight, so she takes the chance and swivels in her pew to look at him.
What she sees steals her words. He's leaning forward, gripping the back of her pew with both hands, his knuckles white. His head is bowed. His hair, the gold waves usually raked casually off his face, is in disarray. She can barely see his face in the shadows, but his eyes are squeezed tight, crinkles forming at his temples.
When she turns, he doesn't look up or move in any way, but he seems to sense her movement. His voice is a low rasp when he finally speaks.
"Do you care for him?"
Esme shakes her head in disbelief at the question. "What?"
"Dekker. Do you care for him?"
"No! How can you ask me that?"
"He cares for you. He loves you. I saw it in his face."
"Then I'm doing my job, aren't I?" Esme can't help the tinge of venom in her voice.
That finally gets him to look at her. His face is ragged with misery. As his head snaps up and his eyes find her, his whole body leans towards her.
"I'm sorry. Please…I…it was just seeing you with him that way…"
"It's an act. Nothing more." And as quickly as her anger came, it flees, and now she feels on the verge of tears.
"I could understand, in your situation, if you found yourself…"
"What?" she says, "Find myself what?"
"Feeling something for him. It would be understandable. I would understand."
"Understandable? He's a monster. I could never care for him."
"I can't do this to you, I can't demand reassurances. It's wrong." His face is twisted in anguish again, and he presses a clenched fist to his forehead.
"But you want to know, don't you? You want to know if I've slept with him."
He says nothing for a moment, warring with himself. The soldier doing his duty versus the man in love. Finally, he simply nods his head slowly, as if dreading what will come next.
"No, I haven't."
His shoulders fall a fraction. "I'm so sorry. When I saw you with him, it made me rather crazed. I knew, but somehow seeing it…"
"Seeing it was different."
"Yes."
"Your face terrified me…when you looked at me," she confesses after a moment.
His eyes snap back to hers and finally there is the compassion she knows there. He sees what his reaction has done to her, and now once again his sole concern is her well-being.
"It wasn't you. I would never judge you in that way."
"Your eyes, you looked as if I disgusted you. And that is something I would understand. There are moments when I disgust myself."
"No! You must not think that way! You're only doing what we've asked of you. It wasn't you I was thinking of, it was him. I wanted to kill him. With my bare hands. That he would dare to put his filthy hands anywhere near you…"
"Stop. Don't torment yourself with thoughts of things that haven't happened."
"But he wants to, doesn't he? He wants you?"
Esme pauses for a moment to consider how best to answer him, and that's all the verification he requires. He drops his head forward into his hands.
"He wants me. That doesn't mean he'll have me."
"Can you keep holding him off?"
For the first time ever, Esme willingly looks away from his face, back towards the glass in front. Because she honestly doesn't know the answer. That she's been able to keep Hans at arms' length for this long is nothing short of a miracle. But it can't go on. As long as she allows him in, encourages him, makes him think she cares, he will want her. And there will come a time when her excuses no longer work, and she will have to decide what to do.
"Maybe we should leave."
His words, spoken so softly into the air behind her, and with so little fanfare, make her spin around to face him again.
"Leave? What are you talking about?"
"I can't leave you like this. With him. Now that I've seen it… seen him with you, I can't stand it. We could leave. We could run. Maybe to my family in England. Or just anywhere."
Esme can only blink at him in disbelief that he would suggest something so outrageous, so desperate, so impossible. But just the fact that he wants to is all that she needs to give her the strength to keep going.
"We can't do that," she says softly. "You know that. I could never get out of the country."
He sighs heavily and shakes his head. "I know."
"And besides, you would regret it, abandoning the work we're doing here."
He looks up at her then, his eyes sharp, his jaw set. "I wouldn't regret anything that would get you away from him."
All she can do is smile softly at him. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches out and rests his fingertips on the back of her pew. Just as slowly, she reaches out and covers his fingers with her own.
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Early June, 1944
Esme stops short as she passes between two columns into the aisle of the church. He's there already. He's sitting in his regular spot, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped lightly, head bowed.
They've had so little opportunity to get to know each other physically. She's never felt his arms around her, never seen his face as he really lets go and laughs, never seen him wake up in the morning. In so many ways they are still strangers, but in others she knows him better than she knows herself. And she can feel his anxiety and tension just from the set of his shoulders, the way his hands are linked together. He feels it, and then so does she.
The click of her heels on the flagstones has alerted him that she's here, and his head snaps up. Their eyes meet for just a moment. Esme hoards each of these moments, each tiny glimpse of his face, like a miser. Each time gives her one more detail to add to the reserves in her mind. Then his discipline kicks in, and he looks away like she's a stranger. Esme falls back into character, too, and slides into her pew without another glance at him.
"You're early," she murmurs.
"I'm anxious."
"Everyone is anxious," she responds. And there is much to be anxious about. Because four days ago, the Allies stormed the beaches at Normandy, and now they control that whole section of the coast. The Germans have been unable to repel them. No one knows what it means, but there are Allied soldiers on French soil.
"I don't know what will happen next," he says.
She chuckles in spite of herself. "Do you really think anyone does? Even the generals running the whole thing don't have the faintest idea."
"I know, you're right. It's only that I'm worried about you. The situation could begin to change very quickly."
"And I'll react very quickly," she says, trying to make her voice as reassuring as possible. The last thing he needs now is to be worrying about her safety. She can look after that herself. "So…" she begins hesitantly. "Do you think they'll make it to Paris?" She almost always resists the urge to press him for information. He hates to keep her in the dark, and he'll tell her what he knows, but he's right, it's dangerous for both of them for her to know anything not absolutely necessary.
He sighs heavily. "I don't know. Perhaps. They're trying. And there is…"
"What?"
"We're trying to help them out from this side. Cutting power lines, sabotaging rail lines, that sort of thing."
Esme nods tightly. "Hans has complained. Disruptions, shipments that were delayed. He was furious."
He snorts derisively, a bitter sound she's never heard from him. "Good. I hope he's terribly put out," he says sarcastically.
"You mustn't be jealous," she scolds gently.
"I can't help it," he sighs. "I'm jealous that he gets to see the color of your hair in the sunlight whenever he likes and I don't."
This time Esme can't bring herself to scold him or even to continue pressing him for information, she can only duck her head and smile.
For the first time since this all began, she wishes the two of them could stay right here in their respective pews forever. The future has become so dangerous and uncertain. She'd rather take just these stilted, stolen moments with him than risk losing it all in the storm that's to come.