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“Oscar.” André’s touch was light, fingers barely settling against her arm before he spoke again. “We’re here.”
She forced her chin up, but couldn’t help the aching slowness of the motion. Was it too much to hope that a smile would salvage things? Probably, but she did it anyway, murmuring her thanks as André dismounted and moved to hold the reins while she followed suit.
While he attended to his horse, Oscar turned her eyes toward the house. It was a hovel compared to her father’s mansion, and certainly humble when compared to the French Guard’s barracks…but it was theirs. Home.
Strange that the word felt meaningless as it bounced around inside Oscar’s head.
“What do you think, Oscar?” André asked, sounding hopeful. “Alain said not to expect much, but…how is it really?”
“It’s…” She hated to lie to André, even about little things, but she couldn’t tell him the truth, either. It would have to do; they had no other choice. “It’s not bad.”
It could be worse, she reminded herself. They were lucky to still be alive. The Bastille had been taken, but not without a great deal of sacrifice. Oscar and André were two of the seven from Company B who still drew breath. Seven out of fifty. She knew better than to think about it for more than a moment. It still hurt too much. It might always.
“Will you rest?” André asked as he ran his hand over his mare’s shoulder and down her back to find their belongings. Two little bags to their name, now.
“After I help you find your way around the house.” She carried only her sword, and even that felt almost too heavy after days of riding.
“I can still see shadows,” he argued. It might have sounded convincing but for the inconveniently placed wall just inside the front door. He shook his head and backed away from it, shifting both bags to one hand so that he could feel along the wall with the other.
“You didn’t see that,” she said. The words were intended to be light and airy, a joke to soften the moment, but they came out tinged with sorrow.
André’s shoulders tensed. “All right,” he said, his voice not quite steady.
She took his arm and led him through the darkened house. There were only two rooms—three if the entryway counted, but she couldn’t bear the thought of watching him stumble his way past the sparse furnishings. It would be too much.
André set their bags in an empty corner of the small bedroom and felt his way around the walls, fingers trailing over the chest at the foot of the bed, and then over the rickety posts of the bedframe. “I thought you said it wasn’t bad.” There was amusement there, but it was tainted by something else.
Oscar wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. Guilt?
“Compared to a back alley street in Paris, it’s not bad.”
“I suppose. We’ll make it work.”
She wondered if he already missed the mansion, or maybe even the barracks, not that it mattered anymore. They’d made a decision to do the right thing, but it had come at a price.
Not a steep one, Oscar thought, but it was still a price.
She watched André pat at the thin blankets on the bed and set her sword carefully inside the empty chest.
“I’m going to lie down for a bit,” she said, fingers moving to unbutton her coat. Would it be too forward to invite him to join her? Would he misunderstand her meaning? She couldn’t make herself say anything.
But he let out a relieved breath and smiled. “I could use a rest, too…”
“I don’t mind.” She wanted it. Craved it, even—a soft moment between them, a chance to let her mind fall empty while she focused on the way it felt to have him there beside her after all this time, after everything. If honesty was supposed to come easily between a husband and wife…why was she still struggling with it?
The mattress was thin, and the blankets scratchy, but André’s back was warm and the rise and fall of his body as he drew breath quieted her thoughts.
Paradise, André thought when Oscar’s fingers loosened their hold on his shirt. Was that what this was? Oscar was his wife and they were alive and together. Was this not a miracle? Ten years ago, he would have felt light on his feet to know that Oscar would someday marry him. The heavens would have heard him voice his joy! How could such an emotion be restrained? No container of flesh created could hold it in for long!
It felt muted, now. Soft. A little sad. So much was different.
He loved Oscar fiercely, deeply, even as she dozed off against his back, fingers tangled in his shirt. Ten years ago he might have cried to have been given the opportunity to witness her trust, but his tears now were for a different reason.
He wanted time.
Time to see her beautiful blonde hair turn grey, time to notice and tease her about the lines on her face, time to memorize the feel of her, the taste of her skin, the sound of her laugh as it changed—as they changed…together.
But she was already tiring quickly, and though she sometimes tried to muffle the coughing, he knew it was steadily getting worse. How much longer would she have? Three months? Six? It would never be enough.
They made supper together. Two potatoes with a pinch of salt for flavoring. André insisted on making it because Oscar couldn’t boil water, let alone bake anything, but she’d argued that his lack of eyesight in a new kitchen could end poorly. The compromise was to work together.
It wasn’t the savoriest food they’d ever tasted, but Oscar thought it was perhaps the best—their first real meal as a married couple. They sat side by side at a sad excuse for a table, legs touching, and poked fun at their joint attempt at preparing a meal. The glint of his wedding band caught her eye and she couldn’t help but smile again. She’d been smiling all night thanks to André’s quick wit.
The candlelight flickered as a light breeze swept through the open window, and even though it was still summertime, she couldn’t help but shiver. His arm was around her instantly, gently protective. Steady. It made her heart flop over in her chest, and she leaned up, pressing a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth.
She could feel him chuckle before he turned his head to press his lips to hers—carefully, almost tentatively. Such a gentleman! And a gentle man. Her heart ached and raced at the memory of their first night together. How had she ever wanted anything but the touch of her dear tenderhearted friend?
Oscar pressed closer, yearning, and for an instant everything felt perfect.
It started as a tightness in her chest, easily mistaken for a lovely sort of aching, but the pressure built and built until she felt as if she might die.
She tore away from the kiss and from André, and he let her go. She was coughing well before her trembling fingers could find her handkerchief, and even when she had it pressed to her mouth, it did little to muffle the sound, and nothing to stop the fit. It dragged on and on until she felt so raw that even André’s hands, rubbing gentle circles on her back, were of no comfort.
“Oscar…” There was something jagged in his voice as he said her name over and over again, each repetition softer than the last. “Oscar, Oscar… Oh, Oscar…”
The weeks passed quickly and André learned his way around the house. He bumped into walls less and less, and most of the time could cook on his own. The neighbors’ son, a boy of nine, was willing to do errands in exchange for fencing and riding lessons, and André found need of his assistance often.
Oscar grew a little worse. She seemed to be always cold and always tired. Even minor activity had a way of leaving her breathless. She tried to protest her situation, deny the illness that was ravaging her lungs, but as the days passed, she took to her bed more often.
The countryside trees were alight with autumn colors, brilliant reds and greens and golds. André wished he could see more than vague shapes and shadows, but he’d been to Arras with Oscar as the leaves fell and knew how splendid it all must look. It might do Oscar a little good to see it instead of the inside of the house.
She agreed to the walk readily.
The sun was warm, splashing over their hair and shoulders as she took his arm. A turn about the yard, or two… He didn’t expect anything more than that. But two turned into three, and three into four. How did she look, now, bathed in sunlight? Was it a sad image, he wondered, or was he missing out on something radiant?
“Do you miss it?” he asked, stepping carefully.
“Miss what?”
He had to consider his words, turn them over in his head. “Do you miss riding? Patrolling? Do you think about how we used to spar in the courtyard?”
“André,” she said, her voice wistful, “I think about it every day.”
“Things haven’t changed too much,” he tried, an attempt to lighten the mood. “Just as it’s always been, it’s still the two of us out for a stroll. Maybe you’ll challenge me to a match later.”
She leaned against him, the weight of her head settling on his shoulder. “There’s a difference between wanting company and needing it,” she said, “but it’s confusing when it’s a little bit of both.”
He stopped, laughing. “We make a fine pair, the two of us. I wish I could see us better.” The golden light coming down, the reds in the trees, the blue in Oscar’s lovely eyes… Even if it was sad…he wanted to know it for himself.
“The sun…” Oscar swallowed, straightening, and was silent for a moment. “The sun,” she said again, moving in front of him, her cold hands grasping at his, “is bright today. So bright…it’s like a painted halo around your head.” Her voice softened. “With your hair pulled back like that, it reminds me of long ago, before our troubles, and I can almost imagine…that we’re in Arras on holiday… It’s not too late, there’s still time, and…your eyes—” Her voice cracked. “They’re as before, whole again. I’ve always liked them, you know. Has everything gone dark for you?”
His hands found her face easily, traced the tears that were falling and tried to smooth them away. “No,” he said, something hard and heavy taking hold of his chest, of his heart, squeezing it until he felt as if it were about to burst. He pressed his lips fervently against her face, her forehead and then her temple. “There is no darkness. Only light. I can see. I can see.”
And he could in his own way. The shape of her nose, the curve of her lips, the fluttering of her eyelashes as she blinked back tears. This was Oscar, wasn’t it? His beloved Oscar? His defender, his champion, the best friend he could have asked for? He would have died long ago if not for her, and he would gladly die for her now.
She fell into his arms, the warmth of the top of her head tucked beneath his chin. Why was she bothering to worry about him when she was suffering so?
“I can see,” he murmured again against her hair, hoping she wouldn’t realize that he was crying now, too. “I can see you. It’s only ever been you.”
Oscar was glad she had withdrawn some of the money she had earned and saved as a military commander. They had to budget strictly, but they would never starve on it. André would never starve.
He couldn’t work, not easily, and not fairly. Oscar wished she could. If she had her health, she could provide for him in some small way, even if it was just taking in laundry or mending fences.
But André was the one who did the laundry. And the cooking. And much of the tidying up, too. She felt useless in the wake of that, and helpless. She made the effort to help on good days, but paid for it later, and on bad days the best she could do was ask him to help her into the kitchen so that she could at least keep him company.
What would happen to him when she was gone? Would he be better off without her? Worse? What if he got lost? He could fall and hurt himself! Who would take care of him if illness moved into his lungs, too?
Sometimes at night, while André slept, she couldn’t let herself rest. She had to touch him, tangle her fingers in his hair, brush her fingertips over his closed eyes, kiss his cheek. It gave her some comfort to know he was there. Was it strange to worry about him when she could feel her own health slipping through her fingers like mere grains of sand?
Oscar needed him, but the knowledge wasn’t comforting. How could he feel so much love for one person and be of such little use to them? Cooking? Cleaning? A steady arm? It never felt like enough. The air was getting colder; the season for flowers was ending. Soon the frost would take even the strongest of them.
Oscar seemed to know, and stubbornly clung to life, but they both knew it was only a matter of time.
André liked to hold her, to feel the comfort of her presence, the sound of her breathing, the brush of her hair against his face. It was proof she was alive, that she was still fighting. Sometimes he told her he loved her, whispered it against her temple or her shoulder or her neck, just in case she needed the reminder, in case it helped her continue to fight. Was it selfish of him to want that? To still want more time?
Dying hurt, but it wasn’t as scary as leaving.
Her stomach fell sharply whenever André bumped into something, when he leaned in to kiss her and missed his mark. To leave would feel like a betrayal. How could she do that? No, no! She couldn’t—it wasn’t an option! It would be too cruel after all he’d suffered, after everything he’d done for her.
But to stay was to burden him in a different way.
As the frost swept over the French countryside that year, the shadows André lived with were replaced by eternal night. He didn’t tell her, but she knew, she could feel it in the burns on his hands, in the way his steps suddenly slowed.
But his spirits remained high. He shrugged off the mistakes she couldn’t, and when he lifted her from their bed, he curled his body around her like a shield. “In case a wall jumps out in front of me,” he said, and laughed.
What did he love about her? Oh, everything. In moments of peace, while she slept, he traced his fingers over her face, outlining her hollow cheeks, the slope of her nose, the curve of her chin. This was the same Oscar he’d always admired, the same one he’d always loved. The fire in her veins, the intensity of her gaze, the sound of her laugh.
It was all still there, most of it tucked away for now, waiting to be unpacked and used again someday.
She had grown thinner. It was hard not to notice when he carried her from one room to another. She was lighter, and didn’t feel the same in his arms. When she coughed, it seemed to wrack her entire body. How could there be anything left to cough up? Hang on, Oscar! Hang on!
She would get better, wouldn’t she? If she rested more, her body could heal.
So he encouraged her to sleep, even though that took her away from him, too.
To have to ask for help felt wrong. Oscar hated it: hated asking to go to the bathroom, to be carried into the kitchen for breakfast. She was always asking, these days, and never giving. It hurt more than any physical injury she had ever endured.
“I’m sorry to ask,” she said. “I’m sorry. I'm sorry.”
André covered his ears eventually, clapped his hands over them and walled himself off from her.
“Stop, stop—please stop.”
“But I am!” she shouted, the spark engaged for just a moment before it fizzled out again. She felt as if she were walking underwater, slow and awkward, almost directionless. “I’m sorry I’m useless!”
“Shut up,” he said. “Shut up! Don’t speak such things, such lies. None of it’s true!”
“But it is,” she insisted, her voice breaking. “It is!” What had become of her? Hadn’t she once commanded a royal regiment? Commanded Company B to fire on the Bastille? Where had that authority gone, that strength? That fire? She felt weak enough to faint from the exertion of standing for too long, now. How was that anything more than uselessness?
“I love you, Oscar François,” André said, grasping at her hands desperately, like he was a man drowning. “I love you! You, Oscar. You! Do you hear me? I love you.” He kissed her hands and held them to his face. “Do you think I could ever feel burdened by the person I love most in this world? The only one I’d lay my life down for? All I’ve ever wanted was to be allowed to care for you. Oscar, this is one storm at sea! We can overcome it together! Let me be your anchor! You are not a burden to me! Please, allow me the comfort of caring for my wife!”
Wife! Wife! If only she could think clearly, maybe she could return his sentiment with something sweeter, or at least something sensible.
But all she could do was ache and ache until tears spilled out of her eyes and soaked the collar of his shirt.
January dawned miserable. 1790, a new year and a new decade. The fire hardly seemed to shake the chill that filled their little home, and even though André stayed with her under the blankets, Oscar struggled to get comfortable enough to sleep.
“I’m supposed to be dead,” she admitted once. “I was told six months. It’s past that, now.”
He hadn’t known what to say to that. Thank you? I’m sorry? He was just grateful to have her.
But her breathing was always bad, now, and when she spoke, it was almost always to ask for small favors. A change of clothes, a new handkerchief, to be held tightly. André always complied easily, though he worried he’d hurt her if he pulled her too close.
Please keep fighting, Oscar, he thought fervently, even as her body shook with the effort of coughing. You can overcome this.
But even he knew she was living on borrowed time, now.
April brought with it the first warm day of the year.
André awoke to find Oscar asleep in his arms.
“It may be a beautiful day, Oscar,” he murmured. “Do you want to see it?” She hadn’t been outside since the first frost, but had often commented on her better days that she wanted to sit outside for a moment when the weather was favorable.
The sun was pouring in through the small window in the bedroom, warm on André’s face. He imagined it was warming hers, too, making her hair glow softly.
“Oscar,” he tried again, stroking the side of her face.
She came to slugglishly. “André,” she whispered after a long minute, her voice hoarse and clogged with tears. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“What are you talking about? Did you have a bad dream?”
She shook her head, the motion slight.
“Do you want to go outside?” he tried again, stroking her hair. “The first nice day of the year… One of us should see it.”
He could feel her trembling even as she murmured a soft sound in the affirmative.
Without a word, he slipped out of bed and leaned down to take her into his arms. She weighed nothing. A winter of bad food and a low appetite had left her body fragile. It was frightening in a way he hadn’t let himself consider before. He remembered carrying her home from the bar after they’d both gotten into a fight—remembered the weight and feel of her as though it were yesterday’s memory. She had been solid, secure, almost heavy.
She felt like death, now.
Oscar wanted to cry, to cling to André’s shirt and press her face against his chest. She felt so dizzy and weak that she could only lie there and depend on him. All her days were bad, now, and some were terrible.
A cough worked its way out of her lungs, but she didn’t have enough strength left to do anything but endure it. The fit lasted for what felt like forever, the sound deep and wet and dangerous. She would drown, soon. She could feel it, just as she could feel the blood on her lip as her head lolled weakly against André’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Oscar,” he said, taking a moment to feel around with his foot. He sat down slowly in the little chair they’d placed out in front of the house, and adjusted her afterward, his hand gentle as he wiped the blood away with his own handkerchief and drew the blanket closer around her shoulders.
The sun was warm and fell across the both of them. André stared ahead, unseeing, and Oscar took the moment to memorize him. His hair, long and heavy and tied back again, though now it was with a ratty old string and not a silk ribbon. His nose, as straight as it always had been, his mouth, his chin, his neck…
“You know,” he said suddenly, fingers stroking her hand before he lifted it to press against his face. “Today reminds me of your first day at Versailles. Do you remember the fruit trees? They were in bloom. They must be again today… The air feels so nice.”
She smiled a little, her strength slipping. Why did he have to try to be comforting at a time like this? Her vision faded, the edges turning white. Her cheek felt hot.
“Oscar?” he asked, feeling for her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “Why are you crying?”
She ached all over, from the roots of her hair to her toes, but nothing hurt more than her heart. “I can’t leave you, André…” Her words were so soft she couldn’t even be sure she’d spoken them aloud.
“I promised I’d never leave you, Oscar. Don’t you remember? An anchor doesn’t leave its ship.”
A small hiccup shook her body, and she felt his arms come around her as if he was trying to give her a little bit of his own life. He’d done enough of that already, she thought.
“I’m going to die,” she tried to tell him.
His voice came after a moment, while the birds sang from a nearby tree. “Yes, someday.”
“No,” she muttered, “no. Now. André…I—” Her strength fled, leaving her speechless with tears running down her face. She could only tremble and cry, and she hated it. How could she leave André like this? Alone and blind! Alone and blind and scared! Guilt chewed at her heart. She was capable of more than this, wasn’t she? She was stronger than this! She had to be!
But the tears only fell faster, uncontrollable.
He wiped them away tenderly, first with his fingertips, and then with his lips, softly kissing her face.
“I love you, Oscar,” he mumbled, over and over again. “I love you, I love you…more than anything, more than anyone…”
She shuddered, struggling to pull in enough air, and felt him kiss the palm of her hand before he closed her fingers and held her tight, rocking with the weight of his own words.
“But if the storm is too much to weather, then I understand. It’s okay, Oscar. It’s okay. I’ll be all right... You can go.”
She tried to say thank you, to say she loved him, and though the desire was there to kiss him one last time, to touch his face, to smile for him...she couldn’t do it. He would know, though, wouldn’t he? He would understand, as he always had.
She could only curl her fingers slightly in the fabric of his shirt, a last act of defiance against the disease that ravaged her lungs…and then she was gone.
Arras, April 2008
“What a terrible story!” Oscar scoffed at her dark-haired companion and tossed a rock into the creek. “If you were going to come up with nonsense like that, couldn’t you at least have ended it happily?”
“I didn’t make it up at all!” André Grandier insisted, leaning back against the bank of the creek to look up at the sky. “It’s a true story! Or at least, that’s what I was told.”
“So you’re telling me that some silly man raised his daughter as a man and everyone loved her, and then everything got depressing for some reason? It’s gotta be fake!”
He laughed. “It’s not fake, I promise! Besides, your father did the same thing, didn’t he?”
“He gave me a boy’s name. That’s different.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s a family name!”
André sat up suddenly, pointing a finger at her. “Exactly! And this was rumored to be family property before the French Revolution!”
“A million years ago!”
“Two hundred, actually.”
“Actually,” she taunted, sticking her tongue out at him. “It’s a bad story.”
“I like it,” he said. “It’s romantic.”
“I thought girls still had cooties.”
“I’m not five, Oscar!”
“You act five!” She threw another rock into the water.
André leaned back on his elbows and blinked lazily at the clouds that rolled by overhead, still smiling pleasantly like he was waiting for her to admit that she was the one who was acting like a five-year-old.
“You don’t really believe that story, do you?” she asked him after a moment.
“Anything’s possible.”
Well, not anything, she wanted to argue, but bit her tongue. “I can’t believe you’re a sap for romantic tragedies.”
“What can I say? I have good taste!”
She rolled her eyes and grinned. “So what happened to the cooler André then, if you’re so smart?”
“Well,” he said, sitting up and leaning forward on his knees, “legend has it that he died of a broken heart.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it made them ache. “Be serious, will you?”
“I am! I mean, legend likes to exaggerate, so I guess he probably had a heart attack or took his own life or something…”
“I thought you said you had good taste!”
“I do! Don’t you think it’s romantic?”
“Death isn’t romantic, André.”
“Not that. I mean the story.” He rolled onto his side, taking her hand in his. “An impossible love that found a way! I just can’t believe they fled the Revolution only to die anyway.” He almost sounded mournful. It made Oscar feel something she couldn’t quite name, and she tried to shoo it out of her mind.
“I thought you were a romantic, André,” she teased, squeezing his hand. “You need to think more like one. Obviously it gave them more time together!”
“That’s true…”
“Now tell me the truth, did you replace the real names with ours?”
He laughed. “I swear I didn’t!”
She sighed and watched the water go by while André looked up at the sky, still holding her hand, his thumb rubbing gently against hers.
“Hey, Oscar?” he said after a few minutes had passed.
“Mm?”
“I still think it’s a good story.” He let go of her hand and put his arms behind his head, falling back against the grass with a smile on his face. “They were together in the end. I think that’s all that matters.”
Oscar shrugged, missing his hand for some reason and feeling out of sorts about the story she’d been told. “I don’t know much about that sort of thing, you know.”
“I guess not. When I heard the story, I felt like I already knew it. What about you?” Oscar turned to see him watching her, his dark eyes thoughtful.
“I couldn’t even begin to imagine such a tale,” she said. “I’m sure I’ve never heard it before.”
“Have you ever had any strange dreams?” he asked. “Say, about being a military commander? Or having tuberculosis?”
“No. Have you?”
He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Uh, no. But I bet you could pull off the look. A noble eighteenth century military commander, I mean. Tall boots, the uniform…”
“A powdered wig, too?”
“Please don’t.”
She grinned and fiddled with the grass beside her.
“I didn’t change the names, you know. Oscar and André, just like us.”
“If you say so.”
“Do you think it’s a coincidence?”
Her fingers found a small pebble and she chucked it into the creek. “It better be. I don’t believe in destiny or fate. I get to forge my own path and make my own choices in all things.”
“Except the university you attend.”
She reached over and swatted at him, fingers passing through his hair as he ducked. “That’s not a done deal yet!”
“Your father’s got a dorm all picked out for you, and he’s probably already bought all the furniture for it, too!” He laughed, rolling out of her reach. “A solid mahogany desk instead of a bed! And he’s scheduled your classes for you! Math at eight in the morning to keep your mind sharp!”
“I have three years to change his mind!”
“Three years to look forward to an 8:00am physics class, Oscar!”
She wanted to lecture him for the next ten minutes at least on all of her plans to prevent that from happening, but his eyes were bright, his smile wide, and the sound of his laughter made her chest feel tight for some reason. She just didn’t have it in her to argue.
She blamed the story. It was such a downer she couldn’t help but feel something! That had to be it!
“C’mon,” she said after a moment, getting to her feet and offering André her hand. “We’ll be late if we don’t head back now.”
“You just don’t wanna make Grandma mad.” But he took her hand anyway, still smiling.
As soon as he was standing, Oscar tugged him along behind her, a flimsy excuse to hold his hand a little longer. André seemed to understand what she wanted, somehow: even when he caught up to her, he didn’t make a move to let go.
“Slow down, Oscar,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Let’s enjoy the walk back.”
Even she had to admit it was a beautiful day. The air was warm, the grass green again for the first time that year, and the fruit trees were in radiant full bloom. It almost felt familiar, somehow…with the sun coming down through the clouds to warm the tops of their heads.
“All right,” she said, and smiled, shifting a little to walk beside him.