Chapter Text
28 Avril 1916
Villa Blanchefleur
Cassis, France
Cher Thomas,
It is my hope you were not disheartened by my lack of letters, or that any inaccurate information reached you. I am alive if not well—and I am out of the army. Between sheltering in a puddle of mud that a shell carved out next to men who became corpses before my eyes, and the gas that came afterwards, I was not fit to serve when some angel disguised as a medic pulled me out of the mud and bundled me off into a stretcher some time in early March.
I have much to say about that, but I find I either put too much of my misery onto paper, or I stare at the blank space and find no words at all, not in French or in English. Perhaps it helps that I barely remember the month of March. But I still see things in my dreams, and I hear things that must have happened, and
I will only tell you that I could not speak for the first week I was home, and it wasn’t because I couldn’t find words, but because my throat was still too raw. But I did also cry on Adéle’s shoulder often, and my mother’s, and embarrassingly, even in front of Mlles. Élisa and Violette de M—, who were, as you might say, “quite sporting” about the whole thing and offered me their shoulders and handkerchiefs.
But I am feeling much recovered now, and that brings me to my good news. Both Adéle and Élisa understand if you would rather return to York and your Abbey, but provided you survive until your home leave, we would love to host you in Provence. The Marquis and his wife are holding down the fort in Montmirail, which is ironically quite close to where I nearly died, and Mssr de M. and Jean-Alain are somewhere on the front, but Madame and the Mademoiselles have decamped to Blanchefleur, in Cassis, where they usually spend the summers and where the d’Alais family hails from.
Mlle. É has conscripted Adéle into becoming lady’s maid to her and Mlle. V, which I believe has always been their plan since they were old enough to understand the class differences between them. I have their friendship to thank for this invitation. That, and Maman has put me to work in the kitchens—my uncle Auguste, her elder brother, has a position in a large household in England, and she has been considering sending me to work for him after the war if I should like to be in England closer to my sweetheart and my particular friend . In any case, between Adéle’s position and my tartes citronnes becoming a house favorite amongst the ladies, as well as our increasingly all-female house, we should greatly enjoy having another gentleman around the villa even for a few days. Right now, the only gentlemen we have left are our footmen, and they are pulling double duty as gardeners. Mlle. É and I are learning to drive together in case she needs to go into Cassis or Marseille proper.
In any case: I miss you, and I would like to see you if I can. If you tell me a dessert you would like, I will try to learn to make it before you come. Maman has said the cottage would be ours for the duration, and it’s quite peaceful. I think you would find Provence pleasant, no matter what time of year you manage it.
To entice you further, I’ve attached some fig biscuits. All the herbs are from the cottage garden. I use a similar recipe for bread and add goat cheese, but I could not imagine it would travel well enough for me to send it to the front.
Please write to me with your answer when you can: I will be here at Villa Blanchefleur most likely until the war ends, regardless of whether it ends tomorrow or in two years.
Sending my warmest regards and a bit of Provençal sunshine,
Your Ricard
“You were calling out in your sleep last night,” Adéle said one night in April. She sat at her small desk unpinning her rosy-brown hair from its bun, the small cherrywood hairbrush sitting in front of her. Ricard watched from her bed, which she had insisted he take while he recovered.
“For someone named Thomas,” she elaborated.
“Thomas is a dear friend,” Ricard said carefully, setting aside the book of English poetry he was attempting to read. “I write to him as often as I can.”
Adéle hummed and picked up her hair brush, beginning to run it through her hair. Ricard picked up the book of poems again, intending to pick up where he left off, when Adéle spoke once more.
“It’s only that I didn’t know men on the front called their friends mon coeur,” she said, looking up and pinning Ricard in a stare through the glass of her mirror.
Ricard looked away from her blue-green gaze, clearing his throat uselessly.
“Ricard, you know I don’t care,” Adéle sighed, turning around in her chair as best she could. “You could have told me you were in love with him! I guessed when you asked for the soap, you know.”
“I don’t know if I love him,” Ricard said slowly, moving to the window. He ducked under the sheer curtain and leaned on the sill. The late April evening was cool, but still mild enough that they had the windows open. In the distance, he imagined he could hear the roar of the waves.
Adéle was quiet, but Ricard sensed her eyes on him.
“I don’t know if I love him,” he repeated slowly, “but I fall deeper with every letter he sends me. I want to see him again. Only three kisses we shared, but they were like the casting of a spell: he’s enchanted me.”
The room filled with the sounds of darkening evening: birds, the rustling of trees, the scent of flowers on the breeze carried in on the purple light.
“He’s done better, too,” Ricard said softly, “I know we are here on the sufferance of the marquisate. He’s had a duke, though. Could probably seduce another one.”
“I didn’t see his duke writing to his sister and asking for some of his mother the duchess’ jam, or some lavender soap,” Adéle said evenly.
Ricard watched the sunset for a long moment and did not speak. Adéle stood, moving to wrap her arms around Ricard’s waist. He turned to lean his head on her shoulder, impossibly tired.
“I’d like to meet him,” Adéle murmured, “Even if it’s not love. I want to meet the man who has turned my cautious older brother into a swooning mess who talks about being enchanted.”
“I don’t think the ladies de Montmirail will be too keen on a random, homosexual Englishman showing up at Blanchefleur unannounced,” Ricard said dryly.
“You leave the ladies de Montmirail to me,” Adéle hummed innocently, kissing her brother’s temple before letting him go.
9 May 1916
Hell (France)
Cher Ricard,
I’m glad to hear you’re not dead. The longer I went without your letters, the more I worried. I appreciate you putting me out of my misery, though I must say that finding out you were injured badly enough to be discharged did give me a bit of a fright to the point that poor Latimer commented on how pale I was. I was startled enough to let him fuss over me, right up until Malcom quipped that I’m always bloody pale, and I think I snapped back something suitably cutting.
In any case, I shared a couple of the biscuits with Latimer, and even allowed Malcom to have half of one, since he looked genuinely wounded by my remark. If I’m being charitable, I think he didn’t realize I was so genuinely fretful about you, and isn’t that a change? If you’d known me before the war, I think you’d be very shocked to realize how nice I’m being. I do think you’d not have wanted much to do with me then. But I suppose you do make me want to be a little kinder, if only to not appear in your thoughts as though I am constantly sucking on a lemon. The unit was something of a fresh start for me, and your letters tether me to a world outside of the places I used to know.
It’s kind of you to invite me to Provence. If you’re absolutely certain the de M—s will not take offense to my presence, I should like to come if I’m able. I’m due for leave any time now, but whether I’ll actually get any is anyone’s guess.
Before you decide you truly want me in Provence, I want to tell you I’m not a kind man
Before you have me to your home I want you to know I’ve done a great deal of things I’m not proud of and I want to spare you
I can’t imagine being welcomed back to Downton with open arms
This is hell to write. I’m not used to having anything as nice as you. I should probably unburden myself to you in person and then you can decide if you still want anything to do with me. But if you can accept that I’m probably not nearly as kind as you are, and quite unused to being sweet, and that I’m very, very fond of you and don’t want to ruin things: I’ll come to Provence and spend my home leave (if I get any) with you.
Sending you nothing from the trenches except my regards,
Your Thomas
If one could not find Élisa de Montmirail, it was more than likely she was tagging along after the gardener and asking after her precious roses and citrus trees.
The official gardener of Villa Blanchefleur was somewhere in a trench somewhere, but with Ricard home, she’d press-ganged him into helping with the gardens that had been transformed for food rather than beauty. It was there they were both kneeling, Élisa in a practical men’s sun hat that was perched neatly on her head, and Ricard in an over-large floral affair that should have looked far more ridiculous on him than it actually did.
“Adéle says you might like to invite your lover here if he gets home leave, but that you didn’t think we’d approve,” Élisa said without preamble as she dug a carrot out of the dirt.
Ricard, who was taking a sip of water from where he was kneeling amongst the onions, choked on his canteen.
“What?!”
“I just thought you should know we all knew you fancied Jean-Alain when you were thirteen,” Élisa continued, “It’s not news. Well, maybe Violette didn’t get it, and I think Jean-Alain pretended it wasn’t happening, but I knew. And I unfortunately understand that objectively speaking, my older brother is attractive. Frankly, I’m probably even more in favor of your English lover coming to visit for the sole reason that he isn’t my older brother.”
“Mademoiselle Élisa,” Ricard attempted to interrupt in a pained tone.
“Don’t Mademoiselle me when we’re harvesting alliums,” Élisa continued, “In any case, you ought to write him that he’s welcome. It will make you happy and if he’s anything like the Englishmen I’ve met, Provence might succeed in taking the stick out of his arse. Or putting something else there instead.”
She winked.
“Where did you learn such language ?” Ricard asked, sounding even to himself like he wished a hole would open up beneath the garden they were tending and swallow him.
“Oh, Ricard, don’t be so bourgeois. I read,” Élisa replied with cheerful disdain, “Mainly letters from my married friends, which are fewer than ever these days. And novels I absolutely should not lay my hands upon. But I read nonetheless.”
“I appreciate your generosity, but can we please talk about something else?” Ricard begged.
“Of course,” Élisa said, then looked Ricard directly in his eyes. Her smile turned wicked.
“Like what your Thomas looks like, for one,” she teased, and Ricard groaned. Perhaps being considered one of the ladies should have come as a compliment or a relief, but at the present moment there were few things Ricard wanted less than to discuss his beau with the childhood friends who now technically employed him.
Still.
Ricard was never one to discount kindness when someone could just as easily have been unkind. He adjusted Élisa’s floral hat on his head and cleared his throat.
“His name is Thomas Barrow, and his eyes shine like silver,” he began, bending down to dig another onion out of the dirt. He looked up to find Élisa’s hazel gaze fixed upon him.
There was something in her expression akin to joy, and something else that spoke of longing. Ricard thought of a proposal that was never spoken of, and a hand devoid of rings, and a circle of married friends that was ever-dwindling to widowhood and more.
“And he doesn’t smile often, but when he does, mon Dieu, I want a photograph to keep close to my chest,” he continued.
Élisa listened.
BUREAU DE TÉLÉGRAPHE, PARIS
14 JUIN 1916 0719
MADE IT TO HOME LEAVE. 7 DAYS. CASSIS STILL ON OFFER? TB
TÉLÉGRAMME À MARSEILLE
14 JUIN 1916 1028
YES. COME. CALL VB FROM TRAIN STATION. RD
Marseille was so soaked in sunshine it nearly hurt Thomas’ eyes.
The train ride from Paris had been exhausting. Seeing the women waiting at the station to embrace their beaux made him feel a bit like he was in a dream as well: there was a sense of unreality to the whole thing, knowing that Ricard would be there soon enough.
He had called from the train station in Paris rather than the station in Marseille, assuming that it would be a decent drive for Ricard to manage, but the train still ended up in the depot early. He was standing outside smoking a cigarette and marveling at the mountains and ocean in the distance when he heard a familiar call from what seemed like several hundred feet below.
“Lance-Corporal Barrow! Thomas Barrow! Thomas!”
Halfway up the stairs was Ricard, who seemed to have taken a hurried pace initially and immediately regretted it. He was bent over, breathing hard, and as Thomas hurried down the stairs with his rucksack he looked up with a beaming smile.
“Richard, for God’s sake, you’ve been injured ,” Thomas scolded him, though it was half-hearted at best when the other man straightened up and threw his arms around him for a moment.
“Mon coeur! T’es ici!” Ricard said, voice impossibly sweet, before he pulled back to kiss him once on each cheek.
My heart! You’re here! was what Thomas translated in a daze as Ricard pulled him down the stairs in a more leisurely fashion. He smelled of citrus and herbs and the lavender soap Thomas had used down to the last scraps. The dream-like quality of Provence only increased with Ricard at his side.
“Besides, I’m feeling better, Thomas,” Ricard said airily, though he still sounded a bit winded, “The doctor says I ought to take lots of walks and spend time in the sunshine, so I’ve basically been assigned to Élisa’s side in the gardens. And Adéle and I are in Maman’s cottage, so that means I have to walk to and from the main house to get to my post.”
He certainly looked better than the last time Thomas had seen him, although he missed the blue uniform that brought out his eyes. Thomas drank in the sight of him like a glass of lemonade on the hottest day of the year: first in large gulps, then in tiny sips. Of course there was his familiar Ricard: his smile, his pretty eyes, the curl of his hair.
And then there were the new things about him that he categorized. His cheeks were more flushed and he had more freckles, though certainly spending time in the sunlight would do that to a man. His hair was clean and touched with a great deal more gold than it had been at the front. And he was still looking over at Thomas every so often as they descended the stairs, stealing the same little glances.
“You look well,” Thomas said, pausing to adjust his rucksack on his shoulder.
“Are you glad to see it?” Ricard asked coyly, taking a moment to lean against the iron banister.
“I’m glad to see you ,” Thomas replied, “And I’ll notice that you didn’t tell me the same.”
“That’s because you look exhausted, mon cher, ” Ricard grinned, “And I’m very glad you’ve come here to relax for… how long is your leave, again?”
“A week,” Thomas sighed, “Which is part of the reason I’m here rather than risking my luck in England.”
Ricard opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a cheerful woman’s voice.
“ As-tu trouvé ton Anglais?” called a dark-haired woman at the foot of the stairs, leaning against a car in a manner that Thomas would have called rakish . Her face was shadowed by the large hat she wore, but her dress was a practical light green with buttons down the front. Even in the shadow, he could tell she was smiling.
“ Ouais, c’est mon cher Thomas, ” Ricard called back, and the woman beamed up at them.
“Aha! Bonjour, Thomas! Bienvenue à Marseille, et bienvenue en Provence, ” she said, “ S'il vous plaît appelez-moi Élisa. ”
“ Mademoiselle de Montmirail, ” Thomas startled, giving a slight bow and staring in bafflement when the woman pouted. He was strikingly reminded Lady Sybil, should Lady Sybil ever give up all airs of propriety whatsoever.
“Come now,” she replied in prettily accented English, “We are a very small party at Villa Blanchefleur. Maman was pregnant with Violette when Tante Helénè was pregnant with Adéle, so we are all close as siblings and tend to behave as such these days, when Grandpéré is not here to scold us.”
Ricard’s fixed smile spoke volumes on how the staff saw this closeness, but Élisa seemed not to notice. In short order, Ricard took his rucksack from Thomas and opened the door, ushering him into the back seat of the car. Bafflingly, Élisa was the one who got behind the wheel.
“Ricard is kind enough to let me practice driving,” she said, “So we’ll only switch off closer to Cassis, so that Maman and Tante Helénè don’t scold us.”
“As though they’d scold Élisa,” Ricard muttered under his breath.
“I heard that!”
“Has the war changed an awful lot for you, Mademoiselle Élisa?” Thomas compromised.
“ Comme ci comme ça ,” she responded, putting the car into gear, “We’ve decamped to Blanchefleur all year, as opposed to the summers, which is strange. And my father and brother are at war. Ricard is injured, and Adéle is becoming to me what her mother is to my mother. Things have changed. But I am still here, and Blanchefleur is still here, and as far as I know fate has been kind to the rest of my dear ones. So what can I complain about?”
She gave a very Gallic shrug, and turned to smile at Ricard when he slid into the back seat as well.
“Ricard, tell us about Marseilles while I drive,” she commanded.
"We're supposed to have a new staircase here at the train station, and all of the plans were approved in '14, but the war prevented that, so we've got this terrible excuse for a staircase until the war ends," Ricard groused immediately, and launched into several other facts about Marseilles with plenty of commentary from Élisa while she drove.
Somewhere along the drive, he slipped back into French. And somewhere into his French monologue, relaxed by the warm sunlight and the voice of his beloved, Thomas slipped into sleep on his shoulder.