Page 20 of Across Time

The woman who answers does not look old enough to be a mother of teenagers, but I see Henri and Marie in the slope of her cheekbones and the shape of her eyes, which widen at the sight of me.

"Bonjour," I begin in halting French. I know she speaks English, but it seems rude not to at least begin in her language. "J’espère que vous pouvez m’aider.” I hope you can help me.

Her eyes narrow just a touch. I see Henri's keen intellect in irises that are brown, rather than green. His guardedness too. "What do you need?" she asks in English. "You should not be here."

I take a deep breath. "Marie told me you might be able to help me find my aunt." At the sound of her daughter's name she softens just a bit, and then, with obvious reluctance, she opens the door and asks me in.

I don’t realize how cold I am until I’ve followed her inside, but as the warmth reaches my frozen feet I begin shaking with it. She looks at me and hesitates again. "I shall get you some clothes. Go stand by the fire."

I sit on the hearth and she returns with a blanket, a sweater and a pair of trousers. "These belonged to my son when he was much younger. We do not need them back."

She goes to the kitchen while I pull on Henri's things, which drape over my frame, making me feel like a child. When she returns with a tea tray, she gestures to the seat across from her and pours a cup for me, more dutiful than willing. As a time traveler, she is unsettled by my presence, but with a daughter not much younger than I am now, she can’t bring herself to let me freeze.

"So what is it you need?" she asks, frowning as she hands me the cup.

I find, when lying, that it works best if you stick as closely as possible to the truth, and that is what I do now. "My aunt disappeared searching for the circle of light. I told Marie, and she said you might be able to give me some information."

She lifts her head, fastening me with those questioning eyes, so like Henri’s. "She would not have discussed this with just anyone,” Madame Durand says. “In fact, I’m inclined to think she wouldn’t discuss it with anyone at all, and that leads me to suspect that you are lying.”

I take a nervous sip of my tea. “I’m not,” I reply. “But I guess a liar would say that too.”

“You must finish your tea and warm up,” she says, “before you go on to your next destination.” There’s a finality to the words—which means I’ve failed. Marie is going to be so disappointed and I realize that I am too. I did want to give her some closure, if nothing else.

I pick up the framed photo of a very young Henri and Marie that sits on the side table and smile at Henri's chubby little cheeks and mischievous eyes.

"That’s Marie-Therese, who you claim to know, and my son, Henri, who is away at university now." She laughs almost to herself. "He would very much have enjoyed meeting you."

I seriously doubt that. Though I should probably just finish my tea and leave, I can’t help my own curiosity. "Where is he in school?" I ask.

"Oxford," she replies.

I blink. Oxford? Even back in 1935, it must have been an honor to be accepted there. So why did he leave? "Does he...does he like it there?"

She smiles, her suspicion of me lost in a cloud of adoration for her son. "He is in love with it, with all of it. My son was never cut out for a small life here with us, I'm afraid. The top student in the village.”

It’s almost the opposite of what he said the other day. I think of his youthful obsession with architecture, the fact that he was willing to run away from home just to see some architectural principle at play. How exactly did I convince myself he was just too provincial for life in a big city? That he preferred being a farmer? Something changed, and I wonder what it was.

“This is him now,” she says, reaching for another frame on the mantle and handing it to me. Henri grinning in rolled up shirt sleeves, a rugby ball tucked beneath his arm and other smiling boys around him. He looks so handsome and carefree, but the sepia of the photograph and the clothes remind me how long ago this all actually was. That Henri, in my time, is old. It’s hardly a revelation but it hits me now with a sharpness it didn’t before.

"You must miss him,” I say faintly. Weirdly, it feels as if I miss him. As if I miss this carefree boy in the photo, so different from the man I just saw in 1938. I can’t seem to take my eyes off the picture.

Her smile is fond and sad at once. "He has much greater dreams than a small farm, I'm afraid. His friends have already invited him to stay with them out in the Cotswolds next summer, and what can I say?” she asks with a shrug. "All you want as a parent is for your children to love their lives. He does, and if it means I see less of him it's a small price to pay."

It hits me at last: he didn’t return because he missed the farm, because he preferred home. He came back because his mother disappeared, and there was no one to protect Marie.

I look at this beautiful, beaming woman across from me and wish to God she hadn’t left. The odds that she’s still surviving somewhere are so slim, but I find myself praying for it anyway. If we could save her, Henri could have his life back, and so could Marie.

She's watching me carefully again. "Do you know my son?" she asks softly.

We are getting into dangerous territory. Telling her I know Henri would indicate that he and Marie-Therese are probably in the same place—which runs counter to what she will expect, given that she just told me she doesn’t think he’ll return home. But I don’t feel capable of telling an outright lie.

"Yes," I reply. "A little."

Her brow furrows. A single moment of uncertainty and worry. "He is well, where you're from?"

"Very."

She smiles and tips her head again. "And is he still very handsome?"