Page 51 of Across Time

I nod, but the dream is still too recent. I don’t want to see that empty lake again. He pauses and then goes to the chair across the room.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep."

I shouldn't accept this. He rises early and he's going to be exhausted. But I don’t want him to go. "Thank you, Henri," I say settling into the pillow. "You can ridicule me for this in the morning. I won’t get mad."

His mouth lifts. “You take all the fun out of it by giving me permission.”

"Well since you're going to ridicule me anyway, can you pull the chair closer?"

He laughs but he does it, coming right up beside me and resting his palm on my forehead. "Sleep, little thief. I'll make sure you're kept safe."

“I know,” I say quietly. “You’ve been doing it since I arrived.”

And with his hand on my head, I float off into a dreamless sleep.

19

When I wake in the morning, the sun is pouring through the windows and Henri is gone, though I know he stayed because when I woke just before dawn he was asleep in the chair, his hand still on my head. No one’s ever done that for me before, but I guess I’ve also never been able to bring myself to ask for it either.

There’s no sign of the sweet version of Henri when he comes in that day at lunch. He hasn’t shaved and there are circles under his eyes. I blame myself for both.

“Amelie needs a dress for the dance,” Marie-Therese tells him. ”Can you drive us to Reims in the morning?”

I glance up from the peas I’m shelling. Marie hadn’t even mentioned the dance to me prior to now, but suddenly it’s as if we’ve spoken of nothing else for days on end. I can’t say I particularly share her interest, since I imagine the evening will be spent watching her dance while every other girl within twenty miles throws herself at Henri.

His eyes linger on me for just a moment. “No,” he says. “I’m busy this week. And she has dresses.”

I shrug. “I don’t need a dress. I’ll wear the blue. And it’s not like I’m trying to win anyone over,” I remind her with a knowing look.

“Nor I,” she replies primly. “But the blue is not good for dancing and nothing else you have is fancy enough.”

Henri’s fork lands on his plate with a clang. “She won’t be doing any dancing, Marie.”

I frown. I’d come to the same conclusion, but whether I dance or not will be my decision, not his. And why shouldn’t I dance? Is he worried I’ll get in his way with Claudette?

“I might,” I say sharply. “And it would be nice to get a new dress.”

“Good luck walking, then,” says Henri. “Because as I already told you, I don’t have time.”

He’s not that busy, he’s just being an asshole for some reason I can’t fathom. Fortunately, I’m pretty good at being an asshole too.

“That’s fine,” I say with a smile. “I’ll see if André can take us instead.”

* * *

By some miraculous feat of scheduling, Henri decides he has time to drive us to Reims after all. I try hard not to gloat but he’s surly the entire trip anyway, muttering about a wasted morning and making it sound as if the entire fate of the vineyard will be determined by the hour or two our trip will take.

Reims is a true city, busy and vital, not that I’m given much of a chance to see it. Henri pulls up to one clothing store, helps me out of the car and informs Marie-Therese we have thirty minutes or can walk home.

The shop is different from shops back home, or even Le Bon Marché, where Henri took me in Paris. Instead of racks of clothes, a shopgirl brings you dresses to look at, based on your size. Though it’s supposedly elegant, I find it irritating, especially when she pushes me to consider a dress that looks like something a toddler would wear on Easter.

Fortunately, Marie is hell bent on finding the right dress and sends each of them back with the dignity of a queen until, just before the thirty-minute mark, one finally meets with her approval—a bright poppy red, with a gathered bodice that cuts low across the chest and tiny cap sleeves. She smiles at me in the mirror. “He won’t know what to do with himself,” she says.

I raise a brow. “Who won’t?”

She schools her features. “André of course,” she replies innocently. “Who else?”

* * *