A War Within (Epic WWI Love Story) Read online

  “Yes. I will. I promise. I will get this letter to her.”

  Auguste looked at the young man’s face, his eyes following the jagged scar on his cheek up into his mocha-brown eyes as he watched the life slip out of them. He lowered his head as he clutched the soldier’s hand and felt him fade away. Never had Auguste felt so lost and alone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ISABELLE STARED OUT the window of her room, her eyes fixed on the driveway, waiting for Pierre to come trotting up like he used to. But, like every day since he’d left, she knew it was unlikely today would be the day he returned home. It had been seven months since he’d joined the military, and seven months since she’d seen him. With their wedding only a month away, she was starting to lose hope of her happily ever after. She pictured herself standing alone at the altar, trying to play both their parts and hoping the priest wouldn’t notice the absence of the groom.

  With a sigh, Isabelle slumped her shoulders and marched down the stairs in defeat. She headed outside where she found Alexis sitting on the porch, bathed in the early fall sun, reading the newest book that consumed her attention.

  “Alexis? What am I going to do if Pierre isn’t back in time for the wedding? Should I plan on postponing or do you think he’ll really make it?”

  “He’ll be here, Isabelle. He promised. Remember? Just have a little faith.” Alexis smiled at her sister and reached out, squeezing her hand. “You’ve been moping around for months. I can barely stand to see you so down. I miss my boisterous little sister. He’ll be here, Isabelle.”

  As the girls sat talking on the porch Isabelle noticed a faint trace of dust in the distance, indicating the approach of a car or carriage. The girls stood sentinel over the next few minutes to see if the dust trail turned onto their estate. When it did turn toward them, the girls looked at each other with mirrored excitement. While Isabelle prayed for Pierre and his safe return, Alexis had several new suitors after her, so the girls giggled, wondering which one it could be.

  As the car drew closer, the girls squinted to see, their fingers squeezing tight together while they waited to see which one of them, if either, would be squealing with excitement.

  The car finished the long trek up the winding drive and as it got closer, the girls realized they didn’t recognize the traveler at all. The familiar feeling of disappointment settled in Isabelle’s stomach, knowing that not only might Pierre miss the wedding, but that he may not make it home at all.

  “Oh, poo,” Alexis said with a pout, “It’s not either. Probably someone here for Papa. I’ll go get him.” She stood up and went into the house to find their father.

  The car pulled to a stop and Isabelle waved at the driver. He climbed out and went around to open the back door. When the door opened, Isabelle saw the passenger’s blue leg step out and her heart galloped out of control. It was a French uniform.

  Pierre! He didn’t lie after all! He’s home!

  Unable to contain her excitement, she jumped out of her seat and raced toward the car. Though she knew it wasn’t proper, she intended to tackle him to the ground, covering him with all the kisses she’d wanted to give him all these months. When she rounded the corner of the car, she saw the rest of the figure emerge. Slowing to a stop, the grin stretched across her face fell along with her heart when she saw the uniformed man was not Pierre, but a different French soldier. This man was much older. His grey hair peaked out from beneath his soldier’s cap and a twisted grey mustache perched above his thin lips. With her excitement overwhelming her, she hadn’t even taken into consideration another soldier may be inside.

  “Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” he said in a soft voice.

  “Good afternoon, monsieur. How can I assist you today?” she politely asked, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice.

  Papa and Alexis caught up, stepping up behind her.

  “Hello, monsieur,” her father said, smiling at the soldier. “What can we do for you today?”

  “I am looking for an Isabelle Barouche, please.”

  “That’s me.” Isabelle smiled and stepped forward.

  When she did, pain flashed across his face and she could see the sadness in his eyes. A knot coiled up inside her stomach at his response and her smile dissipated beneath the weight of his stare.

  Why is he looking for me, and why is he looking at me that way? Pierre. No. It can’t be. It’s not possible.

  She started shaking her head, taking a large step back while she swallowed hard, bracing against the words that were coming... the words she wasn’t ready to hear.

  “Mademoiselle, I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I regret to inform you that Pierre...”

  “Stop,” she whispered, shaking her head harder. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say it.” Her voice cracked, and hot tears burned behind her eyes. The world around her started spinning and flashes of his face collided inside her mind, visions of him chasing her as a child, swinging off the branches into the pond, his contagious laughter, soft kisses, and the moment he asked her to marry him.

  “I’m so sorry, mademoiselle. But he’s—”

  “No. No. No! Don’t say it! Pierre!” The word ripped her throat apart when she screamed his name.

  It felt like the world got picked up and tossed upside down, causing her to stumble, reaching out into thin air for support. When her knees gave out, she crumbled toward the ground. Her father and sister leaned forward and caught her before she hit the dirt. A sharp ringing buzzed in her ears and she collapsed in their arms. Tears burned a trail down her face as she repeatedly gasped for air, and she could faintly make out the sound of her sister saying her name in the background. The ringing in her ears and her uncontrollable cries drowned out all other sounds around her while the soldier stepped forward.

  Their eyes locked and her screams subsided for a moment. “I’m so very sorry. He was a good soldier and we are so sorry for your loss.”

  Isabelle looked up in a daze to see her sister’s tear-streaked face. Alexis tried to say something to her but the ringing in her ears blocked her hearing. Her father’s concerned face appeared above her. The tears filling his eyes was the last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her whole.

  A WEEK PASSED AND BESIDES attending the funeral, Isabelle could do nothing but stare out the window at the place where she’d received the grim news. She wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping and spent most of her days crying.

  “I think we need to send her to visit Aunt Brigitte for a while,” her father whispered to Alexis as they stood in the doorway, watching her. They’d spoken about her in hushed tones all week, but she could hear everything they said. Grief had captured her tongue and speaking more than a syllable at a time was more than she could muster through her despair, even though she could hear every word of pity and concern.

  “I think you’re right, father. I will take her to the city and hopefully the change of scenery will help her snap out of it. There will be parties and shopping and all sorts of visitors to keep her busy. Don’t worry, Papa. She will be okay again. She just needs some time.”

  By the end of the next day her bags were packed, and the carriage was loaded for the fifty-mile ride to her aunt’s townhome. They would stay over at a small inn, The Prairie Auberge, as they always did for one night before finishing the journey the following day. Alexis helped her sister into the carriage and Isabelle watched out the window as the fields of Chateau Cheval disappeared behind her. Even though she didn’t enjoy visits to the city as much as Alexis, she didn’t have the strength to argue with her, and perhaps the change of scenery would help her heal... although right now it didn’t feel like she ever could.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  March 1917

  AUGUSTE GLANCED AROUND as he walked into the little tavern in this new city just north of Paris. It was quiet, and after a quick assessment, he saw no familiar faces from his days in the French or German armies that would cause him to duck around the corner and disappear once again. There w
ere only a few men playing cards, a bartender pouring ale, and a server meandering between the patrons. None of them paid him any mind and he made his way through the old wooden tables and sat down at the bar. Settling onto the rickety stool, he leaned his elbow onto the worn wood and nodded to the grey-bearded man behind the bar.

  “What can I get you, son?” the bartender asked, his slow, lumbering steps bringing them face to face.

  “I’ll take a whiskey, straight up, please,” Auguste said as he sat back and adjusted his suspenders, noting he should purchase some new clothes while he was in town. These had seen better days, but they’d served him well since that fateful night his cover was blown. When he’d escaped the woods last fall, he’d found an old abandoned barn. Luckily, there was an old storage chest, covered with dust. He’d flipped the lid open and found it filled with some farmer’s clothes and a pair of brown boots just a size too small. After taking refuge for a few hours, he’d ditched the German uniform and traded it in for these civilian clothes. That day he started his journey to find a small town to hunker down in while things blew over. That journey continued still, and he moved from town to town, finding work as he went.

  The bartender walked over and set down the glass of whiskey. With a smile, Auguste thanked him and watched the elderly bartender saunter away to go rest his legs, sitting at the end of the bar. Reaching in his pocket to pull out some money, his fingers brushed the letter he still carried with him. Every time he thought of it, or touched it, he felt a stab of pain in his heart. He hadn’t wanted to hurt that boy, and clearly the young Frenchman had a woman he loved waiting for him at home. The tragic memory still haunted him and made him feel like a monster. It was also the reason he hadn’t left the country completely, starting a new life far away from the watchful eyes of Germany and France.

  He pulled the envelope out for the hundredth time and ran his finger along the bloodstained edges. He’d made it this far countless times but could never bring himself to tear it open and look at the letter inside. Eventually, to fulfill his promise, he would have to if he was to find the girl in the letter and deliver it to her. With no name or address on the envelope, he imagined the answers to her whereabouts were inside. But the thought of reading something so private from a soldier he didn’t know, and had died at his own hand, had been too much to bear. Today was the day, he told himself, determined to follow through on it this time.

  Auguste picked up the glass of whiskey and pressed it to his lips. The whiskey burned a trail down his throat and filled him up with the courage he’d been lacking, to face the final words of the life he’d snuffed out, waiting inside the envelope. With a stilling breath, he set the glass down and stared at the envelope one last time. He slipped his fingers under the flap and tore through the seal, ripping open the secret held within.

  When he pulled out the letter inside, a picture fell out and landed on the floor, face down. Auguste stood up from the bar, bending over to retrieve it. As his fingers grasped the edge when he lifted it from the ground, he froze when he turned it over, revealing the image on the front. A surge of electricity moved through him when he saw the picture of this incredible beauty.

  The first thing he noticed were her eyes. They were incredible. Even though the picture was black and white, they were noticeably vibrant, and they seemed to have a translucent glow. The next thing he saw were her beautiful full lips. Dark hair pinned back, framed the features, and when he blew out a breath, he realized he’d been holding it. Could this be the soldier’s woman? Auguste cringed; he hoped not. The thought that he would cause such an exquisite woman pain was more than he could shoulder.

  He stared at the picture for a few moments longer before sitting back down. Tearing his eyes away was difficult, and they remained on the photo even when the bartender walked over and refilled his glass. He set the bottle of whiskey down in front of Auguste with a wink.

  “Save me the trips. Just keep track of how many you pour. By the look on your face it’s gonna be a few more.”

  Auguste looked up for only a moment and thanked him, but the photo drew his eyes back like a magnet. This wasn’t the first beautiful woman he’d seen in his life, but never had he felt something stir inside of him at just one look. Auguste knew eventually he would have to put down the picture and read the letter, so he could see if there was a name or address on it. Forcing his eyes away from the photo, he took a deep breath and unfolded the crinkled letter.

  My love,

  It has been months since I have last seen your beautiful face. The war has been harder than I expected. You were right. We’re getting married, so I thought I would practice saying, “You were right.” from the beginning. However, if you are reading this letter, my love, it means that you were right about one other thing as well. I am so very, very sorry I didn’t listen to you, and left you all alone. My heart breaks just writing this letter, thinking that I may have made a decision that would separate us forever, and leave you to mourn me.

  Not to worry though, darling. The pain will pass, and you must go on. Cry your tears then dry your eyes. You have a long life to live and I won’t have you spending it crying over me. I made my decision and while I will always regret not being there to grow old with you, I don’t regret my decision to fight for our country. Every time I start to change my mind and contemplate leaving, I think back to the little pond that we spent every day at in Besléuille and I remember that those things are worth fighting for.

  I just want you to know that I love you with all of my heart and I want you to go on and live a full and happy life. You have made my life complete as my enemy, my friend, and my almost wife. I loved you until the day I died.

  All my love,

  Pierre

  Auguste stared at the letter before folding it shut. The barely healed scar on his heart felt like it got ripped back open after reading the words from the poor soldier to the fiancée he’d left alone when he died. When I killed him, Auguste thought before closing his eyes attempting, and failing, to shut out the image of the dying boy’s last breath one last time.

  This wasn’t the first person he’d killed, yet it affected him in a way he still couldn’t explain. It was a senseless death, sure, but he’d seen a lot of senseless death during the war. Perhaps it was because he’d put back on the German uniform, in essence turning away from the life he said he wanted. If only he’d still been in the French uniform, this boy might be heading home to his beautiful fiancée. Auguste reached forward and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, filling the glass back up before draining it once again.

  Though he couldn’t sort out the emotions that still haunted him, he’d promised the dying soldier he’d get her this letter. Turning it over in his hands, he noticed the absence of an address, which he’d hoped to find inside. It was made out to “My love,” so he didn’t even have a name to go on. With no name and no address, he was no closer to finding the girl and worried that he might not be able to deliver on his promise.

  Then Auguste had a thought. He opened the letter again and saw the reference to the town of Besléuille. Perhaps it was the town they lived in, and perhaps she was still there. It’s worth a shot, he thought. Considering he had nowhere to go, finding this town could be the next stop on his new journey.

  “Excuse me, bartender?” he asked, startling the man who was nodding off at the end of the bar.

  “Yes, sorry. What can I do for you?” he asked as he stood up and began walking toward Auguste.

  “Have you ever heard of a town called Besléuille?”

  “Have I ever heard of Besléuille?” The bartender looked at him and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I have. It’s just a few towns over, about fifty miles that way.”

  Auguste felt his heart stop. He’d spent the last seven months traveling all over France and it turns out he was only a couple days ride away from the town in this letter.

  “Thank you,” he said, pouring himself one more whiskey and he laid his money on the bar. After slamming down the l
ast of his drink, he headed out into the streets of the city he had wandered into last night. They were filled with people, cars, carriages and commotion. It was a large city, larger than he normally chose to visit, and it reminded him of the busy streets of Hamburg, though this city was far nicer. It was beautiful, clean, and filled with trees and ponds. Everyone wore the newest fashions and the streets were filled with the noise of extravagant cars puttering by. Even the remaining carriages were pulled by some of the finest horses he’d ever laid eyes on. People smiled and nodded as he made his way through the crowds, but remembering his training, he ducked his head down and kept to himself.

  Needing a moment to gather his thoughts and strategize, Auguste stopped at the garden emerging from the newly melted snow and settled onto the white bench by the side of the street. He would leave this town and head to Besléuille tomorrow. Thoughts raced through his mind as to what he would tell the girl if he found her. He thought perhaps he could lie and say he stumbled upon the body and found the note there. It was plausible and would save him from seeing the same look in her eyes that he’d seen in Jean-Luc’s that fateful night. He never wanted anyone to look at him like that again.

  Removing his tweed hat, he swiped a hand across his brow and continued thinking of what to do if he found the beauty. He pulled out her picture again and memorized every feature on her face. That soldier was lucky to have the love of a woman like that. A home, a woman of his own, and a life outside the military were ideas Auguste hadn’t ever entertained but looking at her photo made him long for the life of the soldier whose life he stole. Realizing he was coveting the life of a man he’d killed with his bare hands, he scolded himself before slipping the photo back into the envelope in his pocket and heading through town, back to the inn he’d found for the night. Tomorrow he’d head to Besléuille.