Fleur De Lies(70)
About three weeks after Osmond had shipped back to England to recuperate. Boy, I wouldn’t even dare to hazard a guess about—
“It was a glorious homecoming, and so much celebrating that, as you might expect, late the following winter, my grandfather was presented with the son he never thought he would live to sire. Grandpapa wanted to name him Eisenhower, in honor of the American general who liberated France, but Grandmama insisted on naming him for the man who singlehandedly saved her and her family from the Germans. So she named him Osmond.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet.” But I couldn’t help wonder if that was the only reason she named him Osmond.
Madeleine laughed. “The next baby they named Eisenhower. And my mama was called Betsy after the woman who sewed your first American flag. The Spenards became known as the most American family in the village. Should I bore you with a photo?”
“Please! I’d love to be bored.” If there was a resemblance between Osmond Spenard and Osmond Chelsvig, maybe I’d be able to spot it.
Madeleine pulled her wallet from her purse and removed a small photo from a plastic sleeve. “It was taken in the early sixties when all seven children were in their teens. They were like little stepping stones.” She laid the photo in front of me and recited the names as she glided her finger over the faces. “From youngest to oldest—Amelia, Eleanor, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Betsy, Eisenhower, and Osmond. All still living, and with large families of their own, many of whom are named after my Uncle Osmond.”
Yup. Did I call that, or what? Osmond was definitely going to need the senior discount if he invited the entire brood to Iowa.
I studied the handsome face of the teenaged Osmond Spenard with his angular face, narrow nose, expressive eyes, and mop of wavy black hair. Yes! There was a resemblance. But not to Osmond.
To Solange.
Osmond Spenard was the spitting image of his mother.
I sighed my disappointment. “It’s a wonderful photo.” I plucked it off the table and handed it back to her. “Your grandmother experienced the emotional rollercoaster of her life during the war, didn’t she? Henri pronounced dead. An American literally falling out of the sky to save her from a German assault. Henri returning from the dead like the risen Lazarus, and fathering seven children in quick succession.”
Madeleine smiled coyly. “But of course! He was French.”
“Did … did Solange ever confide to you how close she and Osmond became during those short three weeks?”
She averted her gaze as she slid the photo back into its sleeve. When she looked up again, the warmth in her eyes had disappeared. “My grandmother has never made a secret about the part an American soldier played in her life during the war. It’s a story she has told and retold for decades. But there is nothing more to the story than what she has shared. She lived through one of the most brutal periods in the history of the world, and for that she deserves our admiration and respect. Whatever my grandmother did to survive is entirely her business. Our family has never questioned any of her decisions or motivations, and we don’t expect anyone else to either. Ever.” She drilled me with a fierce look. “Do you understand?”
I did indeed. Whatever happened between Osmond and Solange had the family’s blessing and was to remain private. No speculation allowed. Violators would be refused future access. So if Osmond Chelsvig had fathered Solange’s first child, the family didn’t want to know.
I nodded. “I understand.”
“And you will help Mr. Chelsvig to understand?”
I nodded again. “I’ll, uh … I’ll see that he abides by your family’s wishes.”