At the Edge of Summer

At the Edge of Summer is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Jessica Brockmole

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Brockmole, Jessica.

At the edge of summer : a novel / Jessica Brockmole.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-0-345-54789-7 (hardcover : acid-free paper) ISBN 978-0-345-54790-3 (eBook)

1. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 2. World War, 1914–1918—Fiction. 3. First loves—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.R6324A95 2016

813'.6—dc23

2015028301

ebook ISBN 9780345547903

randomhousebooks.com

Book design by Dana Leigh Blanchette, adapted for eBook

Title-page and part-title images: © iStockphoto.com

Cover design: Marietta Anastassatos

Cover image: Richard Tuschman

v4.1

ep

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part 1: The Summer

Chapter 1: Clare

Chapter 2: Clare

Chapter 3: Luc

Chapter 4: Luc

Chapter 5: Luc

Chapter 6: Luc

Chapter 7: Clare

Chapter 8: Clare

Chapter 9: Clare

Chapter 10: Clare

Chapter 11: Luc

Part 2: The Letters

Part 3: The War

Chapter 12: Luc

Chapter 13: Luc

Chapter 14: Luc

Chapter 15: Clare

Chapter 16: Luc

Chapter 17: Clare

Chapter 18: Luc

Chapter 19: Clare

Chapter 20: Luc

Chapter 21: Clare

Part 4: The Studio

Chapter 22: Clare

Chapter 23: Luc

Chapter 24: Clare

Chapter 25: Clare

Chapter 26: Luc

Part 5: The Mask

Chapter 27: Clare

Chapter 28: Luc

Chapter 29: Clare

Chapter 30: Luc

Chapter 31: Clare

Chapter 32: Luc

Chapter 33: Clare

Chapter 34: Luc

Chapter 35: Clare

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Dedication

By Jessica Brockmole

About the Author

The colors in France were all wrong.

I was used to the grays of Scotland. The granite blocks of Fairbridge, the leaden sky, the misty rain, the straight stone walls bisecting fields. Even the steel of Father’s eyes.

Scotland wasn’t all gray, of course. In summer, the hills of Perthshire were muted green, in the spring flecked with the yellow-brown of gorse, and in the autumn, brown. But washed over all of it, gray. It was the color I knew best.

Lately, though, I saw more black than anything. It was draped on our front doorknob, it edged my handkerchiefs, it hung in my wardrobe in a modest row of new dresses. Six weeks of mourning black. Six weeks of sympathetic looks, of waxy pale lilies, of whispered conversations about what was to be done with me. But then Madame Crépet swept into the house, smelling of violets in a dress the color of honeycomb, and set about straightening things. The household was too happy to leave me in her hands. They didn’t know what to do with me anyway. As soon as Madame had my new black dresses packed up, we left for France.

Right away, France was too bright. From the blue-green of the Channel lapping the edges of Calais, past orange-roofed houses and yellow rapeseed fields, all the way to a château rising up white in a jewel green lawn. An automobile brought us down a slash of a burnt sienna drive, past golden-blossomed lindens and sprinkles of violets. Madame Crépet leaned over to me and said, “Welcome to Mille Mots, Clare.”

The people waiting in front were no different. Two young girls were introduced as maids, though they wore green flowered dresses instead of dark broadcloth. The butler had a great drooping orange mustache. The cook had her hair tied up in a paisley scarf. I heard the whispered buzz of French and was suddenly afraid to step from the car.

But then Madame Crépet took my hand. “It’s your home for as long as you need, ma chère.” Her words brought a lump to my throat and I swallowed it down. She slid off the lap shawl. “Are you ready?”

Was I? I didn’t know. A week ago I’d been back at Fairbridge, in the same square parcel of Scotland I’d spent the past fifteen years. I left with Madame Crépet, thinking I was setting off on an adventure. I forgot that polite, well-bred girls weren’t supposed to have adventures.

My head ached with the color and the light and the unfamiliar words my ears strained to catch. The air smelt like roses—heady, drowsy roses. Wasn’t it too early for them to be in bloom? A man approached the car, in a waistcoat speckled blue like a raven’s egg. He smiled widely and held out both hands.