Tomorrow Is for the Brave

by Kelly Bowen

Genres: World War II; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Based on true events, Tomorrow Is for the Brave is a gripping World War II page‑turner about a courageous woman who risks it all for what is right—perfect for fans of Natasha Lester and Kristen Harmel.

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

19 AUGUST 1934

NICE, FRANCE

Violet St. Croix was fifteen years old when she fell in love with something that would change her life forever. It happened on a Sunday afternoon, after an extra tennis lesson with the malcontent Monsieur Marceaux, who was renowned for his overly waxed moustache and his mean-spirited attempts to shame his pupils into better performance. It had been her father who had insisted on the lesson, disappointed with the report that Violet had failed to win her last tennis match against a younger opponent. Violet had accepted the consequences because nothing caused more strife than disappointing Commodore Robert St. Croix.

Yet the sun that afternoon had been just as merciless as Monsieur Marceaux, beating down on the exposed skin that her tennis whites did not cover and making her woolen stockings itch unbearably. By the end of the lesson, her ears ringing with shouts of contempt and scorn, Violet did not feel much improved. Instead, she only felt irritable, frustrated, and hot. Afterward, she’d waited at the tennis club for just over an hour before concluding that her mother had either forgotten to send a driver to fetch her or had, in typical fashion, simply fallen asleep with her favourite bottle of rosé before she could do so. So under a blazing August sun, Violet started the three-mile walk back to the St. Croix’s villa.

As she wound her way home, Violet stuck to the shaded side of the streets as much as possible, avoiding the bright stretches where the pavement baked and broiled. Boulevard Gambetta was unusually empty for a Sunday afternoon but she took little notice of that, absorbed as she was in her own discontent, until a distant roar swelled and receded between the buildings that stretched toward the sea. A peculiar whine, like a swarm of a thousand angry hornets, cut through that sound and rose and fell along with the roar. Baffled, Violet stopped for a brief moment before she understood what she was hearing. And then, forgetting about her discomfort and frustration, she ran toward the source of all of that noise.

Violet had known that there was a car race today, an important one—everyone had talked of little else this past week and she’d seen some of the men who drove such cars arrive in town. She’d heard that over the last few days the drivers had been practicing for the Grand Prix de Nice, testing their cars through the course, though Violet had been forbidden to go and watch. Too long and too hot, her mother had told her, before pleading a headache and calling for more ice. Too dangerous and too crowded, her father had opined sternly over crackling telephone lines from his study in London.

But at the moment, neither her father nor her mother was here right now to deny her anything, and Violet hurried on until she reached the outer edges of the crowd. Yet guilt made her stop before she could join the crush. She wasn’t in the habit of disobeying her parents—from the time she was little it had been made clear that, outside of tennis, school, picnics with girlfriends, and the occasional riding lesson, there was nothing in Nice suitable to entertain a young, impressionable girl. Her days were carefully scheduled, her evenings spent in the villa, all to mitigate the chance that a single poor decision on Violet’s part would bring shame and scandal crashing down on the St. Croix name. And above all, Violet did not wish to be a disappointment.

But as Violet prevaricated, a rousing cheer went up, and she decided that it couldn’t hurt to take a quick peek. She’d been forgotten at the tennis club, after all, and her mother would likely nap until it was time to dress for dinner, and Violet would be back home long before then. Ignoring the heady rush of rebelliousness that should have made her uncomfortable but instead felt rather thrilling, Violet joined the mob of spectators that lined the Promenade des Anglais.

The noise here was deafening, engines and tires shrieking their efforts as the cars slowed and accelerated. Around her, the crowd comprised mostly men, shouting and yelling with abandon. But there were women here too, some yelling just as loudly as the men, if not louder, some merely craning their necks for a better view. Violet edged and sidled her way through the press until she found a space at the front, just big enough to accommodate her wiry frame. It was here, against a canvas of azure sea, on concrete that was lined with straw bales, and beneath towering palms limp in the still air, that Violet got her first look at her first love.

The men driving the race cars were covered from neck to toe in overalls. Goggles covered the top halves of their faces, and leather caps were strapped securely beneath their chins. A short distance from where she was watching, down from the domed bulk of the Hotel Negresco, the course doubled back on itself, and the drivers had to slow and wrestle their cars into a hairpin turn, accelerating back in the direction that they had come. The drivers leaned and grimaced as they jockeyed for position. The car that appeared to be the leader, a bright red, low-slung model bearing the number 28 across the side, took the turn neatly, the engine growling and braying its capabilities as the driver expertly gunned his vehicle out of the turn.

Violet gaped. “Goodness,” she breathed.

“Isn’t he dreamy?” The voice was right in her ear.

“What?” Startled, Violet turned her head to find a girl standing beside her who couldn’t be more than a year or two older than she. The girl was close enough that Violet could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes and the way her front left tooth protruded slightly over her bottom lip, which was painted a hue of crimson that her mother would never allow her to wear. She was dressed in a faded yellow frock that had a tear near the hem and a straw hat that was unravelling at the brim, though the girl seemed wholly unconcerned about any of that. Violet blinked, reflecting that Audrey St. Croix would succumb to a fit of the vapours should her daughter ever venture out in public with such disregard for her personal appearance.

The girl elbowed Violet with a wiry, darkly tanned arm and grinned at her. “Achille Varzi. He’s Italian. We all think he’s just the most handsome of them all, don’t you?”

“Um,” Violet managed, not sure what the correct response was but delighted at the idea that the comment was an invitation to be included in some unknown we.

The girl pulled a dented flask from the bodice of her dress and took a swig before offering it to Violet. Violet gawked before she shook her head, and the girl shrugged. “Varzi will win this year,” she continued confidently, tucking her flask back into place. On the far side of Violet’s companion, another girl squealed her delight as the second-place car slid through the hairpin.

“You’ve seen races before?” Violet asked, feeling acutely envious of this girl wearing a threadbare dress and ruined hat.

“We come to all of them. Everyone does.” The girl jumped up and down and yelled something unintelligible in the direction of the track. “Don’t you?”

Violet shook her head again, ashamed to admit to this worldly, uninhibited creature that her parents hadn’t allowed her.

“Well then you’ve chosen a good one to start.” The girl stuck out her hand. “I’m George.”

“George?” Violet repeated, even as she took the proffered hand and shook it like she’d seen American businessmen do regularly. The girl’s palm was warm and callused, her grip strong and sure.

“Yes, George,” the girl confirmed, looking amused, and Violet squirmed with embarrassment. She pulled her hand away, thinking she wouldn’t blame this girl one bit if she was offended at Violet’s gaucheness.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never met anyone named George. A girl, I mean. That is—” She stopped, wondering why she couldn’t seem to just keep her mouth shut.

“It’s my brother’s fault,” George told her. “My name, that is. When I was born, my brother was dismayed that I was a girl. My parents named me Georgette but my brother refused to call me anything other than George, as if that would somehow make me into the little brother he’d always wanted. It stuck.”

“Oh.” Violet tried to imagine what it would be like to have a sibling so headstrong. To have a sibling at all.

“And for his troubles,” George continued with a gleeful smirk, “he got three more sisters after me.” She adjusted the brim of her hat against the glare. “What about you? Do you have one?”

“No. No brothers or sisters.”

“I meant, do you have a name?”

“Oh. Um. Yes. Violet. Violet St. Croix.”

“Nice to meet you then, Violet St. Croix.” George was still grinning with amusement, and Violet rather suspected it was now at her expense. “Tell me about the cars,” she blurted.

A third vehicle was barrelling toward them, tires humming on the track, and the heat shimmering off the pavement made the car look like it was floating.

“The cars?” George turned her attention back to the race.

“What kind of cars are these?” The driver’s teeth were bared as he slowed his car enough to manage the turn, accelerating away as though the hounds of hell were on his heels.

“Maseratis, Bugattis, Alfa Romeos,” George told her. “You know, if you’d wanted to see the cars, you should’ve come at the beginning. They parade them in front of the pits.” She shrugged. “You might be able to see them at the end if you wait.”

Violet digested that, wishing now that she had been here to see the beginning and wishing she could get a look at these pits. Cars weren’t new to her—her family was wealthy enough to own one here in France and one back in England as well. From the back seat of both, she’d never given a great deal of thought to the lackluster, boxy vehicles that unfailingly delivered her to scheduled lessons and luncheons, other than that they were a fortunate convenience. But these cars on the track were something else entirely. Something wild and reckless, something powerful and potent. Violet wondered, for the first time, what it might be like to drive one. To know how to make such a machine work, to be able to make it fly on an endless choice of roads toward an endless choice of destinations.

To control all that power and all that possibility.

“How do they make them go so fast?” Violet breathed, watching the car vanish back up the track.

“Engines.” George’s eyes travelled the length of Violet’s expensive tennis whites. “Not the kind your daddy probably has driving him around,” she said, though not unkindly.

Violet fidgeted. “Oh.”

“Varzi’s is a two-nine S-eight,” George told her. “Nuvolari’s is a three-zero S-eight.”

“Oh.” Violet had no idea what that meant but she was too embarrassed to ask. “You know a lot about them.”

“My brother is an avid devotee of all things on four wheels,” George went on. “He talks about engines and the like a lot.”

“Is he a driver?”

George snorted. “He wishes.” She cocked her head. “You have a favourite?”

“A favourite?”

“Driver. Maybe Trossi? Villapadierna?” Her red mouth curled wickedly. “Someone you’d like to take home for a ride?” The deliberate innuendo was clear.

“Um.” Violet couldn’t find words though she was certain that she might simply burst into flame if her face got much hotter.

George laughed, her head thrown back, apparently entertained by Violet’s obvious discomfiture. “You’re adorable.”

Violet didn’t want to be adorable. Babies were adorable.

Puppies were adorable. And neither were ever taken seriously.

“Have you ever driven a car like those before?” Violet asked, knowing the question was absurd and maybe a little spiteful, but it was the first thing that popped into her head as she flailed to change the subject.

George laughed again. “Never driven a car ever of any sort. But I think it would be a thrill, don’t you?” She turned away from Violet as someone tugged on her arm from the far side.

“Yes,” Violet mumbled. Her eyes followed the silhouette of a driver leaning hard into the turn, listening to the encouraging bellows of the men and admiring shouts of the women, all urging him on.

George was being pulled forward by her companion but she gave Violet one last crimson-coloured smirk. “It was nice to meet you, Violet St. Croix. I hope you enjoy your first race. You’re bound to find yourself a favourite.” She winked. A new cluster of competitors were approaching the hairpin turn, and amid a new wave of rousing enthusiasm, Violet’s temporary companion pushed forward for a better look, leaving Violet forgotten and alone again in the crush.

Violet watched the new challengers navigate the course while the sun flashed off chrome and colour, numbers blurred past, and the throaty growl of the engines travelled through the pavement to reverberate in Violet’s bones. When Achille Varzi sailed by the black-and-white checkered flag three hours, two minutes, and nineteen seconds after he had started the race, Violet St. Croix was there to see it. She saw the Italian driver mobbed by spectators and crew members alike, who hoisted him on their shoulders in triumph. With his cap and goggles off, she got her first glimpse of his handsome face, smiling widely. Violet couldn’t help the answering smile that crept across her own face.

The girl with the yellow dress and the crimson lipstick had been right. Violet had watched long enough to find herself a favourite. To experience butterflies dancing in her stomach and enchantment singing through her veins. To fall in love. As the winner pushed forward, heading up the promenade, and the masses celebrated with abandon all around them, Violet turned away.

And headed in the opposite direction to follow a magnificent, bright red, dust- and exhaust-streaked Alfa Romeo that was being slowly rolled toward the pits.

14 MAY 1939

NICE, FRANCE

You should drive us to Paris next weekend.” It was a command poorly disguised as a suggestion.

“Yes, you have to.” Another voice chimed in immediately. “We have to go soon.”

“I heard that they’re going to start requisitioning railways.” A third voice spoke with hushed urgency. “And they’re calling up reservists. One of our gardeners left. Mother pitched an absolute fit. She’s had to find another to look after her roses.”

“Who cares about your mother’s roses? It’s the couture houses that I heard will close if the Germans threaten Paris. Could you just imagine?” There was a dramatic intake of breath. “It would be like being frozen in time. We’d all have to wear the same look for…” A hand accented with blood-red nails fluttered in the air. “… who knows how long? What if this is my last Balenciaga this year?” The hand brushed across the midnight-blue skirt of an evening gown. “I wouldn’t be able to show my face in public. I have a reputation to uphold. That’s why we need to go this weekend, Violet. To prepare.”

Violet stood in the center of the small group, her fingers squeezing the stem of her champagne glass. Three sets of eyes, all lined and shaded and finished with artfully applied mascara, had her pinned in place.

She forced her fingers to relax before she broke the glass. She also forced herself to keep a pleasant smile fixed to her face and to summon the grace and patience required for such a conversation. She had grown up with these women—shared tennis lessons and music lessons and attended all the same parties and picnics—and while Violet could admit that they were often selfish and oblivious, she had to believe that they meant well. After all, they were here tonight to celebrate Violet’s engagement and had brought Violet a small collection of gifts that sparkled and dazzled from their Cartier boxes.

“I can check to see if my calendar is free next weekend.”

Violet spoke to Gladys Durand first. The last thing Violet wanted to do was drive up to Paris. She knew she was prevaricating but she didn’t want to argue. Not in the middle of this crowd where all eyes were on her. It was always hard to say no to Gladys. “Besides, you are too beautiful to worry about your reputation.”

Gladys preened, pursed her ruby-painted lips, and looked slightly mollified.

Violet turned to Lydia and Florence Catroux next. “I am sorry your mother lost your gardener,” she told the sisters, “but I’m sure he’ll be back. Whatever hostilities might be on the horizon will be brief, I think. Saner minds will prevail.”

Florence and Lydia still looked unhappy.

“I don’t understand any of it but I hope it doesn’t affect us,” Florence pouted, twirling a chestnut curl around her finger.

“But it already is, Flo,” Lydia protested. “We are supposed to go to Vienna in September on holiday, but now Father says we might have to wait. I hate waiting.”

“Honestly, war is all everyone talks about anymore,” Florence complained, letting her curl spring back into place. “It’s so tedious. I, for one, am tired of it.”

“I’m sure it will all be fine,” Violet lied. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen in the future but everything that she heard on the radio and read in the papers seemed to possess the same ominous thread—that the German leader appeared wholly uninterested in listening to any sort of protest or diplomatic exchange with France or Britain. “Surely no one has forgotten the tragedies and atrocities of the last war already. The soldiers and civilians who—”

“Speaking of atrocities, did you all see what Roselle Huberdeau is wearing tonight?” Gladys cut her off. “Honestly, I’m shocked that she even showed her face here.”

Florence and Lydia craned their necks searching the crowd while Violet bit her tongue.

“A perfect example why we should go shopping this weekend,” Gladys said, fingering the sapphires at her throat. “And Violet is the only one with a car and who can drive. It’s the least you can do for friends.” She fixed Violet with a look as though daring her to disagree.

“I’ll check,” Violet repeated, a little more sharply than she intended. “I promise.” There was an inexplicable… restlessness needling her. Or maybe it was just impatience for such frivolity given the circumstances.

“You do that,” Gladys purred. She reached for Violet’s hand and pulled it up, examining the ring on Violet’s finger. “I honestly don’t know how you did it.”

“Did what?”

“Managed to snare the most handsome man in the entire south of France. You’ve known each other for barely two months. And now you’re getting married.”

“I… um…” Violet had no idea how to answer. Gladys was making it sound like Violet had tricked him into proposing.

“You’re not pregnant are you?” Gladys whispered.

“What? No. Of course not.” It was an effort not to sound defensive and churlish.

“Well, that would be one way to end up with a diamond the size of a grapefruit on your finger.”

“I can assure you that that is not the case.”

“Hmph.” Gladys tipped Violet’s hand up toward the light. “I hope I get a diamond at least this big when I get engaged. You’re so lucky.”

“She knows that.” A pair of arms suddenly wrapped around Violet’s waist and squeezed.

Violet twisted and looked back at her fiancé, Augustino Leblanc, hoping that he hadn’t heard the entirety of that conversation.

His face was flushed with heat or drink or both. “And speaking of diamonds,” he said, releasing her waist, “turn back around, dear.”

Violet did as she was asked and felt the brush of something cool and heavy settle around her neck.

Gladys gasped loud enough to be heard over the music.

“I was going to give these to you later,” Tino said, his breath tickling the side of her ear. “But I couldn’t wait.” He lifted her hair from the back of her neck and fastened the clasp before releasing her. “There we go. Beautiful.”

Violet raised her fingers to her throat and glanced down, the web of diamonds sitting against her skin in an intricate chain sparkling in the light.

“Oh, they’re lovely, Tino. Thank you. You didn’t have to do—”

“Of course I did. It’s our engagement party.”

“You’re so lucky,” Gladys said again, stepping closer to examine the necklace. She pushed her auburn hair back over her shoulder with a flip. “What a marvelous piece.” The envy in her voice was unmistakable.

“Just wait until you see what I will gift her as a reward for the birth of our first son.” Tino chuckled. “Leblanc men treat their women right.”

“Indeed.” Gladys’ eyes narrowed. “I’d have a dozen boys if I could get rewarded like that.” She sniffed and straightened. “Well, time to find another drink. Come along, girls.” She lifted her empty champagne glass. “Congrats again. And Violet, do let’s go to Paris next weekend, hmmm?”

“Of course.” Violet forced a smile.

Gladys and the two sisters wandered away but not before giving Tino a flirtatious wave.

“I didn’t know where you went,” Violet said into the silence, for lack of anything else to say. How many sons are you planning on having? seemed like an awkward way to continue the conversation. Probably a conversation that they should have had earlier, but this courtship and engagement had been unexpected and a complete whirlwind, and Violet had been admittedly reluctant to venture into awkward topics.

“Doing what you should be doing, darling, and making the rounds.” Tino came to stand beside her.

Violet tried another smile and this one felt more natural. Gladys hadn’t been wrong when she’d called Tino handsome. With golden blond hair combed back and expertly styled, sharp cheekbones and an aquiline nose, a wide smile with straight, white teeth, and broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist accentuated by an excellently tailored tuxedo, Tino embodied every desirable, masculine trait splashed across the pages of fashionable magazines.

“There are lots of people here tonight,” he said to her. “Important people. Important connections that will be critical for both business and social success, but they need to be carefully cultivated. You can’t just hide away here in the corner with your friends.”

“I wasn’t hiding away,” Violet said. “I—”

“It’s all right. No need to apologize. You’ll learn. Once you’re a Leblanc, you won’t have much choice, I’m afraid.” He carefully smoothed his hair with his fingers to make sure that it hadn’t fallen out of place. “But speaking of your friends, you should listen to Gladys.”

“Gladys?”

He stepped back and let his eyes roam up her body. “Drive up to Paris next weekend, darling. Do some shopping.”

“Why?” Violet was confused.

“You look lovely, of course, but you’ve worn that dress before. And it’s rather plain.”

Violet glanced down at her dress. It was her favourite, made of pale rose satin that shimmered in sunlight and glowed in candlelight. It was draped across the top of the bodice, secured by narrow straps, and gathered at her waist before falling in a simple cascade of fabric to the floor.

“You’ll need to dress better from here on out. And I’d encourage you to acquire a style that is more… dramatic. Modern. Schiaparelli will suit. And Lanvin, I think. Worth should also be considered, at least for formal occasions. I’ll send you a list with colours and cuts that I think will best flatter you. Money is no object, of course. Have Gladys help you choose a few pieces. Once we’re married, I’ll accompany you and make my own selections.” He paused. “As my wife, you deserve a new wardrobe that will make me proud to show you off. Appearances matter.”

“Oh.” Violet knew she should be pleased. Gladys would be squealing with hysterics at the prospect. Most girls would. Goodness, her own mother would be tripping over herself at such an offer.

“I’ll think about it.” She was prevaricating again because she wasn’t feeling pleased at all. But she didn’t know how to tell her fiancé that she didn’t really like shopping all that much, nor did she particularly like the idea of someone else picking out her clothes for her like she was a child. But that seemed like another awkward topic, especially in the face of his generosity.

“Do better than think about it, darling.” Tino took her hand and kissed the back of it. “And promise me you’ll also get rid of those horrid work clothes you insist on wearing. I don’t particularly like trousers on women and certainly not on my wife.”

“I wear those when I’m working on my car,” Violet said.

Tino patted the hand he held. “Ah, yes. Your car. I meant to speak to you about that.”

Violet tensed instantly.

Tino laughed. “No need to look so worried, my dear. While I admit I thought it rather odd at first that a woman should wish to drive herself about, I have come around to the idea. Your father endorsed it years ago, of course, and it certainly makes you popular with your friends, which is never a bad thing. But rest assured, I will make certain you have a safe vehicle to drive and one that is maintained for you. Something new. And not quite as fast,” he added with a rueful shake of his head.

“But I like my car. And I like working on it.” Violet was aware her voice had risen and every muscle in her body was taught. The glass was cutting into her fingers again, only this time she didn’t release it.

A few heads had turned in their direction, and she bit back the rest of her words, unwilling to make a scene. Certainly not in front of these people, all part of the Leblancs’ carefully curated guest list and who all wielded wealth, influence, power, and notoriety like the weapons they could be. Violet had seen firsthand the damage that could be wrought by a bored, jaded society hungry for scandal to feed their amusement.

Tino glanced around, a shadow of irritation flickering across his handsome features. “Violet, be reasonable. While driving is one thing, gadding about like a common… mechanic is another. I only want the very best for you. You know that.”

Tino told her that often, and he’d given her no reason not to believe him. He had certainly proven himself different from the men that Gladys and Florence and Lydia had always thrown into her path—desperate writers and starving artists, cynical socialites and disgraced royalty, whose sole ambition seemed to be their devotion to opium- and alcohol-fuelled debauchery.

Tino, on the other hand, had sought her out and spoken to her about Dumas and Hugo. He’d even gifted her with a first edition of Les Misérables. He had taken her to the theater and had listened to Violet’s opinion when he’d asked if she’d liked the production. He’d fetched her drinks and asked her to dance when no one else had. He’d brought her flowers and never forgot a second bouquet for her mother when he called at their villa. He spoke often of his family and the responsibility he had inherited in assuming control of their manufacturing business. He seemed like a man in a mob of boys.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I know you only want what’s best for me.” Violet put a placating hand on his sleeve. The marquis-cut diamond on her finger flashed.

“Good girl.” Tino bent and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Trust that I will take care of you. I’ll make sure you don’t have to worry about anything.”

Violet made herself smile for the benefit of those around her. She would bring the matter of her car up with him later, carefully. Her car was not something that she would willingly give up but this engagement party was neither the time nor place.

Tino tucked her hand more securely under his arm. “Now, join me out on the terrace. There are some people that you need to meet. You’ve been with your friends long enough.”

Something in Violet resisted though she wasn’t sure why. She pulled her hand back. “I’ll be right there,” she told him.

His brows drew together in what looked like displeasure.

“Just have to visit the ladies’ room for a moment,” she continued. “I’d like to freshen up first.”

Tino’s expression cleared. “Of course. I’ll meet you out there. Don’t be long, darling.”

Violet nodded. She watched him retreat, his handsome silhouette cutting a swath through the crowd amid happy bonhomie and congratulatory wishes. Still clutching her half-empty champagne glass, she slipped through the crowd, heading not toward the ladies’ room but in the opposite direction. She made her way through the kitchens, generally ignored by the hired staff loading trays with food and sweets, and out into the darkened and deserted back garden.

The air out here, away from the heat and the humidity of the crowd, was cool, and Violet dragged in a few deep breaths. From the tall, open windows of the Leblanc villa, bright panes of light splashed across the stone walkways and manicured foliage. Music, mixed with peals of laughter and a hundred conversations, floated on the evening breeze, yet here it was mercifully muted. Violet tipped her head up to the sky, the stars and the moon partially obscured by patchy veils of clouds drifting across the dark expanse.

The nagging restlessness that she had been battling all evening still clung to the edges of her conscience. Violet closed her eyes, chastising herself. This evening should be one of the happiest of her life. It was a toast to new beginnings and all the wonderful things that still awaited her in a future