Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 81: Budding Resistance
Several weeks later, Nicole visits the Altamira house on a warm afternoon. Her arrival is discreet ... no carriage, no prior notice, only the soft knock at the courtyard gate and the familiar sound of her voice calling Isabel’s name.
Isabel drops the linens she is folding and rushes to the gate, her breath catching. She opens it and Nicole steps inside, smiling with the same gentle warmth she has carried since the day she first arrived at the estate thirteen years ago.
She looks different now. Older, obviously. Her hair is pinned neatly, her dress modest but elegant. Her posture is confident, shaped her aunt Louise’s training years ago, and more recently by marriage and motherhood. Her eyes hold both joy and worry. Isabel embraces her tightly.
I feel the rush of emotion through her ... the relief, the longing, the ache of missing someone who once felt like a sister.
Nicole laughs softly. “You seem taller,” she says, brushing Isabel’s cheek. “And stronger.”
Isabel blushes. “I’ve had to be.”
Nicole’s smile fades slightly. “Adella has asked me to visit. I heard the French have billeted men at Casa de los Altamira.”
Isabel nods, glancing toward the house. “Three officers. They’re inside the house.”
Nicole’s expression tightens. “Jaén feels different with soldiers patrolling the streets.”
She doesn’t say the word ‘occupied’, but it hangs in the air.
Adella appears in the courtyard, her face lighting up at the sight of her former governess. “Nicole! Thank you for coming so soon.”
They embrace warmly. For a moment the tension in the house dissolves, replaced by the memory of simpler years of before war.
Nicole steps back, studying Adella. “You’ve grown into your mother’s strength.”
Adella smiles, though her eyes flicker with something deeper ... a combination of resolve, defiance, and danger. Nicole sees it. A skill in observation acquired during her time hiding in Paris.
“Isabel,” Nicole says softly, once her business with Adella is concluded, “walk with me.”
They cross the courtyard to the olive tree near the wall, where the afternoon light filters through the leaves. Isabel feels the bracelet warm against her wrist. I sense the shift in emotion.
Nicole takes Isabel’s hands. “I’m leaving for Madrid tomorrow. My husband has work there. The children and I must go with him.”
Isabel nods, though her throat tightens. “I’ll miss you.”
Nicole smiles sadly. “And I’ll worry about you.”
She glances toward the house, where Marchand’s voice echoes faintly.
“This place is dangerous now,” says Nicole. “You must be careful.”
Isabel swallows. “I know. Jeannia often reminds me.”
Nicole studies her face. “There’s something different about you. You’re ... stronger, braver.”
Isabel hesitates, knowing the source of her new found courage. She wants to tell Nicole about her sympathies for the resistance. She wants to tell her about the danger that lurks in every corridor of this house. But she cannot burden her friend with such matters.
But she can tell her the truth she feels. “I have help,” Isabel whispers.
Nicole tilts her head. “From Jeannia?”
Isabel lifts her sleeve to reveal her bracelet. “Yes. She’s a true friend to me.”
Nicole smiles gently. “Then trust that friend. And trust yourself.”
I feel Isabel’s heart ache. Nicole has been her anchor for years. Her guide. Her protector. Her sister in everything but blood. Letting her go feels like losing a part of herself.
Nicole reaches into her satchel and pulls out a small cloth pouch. “I brought you something. A parting gift.”
Isabel opens it. Inside is a tiny carved wooden dove ... simple, smooth, and beautifully made.
“For courage,” Nicole says. “And for hope.”
Isabel’s eyes fill with tears. “Thank you.”
Nicole hugs her tightly. “I’ll send Adella my address in Madrid. Write to me when you can. And stay safe.”
Isabel nods, unable to speak. As Nicole leaves the courtyard, Adella walks with her to the gate. They speak quietly ... about Madrid, about the war, about the future. Mateo appears briefly, offering polite farewells, though his mind is clearly elsewhere, focused on the French officers. Nicole steps through the gate, turns back one last time, and smiles at Isabel.
“Be brave.”
The gate closes. Isabel stands in the courtyard, clutching the wooden dove, her breath trembling.
I whisper softly. ‘You are not alone.’
She touches the bracelet, steadying herself.
“No,” she whispers. “I’m not.”
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