Code name butterfly, p.1
Code Name Butterfly, page 1
Praise for Embassie Susberry
‘Loved it … A great story of danger and intrigue.’
***** Reader Review
‘A really interesting, well-researched and well-written book, it captures the flavour of France at the start of WWII beautifully … There are so many people who dare to try to change the way things are, and this acts as a nice tribute to them. An excellent read.
***** Reader Review
‘A riveting WWII story inspired by the real-life experiences of Josephine Baker … Historical fiction fans will adore it!’
***** Reader Review
‘This story was like being on a runaway train and I couldn’t stop reading.’
***** Reader Review
‘Inspiring and beautiful!’
***** Reader Review
‘Susberry does a great job of not skating by hard topics and complexities but molding them seamlessly into a relatable story.’
***** Reader Review
CODE NAME BUTTERFLY
Embassie Susberry
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2023
Copyright © Embassie Susberry 2023
Cover design by Stephen Mulcahey
Cover photographs © Lauren Rautenbach/Arcangel Images (main woman, front and spine and figure, front and back), © Stephen Mulcahey/Trevillion Images (sunset and planes) and Shutterstock.com (butterfly brooch and Eiffel Tower)
Embassie Susberry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008591519
Ebook Edition © November 2023 ISBN: 9780008591526
Version: 2023-08-28
Dedication
To my father who has imparted his fascination with history onto me and to my mother who instilled in me the love of a good story. Thank you.
Contents
Cover
Praise for Embassie Susberry
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
“Did you read the new message on the genealogy site?” Christine, as always, didn’t waste time on pleasantries. There was never an introduction. There was no layout of the plot. Christine just jumped right in and expected you to know exactly where she had landed.
“Chris, you literally just told me to check it …” Gwen paused to look at her phone “… seven minutes ago. And I’m at the grocery store.” Gwen pushed her cart down the aisle, searching for the brand of cereal her husband liked. He was very particular, that man. “So, no, I have not checked the message we received.” The DNA business had successfully captured her family hook, line, and sinker. Although not right away. Their parents had initially been hugely skeptical of the idea. But Chris had been bound and determined to prove that they had the strong Native American blood that a great-aunt insisted they had. And Chris, being the youngest, was able to sweet-talk their parents out of their saliva the way she’d been able to sweet-talk them into extending her curfew by an hour when they’d been younger.
It turned out that they had almost no Native American blood. Their father had loudly denounced the whole thing … until they got a message from someone—a distant relative—who had spent years researching their family line. It was amazing how knowing where your last name came from or knowing which plantation your ancestors had worked on, or learning how your family had moved from one part of America to the other changed how you looked at things.
Gwen’s day job was in her father’s accounting firm, but she filled her free time soaking in history. She’d taken over the running of the genealogy site while Chris bombarded older relatives for their DNA. They’d managed to create quite the picture of their family tree. But that was some years ago. Now, they rarely came across information that they didn’t already know. If Chris said the message was worth reading, it was worth reading. And Gwen would read it when she got home.
“It’ll take like five minutes to check it. I’m about to send a text to the family group chat.”
“Chris. Chris!” But her sister had already hung up.
“This girl,” Gwen muttered through gritted teeth as she tried to pull up the website on her phone. The grocery store did not have the best Wi-Fi. The page began to load slowly, one section appearing at a time. Gwen restlessly hummed to the Eighties song playing over the store’s speakers about girls just wanting to have fun. Staring hard at the screen, and mentally willing it to move faster, she leaned over the grocery cart as a spike of anxiety ran through her. Waiting always made her feel like she’d returned to the dark ages of dial-up.
Her phone flashed a notice. Chris had sent a message to their family. Two seconds later, one of their cousins responded. Then another. And another.
“Come on, come on,” Gwen whispered to her phone. More notices appeared across her screen. One of her uncles responded. This particular uncle never texted. “Must you be so slow!”
Another person in the cereal aisle glanced at her. Gwen smiled and shook her phone in explanation. Her phone dinged. More messages.
And then the page loaded. Gwen scrolled to the most recent note they’d received.
Dear Christine,
This is going to seem like a very strange message, but please bear with me. My name is Ange Marie Preston, and I live in Aix-en-Provence, France. My grandfather died some years back, and it’s taken me a while to go through his things. You see, my grandfather was a photographer. And a storyteller. And a Black American. He moved to France in the 1930s, and never left. He has photographed hundreds, if not thousands, of people. It’s taken me ages to go through his work.
One of the people he took pictures of was the Josephine Baker. He had the honor of knowing her well for a number of years. I’m sure you know Josephine worked as a spy to help France in WWII. If my grandfather’s stories are to be believed (and I believe them), he was there right alongside her. And he wasn’t the only one. In his old age, he would tell us all sorts of stories about fighting against the Germans. But my favorite story was the one he’d tell us about Le Papillon de Nuit, or as they say in English, the Moth. It took me years to convince him to tell me her real name, but eventually, I learned that she was Elodie Mitchell—who I believe is your grandmother. My grandfather only has one picture of Elodie, and I have attached it here: the front and the back. Josephine Baker is on the left. Elodie is on the right.
I will be making a trip to Chicago next week for work … which is where my grandfather said Le Papillon de Nuit lived. If you are there or if you have relatives there, I’d love to meet up and tell you the stories I learned of your grandmother from my grandfather.
À bientôt, Ange Marie
Gwen looked up from her phone, seeing none of the cereal boxes before her. Her phone flashed again. She looked down at it. She now had forty unread text messages from her family. Ignoring them, she opened the attachment Ange Marie had sent. And stared. She played with the screen, making the black and white photo larger. Then she made it smaller. What in the world? She scrolled further down to look at the back of the picture. Written in cursive were the words: Jo Baker and Elly Mitchell, 1940.
It was true. Her grandmother’s name had been Elodie Mitchell before she married. And she’d always been called Elly
There is no way that’s Grandma. – cousin
Grandma was working it! – cousin
Our saved, sanctified, holy-roller Christian grandmother, a cabaret girl?! Not her. But a very good lookalike. Matter of fact, both women in the picture sort of look alike. – cousin
They don’t look alike. Racist. – cousin
That’s definitely her! Lmbo – cousin
Who sent you this photo? – uncle
The grandparents met in France, right? Grandpa always said she caught his eye walking in a Paris garden. Perhaps it was a different sort of garden? – cousin
Miz Elly Anne would never! But I tell you … these old people and their secrets! – cousin
Who is Josephine Baker? – cousin
Google is free. – cousin
Our grandparents met in France? How did I not know this? Why were black people in France back then anyway? How did they even get there? – cousin
How did you get here? That’s what we all want to know. – cousin
It’s not her! – cousin
Are you kidding! The woman standing next to Josephine Baker is an exact replica of Aunt Darcy. Of course it’s her! – cousin
It’s her. I have a copy of this photo. – uncle
Gwen’s phone rang. Chris. She answered it. “Did you see Uncle Jay’s text?”
“Yes.”
“It’s her,” Chris said knowingly. Gwen rolled her eyes. “Grandma knew Josephine Baker. Did you see what she was wearing? Or not wearing, I should say?”
“I saw the picture, Chris.” Gwen was still trying to process that the church-going, rule-following, conservative grandmother she knew had once put on an outfit like that and, presumably, performed before an audience.
“We should meet this Ange Marie.” Because, yes, most of their family was still in Chicago. “Uncle Jay’s been sitting on that photo all this time and saying nothing!” Forget Uncle Jay. Why hadn’t Grandma Elly ever said anything? If you’d asked Gwen two minutes ago, she’d have said that there was no topic, no event that she and her grandmother hadn’t discussed before her death. They had been that close. Except now she knew that wasn’t true. “I just spoke to Dad. He’s never seen the photo before, but he said it was her. What do he and his siblings know about the grandparents that we don’t? Grandpa never seemed to match Grandma, you know? Except now I’m wondering if maybe he did.” Chris paused, taking a deep breath. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper. “Also, the reference to Le Papillon de Nuit. Did you see that?”
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Gwen closed her eyes for a second. “Respond to Ange Marie. Tell her we’re interested.” Gwen wasn’t going to pass up this chance to learn about her grandmother. And maybe they could find out why the woman had decided to take this story to her grave.
CHAPTER 1
The man referred to as her husband, made his slow, swaggering walk down the stony pathway along the bank of the river Seine. He always wore a variation of black, her husband, except for the one colorful scarf that would be wrapped loosely around his neck. Sometimes the scarf was a solid color: just midnight blue or a deep forest green. Sometimes the scarf was a lovely array of colors: a veritable sunset. Today, his scarf was gray with hints of gold and silver thread peeking out with every cast of the sun.
Sitting on a bench, tucked under a tree that was steadily losing its leaves, Elodie Mitchell was making slow work of her lemon and lightly sugared crêpe. The ongoing war might be phony, but the rationing was not. Elly watched the man she called husband make his way to their favorite crêperie vendor. Unlike Elly, who preferred to order the same flavored crêpe every week, her husband, who she decided today would be called Jean-Baptiste—she really liked to reach for the hardcore French names—ordered something different every time.
The sound of oars slapping water briefly caught Elly’s attention. She watched as a small boat carrying four passengers rowed its way into existence. They were young people—the boys too young for the draft and the girls too young to be worried about the draft. Elly watched them laughing and talking and ostensibly enjoying one another’s company. She nibbled on the small thin, lemony pancake and that reminded her that she only had about two minutes left before Jean-Baptiste went on his way, disappearing from her life until this time again next week.
Her husband was tall and very long of leg. He was wearing black trousers and a fitted black and dark-gray checkered coat that tied across his very slim waist and stopped just above his thighs. His dark hat was tilted slightly on his head. She’d never been one to notice men’s clothing before she’d ‘met’ him. What her uncle or her brother or her cousins wore had never held much interest to her. But she always noticed what Jean-Baptiste was wearing. He was a very sharp dresser, her husband. He also spoke fluent French.
Once, he’d been early and he’d beat her to the crêperie. She’d stood in line right behind him and had been pleasantly surprised to hear the bass in his voice. She purely loved a man whose voice was as deep as an ocean. But she’d been even more surprised—and a bit envious—as French rolled off his tongue with ease. He’d spoken so quickly and so effortlessly that she’d only caught a few words. But whatever he’d strung together had set the vendor to laughing. Adrian—for his name had been Adrian that day—had laughed too. He was a happy man, her husband.
She watched now as the vendor handed Jean-Baptiste his crêpe wrapped like an ice cream cone. She was pretty sure it was ham and cheese and egg today. Small movement caught her eye and she watched as several birds no bigger than her hand landed at her feet and danced along the river’s edge pecking and poking at things. She checked her watch. Her favorite river taxi would arrive in about twenty minutes. She took another small bite of her crêpe.
“Excuse me?” Elly looked up and a piece of thin pancake caught in her throat. She began coughing. “May I sit here?” Jean-Baptiste asked, pointing at the empty space on the other side of the bench.
She nodded, still coughing. Her eyes were tearing up. Dear Lord, why now? She couldn’t breathe. She pressed a hand to her chest, coughing some more.
“Here.” Jean-Baptiste dangled a handkerchief in front of her face.
“Thank you.” The words came out as a whisper. “But I have one.” She sounded as though she were about to break down and cry. Lowering the remaining half of her wrapped crêpe onto the bench and after clearing her throat a few times, she reached for her satchel, dug around, and pulled out her own handkerchief. She wiped furiously at her eyes. The first time he’d deigned to speak to her would coincide with her very nearly choking to death. What a lovely first impression she was making. Although, she at least looked rather smart in her powder blue reefer coat, hat, and matching pumps.
Face clean, throat clear, she returned her handkerchief to her bag and straightened in her seat. Embarrassment began to slowly fade away as excitement took its place. He was here. Her husband was here, and he was sitting next to her. And he’d spoken to her. She should make the most of this. She should find out his real name and where he was from and why he had left America for France. Because he was American. She’d gathered that much from the few words he’d spoken.
Occasionally, she’d wondered whether he was from one of the African colonies belonging to France, but she’d always leaned toward American because something about the way he moved read familiar. It was nice to be right.
Just as she was mustering up all of her courage to say something debonair, he spoke again. “Young lady?” Elly glanced over, hesitant to look at him full-on because he was beautiful of face. His skin was a few shades darker than her own. His eyes were a brown so deep they resembled black. He had a strong, fierce, determined nose that probably only a few men could carry well. And he was clean-shaven, giving her a view of a pronounced jawline. Once again, she could barely breathe. “You should probably know that I’m significantly older than you.”
