Blind Instinct (22 page)

Vassigny, France, Two months later

T
he road to Vassigny was still narrow and precipitous, forced as it was to wind through the darkly wooded slopes and the stony plateaus of the Jura Mountains that marked the Franco Swiss border. To the east, Mont d'Or thrust up almost a kilometer and a half, its snowcapped peak piercing a brilliantly blue sky. Closer, to the south, vast tracts of forest known as the Parc Natural Regional du Haut-Jura dominated the landscape.

The sign for Vassigny loomed and the road became, if possible, even narrower. Stony pasture predominantly used for dairy farming and the
production of the famous Comte cheeses gave way to lush vineyards. The landscape was familiar, and yet, not. Modern barns and houses had sprouted, along with a small airport. Signs were everywhere, indicating tourist attractions, cafés and accommodation. Marc slowed for a corner, seconds later the town appeared.

The trip to Vassigny had been a natural choice, both to put the past to rest and answer a number of questions. Sara needed to know what had happened to Armand and his family—and they both wanted to find out about Cavanaugh.

Now that she had the memories, they were a part of her, as valid and real as her memories of her parents and Eleanor and Todd Fischer. She had loved her present-day family and grieved for them; she kept their photos, remembered important dates and cherished their memories. As distant as those war years were now, it didn't change the fact that she needed to do the same for the people she had loved back then. She needed closure.

After several weeks of searching, Bayard had managed to locate Cavanaugh's file. The manila folder had been mottled and darkened with age. When she'd opened it, the paper was yellowed,
the typescript old-fashioned, as if someone had thumped it out on a manual typewriter, which was exactly what had happened. At the bottom of one of the pages was a neatly scrawled signature.

All the hairs at the base of her neck had tightened as she'd studied the strong, slanting script.

Marc had traced the signature with his finger. He didn't have her memories, but he had recognized that the handwriting was eerily similar to his own.

She had checked the document. Of course, it was the official secrecy act.

Marc's expression had been wry. “Standard procedure. He was in Intelligence.”

The contents of the file were sparse, just four photocopied pages. Marc Cavanaugh, originally from New Orleans, had been seconded to the SOE in Britain in 1942—on request, because his mother had been from Lyon. He had parachuted into France in 1943 on a high-priority mission to escort an English agent across the Swiss border. The last entry was a letter to Cavanaugh's parents advising them that their son was missing in action. The date was 1944.

Sara had read the letter through twice. It hadn't said what happened to him, or how he had died.

France had still been occupied. A lot of soldiers had gone missing in action and their bodies had never been recovered. Sometimes soldiers had been reported dead but had actually survived.

She needed to know.

A few days later, Bayard had produced another sheet of paper, this one covered in his own handwriting. It was a brief genealogy. “I thought the name was familiar. Turns out that Marc Cavanaugh's aunt was Heloise Louviere.”

The sense that a piece of a subtle, complex puzzle had just fallen into place had been strong. The coincidence was too powerful to be pure chance. Heloise Louviere had married Jean Bayard and had been Marc's grandmother.

Sara held her breath as she studied Vassigny's main street, and the cluster of hostels, cafés and sports shops catering to tourists and cross-country skiers.

The familiar frontage of a bakery registered. “Pull over. There.”

Inside, the shop was small and dark, the plain rolls and baguettes still in evidence, but accompanied by a mouthwatering array of both savory and sweet pastries.

Gaspar Autin was behind the counter. He was
barely recognizable, thinner than she remembered, his thick dark hair, gray, his eyes rheumy. Her heart swelled. She felt like flinging herself into his arms, but it couldn't be Gaspar.

It was his son, Louis.

Her throat closed up. “When did Gaspar pass away?”

Louis's gaze was curious. “My father has been dead for more than twenty years. When did you meet him?”

“It was a long time ago. But maybe you can help me. I'm looking for Pascal Dutetre, the grandson of Armand de Thierry. Does he live in his grandfather's house?”

“The de Thierry place.
Oui
.” He cocked his head to one side. “Are you sure I don't know you, madame. You seem familiar to me.”

Sara shook her head. “
Non, je regrette
. I've never met you before. And the Château? Does Pascal own that?”

Louis shook his head. “Armand let that go, gladly, you understand? After the SS had it…” He made an expressive face. “No one wanted to sleep there. The Château is now a hotel, with a four-star restaurant. They get a lot of German tourists.” He shook his head. “Who could know?”

Marc drove to the house. As they walked up the path to the front door, shivers ran up and down her spine.

After a phone call explaining that they were distant relations of Marc Cavanaugh, a meeting had been arranged.

Armand's grandson was waiting for them at the front door of the house. Pascal, a far cry from the skinny child she remembered, had filled out and now had grandchildren of his own. He looked remarkably like his grandfather.

Goose bumps feathered her skin as they stepped into the dim hallway. For a moment the déjà vu was so strong she almost expected to see Armand. Instead, a cheerful, elegant woman with iron-gray hair—Pascal's wife, Marceline—appeared to usher them into the study.

Pascal made introductions and Marceline brought coffee and what looked like pastries from Louis's bakery. Sunlight slanted through the windows as cups and plates were handed out, and the initial awkwardness evaporated as they settled on the subject of the Second World War and the role the Special Operations Executive had played in Vassigny's Maquis.

“I never met Cavanaugh, unfortunately.” Pascal's gaze settled on Sara. “But I did meet Sara Weiss. One moment.”

He rummaged in a heavy armoire and produced an ancient photograph album filled with small, old-fashioned, black-and-white snaps and a few sepia-toned ones.

He pointed to a wedding photograph. His gaze connected with Sara's. “It's a remarkable coincidence, but you look very like my stepgrand-mother. I still remember her clearly. She tried to teach me mathematics.”

Sara studied the photograph. Unlike the living, breathing reality of Louis and Pascal, the photograph failed to evoke heart-pounding emotion. She remembered dressing for the photo, the charade of a wedding ceremony that had never actually taken place, because neither Armand nor Sara had been prepared to make a promise before God that would not be carried out. They had settled on the legal paperwork, signed by the priest and left it at that. “And you weren't a good pupil?”

He grimaced. “Not when it came to calculus.”

Bayard leaned forward on the couch, his thigh brushing hers, drawing her back to the present.
He directed the conversation back to the events following Sara's shooting.

Pascal closed the album and placed it on the desk. “Reichmann and his SS officers went back to Berlin. De Vallois was killed, but his Maquis continued to operate. Grandpère was incarcerated for a short time, but they released him. With Stein and Reichmann gone, there were no charges to answer and the prisons were already full. Besides, the Germans needed him to run the farms.” His expression was wry. “Food! They could not function without his cheese.”

An image of the truck loaded with cheeses and fresh milk, the false bottom containing its most precious cargo, headed for the Swiss border was suddenly vivid in her mind. With resources stretched thin, and starvation common, Armand had cleverly gauged the value of his products. Even the Germans had to eat. When they had seen his truck, the last thing they had wanted to think about was the possibility that Armand's food delivery was a cover for the activities of the Maquis.

Her fingers closed around her cup. “When did Armand die?”

Pascal's gaze grew intent, and for a moment
she wondered if he had guessed. Although, that wasn't possible.

He pushed to his feet. “Come with me.”

A short walk later, through fields that skirted the village, they arrived at the church and a small cemetery. Pascal gestured at a headstone and the faded date, 1973.

Relief made her feel light-headed and a little weepy. Not only had Armand survived the war, he had lived to the ripe old age of eighty-three.

Pascal laid a hand on the stone, his affection clear. “He used to say that his
vin jaune
preserved him. I'm not so sure he was wrong.”

“What about the American agent, Cavanaugh? Did he leave?”

“The Americaine?
Non
. He stayed with De Vallois's men. He ran the Maquis after de Vallois's death.”

Her hand tightened on Marc's. “But he didn't survive the war.”

Pascal's face tightened with regret. “
Non
,” he said softly. “Marc Cavanaugh was killed in action.”

“When?”

“Sixth of June, 1944.”

The date of the Normandy Invasion.

Her chest felt as though it was being squeezed by a vise. “Why did he stay? Why didn't he leave? He was with the SOE—”

“He could not,” Pascal said simply. “He was in love with the Anglaise. When she was shot by Reichmann, he chose to stay and fight.”

Bayard's arms came around her.

He was safe…
here, now
…and suddenly she knew him with absolute clarity. He had loved her. He had never given up on her and he had never left her, not even when she had died.

Bayard's voice broke the silence. “Why didn't Armand bury Sara in the de Thierry family plot?”

Pascal shook his head. “That could never happen. They were married, but it was only a paper marriage to fool the Germans. It was not…appropriate.”

He walked farther on and gestured at a small private plot, set a little apart. “You see? He knew they were in love.”

Two simple, lichen-encrusted headstones sprouted side by side, one with an American eagle carved into the stone, the other with a fleur-de-lis, the national symbol of France. The inscriptions
were simple—names, dates and a brief phrase on both:

Jusqu'à ce que nous réunissions encore
.

Until we meet again
.

Praise for the novels of

FIONA BRAND

“A ripping good yarn. It's fast-paced, sometimes
funny and always entertaining – and
JT Wyatt's a keeper!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
on
Double Vision

“
Body Work
is the kind of book that sucks you into
the pages and won't let you go until the end. It's
edgy and different, with a strong hero and
heroine who don't fit the usual mould.”
—Bestselling author Linda Howard

“Brand tells a disturbing, engrossing tale of murder
and madness, adding her own unique touches of
eroticism and humour. An excellent read.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
on
Body Work

“WOW! This book was fraught with tension,
murder and romance… Fiona Brand grabs hold of
the reader and demands their attention. Fantastic
read from beginning to end!”
—
www.CataRomance.com
on
Body Work

“Brand's extraordinary gifts as a storyteller are
very evident here. This story is a rare and potent
mixture of adventure, mystery and passion that
shouldn't be missed.”
—
Romantic Times BOOKreviews
on
Touching Midnight

IMPRINT: Mills & Boon

ISBN: 9781742920108

TITLE: BLIND INSTINCT

First Australian Publication 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Fiona Brand

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