The Lavender Garden (30 page)

“Yes.” But, privately, Emilie wondered why on earth Sebastian hadn’t mentioned spending two days at the château to her. Yet again, anxiety began to churn in her stomach. “It was kind of him to spare the time to help with the library,” she managed weakly.

“I know he’s helped you through a very difficult time and offered you support.”

“Yes, he has. Now”—Emilie was desperate to change the subject—“I wanted to show you something that I found at the house in Yorkshire.” She produced the envelope containing the poems Alex had given her. “These were written by my aunt, Sophia de la Martinières. Jacques mentioned she wrote poems when he spoke of the past last time.” She handed them over to Jean and, as she did so, saw one of Jacques’s eyes open.

“They’re beautiful . . . ,” murmured Jean quietly, reading through them. “Papa, would you like to see them?”

“Yes.” Jacques’s eyes were fully open now, and Emilie wondered if his apparent deafness was conveniently exaggerated. Jean placed the poems in Jacques’s shaking hands. They sat in silence as he read them. When he looked up, tears were in his eyes.

“She was so very beautiful . . . so tragic, the end . . . I—” Jacques shook his head, emotion getting the better of him.

“Jacques, can you tell me how she died?” Emilie asked gently. “And why my father never spoke of her? And why Constance had these poems in her house in Yorkshire?”

“Emilie”—Jean put a gentle hand on her arm—“slow down a little. I can see Papa is shocked by seeing these poems. Shall we eat and perhaps give Papa some time to get his thoughts in order?”

“Of course.” Emilie was chastened. “My apologies, Jacques. Having lost my family, I’m excited that you know of their past.”

“We will eat first,” said Jacques gravely as Jean handed him his walking stick and helped him to stand.

Over supper, Jacques said little. Jean pointedly changed the topic of conversation back to the vineyard and his plans for modernization and expansion.

“With the right level of investment, I know that within five years we could be turning in a good profit. It would be a beautiful thing to add a positive contribution to the domaine, rather than a negative one.”

As Emilie listened to Jean, seeing him full of enthusiasm, she thought what an attractive man he still was; with his smooth skin—nut brown even after a long winter—and his chestnut hair hanging in wavy tendrils and framing his face, he looked younger than his thirty-nine years. When she’d been a teenager, and they’d spent time together, she’d developed a girlish crush on him for a while.

As she helped Jean clear away the plates, Jacques yawned.

“Papa, shall I help you up to bed?”

“No!” Jacques spoke loud and strong. “I don’t wish to sleep. It’s emotion making me yawn. Jean, find the Armagnac and I will try to tell Emilie more of what I know. And, unfortunately for me”—Jacques made a sound somewhere between a groan and a chuckle—“it is everything. I’ve been thinking since you left, Emilie, whether the rest of it should go with me to the grave. But then”—he shrugged—“how can you make sense of the present if you do not know of the past?”

“Jacques, that’s a lesson I’m learning too,” said Emilie softly. “And, if you remember, you’d told me of Constance’s arrival in Paris. She’d just met Venetia and had agreed to help her. . . .”

Strong above me, arm protective,

Round my shoulder, leading me.

Always caring, ever loving,

Do you see me, do you see?

Enigmatic, strong and stoic,

Leaning forward over me.

Book in one hand, reading quietly,

Do you see me, do you see?

Light glows brightly, shining from you,

In your shadow, always be.

I am here now, I am growing,

Do you see me, do you see?

So you’ll leave me, one day finding,

Life beyond our sanctuary.

Never knowing how I loved you,

Did you see me, did you see?

Sophia de la Martinières
1932, age 14

Paris

1943

É
douard arrived back home from the south two days later. He seemed exhausted and went straight up to his room, pausing on the stairs to tell Connie they were entertaining that evening. She would be required in the drawing room at six thirty.

She wondered who the guests would be that night—and sent up a silent prayer it wouldn’t be Falk and Frederik. She was slowly calming down after the trials of two nights ago, when Venetia had been transmitting from the cellar and Frederik had arrived at the house unexpectedly.

When Sarah had gone out shopping the morning after, Connie had run downstairs and checked the cellar, intending to relock it. But the key was missing. She searched for it both inside and out, but found no trace. Comfortingly, neither was there evidence of Venetia’s presence—not a hint of stale Gauloises in the air and nothing touched or removed that she could see. And so far, no reprisals, which she knew from experience were fast. If the Boche had picked up a radio signal from the locality, they would have conducted a house-to-house search immediately, aware that the wireless operator would usually pack up and leave within hours.

At six thirty that evening, as requested, Connie was on parade in the drawing room. A dreamy Sophia, looking heartbreakingly beautiful in a new lilac cocktail dress, was led in by Sarah.

As Sophia sat down in the chair, Connie studied her and realized she’d recently gained an aura that distinguished between longing and knowing. She was simply radiant: a young woman at the full height of her physical powers.

Édouard arrived downstairs in the drawing room looking rested and refreshed, seemingly back to his untroubled self. He kissed his sister, commented on her beauty that evening, and relayed the guest list. It was the usual mixture of bourgeois French, Vichy officials, and Germans.

By seven thirty, all the guests had arrived, apart from Falk. Frederik had delivered his brother’s apologies that he was delayed, but would arrive later.

“There was a break-in last night at the STO office on the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois,” Frederik explained. “The Resistance stole sixty-five thousand files and got clean away. Understandably, this has not pleased my brother.”

Connie had learned of the STO program during her SOE training. It was a register of young Frenchmen—totaling almost 150,000 names. Large numbers of them were continuously rounded up and sent to Germany to work in munitions factories and on production lines. The deportation of these thousands of young men had caused growing dissent among the French public and had rendered the Vichy government extremely unpopular. The STO program had made many previously law-abiding French citizens look to and support the Resistance. Connie’s concerned face as she listened to Frederik gave away none of the inner delight she felt at the success of the Resistance’s mission. And Venetia’s obviously successful part in it.

“Of course there will be reprisals,” added a high-ranking Vichy official. “We will become even more vigilant to stamp out these rebels who tear our country apart.”

As coffee and brandy were being served in the drawing room, the front doorbell rang. A few seconds later, Falk entered the room.

“My apologies, Édouard, I have been kept from your table by the militants of this country who continue to undermine our regime.”

As Édouard poured him a brandy, Connie noticed Falk’s face was set hard and a glint was in his eye. Connie gritted her teeth as he walked over. “Fräulein Constance, how does this evening find you?”

“I’m well, thank you, Falk. And you?”

“As you have heard, there has been some trouble from the Resistance, but rest assured, we are dealing with it and they will not get away
with what they have done. Anyway, enough of work. I’m in need of some entertainment.” His fingers reached out to stroke Connie’s cheek.

His touch was like iced water dripping down her face.

“Fräulein, perhaps you can—”

“So, you have had to deal with a big problem.” Édouard appeared by their side to defuse the situation.

“Yes, but the perpetrators will be caught and punished. We already have intelligence coming in from the French public who do not approve of the Resistance and wish to alert us to traitors. And we believe they are operating very close to here. One of our listeners picked up a strong signal two nights ago, which was being transmitted from one of the houses in this street. A full search was conducted immediately of your neighbors’ properties, but nothing was found. Of course, I told my officers not to trouble you with such an intrusion.”

Connie’s blood froze in her veins as Édouard looked genuinely surprised. “Where could the signal have come from?” he questioned. “I know for a fact that all my neighbors are loyal and law-abiding people.”

“Brother,” Frederik interrupted suddenly, “if this was two nights ago, I was here for a short time visiting Mademoiselle Sophia, and she said she longed to hear some music. The gramophone would not work, so she mentioned there was a radio in the house. Wanting to please her, I switched it on and tuned it to find some classical music for Sophia to listen to. So, Falk”—Frederik sighed penitently—“I think that perhaps this is the signal you picked up. I apologize for causing you extra work. But I can assure you, the full might of the SS was present in this house that evening, and I only saw the cat enter and leave.”

Even Édouard’s calm demeanour seemed ruffled by Frederik’s strange confession. Falk also looked unconvinced. “Well, I can hardly arrest my own superior for carrying out a mission to please a lady,” Falk replied, irritation clear in his voice. “We shall, of course, forget it, but I suggest, Édouard, that you hand in your radio immediately, so there can be no more confusion.”

“Of course, Falk,” said Édouard. “I was not here at the house on the night in question. Sophia, you should not have encouraged such behavior.”

“But the music we listened to was beautiful.” Sophia smiled from the chair behind them. “Mozart’s
Requiem
must be worth all the trouble, surely?” Her innocent charm broke the tension.

Connie noticed that Frederik’s gaze rested on Sophia constantly, tenderness in his eyes. The juxtaposition of an identical pair of eyes on the other side of her—steely and devoid of warmth—was evident. If the eyes truly were windows to the soul, she knew that Frederik and Falk, for all their identical outer packaging, did not share a similar one.

•  •  •

Édouard came to Connie in the library the next morning. “So, Frederik was here while I was away?”

“Yes. But I didn’t invite him, your sister did. And I knew nothing of the arrangement.”

“I see.” Édouard folded his arms and sighed. “I saw last night that the relationship has grown. They’re deeply in love. Has Sophia spoken to you of it?”

“Yes,” Connie replied truthfully, “and I tried to warn her of the hopelessness of pursuing any relationship with Frederik. But she won’t be reasoned with.”

“We can only hope that Frederik returns to Germany soon, for Sophia’s sake.” Édouard turned to Connie. “You were with them the night he was here?”

“No, Frederik arrived after I retired. I was in bed.”

“My God!
”
Édouard put a hand to his forehead in horror. “Sophia has truly gone mad! To entertain a man alone is unacceptable, but to do it in secret, late at night, is unthinkable!”

“Édouard, please forgive me, but I really didn’t know what to do. Even if I had told Sophia it was inappropriate to entertain Frederik alone here at that hour, I’m only a guest in her house. I don’t have the right to tell her what she may or may not do. And especially not while she’s with a German officer, so high in rank. I’m so very sorry.”

Édouard slumped into a chair, suddenly despairing. “Is it not enough they rape and destroy our beautiful country and steal its treasures? Do they have to steal my sister too? Sometimes I . . .”

“Édouard, what is it?”

He stared into space for a while, then said, “Forgive me, Constance, I’m tired, and shocked at my sister’s behavior. I feel I have been fighting this war for a very long time. So, we will see if Frederik leaves for Germany soon. If not, more drastic action must be taken.”

“At least it was wonderful news about the STO files being successfully removed by the Resistance, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” He turned to her, an odd expression on his face. “And there will be more, rest assured, there will be more.”

Édouard left the library, and Connie sat with her book on her lap, at that moment certain Édouard de la Martinières had been a part of the STO raid the other night. And she was comforted by the thought. But it didn’t change that she was trapped in a web that was not of her own making; passive when she had been trained to be active . . . going slowly mad . . .

And why had Frederik covered for the household by mentioning the radio? Could Sophia be right when she said Frederik did not believe in the Nazi cause? Or had he known already that a signal was being transmitted from the house and had come to investigate for himself?