The Lavender Garden (38 page)

“And I’ll miss you too.” She smiled at him suddenly.

“If, by any chance, we both come out of the other side of this war, I would so very much like to see you again, Venetia.”

“Me too.” She lowered her eyes, suddenly embarrassed.

“Venetia, I . . .” On instinct, Édouard took her in his arms and kissed her hard and passionately on the lips.

As the plane landed, she pulled away from his grasp. And Édouard saw tears in her eyes too. He tipped her chin up to him. “Be brave, my angel. Keep safe, for me.”

“After that kiss, I will most certainly try. Come on, time to go.”

They ran together across the field toward the Lysander, which would take Édouard safely away from his homeland to hers.

As Édouard was about to board, he handed Venetia a package. “Please, if there’s any way that you or another member of your organization can contact my sister at the château, this will tell her that I’m safe.”

“I’ll get it to her, one way or another,” promised Venetia, stowing it in her satchel.

Édouard climbed the steps of the aircraft, then turned back. “Good luck, my angel, and I pray we’ll meet again soon.”

He stepped inside and the small door closed behind him. Venetia watched as the plane taxied, then picked up speed and flew out toward home across the Channel.

“Come, Claudette, we must leave,” said Tony, her companion, grasping her arm and dragging her away across the field.

Venetia looked up wistfully at the night sky, the full moon turning the frost on the field into a fairyland of glistening whiteness. And decided that Édouard de la Martinières was a man she knew she could finally love.

•  •  •

A day later, having entrusted Édouard’s package to a courier who was traveling to the south, Venetia set off by train to make her way back to Paris. Arriving at the new safe house, she threw her satchel down with a sigh of relief and went into the kitchen to boil some water for a hot drink.

“Good evening, fräulein. I’m so very glad to make your acquaintance at last.”

Venetia turned and froze, recognizing the icy, pale blue eyes of Colonel Falk von Wehndorf.

•  •  •

A week later, having been held at Gestapo headquarters, interrogated, and then brutally tortured for refusing to reveal the information the Germans required, Venetia was led out into the yard.

The officer who tied her to the post looked at her in disgust.

“Give a girl a last ciggy,” she asked him, staggering a little and forcing a smile.

He lit one and stuck it in her mouth. She took a couple of drags and sent her love across the Channel to her family.

As the officer went to take his mark and pointed the gun at her heart, Venetia’s last living thought, as she closed her eyes, was of the kiss from Édouard de la Martinières.

Gassin, South of France

1999

J
acques was grey with exhaustion.

“Enough, Papa. You must rest,” ordered Jean, seeing his weariness. “I’ll help you upstairs now.”

“But I must get to the end of the story . . . I haven’t finished, I . . .”

“No more, Papa,” said Jean as he helped Jacques out of his chair and led him toward the door. “There’s plenty of time. Maybe you can continue tomorrow.”

As they left the room, Emilie sat staring into the fire. Thoughts of Venetia, who had perhaps found love with her father only days before her death, assailed her. Emilie felt humbled and awed by Venetia’s strength and courage.

Jean came back down the stairs and perched on the fender opposite Emilie. “It’s quite a story, is it not?” he murmured.

“Yes. And now I’m thinking that my aunt’s early death is connected to her love affair with Frederik.” Emilie sighed.

“Well, we both know what happened after the war to Frenchwomen who consorted with the enemy. Tarred and feathered, or shot by their angry neighbors.”

Emilie shuddered. “Of all the men Sophia could have chosen . . .”

“But no one can choose who they love, Emilie, can they?” Jean said quietly.

“And Sophia’s baby? Did it die too?”

“Who knows? We can only wait until Papa shares the rest of the story with us. But it’s obvious to me already that Frederik was a good man. And Papa’s story only underlines how one’s place of birth and the timing of it is a matter of chance. Does any human really choose
to fight and kill? At that time, at least, they simply had no choice, whichever side they were on.”

“The suffering and deprivation our forefathers knew . . .” Emilie shook her head. “It puts our own existences into perspective.”

“It does indeed. Thank God, after the two World Wars, certainly the West learned its lesson. For a while anyway,” Jean mused somberly. “But war will always begin again; it’s the human condition to wish for change and be unable to sustain peace. Sad, but true. On the positive side, the extreme circumstances it creates can bring out the best in us. Your father almost certainly saved Constance’s life by going himself to the café to warn Venetia. And, in return, to protect Édouard, Constance subjugated herself to the most terrible fate a woman can suffer. Alternatively, of course”—Jean exhaled—“it can bring out the very worst, as it did with Falk. Great power often corrupts.”

“Then I’m glad I have none.” Emilie smiled.

“But of course you do, Emilie.” Jean raised an eyebrow. “Stop underestimating yourself. You’re an intelligent and beautiful woman. This alone can often be enough, but you were also lucky and were born into a well-respected and powerful family. As these things go, you were given many gifts. Now, it’s late, and I must be up, as always, with the birds.”

“Yes, of course. And you’re right, Jean. I was given many gifts. Maybe it’s only now that I’m starting to appreciate them,” said Emilie quietly.

“Good.” Jean stood up. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Sleep well, Jean.”

Twenty minutes later, she was lying in the old bed in the small bedroom that Constance must have used during the time she was here. She heard Jean use the communal bathroom, then close the door to his room.

Emilie realized that Jean and his father were the nearest thing she had left to a family. Comforted by that thought, she fell asleep.

•  •  •

The following morning, she came into the kitchen to find Jean looking grave.

“Papa’s breathing is terrible and I have the doctor coming. Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you. Is there anything I can do?”

Seeing the disappointment on Emilie’s face, Jean put an arm around her. “No, he’s simply very old and weak. I’m sorry, Emilie, but Papa can’t tell you any more of the past today.”

“Of course. I’m being selfish,” she apologized. “It’s your father’s health that matters most.”

“It simply means that you must return very soon if you wish to hear any more.” Jean smiled at her. “You know there will always be a bed for you here while the château renovations are undertaken.”

“Perhaps I can bring my husband with me next time. After all, it’s his grandmother’s story too.”

“Yes. Can I leave you to make your own breakfast? I have some work to complete before the doctor arrives. I can only hope Papa doesn’t have to return to the hospital. He hated it there so much last time. Anyhow, I’ll see you before you leave.” Jean nodded and left the kitchen.

After breakfast, Emilie went upstairs to pack her few belongings. She could hear Jacques coughing in the next room. She knocked on his door tentatively, then opened it and peeped inside.

“May I come in?”

Jacques raised a hand to acquiesce.

She could see his eyes were open, and as she walked toward him, the sight of his pale, shrunken body in the big bed reminded her of her mother just before she had died. Emilie sat down on a corner of the bed and smiled down at him. “I just wanted to say thank you for sharing the story of my family’s war. I hope, when you’re better, you can tell me the rest of it.”

Jacques opened his mouth and a rasping grunt came out.

“Please don’t try and speak now,” Emilie said comfortingly.

Jacques grabbed her hand with his clawlike one, showing strength for someone so frail. He gave a ghoulish parody of a smile and nodded at her.

“Good-bye, and please get better.” Emilie leaned toward the papery skin and kissed him lightly on his forehead.

•  •  •

Jean was upstairs with his father and the doctor when it was time for Emilie to leave for the airport. So as not to disturb Jean and Jacques,
she left a note on the kitchen table thanking them both, climbed into her car, and set off for Nice. She felt guilty that Jacques’s relapse may have been caused by the exertion of telling his story. The energy and emotion it had taken for him to relate it had obviously had an impact.

•  •  •

As the aircraft took off from Nice, Emilie prayed that Jacques would recover, but resigned herself to never knowing the rest of the story. Somewhere over northern France, Emilie turned her thoughts to home—or the home that was now.

The idea of returning to Blackmoor Hall after spending two days where she felt she belonged was not enticing. The cold, gray English skies and the depressing, tense atmosphere of the house were something she needed to steel herself for. She also had to ask her husband why he had spent two days at the château, but hadn’t told her. . . .

As the plane landed, descending through thick rain clouds and into the gloom on the ground, Emilie rallied her strength. This was the man and the life she had chosen, however difficult it currently felt. As she walked out of the airport and climbed aboard the Land Rover, she checked herself. A miserable, cold house and a couple of brothers at war were nothing compared to the dreadful suffering that Jacques had related last night.

When she arrived at Blackmoor Hall, there was no sign of the old jalopy Sebastian used to run to the station, and Emilie entered a silent house. It was freezing again, so she dropped her suitcase and went into the boiler room to turn the heating back on. This told her that Sebastian hadn’t been here for at least a few days. Which was odd, as when they’d spoken yesterday, he’d said he was calling from home. . . .

Perhaps, Emilie shrugged, ready to forgive, he was used to living without the heating and hadn’t thought to switch it back on. She climbed the stairs to their bedroom and found the room exactly as she’d left it two days ago. Back in the kitchen to make a cup of tea, Emilie saw the half bottle of milk she’d left in the fridge was still there and untouched.

“Stop it!” Emilie scolded herself. It may well have been that Sebastian had simply returned in the evening, slept overnight, and
disappeared back to London. Whatever, she would need to go and buy some urgent supplies to feed them tonight.

Just as she was about to open the front door to get back into the Land Rover, Sebastian’s old jalopy pulled into the drive. Emilie paused uncertainly in the doorway as she saw him climb out.

“Darling!” Sebastian threw his arms open as he walked toward her and enclosed her in them. “It’s so good to have you back.” His lips immediately bent to hers and he kissed her. “I missed you.”

“And I you, Sebastian, I was so worried. I—”

“Hush, Emilie.” Sebastian put a finger to her lips. “We’re together now.”

•  •  •

Thankfully, Sebastian seemed to be much more back to his usual self, and the two of them spent a pleasant weekend rebonding. They made love, rose late, cooked when they were hungry, and, on Sunday afternoon, wandered around the land that belonged to the house. The gardens, even though unkempt, were beginning to show the very first signs of spring.

“There’s so much out here to put right, I hardly know where to begin,” Sebastian said, and sighed as they walked across the main lawn and into the house.

“I like gardening,” said Emilie. “Perhaps I could see what I can achieve. It would give me something to do when you’re away.”

“It would,” Sebastian agreed as they entered the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“It’s not very satisfactory all round, is it? And I’m afraid I’m going to be away a lot in the next few months.”

“Then perhaps I really should think about moving with you to London,” Emilie said firmly as he handed her a mug of tea. “It’s not good to be apart so much, and so early in our married life. And ridiculous that you won’t let your wife use her money to help our relationship,” she added, amazed at her sudden courage.

“Yes, you’re right. Why don’t we think about it in a few weeks’ time?” Sebastian kissed Emilie on the nose. “We could look around for a small apartment. I certainly wouldn’t want you anywhere near my ghastly little boxroom, my five-star girl,” he said, smiling.

Emilie wanted to say that she didn’t care where they lived, but as he was finally amenable to her moving down to London with him, she decided to let it rest.

That night, however, she did broach the subject of his appearance at the château in France.

They were lying in bed and Sebastian looked down at her oddly. “You don’t remember me telling you I was going?” Then he chuckled. “You’re not getting early dementia, are you? Why on earth wouldn’t I have told you?”

“Sebastian, I’m sure you didn’t.” Emilie determinedly stuck to her guns.

“Well, either way, would it have mattered? I mean, I wouldn’t expect you to ask my permission to come here, Emilie. My visit to the château wasn’t planned. I had a little spare time and thought I’d go and help make a start on the library. That was okay with you, wasn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Night, sweetheart, got to be up for the early train in the morning. I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

As Sebastian switched off the light, Emilie lay there, wondering at her husband’s power to make every one of his actions completely plausible, which rendered her sounding stupid and in the wrong.

Or maybe she
was
wrong. . . .

She gave a small sigh and closed her eyes, remembering that everyone had to work at marriage and be prepared to give and take.

•  •  •

Sebastian left for London at six the following morning, and Emilie did her best to go back to sleep. In the end, she surrendered, got up, and went downstairs to make some coffee. She switched on her mobile for the first time since she’d arrived back in Yorkshire and listened to her messages. The one from Jean said Jacques had been admitted to the hospital in Nice, but was responding to the antibiotics and doing well. He’d let her know as soon as Jacques was home and fit enough to continue his story.