A Gown of Thorns: A Gripping Novel of Romance, Intrigue and the Secrets of a Vintage Parisian Dress (28 page)

‘Never forget, never forgive.’

It was Raymond, struggling with emotions and the agony of a herniated back. Raymond Chaumier, who never strayed nearer the château than the yard outside the
chai
, nor ever walked onto the meadows because he would not breathe the same air as Albert de Chemignac. ‘I know what you did,’ he said in a purring voice, his eyes like olive stones. ‘I could write the book about you, Albert. If I choose not to, it is only for Isabelle’s sake.’

Albert managed a sneer. ‘I’d be surprised to hear that you can write anything at all, Raymond.’

Raymond left, as if the few moments’ proximity were too much.

Henri put his hand on one of his brother’s knees, and its sudden trembling showed how terrified Albert was. ‘I wanted my life, brother. I wanted to love and marry a fine woman. I wanted to see my children grow and to harvest my grapes. I would have retrieved my buried bottles and used the money to replant my vineyard. You stole everything, and you dare to sit enthroned?’

‘Not true! Any of it!’

‘Perhaps this will draw a confession from him, Henri.’

Shauna became aware of Yvonne reaching into the neck of her gown. She was extracting a leather thong with a cigarette lighter hanging from the end. The one Rachel wore. Surely she didn’t intend to take revenge as brutally as that?

As Yvonne flicked up a flame and held it towards the nearest bale, Shauna surged forward and grasped her arm. Hers and Yvonne’s torsos meshed and it was like looking into her own soul.
We’re family
. She knew it beyond doubt.
Our irises are the exact same mix of green and hazel.
‘I won’t let you do it. One more atrocity won’t change what’s happened.’

Yvonne’s pupils expanded with humour. ‘They didn’t train us to be nice, you know. He’ll tell us the truth when it’s him feeling the pain, and I don’t have much time.’

‘The war’s over.’ Shauna snatched the lighter, breaking the leather cord against Yvonne’s neck. ‘That dress has corrupted you!’ She reached for its fluid neck, wanting to tear it to shreds, until Yvonne’s shrill protest broke the spell. The dream-state fled and Shauna was looking at Rachel, who was rubbing her throat and regarding her with furious disdain.

‘What the hell did you break my pendant for? That really hurt.’

‘You’ll live.’ Shauna threw the lighter far into the long grass. Albert was slumped in shock. Isabelle was leaning heavily on her stick, breathing erratically, but her expression was full of wonderment. Shauna turned to the man she loved. Laurent was back – just.

She said, ‘At least Isabelle now knows it wasn’t her fault that her father was killed. That’s something. Laurent?’

He was staring beyond her, at Rachel. Shauna promised,
If he touches her, smiles at her, I will leave and never come back
.

He didn’t smile. He was frowning, as if he’d just noticed something out of place. ‘Rachel, go and take that dress off. You’ve no right to wear it.’

Rachel flicked her hair and pushed out her lips. ‘You’re going to say it brings bad luck, I suppose. You believe that crap?’

He said slowly, ‘This dress is a magnet for powerful emotions, and it’s dangerous. Please take it off.’

‘Seriously?’ Rachel waited for him to add something, and when he didn’t, fetched up her mocking smile. ‘Fine, if that’s what you want.’ She untied the waist cord. Ignoring Shauna’s gasp, she pulled the Gown of Thorns over her head and dropped it at Laurent’s feet. Then walked away.

Later, Rachel Moorcroft was to say, ‘I left Chemignac without a backward glance, and every eye in the place on me.’

Shauna reached for Laurent. His hands were marble cold. She shook him to snap him back from wherever he was drifting. ‘Shall I go too?’ she demanded harshly. ‘Is it over? Was I just a harvest fling? The way you were gazing at Rachel, wrapped in her arms—’

‘It wasn’t about her.’

‘Um, hello?’ Shauna mimicked a lovelorn stare.

‘I wasn’t
seeing
her. I saw the Gown of Thorns and understood. That dress embodies our fears. Our dreams and our bitter failings. My father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather – they all fell in love with the Gown of Thorns. Each in turn was ripped apart by misfortune, war, betrayal. The dress isn’t cursed, but the century that made it most certainly was.’ He tipped back his head, inviting sunlight to strike his face. ‘I feel as if I drank a bucket of bad brandy. And look at those clouds… Rain tonight and the harvest in. We’ve been blessed.’

When he stood tall again, he was smiling. ‘You,’ he said.

‘Me?’ Shauna yelped as he picked her up in his arms and held her level with him, then kissed her with unselfconscious desire. Clapping showered them as their friends at the table expressed their delight. The diners began banging their cutlery in rhythm, urging Laurent and Shauna to join them for the feast. Laurent put Shauna back on her feet and moved away, still holding her hand. Stretching their clasp as far as it would go. ‘Madame?’ he invited. ‘Shall we go to our table?’

‘Ours?’

‘Of course. You are one of us now. You are part of me. I exist in you.’

B
efore going to join them
, Isabelle spared a glance for Albert. Reluctantly, she too held out her hand. ‘You are an evil old man, and in time you will go to your judgement. But for the wrong you did me, I forgive you. Come and join your family.’

S
hauna had never encountered such
a variety or such a quantity of food as that prepared by the women of Chemignac village. Tarts, cold pies, vibrant salads, rice moulds, Spanish paellas, game pâtés, meat, fish and vegetarian terrines. Laurent presided at the head of the table, Shauna on his right. Everyone was tucking into the food – everyone but Laurent and Shauna. Her stomach felt expanded – as if someone had exploded a firework behind her a short while ago and the shockwaves were locked inside. She had to keep checking that Laurent was really Laurent, his soul once more his own.

Actually, he still looked a shade absent. But Audrey did not intend for her culinary efforts to be ignored. ‘Fill your plates,’ she chided, ‘or everyone will imagine there’s something wrong with my cooking! Laurent, how would you like it if nobody drank your wine?’

Laurent nodded and cut himself a large slice of duck and apricot pie. Filling Shauna’s glass, leaning forward to top up Isabelle’s, Elisabeth’s and Mike Ladriss’s, he proposed a private toast. ‘To family, new friends and enduring friendship.’ Turning to Shauna, he raised his glass again. ‘To love.’

He spoke louder than he meant. Quickly, the toast spread down the tables until soon, everybody was noisily raising their glasses to
l’amour
. Shauna tried to line up something intelligent to say, in case this good-natured company expected some kind of speech from her. She caught Mike’s eye and he returned a half-smile, and later, passed a note to her on paper torn from his pocket diary.

Love, one. Science, zero?
he’d written.

Her answer was to make an origami lily from the page, place a red grape in its centre and push it across the table to him. She watched him trying to work out the hidden meaning. There was no hidden meaning. She didn’t know the answer because actually, the question was wrong. She wanted both her career and Laurent’s love and didn’t really see why they should be mutually exclusive. Laurent had as good as invited her to take a wine master’s course and study viticulture, and to help him grow his business. Did he still want that from her, and could she combine it with the medical research for which she’d trained all her adult life?

M
onty Watson’s
folk band arrived as the fruit tarts, sorbets and éclairs were uncovered. Dessert was eaten to the music of violin, guitar and hurdy-gurdies, stringed instruments shaped like fat banjos, whose plangent tone was accompanied by a drone similar to that of bagpipes. This style of music must have been heard on farms and in market squares for centuries, Shauna thought. After the empty plates were cleared, everyone formed a circle and danced in a side-stepping pattern, with raised arms. After that, the older French folk danced complex
bourées
while the younger ones and the guest-workers partnered up and waltzed or jigged to the best of their ability. Shauna saw Mike Ladriss inviting her mother to waltz.

Blimey
, she thought,
I’ve never seen Mum dance in a man’s arms. Not even Dad’s.
Her parents used to groove to the likes of T. Rex and Redbone, throwing their hair about, clicking their fingers.
Can Mum actually waltz? And with somebody so much taller?
The question didn’t occupy Shauna long, as Laurent took her into his arms.

‘I want to ask you something.’

Her heart crashed like a bird against its cage. But frustratingly, Laurent followed up with, ‘Do you think it will rain later?’

‘I think it could go either way. The clouds are very high.’

He led her away from the dancing, to the straw bale throne now vacated by Albert. They sat side by side, greenery and balloon strings tickling their necks. Laurent put his arm around her.

‘What would you think about developing a new wine, in honour of my grandfather?’

‘I’d say “Do it.”’ She was glad she could answer robustly. Disappointed, though, by the impersonal nature of the question. ‘A deep, strong red, I should think.’

‘Mm. Cabernet Sauvignon blended with Merlot, and Petit Verdot for a manly flavour. Verdot’s a tricky grape, it makes you work hard. There were a couple of hectares once, but they didn’t survive the war. I’d have to plant at least half a hectare, though really, this area is too cool.’

‘Cool? Are you joking?’ Late as it was, Shauna could still feel the sun’s rays through the crown of her hat, her layers of cotton. But this wasn’t the conversation she wanted. Stifling irritation, she asked, ‘How long till you get mature vines?’

‘Depends. I could see the first harvest by 2010.’

I
, not
we
. ‘That’s a chunk of your future. Do you have spare land to cultivate?’

‘Not unless I dig up the meadows.’

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘True, I wouldn’t. I could never drain them properly.’ He smiled, challenging her earnestness. ‘No, I would have to buy a few
parcelles
from a neighbour.’

‘Sounds better!’

‘Not straightforward, actually. In France, you cannot just buy a person’s vineyards. They must be offered publically—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! Why are you telling me this?’

‘Who else should I tell?’ He made to kiss her, but she turned away so that his upper lip grazed her ear. It was the end of the day, his beard was making itself felt. ‘First, I’d have to talk to the bank. I’d have to take somebody on to help with the extra work. Raymond told me this morning that he will retire at Christmas.’

‘You’ll miss him, but it can’t be hard to recruit vineyard workers around here.’

‘I
will
miss Raymond. He was my rock when I first took over.’

‘Isn’t this place littered with rocks?’ Shauna didn’t like the peevish note that had wormed its way into her voice, a mask for the sob in her throat. ‘You’re a pretty effective one-man band. You’ll manage.’

‘The thing is…’ His voice in contrast was patient, warm, as if he hadn’t noticed her crossness. ‘I don’t want to work with anybody I can’t wake up beside.’

‘In bed, you mean?’ She looked up at him, the image of a typical French labourer in
bleus de travail
, cigarette in mouth, gunning the engine of a tractor, fading away. Fading and being replaced by one in a short, flowered dress and jazzy wellington boots.

‘In bed, or anywhere. Shauna, let’s slip away.’

G
oing
into the woods was like a dip into fresh water, a rest for the eyes after the glare of the setting sun. The forest floor breathed a white mist.

Entering the glade, they pulled back in unison. In horror. Laurent muttered, ‘
Putain!
’ – an uncharacteristic profanity for him. The stone in its centre was shrouded in a golden miasma. Beside it hung a male figure with untamed hair. Hung, not stood. He was visible only from his waist upward. The torso slowly turned and spoke.

‘Hey-up, you two – didn’t hear you coming. I’m communing with my uncle and his chums.’

Shauna began to giggle. Laurent gave an embarrassed cough. Monty Watson’s lower half was obscured by the ground mist filtering through the stalks of wild maize. He’d untied his ponytail and his grizzled hair stuck out like horsehair stuffing from a busted sofa. He must have been raking his hands through it. Walking forward, Shauna’s laughter fell silent as she entered the stone’s aura and read again the roster of names, of lives sacrificed in the cause of freedom. ‘We must get Yvonne’s name added,’ she said.

‘Yvonne Rosel,’ Monty affirmed. ‘But under the dignity of her real name.’

‘Antonia Thorne.’
My
Antonia.

‘“L’Épine de Chemignac.”’ Laurent’s suggestion hung in the air. Was that laughter echoing somewhere beyond the glade?

‘“The Thorn of Chemignac…”’ Monty rolled the concept around his mind. ‘Thorn and Splinter. They’d have made a great team, if things had been different.’

‘If things had been different, they’d never have met.’ Laurent spoke flatly. He’d come back to earth.

Shauna read out the names, tracing the chiselled grooves with her finger. ‘Luc Roland, Michel Paulin. We haven’t thought much about them, have we? We’ve made this Henri and Yvonne’s story, with the two, brave Englishmen as the supporting cast. We’ve written out the two French Resistance fighters, and that’s not fair.’

Laurent nodded. ‘They offered up their lives for France and died here.’

‘No, not here.’ Shauna gave her words authority, because the buzz forming inside her head was the music of certainty, of
knowing
. ‘They died but not on the same night as Henri and the others.’ Laurent and Monty waited for more but she walked away, leaving the clearing, striking left when she reached the main path. Laurent and Monty, after a short hesitation, followed her.

She found the steep path – no more than an animal track – which she’d scrambled up the day she’d thought she was following Laurent. Still no sign of a cave mouth. She hadn’t expected to see it. Its appearance before was an aberration, a split in cosmic time offered to her alone. But she knew without doubt that it was there, hidden behind a shuttering of green growth so dense only a machete would clear it. She waited for the men to catch up, then sketched a rough line with her finger. ‘Henri, Cyprien and Jean-Claude died here on this slope, but Luc and Michel were captured. The night they shared a glass of cognac with Henri, raised their glasses to Yvonne, they got back into the tunnel meaning to slip out into the forest…’

‘Only, the enemy was waiting,’ Monty filled in.

‘Right there.’ Shauna pointed to a scrape of rubble where, for some reason, saplings and brambles had not taken root. ‘German Gestapo men in leather coats, ranged in line in the undergrowth, guns pointing. When the two emerged into the moonlight, they were pounced on. Trussed and taken away for interrogation.’

‘Albert’s doing,’ Laurent whispered. ‘God, that he’d never been born.’

‘Albert betrayed the location of the tunnel but poor Michel and Luc probably revealed the existence of the English agents back at the château. They broke. Of course they did! Eventually, they died from their brutal treatment, and their bodies were brought back here to the woods. All five men were found dead in the clearing, and everyone assumed they died at the same time. It’s what the inscription on the stone says. Doesn’t that tell you something incredible?’

Laurent met her gaze. ‘That the Germans had motives we can’t even guess at?’

‘That – but also that Luc and Michel’s bodies were in no worse condition than the others. That tells you they held out under torture for days and days. They were unbelievably brave.’

A
fter they’d stood absorbing
the idea for several minutes, Monty left them, concerned suddenly about abandoning his musician friends. ‘I need to pay them,’ he muttered. ‘They’ll think I’ve forgotten. Can I send you the bill?’

‘No problem,’ Laurent answered. ‘We’ll follow you in a while.’

He and Shauna walked back slowly, hand in hand. As they crossed the meadows, they heard the drone of folk tunes and saw the brazier still glowing. Laughter reached them like shreds of paper on the wind.

Such a balmy night, gently moonlit, no sharp corners to it. Laurent stopped halfway across the meadow and kissed her. His weight bore her down. They sank together onto the fragrant grass and made love like drowning people.

‘Stay with me, Shauna,’ Laurent said afterwards, his voice rousing the surface of her skin like a breeze on ripe wheat. ‘Help me make Chemignac a modern, award-winning business. Your mind, your skills, my knowledge – together, we cannot fail. Will you?’

‘Stay?’ She stared upward, consulting the moon. Unmasked and full, it warned her of the dangers of half-truths. Of leaving things unsaid, questions unasked. ‘You want me to stay because I’m a scientist? A useful adjunct to your business?’

Laurent sat up, blocking her view of the heavens. ‘I want you to stay because I love you. Do you think we can be apart? I don’t think we’re meant to be apart and I don’t care if that sounds crazy.’

She put her arms around him, pulling him lower until his lips were a hair’s breadth above hers. ‘I want to make wine with you, and love
to
you, and even grow a family. I also want to make my mark in the world of research. If you think you can put up with me wanting the world, then, yes Laurent, I want to stay.’