A Gown of Thorns: A Gripping Novel of Romance, Intrigue and the Secrets of a Vintage Parisian Dress (29 page)

T
he PA system had arrived
. Hairy men in baseball caps were laying cables under mats, securing them with tiger-stripe duct tape. A local TV news team would be along in a couple of hours. For the staff and residents of The Beeches care home, it was a gala day. Red, white and blue bunting crisscrossed the dining room and fluttered in the garden. Entwined Union Jacks and Tricolores trumpeted the
entente cordiale
.

At ten thirty, Elisabeth Vincent and her guest arrived on foot from the B&B where they’d stayed the night and presented themselves to the home’s manager, who came out of her office to greet them.

‘Is Aunt Antonia ready for all this?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘One never knows with Miss Thorne,’ the manager replied cautiously. ‘Shall I tell her you’re here, both of you?’

‘Why don’t we go and find her ourselves?’ Elisabeth suggested. ‘I think we should play this whole thing very casually. One thing I’ve learned about Aunt Antonia, she can’t bear a fuss. And I want to introduce Mike to her myself.’

Elisabeth smiled up at her companion, who was peering short-sightedly at a poster announcing today’s event. He’d left his glasses back at the B&B. Mike Ladriss in many ways resembled the stereotypical absent-minded professor. But then, Elisabeth admitted, she was undoubtedly a stereotype herself, though out of a very different mould. Everything about them was in opposition.
He
was over six foot, she barely five foot on tiptoe. She collected crystals and planted vegetables by the phases of the moon. He forgot to eat, and took clocks apart in his spare time. They each came ready-packaged in a protective layer designed to keep love and other such hazards at bay. They couldn’t quite say who had thrown off the armour first, but they agreed that Chemignac’s moon and the fruit of its vines had played a part in their ultra-cautious love-affair.

The manager touched the posy of carnations in her lapel; red, white and white-sprayed-blue. ‘Miss Thorne says it’s all bunkum, today’s celebration. Bad taste. But she’s decided to humour us and speak on camera. You’ll find her in the conservatory, but I should warn you, she told me yesterday that you’re not related. She says you’re an imposter.’

‘I have the family tree in my handbag,’ Elisabeth replied. ‘She was my father’s half-sister, and though it took me fifty years to track her down and get her to admit our connection, I have birth certificates to prove it.’

A
t eleven o’clock
, an official car drew up, disgorging the Lord Mayor of Dakenfield and other dignitaries. They were followed by members of the Royal British Legion and a deputation from the town of Garzenac. With them were two guests of honour, Raymond and Audrey Chaumier. A troop of boy scouts and girl guides arrived next with their pack leaders, and finally the film crew – harassed because the car park was full and they’d had to leave their vans down the street.

At eleven thirty, the ceremony began with a representative of the Mayor of Garzenac presenting Miss Antonia Thorne, otherwise known as the SOE agent Yvonne Rosel, with a medal struck in her honour. The cameras homed in for a midday news feature. Sixty-five years ago today, at a place called Chemignac, members of the local Resistance attempted to escape an ambush. They failed, but one woman made it out…

The reporter crouched beside Miss Thorne’s wheelchair and, even though she’d been briefed not to mention her interviewee’s age, began ‘So, Antonia, I believe we have to congratulate you on being ninety-five years old?’

‘Miss Thorne, please. And great age is not an achievement. It is a pain in the bum.’

‘That’s me told! And you were in France in 1943, parachuted into hostile territory to aid the French Resistance. Is it true you were nearly shot before you’d even touched the ground?’

‘One is either shot or not shot. There is no such thing as “nearly shot”.’

‘Right, no, I suppose. I was told you fell in love with the man who rescued you?’

‘He didn’t rescue me. He was part of the reception committee and I was perfectly capable of defending myself. I’d been taught to kill. They talk about women being allowed to fight on the front line nowadays – let me tell you, we SOE girls were on the front line fighting for our lives in the 1940s.’

‘Amazing! It must have been nerve-racking, dropping into enemy terrain—’

‘It was terrifying. And it was exhilarating, dangerous and dreadfully, dreadfully sad. It wasn’t a game.’

‘And afterwards, you came home and told nobody about your exploits, not for years. That’s pretty awesome.’

‘Official Secrets Act. And there was nothing to tell. I didn’t win the war. I didn’t defeat the Germans. I was a tiny cog in a huge machine. I got buckled, spat out and that was that.’

‘You never wanted to go back?’

‘As an agent? Someone had taken photographs of me. My cover was blown, so I couldn’t go back. After the war, I didn’t want to.’

The reporter flashed a desperate smile at the camera, saying, ‘In a minute, we’re going over live to Garzenac, in southwest France. But now, let me speak with two of our French guests, Monsieur and Madame Chaumier, who met the intrepid Antonia – Yvonne, as she was then known – in the dark days of Nazi occupation, and have stayed in touch ever since.’

The reporter pushed a microphone in front of Audrey. ‘I believe you tracked down Miss Thorne when she was in hospital by writing to the Mayor of Dakenfield? You were worried when she stopped answering your letters.’

A translator repeated the question in French.

Audrey gave the matter some thought, nodded and said, ‘
Oui
.’

‘You met “Yvonne” when she was hiding in your village? That must have been pretty amazing.’

Another pause. Then, ‘No. It was the worst time. We had to run for our lives, and I heard the guns. The shooting went on and on – how many bullets does it take to kill cornered men? I am glad our friend is at last being honoured, but I do not like to remember the past.’

With visible relief, the reporter handed over to her colleague in France.

I
n Garzenac’s central square
, tears in their eyes, Laurent and Shauna watched the dedication of the memorial to all the town’s Resistance fighters. Donations from Clos de Chemignac and other local businesses had paid for the stone to be moved from the woods to the town, and the carving of several more names, including that of one woman.

‘Stand by,’ one of the British film crew researchers told them. ‘After the Mayor has done his speech, we’ll be interviewing you, Monsieur le Comte, then you, Madame.’

‘Shauna and Laurent, please.’

‘Cool. We’ll be asking about your family history and what you know about “Yvonne” and her time at Chemignac.’

Shauna and Laurent exchanged glances. They knew too much. Albert’s crime had not evaporated, even with his death in 2005. Those few who knew of it held the knowledge close. They always had done. Not to protect Albert… To protect Isabelle.

‘What can I say?’ Shauna muttered when the researcher was out of range. ‘That Yvonne came to me in a waking dream and shared her pain and love life with me?’

‘Just talk about a brave, strong woman,’ Laurent advised, ‘one you are proud to be related to. People love that story, how you and your mother traced her, proving she was a lost relation. The Mayor and Monty have spoken of the other men who died. I will talk about my grandfather.’ He gave the smile that always made Shauna want to hug him and sink her teeth lightly into his neck. ‘Then, I will tell them about our new wine, and why I named it in his honour.’

The wine, Écharde de Chemignac, was being liberally poured out to the gathered company. Establishing itself as their bestselling brand, its label carried the Chemignac coat of arms above a twisted thorn tree. A blend of three red grapes, it had been developed by Laurent and Shauna as a full-bodied, muscular wine that aged well. They were currently working on a blend of whites, to be called ‘Épine de Chemignac’ – ‘Thorn of Chemignac’. Crisp, dry with hints of gooseberry and a suggestion of flint, it ought to be a fitting tribute to Shauna’s great-aunt.

S
plinter and thorn
. Harsh fruits of a harsh world, but safe enough if treated with caution and respect. At Chemignac, under a sunshade in the rose garden, Isabelle Duval wriggled her feet. She was winding crochet cotton and enjoying the summer scents and the drone of bees making short-haul flights between flower heads. She’d cried off the ceremony, citing her bad legs, knowing it would be too much for her.

Justice had been served. The stone block, cleaned and polished, sat on a brand new plinth, the correct names carved on it for all to see. Chemignac, she imagined, was proud of its achievements, not the least of which was creating two new pairs of lovers.

Laurent and Shauna, a matched pair of science-obsessed wine makers who were taking the world by storm. Not just in wine-making, either. Clos de Chemignac had recently helped sponsor a course run jointly by the University of Bordeaux and Shauna’s old faculty at LJKU. Something to do with grape skins, and isolating antioxidants capable of curing disease. Shauna was a part-time, unpaid, research fellow, balancing both sides of her life with an energy that awed Isabelle.

More quietly, Elisabeth and Mike had come together after that fateful
fête de vendange
. A relationship that had ‘come out of left field’ as Nico would say. Professor Ladriss was the perfect project for Elisabeth, who, Isabelle had often observed, soothed difficult people like cucumber on burned skin.

Elisabeth had written to Isabelle with the news that she’d found “Yvonne”. Her aunt. Or ‘half-aunt’, to be accurate. That had been two years ago, just as the vines had started to bud. Within a week of that news, Albert had died and Louette had woken within days. A life for a life. That’s how things worked in this place.

Hearing the fluttering of wings under the tower eaves, Isabelle glanced up. Many times in the past, as she drifted off to sleep, she’d feel she was leaving her body and joining the doves in flight. She’d soar up and into the tower room to stare out of the window. A window she herself had blocked, but which melted into glass under the force of her need. She would gaze over the meadows, offering her life for the chance to go back and do things differently. To be a good child and not the jealous hysteric, pulling pictures off the wall.

So real had those flights been, it hadn’t surprised her to hear Laurent and Shauna claiming that they’d seen a vision of a female at the window. Well, this was Chemignac, a place of possibility. The branches above her shook – what was upsetting those birds now? She pushed herself up with her stick, sucking her teeth at the slowness of her legs. Then she laughed. The doves were mating. In this heat? They must be mad.

The ancient thorn tree guarding the
chai
relinquished a few desiccated leaves. The Gown of Thorns in its wardrobe at the top of the tower slept.

I
f you’d like
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H
ello
, and thank you for reading
A Gown of Thorns
. Whenever I plan a new novel, I always ask myself ‘What do I love most?’ Writing about things that inspire passion not only makes the process more fun, but transmits itself to the reader. At least, that’s the idea and I hope you feel I’ve succeeded!

I
set
A Gown of Thorns
in one of my favourite places, rural southwest France. Say ‘Périgord’ or ‘Dordogne valley’ and my mind floods with the region’s signature colours; earthy sienna, russet, amber and dark, brooding greens. A walk through a forest is a trip into an ancient landscape, your footsteps accompanied by red squirrels and other wildlife. Beware wild boar!

D
uring my first
trip to the Dordogne, to a tiny place called Rouffignac, I wandered off on my own early one morning. Coming out through the trees, I found myself in a stretch of meadow which ran like a green motorway between wooded slopes. Bursting with wild flowers and birdsong, it held not a trace of modern life. I lay down and dozed, and that’s when I strongly envisaged a man on a powerful white horse galloping towards me . . . and why not? Rouffignac, on which Chemignac is very loosely based, is a cradle of human history. In such places,
anything
can happen.

T
o set
A Gown of Thorns
in a vineyard was irresistible. I love wine, particularly ‘old world’ varieties. I suppose at this point, I ought to add a ‘Drink Aware’ catchphrase and advise you to enjoy your wine sensibly. But we’re all grown up and just as I never fall off my chair clutching a bottle, I am sure you don’t either. A glass of full-bodied red after a long day is simply one of life’s great pleasures and I thoroughly enjoyed my research into viniculture!

T
he Fortuny ‘Delphos
’ gown of this story, the eponymous Gown of Thorns, is inspired by the evening dresses created by Mariano Fortuny and his wife. Rather shocking when they appeared at the dawn of the twentieth century, they were part of the move towards the natural female shape and a nod to classicism. Pleats as fine as the gills of a mushroom gave a Delphos gown its ‘cling’ - but how did Fortuny achieve it? It’s still something of a mystery but may have something to do with thousands of tacking stitches and heated ceramic presses. Research is one of the great unknowns of writing. You start with a thread, having no idea where it will lead you.

T
he character
of Yvonne fell out of the sky into my head. I have always wanted to write in tribute to the brave women and men of SOE, Special Operations Executive, the wartime secret agents who parachuted behind enemy lines. They were a species apart, and many of them paid a terrible price. In some cases, their sacrifice is marked by memorial stones in the quiet hearts of French forests, on hardly-used paths. Visit secret France, and you may stumble upon one yourself.

I
’d love
it if you’d write a review of
A Gown of Thorns
. I like to hear your comments and I love it when other readers discover my books by word of mouth. Perhaps you could recommend to friends and family.

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