The Lavender Garden (18 page)

It was not an invitation, but an order. As Sarah guided a beatific Sophia up to bed, Connie turned and followed Édouard into the library.

“No brandy for me,” she said as Édouard poured himself one.

“What is it, my dear? It’s obvious you’re very distressed. Was it the rotten eggs they threw at us? Falk’s attentions?”

Connie slumped into a chair and put her fingers to her forehead. Tears came to her eyes and she could not stem them. “I just . . .” She
shook her head in despair. “I just don’t think I can stand this. I’m betraying everything I was taught and believe in. I am living a lie!”

“Come, Constance, please try not to upset yourself. I understand completely what you feel. To the outsider, perhaps many would think you’re having an easy war. But what the three of us are living—you, simply through coincidence, myself, through belief, and Sophia through association—is indeed torment to the soul.”

“Forgive me, Édouard, but at least you know
why
!” she cried. “Whereas I have no proof that what you tell me is true! I’m a trained agent of the British government, here to defend the two countries close to my heart, not dine and dance and make small talk with German officers! Édouard, tonight, when I heard the woman screaming ‘Traitor!’ I had never felt more ashamed.” Connie wiped the tears roughly from her cheeks. “Maybe she will die because of us!”

“Yes, maybe she will, and maybe she won’t. But perhaps also,” Édouard said, his steady hazel eyes fixed on Connie, “because of tonight, I may be able to warn a dozen men and women who are meeting tomorrow night at a safe house not far from here that the Nazis know of it. And, therefore, they may not only save themselves, but the other brave souls who number in their hundreds and work for the network.”

Connie stared at him in surprise. “How?”

“The operatives belong to a subcircuit of the Scientist network and their names were extracted by torture from the agents who were captured in the last round of arrests. While you were powdering your nose, Falk himself told me. He was full of delight at this development. I know him well—he’s always indiscreet after too much brandy. And his arrogance betrays him time and again. He wants me to know how well he performs at his job. And, yes”—Édouard sighed despairingly—“he is indeed far too good.”

Connie was silent for a while, staring at him, wanting to believe him.

“Please, Édouard, I beg you, tell me who you work for, and then at least I can sleep at night knowing I do not betray my country.”

“No.” Édouard shook his head. “I cannot do that. You’ll simply have to trust it’s true. And perhaps you’ll hear proof from another source sooner than you think. After all, it’s not the last we’ll be seeing of our friend Falk. If he’s gloating over a new round of arrests,
then, yes, I’m the traitor you accuse me of being. But if, by chance, the safe house is deserted when the Gestapo pounces, then maybe I speak the truth. Constance”—Édouard sighed again—“I accept it’s hard for you, as you didn’t choose this path. But I can only promise, as I have many times before, that we’re both fighting on the same side.”

“If only you could tell me who you work for.”

“And risk your life and that of many others?” Édouard shook his head. “No, Constance, not even Sophia knows the details and that’s the way it must stay. And now, it seems the stakes have been raised. Falk’s brother, Frederik, is already known to me. He’s one of an elite group of SS officers from the SD, the intelligence branch of the Gestapo. He reports directly to the highest powers. If he too is to be a regular visitor to this house, then we must be even more circumspect.”

“He seemed very taken with Sophia, and, more worryingly, she with him.”

“As I’ve mentioned before, both brothers come from an aristocratic Prussian family. They are educated, cultured men, and yet, I saw tonight, very different from each other. Frederik is the intellectual, the thinker.” Édouard paused before he looked up at her. “I may have liked him, had he been on the right side.”

They sat in silence for a while, lost in their own contemplations. “And as for Sophia,” said Édouard eventually, “she’s very naive. She’s been protected from the world, first by my parents and then by me. She has little knowledge of men or love. Let us hope that Herr Frederik returns soon to Germany. I too saw the chemistry between them.”

“And what do I do about Falk?” asked Connie finally. “Édouard, I’m a married woman!”

Édouard nursed his brandy goblet in both hands, gazing at her steadily. “We’ve just agreed that we must sometimes live a lie. And, Constance, you might ask yourself this question: If I were the head of the network you were originally assigned to, and I ordered you to continue and promote your relationship with Falk, hoping he might drop some useful titbit of information that could help compatriots in the fight, would you refuse to obey me?”

Connie avoided Édouard’s gaze. She understood clearly what he was saying. “Given what we have discussed, I would agree, of course,” she answered reluctantly.

“Then perhaps in your relationship with Falk you can separate yourself from your soul and remember each time you wish to move out of his embrace that you’re helping a cause larger than your own disgust while you are in it. It’s what I must do twenty-four hours a day.”

“Do you not care that your countrymen think you are a traitor?”

“Of course I
care
, Constance. But that’s hardly the point, is it? I think more about my fellow French citizens locked away in their stinking jails, being tortured and abused, or losing their lives, than of my reputation. And I believe then that my lot is comparatively easy. Now”—Édouard stood—“I must leave you. I have work to do.”

He gave her a short smile and left the room.

A
lthough Connie could not prove for certain it had been Édouard himself who had alerted suspected traitors to the threat of German arrest, both Falk and Frederik were full of the story when they came for dinner a few days later. Falk was furious, perhaps even more so because his brother was present to watch his failure. The enmity Falk showed toward Frederik was palpable; sibling rivalry at its most raw. Frederik had flown far higher and was, on every level, superior. Connie wondered if Falk’s legendary aggression toward those he netted in his trap was fueled by frustration at feeling he could only ever be second best.

“The Resistance are becoming more troublesome by the day,” grunted Falk into his soup. “Only yesterday a German convoy in Le Mans was attacked, the officers killed, and the arms stolen.”

“They are indeed well organized,” agreed Frederik.

“And it’s obvious they’re receiving inside information. The Resistance seem to know exactly where and when to attack. We must discover the weak link, Brother,” added Falk.

“If anyone can, I’m sure it will be you,” answered Frederik.

Falk left early that night, saying he had business to attend to at Gestapo headquarters. That he was preoccupied by his failure to stamp out the Resistance and had been less attentive toward Connie was small compensation for the excruciating two hours of hearing how he would achieve it. Frederik said he would stay on for a while longer, but as he accompanied Édouard and Sophia into the drawing room, Connie excused herself and went upstairs to bed. She closed the door behind her, feeling mentally exhausted with the strain of the constant deception. Even though she was living in the center of a city that was currently the focus of the world, she had never felt more alone. With only the propaganda-filled Vichy newspapers to read, Connie felt
completely cut off. She had no idea how the Allies were doing, or whether the invasion that had been promised and hoped for just as she flew into France was still scheduled to take place.

Édouard refused to be drawn into conversation on such subjects; and often, when she joined Sophia downstairs for breakfast in the mornings, Édouard was already out. She had no idea where he went or whom he saw. Surely, Connie thought, if F Section had been told by Édouard where she was, they would try to make some kind of contact with her? Not leave her like this, helpless and flaccid, living behind a useless facade of pampered luxury when she had been trained to kill. . . .

“Oh, Lawrence,” she sighed in desperation, “I wish you could tell me what to do.”

Connie lay down, her thoughts bleak, and wondered for the hundredth time if she would ever see him again.

•  •  •

Connie was at least comforted when August came, and with it the stepping up of Allied bombing raids on the outskirts of Paris. The cellar, in keeping with the luxury the de la Martinièreses were used to, had been furnished with a number of comfortable beds, a gas ring to provide coffee, and all manner of parlor games to keep its residents occupied. At least, thought Connie, reading a book as the thunderous sound of the planes flew overhead, this indicated that perhaps the longed-for invasion was imminent. For her, it could not come soon enough; one way or the other, it would release her from the surreal scenario she was living.

August, as always in Paris, proved unpleasantly muggy, with the barest hint of a searched-for breeze. Connie took to sitting out in the garden every afternoon with Sophia. As Édouard had once mentioned to her, Sophia had a remarkable skill as an artist. Connie would find a flower or a piece of fruit and give it to Sophia to hold for a while. Her tiny hands would explore the shape of the object, and she’d ask Connie to describe it to her. She would then take her charcoal pencil to her sketchbook, and half an hour later there would be a perfectly formed lemon or peach on the paper.

“How does it look?” Sophia would ask eagerly. “Have I captured its shape and texture accurately?”

Connie’s answer was always “Yes, Sophia, you have.”

One particularly sticky August afternoon, when Connie felt she would go mad unless the overripe, mackerel-colored clouds above them dropped their cooling load, Sophia gave a small tush of irritation.

“What is it?” asked Connie, fanning herself with a book.

“It seems I’ve drawn the same fruits for weeks now. Can you not think of others? At our château in Gassin, we have an orchard full of many different trees, but I can’t remember the fruits they bear.”

Having run through the gamut of every fruit she could think of, Connie nodded. “I’ll do my best,” she said, relief flooding through her as she felt the welcome coolness of the first raindrops. “We must take shelter. The storm is coming, thank goodness.”

Guiding Sophia inside and handing her over to Sarah so Sophia could freshen up, Connie walked into the library. She stood by the window for a while, listening to the unearthly roar of the heavens, comforted that this sound was natural and not produced by the hum of aircraft signaling imminent destruction. The storm was spectacular, and as it continued, Connie began searching the shelves of Édouard’s library for inspiration on other fruits Sophia could sketch.

Édouard entered the library, looking unusually tense and drawn.

“Constance”—he gave her a strained smile—“can I assist you in your search?”

“I’m looking for a book that describes fruit. Your sister is bored with drawing oranges and lemons.”

“I think I may have just the thing . . . I acquired it only a few weeks ago.” His long fingers reached up to a shelf and he pulled out a slim volume. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Connie said as he handed her the book.
“The History of French Fruit, Volume Two,”
she read out loud.

“That should give you many ideas. Although I doubt you’ll be able to find many of its contents available in wartime Paris,” Édouard added morosely.

Connie turned the pages of the colored plates, which described their subjects in pictures and words. “These are simply gorgeous,” she said in wonder.

“Yes, and very old. The book was printed in the eighteenth century. My father had already bought the first volume for the library at our château in Gassin. And, by chance, a dealer acquaintance of mine discovered the second volume here in Paris a few weeks ago. As a pair, they’re extremely valuable. Not that I collect books for that reason, merely because I think they’re objects of beauty.”

“This is indeed exquisite.” Connie ran her fingers lightly over the delicate-green linen binding. “Over two hundred years old and yet almost untouched.”

“I’ll take this copy down to our château the next time I visit. Together, the two volumes will make a perfect reference companion to our orchard there. Please, feel free to use the book. I know you’ll take care of it,” he said with a nod. “Excuse me, Constance, I have some business to attend to.”

•  •  •

As August moved into September, Connie noticed Sophia was distracted. Usually when Connie read to her, she would listen attentively, asking Connie to repeat a sentence if she’d misunderstood it, but now she seemed to be barely listening. The same lack of concentration showed with her sketching; often, when Connie had used all her powers of imagination to describe a bulbous, purple damson, Sophia’s pencil would hover over the empty paper as her thoughts moved elsewhere.

She had taken instead to scribbling in a small, leatherbound notebook. Connie watched, fascinated, as Sophia stared up to the heavens, obviously in search of inspiration, her hands feeling the size of the page and her judging the placing of her pen accordingly. But when Connie asked to see what she was writing, Sophia refused to show her.

One afternoon, as they sat together in the library, the unusually chilly September day engendering the first fire of the season, Sophia said suddenly, “Constance, you’re so good at describing things to me. So, can you explain how love feels?”

Connie’s teacup hovered in surprise halfway between the saucer
and her mouth as she surveyed Sophia’s dreamy expression. “Well,” Connie said, having taken a sip of the tea and replacing the cup on the saucer, “that’s really very difficult. I think it’s a different feeling for everyone.”

“Then tell me how it makes
you
feel.”

“Goodness.” Connie searched her mind for the right words. “Well, for me with Lawrence, it was as if, when I was with him, the whole world lit up. Even the dullest of dull days felt filled with sunshine, an ordinary walk over the moors was turned into a magical moment, simply because he was by my side.” As Connie conjured up the memories of those heady days when she and Lawrence were first courting, she felt a catch in her throat. “I longed for his touch, never found it threatening, just exciting and comforting at the same time. He made me feel . . . invincible, special, and terribly safe, as though there was nothing to be frightened of if he was there. And the hours in between, when we weren’t together, seemed to be endless. Yet, when we were, they would speed past in an instant. He brought me alive, Sophia, I . . . Excuse me.” Connie searched for a handkerchief in her pocket and dabbed her eyes.