The Lavender Garden (47 page)

“Well, we’ll take care of Victoria now. Monsieur?” The nun’s eyes looked questioningly at Jacques, who hurriedly produced an envelope and gave it to her.

“Thank you,” the nun acknowledged the receipt of the money and tucked it away in a voluminous pocket. “Let us hope we can find her a suitable family soon. It’s difficult, with all in turmoil and no one with the money to spare for an extra mouth. But she’s a pretty baby, even if she howls. Excuse me, we’re very busy and I must return to the nursery. Please see yourselves out.”

The nun turned and walked away with Victoria toward the door. Connie made to get up and follow her, but Jacques held her back. With an arm around her shoulder, as the tears dripped down her face, he led a distraught Connie out of the convent and placed her tenderly in the front seat of his car.

Like Victoria, Connie sobbed the whole way home.

When Jacques had halted the car in front of the
cave
, he placed a hand on Connie’s knee and patted it. “I loved her too, Constance. But it’s
best she goes now. If it’s any comfort, babies have little memory of who cared for them at a few months old. Please, don’t punish yourself any longer. Victoria has gone and you’re finally free to go home. You must look to your future and think of your return to the country and the man you love.”

•  •  •

Two days later, having packed her few possessions, and with Jacques ready to use the rest of his petrol and drive her the short distance to Gassin station, Connie descended the stairs of the château. She pushed open the door to the library, intending to put the second volume of
The History of French Fruit
back on a shelf. She had Sophia’s notebook of poems also and had decided to leave it on Édouard’s desk, hoping that he might read them and understand the deep love his sister had felt for Frederik. And that her heartfelt words might comfort and soften him.

The room was shrouded in darkness, the shutters firmly closed. She made her way to a window to pull back a shutter, so she could see to replace the book.

“Hello, Constance.”

She almost jumped out of her skin as she turned and saw Édouard sitting in a leather armchair.

“I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“And I apologize for disturbing you. I wanted to return this book before I left. And Sophia’s book of poems. I thought you might like to read them. They’re beautiful, Édouard.” Connie offered the notebook to him, feeling such resentment toward him that she wanted to be out of his presence as soon as possible.

“No. You take both of them with you to England as a keepsake to remind you of all that happened here in France.”

Connie could not find the strength to argue with him. “I’m leaving now, Édouard. Thank you for helping me when I arrived in France,” she managed, and walked away from him toward the door.

“Constance?”

She paused and turned around. “Yes?”

“Jacques told me how you saved Sophia’s life when Falk von Wehndorf came here to find his brother. I am grateful.”

“I did what was right, Édouard,” she said pointedly.

“And your brave friend Venetia saved my life. And through that bravery, lost her own,” he added sadly. “I heard she’d been shot by the Gestapo while I was in London.”

“Venetia is dead? Oh, God, no!” Tears springing to her eyes, Connie wondered when the pain of the aftermath of war would cease.

“She was a wonderful woman.” Édouard’s voice softened. “I’ll never forget her. You know, I’ve thought recently the better option would be to have died with those I’ve loved and lost.”

“It was not your destiny, Édouard, nor mine,” Connie said firmly. “And it’s up to all of us left behind to rebuild a future in their memory.”

“Yes. But there are some things”—Édouard shook his head—“that I cannot forgive or forget. I’m sorry, Constance. For everything.”

She paused, trying to think how to respond. But there were no words, so she opened the door, walked through it, and closed it firmly behind her. Leaving Édouard de la Martinières locked in the past as she took her first tentative steps into the future.

•  •  •

Three days later, the overcrowded train full of weary, returning soldiers chugged into York station. Connie had sent a telegram to Blackmoor Hall, alerting the house to her imminent arrival, but had no idea if they’d received it or, in fact, whether Lawrence was back at home. Alighting from the train and shivering most happily in the autumnal English air, Connie walked along the platform full of apprehension.

Would he be there to meet her?

She looked anxiously at the throng of people who stood waiting to greet their loved ones. Coming to a halt, she searched the concourse for his familiar face. After fifteen minutes looking for him to no avail, she was about to leave the station and join the line for the bus that would take her across the moors. Then, suddenly, she saw a lone figure still waiting at the end of the now-empty platform. His hair had turned prematurely gray and he held a walking stick in his right hand.

“Lawrence!” she called.

He turned at the familiar sound of her voice, then looked at her in astonishment, recognition dawning. She ran toward him and flung
herself into his arms. The smell of him, which conjured up all that was safe and wonderful and good, brought tears to her eyes.

“My darling! I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you! Your hair . . .” Lawrence murmured, gazing at her in wonder.

“Of course.” Connie understood. They were both changed. “I’ve had this color so long now, I’m used to it.”

“As a matter of fact”—he studied her with a grin—“I think it rather suits you. You look like a film star.”

“Hardly.” Connie sighed, looking down at the crumpled clothes she had worn all the way from the south of France.

“How are you?” they both said at the same time, and then giggled.

“Very tired,” said Connie, “but, oh, so glad to be home. I have so much to tell you, I simply don’t know where to start.”

“I’m sure. So why don’t you begin once we’re in the car? I’ve used all my ration coupons on the petrol to drive you home.”

“Home . . .” whispered Connie, the simple word conjuring up all she had longed for in the past eighteen months.

Lawrence gave her another tight hug as he read her emotion. Then picked up her bag and tucked her arm through his.

“Yes, my darling.” He hugged her. “I’m taking you home.”

•  •  •

Three months later, Connie received a letter from F Section, asking her to travel to London for an appointment with Maurice Buckmaster.

He greeted her cheerfully as she was led into his Baker Street office and shook her hand heartily.

“Constance Chapelle, the agent that never was. Sit down, my dear, sit down.”

Connie did so as Buckmaster perched, as usual, on his desk. “So, Constance, good to be back in Blighty?”

“Yes, sir, it’s wonderful,” she answered with feeling.

“Well, now you’re here, I can officially let you know that you’re demobbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I do apologize that we had to drop you like a hot potato when you arrived in France. Unfortunately, you happened to knock on the door
of one of the most powerful and valuable members of de Gaulle’s Free French movement. Orders came from on high, I’m afraid. They couldn’t risk Hero’s cover being blown, unfortunately. Nothing to be done, under the circumstances. Glad you eventually arrived home safely, anyway.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Out of the forty of you girls that went, fourteen have unfortunately not returned. Your friend Venetia was one of them.” Buckmaster sighed.

“I know,” Connie said somberly.

“As a matter of fact, it’s testament to you all that the number of survivors is so high. I was expecting fewer. Terrible shame about Venetia. When she left for France, we were all concerned about her devil-may-care attitude. But she proved to be one of our finest and bravest agents. She’s currently under review for a posthumous award for bravery.”

“I’m very glad, sir. No one could deserve it more.”

“Well, the good news is that France is finally free. And the SOE played a major part in its victory. A shame you didn’t get a chance to be more involved, Connie. Under the umbrella of the de la Martinièreses, you probably ate better than I did.” He smiled. “Hear you ended up living at their rather grand château in the south of France?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

Connie stopped herself. On the train on the way down from York, she’d wondered whether she would tell him the true story of her life in France. And what she had sacrificed. But Venetia, Sophia, and so many others were dead, while she lived on, whatever the scars she carried.

“Yes, Constance?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Well then, all that remains to be said is congratulations on your safe return home. And thank you on behalf of the British government for being prepared to put your life at risk for the sake of your country.” Buckmaster stood up from the desk and shook her hand. “Seems you were lucky enough to have a quiet war.”

“Yes, sir.” Connie stood up and walked toward the door. “I had a quiet war.”

Gassin, South of France

1999

J
ean stood up and went to the kitchen to collect the Armagnac bottle and three glasses. Emilie watched as Jacques blew his nose and wiped his tears away. He had shed many during the telling of the tale. She tried to gather her thoughts . . . there were so many questions. But only one she wanted an immediate answer to.

“Are you all right, Emilie?” Jean returned, handed her a glass, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, I’m all right.”

“Papa, some Armagnac?”

Jacques nodded.

Emilie took a large gulp to give her the courage to ask the question that burned on her tongue. “So, Jacques, what became of Sophia and Frederik’s child?”

Jacques remained silent, looking past Emilie into the distance.

“You understand that, if I could find her, I would no longer be the only surviving member of the de la Martinières family?” she continued.

Still Jacques said nothing, and eventually Jean said, “Emilie, it’s unlikely anyone would know who adopted the baby. There were so many orphans after the war. The world was in chaos. Victoria would have had no birth certificate to prove who she was when she went to the orphanage anyway. Is that not right, Papa?”

“Yes.”

“So even though the baby’s mother was a de la Martinières,” Jean thought out loud, “Victoria herself was illegitimate and therefore would have no claims on the estate.”

“That’s immaterial to me,” said Emilie. “All that matters is I know there may be another human being out there who’s related to me,
someone who carries the de la Martinières blood in her veins. And she may since have had children. . . . So many questions.” Emilie sighed. “Jacques, please, answer me one thing: Did Frederik do as he promised and come back to find Sophia?”

“Yes.” Jacques finally found his voice. “A year after the war finally ended, he appeared here at the cottage. I was the one who had to tell him Sophia had died.”

“Did you tell Frederik he’d had a daughter?” Emilie asked.

Jacques shook his head and put a shaking hand to his brow. “I did not know what to tell him. So I lied and said”—his voice cracked—“that the child had died also. I felt”—Jacques’s chest heaved with emotion—“it was best for everyone.”

“Papa, I’m sure you did the right thing,” Jean comforted him. “If Frederik loved Sophia as you say, he would have stopped at nothing to try and trace their child. And if the baby was already settled in a new family who had no knowledge of her Nazi parentage, it must have been for the best.”

“I had to protect the child, you see. . . .” Jacques crossed himself. “God forgive me for the terrible lie I told him. Frederik was completely broken. Distraught beyond all rational thought.”

“I can only imagine.” Jean shuddered.

“Jacques, where did you bury Sophia?” asked Emilie.

“In the graveyard at Gassin. She had no headstone until after the war ended. We could not arouse suspicion. Even in death, Sophia had to be hidden.”

“And do you know where Frederik is, Papa?” questioned Jean. “Maybe he’s dead. He must be almost ninety?”

“He lives in Switzerland under an assumed identity. When he eventually returned to his home, his family’s lands had been seized by the Poles when the borders changed and East Prussia was returned to Poland. Both his parents had been shot by the Russians. Like many after the war, he had to begin again. But what I subsequently learned was that Frederik had aided those he could over the German border to escape the death camps before the war began, and there were many eager to repay his kindness. They helped him start a new life.” Jacques chuckled. “Would you believe he became a clockmaker in Basel! And a lay preacher in his spare time. He has taught me much about forgiveness during our
correspondence, and I’m proud to have him as my friend. I told Édouard often he should make contact with Frederik. They were not dissimilar—both doing what they could in a time of dreadful destruction. I thought that, perhaps, they could take comfort from each other over the loss of the woman they loved. But”—he sighed—“it was not to be.”

“Do you still hear from Frederik?” asked Jean.

“He still writes to me sometimes, but I haven’t heard from him now for over a year, so maybe he’s ill. Like me . . .” Jacques shrugged. “He never married again. The love of his life was Sophia. There could be no one else for him.”

“And my father . . .” For Emilie, this had been the most painful part of the story. “I find it so difficult to believe he could have abandoned his sister’s baby. He was such a kind, loving man—how could he have washed his hands of her?”

“Emilie, your father was all those things you say of him,” said Jacques slowly, “but he had idolized and protected his sister for her entire life. The thought of her purity and innocence being sullied by any man, let alone a German officer, was too much for him. How could he look at the product of his sister’s affair, be faced every day with a living, breathing reminder of what she had done? And feel that he had failed to protect her? You must not blame him, Emilie. You cannot understand how it was. . . .”