His arrogance! ‘I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, Faucille, but—’
‘It is not your wellbeing I am concerned about. I do not wish to carry you across the mountains because you have frostbite. And I do not want a bullet in the back of my head because your clothes gave us away.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Change them or find a new passeur.’
She looked open-mouthed at Roger, who returned her glance with a wry laugh. ‘He’s so much fun, isn’t he?’ he said.
Lisette watched Madame Marchand touch Roger’s arm gently. ‘Roger, you are welcome for as many nights as you like. You know that.’
‘I know, madame, but one night is more than enough.’
Madame Marchand glanced at Lisette. ‘We call him big feet – he hangs over the ends of our beds.’
Lisette found a smile for this kind woman who took such risk, but she was still seething inside about Facille; the man she knew she would have to spend time with from tomorrow. She refused to look at him, but every one of her senses was attuned to him. The smell of lavender he had brought in with him, the way the candlelight lit the light growth of his beard, his voice. Even now, without looking at him directly, she was aware of how he stood relaxed, large hands plunged into his pockets, staring openly at her. Her cheeks were burning and she was very glad of the low light.
‘You must be exhausted, Roger,’ said Madame Marchand. ‘Come, let me feed you, men. Sit down, sit down.’ She poked Faucille on the chest. ‘Sit!’
‘No, madame. You are taking too much risk, I fear, with so many.’
She made a harsh tutting sound. ‘I’m old enough to be your mother. Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do.’
Lisette saw Faucille steal a glance at her again but she looked away.
‘Come, Angeline,’ Madame Marchard said. ‘I insist you eat something.’
A cold supper was laid out and while Lisette went through the motions, she tasted little of it, struck instead by the presence of these two men who were now in control of her future.
Roger was every bit as charismatic as his looks hinted at, but she also recognised a fierce intelligence. After sharing stories of training in Scotland, Lisette noticed the circuit leader effortlessly shift the conversation. Roger never once asked her about her personal life, her mission, or indeed any of the details of her cover. And she understood that he did not expect to be questioned either.
‘We live in the moment, Angeline,’ he said, quietly. ‘And my job is to ensure that you get away safely and can head north.’
Their hostess was pouring out slugs of alcohol, likely made with potato skins, to go with the barley coffee that was brewing.
‘I understand.’
‘And you must promise me that you will put your faith in Faucille here. He knows this region like the back of his hand, and he will keep you safe.’
Lisette glanced at her compatriot. If he would only lose his scowl, she could imagine him breaking hearts all over Provence; there was something utterly compelling about him. She decided that it was his silence that made him interesting – he had refused to reveal anything at all about himself. It was more than the necessary secrecy – he simply remained remote. She’d caught him looking at her on a couple of occasions and each time, there was a flash of something in those blue eyes. But she noted that he paid infinite respect to Madame Marchand, and she wondered if behind that gruff façade lived a man of gentle heart.
‘If Faucille says you are to take a certain route, don’t question it. Just do it,’ Roger said.
‘Of course. And Faucille will take me as far as … where?’
‘You may ask me directly if you wish,’ Faucille suddenly piped up.
Lisette had provoked a reaction. Good. So he did have emotions. His accent was Marseillaise, definitely, but there were overtones of other influences. And it was only now, really looking at him, that she realised what had been nagging at her from his arrival. He had the type of honeyed complexion that darkened easily beneath the sun, his eyes were a bright blue, and his hair was clearly golden. Surely he had some Saxon blood in him.
‘Haben sie deutscher Blut?’ she asked suddenly, softly.
A distinct chill descended in the room. Roger and Madame Marchard sat back and shared a glance of concern.
‘Yes, I am German,’ Faucille replied in French, holding her gaze without so much as blinking.
‘Forgive me, monsieur,’ Lisette said.
Roger laid a hand on her arm. ‘You have nothing to fear from Faucille. Actions speak louder than words, and he has proven himself to be a French patriot.’
‘How well do you speak German?’ Faucille asked and she detected a trace of fascination in his tone.
‘Fluently.’
‘That could be helpful,’ he said softly to himself. He took up the conversation. It seemed she’d finally thawed him. ‘Initially London asked me to take you through to Paris. I can do that, mademoiselle, but things are heating up in the south; the Gestapo is suddenly a lot more active and I may be an encumbrance once you are on that train headed north. You may travel with greater security alone, but we shall make that decision when the time comes.’
‘Right,’ Roger said. ‘I shall leave you in Faucille’s care, Angeline. And I wish you every success. Be safe. I’ll be heading off before first light.’
‘We will too,’ Faucille said.
The conversation shifted to the journey. Lisette suddenly felt tired; she wasn’t relishing long days ahead spent in the company of the prickly maquisard, with his secrets and scowls and few words.
‘Through Gordes?’ she heard Roger ask in response to Faucille.
‘At the abbey we can find a sympathetic ear.’
The low drone of the men’s voices and the physical toll of the last couple of days began to show. Lisette shook her head free of the blurriness that was taking over and forced herself to stand and begin removing dishes. Madame Marchand fussed but Lisette preferred to be busy. She cleared the table, leaning across Faucille once to take his glass. He barely moved to allow her access. As she wiped down the crumbs, the men stood. Faucille kissed his host, and began making excuses.
Roger said to Lisette, ‘He has an errand to run.’
‘Oh,’ Lisette said. ‘I thought we were all here this evening.’
‘We were, mademoiselle, until I saw your clothes,’ said Faucille. ‘I know someone who can lend me some for you.’
Feeling stung for the second time, Lisette couldn’t help but retaliate. ‘Perhaps you could stay there?’ she said.
He regarded her with a sardonic smile but the scorn passing between them was unmistakable. She had barely been on French soil for just over twenty-four hours and here she was, ruffling the feathers of the one person who could now keep her safe.
‘Thanks, Faucille,’ Roger said, slapping him on the back. ‘If I don’t see you tomorrow, good luck. Be safe.’
Faucille nodded at Roger. ‘Our paths will cross again soon. You too, stay safe. Don’t go too fast on that motorbike down the hill, eh?’
They both grinned. Lisette realised in that instant that each time they said farewell it could so easily be the last time.
‘Bonne nuit, mademoiselle,’ Faucille said to her without any handshakes or kisses. ‘I will return before first light. Thank you for the food, Madame Marchand,’ and with a final nod at Roger, the man of Provence disappeared silently into the night.
Roger watched him leave before turning his handsome face to regard Lisette sombrely. ‘I’d put my life in his hands any day. Please remember that when you’re travelling with him. It doesn’t achieve anything to come here with a superior attitude towards people who are risking their lives, their families, to keep us safe.’
She hung her head, feeling the well-deserved sting of his words. ‘Does he have family?’
‘His family was killed by the authorities. He has good reason for being Maquis.’
She looked up, frowning. ‘Why kill a French family?’
‘I’ll
let him tell you, if he chooses. His war is personal. You’ve got to keep yours detached and as impersonal as possible.’
She nodded. He shifted to practicalities. ‘Remember, if you’re on a bicycle – it’s how most of us get around – don’t break any road rules. If you give the Germans an excuse to check your ID and they find it’s a number that doesn’t exist, it’s over. Get some rest, Angeline.’
‘I will, sir,’ she whispered in English.
He grinned. ‘Haven’t been called that since I was teaching,’ he admitted. ‘Goodnight. Do us proud.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lisette was woken in darkness by Madame Marchand. She realised she hadn’t stirred from the position she’d fallen asleep in. She sat up too quickly, disoriented for a moment, then gathered her wits. ‘Is Faucille here?’
‘He is. He brought you these. You’d better try them.’
Lisette stared at the small bundle of clothes in her host’s hands. ‘Thank you.’
‘There’s water in the bowl – even a little soap. And I’ve left a brush. Be watchful for other villagers when you go outside to use the toilet.’
She nodded. ‘Is Roger awake?’
Madame Marchand turned from the doorway and smiled. ‘He left two hours ago. He never stays long.’
She felt strangely alone. ‘I didn’t hear his motorbike.’
‘He pushed it out of the village. He asked me to wish you well. Remember that you wouldn’t be here if people didn’t think you were made of the right stuff.’ She squeezed Lisette’s shoulder affectionately. ‘He said for you to trust your instincts. Intuition has saved him a bullet more than once.’
Lisette smiled as the kindly woman left. She stared at the jumble of clothes that had been donated and, with a sigh, changed into them. The no-nonsense dress fitted her well enough and was austere in its cut and shape, belted at the waist with three-quarter sleeves that looked slightly threadbare. It was warm, though, and Faucille had brought her a cardigan of pale blue, darned at the elbow. She now had lace up brown brogues, but older, thick stockings replaced her new ones. She couldn’t work out why, looking at herself in the cheval mirror, those stockings made her feel more ugly than the entire battered ensemble.
She shook her head. Vanity had never been a problem for her, but then again, as Harriet had suggested, she’d never had to wonder whether men would find her attractive.
By the time she arrived in the kitchen, Faucille was at the table helping himself to some breakfast. She wanted to start afresh with him – needed to.
‘Thank you for the clothes,’ she said, closing the door.
He glanced up. ‘Now you look like you’re from Provence, which means you’ll hardly be noticed.’
‘Should I pack mine or …’
He bit into some bread, then eyed her. ‘No need. I’ve dealt with them.’
Lisette poured some coffee from the pot. She was already getting used to the barley brew. ‘What does that mean?’
‘They’ll go to a good home. A fair exchange.’
Her mother had sent her those clothes. The last gift from Sylvie before … Oh, she couldn’t think like this.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.
‘No. I hope your friend gets good use out of them.’
Faucille regarded her. He had a gaze that looked too deeply for her comfort.
‘In public I can hardly refer to you as Faucille,’ she said. ‘Is there a name I should use?’
‘We should use one you won’t forget. How about your father’s name.’
She smiled. ‘His name was Max. Maximilian.’
‘Not very French.’
‘He was German,’ she said.
‘That explains it, then,’ he said, his gaze even more intense.
‘My mother was French. They’re both dead, though.’
‘We could use the name of your first boyfriend?’
She hadn’t the heart to say Jack. She thought about the first boy who kissed her. ‘Olivier,’ she answered.
‘Then I am Olivier.’
‘But your papers?’
‘Ah, that’s different,’ he said, almost playfully. ‘In fact, I want to talk to you about a cover story as we walk. It’s time to go. Are you ready?’
She’d barely put food on her plate. ‘Almost.’
‘Hurry, please, mademoiselle. We must leave before first light and be far away from the village.’
It was the most courteous he’d been since she’d met him.
They’d walked fifteen kilometres, by Lisette’s calculation. She was weary because it had been uphill but she was not going to admit fatigue to Faucille, of all people. As if he had dropped in on her thoughts, he turned to her.
‘You should rest.’
‘Only if you—’ she began, trying not to sound out of breath.
‘This is one of my favourite views,’ he interrupted. ‘Look, down there is Bonnieux. Lacoste to the right.’
‘And in the distance?’ she asked, catching her breath. It was certainly a very beautiful landscape, despite the rockiness underfoot. When she looked out across the valley, the autumn colours became hazy and softened the ridges and crags of the hillsides.
‘Right over there, if you squint, that’s Avignon,’ he said, pointing further than she could see.
‘I’ll trust you,’ she said and felt pleased to see him crack a smile. The gesture deepened the attractive creases at the edge of his cheeks. And his eyes … they were not just blue but a startling aquamarine, the sort that made people look twice. His voice, now that he was more relaxed, had softened further – it made her feel comforted … safe, even. He held his lithe, muscular body with great control, moving easily over the terrain while she often overbalanced or stumbled. His contained manner gave off an aura of confidence that was undeniably attractive.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To a place called Gordes; tomorrow to Cavaillon. A train north from there.’
She nodded. It was all meaningless to her anyway; he alone knew the way over the mountains.
‘Eat the fruit you brought and perhaps that dress will fit you better.’
‘Trousers might have been more sensible.’
‘Perhaps. But then you’d be picked out by a German patrol – or worse, the milice – because then you’d look like a maquisard.’ He gestured for her to sit next to him as he perched on a rock. ‘We can stop for a few minutes.’
Clearly he was more comfortable outdoors. He seemed more open, relaxed.
‘Tell me about your life as a maquisard,’ Lisette asked tentatively, careful not to pry into his days before the war.
He shrugged. ‘There is not much to say. We live rough, we sabotage everything we can to make life more difficult for the Boches, and we die … regularly.’
‘So do you aim to kill?’
‘Oh, yes. We kill when we can but it’s rare,’ he said, and his matter-of-factness sent a chill through her. ‘Mainly we aim to disrupt – we cut telephone lines, we blow up rail tracks, destroy bridges and roads, block access points, stop mail getting through, divert deliveries, cut transmissions. We are like a hive of bees, stinging as often as we can. We can’t deliver the death blow but we can certainly weaken the monster.’
‘How do you feed yourselves, if you have to stay hidden all the time?’
‘There are sympathisers everywhere who are proud of what we’re doing. The village folk send food up the hills, carried by children in their toy carts covered by teddy bears and dolls. No one ever suspects the children.’
‘Do the children see the Maquis?’
‘Never. We follow a creed of secrecy, so much so that I couldn’t even tell you if one man of the village is Maquis or a collaborator.’
‘Really?’
‘This way I cannot compromise another and he cannot compromise me.’
‘What a way to live.’
‘It is the only way of the Maquis. We move in twos, threes at most.’
‘You and Frel
on?’
‘And another. You will meet him up there, in Gordes.’
‘Do they grow lavender there?’
‘Why do you ask?’ He looked almost melancholy.
‘I smelt lavender on you when you arrived.’
He nodded but didn’t elaborate. She didn’t press. ‘It was beautiful in Saignon with all the lavender.’
He nodded sadly. ‘I am from around there.’
She felt her throat catch at the sorrow in his voice. She remembered what Roger had confided about Faucille’s family.
‘I shouldn’t have told you that,’ he said. ‘Of course now I shall have to kill you.’ He smiled – a proper smile – and for a few heartbeats his entire demeanour changed, as though the November sun had peeked out from behind the overcast skies to warm them. Lisette found herself acutely aware of him at every moment. When their hands had accidentally touched or their bodies had lightly bumped as any walkers might, she’d been quick to apologise. She’d noticed him start from her in a similar way. She wondered whether she might ever learn his real name.
‘Not until after my mission, please,’ replied Lisette, smiling back.
‘Given the strange route you’re taking to Paris and the arrangements we’ve had to put in place for you, Angeline, I have to presume you are important to the British … and your mission extremely dangerous.’
The mission. She had tried not to think too hard about it. It was a fluid concept relying on her intuition and own decision-making in terms of how she was to approach it. At this point she didn’t know whether she would simply seduce her target and learn from him, or whether she’d attempt to turn him. She was being cast into the lion’s den, and asked to tame the lion.
‘Yes, it is. I hope I don’t let them down.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-four.’
‘Do you have any family?’
‘Just grandparents. Since we’re being so frank, what about you?’
The Lavender Keeper Page 14
