She almost cried with relief to find the kind doctor she knew at home, and he wasted no time hurrying to her flat, generous enough not to mention her baldness.
They both bent over Luc, who was still hot but whose feverish murmurings had dissipated. The doctor examined him carefully.
‘The bullet went through his flesh cleanly. Your young man has no smashed bones, and the bullet left no debris. I’ve cleaned and drenched the wound with lavender oil, and stitched it as best I can. It will have to be re-dressed regularly. Can you do that?’ the doctor asked.
‘Gladly.’
‘I’ve left some fresh rags. And then just keep it in the sling. It will be sore and stiff for weeks, perhaps permanently.’
‘The stitches?’
‘Out in two weeks. You can do that too, but use plenty of oil, and sterilise the blade or scissors in boiling water, scrub your fingers and douse them with the the lavender oil. Infection is the enemy.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you. How much do—’
He waved a hand at her testily. ‘You owe me nothing, mademoiselle.’ He glanced at her head. ‘I think you’ve paid your debt to France.’
Lisette looked down. ‘I deserved it.’
‘You’re not a collaborator, are you, child?’ he said.
‘No, doctor. I am a British spy.’ His mouth opened and she watched understanding ghost across his face. ‘Hush. Don’t tell anyone else,’ she pleaded.
He smiled. ‘And you were part of that liberation. I’m sorry,’ he said, glancing again at her head.
She scratched her scalp. ‘It will grow back.’
‘Use the lavender oil on those cuts. It works wonders. I’ll stop by and see your patient tomorrow. Call me if his fever worsens, but I suspect it will break later today.’
And it did.
When Luc woke, she was seated by the bed.
‘Is it really you holding my hand?’ he asked in a croaky voice.
She smiled, reaching for the cup of water she had readied. ‘In heaven I would have hair. So I’m afraid you’re in Montmartre.’
After he’d drunk thirstily his head flopped back on her pillow and he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. ‘Nowhere I’d rather be.’
Lisette laid her head on his chest and wept silently as he stroked her bare scalp.
Days stretched into weeks as Luc got stronger. He winced when he moved but he never complained, and what had begun between them as careful, gentle caresses moved into longer, tighter embraces until one evening Luc pulled off his sling.
‘I’ve had enough of that,’ he said, throwing it across the room.
‘But, Luc, you have to—’
‘It gets in the way,’ he griped.
‘In the way of what?’
‘This,’ he said, and pulled her onto his lap. ‘I want to hold you with both arms.’
She grinned, relaxing into him. ‘And what else?’
‘Feeling you with both hands,’ he said and cupped her breast, kissing it through her thin blouse.
Lisette gasped quietly and grabbed at his hair, pulling his head back so she could kiss him, long and deeply.
‘Take me to bed, nurse,’ he demanded when they finally broke apart, breathing rapidly. ‘I’ll let you do anything you want to me.’
‘Anything?’ she repeated. She began to laugh as he picked her up with a wince and placed her on the single bed, rolling gently on top of her. He kissed her scalp but she shied and shifted away.
‘I like bald women,’ he insisted. ‘I always have.’
Now she laughed tearily. ‘Don’t, Luc. It’s hard to look like this.’
‘Like what? Like a beautiful woman? Most women would give a limb to look like you, Lisette. Even bald you’re exquisite. So let me enjoy every inch of you.’ As he pushed himself against her she could hardly fail to feel his desire.
Their laughter resounded through the apartment block and out the windows onto the street where it was drowned out by the loud celebrations.
Finally their laughter succumbed fully to lust as they explored each others’ bodies and desires, joining together completely. With a gasp of pleasure, Lisette dug her fingers into Luc’s back as they found a slowly escalating rhythm that became their private music.
Over the next dozen days they lived and laughed and made love in the tiny flat … and fell in love again, deeper than either had thought possible. But on the thirteenth morning Luc woke up and looked at Lisette in a way that he hadn’t in a long time.
‘What is it?’ she asked, a chill bringing goosebumps to her flesh.
‘I have to go to Avenue de Wagram. We need to find out what’s happening.’
‘Don’t, Luc. Let’s just forget—’
‘Listen to me,’ he said, stroking the velvety stubble on her head. ‘I saw Sylvie yesterday.’
Lisette bristled.
‘She dropped by for five minutes to pass on some news,’ he reassured her. ‘She told me that there’s an SOE office set up and they’re waiting for their agents to check in.’
‘I have never been happier than I am at this moment,’ Lisette explained, touching his cheek and then his heart, where a small pouch of seeds still sat next to his skin. ‘These kept you safe for me. Let’s just remain safe and stay here.’
But Luc was adamant. ‘The war is not over, my beautiful Lisette. I want to get you out of Paris. I must know you’re safe … or none of this was worth it.’
‘Then take me to Provence. We’ll go to your old home in Saignon where—’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’ He looked at her with intensity. ‘Please understand. I can’t. Not yet.’
‘Don’t make me go alone.’
‘We have to get you out of Europe. You need to be debriefed. It’s time, Lisette. You’ve done your bit. I want you away from all danger.’
‘No, Luc. I’m not going anywhere without you. I’ll only go if you promise that you’ll return to England with me.’
It was an enormous request, but the truth was he couldn’t imagine a day without her now. And it didn’t matter where, so long as it was away from all the painful memories.
He nodded, and her face burst into a smile. They sealed their bargain, making love so tenderly it rendered him weak. He would never need any other woman again.
As they prepared to leave the apartment the following day, Lisette had asked him the question Luc had been dreading.
‘Luc, I want to know about Markus Kilian. You were talking about him through your fever. I want the truth.’
He’d known he’d have to face the retelling at some time. If he were honest, he was surprised it had taken her this long to bring it up. But he suspected that Lisette had deliberately pushed Kilian aside in her mind so they could have this time alone, together, in love and without Kilian’s name so much as uttered between them. But no matter how much they’d pretended, he’d been there – in the room with them, sharing their bed with them. Luc knew it was right to tell her, and he hoped with all of his heart that it would be cathartic for both of them.
‘All right,’ he said, swallowing.
Lisette looked frightened. She sat down on the bed and he sat next to her, taking her hand and cupping it between both of his, as if he could protect her from what he needed to say.
‘Kilian died on the night of 25th August.’ He felt her hand rip from his as she covered her mouth in anguish.
‘You’re sure?’ she gasped, her eyes wet with sudden tears.
He nodded. ‘I was with him when he took his last breath, and I stayed with him through the night because …’ He shrugged. ‘He deserved it.’
She wept quietly.
Softly, gently, he told her everything that had happened. He spared her none of the detail.
‘It was peaceful, you say?’ she asked tearily when he’d finished.
‘Yes, utterly. He died smiling and sipping on calvados because it reminded him of you.’
‘Thank you for looking after him at the end.’
/>
‘He was very hard to dislike.’
She dried her tears on her sleeve, sniffing hard. ‘Markus would have made a terrible prisoner of war anyway.’
‘He never had any intention of being taken. The bullet was meant for him, not me.’
Lisette slipped back his shirt and kissed his scar. ‘Then he’ll always be with us. But I love you, Luc. You never have to wonder; it was always you.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lisette gazed at Luc. ‘All right?’
They were sitting in an anteroom of the Hotel Cecil on the Champs Elysées, where SOE had set up its makeshift Parisian headquarters.
He nodded. The sight of her bald head still shocked, and caused people to turn and stare, and it irritated him how their journey had attracted so much unnecessary attention. People assumed Lisette was a Nazi collaborator but, fortunately, she no longer cared. Some people even spat at them as they walked, but she held her head high.
‘They can’t hurt me any more,’ she had assured Luc.
Now Lisette was watching him from the seat opposite. ‘Ready?’ she whispered.
A woman approached and introduced herself briskly with a warm smile as Vera Atkins.
‘Oh, my dear.’ She embraced Lisette, hugging her long and hard. ‘How brave you are.’
Lisette touched the soft fuzz on her scalp. ‘One day soon there’ll be no sign that any of this ever happened.’
As he listened Luc didn’t want to think about the internal scars, though. Not visible but permanent. He prayed that Lisette would escape unscathed.
Vera’s eyes were gentle as she turned to Luc. ‘And you must be the man we’ve only known as Faucille.’ Her French was flawless.
‘Lukas Ravensburg,’ he said, for the first time feeling his name to be right. ‘Luc,’ he added.
‘Well, I know a lot of us feel that we’re very indebted to you, Luc, for all you’ve done to help our agents … for all of us who knew we could trust you.’
‘Thank you, madame,’ he replied.
‘Well,’ she said, smiling broadly. ‘There’s someone behind that door just bursting to add his thanks to mine.’
Lisette smiled. ‘Colonel Buckmaster?’
‘One and the same. He can’t wait to see you both. We’ve got all your paperwork in order. I’ve organised for the two of you to travel to England at the end of the week, if that’s all right? We’ll arrange the formal debrief there.’
As the trio approached the door of the suite, one of the British agents from the Spiritualist network stopped Luc, looking relieved and delighted to see him.
Vera paused, stepping back to talk to Lisette while the two men exchanged news. ‘All of you have been through too much together,’ she said. ‘I love watching everyone’s faces light with joy when they see an old friend, and know they’ve made it.’
Lisette realised it must have been tough on people like Vera, never knowing if they were sending their agents to their deaths.
Vera cocked her head slightly. ‘He’s very handsome, your masquisard,’ she said, and winked. ‘Tell me, what was Luc before he joined the Maquis?’
‘Oh, he was a lavender keeper. And if I have my way, that’s what he’ll become again,’ Lisette replied.
They left for the Sussex coast aboard a large fishing boat from Calais. On board was a mix of returning soldiers, civilians and a few agents, none of whom they knew. It was a clear day; Luc stared gravely at the French shoreline disappearing.
‘Are you all right?’ Lisette asked, leaning into his body.
‘I never thought I’d leave France. I love this country.’
‘I do too. But I’m hoping you may love England too. It’s close enough that we can always come back to France.’
After two hours they sighted land.
‘That’s Beachy Head,’ she said, pointing to the cliffs, tying her headscarf a little tighter. The wind had a nip in it. Days were cooling. Soon it would be autumn.
‘England,’ he breathed, almost in disbelief.
She squeezed his arm. ‘We’ll find somewhere quiet to live. We’ll start again, Luc.’
He nodded sadly. ‘I miss Provence.’
‘I promise we will go back.’
‘One day. Not yet. But some day I’ll take you back to Saignon and we’ll walk through my lavender fields, where my seeds come from.’
‘We’ll plant some lavender fields for you … in memory of your grandmother. I love you, Luc. I love you enough to go anywhere at all with you. So long as we’re together, I’m happy. But we have to start somewhere. Why don’t we give Sussex a try? A new beginning for us both.’ She looked at him and he saw her love reflected in her dark-blue eyes, as well as her hope for a family of her own.
‘Yes. A new beginning,’ he said, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head reassuringly. Luc had to wonder whether this rugged northern landscape, so far away from Provence, would ever compete with the soft purple beauty of his wild French lavender.
He would try, for both their sakes. He would become the lavender keeper again and, in so doing, keep the memories of all those he loved alive.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The inspiration for this story came from reading about the Bridestowe Lavender Farm in northern Tasmania. It’s one of Australia’s quiet secrets and true success stories. I was certainly impressed at what its present ‘curators’, Robert and Jennifer Ravens, are achieving with their purple meadows first sown by the Denny family at the turn of the last century. All power to you, Robert and Jennifer, as you forge ahead with Bridestowe as a world leader in pure lavender oil production.
There was so much to learn about the Second World War before I felt comfortable to use it as a backdrop for a story. I’ve lost track of the articles I’ve sifted through, the documentaries I’ve watched, and the tower of books I’ve read just to be able to get a snapshot of the time in my mind. However, I was determined to keep this tale focused on my triangle of characters and what was happening in the microcosm of their lives, rather than trying to wrestle with the bigger picture of world war and all of its theatres and political machinations.
Even so, as small as that focus is, this book has many to thank, beginning with Allison & Busby for publishing the novel in my homeland, which makes me enormously happy.
My thanks to the gentle, generous Blanc family of Saignon for their hospitality during our stay in Provence, and to villagers Christine Bourdin, Liliane Jenselme and Alain Blanc for sharing their memories of wartime Saignon. Also my thanks to Jean Girou, historian and Catherine Richards from the office of tourism, both in Cavaillon. Particularly, though, my thanks to Severine Henin and Laurent Crotet for taking us into their family and for their wonderful generosity.
David Harrison, a UK-based historian, became a precious resource of knowledge on the Special Operations Executive of the War Ministry, bringing alive an era and inspiring me to write about brave people like Francis Cammaerts, Vera Atkins, Maurice Buckmaster, et al. I felt as though I knew them – thanks, David. You were an absolute rock.
Although I have done my utmost to ensure research accuracy of time and place, any errors that may occur are mine alone. Plus, I have taken a few liberties – which is a novelist’s prerogative! – including suggesting that the pure lavandula angustifolia grows around Saignon, when it more likely needs an additional 300 metres of altitude to thrive.
Thank you to my French class for keeping me in the mood, to Isabelle Pernot in Lille for so many helpful translations, and to Jack Caddy for letting me use him in my story. Fly safe always, Jack!
Thank you to Pip Klimentou for all the fast and furious reading of drafts and for your generous friendship always.
Finally, boundless love and thanks to Ian McIntosh for his help with all the research, ordering, purchase and marking up of so many reference books; for letting me roam London, Paris, Strasbourg, Vienna and Krakow to gather the material for this book; for taking me to Provence to see the lavender in full bloom in that precious
three-week window; and for braving the Holocaust halls with me during that harrowing time of research; for carrying my bags, for reading behind me, for understanding and accepting all the lonely times when I’ve been lost in the 1940s; but especially for my beloved coffee machine that got me through some big writing days.
F x
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About the Author
FIONA MCINTOSH was born in Sussex, and spent her early childhood in West Africa. After working in PR in London, she moved to Australia in the 1980s and together with her husband set up her own consultancy company, which later evolved into a travel publishing house. She is constantly roaming the world to research her novels and seeking new storylines, hence the authentic and fascinating detail found in her books.
www.fionamcintosh.com
By Fiona McIntosh
The Lavender Keeper
The French Promise
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1T 6DW
www.allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2013. First published by Penguin Group (Australia) 2012. This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.
Copyright © 2012 by FIONA MCINTOSH
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Lavender Keeper Page 42
