‘Romy,’ she could hear the creases of pain in his voice, ‘I know you want Chloé in your life, but she belongs to Florence. She is her daughter. It is only natural that one day your sister will want her back.’ His tone was tender. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’
They had to raise their voices against the growl of the engine.
‘She is not Florence’s daughter. She is mine.’
‘For the moment,’ he said. ‘She is yours, but only for the moment.’
But Romy wanted the truth between them. It was time to lay it out for him to see. She wanted this man she loved to know her, to understand who she was. No barriers in place between them. To her surprise, the words came easily as though they’d been waiting a long time to be spoken aloud.
‘Chloé is my daughter, Léo. Not Florence’s. I gave birth to her when I was only nineteen. Florence couldn’t have children, so when Chloé was born, so small and defenceless, I gave her to Florence. She has looked after her with all the love and devotion I could wish for my child. I am so proud of both of them.’ Tears pricked her eyes but she shook them away. ‘Chloé’s father was a poker-playing drunk just passing through Paris, a one-night stop on his way home to Australia. He doesn’t even know Chloé exists. Oh Léo, I was in no fit state to raise a child. A drunk. A gambler. A wh—’
‘Enough,’ he said gently. ‘Chloé is a lucky child to have for a mother the Romy I know and love.’
She could hear the smile in his voice. The thought of Chloé coming along with Romy seemed to please him. She opened her mouth to say thank you. But that was when she felt a blinding pain. It cut deep into her head and a cry spilled from her.
‘Romy? Are you all right? What’s wrong?’
She nodded. She couldn’t speak. Images started to unroll in her head, images of Florence and herself as children swimming like fish in the Seine, of the time when Florence had laughed with delight when Romy had leaped off the garage roof on to a mattress to prove she could fly. Of Florence holding Chloé the day she was born, tears of happiness rolling down her cheeks. Of Florence in the bath with her yesterday, smacking her hands on the water and swearing the stabbing of her father was an accident, not Romy’s fault.
Of Florence kissing her goodbye.
Sadness swept through her as she felt a hole gouged out within her. She had wondered before if she would know if ever her twin sister’s heart ceased to beat. Now she knew. The answer was yes.
Florence’s heart had just ceased.
An infinite sense of loss seeped through her. It was like losing a part of herself. But she had Chloé. Their daughter. And Chloé was part of Florence as much as she was of Romy. Always she would see her sister in her blue-eyed child.
She glanced down through the canopy at the silver sheen that the moonlight had painted on the water below. Her new life was drawing closer. It made her heart beat faster. Yes, they were crossing the English Channel but she and Martel would not give up the fight for France. With Britain standing firm at France’s side, there would be no war with Germany. As she adjusted her bearings, she felt hope spring to life. She glanced over her shoulder, back in the direction of France, lying unseen in the darkness.
‘Florence,’ she murmured, ‘I promise we will return.’
Ahead of her the stars shone bright.
Acknowledgements
A huge thank you to my wonderful publisher Jo Dickinson for her insight and her quiet patience, and to all the brilliant team at Simon & Schuster, especially Suzanne, Sara-Jade, Laura, Emma, Hayley, Gemma, Gill, Dom, Joe and Rich. They are superb. And SJ’s parties are legend!
My thanks as always to my stonkingly fabulous agent, Teresa Chris, whose loyalty and support make my job so much easier and more enjoyable.
I also want to express my gratitude to Nigel Reid for sharing his knowledge of all things aeronautical in this book. He brought Tiger Moths to life for me. Any errors are definitely mine, not his.
Thanks to the talented Ben Chhoa for introducing me to the thrills of poker and high flushes.
Warm thanks to the lovely Marian Churchward, not only for her keyboard skills but for her heartfelt enthusiasm for the whole business of book writing. It all helps.
Thanks also to my friends at Brixham Writers for listening to my woes and for offering encouragement along with tea and biscuits to tempt the muse back to my shoulder.
Finally my thanks to Norman for always being there for me with ideas and advice and for cracking the whip on the odd occasion when I was hiding under my duvet.
Kate Furnivall was born in Wales and studied English at London University. She worked in publishing and then moved to TV advertising, where she met her husband.
In 2000, Kate decided to write her mother’s extraordinary story of growing up in Russia, China and India, and this became The Russian Concubine, which was a New York Times bestseller. All her books since then have had an exotic setting and Kate has travelled widely for her research. She now has two sons and lives with her husband by the sea in Devon.
Visit Kate’s website at www.katefurnivall.com
Also by Kate Furnivall
The Russian Concubine
Under a Blood Red Sky
The Concubine’s Secret
The Jewel of St Petersburg
The White Pearl
Shadows on the Nile
The Far Side of the Sun
The Italian Wife
The Liberation
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2017
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Copyright © Kate Furnivall, 2017
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