The French Promise

by Fiona McIntosh

  CHAPTER TWO

  It had been nearly six weeks since she’d seen her husband and Lisette watched anxiously from her window for his return. The last time he’d stolen an eight-hour sabbatical from the lighthouse he’d brought home a stray … a man called Eddie who lived in Hastings. Eddie was good for her husband: apparently they’d met when Luc had come ashore and caught his trousers in Eddie’s fishing line; he’d been fishing off the shore just prior to dawn. The two of them had staggered in looking for porridge and Eddie had stayed the whole day, sharing dinner with them, helping to peel the vegetables and even playing for hours with Harry and his kite on the windy moor stretching behind their back door. It had given her and Luc some precious quiet time together.

  Lisette hoped to get some of that special time together again that night and prayed her husband would be in bright spirits. She searched once more for the lonely figure in his dark uniform and shirt that she worked hard to keep white despite Luc’s affection for soot and engine oil. Anyway, none of that mattered. They would have a whole month together and she was beyond excited. Lisette had scoured the already clean house in a final frenzy and cooked a meal with French overtones. She’d have loved to have made him a southern dish but basil and garlic were hard to come by in the Meads. So, with saved-up coupons, she’d purchased some oxtail and made him a pot au feu … a rustic stew with root vegetables she’d managed to coax from a local farmer. Lisette knew she couldn’t find the spicy sausage for that extra smokey flavouring, but she had other plans for how to spice his first evening home.

  Some local samphire had also been found, and she had pounced on bottled gherkins and used that vinegar to make up the tangy salad to go with her dish. She’d slaved over a shallow French apple tart that she’d glazed with homemade jam. Luc’s belly would groan after all of this, she was sure.

  I should be able to see him shortly, she thought, heading up the steep coastal path known as Downs Way that soared from the sea-front to Beachy Head. She suspected he liked to linger like a gloomy Heathcliff on the moors. But then he didn’t head to pubs The Pilot or The Ship, like so many other husbands who took their pint or two after work. He would also be the only person she knew who chose to get to the Meads via the Downs. It was hard walking, even harder through winter. She shouldn’t have been surprised. No wonder he’d been prized as a passeur through the war, guiding the Allies over the treacherous terrain safely and quickly … so long as they could keep up with him. Lisette smiled to herself, reminded of how she’d matched him stride for stride. Mind you, she probably couldn’t these days. She’d grown softer, and becoming a mother certainly changed one’s body … and focus.

  How much longer could they live this strange life, she wondered. She wanted another child. There was no point, though, if she was to raise their family alone. Something had to change but it would need to be approached delicately with Luc.

  The days were definitely getting longer but this had been a tedious winter and she was itching for the late spring to assert itself so she could get Harry out into some sun. Snowfalls around Britain had been heavy and she was sure everyone was looking forward to some lazy summer days ahead. Given the political climate of gloom, when so much had been promised after the war but not necessarily delivered, she imagined Churchill could well be reinstalled at Downing Street by the end of this year.

  Rationing was still in force for prime goods but the food situation was gradually beginning to ease since last year when items from tinned fruits to chocolate biscuits came off rationing and those small treats brightened people’s outlook, as did the sunnier weather. Lisette had always lived frugally but she wanted Harry to grow up in a life of plenty, and she wanted to see his father smile without a care in the world. Had she ever seen him smile like that?

  Luc continued to keep one secret from her. She often believed it was the one that kept him from a happy life where she stood, and one of bleak revenge. This secret revolved around a moment together during the war when they’d been their most fearful – when life and death hung in the balance for both of them. She believed it should be the event that bound them, but rather it had divided them. It was a fearful time that had shaped their lives and their love, and yet Luc would not discuss what had happened between him and the Gestapo officer von Schleigel in l’Isle sur la Sorgue. Something terrible had taken place. The stoic, courageous man she’d come to know had trembled, thrown up and wept silently as he held her hand. To this day Luc insisted that he needed to keep the story of what occurred that day his alone. Frankly, she didn’t care. That was their past; all that mattered now was them looking forward to creating a stable family life for Harry.

  But Luc wouldn’t be helped; wouldn’t be drawn on his private demons. He probably thought she didn’t notice. Had he forgotten that she was chosen to spy for Britain because of her intuition, above all else? Lisette sighed and checked the meat again. It was baking to perfection and the whole cottage had a beautiful aroma of simmering hearty casserole.

  Harry hadn’t been well the last few days and she’d coaxed him off to sleep that afternoon, but soon he’d be awake and looking for the father she’d promised would be home today.

  Their son was perfect, with his thatch of golden hair echoing Luc’s and his infectious giggly disposition. She loved to see Luc holding him, hoping it would prompt in her husband the joy of a new generation emerging from the scourge of war. Lisette suspected – as she was sure Luc did – that his loved ones had perished in the concentration camps that the world had learnt more about since the Nuremberg Trials four years earlier. They’d hanged a dozen war criminals that year but no vengeance could appease the shocking revelations of the millions murdered in gas chambers. Lisette believed there was less than a dim chance that any of Luc’s sisters had survived.

  Movement in the distance dragged her attention from her bleak musings. There he was! She could see his familiar tall shape, could discern beneath his duffel coat the six brass buttons on his reefer jacket that he kept so highly polished, and the glint of the lion rampant brass badge on his cap. He cut the loneliest of figures striding up the path with his bag slung around his back. All the other housewives in the square would see him too and would probably be shaking their heads at the mad Frenchman who hiked the Downs home. Mind you, she knew a few women who would welcome his attention …

  Luc was nearly home. Her heart skipped; she could already feel his kisses. A month ago he’d have been nothing more than a shadow but now it was light enough to make out his red jumper beneath his dark duffel coat. Summer was coming.

  Peanut heard Luc long before his footsteps were audible. They’d inherited the dog from the previous tenants of the cottage and the plucky little terrier had transferred his boundless love to them. Luc called him by his name in French behind closed doors. It sounded beautiful when he did and the clever little foxy had happily learnt to answer to it.

  ‘Ah, D’arachide,’ she heard him say as he closed the back door of their cottage, flung down his bag and wiped his boots on the husk doormat. ‘Bonjour, mon amie, ça va?’ he said to the hysterically happy terrier.

  ‘In English!’ she called from the kitchen, teasing him, her eyes sparkling with anticipation of hugging him, as she watched him shrug off his coat and throw his cap onto the hook above.

  He brought the cold in with him; it gusted past her, and she shivered slightly as he walked up behind to put his arms around her. She smiled while she poured the peas into the heated water. He kissed her neck and Lisette could feel the sting of the cold from his face and the roughness of a beard.

  ‘Our dog likes to communicate in French,’ he murmured. ‘How are you?’

  ‘So, so happy to see you,’ she said, turning to kiss him hello properly. They held each other tightly for several intense moments, then finally Lisette pulled back, her heart full to bursting as she loosened his black tie. ‘But you need to shave,’ she grinned, rubbing the chafe at her neck. His cheeks were pinched from the chill of his walk and his gold
en hair needed a trim, but even after years together he could still make her heart pound. The seven-year itch that people quipped about didn’t apply to Lisette; Luc was hers for keeps. She could already tell just from his eyes, often so haunted, that this afternoon he was free of the shroud. It had obviously been a good day for him. She kissed him tenderly and knew she wouldn’t need her negligee tonight – he would make love to her now on the kitchen floor if she’d agree.

  And as if he could read her thoughts, he raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Tonight,’ she giggled. ‘Harry’s sleeping off his cold and cough. He should be up in a moment,’ she added in warning.

  He pulled a face of disappointment but it was short-lived. ‘Mmm, dinner smells good but you smell better,’ he said, hugging her close. She could feel his arousal, wished she could respond, but Lisette glanced at the wall clock as she pulled gently away. ‘You’ll have to put that on ice,’ she laughed delightedly. ‘Hold the thought. Go change. You can keep our son happy until I get dinner served.’

  Lisette smiled as she stirred the stew and felt her passion stirring deep within. She hoped they’d make it through dinner. She hadn’t toiled over a stove all day for nothing.

  ‘I smell coffee!’ he called back over his shoulder, even though it was still the ghastly chicory substitute. He yearned for the day when real coffee would be available again.

  The cottage was small enough that they could hear each other from any of the four rooms. Lisette liked it that way, and had never regretted renting the old, draughty home. It was furnished now with a few of her parents’ belongings. Being back in Sussex reminded her that this was where they’d hoped to live out their lives, but the car crash in France had stolen them from her and undoubtedly shaped the fiercely independent and lonely woman she’d become in her twenties who seemed to see life in monochrome.

  The war had changed everything, though. Now she wanted a life that was full of colour. She wanted friends, conversation and to be busy and engaged with the community.

  ‘It was a beautifully clear day,’ he continued. ‘Did you get out?’

  ‘Briefly,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t want to risk Harry being out too long. But I did get to the Institute. And I posted that article I wrote to the Herald.’

  Luc strolled back in, dressed in his old comfies. It meant he was home to stay for a while. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘Qu’est—’ he began but halted at her warning look. They’d agreed, English only. Only Peanut enjoyed the benefit of his whispered French. ‘What?’ he adjusted.

  ‘I was offered not one but two jobs today,’ she said, triumph in her voice but breath bated.

  He looked puzzled. ‘Jobs?’

  Lisette handed him a mug of coffee, the smoky aroma of chicory rising on its steam. ‘In the sweet shop on the pier,’ she said, a little too brightly. She hadn’t anticipated this conversation would go easily but she might as well strike while he was in such an affectionate mood. ‘Mrs Evans needs a new part-timer now that spring’s on our doorstep and things will be getting busy. She said I’d be perfect.’ She rushed on, ignoring his clouded expression. ‘But, probably more logical is the waitressing job at The Grand. Everyone said I’d get it if I applied because of my experience working at Lyons Corner House in London.’ She thought she took a breath but realised she was holding one.

  His puzzlement turned to a frown. ‘What about Harry?’

  ‘He’ll come with me, of course, if I work on the pier. If I work at The Grand, I’ll pay a babysitter. Mrs Dinkworth has just sent her eldest to school so she would be happy to look after Harry a couple of times a week. He’ll be ready for nursery school in six months. Drink your coffee.’

  ‘What did you say?’ he said, ignoring the mug.

  ‘To Mrs Evans? I said I’d think about it but I want to say yes … to at least one of them.’

  ‘At least one?’ he repeated. ‘I’d rather you didn’t say yes to either.’ She could tell he was also being careful, treading softly so a row wouldn’t erupt.

  ‘I need to do something, Luc, or I shall go mad being cooped up here.’

  ‘Cooped?’ he said, not understanding her English phrasing. ‘Trapped,’ she explained and instantly regretted it. He paused. ‘I had no idea you felt imprisoned. You’re the one with all the friends, the hobbies and activities. Weren’t you talking about being in a play? Most days you have something planned. You’re the belle of the local community.’ She could hear the envy in his voice. ‘Is working in a sweet shop going to ease your imagined loneliness?’ he asked.

  She sighed. But he wasn’t finished. ‘Lisette, I don’t know what this is about but nothing you do is ever going to compare to your time during the war. Nothing will match the fear or the excitement. All of this activity you engage in and now this sudden desire to take on part-time jobs – none of it will recreate that thrill you must have felt as one of Britain’s cunning spies.’ All of this was said evenly but not without a sarcastic reprimand underpinning it.

  She tried to shut him down with the dreary topic that every household debated. ‘We need the money, Luc,’ she replied as gently as possible.

  ‘No, we don’t,’ he said, moving away from the table and his untouched coffee to stare out of the window.

  ‘My parents’ money won’t—’

  ‘Don’t throw your parents’ money in my face. Spend it on yourself and Harry. I don’t want it, truly. I have enough.’ He spoke in a reasonable tone but still it hurt.

  ‘Except your fortune’s back in Provence,’ she cut back, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

  ‘You miss my point,’ he said quietly. ‘I earn enough for us to live on.’

  ‘Only if I agree to live on the Isle of Wight.’

  Luc sighed. ‘Accommodation is provided for our families. You’ve chosen not to take it. So we must learn to live without. I’m not complaining – I love that you’re close but you can’t have it all ways and you don’t need to take a job on the pier with the low-lifes that hang around it and drag my son there with you.’

  ‘He’s my son too.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to take a more responsible attitude. Do you really think sitting at the back of a seaside sweet shop is the right place for an infant?’

  ‘Not especially, but he has no company here. He’s growing, Luc. He needs stimulation or he’ll become introverted like—’

  ‘Like me?’

  ‘I was going to say like us. Neither of us is especially social.’

  ‘I used to be,’ Luc said.

  ‘Here we go,’ she murmured, not really meaning to goad him but knowing it would all the same. ‘Listen, Luc, the war is over. Let it go. I have.’

  ‘You didn’t lose—’

  ‘Yes, I did!’

  There, she’d done it now, seeing the anger emerge through the sneer that rode on Luc’s mouth, the same one she’d fantasized about kissing only an hour earlier.

  ‘I don’t think your German colonel counts alongside my sisters or parents,’ he cut. ‘Or does he?’

  She felt her breath catch. Nothing could have injured more. He’d broken their promise. ‘You bastard!’ Her voice broke before she could say any more.

  But he was already moving, not even bothering with a coat. She heard the door slam and he was gone. The noise disturbed Harry and she heard him coughing. Lisette leant against the table and let the tears come. How stupid was she? All of that joy vanished in a few unnecessary and harsh words! She’d brought this upon herself but it didn’t ease the sorrow. She’d worked so hard to let Kilian rest in peace; refused to dig back into those memories. It was too dangerous.

  Kilian was unfinished business; they’d let his shadow share their lives but an unspoken agreement seemed to exist never to acknowledge its presence. And the years of ignoring it had worked. She rarely had to banish thoughts of Kilian these days. She’d chosen Luc. Kilian had been her mission that Special Ops had devised in 1942, but she hadn’t counted on it becoming a tender, heartbreaking rom
ance. It was too hard to explain but it was true that she had loved two men at once: Markus Kilian and Luc Ravensburg. Both German. But Luc had known no other life but French and no other family than the Jewish parents and sisters who had adopted him. Luc had not been told about his German heritage until months before she’d parachuted into his life. He had been twenty-five. He had saved her life and she had saved his. And they had fallen in love against the tense, fear-riddled backdrop of occupied France.

  How could she have known that Markus wouldn’t oblige British intelligence and live up to its picture of a cold, arrogant German colonel? None of the men who’d planned her daring mission had met Kilian, so how could they have foreseen the enigmatic, charming, tender lover he would become to their spy? The War Office had prepared her mentally and physically for her clandestine role, but no one had considered her emotions; no one had protected her heart against the warmth and wit of her Wehrmacht lover. She swallowed a sob. But Luc was the one who needed to get over Kilian, not her.

  Harry came into the room, scuffing his slippers as he dragged his feet. He hugged her leg, sucking his thumb, with his toy lamb ‘Woolly’ in the other hand. Harry and Woolly were inseparable – how she wanted herself and Luc to be.

  She rubbed away a tear and stroked his hair. ‘Ooh, you smell good,’ she said, picking him up and burying her face in the crook of his warm neck.

  ‘Is Daddy back?’ he yawned.

  Lisette was about to make an excuse but was taken aback when she heard Peanut scuttling along the flagstones again and the back door gently giving. She looked up and saw Luc. It was sometimes unnerving how strongly he resembled Kilian with his powerful build, light hair and blue eyes. His expression was one of misery. It had obviously begun to drizzle and he was dusted with tiny beads of moisture that clung to the golden wisps of his hair and glistened like crystals on the red jumper that her grandmother had knitted for him.