Her hands tightened around her knees. She was lucky. The life expectancy of a courier was not much more than six months and she had been active for eight. Eight long months of deceiving the person she loved most in the world. She sighed, hating the feeling of isolation that it gave, knowing that there was no alternative.
Despite the sunlight, the February wind was raw. Angry caps of surf beat at the cliff face, eroding it as they had done for centuries. Reluctantly she rose to her feet, her fingers stinging with cold as she gripped the handlebars. For the first time in her life she did not want to return home.
Valmy lay between the clifftop and the woods, a small, turretted chateau of grey stone with a slate roof, a tower at its north side and gardens that, in summer, were awash with roses. Perfect and exquisite, the Germans had considered it too small to serve as headquarters for the local garrison. That doubtful privilege had fallen to the Lechevaliers with their big, ugly manor house on the outskirts of Vierville.
She wheeled her bicycle over the large tufts of marram grass and on to the narrow road. The soldiers were still outside the pillbox, squatting down as it they were playing cards. She looked away from them contemptuously. She loathed them. They made her flesh crawl. And now she would be in day-to-day contact with one of them. A strutting, swaggering, heel-clicking major. Hatred coursed through her viens, warming her against the chill wind. She would not speak to him and she would not look at him. In no way would she acknowledge his presence in her home.
She pushed forward on the pedals, letting the bicycle coast down the narrow road. Beech woods shelved away on her right hand side and between the budding branches she could see the tapering spire of Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts’tiny church and the muted grey of village roofs. Since the days of the Conqueror, the village had nestled in its sheltered hollow behind the high bluff of the cliffs, overlooked and protected by Valmy. Now Valmy could protect it no longer. The enemy were not only at the gates, they were in residence.
Her mother was in the front salon, sitting at her delicately carved desk writing a letter. She raised her head when Lisette entered the room, her fine-boned face taut with strain. ‘Have you met him, Maman?’ Lisette asked, her heart twisting at the sight of her mother’s pale face.
‘Yes.’ Her mother put down her pen and Lisette walked across to the fireplace where logs burned in a stone grate. For several moments neither of them spoke. Lisette rested her arm along the marble mantelpiece, staring down into the flames. Already the atmosphere at Valmy had changed. It was as if a cold wind had swept through the rooms, penetrating even the walls.
Her mother abandoned her letter, it was not of importance and her head ached. She rose to her feet, a tall, elegant woman with a long, straight back and narrow hips. Her beauty was bone-deep. It was in the shape of her head and temples and the thin-bridged, faintly aquiline nose, but her silvered hair and cool grey eyes held none of Lisette’s vibrancy. She sat down on one of the deep, chintz-covered armchairs near the fireplace, her hands folded lightly in her lap. ‘He’s quite young,’ she said unemotionally.
Lisette shrugged. She didn’t care whether he was young or old. It made no difference to the fact that he existed and was an invader. The logs flared and crackled.
‘What rooms have you given him?’
‘Papa’s rooms.’
Lisette’s head shot upwards, her eyes shocked.
‘Your father thought them the most suitable,’ her mother said tightly, avoiding her eyes, an underlying tremor in her voice.
Lisette’s hand clenched on the marble. Her mother rarely gave way to emotion. Self-control was as important to her as good manners. That her cool facade showed signs of crumbling indicated how deep her detestation had been at removing her husband’s clothes and possessions from the suite of rooms that had been his and his father’s before him, and preparing them for Major Meyer.
‘God, how I wish the Allies would come!’ Lisette said passionately, kicking at one of the logs with the toe of her shoe, sending sparks shooting up the chimney.
Her mother gave a quick, darting look towards the door. ‘Be careful, chérie! It is no longer safe to say such things!’
At the throb of panic in her mother’s voice, Lisette was filled with remorse. She was making things worse for her, not better. She moved across to her, dropping to her knees at the side of her chair, taking hold of her hands.
‘I’m sorry, Maman, I’ll try and curb my tongue, but it’s hard. I have so much hatred in me that I can hardly breathe.’
The Comtesse regarded her sadly. Her daughter was young, beautiful, well-bred. She should have been ejoying life: attending parties, dances; visiting Paris and the Riviera; receiving the attention of eligible young men. It should have been love that was catching at her heart, not hate. She sighed, wondering how many more years of their lives the war would eat into. Years that, for Lisette, could never be recaptured. ‘Perhaps he will not be with us for long,’ she said, but her voice held little conviction.
Lisette stared into the fire, her eyes thoughtful. ‘I wonder why he is here?’ she said slowly. ‘I wonder what is so special about him?’
Her mother shrugged a slender shoulder. ‘He is a German. What more do we need to know?’
Lisette did not answer her. Her reply would have only caused distress. She knew that some people would very much like to know why Major Meyer had been posted to Valmy. People like Paul Gilles and his friends. People like herself. It was yet another occasion when her thoughts could not be shared. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said, rising to her feet and wondering how long it would be before she could contrive a meeting with Paul, knowing already what it was that he would wish her to do.
Dinner that evening was unusually quiet. Neither of her parents seemed disposed to talk. It was as if the unseen presence of Major Meyer was weighing tangibly on them. Marie served them omelette fines herbes, her heavy face sombre, her mouth pulled into a disapproving line as she set the plates on the table. Henri de Valmy saw her expression and suppressed a sigh of irritation. She had been a young girl in his father’s employ when he had been born. She had picked him up when he had fallen, smacked him when necessary, wiped his tears, cuddled and cajoled him and later, as he grew older, treated him with deferential respect. She thought him omnipotent and no doubt believed that he could, if he had wished, have closed his doors single-handed against not only major Meyer but the entire might of the Wehrmacht.
He poured himself a glass of wine, glad that his cellars were still full. There was, he reminded himself, still a lot for them to be grateful for. Normandy was not suffering from the severe food shortages that were afflicting the rest of France. Butter, cheese, and eggs were still plentiful. Even after the Germans there were enough chickens for the pot. Enough milk and cream. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. He had not yet suffered in the war and guilt surged through him. He had no sons facing death fighting with the Free French. He himself had not fought. Had not been injured. He had simply remained, as a de Valmy had always remained, on his land.
He pushed his plate away, his omelette hardly touched. It could hardly be called his land any more, when it was under the heel of the Germans. His helplessness infuriated him and there was no way that he could give vent to his frustration. He rose savagely to his feet, and ignoring the startled looks of his wife and daughter, abruptly excused himself. Lisette rose anxiously, intending to follow him but her mother laid a cool hand restrainingly on her arm.
‘No, chérie. He needs to be alone. Leave him for a little while.’
The door closed sharply behind him and his footsteps could be heard crossing the stone-flagged hall in the direction of the library. Mother and daughter looked at each other for a moment and then, unhappily, continued with their meal.
Later, as they sat together in the front salon, Lisette wondered again why Major Meyer had been posted to Valmy. Perhaps he had been given a special assignment. André had said that his Horch had been accompanied by outriders. Su
rely that indicated that he was a man of importance? The fire spat and crackled, the scent of pine logs filling the high-ceilinged room. Her mother’s head was bent low over her embroidery, a slight frown puckering her usually smooth forehead. Lisette tried to return her attention to the book she had been reading, and failed. The Allies were desperate for information regarding the coastal defences. If the defences were the reason for Major Meyer’s presence … Her book slid to her knees. Major Meyer was occupying her father’s rooms. His bedroom, his study.
Sharp footsteps rang out distantly on the black and white flagstones of the medieval hall. Brisk, decisive footsteps that she had never heard before. Her mother’s hand paused, the needle held high over her work, her eyes flying to the door. There was a long ominous silence and then the heavy outer door opened and slammed shut. Seconds later the Horch’s engine revved into life.
Her mother’s relief that the Major had not walked in on them was evident. Lisette was too busy thinking to share that relief. For the moment Major Meyer was alone at Valmy. But for how long? Surely he would need a batman. An aide. His rooms might never again be empty. She might never again have such an easy chance.
‘I think I’ll go to bed early, Maman,’ she said, rising to her feet, her gentian-hued sweater and deeper toned skirt emphasising the colour of her eyes and the blue-black sheen of her hair. She kissed her mother lightly on the cheek, wishing that she could comfort her, and then walked quickly from the room. If she hesitated she was lost. He had only arrived that morning. If she were discovered she could always say that it was a mistake. That she had expected to find her father in his study.
The library door was closed: her father obviously still brooding over the day’s events. There was no sound from the dining-room or the kitchen. Marie retired early. She would be in bed by now, her arthritic toes on a comforting hot bottle. The stone stairs wound upwards. An oil lamp had been set on the sill of one of the arched windows set deep into the wall and it gave out a soft pool of light. She hurried past it and on up to the first floor which housed her father’s suite of rooms. She hesitated outside the bedroom door and then walked on. She had to be quick and there was more likelihood of papers being on the study desk than on a yet unused bedside table.
She paused outside the study door. It would be locked: surely it would be locked. Scarcely daring to breathe, her hands closed around the doornob and turned and pushed. The door opened easily. Unhesitatingly she stepped inside and walked quickly across the moonlit room to her father’s Beidermeier desk. It looked abnormally neat: her father’s habit was to leave letters and bills scattered at random and the precisely arranged blotter and ink stand were clear indications that the desk was no longer his. The wide, shallow drawers contained only stationery. Major Meyer had clearly not yet settled in. There was an inter-connecting door between the study and the bedroom. Her search so far had taken only a minute, probably less. She still had plenty of time.
The blue bedroom was silvered by the moonlight. It fell palely on the Rembrandt etching above her father’s bed. Her stomach muscles tightened. The etching needed removing before the German cast covetous eyes on it. As she neared the bed she saw that very few possessions had been scattered around, proclaiming ownership. There was a gold cigarette case and an expensive looking lighter on the bedside table, and she saw with curiosity that they were both monogrammed, the inter-linking initials worn smooth with age and constant handling. Hurriedly she opened the bedside drawer. There was a slim volume of poetry, a novel by Zola, and a diary. She riffled through the diary, wondering whether she should take it and knowing that she dared not. What she was looking for were official papers; something with recognizable place names on; something that she could memorise. A suitcase stood at the foot of the bed, not yet unpacked. She bent down beside it, trying to open the catch, and then she froze. The study door fronting the corridor had opened. Her heart began to slam against her breastbone in thick, heavy strokes. Perhaps it was Marie coming in to turn down the Major’s bed. Perhaps it was her mother, checking that he had all that he required. Or her father …
Her nails dug deep into her palms. There had been no knock at the door. Only one person could have entered her father’s study, and that was its present occupant, Major Meyer. She stood up, her pulse pounding, backing away to the door that led into the corridor. It was seven or eight yards away. The connecting door was open and she saw his shadow as he crossed to the desk; heard the rasp of the drawer opening. She took another step backwards, and another. She had to keep her nerve. If she turned and ran she would be heard. She had to open the door slowly, carefully. She took another step and stumbled against a bedroom chair. Her hand flew out to steady herself, her mouth rounding in a gasp of alarm.
It took Dieter Meyer just two strides to reach the connecting doorway and punch on the light. His eyes flashed to her empty hands, to the still closed door behind her, and then he leaned nonchalantly against the wall, arms folded, eyes narrowed. ‘Just what the hell,’ he said in perfect French, ‘do you think you are doing?’
Her hand tightened on the back of the chair. ‘I… Supper,’ she said, her breath coming in harsh gasps. ‘I wanted to know if you wished to have supper.’
He was not at all what she had expected. There was no monocle; no steel-grey hair. His masculinity came at her in waves. The jacket of his field uniform was open at the neck, cut perfectly across broad shoulders, and the Knights Cross of the Iron Cross decorated his breast. She didn’t move for fear he would seize her. She knew that the ease of his stance was deceptive. He had entered the room with all the speed of a natural-born predator.
‘You’re a liar,’ he said smoothly.
His hair was blond, cropped short, as thick and coarse as the coat of a dog. His face was clean-cut, hard-boned, the jaw line strong, the mouth finely chiselled, sensitive as well as sensual. The face of a man who read Zola. She thrust the thought away. He was a German. She didn’t care what he read. Her initial shock was over. She was in command of herself again.
‘Yes,’ she said, with a silent Gallic shrug of her shoulders. ‘I am. I came into my father’s suite because I was curious.’
At her insolence a flicker of admiration flashed in his eyes and was immediately suppressed. ‘These rooms are no longer your father’s,’ he said, his voice snaking across her nerve ends like a whip. ‘If I find you in, or near them again, I will have you arrested. Is that understood?’
The menace in his voice was naked and a frisson of fear ran down her spine. He was not a man to make idle threats. She backed instinctively away from him towards the door.
‘I understand you perfectly,’ she said tightly, her hands closing around the doorknob, the vast, silk-draped bed yawning between them. ‘Goodnight, Major Meyer.’
His brow quirked and she was immediately furious with herself. What deep-seated code of good manners had prompted her to wish him goodnight? Cheeks burning she spun on her heel, slamming the door behind her, wishing him in hell.
She had behaved foolishly and without thought. Paul would have urged her to be more careful. It would be twice as hard now to slip into his room in the future. He hadn’t believed her when she had said she had entered them out of curiosity. He had known what it was she was trying to do, and he had also known that she had failed. She shivered as she hurried towards her own room. What would he have done if he had walked in on her holding the diary? Would he have sent her to Gestapo headquarters at Caen? Would she have thrown her life away on an impulsive and ill-thought-out plan of action? For the first time she realised how much she had risked and how thoughtlessly. She entered her own room and sat down on her bed, hugging her arms around her. The next time she would be far more careful. And successful.
She saw him again in the morning. He was in the hall as she descended the stairs, a grey greatcoat over his uniform, his cap under his arm as he drew on gauntleted gloves. Her eyes met his coldly. She wasn’t going to fall into the trap of good manners again.
‘
Good morning, Mademoiselle de Valmy,’ he said, his voice tinged with mockery, as if he knew of her intention and it was amusing him to defeat it.
Her lips tightened and she gave him the merest inclination of her head, sweeping past him into the breakfast room on a tide of anger.
He was laughing at her! She had heard it in the lazy tone of his voice, seen it in the gleam of his eyes before she had swiftly turned her head away. When she seated herself at the breakfast table, she found, to her fury, that her hands were trembling. She clasped them together tightly. She had no intention of becoming a target for his sadistic amusement. No doubt he though she had spent the whole night in fear of what her parents would say when they discovered that she had entered his rooms. Well, she hadn’t. She had slept soundly, regretting only her clumsiness.
From the high-arched windows she could see the chauffeur-driven Horch sweep round the circle of lawn fronting the chateau and cruise down the drive at high speed. Her eyes narrowed. Hitler’s glamour soldier had neither impressed or intimidated her. He had only strengthened her determination to be of far greater service to the Resistance.
Her father’s face was lined and drawn as he joined her at the table. For a moment she thought that Major Meyer had already spoken to him and then he smiled, saying with false cheerfulness, ‘Our guest is at least civil.’
‘Only on the surface,’ Lisette retorted tartly, remembering the coldness of his eyes when he had threatened her with arrest.
Her father helped himself to a croissant. ‘He’s highly decorated. The Knights Cross of the Iron Cross isn’t given easily.’
Never Leave Me Page 2
