“Venetia …” The name rang a faraway bell in Édouard’s exhausted mind.
“And you, sir, I presume, are Édouard, le Comte de la Martinières? The owner and, at present, lone resident of this house?”
“Yes, but how can you be here? I …”
“It’s a long story.” Venetia waved the question away airily. “We can talk about that later when you’re stronger. All you need to know for now is that when I found you, you were on the brink of death. Somehow, and not being renowned for my nursing skills, I’ve managed to save your life. I’m rather proud of that.” She grinned as she stood up and seized a flagon of water from the cupboard and put it down next to him. “Drink as much as you can. I’m going to endeavor to warm some soup on this gas hob. Although, I warn you in advance, my cooking skills are even worse than my nursing!”
Édouard tried to focus on the slim body of the young woman kneeling over the gas flame, but his eyes closed once more.
Later, when he woke again, she was still there, sitting by him in a chair reading a book.
“Hello …” She smiled. “I hope you don’t mind, but I nipped upstairs and found the library. It’s been pretty tedious down here in the past few days.”
Édouard was immediately on the alert. He tried to sit up but she stopped him, shaking her head. “Please, relax. I swear that nobody saw me, even though they’re still watching the house. Take comfort in the fact I was trained especially for this kind of thing. I’m one of the best,” she announced proudly.
“Please, tell me who you are? And how you found me?” he begged.
“I did tell you my name is Venetia, and I’ll explain everything, if you promise to drink every bit of this soup. Your infection seems to have gone, but you’re still very weak and need to build up your strength.” Venetia stood up and retrieved the tin saucepan, then she sat down on the bed and spooned it into his mouth.
“I know,” she commented as Édouard’s face twisted in disgust. “It’s gone a little cold. I did warm it up earlier for you, but you fell asleep before you could drink it.”
Édouard refused more than a few spoonfuls, his stomach complaining at the sudden influx and threatening to protest.
“Right.” Venetia put the saucepan down on the stone floor. “I’m not good with vomit, so we’ll have to leave it until later.”
“Now, will you tell me how you found me?” Édouard begged, desperate to know how this woman had saved his life.
“I’m sure you’ll be jolly annoyed if I tell you but, on the other hand, if I hadn’t tipped up here, you wouldn’t be having this conversation now. With me, or anyone else for that matter. I’m an SOE wireless operator. When most of my network were arrested, I tracked Connie down—we trained together in Blighty—and begged her to let me use this cellar to transmit urgent messages home to London. And you should be very glad I did, Édouard, as it was the night before the raid on the STO office, which I happen to know you were heavily involved in organizing.” Venetia raised an eyebrow. “While I was here, I removed the key to the cellar door”—she pointed to it—“just in case I needed to find sanctuary again. And after the night of the Café de la Paix, when, as you know, many operatives were rounded up, this is where I ran to hide. Of course, when I got here, I realized that the house had been raided. So I bided my time, and when I saw the patrol outside nip off for supper, I hopped in through the garden, opened the cellar door, and found you half-dead on the floor.”
Édouard listened without surprise. “I see.”
“Don’t be miffed with Connie, please. She was only trying to do the job she’d been sent here to do. And, all in all, given where you and I are now, the fact she did help me has proved a blessing in disguise.”
Édouard felt too exhausted to ask for further details. His shoulder ached and he altered his position to try to make himself more comfortable. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“God bless iodine”—Venetia smiled—“and the fact there’s a houseful of supplies up above us. Your wound seems to be healing well, but you must have a pretty strong constitution. Perhaps it’s all that wonderful food you and your Boche friends eat. I hope you don’t mind, but I raided the fridge last night and enjoyed a wonderful foie gras sarnie.”
“Venetia, you understand, of course, that the enemy I entertained here are not my friends,” Édouard said pointedly.
“Course I do. Only teasing.” She grinned at him.
“You know”—Édouard sighed—“the reason I came to the café that night was because your friend Constance had been told by a Gestapo officer there was to be a raid there. She was insisting on going herself to try and warn you, but I came instead. I was too late, as it happens. And I got shot for my trouble.”
“Well, there we are then. You tried to save my life, and I’ve saved yours. We’re quits.” Venetia nodded. “Mind if I smoke?”
“No.” Édouard shook his head and Venetia lit up a Gauloises. “Are they still watching the house?”
“No. They left a couple of hours ago and haven’t returned. The Boche have got enough problems without wasting time on birds they presume have already flown the nest. By the way, where is Constance?”
“She left with my sister and her maid the morning after the raid. I sent them off down south, but, of course, I have no idea where they are at present.”
“Where are they headed?”
Édouard eyed her. “I would prefer to say nothing.”
“Oh, please!” Venetia looked insulted at his words. “I think it’s pretty obvious we’re on the same side. And I know now exactly who you are. The Resistance speak your name in reverential tones. The fact that your cover has been blown is a huge loss to the cause. And I apologize for my part in that. But it’s a tribute to you that you’ve managed to keep it for so long. I think, Hero”—Venetia emphasized Édouard’s code name—“you’ll have to leave the country as soon as possible. You’re almost certainly top priority on the Gestapo’s wanted list at present.”
“I can’t do that. My sister is blind and therefore extremely vulnerable. If the Gestapo get hold of her to try and discover my whereabouts …” Édouard shuddered. “I can hardly bear to think of it.”
“I presume you’ve sent them into hiding?”
“We had little time to discuss anything.” Édouard sighed. “But they know where they’re headed.”
“Well, your sister’s in very capable hands. Constance was the star pupil on the SOE training course.”
“Yes, Constance is an exceptional woman. And what of you, Venetia? Where do you go from here?”
“Well, unfortunately, when I made my escape from the safe house, I had to leave my wireless behind. London are aware and are presently organizing another for me. I’ve been told to lie low for a while. So, here I am, making myself useful playing nurse to you.” She smiled.
Édouard looked at Venetia in admiration. Her spirit was unbroken, despite the danger she faced. “You’re a very brave young woman, and we’re lucky to have you,” he said weakly.
“Well, thank you, kind sir.” Venetia batted her eyelids at him. “Only doing my job. And what can you do but laugh? The world’s in such a mess, so I try to live every day as though it’s my last. Because it might well be. I try to see it all as one awfully big adventure.”
She smiled brightly, but Édouard could see the suffering in her eyes.
“Now, I reckon that in a few days’ time you might be strong enough to think about your plan of escape,” Venetia suggested. “If you’re happy for me to do so, I can involve my lot in the operation of removing you from France. But for the moment, as we’re stuck here, I’m going to nip upstairs, get another book, and use the lavvy. At some point, you could do with a decent wash.” Venetia wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I draw the line at a bed bath. Anything you want, Édouard?”
“No, thank you, Venetia. Take care up there,” he called as she climbed the stairs that led up to the house.
“Don’t worry, I will,” she
replied airily.
Édouard lay back, exhausted, and thanked God that, through a series of lucky coincidences, this extraordinary woman had walked into his life and saved him.
24
Sarah had advised the following morning that the three of them must stay where they were for the time being.
“We must wait for the next crossing over the river,” she explained to Connie over breakfast the next morning. “Now, Madame Constance, I suggest that your new papers show you are a housekeeper from Provence. Is there any name you would prefer to use?”
“Hélène Latour?” Connie suggested, thinking of the daughter of her aunt’s neighbor, whom she had played with on the beach long ago in Saint-Raphaël.
“Then Sophia can be your sister, Claudine. Of course”—Sarah lowered her voice—“when we arrive at our destination, Sophia must go into hiding. There are too many local people who will recognize her.”
“Surely the Boche are bound to come looking for us there?” said Connie. “Falk knew all about the château.”
“Édouard has told me there’s a place where we can hide Sophia and keep her safe. Of course, it would be better if we could all leave the country immediately, but with Sophia’s disability the escape route would be far too arduous for her. And at least at the château we’ll only be relying on ourselves. Even safe houses are no longer safe. The Gestapo pay a great deal of money for information regarding any neighbors they suspect of housing people like us. So just in case they do visit us, you and I will change our appearance for the photograph on our papers.” Sarah brandished a bottle of peroxide at Connie. “You think you have a problem,” she chuckled, seeing Connie’s face. “My hair is to turn red! And then we must do something about Mademoiselle Sophia’s clothes. They’re too fine and will draw attention to her.”
Connie looked at her in amazement. “Sarah, you are a true professional. How do you know what to do?”
“My husband worked with the Maquis for two years, until he was caught and shot by the Gestapo. And I, of course, have assisted the comte with his many dangerous missions. It’s a question of survival. When you have to, you learn quickly. Now”—Sarah indicated the latrine at the back of the house, which also held a small sink—“you must wet your hair before you apply the peroxide.”
As Connie left for the outside facilities with the bottle in her hand, she felt humbled. For all her grand training, Sarah, a simple serving woman, was far more equipped to deal with the situation than she.
• • •
Two days later, when Connie had glimpsed the third German patrol car cruising down the narrow street in as many hours, Sarah came to her and said they were leaving that night. “I cannot put my sister in danger any longer. So, we have our new papers and will move on. We cannot risk passing through an official checkpoint, so we will leave here by boat. Everything is organized for this evening.”
“Right.” Connie nodded and glanced at a listless Sophia, who was sitting at the kitchen table. She seemed lost in a world of her own, not equipped by birth or physicality to deal with what was happening to her. Connie reached toward her and squeezed her hand. “We’re leaving this evening, my dear, and you’ll soon be at the home you’ve talked so much about.”
Sophia responded with a nod, wretchedness emanating from her. She was dressed in peasant attire, a thick, beige woolen cardigan accentuating her paleness. Connie had hardly seen her eat since they’d arrived and on more than one occasion had accompanied her to the outside toilet and stood by as she vomited. Even when they had crossed over the river safely, Connie knew they had hundreds of kilometers to journey before they reached sanctuary. Connie prayed Sophia would survive it. She was obviously extremely unwell.
• • •
At ten o’clock that night, Connie, Sarah, and Sophia joined six others huddled together on the bank of the river Saône. They were loaded onto a flat-bottomed boat, Connie climbing in first and Sarah carefully handing Sophia down to her. As the boat set off in complete blackness on its short journey to the other side of the river, no one spoke. When they reached the opposite bank, the passengers disembarked silently and scampered off immediately across the frozen field, disappearing into the night.
“Take Sophia’s hand and I’ll take the other,” instructed Sarah. “Sophia, you have to run with us now, for we must not be spotted out here.”
“But where are we going?” whispered Sophia as the two women guided her across the field as fast as they could. “It’s so cold, I can hardly feel my feet.”
Sarah, breathless, her plump body not used to physical exercise, did not waste breath replying.
Finally, Connie saw a flickering light shining in the distance.
Sarah’s pace slowed as the outline of a building came into view. The light Connie had seen was an oil lamp, hanging from a nail on the side of a barn.
“We’re to shelter in here for the night until dawn breaks.” Sarah pushed open the door of the barn and unhooked the lamp from its nail to take it inside with her. In the dim light, Connie could see the bales of hay stacked around her.
“There now”—Sarah led Sophia to a bale at the back of the barn and sat her down on it, still panting from the exertion—“at least it’s dry and safe in here.”
“We’re to sleep in a barn?” said Sophia, horrified. “All night?”
Connie almost laughed out loud at Sophia’s outrage. This was a woman who had laid on the best of horsehair mattresses and feather-filled pillows for almost every night of her life.
“Yes, and we must all make the best of it,” said Sarah. “Now, you lie down and I’ll make you a warm bed of hay.”
When Sophia was finally settled in the hay, Sarah lay down next to her. “You too must sleep, Madame Constance,” Sarah called. “We have a long, hard journey ahead of us. But before I forget, just in case anything should happen to me, take this.” Sarah passed Connie a slip of paper. “It’s the address of the de la Martinières’s château. When you arrive, go directly to the cave in the grounds of the domaine. Jacques Benoit, so Édouard says, will be expecting you. Good night.”
Connie read the address, committed it to memory, then lit a match and burned the paper, grateful for the fleeting warmth on her fingertips. Burying herself in the hay, Connie clasped her hands about her shoulders and prayed for morning to come soon.
• • •
When Connie awoke, she saw that Sarah’s hay bed was already empty. Sophia was still fast asleep. She went out of the barn and around to the side to relieve herself, then saw Sarah coming back with a horse and cart clopping behind her.
“This is Pierre, the farmer from next door, and he’s been persuaded to take us down to the station in Maçon. It’s too dangerous to board the train any closer to here,” Sarah said.
Sophia was roused and eventually helped on top of one of the bales of hay in the back of the cart. The driver, a weather-beaten, silent Frenchman, set off.
“These people, they get greedier the longer the war continues,” grumbled Sarah. “Even though I explained to him the young lady in my care is blind, he still charges me a fortune for the ride. But at least I’m assured he can be trusted.”
Connie thought what a pleasant journey this would make in high summer, as the horse and cart clopped through the fields of Burgundy. In a few months’ time, the now-frozen ground would be full of burgeoning vines. They traveled for four cold and uncomfortable hours until the farmer stopped just outside the town of Maçon and turned to them: ‘I must leave you here, I dare not go any farther.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” replied Sarah wearily. The three of them climbed off and began the walk toward the center of the town.
“I am so tired … and faint,” moaned Sophia as the two women on either side of her took most of her weight.
“Not much farther, my dear, and we’ll be on the train that will take us all the way to Marseille,” comforted Sarah.
At the station, Sarah purchased the rail tickets and they went to a café ju
st by the entrance. Connie sipped her warm coffee gratefully and chewed on a baguette, even though it was stale. Sophia picked up her coffee, then gagged and pushed it away. On the platform, having sat Sophia down on a bench, Sarah moved away out of earshot to speak with Connie.
“She’s not at all well, is she, Sarah?” Connie said anxiously. “And she’s been like this for weeks now, so it can’t simply be the shock and the hardship of the journey.”
“You’re right. That’s not the problem,” replied Sarah grimly. “Unfortunately, it’s much more serious than that. Look at her: so pale, so often sick … did you not see her push her coffee away just now because she cannot stand the smell? Madame, what do these symptoms indicate to you?”
It took a while for Connie to register what Sarah was implying. She put her hand to her mouth. “You’re suggesting that …?”
“I’m not suggesting. I know. Remember, I must help Mademoiselle Sophia with many things. And there has been no bleeding for weeks.”
“She’s pregnant?” Connie whispered the words in horror.
“Yes, but I don’t know when it could have happened.” Sarah sighed. “I can’t think of an occasion on which the two of them were unchaperoned for long enough to …” Sarah’s words trailed off in disgust. “But I do not doubt it’s the truth. She has every symptom of being with child.”
With a sinking heart, Connie knew exactly when the opportunity had presented itself, and it had been on her watch. But not for a moment had she even dreamed that Sophia, being from the background she was, could have done such a thing. She was so innocent … a child …
No, Connie corrected herself. Sophia was a woman, full of the same dreams and physical desires as any other—the same age as Connie herself. It was the de la Martinières household, including herself, who had treated her as a child. And—Connie’s stomach turned at the ramifications of the news Sarah had just imparted—she knew the baby’s father was a high-ranking German officer in the SS.
“Sarah”—Connie turned to her—“I cannot think the circumstances could be much worse.”
“No. It’s bad enough she finds herself pregnant out of wedlock, but if anyone discovers the father’s identity …” Sarah tailed off, too distressed to continue.
The Lavender Garden Page 27
