No Regrets: A Novel of Love and Lies in World War II England (The Thornton Trilogy Book 1)

by Payne, Mary Christian

  NO REGRETS

  A Novel of Love and Lies in W.W. II England

  The First in the Thornton Trilogy

  MARY CHRISTIAN PAYNE

  Copyright © 2014 by Mary Christian Payne. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recorded or otherwise without written permission from the publisher.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown, living or dead to the author, and all incidents, other than actual World War Two references and following historical episodes are pure invention.

  Published by TCK Publishing

  www.TCKPublishing.com

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  DEDICATION

  To Dia for getting it right.

  CHAPTER ONE

  May 1940

  Sloan Thornton was a flight lieutenant in the RAF, fresh from Military College, when he found himself among an enormous crowd of people trying to reach the safety of British soil, after the Battle of Dunkirk. His plane was shot down, just past the small village of Bergues, France. Sloan managed to parachute safely from his crippled aircraft, but was wounded when bullets targeting the plane hit his leg. Once on land, he found the Luftwaffe strafing the ground continually. He tore his shirt, tying it round his leg to stem the flow of blood. He wasn’t far from the English Channel where, if fortunate, he’d be picked up by a ship and returned to his English base. As the queue proceeded toward the beaches, he crawled off the road onto farmland and woods lining the side. It was raining. Through the downpour he saw a small farmhouse, painted white and well kept. There was a fence surrounding the structure. A few wide steps led to a covered veranda.

  Pulling himself up the steps, Sloan lay on the porch. Soaking wet and shivering, he feebly knocked. There was no reply. Then he called out. After several minutes, the door was unbolted. Although nearly unconscious with pain, Sloan was stunned by the beautiful girl who stood before him. He wondered if he’d already died. She looked like an angel. He was totally speechless, and, in that instant, everything in his life changed. She was the ideal lady he’d been waiting for, as long as he could remember. Standing there, she made his heart beat as it never had before. In spite of his wound, he couldn’t concentrate on anything except her face. She was young, tall, slender, and fair, with a sweet face – inexpressibly lovely. She had a complexion like rose petals, long, dark lashes and sensitive, soft lips. Her hair hung in long golden ringlets, and the expression on her exquisite face was shy.

  “My soulmate” he almost said aloud. He’d murmured those same words to himself hundreds of times throughout his life. Now, on the porch of a small farmhouse in rural France, he believed, with all of his heart, that fate had brought her to him. Sloan couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t dreamed about such a woman. Even though he’d proposed to Anne Whitfield, the girl back home, on the evening before leaving for war, Sloan hadn’t forgotten the lady of his dreams. He’d never believed he’d find her, because it was ludicrous to think such perfection existed. If he’d painted her portrait, it would have been identical to the young lady who stood in the doorway. Sloan struggled to come to his senses. Closing his eyes for several moments, he was afraid she might be gone when he opened them. But she was still there, looking fretful, waiting for him to speak. He was nearly trembling, trying to understand what had happened. He didn’t even know her - had only seen her face. Yet she’d touched something deep inside of him. He gathered himself together, realizing he was probably frightening her.

  “Parlez vous Anglais?” he asked, hoping she spoke English.

  “Yes. Yes. That’s no problem. Have you been wounded?” she asked.

  “Yes, The Luftwaffe shot me in the leg. I’m RAF. I had to ditch my aircraft. I need to reach the beaches, but I’m not able to stand or walk. Will you be kind enough to help me? I know it’s dangerous. I’m not sure what your beliefs are. If you’re not Resistance, I won’t bother you.”

  “Yes. Of course I’m Resistance. All patriotic French are Resistance. But if Germans come, I do not argue with them. You understand?”

  “Of course,” he smiled. “No one argues with a Nazi.”

  She reached down and guided him though the doorway. Not strong enough to lift him, she took hold of Sloan’s arms and dragged him across the threshold. Lying him on the wide plank flooring, she ran to fetch a pillow and blanket. Then she gathered medical supplies, bringing them to where he lay.

  “May I ask your name, Mademoiselle?” Sloan enquired.

  “My name is Elise Lisak. I apologize for being wary before I opened the door. I’m here alone. My brother, Josef, joined the Resistance Forces. I hope he’s safe in England now.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “This morning. My neighbour tells me there’ve been ships, boats, and all sorts of crafts rescuing your military men and French Resistance fighters, as well as refugees. When I last saw Josef, he came home and told me he was going to the beaches, hoping for a chance to escape to England. He couldn’t take me. He’s going to join the forces and fight against the Nazi’s.”

  “I imagine he’s accomplished his goal. There’ve been watercraft picking up people by the score. I saw them from my plane. That’s where I’m going too, if I can make it on this bloody leg. Excuse my language. Sometimes we military men forget ourselves in front of ladies.”

  “I know. I have a brother.” She smiled. “Now, just lie still, Lieutenant. I’m going to try to remove this bullet,” she said, He didn’t move, and instead stared up at her lovely face.

  “Elise is a pretty name. I’ve never heard ‘Lisak’ before. Are you French by birth?” he said, trying to get his mind off the pain of the bullet extraction.

  “No. My parents were Russian. My mother died in childbirth, and my father died in the Revolution. My brother has taken care of me since I was a young girl. He brought me from St. Petersburg. That’s where I was born in 1918.”

  “And now you’ve found yourself in the French countryside.”

  Elise continued to work on his leg, while she chatted.

  “Yes. We were in Monte Carlo and Paris. When the trouble started, my brother used money he’d saved to move us to this region. He’s a trained chef, so he opened a small restaurant in Bergues. He hoped it would provide a more tranquil life, and he was right. It has. But, the Germans have come, and nothing is tranquil anymore. There’s general belief that the Nazis are going to conquer our land.” She finished cleaning the wound, and began to splint and bandage it.

  “I’m afraid that looks quite possible. France hasn’t put up much fight. My Country will do all it can, but we all foresee a terrible conflict. It appears that the French will surrender to the Germans.”

  “Oh, Mon Dieu! Do you think there’s any way I might escape to England?”

  “Did your brother leave instructions for you?”

  “He told me to use my common sense. He thought I’d probably be safe in this house, but I don’t feel safe. That was before word started to circulate that the German’s want to occupy France permanently.”

  “I’d try to get out if I were you. It may be your last chance for a long time. Wait until night falls. You’ll be le
ss conspicuous. The boats are definitely taking refugees, from what I’ve heard and seen. To be honest, I think the biggest problems are your youth and beauty. When events like this occur, law and order break down. There’s looting, vandalism, rape – even murder. You should try to camouflage your appearance. Some of these Nazi men aren’t safe to be around.”

  “Yes. I understand,” she murmured, as she leaned over to wrap the bandage round his leg. The bullet had travelled through his knee and had fractured the bone.

  “Now, do you think you might be able to stand?” Elise asked.

  She put out her hands, firmly taking hold of his. As she gripped tightly, he came to his feet. The discomfort had subsided, probably because she’d given him two pain tablets from her cabinet, left over from Josef’s bouts with migraine headaches. After Sloan stood, she helped him limp to the kitchen, where she heated onion soup and crisp bread. She sliced a slab of cheese and tossed a salad. It was the best meal he’d eaten since leaving Dover. They continued to chat while he ate, and his attraction grew. He wished he could tell her his feelings, but was frightened she’d be turned away by his impetuosity. Still – still – she was the embodiment of everything he’d ever dreamed. How could he leave without telling her his feelings?

  As she stood at the old kitchen sink, her long, golden curls falling to the side of her face, Sloan speculated on what it would be like to hold her, and to keep her safe forever. Time was limited. He’d have to leave if he had hopes of being rescued by one of the vessels in the Channel. He shouldn’t linger. Who knew how long the rescue effort would continue? But perhaps – perhaps he could stay just a bit longer. Surely the ships in the Channel would be there quite some time. Thousands of people were waiting to be evacuated. An hour wouldn’t matter.

  “Would you like some coffee in the parlour?” she asked.

  Sloan knew he should refuse, but what if he never saw her again?

  “Yes. I’d like that. I feel rather weak. Perhaps a cup of coffee would help,” he answered.

  “Do you take cream or sugar?”

  “A bit of cream usually. But, I think some sugar too, if you have enough. It might give me energy.”

  “You’re right. I was a nurse before the war. I trained in Paris. I wish I’d had the proper instruments to care for your leg. I did remove the bullet, and the wound looks clean. Have it checked when you arrive back in England.”

  “Did you practice nursing long?” he asked.

  “No. Not very. The war began. I wanted to stay and help with possible casualties, but my brother insisted upon moving to the country. I’m glad we did.”

  “So am I,” Sloan smiled.

  She looked at him, with a puzzled expression in her blue eyes and a slight smile on her lips.

  “Lieutenant, are you implying that you’re glad you’ve met me?”

  “Indeed, I am. I know that sounds forward, but let me explain. Since I was a young man, I’ve dreamed of finding the perfect girl. I’ve fallen asleep almost every night thinking about her – what she would look like – what she would be like. When you opened your door, I saw her for the first time. The girl I’ve dreamt about is you.”

  Elise smiled and nervously giggled.

  Please don’t laugh. It’s true. I was overwhelmed by your remarkable resemblance to my dreams. I wish I had time to become acquainted with you. I can almost guarantee that you’re exactly as I expected you’d be.”

  “And what exactly have you expected?” she asked, shifting position on the camelback sofa, where she daintily sat. “How can you possibly know what I’m like?”

  “Because, I’m telling the truth when I say I’ve known you all of my life,” he answered.

  “I’m finding that difficult to believe. So, all right, then. Describe me.”

  “I believe you’re an innocent – naïve – sweet – tender hearted girl. I suspect you love animals, and babies. You’re slow to anger, and then only if someone hurts you, or someone you love. You’re very kind.. You dream of a house by the sea, and you love to grow and tend flowers. You’re somewhat dreamy, but also blessed with good, common sense.”

  “Mon Dieu! Have you been reading my journal?” She laughed, softly. “I must admit, you describe me quite well.”

  “You see. I really have dreamed of you my whole life. Furthermore, I believe you’re my soulmate.”

  “I think you go a bit too far with your fantasy. No matter how well you may think you know me, the truth is that we’re scarcely acquainted.”

  “I wish we could change that, Elise.”

  “But, we can’t, Lieutenant. The war takes precedence over all else. Two people who meet in a farmhouse in Bergues, France will be nothing more than a memory when this war is over. If the time were different, perhaps we’d be able to learn if there’s any truth to your pretty dreams.”

  Sloan sighed. “Perhaps someday. But, can you honestly say you feel nothing unusual when near me? How can I be so certain that you’re my soulmate, yet see no evidence that you share those same feelings?”

  “I think you’re attractive, and you seem kind. I like the sound of your voice. You’re obviously intelligent, and well-spoken. But I’ve never had such dreams. I don’t doubt your sincerity. I’ve just never given any thought to soulmates.”

  “Elise, I’m not making this up. I swear. I believe that people who’re unhappy together are those who refuse to wait until the right person comes along. How do you explain the fact that I knew exactly what you’d be like?”

  “You have an ideal, that’s all. Whether I truly match your ideal would remain to be seen. My appearance makes you think this way.”

  “That’s part of it, I admit. But it’s who you are on the inside, too. I’m certain of that.”

  “Well, we won’t ever know. It’s growing late, and if you’re going to be lucky enough to find a way back to England, you must go.”

  Sloan stood and tried his weight on the injured leg. It hurt, but he was able to walk. He approached Elise and took hold of her hands. They were lovely hands – slender and smooth. They felt cool.

  I know I’m sounding awfully forward. I’m sorry for that, but you can’t know what it’s like to finally come face-to-face with someone you’ve dreamed about for so long. Is there – is there any chance that I could have a photograph of you? I’d carry it with me for good luck, when I’m flying lonely missions.”

  Elise looked surprised. She wasn’t used to strangers asking for her photograph. But, he was a soldier. If she could ease the fear of battle in some, small, way, then, of course, she’d give him a picture. It was a small enough thing to ask. She dashed to the parlour, opened a drawer and returned with a small, black and white snapshot, probably taken by her brother at the farm. In the photo, she was standing on the front porch, her curls blowing in the wind, wearing a pretty, print frock. She held a small dog in her arms, and there was a lovely smile on her face. She handed it to Sloan.

  “Elise. This is beautiful. I’ll treasure it. I’ll keep it next to my heart. I’ll always remember your kindness. I’ll always remember you, Elise. You’ll be in my thoughts and prayers.”

  She looked down at the floor and blushed. Her long lashes nearly touched her cheeks.

  “I’ll remember you too, Lieutenant. What a strange conversation. I don’t even know your name.” She paused. “God speed and travel safely. I’ll pray for you.”

  “I’m sorry. My name is Sloan. It’s an old family name,” he answered. He couldn’t take his eyes from her exquisite face and was concentrating on memorizing her features.

  “Thank you so much for your help. Until we meet again,” he murmured, kissing her hand.

  She looked at him, and their eyes met. Sloan knew he’d never forget her expression. Those stunning features sent desire through his heart.

  “I shall see you again, Elise. There’s no question about that. Please remember me with fondness, and keep safe.” Then, he paused. Placing his arms round her, pulled her close and kissed her passionately.
She was taken aback, but the emotion was so strong, she kissed him in return. Then, quickly turning, Sloan limped toward the entrance. He would have given anything to stay, or to take her with him.

  Elise stood in the doorway, watching him go.

  “Sloan,” she murmured to herself. “Sloan.” She felt exceedingly sad.

  She would remember his name.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Soon after Sloan limped from the farmhouse, there was a second knock at Elise’s door. She hesitated a moment, thinking perhaps the handsome Lieutenant had come back. Gingerly opening it a bit, she peered out. Three burley, intoxicated Nazis forced their way inside. They reeked of Schnapps and were boisterous. Speaking French badly, they shouted at her.

  “You’re in serious trouble. As representatives of the Third Reich, we’re here to enforce the law. You’ve aided and abetted the enemy. We saw an English airman leave this house. Do you know the penalty for such a crime?”

  “I did nothing wrong. I couldn’t send him away. He was wounded by your guns. I bandaged his leg and sent him on his way. Anyway, you have no jurisdiction over me. I’m a French citizen,” Elise stood taller and tried to keep her composure.

  “We’re taking control of this area. Soon we’ll rule all of France. The English airman should have been turned in to the Bergues police,” shouted one of the brutes. They all had swastikas on their shoulders. “You’ll pay for this,” he went on.

  Elise didn’t know what to believe. She’d heard nothing about the Germans having seized control of France, or even her Province. But what good would arguing do?

  “I couldn’t turn him in. I have no telephone in this house. I thought the best thing was to give him aid and ask him to leave.”

  “You were wrong, and you’ll pay.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” Elise asked, trembling.

  “We’ll mete out your punishment ourselves. Be glad we aren’t going to send you to an internment camp.”