Christmas in Paris

by Jackie French

  She and Adele made their way through the crowd, American voices mixing with the French.

  ‘Wonderful party, cherie!’

  ‘Maman, look! Have you ever seen a cake as big?’

  ‘Hot-diggity-dog, hot dogs! I say, get it? Hot dogs!’

  ‘Merde! Everything he paints looks like merde! But the dealers sell it! The people buy it!’

  ‘Neo-classicism, my dear . . .’

  ‘But Biarritz at this time of year is so crowded . . .’

  ‘And expensive,’ the tone had a touch of malice. ‘I hear that Gene’s investments are . . . what is the English phrase? Down the gurgler?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Adele, it is so wonderful . . .’

  ‘Hey, honey, what heaven did you fall from?’

  At last they reached the door. Violette gazed at the young women dressed as elves in green tights and short red dresses with red and green hats tinkling with bells, organising pass the parcel and musical chairs, children laughing, running, cheering.

  Against the other wall Santa sat on his throne, a most magnificent throne, painted gold and silver, with big sacks of gifts on each side, all wrapped in gold and silver paper too. Violette stopped to stare.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ cried Santa, holding up another gift. ‘And this is for Mademoiselle Elise Dupré!’

  A small girl in good but patched clothes was ushered up onto the stage by her mother. The games and music stopped as she took her gifts and received a kiss on the cheek from Santa Claus. She ran down to open the parcels eagerly . . . a doll, with long black hair, two dresses, a pair of shiny red shoes, a small necklace that might just be pearls, a vast box of chocolates. Adele K Vandendorn was indeed generous with her gifts.

  ‘Master Gilles Bouquelle!’ called Santa Claus.

  Adele smiled. ‘Your father is a real brick. He makes a perfect Santa Claus. Come and get a drink. There’s fruit punch or punch with a real punch or champagne or genuine Yankee lemonade . . .’

  Violette shook her head. ‘Adele?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That man is not my papa.’

  ‘What!’ Adele looked up again, more carefully, at the fat man in his red suit, red hat, the lower part of his face obscured by the long white beard.

  And fainted.

  Chapter 6

  ‘It is the heat and excitement,’ Violette insisted, warding off offers of help as she shepherded Adele into one of the small rooms off the main chamber. This one held guests’ coats and umbrellas and, mercifully, a chaise longue. Violette let Adele sit, then made her put her head down and her legs up while sipping a glass of the ‘punchless’ punch.

  ‘He . . . he isn’t dead!’ Adele said at last.

  ‘It seems not,’ said Violette.

  ‘But . . . but how?’

  Violette shrugged. ‘I did not hit him hard enough. We did not stop to see that he was dead.’

  ‘But why did he come here?’

  ‘That is the question,’ said Violette. She peeked out the door again, and encountered a hard glare from Santa’s throne. The man hurriedly returned to calling the children’s names. ‘I think, perhaps, he is angry,’ she concluded. ‘He has been bested by a woman. Few men like being bested by a woman. Most men do not even think it possible. So he will make it not possible. He will come here, where you can do nothing, for how can you call a gendarme in front of children and ask that they arrest Santa Claus? And on what charge? You cannot prove he tried to rob you.’

  ‘But where is your father? I hope that man hasn’t hurt him! But he might have tied him up, like he tried to do to me.’

  ‘I think my papa did not get the message.’ Sometimes her parents did vanish for two or three days, which meant their absence this time was probably because they were on business for James Lorrimer. It annoyed Violette to be left out; the work of an intelligence agent could be most interesting. But she did not mind being abandoned to untangle this mess herself; this adventure was her own. She was enjoying it immensely. ‘Mademoiselle, no one hurts my father. He has been in three large wars and many small ones and dispatched many bad people and he has not been hurt at all.’ Or she thought that he had not. Perhaps she did not know. She put that thought away to examine another time.

  The important thing now was to stop Santa Claus from ever threatening Adele again — or any other woman. Already Violette had a plan.

  ‘Give me your pearls.’

  ‘But . . . but why?’

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Decidedly too trusting, thought Violette sadly. She knew all too well why she should not be trusted. But it was good for Adele to trust her today.

  Violette held out her hand. The pearls were heavy and a little bulky when held in her armpit. ‘Now I want you to give each elf and each waitress a message to give to Santa Claus as he leaves the room and the hotel. And then I want you to fetch a gendarme.’

  Chapter 7

  It was hot in the reception room. The French always did keep their rooms too hot. Santa sweated in his costume, but the bag of gifts was empty. Violette quickly made her way to the throne. She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘May I sit on Santa’s knee? I’ve been such a good girl.’

  ‘Certainement.’ Santa, perhaps deciding that she mustn’t know what had happened with Adele after all, gave a quick leer, luckily hidden from the children by his beard. Violette nestled herself seductively onto his lap. ‘I have a message for you, Santa,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, my little elf? Have you been naughty or nice?’

  Violette considered. She might as well tell the truth. ‘I am both naughty and nice.’

  Santa leered again, obviously reassured that Adele had said nothing about his behaviour. His breath smelled of stale garlic and cigarettes. ‘I know lots of girls who are naughty and nice.’

  ‘Do you know the women of La Dame Blanche, too, then monsieur? The White Lady?’

  He shrugged. ‘The White Lady is a myth.’

  ‘Not in the war she wasn’t. There were thousands of us, monsieur. At every railway station, in every hotel, women and girls watching, listening, passing information to the Allies. But we did not rely on the Allies for justice. That, we did ourselves.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Oh, but you will, soon. Soon Santa will get the Christmas present he deserves. And after that . . .’ Violette leaned in even closer. ‘We will be watching. Every time you think you might hurt a woman, steal from her, abuse her, remember this — always, everywhere, we women will be watching.’

  His mouth was still open in shock as she slipped from his lap.

  Chapter 8

  It had been a good day for Santa. True, he had woken with a headache, but a few pastis had cured that. He had drunk punch with punch and eaten well before changing into his costume. He had seen that tart from last night faint at the sight of him.

  He had liked that, too.

  The only unpleasantness had been that girl with her talk of the White Lady. But everyone knew that story was just a myth. Women watching him, indeed . . .

  ‘A drink, monsieur?’ The waitress held out her tray. Santa took a cup of punch, drained it and replaced it on the tray, just as she whispered, ‘We are watching.’ She melted back into the crowd.

  Odd. That minx must have been talking to her . . .

  ‘We are watching.’ The whisper came from an elf this time, but when he turned to speak to her she had gone.

  ‘We are watching.’

  ‘We are watching.’

  ‘We are watching.’

  The whispers seemed to come from all around.

  Someone was playing a fool trick, he decided. Time to depart. But not before Miss Adele K Vandendorn paid him, for she could not prove he had done anything to not deserve his pay — his very excellent pay. Santa smiled as he crossed the hallway to the room where he would get changed. Maybe he’d ask her for a little extra, too, for all her trouble. She couldn’t risk him making a fuss in front o
f all these people.

  ‘Excusez-moi, monsieur?’ The gendarme laid a hand on Santa’s arm.

  Where had a gendarme come from? ‘What is it?’ he demanded irritably. ‘I need to get changed.’

  ‘Not quite yet, monsieur.’

  The gendarme reached into the Santa costume’s jacket. ‘I think, monsieur,’ he said, ‘that we have pearls. Most valuable pearls that Mademoiselle Vandendorn wore to her party, and which many people saw her wearing, but which disappeared just after she spoke to you.’

  ‘She didn’t speak to me!’ The bitch had fainted before she had even got close.

  ‘But surely she must have, Monsieur? It was her party, was it not? It would only be natural for her to speak to you. Now can you explain how the pearls of Mademoiselle came to be in your pocket?’

  He could not. He still could not, two weeks later, when given three years’ imprisonment for theft. And still he heard the whisper, always in women’s voices, even in the crowd as they led him from the dock.

  ‘We are watching.’

  ‘We are watching.’

  ‘We are watching.’

  Somehow he knew that even if no one spoke those words to him again, he would hear them all his life, each time he saw a woman, imagined what he might do to her or take from her . . .

  ‘We are watching.’

  ‘We are watching.’

  ‘We are watching.’

  Chapter 9

  It had been a most excellent Christmas at Shillings, Violette decided, as her father steered the car down the long driveway. The Christmas tree had reached the roof, the carol singers had sung sweetly — though not as sweetly as she herself had sung in her days on street corners begging for coins or the cocoa she detested but which had at least warmed her for a while.

  Her parents had been happy and Mr Lorrimer was happy too when he joined them all at church on Christmas morning and then at dinner, only sometimes looking wistfully at the seat where Miss Lily had once sat and Nigel Vaile, Earl of Shillings, too.

  Her new friend, Miss Adele K Vandendorn, had been most impressed with Christmas dinner in the dining room of an earl, even if most of the guests, her maman’s relatives, lived in cottages on the estate. It had been a most English Christmas dinner, with roast goose and asparagus from the hothouses, plum puddings with flaming brandy and threepences and silver trinkets hidden inside, and mince pies and shortbread and chocolates and glacé fruit and a trifle so magnificent it had taken two footmen to carry it in.

  And now Adele would go back to Paris, still happy but perhaps a little less trusting than before. Violette and Maman and Papa would return to Australia, where the cicadas would be singing and the sheep panting in the shade, and Violette would swim in the river in the most exquisite bathing dress Bald Hill had ever seen. And she would be happy, playing with little Rose and Danny, learning to be charming with Aunt Sophie and Aunt Lily, and using that charm on every stockman and farmer in the district.

  But it would just be practice. Violette had lived several quite different lives already, but she knew now where her real life would begin. Her heart belonged to Paris, for hers was the lost generation too. And one day she would return there, not just for Christmas, but forever.

  Mrs Goodenough’s Christmas Trifle . . . not to be trifled with

  (Note: the alcohol can be replaced with orange flower water if children are eating this)

  Use a large glass bowl, or divide recipe into many small ones.

  The base: fresh sponge cake, about the thickness of your finger, or sponge finger biscuits. Sprinkle with orange juice spiked with Cointreau.

  First layer: fresh white peaches, peeled and sliced, or fresh cherries, stones removed.

  Second layer: whipped cream sweetened with sugar and Cointreau to taste.

  Third layer: more sponge or sponge fingers.

  Fourth layer: more whipped cream sweetened with sugar and Cointreau to taste.

  Fifth layer: thinly sliced oranges, or fresh cherries, stones removed, or both.

  Sixth layer: more sponge.

  Last layer: more whipped sweetened cream with choice of flavouring.

  Decorate the top with your choice of candied violets, fresh strawberries, raspberries, crystalised wattle flowers, chocolate in the shape of leaves, green and red jelly cut into the shape of leaves and small marzipan animals — wombats for Australian guests or sheep to echo the Nativity. The decoration should be seriously ostentatious and wonderful.

  Author’s Note

  This ebook short story sits between The Lily in the Snow and Lilies, Lies and Love, the third and fourth books in the series beginning with Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies. It is for those readers who can’t wait for the next in the series, but it can be read as a stand-alone story, as can each of the Miss Lily books. The previous ebooks, With Love from Miss Lily and Christmas Lilies are available at https://www.harpercollins.com.au/9781460709993/with-love-from-miss-lily/ andhttps://www.harpercollins.com.au/9781460711507/christmaslilies/. Each of the short stories will add depth and background to the books themselves.

  This short story is part of Jackie French’s Miss Lily series.

  Keep reading for extracts from the first three books, Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies, The Lily and the Rose and The Lily and the Snow (all out now).

  The fourth instalment, Lilies, Lies and Love, will be coming in April 2020.

  ‘The story is equal parts Downton Abbey and wartime action, with enough romance and intrigue to make it 100% not-put-down-able’ Australian Women’s Weekly on Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies

  Chapter 11

  The way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach, unless of course it is with a bayonet. But good food helps most situations.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  ENGLAND, 1913

  A railway roast potato, looking crisp but actually soft when Sophie prodded it with her fork, six slices of brown meat, brown gravy over drab-coloured Brussels sprouts . . . even the soup was brown: brown Windsor soup, the same colour as the drains when a stall was washed out at the Agricultural Show back home. The world beyond the windows glided in drabs of orange and red, with sudden shocks of gold when the stubborn English sun allowed itself a moment between clouds.

  Mrs Philpott sat opposite her on the train, eating with the dedication of a woman who rarely dined without children vying for her attention, whose cook back home could stuff a shoulder of lamb but never had time to make brown Windsor soup.

  Did the King and Queen drink brown Windsor soup when they dined at Windsor Castle? wondered Sophie, looking around the dining car. Her hat was bigger — a proper hat, a distinguished hat — and her furs more elegant than those of any other woman on the train. It had been exhilarating, ordering dresses without Miss Thwaites.

  The gravy had congealed. Sophie sighed, and pushed the plate away. It was thick and white, with British Railways around the rim, and the same crest that was on the thick silver cutlery.

  ‘Apple pie and crème anglaise, miss, or treacle tart?’

  ‘Apple pie,’ said Mrs Philpott.

  Sophie smiled up at the waiter. ‘Apple pie. Please.’

  The apple pie was good. Sophie ate all but the last spoonful (left for ‘Miss Manners’ as Miss Thwaites had instructed her, back when the schoolroom had still been the nursery), and smiled again at the waiter as she followed Mrs Philpott back to their own carriage, carefully ignoring the red-faced gentleman and the two young men rising hopefully from their seats.

  At least they had the carriage to themselves — two women, two travelling rugs, bricks to warm their feet (carefully changed at each station for fresh ones by Mrs Philpott’s maid), a box of Russian toffee, Mrs Philpott’s The Lady magazine and her own novel. Why do women who do nothing travel with so much more than men who are seldom idle? thought Sophie.

  In another hour she would meet an earl! And the cousin, still unnamed. Plump and elderly, Sophie decided, and in reduced circumstances, which meant she must help colonials through their season. She
had once asked Miss Thwaites how one reduced a circumstance . . .

  The train chugged through another tunnel. Mrs Philpott rose and closed the window, to keep out smuts. Sophie waited till the tunnel’s darkness was passed, then opened it again, feeling the soft air on her face.

  English air. Not just cold air, not just unfamiliar smells, but a different feel: moisture without humidity, air that stroked your skin instead of battering it.

  ‘Shillings! Shillings!’ It sounded like the guard was calling for money. The earl’s house — castle — must be named after the town . . . or the other way around. Sophie rose and Mrs Philpott folded her travelling rug.

  Sophie felt guilty about Mrs Philpott. Mrs Philpott obviously minded enormously that the earl had suggested she accompany Sophie only to the Shillings railway station, and not to Shillings Hall itself, so that Mrs Philpott could catch the three-ten back to London instead of spending the night.

  The Shillings railway station was small — a single platform, a low-roofed waiting room (just one, no first and second class), and a couple of stone cottages. The guard was already helping the porter load Sophie’s trunks onto the trolley as Mrs Philpott’s maid hurried up from the second-class carriage to offer a Thermos of tea and some oranges.

  Sophie shook her head to both. ‘I’m sure it won’t be far.’

  ‘Miss Higgs? I am Samuel, Miss Higgs.’ The man might be either a driver or a groom. Sophie glanced through the waiting room. A carriage stood there, old-fashioned, black with a faded crest on the door. Two horses, perfectly matched bays. She looked at the man again. Fortyish, probably not able or willing to learn to drive a car. Either the earl was conservative or he was thoughtful enough not to let a chauffeur usurp this man’s position. ‘His lordship’s carriage is outside, Miss Higgs.’ He signalled to the porter.