Violette gave a small cry and fell into her arms. Sophie realised the young woman was crying.
‘You gave me a home,’ said Violette. ‘You were the first person, ever, perhaps, to care for me. My maman and papa, they cared about their daughter, but the daughter they longed for was never me. They did their duty, tried so hard to love me, but all they saw was what I was not. You did not have to give me a home, or give me a family, and yet you tried to, even though Australia was not where I belonged. You gave me all this . . .’ She waved her hand. She stepped back and smiled tearfully. ‘You liked me. Me, truly. Even loved me, perhaps.’
‘Yes, I loved you,’ said Sophie gently. ‘I still do.’
‘Bon. For I love you too. I wish . . . I wish you had been my mother. And one day we will kick the Boche back to his kennel and you and I will go dancing and drink champagne, and the next day you may go home to your Daniel.’
‘Take care, Violette. You are precious to many people. To me, too.’
‘But not to Mr Lorrimer.’
‘One day, perhaps. He trusts as few as he can these days.’
Another hug. Sophie had a strange feeling this self-possessed woman was close to sobbing.
‘I . . . I have a message for you. From George Carryman.’
‘You’ve seen him? He is safe?’ The expression on Violette’s face seemed to come from far away, beyond the world of Maison Violette, or even the strangely vulnerable but amoral girl Sophie had accepted into her family. No, not amoral, thought Sophie. It was just that the morals of others did not impinge.
‘He said to tell you the moon is made of green cheese,’ said Sophie.
‘Ah.’ Violette sat entirely still. ‘What is he doing?’
‘Flying planes.’ Sophie considered, then added, ‘He flew me here.’ This surely could not be dangerous information, for the Germans must know planes landed and the identity of pilots was not kept secret.
‘Still? The Anglais have not made him fight?’
‘I think he is too useful. He is an extraordinarily good pilot,’ said Sophie, with feeling.
‘He is well?’
‘Very well. No injuries, no illness. He was extremely anxious I give you the message.’
‘Will you tell him that I, too, think the moon is made of green cheese?’ It was a plea, and a declaration.
‘I don’t think I will see him for a long time,’ said Sophie quietly. ‘Not till the war is over perhaps or, possibly, not even then.’ Violette and George? No, no and no. They were too different. She glanced at the young woman’s face again. Or did George, just possibly, see what she had just glimpsed, the girl Violette might have been?
Violette composed her face, ignoring the tears on her cheeks. ‘Usually I go to my most favoured customers. But if you want to meet people most useful, then I will arrange that they will be here when you come for your fittings. And I will most discreetly not be here to introduce you.’
‘You are wonderful,’ said Sophie.
Violette finally acknowledged she must blow her nose. The handkerchief was violet, too, edged with fine scallops of handmade lace. ‘Every life perhaps has an angel. And mine was my Aunt Sophie.’
Chapter 20
To Remove Blood Stains
These may be your own, or another’s, but the same method works for both. Immerse at once in cold water, as cold as possible, and leave at least three hours and the blood will rinse out cleanly. Hot water will set the stains, as will time, and then anything that might remove the stain will also leach all colour from the fabric.
Miss Lily, 1912
Several older customers lingered in the foyer, watching enviously as Sophie was escorted once again by three madames, though different from the first. One even stepped towards her, as if to object to an unknown and younger woman being given so much attention.
The Comtesse de Brabant again ignored her, as did the madames attending her. One held her coat, another smoothed its drape, while the third opened the door. The car hired for her waited outside, the driver watching for her. He limped forwards to open the car door, so that the Comtesse de Brabant need only be exposed to a few seconds of winter air.
The customer who had stepped forwards gave a muffled exclamation. Sophie was vaguely aware of her hurrying up the corridor, undoubtedly to complain to Madame Ilcy that regular customers were neglected while this newcomer was fawned upon. Should she have smiled at the group, as potential dining acquaintances? The comtesse would probably seek out company closer to her own age, but Sophie was aware that discontented members of the old Junker German military class were likely to be older. If the women there today were included on Violette’s list, they would likely accept her invitation from curiosity, even if not tempted by a formal meal, which must include meats and wines increasingly difficult to obtain, despite one’s wealth. Even ancestral wine cellars were carefully closed to acquaintances now, lest they tempt one of the occupying powers to find a pretext to acquire it.
‘Home, your ladyship?’
‘To this address first, please,’ she handed him the note scribbled in Violette’s hand, ‘and then home.’ It might not be truly home, but it had a soft bed, copious pillows and a meal served on a tray while she rested her back and ankles abused by such high heels. It had been an extremely long day.
The address belonged to a café that smelled of tripe and onions, where Violette had told her cognac and sometimes champagne could be obtained. Sophie entered, gave her order — a table for six for lunch next Monday — scribbled her address on yet another scrap of paper, then folded it over the requisite extremely large bundle of francs, enough to buy a car in England.
She managed to sway gracefully back to the car instead of tottering, or, better yet, throwing the wretched green shoes into the gutter. She let her head rest back on the seat and shut her eyes for a moment. More black marketeering tomorrow, her first fitting and meeting whoever Violette arranged the day after. She must have a long talk with the cook, for she, too, almost certainly knew black-market sources.
A strange day. She was stirred, drained by emotion rather than exertion. She had not, in fact, realised how much she cared for Violette or, rather, that she cared, but had regarded her as immensely capable with little vulnerability.
The woman she had met this afternoon had been vulnerable indeed. No, she had never showed love for her parents, but she was correct: the relationship had been one of strained duty on both sides. Sophie had assumed that Violette’s love for her was cupboard love: Sophie’s wealth and connections providing the path to anything Violette might briefly desire.
But in choosing her profession Violette had defied Sophie’s and her parents’ expectations. She had not returned with a demand for a yacht or flying lessons. Her talent for design had ripened into genius — that green and gold dress was one of the most perfect garments Sophie had seen, its cut fashionable but also uniquely Violette, and beautiful — it recalled the first day of wattle blossom at Thuringa before any sprays had faded to brown. There had been matter-of-fact sincerity, and pride too, in the young woman’s references to her ‘Maison Violette’ family. Sophie suspected Violette’s employees were in awe of her and very slightly feared her, but loved her, too.
Sophie was suddenly glad that her masquerade was based in Paris. She could not invite Violette to the house — if there was indeed any anti-Nazi conspiracy it might be discovered at any time, and the Comtesse de Brabant implicated if her name was linked to the participants, or if they offered her name under torture. Hopefully James’s agents in Paris would know of any arrests, and Sophie could make her phone call and vanish. Violette could not.
But Sophie might still be able to meet her discreetly at the salon. Violette, of all people, would make sure her private rooms were exactly that. Sophie felt a strange longing to know the woman Violette had become. George Carryman, like his Aunt Ethel, had integrity to his backbone. He loved Violette. It seemed, too, Violette had remained faithful to him, despite the years that had parte
d them, and more years still to come, unless the revolt James hoped for eventuated. Had George seen a deeper integrity in Violette that the traumas of her early life and the uncertainties of living with strangers in unfamiliar lands had hidden?
Sophie smiled, as the car turned into yet another tree-lined street. Violette’s mother was . . . unconventional . . . as well, made respectable only by the close friendship with Lily-Nigel, and membership in James’s and Lily’s networks.
What would Lily make of Violette? Once again Sophie wished she’d had at least an evening to talk about the plans with her. Nigel and Lily were one, but the aspect of personality displayed was different, even, sometimes, it seemed, their way of looking at the world. Or perhaps her relationship with Lily simply had the freedom of one woman talking to another.
The car slowed.
‘Madame.’ For the first time the limousine driver did not use her title. ‘There is a black car outside your house.’
Sophie opened her eyes.
‘I am afraid it may be the Gestapo. If I drive past we will be followed, caught and your guilt assumed. I suggest I leave you at this corner here, where you might move back out of sight. I will then continue to the house and say you have been detained at the salon, and I have come to fetch . . . another pair of shoes, perhaps. I will find you to let you know if it is safe to return.’
‘Or I can hope the Gestapo have merely come to check on a stranger.’
‘That is possible, madame, but not likely. As a newcomer you may not know the Gestapo. I think you should not risk . . .’
Was he the contact who had been arranged? Unlikely, as he would be too easily traced to her — nor had he used the code phrase. Simply a good man. ‘The risk is greater for you if you arrive without me, monsieur. Drive to the house.’
He did not hesitate. Already the slowing car might have been remarked upon.
He parked behind the car. A driver in civilian clothes sat in its front seat. He did not turn to look at them, but Sophie glimpsed his watching eyes in the car’s mirror.
She waited for her own driver to open the door, then gave him a rich smile. ‘You have been perfection.’ She handed him a pile of francs. ‘This is for you. You need not tell the agency, heh? And I will ask for you to drive me again tomorrow.’
She managed to glance with unwary curiosity at the car as she stepped up to the front door, relaxing as the limousine drove off unhindered. Yes, that car did look like officials trying for anonymity — or possibly a threatening lack of anonymity despite the plain clothes. But, also quite possibly, any stranger in Paris might be questioned, especially one who had come from the part of the country till recently nominally under French control.
The door opened. The figure that greeted her was not any of her maids’, nor even likely to be one of the gardeners’, not in a suit so sombre and of such a subtle cut. ‘You will come with us, Lady Shillings.’
Her title was still the courtesy Lady Nigel, despite his presumed death, given to her for life for her services to the nation in 1936. She did not correct him. Nor did she dispute the title.
Had one of the women in Maison Violette’s foyer recognised her? Possibly. But they could not have found her address so quickly. She had not even given it to Madame Ilcy, only to Violette. Nor did anyone on the French side of this operation — and few even on the English — know her title.
Violette?
Impossible.
Tomorrow, if she had a tomorrow, she would work out who had betrayed her. Someone listening at the door perhaps . . . but Violette had said that nothing could be overheard.
Violette. Violette.
‘Ja wohl, mein Herr,’ she said politely, turning obediently before she had even crossed the threshold. She glimpsed his look of surprise that she had not argued or tried to plead, as she stepped towards the car.
Then she ran.
Around the side of the house, shedding high heels and then her coat. Over the back fence, hoping there was no ‘chien méchant’ to bark and guard the grounds, through next door’s canny bed of leeks and cabbages then under a box hedge.
The hedge was thick. She paused under its foliage, listening. Shouts, and men tramping, but they were looking for a woman running, not one lying under a hedge. Trousered legs passed within a yard of her, pausing, voices calling. She stilled even her breathing.
Eventually the legs moved on.
She could not risk moving now. She must hope that no one from the houses nearby had seen her crawl in.
What now?
She had no shoes; no coat; a bedraggled dress; torn stockings. The identity papers in her handbag were useless, if the Comtesse de Brabant was known to be the Countess of Shillings. She could not go far without fresh ones. Even on the street she might be asked for them at any time, especially if she looked conspicuous. And she would be. A peasant might be barefoot, but her haircut, her silk dress, even the handbag, proclaimed she was not a peasant, and by now the dress would be suspiciously torn and stained.
She did have the money belt around her waist, under her chemise, but all it contained was money. The Comtesse de Brabant would not carry a pistol or identity papers made out in another name, though both were presumably hidden in the false lining of a hatbox waiting back at the house, a hatbox she had not even had an opportunity to ask for. Her handbag only contained comb, lipstick, handkerchief and more money.
Wait and knock on a neighbour’s door and claim she had been attacked? Hope they might lend her shoes, let her sit in the warmth, and most importantly, let her make the phone call that would bring rescue . . .
But the inhabitants of a prosperous neighbourhood must all have made their peace, to some extent, with the invaders. If they were even slightly suspicious, they would call the police. If not suspicious, they might call the police anyway to apprehend a poor old woman’s attacker. And the Gestapo might even now be sending officers from door to door to ask if she’d been seen.
Find an empty house? By now at least a third of wealthy Parisians had left for the provinces in the exode de 1940. Most of the middle and working class had returned, but not those who could afford a country house, rich in orchards, vegetable gardens, even hens or half a black-market pig. But any empty house near here, too, would be watched.
Think.
It would be dark soon. Curfew lasted from nine pm to five am, not even dusk to dawn at this time of year. She would wait till the lights went off in the houses around her, then keep to the shadows, creeping from garden to garden, avoiding all those with dogs if possible, and high stone walls, peering out till she found a public telephone. But this was unlikely to be found in a suburban district. Unlike England, where middle-class households often had a telephone, and there were public call boxes even in the slums, relatively few French families bothered with a telephone. Why pay a large deposit for such a device when shopping and social life were mostly local? A phone in France was usually for business use. James’s escape plan had assumed she would have access to the phone in the house, or even Maison Violette.
She would need to find a street of shops, preferably with businesses above them. She did, at least, have a supply of jeton de téléphone, the tokens needed to make a call.
In any case, she could not make that call tonight. The Gestapo would still be hunting her, as well as the French police. She would be all too visible looking for a telephone now, and even more so after curfew. If only she’d had one more day, the next agent would have contacted her, given her information that would undoubtedly have included convenient telephones as well as possible places of refuge. But she would need to find shelter if she was to spend the night hiding, or she would freeze. She suspected her fingers under their gloves, her toes in the laddered stockings, were already turning blue.
Or try to reach Violette . . . Logic slammed the door on that. She would undoubtedly be arrested if she travelled the streets after curfew. And if Violette had betrayed her, the Gestapo would be waiting. If Violette had not informed on her, then th
e Gestapo would be watching the first place ‘la comtesse’ had visited after her arrival. Violette and her ‘famille’ were in even more desperate danger if the Gestapo knew of her past connection with the Countess of Shillings, but it was already too late to warn her.
I’m sorry, Violette, she thought, trying to huddle into a small, heat-conserving ball. Was there a traitor at Shillings? But Bob had said none of James’s agents had been arrested. Or had James simply not told Bob to ensure Sophie’s cooperation . . .
Hot soup, she thought. Silk long-johns, woollen blankets, the summer sun glowing on the sand along the Thuringa river . . .
‘Madame?’ The voice was a whisper, not a Gestapo command. A face looked down: three days of grey stubble, a fringe of grey hair. ‘Please, come, before they see us.’
She scrambled out. Her rescuer had already melted into shadow. But then one shadow moved towards a garden hut. She bent till she was no longer a human shape and crept slowly into the same shadows and towards the hut after him. He paused, looked around, opened the door and ushered her into its earthy darkness. He entered too, then shut the door and bolted it.
But not complete blackness, Sophie realised. Coals glowed dully from a fireplace made from an old drum with what might have been a drainpipe for a chimney. The floor under her feet was hard-packed dirt, but it felt swept. She could make out a wire bedstead with blankets and pillow, a battered table and old cupboard, as well as a wheelbarrow, spades and shovels and other garden implements.
‘Madame.’ Her rescuer gestured to a wooden fruit box by the fire, evidently a seat. He was sixty perhaps, his thin body bent from heavy work. She held her hands out to the fire, then turned and warmed her back, while he lifted a kettle and poured water into a pot.
She longed for coffee or strong tea. This was only a tisane, linden flowers perhaps and rosehips, but it was hot. She sipped, then exchanged the mug for a tin can and a spoon placed on another box, his table.
Legends of the Lost Lilies Page 16
