A Gown of Thorns: A Gripping Novel of Romance, Intrigue and the Secrets of a Vintage Parisian Dress (22 page)

Pinning her hand to her side, because all she wanted to do was slap him, she turned around and went back to her quarters. Back to the tower room.

That next night felt like the longest of her life and because she had to do something to keep herself from going mad, she took the little key she’d found in Henri’s jacket and opened the wardrobe. She took out each garment and in the darkness held them to her face, imbibing their spicy smells. One in particular felt like woven water against her skin. Then, all of a sudden, confused and fretful, she hung them back and slammed the door.

As she got into bed, shivering with suppressed tears, she thought she heard the dragging of fingernails down one of her walls. It frightened her, until she realised that it came from above. It must be the doves roosting in the roof joists.

O
n her last
morning at Chemignac, July 13
^th
, the rain stopped. Yvonne again disobeyed Henri’s orders. Jean-Claude persuaded her to do it.

He’d given her some good news. Having been woken early by the sound of a powerful car engine, he’d peeked through a broken window-shutter. He’d hoped it was their host returning, but it was a black Renault gliding down the walnut tree avenue to the road.

He told her jubilantly, ‘Our German neighbour has gone. Off to cut down more trees, I don’t doubt. I sincerely hope one falls on him. But it means we can emerge from our holes.’

Jean-Claude also reported that he had popped in on Cyprien. ‘I think “as well as can be expected” best sums up our young chum. He’s alive, anyway. Just wish it wasn’t so darned stuffy inside these walls.’

A stiff breeze had banished the last traces of cloud. Under dense, blue skies the courtyard flags had begun to steam. The sun climbed to the meridian and that was when Jean-Claude made his dangerous suggestion: ‘Why don’t you and I sit outside for a bit, Yvonne? Mm? Can’t hurt, and I reckon we both need fresh air.’

She wavered, but with Albert out of sight and the German gone, she wondered, what harm could there be? And it would be good to talk to Jean-Claude. Not about Henri, of course. About anything. About showing pedigree cats, or vegetable gardening, or the price of cheese if he so wished. She found a wooden chair to sit on, and collected her book. Jean-Claude went to get himself a chair, and when he returned he also had his camera with him. He’d unfortunately left doors open behind him and the geese, which spent their days roaming through what had once been a rose garden, quickly found their way to the courtyard. Yvonne attempted to herd them back inside, but she soon gave up. Every one she ushered back in was replaced by two more waddling out.

Jean-Claude watched her efforts with great enjoyment. ‘Leave it to Raymond,’ he advised at last. ‘He’s the goose-keeper. He likes them. They like him. In my view, they generate a lot of heat and that is all the good I can say of them.’

T
he sun had
the radiance of an electric fire, and the air was dense as soup. But it still felt like paradise after so long indoors. Yvonne chose a spot in the shade of a wall. She opened the Dumas novel she’d been reading and found her place, but she didn’t get very far. Geese clustered around her, intrigued by her brown shoes – did they imagine they were something edible? ‘Go away,’ she told a particularly bold female, ‘or you never know, toe of shoe might just be applied to rear of goose.’

The creature ignored her, so she eventually ignored it in return. Actually, it was quite stimulating to be surrounded by flesh-and-blood creatures. Hadn’t she’d asked for memories to take away from here? This was another one she would never forget.

She couldn’t get into her novel. The words slipped away from her eyes. All she could think about was whether Henri was on his way home. Or lying dead at the side of a road.When Jean-Claude asked if he could take her picture, she stared at him as if he’d spoken to her in Chinese. ‘Why?’

‘Because you remind me of Britannia, dear girl, afloat in a sea of wings.’

‘It’s absolutely forbidden for us to take snapshots of each other, you know that.’

‘Scout’s honour, if the Germans come within fifty yards of me, I’ll swallow the film. I’ll go potty if I don’t do something other than wrap cold cloths on my ankle while worrying about what lies ahead and if I’m up to it. The hours I’ve spent in the company of Cyprien hasn’t done much for my morale either. His conversation is very one-sided.’

‘Oh, go on then.’ Yvonne kept her eyes lowered, thinking,
I could be anybody in my brown-and-beige, and my hair always looks mousy in pictures.
‘Shall I smile and say “cheese”?’

‘Try “Camembert”, it’s more dignified. Ready?’ He took three or four shots, until the sound of children’s voices made him break off. They looked at each other, alarmed. Children?

A moment later, Raymond came into the courtyard. His face as he saw the geese would have given Jean-Claude an award-winning shot, had he lined it up in time. Raymond held the hand of a very little boy and was followed by a girl wearing a headscarf and a patched skirt. She seemed to be about the same age as him, perhaps a year older. She, in turn, held the hand of a dark-haired girl with elfin features and long limbs.

The dark little girl and Yvonne stared at each other. Yvonne bent first. ‘Are you Isabelle?’

A raking appraisal and the little mouth turned down.

‘Yes, it is Isabelle,’ Raymond answered, ‘and this is Pierre-Gaston. And this’ – his homely face lit up with pride as he stepped towards the girl in the headscarf – ‘is my friend Audrey, who looks after the children for Monsieur de Chemignac. Come on, help me round these birds up,’ he told the children.

Yvonne and Jean-Claude stood back as the four young ones persuaded the honking, ruffled geese back into the building, cornering the stragglers. The little boy, Pierre-Gaston, wasn’t much help as he ran among them, enjoying himself far too much. But young Isabelle applied herself to the job with a determination that was not lost on Yvonne.

Her father’s daughter
, she thought.

Raymond introduced Yvonne and Jean-Claude to the children simply as ‘Monsieur’s guests.’ Isabelle was very interested in Jean-Claude’s camera.

‘Will you take our pictures?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure you should,’ Yvonne warned.

‘Well, why not, young lady?’ Jean-Claude said. ‘So long as Nurse doesn’t mind?’ He flashed his genial smile at Audrey, who said, ‘Well, if you don’t mind, Monsieur.’

Jean-Claude dragged his chair around as he located interesting angles from which to take his shots. He was still hampered by his injury and needed to sit down quite often. Telling them, ‘Stand tall, don’t grin. Don’t slouch. Perfect!’ he posed them singly and together. While Audrey and Raymond held hands and Pierre-Gaston jumped up and down, refusing to stay still, Isabelle performed for the camera. It was clear to Yvonne that she loved the lens.

She showed off her ballet steps, standing with a foot pointed, her arms extended elegantly, keeping her pose as Jean-Claude adjusted his focus. Her mouth turned right down when, after several shots, Jean-Claude said, ‘That’s all. Mustn’t use up too much film, you see.’

‘All right,’ Isabelle said, with a little pout. ‘We’ve come to see Papa, anyway.’

It fell to Yvonne to tell them that ‘Papa’ was still away. ‘On business.’ From the little boy there were tears, while Isabelle glared as if she, Yvonne, were responsible for their disappointment. Yvonne wished she could do something, offer something. But she had too many fears of her own to reassure unhappy children, and was relieved when Audrey took them away again.

‘Poor kids,’ Jean-Claude said when they were gone. ‘Yvonne, can I get a portrait of you in profile, without our feathered friends?’

‘Oh, go on. I’m only pretending to read, after all.’

H
enri strode
into the courtyard as Jean-Claude clicked his shutter for the third time, and his face turned to granite. Without a word, he hustled Yvonne inside. So roughly she dropped her book. He grabbed her chair as he went past, slinging it against one of the interior walls. He waited for Jean-Claude to join them and rounded on him. ‘Take out the film,’ he ordered. ‘Expose it, now!’

Jean-Claude remained imperturbable. He never boiled up or grew flustered. Probably why he’d passed all his agent training in spite of his age. ‘Our German neighbour has gone. Tell you what, old chap, I’ve nearly finished the roll of film, so I’ll hand it over to you.
After
I’ve taken some shots of you, what do you say? Because we really do need a record of these times. This war won’t last forever and without pictures, who will prove who was where? Who will prove who was on whose side? One day, Monsieur, you might be called upon to explain why you obligingly supplied so much wine to the enemy. Good to see you back, by the way.’

The sense of his words reached Henri, who answered with a curt nod. They went outside again and pictures were taken until the film ran out.

‘I will keep your camera too, and hide it until you leave here.’ Henri held out his hand. With a pained sigh, Jean-Claude gave up his precious Kodak.

When it was just the two of them, Henri snarled, ‘Are you mad, after what I said?’

Yvonne patted her hair defensively. Henri’s handling had destabilised the hairpins. Her bun was slipping down her neck. ‘He’s right. That German has gone. He left this morning.’

‘I told you about his staff, no? The two servants who live in? Pox-ridden informants both, and no more than fifty feet away.’

‘Albert has seen me outside since you went.’ He’d as good as lured her out, actually. ‘If it was so darn dangerous, why did he say nothing?’

‘Albert does not make the rules here or give the orders.’

‘No. Clearly not. Oh, don’t look at me like that.’ His scathing fury was making her curl up inside. ‘I’m just so glad to see you back.
Four days
, Henri!’

But he wasn’t ready to relent. ‘I thought the British SOE trained their people. Look what they send us! Old men, actors and female amateurs. We deserve better.’

‘How dare you?’ Her anger flared, in part from shame but mostly from anguish. This wasn’t the reunion she’d fantasised about through the sleepless hours. This man, his face tight with rage and disgust, could not be the one who had made love to her. She wasn’t sure why she’d disobeyed orders to keep indoors. Perhaps she just didn’t
like
taking orders. A gracious apology was in order, but somehow she couldn’t get it out. ‘You may criticise, but Cyprien wouldn’t have got shot in the first place if your people hadn’t made a muck of things. Have you identified your informant yet, may I ask?’

Henri rubbed his chin uncomfortably. ‘No. We recruit only those we know we can trust, but men and women break. Sometimes we win, sometimes we fail.’

‘Did you…’ She was afraid to ask. ‘Did you rescue your man from the prison wagon?’

‘It was a woman, actually. Yes, but I lost two friends in the attack and their families may now pay a heavy price. For their sakes, for the sake of every man and woman who gives up their life for this cause, we have to make this work. Stay indoors, please.’

She bowed her head. ‘I just hate being up in that room. It makes me uneasy and…’ She groped for something that didn’t sound silly or far-fetched. She’d woken so many times in that big bed feeling she wasn’t alone. Once she’d even hissed, ‘Albert? Is that you, you viper?’ convinced he was leaning over her. Except it couldn’t have been Albert. It couldn’t have been anyone, because she
always
locked her door from the inside. This morning, the light through the shutters making piano keys across her bedspread, she’d thought she heard gunshots and heavy boots. A minute of heart-arrest, listening with one foot on the floor, had reassured her that it was only the morning congregation of geese. She’d lain under her covers, trying to reach Henri with her mind, when the wardrobe door had whined open, bathing her in its strange, spicy breath. A dress had slipped off its hanger in a plop of violet silk. Utter despair had stolen over her.

The recollection of it made her temper surge. ‘You spend your days striding among the vines or going off on sorties, yet you think I should sit day and night tending an invalid and counting the cracks in the ceiling? I’m trapped here and bloody miserable.’

He said stiffly, ‘If you would prefer to sleep down here, we will bring a mattress into this room.’

She looked around. Where they stood must once have been the household’s laundry. A tarnished copper boiler dominated one wall, a line of stone sinks spanning another. Some years since any washing had been done here, of course. ‘Stay with me in the tower. I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Yvonne.’ The two syllables communicated reproach, desire, exasperation. ‘You are my guest.’

‘What are you saying? That we can only make love outside? I didn’t feel like ‘your guest’ the other night.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong. You’re not married and neither am I.’

‘I have my children to think of. They visit sometimes. I cannot push a lover in their face.’

Something froze inside her. ‘If you’re ashamed of me, you’d better say it.’

‘I am not ashamed, but I am afraid. Days away from you have shown me how much I stand to lose.’

‘Then let’s make the most of the time we have. Henri, don’t glower at me. The wind might change and you’ll stick like it, as my mother used to tell me.’ She cupped his face. ‘Smile? You must have run out of fury by now.’

He groaned and their mouths met, neither of them aware who moved first, who closed the gap faster. Yvonne shut her eyes. When she heard the scrape of boots in the courtyard, she guessed that somebody was there, peering in at them through the window. She knew who it would be.
So be it
. She minded being spied on, but danger was a drug, so they said. So was the taste of Henri’s mouth and the restless exploration of his hands.

S
hauna took
Laurent’s hand and pulled him out of the apartment, bidding Albert ‘Goodnight!’ Out in the courtyard, she squealed in astonishment as Laurent blocked her progress and locked her against the house wall. ‘Who is he?’ he demanded. The animosity he’d displayed in Rachel’s presence was back.

‘Who is who? Laurent, don’t cram me. I don’t like it.’

‘No? What do you like, this?’ His lips were against hers then, marauding, demanding. There was so much strength in him, she couldn’t escape or even bend away. All she could do was reach up and grab the drawstring neck of his hoodie and pull until he had to break off for air. Then she slapped him, hard enough to bring him back to his senses.

‘Shauna?’

‘That was like being mugged in a back alley. Oh, wait a minute… You’ve been with Albert. Has he been filling your mind with his brand of progressive feminism?’

Shauna remained ready to fight, until the pattern of Laurent’s breathing changed and she knew the person she loved was back with her.

He said, ‘It’s not Albert—’ He broke off to touch her face. ‘Did I hurt you?’

‘You haven’t shaved, so you sandpapered me.’

‘I’m sorry. I won’t ever do that again.’

‘Well, that would be a shame.’ She drew him to her and kissed him, murmuring, ‘Uh-uh’ when he tried to take over. ‘I don’t mind implacable passion, so long as I know who the man is behind it.’ Her tongue found the sensitive places behind his lips, the roof of his mouth. He writhed, straining against her, but she still wouldn’t let him take over. Her lips moved around his lips, his throat and cheekbones, the prickly sideburn hair, the lobe of an ear, until he was lost, pushing her back against the wall, unable to stop himself. Responding to his arousal, her loins ached and nothing would have stopped the primal act taking place there and then – until Shauna happened to glance up at the tower.

‘My God, there, see that?’

Most unwillingly, Laurent followed her gaze. The light at the top of the tower was flickering on and off.

‘I told you about that, didn’t I?’ she said. ‘Your wiring’s faulty.’

‘I have it checked every year, for the insurance. Shauna, don’t leave me in pain, please.’ He raked her thigh, his hand beneath her dress, urgent, tantalising, but she pushed him away, aware all of a sudden that they were in the courtyard where anyone might see them.

Laurent said heavily, ‘Rachel tells me you’re leaving, that you’ve accepted a job offer. There’s someone else at home. An older man. Your professor, she said.’

So that’s what had triggered the storm!

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Shauna?’

‘Because it isn’t the case. Rachel’s lying. About the man, anyway. There is a job… Well, there was. Truth is, I’m not sure I want it now.’ Shauna put her arm around Laurent to steer him towards Isabelle’s door and ultimately to bed. But whatever tormented him made him stubborn. ‘I am not leaving Chemignac,’ she said, each word emphatic. ‘Not unless you tell me to. Rachel is dishonest. She’s had a grudge against me from day one, as you well know. Anyway, at this moment she’s locked in her bedroom with Adão, not a stitch between them. Laurent?’

She felt him shudder, waiting for his answer. That frisson had felt to her like jealousy but he made no reference to Rachel, saying slowly, ‘You must not leave, Shauna. Not until we’ve learned the end of Henri and Yvonne’s story. He was so afraid of losing her.’

‘And when we’ve learned it?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t see past them. Every emotion I feel is magnified. I have no control and I can’t go through this alone. In Albert’s room, I
was
Henri. What did you feel in there with Albert? What did you make of the photos?’

She admitted, ‘I was in Yvonne’s head. I came here and I took a lover. Henri. I was a pretty fast mover!’

‘And I wanted you from the moment I saw you in your goggles and overalls. I can’t get enough of you. As Henri, I couldn’t get enough of you and now I feel I’m making up for lost years.’ His smile, absent for much of the day, lit up. She reached up to stroke his mouth and felt his teeth close lightly on her finger.

‘It’s our story too, isn’t it?’ She’d denied the idea for so long as being outside rational possibility, but consciousness of an alternative reality had been growing for a while. Indelibly, like the shadow on an x-ray plate. To negate it in the face of so much proof would be illogical. Lights still flickered on and off at the top of the tower. She took a deep breath and told Laurent that the Gown of Thorns was back in its wardrobe.

‘How?’

‘I found it in Isabelle’s cupboard. Rachel, again! Anyway, I decided it ought to go back to its lair. Sorry.’

‘No – you did right. I wouldn’t want it anywhere near the children. That dress betrayed Yvonne and Henri.’

A shred of rationality held. ‘I don’t buy that a dress can be imbued with evil. It’s cloth,’ she repeated, mostly for her own sake – having worn the thing, she was already half convinced of the contrary. ‘Treachery is a
human
vice.’

‘The dress corrupted Yvonne. Albert swears it was a woman who brought the Germans to Chemignac. He accuses Yvonne.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Yvonne would never betray Henri, not willingly.’ She grasped Laurent’s hands, squeezing them in time to her words. ‘He was her soulmate. She’d never have used that word, but that’s what they were. Soulmates. She’d never sacrifice him unless she was under such duress she couldn’t hold out.’
Men and women break
. Henri had said it to her, through Yvonne.
I don’t want to know if Yvonne broke
, she thought.
But I’m going to know
. The room was signalling to them. On-off. On-off. Summoning them. ‘Laurent, do you have what it takes to find out what happened to Henri and Yvonne?’

Laurent folded his hands over hers like pigeon wings. Whose touch was the colder? ‘I don’t think we have any choice, do you?’

I
n Dakenfield
, Miss Thorne lay in her curtained niche, staring at a fog of sleepless dots. Strip lighting through pimpled glass panels meant that the ward was never properly dark.

There’d been talk of sending her to a rehabilitation unit, and then – just perhaps – home. Did she have family, they’d asked? There had to be somebody to check on her at least twice a day in case she fell again.

She had no family, she told them, though that wasn’t entirely true. She had a half-brother, Paul, who had done his all to keep the ties between them alive, but even he had given up when she’d sent a Christmas card back to him marked ‘Return to Sender’. After the war, she’d wanted desperately to vanish, and that’s what she’d done.

Any children? A male nurse had asked her that. Thirty-five years a schoolteacher, she could still slap down impudence. ‘Young man, I am
Miss
Antonia Thorne. I don’t know what values you hold to, but in my day, respectable women did not breed out of wedlock.’ To herself, she acknowledged, ‘No children.’
How could there be?

What a series of blunders her life had been. What a failure of an existence.
Not long now
, she thought. She felt such a strong connection to Henri – to Chemignac – she was more often there in her mind than here these days. She didn’t even have to wait for dreams. She just closed her eyes… Soon, soon, she would melt away and be with Henri for always.