The Lavender Garden (16 page)

“Do you know if you were seen entering the building?” Édouard’s eyes filled with alarm.

“I checked very carefully, as Stefan had told me to, and I saw no one in uniform nearby. As I was about to leave, a woman from the next-door apartment told me the Gestapo had been to number seventeen and arrested its occupants. She told me to use the back entrance on the way out.”

“Did she see your face?”

“If she did, it was only for a few seconds.”

“Then let us pray she is trustworthy,” breathed Édouard. “Well, Constance, you seem to have the luck of the blessed on your side so far. Apartment seventeen was one of the main safe houses for the Scientist network. As the neighbor confirmed, it was raided by the Gestapo the night before you arrived here. And they’re still continuing to round up subcircuits and make arrests. It’s almost certain that the apartment would still have been under surveillance when you arrived. They would be there waiting to catch agents who hadn’t yet heard of the German raid. So”—he sighed—“we can only hope you were not noticed because you were a new face and hadn’t been seen entering the apartment before. Perhaps they assumed you were simply a friend of another resident living at the address.”

“Stefan said I was the only one he could send to Paris because I was unknown and would not be on any Gestapo lists.”

“He’s right. At least that’s something.” Édouard stroked his chin thoughtfully as Sarah delivered coffee and biscuits for both of them. “I should point out to you that you were lucky to have Stefan as part of your reception committee. He’s a highly trained member of the
Maquis, whom your agents support in the field. He knows me through channels other than your organization. Understanding there were difficulties in Paris, he gave my name as a last resort. The problem is . . .”

“Yes?” Connie was struggling to understand where Édouard fitted in.

“Because of my”—Édouard searched for the right word—“position, any link to the SOE or the Resistance movement must not be discovered. I cannot tell you how vital this is. And, of course, here you are, the link the Germans need: a British SOE agent sitting with me in my library and drinking coffee.”

“I really am most terribly sorry to have caused all this trouble, Édouard.”

“Constance, please, I don’t blame you. Stefan needed to send somebody to Paris to find out how serious and far-reaching the situation was. And I can assure you that it’s even worse than he thought.”

“Stefan asked me to report back to London on the situation as soon as possible.”

“That will not be necessary. I don’t work for the British government, but those at the very top of their intelligence services are known to me and we exchange information. I’ve already contacted London this morning to alert them to what’s happened. Stefan will receive word very soon. Both Prosper, the head of the Scientist network, and his radio operator are under arrest. All other members of Scientist have fled Paris if they could or are in hiding somewhere in the city until further notice. My dear Constance, at present, there’s simply no network here to join.”

“Then surely I must be moved out of Paris to another network?”

“Under normal circumstances, that is what would happen, yes. However, through pure coincidence, last night you met some of the most powerful Germans in Paris.” Édouard put down his coffee cup and leaned toward her. “Just imagine this, Constance: you’re moved to another network and successfully begin to carry out the mission you’ve been trained for. Then,
pouf
!” He gesticulated. “You’re arrested and brought in for questioning here at Gestapo headquarters. And then, another coincidence occurs: one of the men you met last night, say Colonel Falk, walks in to interrogate you. And who does he see sitting there, bound to a chair? Why, none other than his good
friend the Comte de la Martinières’s cousin, Constance, whom Falk met a few weeks ago in his dining room. So what does he think to himself? Does he imagine his friend Édouard does not know of his cousin’s activities? Perhaps, at the very least, he would start to take a keener interest in the comte, look at the other French guests sitting around the table, and perhaps start to question whether they really are the true and loyal supporters of the Vichy and German governments they claim to be.”

“Yes, I see, but what’s the solution? And who do you work with, Édouard?”

“Constance, you don’t need to know,” he answered immediately. “It is indeed better that you don’t. But all I do lies with freeing my homeland from the grasp of the Nazi regime; and the puppet Vichy government run by our weak countrymen who agree to everything the Germans say to save their own skins. I’ve spent the past four years managing to gain their trust. My wealth, combined with their greed, make it sickening, but possible. Never forget what it takes for me to do this, Constance. Every time one of their kind walks over my threshold, I want to take out my gun and shoot him.”

Connie saw Édouard’s features were contorted, hands clasped tightly together, his knuckles white.

“But, instead, I invite them into my home, I feed them the finest wine from our cellars, spend money on the black market sourcing the best meat and cheese to fill their mouths, and make polite conversation with them. Why, you ask? How can I do this?”

Connie remained silent; she knew he did not require an answer from her.

“I do it because, very occasionally, after too much brandy, I will hear a small titbit of information carelessly dropped from drunken German lips. And, sometimes, that piece of information allows me to alert those in danger and perhaps save the lives of my countrymen. And for that, yes, I will bear their presence at my table.”

Connie sat in silence, understanding now.

“So you see,” Édouard said, “there must never be a hint of my involvement with any of the organizations the Nazis are desperate to quash. It would not only result in the deaths of the many brave men and women who work with me, but endanger the valuable information
which I’m able to relay to those who need it most. It’s not so much for my own life I worry, Constance, but that, for example, of Sophia. Living here in this house with me makes it impossible for her not to be a part of my deception. And culpable, if I was discovered. So . . .” Édouard stood up suddenly, walked to the window, and looked out at the sunshine bathing the pretty garden beyond. “For all these reasons, I’m afraid it’s impossible for you to continue your career as a British agent.”

The words Édouard had spoken slowly sank in. Surely, Connie thought, the weeks of training, the mental and
emotional
preparation, could not be for nothing?

“I see. What will you do with me?” she asked eventually, knowing she sounded plaintive.

“That’s a very good question, Constance. I’ve already informed London you’re here with me. And that they must cancel immediately any record of you arriving in France. Word will be sent out to the few who knew of your arrival, and there will be no contact with them from now on. You will bring your papers to me immediately and we will burn them together in the fireplace. You will also hand over your suitcase, which I’ll dispose of for you. I’m having new papers prepared for you as we speak. From this moment on, you are simply Constance Chapelle, resident of Saint-Raphaël and known to those who have already met you as my cousin.”

“So what will happen now? Will I be sent back home to England?”

“Not yet, it’s too dangerous. I cannot take the risk of your capture. Constance”—Édouard offered her a grim smile—“I’m afraid that for the next few weeks you must act out the story you gave last night. You will stay here in this house as our guest. Perhaps, sometime in the future, you can travel down to the south, as though you were returning home to Saint-Raphaël, and we can see what we can do to remove you to England from there. But for now, through no fault of your own, you are trapped here with us.”

“And London has agreed to this?” questioned Connie in disbelief.

“They had no choice.” Édouard brushed the question aside as irrelevant. He turned to her, his eyes suddenly softening. “I can understand your brave wish to help your country and your disappointment that you are not able to carry out your task. But, believe me, sacrificing
your career is for a worthy and higher cause. Besides”—he gave a shrug—“there are maybe other ways you can help. You’re a beautiful woman, who made a very good impression on a powerful man. Falk is a regular guest here. You never know what he might tell you.”

Connie inwardly shuddered at the thought, but understood what Édouard was saying.

“Meanwhile, Sophia has called her dressmaker and she will be here shortly. You’ll need a wardrobe that befits a noblewoman from the line of the Montaines and the de la Martinièreses. And it will be pleasant for Sophia to have another female in the house. She rarely goes out, due to her . . . condition, and she’s lonely. She also misses our mother very much. Perhaps it will be possible for you to spend some time with her?” Édouard suggested.

“Is her condition from birth?”

“Sophia had some sight when she was born, so my parents didn’t spot the weakness immediately. Her vision deteriorated slowly, but by the time they realized the extent of the problem, it was too late for the doctors to remedy it. Sophia has adapted to her disability well. She can write, a skill which she learned before she went totally blind, thank God. Her poems are beautiful. Quite beautiful.”

Connie could see the emotion in Édouard’s eyes. “How old was she when she finally lost her sight?”

“Sophia was seven when the light dimmed completely for her. Yet it is amazing how her other senses have made up for that. Her hearing is the sharpest of anyone I know, and normally she can tell who it is entering the room simply by the sound of their movement. She enjoys reading so much; I’m having a number of books from this and my library in Gassin made for her in Braille. She has a special passion for the English romantic poets, such as Byron and Keats. And she can draw too. From feeling her subject, she’s somehow able to transfer the shape and color onto paper.” Édouard gave a gentle smile. “She’s very artistic and she’s the dearest thing I have.”

“And very beautiful too.”

“Yes. Is it not sad that Sophia can never see that for herself in a mirror? She has no idea of it. Men who meet her for the first time and don’t know of her handicap . . . well, I watch the effect she has on them. She’s glorious.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Now”—Édouard’s expression changed suddenly—“you will go and collect your suitcase and your papers from upstairs. I’m not comfortable while they are still in the house.”

This was not a request, it was a demand. Connie did as she was bid and went upstairs to retrieve her suitcase. Ten minutes later, she watched her identity go up in flames. The contents of her suitcase, Édouard transferred to a sack. Then he indicated her shoes.

“Those too, Constance. We both know what one of them hides inside the heel.”

“But I have no other shoes.”

“We’ll provide you with new ones immediately.”

Connie stood in the library in her stockinged feet, now feeling horribly vulnerable. She had not a thing of her own in the world except the clothes she stood up in.

As though he’d done it a hundred times before, Édouard removed the francs hidden in the lining of the suitcase. He handed the money to her, noticing her strained expression. “You may of course keep this, courtesy of both the British and French governments, for the trials they have put you through. Sophia and I will see to it that you’re cared for materially while you’re here with us. And it will, of course, be of the best. Sophia is waiting for you upstairs to introduce you to the dressmaker. One more thing . . .” Édouard paused at the door. “It’s unlikely that anyone will try to contact you. Few people from your organization know you’re here. But in case by some chance they hear of your location, you must not, and I repeat
not
, attempt to return their messages. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Otherwise”—Édouard’s eyes bored into her—“all this would be for nothing and you would put many lives in grave danger.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now run along upstairs to see Sophia.”

A
month had passed since Constance had become a member of the de la Martinières household. She had taken delivery of a beautiful wardrobe of clothes, soft leather shoes—the kind she had not seen since before the war began—and several pairs of silk stockings. As she laid them out in her chest of drawers, Connie sighed at the bitter irony of her situation. She was living like a princess, in a household where money seemed to be no object, and where she was waited on hand and foot by the household staff. Yet the outer sumptuousness of the life Connie was now forced to live did nothing to stem the pain of what was no more than captivity. Not only did she lie in bed at night missing Lawrence until her heart physically ached, but tormenting herself with thoughts of the other brave men and women who had trained with her and were now out in the field, constantly in danger, suffering the kind of deprivation she could only imagine. The guilt of her situation ate into her constantly. In this gilded prison, deprived of any contact with the outside world, Connie thought she might go mad.

Her saving grace was Sophia, whom Connie had already grown fond of. With a perception honed from her blindness, she would know in an instant when Connie was low, simply by the tone of her voice.

Sophia, at twenty-five, exactly the same age as Connie, was eager to learn and hear of her English life. She had never traveled out of France due to her disability. Connie sat in the heat of a July afternoon describing the bleak but magnificent moors of Yorkshire, and Blackmoor Hall, Lawrence’s family home. It comforted and disturbed her in equal measure, but at least it kept her husband alive in her memory.

Recently, as they had sat out on the terrace under a balmy sunset, Connie had confided in Sophia about her husband and how she ached for him. Sophia had been sweetness itself, asking details about Lawrence and comforting Connie with calm words of reassurance.

Afterward, Connie had panicked. She had said too much; after all, she had no proof that the de la Martinièreses were not keeping her as a prize to hand over to the Nazis, if and when the whim took them—but she
had
to trust someone.