The Lavender Garden (19 page)

“Oh, Constance.” Sophia’s hands were clasped together and her enormous, unseeing eyes were misty too. “May I tell you something?”

“Of course you may,” Connie replied, trying to pull herself together.

“You describe the feelings so eloquently. And now I know for sure that it
is
love. Constance, please, I must confide in someone or I’ll go mad! But you must not breathe a word to my brother. You will swear you won’t?”

“If you ask me not to, of course.” With a sinking heart, Connie already knew what Sophia wanted to share with her.

“Well . . .” Sophia took a deep breath. “I have known for some weeks now that I’m in love with Frederik von Wehndorf. And, even better, he’s in love with me! There! I’ve said it, thank God, I’ve said it.” Sophia gave a laugh of relief, the color rising to her cheeks.

“Oh, Sophia . . .” This time, Connie truly was at a loss for words.

“I know, Constance, what you will say; that it’s impossible, that our love can never be. But do you not understand? I’ve fought and fought to deny it, to understand we can never be together, but my heart will
not listen. And Frederik—he is the same. Neither of us can help how we feel. We simply cannot live without each other.”

Connie stared at Sophia in horror. Finally she said, “But, surely, you must understand that any relationship both now and in the future is impossible? Sophia, Frederik is a high-ranking Nazi officer. If the end of the war comes in the next year and the Allies gain victory, Frederik will almost certainly face arrest, if not death.”

“And if they win?”

“They will
not
win.” Connie couldn’t even begin to deal with that thought. “Whatever the outcome to this terrible war, two people from opposing sides could never live a life together afterward. It simply could not be countenanced.”

“We understand that, of course, but Frederik has already suggested ways and means once the war is over.”

“You’re seriously talking of a future together?” Connie’s jaw was taut with tension. “But how? Where?”

“Constance, you must understand that because a country’s leader dictates a regime, it doesn’t mean that those who are forced to help him create it believe in it too.”

At this point, Connie put her head in her hands and shook it in despair. “Sophia, are you trying to tell me that Frederik has convinced you he’s not a true Nazi believer? That man has been partly responsible for the death and destruction our countries are currently suffering. I’ve heard from your brother that Frederik reports directly to Himmler. He—”

“No! Just like us, Constance, Frederik is living a lie. He’s an educated, cultured man and a devout Christian who doesn’t believe in his leader’s ethics. But what can he do?” Sophia sighed. “If he made his feelings clear, he would no longer be alive.”

Connie’s eyes were despairing as she stared at poor, deluded Sophia. A woman who was not only blind physically, but whose feelings had allowed her to believe everything her lover had told her. “Sophia, I can’t believe what you tell me. And my God! Nor should you. Do you not understand what this man is trying to do? He’s using you, Sophia; at the worst, perhaps he suspects Édouard and believes you could be the unwitting path to the truth!”

“You’re wrong, Constance!” Sophia countered vehemently. “You don’t know Frederik, you haven’t heard what we talk of when we’re alone. He’s a good man and I trust him implicitly! And when the war is over, we plan to simply disappear.”

“No, Sophia, please, there will be no place to run, nowhere Frederik can hide.” Connie wanted to scream at Sophia’s naïveté. “They will hunt him down then make him answer and pay for his crimes toward humanity.”

“We will find somewhere and we will be together.” Sophia’s mouth was set in a pout, reminding Connie of a spoiled child who had been denied a toy she coveted. What Sophia was suggesting was so ridiculous, Connie wasn’t sure whether to laugh out loud or scream in anger. She tried another tack.

“Sophia,” she said softly, “I understand that your feelings for Frederik are very strong. But as you said yourself, it’s the first time you’ve been in love. Perhaps, in a few weeks’ time, you’ll be able to think more clearly. Perhaps this is only a crush . . .”

“Please do not patronize me, Constance. I may be blind, but I’m a grown woman and I know what I feel is real. Frederik must soon return to Germany for a few weeks, but he’ll be back for me, you wait and see. Please call for Sarah to take me upstairs,” she ordered imperiously. “I’m tired and I wish to rest.”

As a shocked Connie left the room, she realized for the first time that underneath Sophia’s sweet and vulnerable exterior was a woman who had never been denied anything she desired in her entire life.

I
n the next few days, Connie spent hours tussling over whether she should tell Édouard of Sophia’s revelation. If she did, she would be betraying the only friend and companion she currently had. On the other hand, if she said nothing, surely she was putting Édouard, Sophia, and herself in further danger?

Sophia had withdrawn from Connie after her confession, and in the afternoons Connie had taken to leaving the house and going for a stroll across the Pont de la Concorde, which led eventually to the Tuileries Gardens, simply to remove herself from the claustrophobia of the house and its complex residents. On one of these walks, she was returning home when a familiar face came riding over the bridge on a bicycle. Connie halted in shock as the green eyes registered a second of recognition, but the bicycle continued past her.

Venetia . . .

Connie steeled herself not to turn around and double-check, just in case enemy eyes were watching, and continued walking back toward the de la Martinières house. Venetia’s long black hair had been cut into a neat bob, and the clothes she’d been wearing were designed to melt into the background rather than, as the old Venetia had preferred, to steal the show.

The following day, Connie repeated the walk across the bridge to the garden at a similar time, sitting on a bench and enjoying the magnificent red-gold carpet of leaves that autumn was providing. Perhaps Venetia lived nearby . . . Connie’s heart yearned with longing to see those familiar eyes close-up, to embrace something—
someone
—who was known and familiar from the past.

She repeated the walk at the same time every day for a week, but she did not see Venetia again.

•  •  •

Frederik was a far more regular visitor to the house these days than Falk. He would drop in unannounced, although Sophia never seemed surprised to see him as she greeted him with undisguised pleasure at the drawing-room door. Connie could only hope that Édouard himself would notice what was happening right under his very nose, but he was often out and, when he was home, seemed drained and distracted. So Connie kept her fears to herself, often trying to join the lovers in the drawing room. When she did, Sophia’s unseeing yet expressive eyes told her clearly she was not welcome, and after fifteen minutes of stilted conversation, she would withdraw.

Thankfully, she’d found a welcome ally in Sarah, who had cared for Sophia since birth and was devoted to her. Often, as Connie lurked outside the drawing-room door, Sarah would come toward her. “Please, madame, trust me, I will make sure Mademoiselle Sophia is in no danger.”

Connie would gratefully withdraw from her vigil, knowing Sophia would not come to harm. Sarah was the next-best thing to her mother.

•  •  •

Even though nothing had outwardly changed in the day-to-day rhythm of the house, the underlying pulse had quickened. One morning, Connie knew Édouard had not arrived home until dawn. He looked weary as he joined her for breakfast in the dining room.

“I must travel to the south on business,” Édouard announced after they had eaten. He stood up and walked toward the door, then paused. “If anyone asks my whereabouts, I’m visiting our château in Gassin. I’ll be back on Thursday. If there are unexpected guests, Constance, I trust you to protect my sister.” With that, he was gone.

Another empty day loomed in front of Connie. Sophia had not yet arisen, so she took herself into the library and opened an Austen—books were fast becoming her only means of escape and she lived vicariously through the characters she read of. Wandering out of the library to go upstairs and refresh herself before lunch, Connie saw a letter on the doormat. Bending down, she picked it up and, with surprise, saw that it was addressed to her.

Her pace picking up as she mounted the stairs, Connie shut her bedroom door and tore the letter open.

Dear Constance,

I hear you are currently residing in Paris. By coincidence, I find myself here too. As you know, your aunt is an old acquaintance of my family and she has asked me to check on your well-being while I am here. I am staying at the Ritz, and it would be a pleasure to meet you for tea this afternoon in the Salon at 3.00 p.m. It will be wonderful to talk over the nights we spent together at school in our shared dorm.

V.

Venetia.

Connie hugged the note to her chest in an agony of indecision, her desperation for contact and guilt at the betrayal of her promise to Édouard vying for pole position.

She took lunch in the silent house, Sophia eating upstairs in her room due to an apparent headache.

Afterward, still undecided, Connie dressed as though she was going out, then sank onto the bed. She watched the hands on the clock move around to half past two. Deciding, she pinned on her hat and left the house.

Fifteen minutes later, entering the Ritz Hotel, Connie moved knowledgeably toward the Salon d’Été, where she had taken high tea many times before. The room was full of animated, wealthily dressed women and thankfully devoid of Boche uniforms. Ten minutes passed as Connie assiduously studied the menu, every second taking longer than the last. Perhaps this was a trap, perhaps she was being watched and should leave now . . . maybe Édouard’s tension was a signal that something was afoot and he’d already been arrested, and she was next . . .

“Darling! Why, you look even more beautiful than usual!”

Connie turned around and saw Venetia, glamorous in furs and heavy makeup, unrecognizable from the woman who had cycled past her on the bridge three weeks ago.

Venetia moved closer and embraced her, whispering quickly and clearly, “Address me as Isobel, I live near you in Saint-Raphaël.”

She pulled away and sat down next to Connie. “How do you like
my hair?” she asked, patting it. “I had it all cut off recently. I thought it was time to grow up!”

“I think it suits you very well . . . Isobel.”

“Shall we order? I’m famished after a morning’s shopping,” Venetia drawled. “And perhaps, as we haven’t seen each other for so long, a glass of champagne?”

“Of course.” Connie signaled a waiter over. As she ordered, she noticed Venetia’s head was down, apparently ferreting in her handbag for her cigarettes, which she produced as the waiter left.

“Smoke?” She offered Connie a Gauloises.

“Thank you.”

“So, how are you enjoying Paris?” Venetia lit Connie’s cigarette and took a long draw on her own.

“Very much, thank you. And you?”

“It certainly makes a change from the slow pace of the south, does it not?”

As the champagne arrived on a tray, Connie watched as Venetia instantly drained half the glass in a most unladylike fashion. Connie also noticed Venetia’s hands shook as she put her cigarette to her mouth. And, as she removed her fur and hat, Connie saw the razor-sharp shoulder blades outlined under her blouse, her drawn face, and the black smudges beneath her eyes that makeup could not hide. Venetia looked a good ten years older than last time Connie had seen her.

For the next half an hour, the two of them had an absurd conversation about Connie’s aunt in Saint-Raphaël and imaginary friends from school, whom they both “remembered.” The tea arrived and Venetia pounced on the dainty sandwiches and cakes as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks. Connie sat back guiltily, watching Venetia’s eyes, shadowed by her heavy fringe but, nevertheless, darting back and forth nervously.

“Well, wasn’t that delightful?” enthused Venetia. “Now, I have an appointment with my dressmaker on the Rue Cambon. Will you accompany me? Then we can continue our talk of the past.”

“Of course.” Connie knew the request brooked no refusal.

“I’ll see you in the lobby; must pop to powder my nose while you get the bill.”

Venetia walked off and Connie signaled for the waiter. Then, having used up most of the francs she had been issued by F Section on the champagne and cake, Connie stood in the lobby waiting for Venetia to emerge from the powder room. When she did, she tucked her arm into Connie’s and they walked out of the Ritz and set off in the direction of the Rue Cambon.

“Thank heavens for that!” Venetia sighed. “Now we can talk, couldn’t risk it in there. You never know who’s watching and listening. Walls really do have ears in this city. Enjoyed the grub though, first proper food I’ve eaten in days. So, where on earth have you been, Connie? I’d heard from James that you’d traveled over on the Lizzy with him and arrived in France. And then you simply vanished into thin air!”

“You’ve seen James?” said Connie, thrilled to hear a familiar name.

“I did, but I heard a few days ago he’s no longer amongst us, poor chap. Didn’t last long, bless him, but then most of us don’t.” Venetia gave a harsh laugh.

“He’s dead?” whispered Connie, horrified.

“Yes. Anyway, tell me, where have you been hiding yourself? And what on earth are you doing staying in that enormous house on the Rue de Varenne?”

“Venetia, I . . .” Connie sighed, still reeling from the shock of hearing James had died. “It’s a long story and I really can’t tell you. Partly because I don’t understand some of it myself.”

“That sounds highly unsatisfactory, but I suppose I’ll have to accept it. You haven’t changed sides, have you? When I had a friend of mine follow you home from the Tuileries Gardens, he said he saw a Nazi officer entering the house not long after you.”

“Venetia, please,” Connie pleaded, “I really can’t say.”