The Lavender Garden (43 page)

•  •  •

In early May, Armand appeared at the cottage on his bicycle. He sat with Jacques and Connie in the small garden, drinking the new batch of rosé from the barrel. Exhausted and gaunt, he told them how his branch of the Maquis, based up in the thickly wooded hillsides of La Garde-Freinet, was preparing for the southern invasion.

“The Boche are being fooled into thinking the attack will come in from the shores of Marseille and Toulon, but the Allies are planning to land down here on the beaches around Cavalaire and Ramatuelle. And we, the Resistance, are doing all we can to confuse the Boche and make their life difficult,” he said, smiling. “We’re cutting telephone lines, blowing up railway bridges, and hijacking their convoys of arms. There are many thousands of us now, all fighting for the same cause. The British are secretly dropping as many weapons as they can to us down here, and we’re well organized. I’ve heard the Americans will head up the southern attack by sea. Constance, I know you’re trained in this kind of work. Can you help us? We need a courier to—”

“No, Armand, so far she hasn’t been out of this house,” Jacques replied firmly, “and we’ve been left alone. If Constance was seen cycling in and out of here, it would be too dangerous for Mademoiselle Sophia.”

Connie was crestfallen. “But couldn’t I use the back way, Jacques? I want to help.”

“I know, Constance, and maybe in time you can. But, for now, it’s important for you to be close to Mademoiselle Sophia.” Jacques gave her a warning glance.

“But perhaps there are other ways you could assist us, Jacques,” continued Armand. “We often have British airmen we’re smuggling out of France through Corsica, and occasionally we need a safe house
where they can wait until the boat comes for them. Would you be prepared to take them in?”

Jacques sighed doubtfully. “I don’t want to attract any attention to us here.”

“Surely, Jacques, we could do this safely?” Connie insisted. “Sophia is hidden in the cellar away from the
cave
, and we must do all we can to help the greater cause. It’s what Édouard himself lived by, even if it meant putting his family in danger,” Connie emphasized, determined to do something of use.

“Yes, Constance, you’re right,” Jacques answered eventually. “How can I refuse? We can put the airmen up in the attic.”

“Thank you.” Armand nodded gratefully.

“And I’m sure, Constance, that you’ll look after them,” Jacques said as he stood up.

“Of course.” Connie was selfishly thinking of how much she would like to join the airmen on the boat to Corsica.

“I—or one of my men—will be in touch when the need arises,” said Armand. “Now, I must be on my way.”

•  •  •

The first two British airmen arrived at three o’clock in the morning a week later. The sound of their British accents brought tears to Connie’s eyes as she fussed around them, giving them food and wine. They were to stay for twenty-four hours before leaving by boat to Corsica. Both men, though frail and exhausted from being on the run for the past few weeks, were in good spirits at the thought of returning home.

“Don’t you worry, old girl,” one of them said to her as she showed them up to the attic, “the Nazis’ hold on France is weakening. Hitler is losing his grip. One way or another, it’ll be weeks rather than months before this is all over.”

When they left in the small hours of the following morning, Connie handed one of the English pilots an envelope. “Please, when you’re home, could you post this for me?”

“Of course I can. A small price to pay for the first decent nosh I’ve had in weeks,” he said with a smile.

Connie retired to bed, a renewed sense of hope in her heart. If the
airman did make it back, then at least Lawrence might hear she was safe and well.

•  •  •

As Sophia’s time grew closer, she struggled to mount the steep cellar steps with her swollen stomach. Yet she had an air of tranquillity about her and was glowing with health.

Connie had found some wool and a pair of knitting needles in the old housekeeper’s store in the château and sat in the walled garden with Sophia in the afternoons making tiny jackets, hats, and booties for the baby. Connie sometimes looked at Sophia in envy; after all, her own dream with Lawrence was to have a family. Now she was living vicariously through another woman’s journey into motherhood.

In the warm evenings, she and Jacques often sat outside at the table in the cottage garden, surrounded by the tender young vines that protected the tiny green berries that would soon grow into fat, bulbous grapes.

“It’s only a few weeks now until the
vendange
, when the grapes must be picked, but whether I can get the help I need to do it, I don’t know.” Jacques sighed. “Everyone’s thoughts are on more important things than making wine.”

“I’ll help you as much as I can,” Connie offered, knowing it was a futile gesture. Jacques would normally have a dozen men and women picking the grapes from dawn until dusk.

“It’s kind of you to offer, Constance, but I think your help may be needed elsewhere. Do you have any knowledge of bringing babies into the world?”

“No. Surprisingly, that wasn’t part of my training course before I came out here,” she replied ironically. “In books I’ve read, everyone fusses around with hot water and towels. Why, I’m not exactly sure, but I expect I’ll cope when the time comes.”

“I worry that something may go wrong and Sophia will need proper medical help. What would we do then? We cannot risk taking her to the hospital.”

“As I said, I’ll do my best.”

“And that, my dearest Constance”—Jacques sighed—“is all we can both do.”

•  •  •

A steady trail of airmen crossed Jacques’s threshold, using the attic in the cottage to wait for the boat to Corsica. Connie gleaned from them that the Allied invasion plan for Normandy was close to fruition. Every time the airmen left, she handed one an envelope to send to Lawrence.

The letters always said the same thing:

My darling, do not worry about me. I am safe and well and I hope to return home soon.

Surely, Connie thought, as she wrote the fifth letter one June evening, ready to hand to an airman when he left in the small hours of the morning, one of them must find its way safely to Lawrence?

Jacques suddenly entered the sitting room, his face concerned. “Constance, someone is prowling around outside. Go up and tell the airmen to stay silent and I’ll see who it is.”

Jacques took his hunting gun from its position by the front door and left the cottage.

Having warned the airmen, Connie came back downstairs to find Jacques standing in the sitting room, his gun pointed at a tall, painfully emaciated, blond-haired man whose arms were held upright in surrender.

“Stay clear! He’s German!” Jacques poked the gun in the man’s chest. “Sit down! Over there.” He indicated the chair by the fire, where the man would safely be pinned into a corner.

As the man sat down, Connie looked at his eyes, huge in his gaunt face, his matted, filthy blond hair, and what was left of his shirt and trousers hanging off his skeletal frame. She stared at him and her heart began to beat. She thought she might faint from shock.

“Constance, it’s me, Frederik,” the man croaked hoarsely. “Perhaps you do not recognize me out of my uniform?”

Connie forced herself to drag her gaze back up to his face. The expression in his eyes was the only clue as to which twin he was. She read the gentleness and the fear in them and, with a sigh of relief, realized he was telling the truth.

“You know this man?” Jacques turned to Connie, disbelief on his face.

“Yes.” She nodded. “His name is Frederik von Wehndorf and he’s a colonel in the SS. He’s known to Sophia also.” Connie eyed Jacques, hoping he would understand without her speaking the words.

“I see.” Jacques gave a nod of comprehension, but did not relax the gun. He turned to Frederik. “And what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see Sophia, as I promised her I would. Is she here?”

Neither Connie nor Jacques answered him.

“As you can see”—Frederik indicated his clothes—“I’m no longer an officer in the German army. In fact, I’m a wanted man. If they find me, they will take me back to Germany, where I will be shot immediately as a traitor.”

Jacques gave a harsh laugh. “You seriously expect us to believe your story? How can we know this is not a trick? You Boche will lie endlessly to save your own sorry skins.”

“You’re right, sir,” Frederik agreed calmly. “I cannot prove it to you. I can only tell you
my
truth.” He turned to Connie. “After I took you, Sophia, and her maid to Gare de Lyon, I did not return to Germany. I was aware that my brother, Falk, would not rest until I was brought to justice for helping you escape. It’s not the first time he’s doubted my allegiance to the cause. It seems I have many enemies and no friends.”

The pain and exhaustion in Frederik’s eyes were palpable. Out of his uniform, he looked far more vulnerable.

“Where are you headed, Frederik?” Connie interjected.

“Constance, my only thought was to get here to see Sophia, as I promised her I would. When I left Paris, I went into hiding. I fled to the High Pyrenees and used a mixture of bribery and the kindness of strangers to stay alive. I lay low, even milking goats and feeding chickens, waiting until I felt it was safe to travel through France to find Sophia. I left”—Frederik gave a desperate shrug—“many weeks ago to make my way here.”

“You’ve done well to come this far without being caught by either side,” said Jacques, still disbelieving.

“It was the thought of seeing Sophia that drove me on. But my luck is sure to run out soon. There’s one in particular who could have
guessed where I would eventually head and care enough to hunt me down.” Frederik sighed, then shook his head. “No matter—I know my death is inevitable, whether by French or German hands. I simply wanted to see Sophia one last time. Please, Constance, at least tell me if she’s safe and well? That she’s alive?”

Connie could see Frederik’s eyes were filled with tears. As he sat there at gunpoint, hardly recognizable as the man he used to be, her heart went out to him. He had chosen to risk his life to see the woman he loved, rather than escaping and saving his own skin. Whatever his nationality, political persuasion, or even what he may have done over the past few years, this was a human being who currently deserved sympathy.

“Yes, she’s safe and well,” Connie stated.

Jacques shot her a look of warning, but Connie ignored it. “Are you hungry? I doubt you’ve eaten much over the past few weeks.”

“Constance, anything you have to spare would be welcome, but tell me, is Sophia here? Can I see her?” Frederik pleaded.

“I’ll bring you food and then we’ll talk. Jacques, you can lower your gun. Frederik will do us no harm. You have my word. Why don’t you go upstairs and tell our friends in the attic there’s no need for panic. It’s simply a visiting relative, but they’re to stay out of sight anyway.”

“If you believe we can trust him,” Jacques said slowly, lowering his gun reluctantly, “I will do so.”

“I do.” Connie nodded, enjoying the feeling of taking charge for a change. “Now, Frederik, come into the kitchen and we’ll talk while I prepare some food.”

With effort, Frederik stood up and Connie noticed how every step he took was a struggle. He had reached his journey’s end, and exhaustion, hunger, and desperation were replacing adrenaline. Connie closed the kitchen door firmly behind her and indicated Frederik should sit down on a wooden chair at the small table.

“Constance, please,” he implored her again, “is she here?”

“Yes, Frederik. Sophia is here.”

“Oh, God, oh, God.” Frederik put his head in his hands and began to weep. “Sometimes, as I made my way here, sleeping in ditches and looking through rubbish to find some morsel of food, I thought to
myself that maybe she was dead. I have imagined it so often, I . . .” Frederik wiped his nose on his sleeve and shook his head. “My apologies, Constance, I understand you can have no sympathy for me, but you cannot know what hell I’ve been through to find her.”

“Here, drink this.” Putting a glass of wine in front of him, Connie patted him gently on the shoulder. “I’m amazed you’ve made it here alive.”

“I was helped by the fact that both the French and my own kind know something is coming. France is in chaos, the Resistance have grown stronger. We—
they
”—Frederik immediately corrected himself—“are struggling to keep them at bay. And perhaps the last place anyone thought to look for me was in France. Except for one . . .”

“There, eat.” Connie put a roughly cut piece of bread and some cheese in front of him.

“Have they been to search the château yet?” Frederik stuffed the bread and cheese into his mouth, swallowing without chewing.

“Yes, they’ve searched and found nothing. Jacques and I have taken great care to make sure the château stays closed and Sophia hidden. At present, they don’t suspect she’s here.”

“And Édouard? Is he here too?”

“No. He knew his presence would put his sister in even greater danger.”

“Well, I cannot stay for long; I’m aware every second I’m here is putting your lives at risk. So”—Frederik washed down his bread and cheese with large gulps of wine—“I will see Sophia, then I will leave. Will you take me to her now? I beg you, please, Constance.”

“Yes, I will. Follow me.”

Connie took Frederik into the
cave
, up and inside the oak barrel, then led him along the tunnel.

“My poor, poor Sophia,” he grunted as his height hampered his progress. “How can she bear it? Does she ever feel the warmth of the sun on her face?”

“She has had no choice but to suffer this for her own safety.” Connie had reached the door. “She’s in there and she may be asleep. I’ll go in first so as not to startle her. And, Frederik”—Connie turned to look at him—“I think that you too are in for a shock.”

She tapped on the door three times, then opened it softly.

Sophia was sitting in the chair by the mean window, a braille book resting on her stomach. She looked up. “Constance?”