“Any news of Sarah?”
“None, I’m afraid.” Armand shook his head sadly. “Like so many others, she has simply disappeared. So, how goes it with Sophia?”
Jacques and Connie looked at each other.
“She’s well enough,” said Jacques gruffly. “She pines for her brother and misses her freedom. But what can be done until this war is over?”
“Tell her she must not give up hope. It will be over soon, and then all of us will step into the light. The Allied invasion is coming, and we here on the ground are doing all we can to aid it.” Armand smiled at Connie, the faith and hope in his eyes restoring hers. “Now, I must be going.”
They watched him cycle away, both grateful for the diversion from the solitary life they currently led. Sophia might feel imprisoned downstairs, but above ground, her jailers felt equally constrained by the need to protect her.
“How is she today?” asked Jacques as Connie cleared away the coffee cups.
“The same; it’s as if she has given up.”
“Perhaps the news that her brother is safe and well will help.” Jacques shrugged.
“I’ll go down and tell her.”
Jacques nodded silently as Connie walked back into the kitchen. She took a sealed flagon of milk from the pantry, placed it in the canvas bag she used to transport supplies down to the cellar, and strapped it across her chest.
“Try to encourage her to come upstairs for a while,” added Jacques.
“I will try.”
Connie clambered inside the oak barrel, removed the false floor, lit the oil lamp, and made her way along the tunnel. The journey that had sent fear into her the first time she had attempted it was now an everyday routine. Reaching the door, she opened it and saw, in the dim, shallow light of the small window, that Sophia was still asleep. It was almost lunchtime.
“Sophia”—Connie shook her gently—“wake up, I have good news.”
Sophia rolled over and stretched. In her white lawn nightdress, the thickening of her waist was now evident. “What is it?”
“A courier has just brought wonderful news. Your brother is safe!”
At this, Sophia sat up. “And is he coming here? Is he coming to take me away?”
“Maybe soon,” Connie lied, “but isn’t it wonderful that we know he’s well? He sent us his book on fruit trees. Remember, you made sketches from it in Paris?”
“Yes!” Sophia tucked her knees into her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “They were wonderful days.”
“And they will come again, Sophia, I promise.”
“And soon he will come”—she stared off into the distance—“and take me out of this hell. Or maybe Frederik . . .” Sophia grasped Connie’s hand suddenly. “You don’t know how much I miss him.”
“I do, because there’s someone I miss just as much.”
“Yes, your husband.” Suddenly, all Sophia’s energy left her and she lay back down on the bed. “But I cannot believe this war will ever end. And I think I will die down here in this miserable place.”
Connie had heard these words over and over in the past few weeks. From experience, she knew she could say or do little to pull Sophia out of her torpor.
“Spring is on its way, Sophia, and the dawn of a new era. You must believe that.”
“I want to, really I want to—but down here, alone at night, I find it so hard to believe.”
“I understand how difficult it is for you, but you must not give up hope.”
The two women sat silently in the gloom, Connie pondering why Sophia had not yet mentioned that she was pregnant. Surely she must know, given the changes in her body? It had been on the tip of Connie’s tongue so many times to talk of it with her. Perhaps being so protected by Édouard and Sarah meant that the girl didn’t know what was happening to her. By Connie’s reckoning, a baby would be born from this woman’s body in under six months. And, today, Connie felt with a certainty that perhaps it was the only thing that could bring Sophia out of her slough of despondence. And it had to be addressed.
“Sophia,” Connie began gently, “you do know that, very soon, you’ll be having a baby?”
The words hung in the damp, fetid air for so long that Connie wondered if Sophia had gone back to sleep.
Finally, Sophia spoke.
“Yes.”
“And it’s Frederik’s baby?”
“Of course!” Sophia was indignant at the question.
“And you know that women who are carrying babies need to make sure that their child is nourished? Not just with food, but with fresh air and good spirits?”
A further silence ensued.
“How long have you known?” Sophia asked finally.
“Sarah knew immediately. And she told me.”
“Yes, she would know.” Sophia sighed and changed position to make herself more comfortable. “I miss her so much.”
“I know you do. I try to do my best, but I understand I’m not Sarah.” Constance could hear the tinge of frustration in her own voice.
“Forgive me, Constance.” Sophia must have sensed the sudden drop in an already chilly temperature. “I understand how you’ve cared for me, and I’m truly grateful. As for the baby . . . I was too ashamed to tell you. I understand what it means, what I’ve done.” Sophia wrung her hands in despair. “Perhaps it’s better if I die. What will my brother say when he knows? My God, what will he say?”
“He will understand that you’re human and did what you did out of love,” Connie lied. “And now, from that love, there’s to be a new life born into the world. Sophia, you mustn’t give up. You must fight, like you’ve never fought before, for the sake of your child.”
“But . . . Édouard will never forgive me, never. And you, Constance, how could I tell you that the night my brother was away from Paris, I deceived you and I took Frederik to my bed and lay with him willingly? You must hate me!” Sophia shook her head in despair. “And yet here you are caring for me, simply because you’re a kind woman and have no choice. But you cannot understand, Constance, what it’s like to be a burden to everyone around you. From early childhood, I could never be left alone in case I fell. Every day of my life, I cannot do the simple things that others can, I must rely on everyone to help me, ask if I wish to climb the stairs or use the bathroom, or simply get dressed in a new garment that is unfamiliar to me. I can never, as you can, step out of the front door and walk along the street.” Sophia put her tiny fingers to her head. “Forgive me, Constance, for my self-indulgence.”
“Of course.” Connie laid a comforting hand on Sophia’s shoulder. “It is indeed terrible for you.”
“And then, I meet a man who does not see me as firstly blind, who does not treat me as my family treat me, like a helpless child. No, Frederik treats me like a woman, he ignores my impairment, listens without patronizing me, loves me for who I am inside and long to be on the outside. But it’s bad luck for me that he’s the enemy. And because of that, I must not,
should
not, love him or I’m betraying my family—my country even—causing them another problem. And now he’s gone and I carry his child; yet another burden for those around me to bear. Constance, you question why I lie down here and wait and want to die? I know how much easier everyone’s life would be without me!”
Connie sat in shock at the force of Sophia’s outburst. Her words made Connie realize for the first time the depth of Sophia’s understanding and her feelings of guilt for her dependence on others.
“If it hadn’t been for me,” Sophia continued, “Sarah would not have been on that train and then arrested. She’s probably dead by now, or sent off to one of those terrible camps where she will die anyway.”
Connie searched for the right words. “Sophia, your presence in your family’s life is so valuable that no one even thinks about the care they give you. They love you.”
“And how do I repay that love? By disgracing my family.” Sophia shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Whatever you say, Édouard will never forgive me for this. How will I ever tell him?”
“We’ll worry about that later, Sophia. For now, the most important thing is you and your child’s health. You must do all you can to help your baby come into the world. Sophia, do you want this child?”
There was a long pause before Sophia spoke. “Sometimes I think it’s best if we both lie down here and die. But then I think that everyone I love has gone and the life inside me is all I have. And it’s part of him, part of Frederik. . . . Oh, Constance, I’m so confused. Do you not hate me for what I’ve done?”
“No, Sophia.” Connie sighed. “I don’t hate you, of course I don’t. You must realize that you’re not the only woman who has found herself in this predicament, nor will you be the last. I agree that the circumstances couldn’t be more complicated, but just remember that tiny, innocent life growing inside you knows nothing of this. And whatever his or her heritage, or what the future holds, surely you owe it to your baby to at least give it a fighting chance to have a life? There’s been so much death, so much destruction. And new life is new hope, whatever the circumstances of conception. A baby is a gift from God, Sophia.”
As she paused, Connie wondered if it was her latent Catholic upbringing putting these passionate words into her mouth. She realized she meant every one of them. “I think that, for now, all you can do is to cherish what’s growing inside you,” she added quietly.
“Yes, you’re right. You’re so kind and wise, Constance, and I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done for me. And, one day, I hope to find a way to repay you.”
“Well, maybe you can do that by not lying down here wishing to die. Please, Sophia, help me to help you and your baby.”
“Yes.” Sophia sighed. “I’ve been self-indulgent, when so many others are suffering far worse. I’ll try to have hope from now on. And perhaps when Frederik comes, we can make a plan.”
Connie stared at Sophia, incredulous that she still thought this possible. “You believe he will?”
“I know he will,” Sophia replied with the certainty of love. “He said he would come to find me and my heart tells me that he won’t let me down.”
“Then, Sophia, you mustn’t let Frederik down, either.”
• • •
In the next few days, Sophia roused herself. She began to eat properly and climbed the stairs up to the château and out into the walled garden, where she would walk with Connie to take exercise.
One morning, she sniffed the air. “Spring’s on its way. I can smell it. Then life will become so much more pleasant.”
March came and the mimosa grew wild in the walled garden. There were no visitors to the château, and Jacques refused to let Connie leave the grounds to cycle to the village for supplies, insisting he do it himself. They lived on constant alert of a visit from the local Gestapo, but all the attention they’d received recently was from a German minion who had arrived to demand a hundred bottles of wine and two barrels of schnapps for the torpedo factory.
“Our solitary life is a safe life,” said Jacques one evening. “No one can be trusted, and while Sophia is under my protection, we cannot become complacent. So we must suffer the loneliness and monotony of each other’s company until this is over.”
She could do little more than agree. Yet, forced together with this stranger, she had grown fond of Jacques. His peasant skin and bearing belied a clever and thoughtful mind. Once Sophia was sleeping downstairs in the cellar, many evenings were spent tussling over a chessboard. Connie also learned much from Jacques about the complexities of producing wine and never failed to be moved by his total devotion to his dear friend and master, Édouard. In return, she talked to him of her life in England, and her darling Lawrence, who had no idea where she was.
Connie felt she existed in perpetual darkness, either downstairs in Sophia’s cellar bedroom or in the shuttered rooms of the château. Occasionally, she would lead Sophia up the stairs and sit with her in the wonderful library Édouard and his forebears had created. She would take a book off the shelf and read it to Sophia by the flickering light of the oil lamp. On one of the shelves, Connie had found the first
volume to
The History of French Fruit
and had taken it back to the cottage to show Jacques.
“They’re beautiful books,” he acknowledged as he turned the fragile pages of the exquisite colored plates. “Édouard showed me this first volume, which his father had bought some time ago. At least
they
have been reunited after hundreds of years.”
As the spring arrived, Sophia’s body burgeoned too. Now in the full bloom of pregnancy, her cheeks were pink from afternoons of sitting underneath the protective branches of the chestnut tree in the walled garden. Whenever Sophia was taking the air, Jacques was on patrol for unwanted visitors. He was as protective as any father could be.
One night, when Connie had helped Sophia to bed in the cellar, Jacques took out a jug of wine and poured both himself and Connie a glass.
“Do you have any idea when the baby is due to be born?” he asked her.
“By my calculations, sometime in June.”
“And what will we do then?” Jacques sighed. “Can a baby really spend the first few weeks of its life in a cold, dark cellar? Besides, what if it cries and somebody hears it? And how can Sophia take care of a baby when she cannot see it?”
“Under normal circumstances, she’d have a nursemaid to help her. But these are not normal circumstances.”
“No.”
“Well”—Connie sighed—“it seems I will be the nursemaid, although I don’t have any idea of how to look after a baby.”
“I’ve wondered, Constance, whether it would be best if the baby was taken straight to an orphanage. Then no one except you and me and Mademoiselle Sophia would know of its existence. What future can there ever be for it?” Jacques shook his head in despair. “When Édouard discovers the truth, I dare not think what he will do.”
“That’s certainly an idea, yes,” Connie agreed tentatively, “but not one that should be put to Sophia at this moment. She’s doing very well.”
“Of course”—Jacques nodded—“but I do know of a convent orphanage in Draguignan that takes cases such as this one.”
“Perhaps.” Connie did not think it appropriate to mention the attachment Sophia had recently formed to the unborn child inside her; the way she saw it as part of Frederik and a symbol of their love—an attitude that Connie herself had encouraged, to try to spring Sophia out of her torpor. Jacques was a man. He wouldn’t understand. “We will see,” was all Connie said.