The Lavender Keeper (15 page)

They both grinned. Lisette realised in that instant that each time they said farewell it could so easily be the last time.

‘
Bonne nuit, mademoiselle
,’ Faucille said to her without any handshakes or kisses. ‘I will return before first light. Thank you for the food, Madame Marchand,’ and with a final nod at Roger, the man of Provence disappeared silently into the night.

Roger watched him leave before turning his handsome face to regard Lisette sombrely. ‘I’d put my life in his hands any day. Please remember that when you’re travelling with him. It doesn’t achieve anything to come here with a superior attitude towards people who are risking their lives, their families, to keep us safe.’

She hung her head, feeling the well-deserved sting of his words. ‘Does he have family?’

‘His family was killed by the authorities. He has good reason for being Maquis.’

She looked up, frowning. ‘Why kill a French family?’

‘I’ll let him tell you, if he chooses. His war is personal. You’ve got to keep yours detached and as impersonal as possible.’

She nodded. He shifted to practicalities. ‘Remember, if you’re on a bicycle – it’s how most of us get around – don’t break any road rules. If you give the Germans an excuse to check your ID and they find it’s a number that doesn’t exist, it’s over. Get some rest, Angeline.’

‘I will, sir,’ she whispered in English.

He grinned. ‘Haven’t been called that since I was teaching,’ he admitted. ‘Goodnight. Do us proud.’

Lisette was woken in darkness by Madame Marchand. She realised she hadn’t stirred from the position she’d fallen asleep in. She sat up too quickly, disoriented for a moment, then gathered her wits. ‘Is Faucille here?’

‘He is. He brought you these. You’d better try them.’

Lisette stared at the small bundle of clothes in her host’s hands. ‘Thank you.’

‘There’s water in the bowl – even a little soap. And I’ve left a brush. Be watchful for other villagers when you go outside to use the toilet.’

She nodded. ‘Is Roger awake?’

Madame Marchand turned from the doorway and smiled. ‘He left two hours ago. He never stays long.’

She felt strangely alone. ‘I didn’t hear his motorbike.’

‘He pushed it out of the village. He asked me to wish you well. Remember that you wouldn’t be here if people didn’t think you were made of the right stuff.’ She squeezed Lisette’s
shoulder affectionately. ‘He said for you to trust your instincts. Intuition has saved him a bullet more than once.’

Lisette smiled as the kindly woman left. She stared at the jumble of clothes that had been donated and, with a sigh, changed into them. The no-nonsense dress fitted her well enough and was austere in its cut and shape, belted at the waist with three-quarter sleeves that looked slightly threadbare. It was warm, though, and Faucille had brought her a cardigan of pale blue, darned at the elbow. She now had lace up brown brogues, but older, thick stockings replaced her new ones. She couldn’t work out why, looking at herself in the cheval mirror, those stockings made her feel more ugly than the entire battered ensemble.

She shook her head. Vanity had never been a problem for her, but then again, as Harriet had suggested, she’d never had to wonder whether men would find her attractive.

By the time she arrived in the kitchen, Faucille was at the table helping himself to some breakfast. She wanted to start afresh with him –
needed
to.

‘Thank you for the clothes,’ she said, closing the door.

He glanced up. ‘Now you look like you’re from Provence, which means you’ll hardly be noticed.’

‘Should I pack mine or …’

He bit into some bread, then eyed her. ‘No need. I’ve dealt with them.’

Lisette poured some coffee from the pot. She was already getting used to the barley brew. ‘What does that mean?’

‘They’ll go to a good home. A fair exchange.’

Her mother had sent her those clothes. The last gift from Sylvie before … Oh, she couldn’t think like this.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

‘No. I hope your friend gets good use out of them.’

Faucille regarded her. He had a gaze that looked too deeply for her comfort.

‘In public I can hardly refer to you as Faucille,’ she said. ‘Is there a name I should use?’

‘We should use one you won’t forget. How about your father’s name.’

She smiled. ‘His name was Max. Maximilian.’

‘Not very French.’

‘He was German,’ she said.

‘That explains it, then,’ he said, his gaze even more intense.

‘My mother was French. They’re both dead, though.’

‘We could use the name of your first boyfriend?’

She hadn’t the heart to say Jack. She thought about the first boy who kissed her. ‘Olivier,’ she answered.

‘Then I am Olivier.’

‘But your papers?’

‘Ah, that’s different,’ he said, almost playfully. ‘In fact, I want to talk to you about a cover story as we walk. It’s time to go. Are you ready?’

She’d barely put food on her plate. ‘Almost.’

‘Hurry, please,
mademoiselle
. We must leave before first light and be far away from the village.’

It was the most courteous he’d been since she’d met him.

They’d walked fifteen kilometres, by Lisette’s calculation. She was weary because it had been uphill but she was not going to admit fatigue to Faucille, of all people. As if he had dropped in on her thoughts, he turned to her.

‘You should rest.’

‘Only if you—’ she began, trying not to sound out of breath.

‘This is one of my favourite views,’ he interrupted. ‘Look, down there is Bonnieux. Lacoste to the right.’

‘And in the distance?’ she asked, catching her breath. It was certainly a very beautiful landscape, despite the rockiness underfoot. When she looked out across the valley, the autumn colours became hazy and softened the ridges and crags of the hillsides.

‘Right over there, if you squint, that’s Avignon,’ he said, pointing further than she could see.

‘I’ll trust you,’ she said and felt pleased to see him crack a smile. The gesture deepened the attractive creases at the edge of his cheeks. And his eyes … they were not just blue but a startling aquamarine, the sort that made people look twice. His voice, now that he was more relaxed, had softened further – it made her feel comforted … safe, even. He held his lithe, muscular body with great control, moving easily over the terrain while she often overbalanced or stumbled. His contained manner gave off an aura of confidence that was undeniably attractive.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To a place called Gordes; tomorrow to Cavaillon. A train north from there.’

She nodded. It was all meaningless to her anyway; he alone knew the way over the mountains.

‘Eat the fruit you brought and perhaps that dress will fit you better.’

‘Trousers might have been more sensible.’

‘Perhaps. But then you’d be picked out by a German patrol – or worse, the
milice
– because then you’d look like a maquisard.’ He gestured for her to sit next to him as he perched on a rock. ‘We can stop for a few minutes.’

Clearly he was more comfortable outdoors. He seemed more open, relaxed.

‘Tell me about your life as a maquisard,’ Lisette asked tentatively, careful not to pry into his days before the war.

He shrugged. ‘There is not much to say. We live rough, we sabotage everything we can to make life more difficult for the Boches, and we die … regularly.’

‘So do you aim to kill?’

‘Oh, yes. We kill when we can but it’s rare,’ he said, and his matter-of-factness sent a chill through her. ‘Mainly we aim to disrupt – we cut telephone lines, we blow up rail tracks, destroy bridges and roads, block access points, stop mail getting through, divert deliveries, cut transmissions. We are like a hive of bees, stinging as often as we can. We can’t deliver the death blow but we can certainly weaken the monster.’

‘How do you feed yourselves, if you have to stay hidden all the time?’

‘There are sympathisers everywhere who are proud of what we’re doing. The village folk send food up the hills, carried by children in their toy carts covered by teddy bears and dolls. No one ever suspects the children.’

‘Do the children see the Maquis?’

‘Never. We follow a creed of secrecy, so much so that I couldn’t even tell you if one man of the village is Maquis or a collaborator.’

‘Really?’

‘This way I cannot compromise another and he cannot compromise me.’

‘What a way to live.’

‘It is the only way of the Maquis. We move in twos, threes at most.’

‘You and Frelon?’

‘And another. You will meet him up there, in Gordes.’

‘Do they grow lavender there?’

‘Why do you ask?’ He looked almost melancholy.

‘I smelt lavender on you when you arrived.’

He nodded but didn’t elaborate. She didn’t press. ‘It was beautiful in Saignon with all the lavender.’

He nodded sadly. ‘I am from around there.’

She felt her throat catch at the sorrow in his voice. She remembered what Roger had confided about Faucille’s family.

‘I shouldn’t have told you that,’ he said. ‘Of course now I shall have to kill you.’ He smiled – a proper smile – and for a few heartbeats his entire demeanour changed, as though the November sun had peeked out from behind the overcast skies to warm them. Lisette found herself acutely aware of him at every moment. When their hands had accidentally touched or their bodies had lightly bumped as any walkers might, she’d been quick to apologise. She’d noticed him start from her in a similar way. She wondered whether she might ever learn his real name.

‘Not until after my mission, please,’ replied Lisette, smiling back.

‘Given the strange route you’re taking to Paris and the arrangements we’ve had to put in place for you, Angeline, I have to presume you are important to the British … and your mission extremely dangerous.’

The mission. She had tried not to think too hard about it. It was a fluid concept relying on her intuition and own decision-making in terms of how she was to approach it. At this point she didn’t know whether she would simply seduce her target and learn from him, or whether she’d attempt to
turn him. She was being cast into the lion’s den, and asked to tame the lion.

‘Yes, it is. I hope I don’t let them down.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘Do you have any family?’

‘Just grandparents. Since we’re being so frank, what about you?’

He sucked in a breath. ‘I think we should go.’ He stood, bursting the fragile bubble of civility that had formed.

She leapt up, stung. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

He turned back. ‘Family is difficult to talk about. Maybe …’

‘It’s all right. Talk to me about Gordes. Where is it?’

‘Up there.’

How could she have missed it? The last few kilometres she’d fallen into a rhythm of staring at the ground, planting her feet precisely where his larger feet had trod. And she had allowed her mind to wander. It helped pass the silent hours, the hunger, the loneliness. And yet rearing up above her was an incredible village built into the base of the cliffs, almost classical-looking, bathed in gold light. The sun was already past its peak; they’d been walking for seven hours.

‘A main settlement from Roman times, a fortification ever since, and now a stronghold of the Resistance,’ Faucille said, grinning at her gaping stare.

‘It’s breathtaking,’ she murmured.

‘Yes, but the
milice
know we use it. We have to be very careful. They can’t patrol it as we do but they have been raiding ever since the Germans took over the so-called Free France.’

‘Why risk coming here?’

‘It’s still safer than overnighting in Cavaillon. Shall we pick up our pace? We still have to get to the abbey before dark.’

They walked for another three-quarters of an hour and finally reached Gordes proper but Lisette’s sense of awe and delight was short-lived. Within moments of entering the twisting alleys of the town her pleasure had turned to a liquid fear, rushing through her veins, pounding at her ears. The unmistakable sounds of troops marching and vehicles approaching came from the square – only Germans had those boots or petrol.

‘I should have warned you,’ Faucille said, sensing her disquiet.

‘I have to get used to it.’

‘Yes, you do. Paris will be worse.’

‘What do all these posters mean?’ she asked, noticing them stuck up on many of the walls.

‘These are new,’ Faucille remarked.

Des Liberateurs
, the heading screamed, and below were printed nearly a dozen grainy photos of men. They were described as being part of the Army of Crime. It was the duty of all villagers across the region to speak up if they’d seen or heard anything of these men.

And unmistakably, Frelon’s face smirked out at Lisette. She froze, scanning the poster for Faucille. He was not among them. Even so, he appeared shaken.

‘We can’t stay here,’ he said, grabbing her hand. It was the first time he had touched her and his hand was large and dry; a farmer’s hand, she thought to herself, reassured at the warmth it brought. ‘Walk with me as if we are more than friends,’ he urged. She took a breath and pushed herself closer to him, so
he could wrap an arm around her in a casual embrace. Lisette leant into him so they didn’t appear stiff. It wasn’t a moment too soon. Soldiers turned into the alley, terrifying her. And yet all she could think about was the fragrance of lavender that enveloped her.

‘Talk to me,’ she whispered pleadingly. ‘Anything.’

He didn’t miss a beat. ‘And so I told him to get lost,’ Faucille waved an arm expansively. ‘He thinks he is so clever, but I tell you, my flowers are far superior. I leave mine just a little later so the bees can—’ She couldn’t believe it when he deliberately knocked the arm of one of the soldiers pushing past them. ‘Ah, pardon,
monsieur
,’ he said politely.

The soldier grimaced, his gaze sliding to Lisette, whom Faucille now held in a close hug by his side.

‘Papers!’ the young soldier demanded. ‘Do you live here?’ he asked in terrible French. He was younger than either of them, with rosy cheeks and hair that was so short it was almost shaved. They both began digging into pockets for their papers. Lisette couldn’t imagine she could ever be more terrified than she was now, meeting the enemy at such close range.

Surprisingly, Faucille was neither tense nor nervous. ‘No, I’m visiting an old flame,’ he replied easily, switching into German.

‘You speak German?’ the young soldier exclaimed, his demeanour instantly friendlier.

‘I
am
German!’ Faucille replied, still fumbling in a pocket. ‘I am a resident of France, though. Forgive my blundering way. I’m excited to see her again, eh?’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ the soldier said, grinning now and dismissing the search for papers. He waved to his compatriots. ‘We’re off for the evening, in search of beer.’

‘Try Monsieur Grigon’s bar,’ Faucille said, conspiratorially. ‘He keeps some German beer. Beneath the bar. Insist!’ Faucille gave a mischievous grin. ‘Tell him Lukas sent you. But don’t tell the rest of your unit, eh?’

‘You live around here?’ the soldier asked.

Faucille gave a short jut of his chin. ‘North, in Sault.’

‘No STO?’

‘I’m a farmer,’ Faucille admitted.

‘A German farmer in France?’

The smile on Faucille’s face broadened but not a hint of warmth touched his eyes. ‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it? I was born in Bavaria, my mother ended up in southern France with me. To the authorities I’m regarded as a French national.’ He touched his heart. ‘But I’m German here.’