Marcel strolled off in the direction of his easel while Felix and Sylvie walked the opposite way, taking the winding path up around the back of the camellia garden towards the glasshouse. A pair of blonde women wearing sober grey skirt suits walked past arm in arm. They openly stared at Felix. Sylvie tossed her hair back and looped her arm through his possessively. Felix tipped his hat at the women and gave them a charming smile. They hurried on, whispering to each other.
‘I’m glad to see you French women still outshine these dowdy German frauen,’ Felix said loudly. ‘They scurry around like little mice in those dull grey clothes.’
Sylvie smiled and checked her hair was still in place. She resolved to search the attic costumes for some spare feathers for her hat. Defiance through clothing was a subtle form of rebellion, but one she enjoyed.
‘Do you have anyone special waiting back in England?’ Felix asked. When she tilted her head up, she saw he was looking down at her intently.
The fact that the answer was so depressing meant her initial response was to tell him in no uncertain terms that it was none of his business who or what she had left behind, but she was actually feeling kindly towards him. He’d been perceptive enough to notice that she had avoided answering Marcel in any great detail. They’d both taken moments to offer support to the other in the course of the afternoon, and he didn’t look as if he was trying his seduction routine. His question had sounded casual, and perhaps he was just making conversation.
‘Don’t you know we’re not supposed to share any details like that?’ She tilted her head so her hat brim hid her face.
‘It would hardly break your cover,’ Felix said. ‘Do you have a lover waiting at home?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Sylvie admitted, head still down. ‘No one is waiting for me.’
‘Not at all? I would have thought a pretty girl like you would have a sweetheart or two and a trail of broken hearts left behind you.’
He sounded surprised. That stung. Her love affair with Dennis had ended badly, and the only broken heart in Sylvie’s past was her own. She whipped her head up to look at Felix. His eyes were bright and it seemed the habitual seducer she recognised was back.
‘Of course you would expect that,’ Sylvie said scathingly. ‘I imagine a man who spends his time trying to sweet talk every woman he meets would be incapable of believing a woman wouldn’t have one or two followers hanging on.’
She was feeling irritable again. She’d actually been enjoying his company, so why did he have to ruin it with meddling talk of sweethearts and trying to poke into her business? She stalked ahead to the busier part of the garden. It didn’t help to see couples strolling arm in arm. Felix caught up with her and took hold of her elbow.
‘I didn’t say followers. I asked if there was anybody special.’
She shook him off irritably. ‘You know the difference? I’m surprised. It hardly seems to bother you who you spend your time with. Any of the women in the club will do, from what I’ve seen.’
She frowned, hearing her own vitriol. Why should she care what Felix did with his time or how many women he flirted with as long as he didn’t try including her in that number?
Felix frowned too. ‘At least I have some standards. Perhaps you prefer to spend your time consorting with Germans like your friend from the bakery. Collaboration horizontale is a popular pastime, I believe.’
‘Standards! You couldn’t even resist trying to charm those mice back there.’ Sylvie clenched her fist at her side. ‘The walk I took with Herr Baumann was as blameless as you and I walking together now. Less blameless, in fact, because he has never tried to kiss me or shove his hand down my blouse!’
‘So far…’ Felix retorted. ‘Though I’m sure it won’t be long before he does if you’re intending to carry on cultivating him as Marcel suggested.’
His voice dripped with distaste.
Sylvie rounded on him furiously. ‘If I am instructed to do so … than I will. But believe me, I will take as little pleasure in it as I did when you kissed me.’
She walked off, determined to ignore him if he called after her or followed.
He did neither and that increased her tetchiness. Thank goodness Mirabelle didn’t open on a Monday, so she would have a couple of days to calm down. His questions had stung, but that was not his fault. He couldn’t have known how deeply the remarks about people waiting at home would cut her to the core. As she made her way back home, she realised this war-torn, occupied town and the friendly people in Mirabelle held more attraction for her than England ever had.
Chapter Fourteen
Boulogne, France
1933
‘We’ll be in Paris this time next week, chérie.’
Angelique lay back on the pillow and smiled.
‘Yes, Maman, we will.’
Sylvie was glad Angelique’s eyes were closed so she did not see the tears in Sylvie’s. She stared pleadingly at the white-clad nuns, with their unsettling combination of severe habits and kindly faces. The sister in charge of the ward made the sign of the cross over her breast.
Too soon.
Too quick since Angelique had first complained of the pain in her abdomen six months previously that medicine could not cut through. Then a hard lump began to swell in her once flat belly, and the doctor said there was nothing to be done. Now all that mattered was to keep Angelique comfortable and free of pain for as long as possible.
‘Paris will be beautiful,’ Sylvie said. ‘We’ll join the troupe soon. Rosetta wrote to me that she wants to copy Josephine Baker’s number from Zouzou. She wants me to help teach it to the rest of the girls. You can learn it too.’
‘You know I can’t, chérie.’ Angelique’s eyelids flickered open. She reached for Sylvie’s hand. ‘You should create your own dances. You have talent. I would like to have seen them. I wanted to see you grow up and become a better dancer than I ever was.’
Sylvie bit her lip. Angelique was reconciled to her death more than Sylvie. Fourteen was no age to become an orphan.
‘When I’m gone—’ Angelique murmured.
Sylvie started. It was as if her mother had read her thoughts. ‘That won’t be for years, Maman. But don’t worry, Rosetta and the girls will look after me. They won’t let any harm come to me.’
Angelique smiled fondly at her daughter. ‘I’ve written to your father. He is coming for you.’
‘I don’t want him here!’ Sylvie exclaimed. ‘He’s nothing to me. I don’t want to see him.’
‘I do.’ Angelique fumbled for Sylvie’s hand. ‘I would like to see him one last time. He wired me to tell me he is coming as quickly as he is able.’
Sylvie sat back down. All around, the nuns ministered to other patients with the efficiency they had shown ever since Angelique has been admitted to the hospital. It seemed impossible that everyone else’s lives were continuing as normal when Sylvie’s whole world had been ripped out from beneath her.
‘I’m sure he will come soon,’ Sylvie said. ‘Go to sleep now. I promise I will wake you as soon as he arrives.’
‘You’re a good girl. I’m so proud of you. I wish your father could have known you better, but you will have all the time you need now.’
Sylvie laid her head on the bed, her cheek touching Angelique’s hand. When she next awoke, it was daytime, and a soberly dressed man stood at the end of the bed.
‘You must be Sylvia.’
‘Sylvie. Not Sylvia,’ she corrected.
‘I’m Arthur Crichton. I’m your father,’ he said in halting French.
He didn’t have to explain who he was. Parts of Sylvie’s life that had, up until then, made no sense suddenly became clear. Her tip-tilted nose was his. The lips were the same. The gingery brown hair that peeked beneath the rim of his hat had mixed with Angelique’s dark locks to create Sylvie’s chestnut that glinted with hints of tawny in summer. He was definitely her father.
Sylvie stared at him, silent. He was a stranger. He was a man with a wife wh
o had abandoned a pregnant woman to fend for herself. Who had not ever seen his child. How worthless. No wonder Angelique had never had a high opinion of men.
‘I’m sorry I have not met you before,’ Crichton said, ‘but all that will change now. We’ll have lots of time to get to know each other.’
‘How?’ Sylvie’s voice was hollow.
‘Because I’m going to take you home.’
‘To Brittany?’
Crichton smiled. ‘To England. You’re coming back home with me as soon as your affairs here are completed. You’re coming to live with me now.’
‘But I can’t go to England!’ Sylvie protested. ‘I’m about to become a front-row dancer. The troupe is waiting for me. We’re going to Paris.’
Crichton looked apprehensive. ‘Your mother took you with her because she had no choice, but I did not expect her to let you join the troupe. That is not suitable for a child of your age. But now I am here, you don’t need to do that any more. You can get an education.’
‘I have an education,’ Sylvie said. Her eyes filled with tears. Hot and angry. She wiped them furiously on the back of her sleeve, not wanting him to think she was weak. ‘I can read and write and I am quicker with money than Maman is.’
She looked at the figure of Angelique, still and small beneath the smooth sheet, and now the tears began to fall freely. This man who had fathered her then run away thought he had a claim on her. Rage and sorrow gave her the strength to speak to Crichton in a way she would never usually dare address an adult.
‘I don’t want to go with you. I don’t know you. How dare you come here now and tell me you are taking me away!’ She turned back to face him and raised her voice, not caring that she was causing the nuns to stop and stare at her. ‘You come here to see my mother, but you have never been here for her.’
Crichton’s expression hardened. He walked around the bed and gripped Sylvie by the shoulders, turning her round to face him. Sylvie let out a gasp of pain and shock at being handled in such a way, and he released her instantly.
‘I’m sorry.’ He took off his hat and rubbed his fingers across his temple. His hair was thinning on the top, and there were lines that furrowed his forehead. Sylvie guessed he was older than Angelique by at least ten years. Her mother had always liked older men, and Arthur Crichton would have been handsome fifteen years ago.
‘This was not how I planned to meet you. This is not the place. Come with me and we can talk. I won’t keep you from your mother for long. Please.’
It was the please that did it. Sylvie kissed Angelique’s forehead. The skin was so cold now. Barely a person any more.
‘We’ll be back soon, Maman,’ she promised.
When she moved away, Crichton made a move towards the bed. He caught Sylvie’s eye and hesitated, raising an eyebrow, asking her permission. It was a small gesture, but she appreciated it, and a little of her resentment towards him scraped away.
‘Yes, you may,’ she said.
Angelique lifted a hand and Crichton clutched it tightly, bringing it to his lips. His body convulsed. He bent over the dying woman and spoke to Angelique in English. Sylvie didn’t understand a word of it, but his tone was gentle, and Angelique murmured something back in the same language.
Sylvie realised she would have to learn English and, as that thought struck her, a sense of defeat began to creep up on her. If she was thinking that, she was already starting to accept she would have to go with him.
Obediently, she followed him out of the hospital to a nearby café, which was considerably more expensive than the ones Angelique usually took her to. Angelique had always allowed Sylvie to order coffee but when she asked Crichton, he ignored the request and ordered Sylvie cake and hot chocolate.
She ate politely, though her stomach felt too knotted for the food to be able to fit inside her. The chocolate was thickened with cornflour and tasted rich and sweet. Comforting.
‘That was not how I wanted our first meeting to be,’ Crichton said again. ‘I was going to tell you about myself, but I think that is the wrong way around. What would you like to ask me?’
Sylvie gave him a hard stare over the rim of her cup. He looked tired and his overcoat was crumpled. If he had come from England to Boulogne, he must have taken an early crossing. Where on earth did one start asking the questions that tumbled around in her head?
‘Do you still have a wife?’
‘Yes. She’s called Maud.’
‘Does she know about me?’
Crichton took a sip of his café noir before answering. ‘Yes, she does. She has for a few years. I had to explain why I was sending money abroad.’
‘You sent money? To my mother?’
‘Of course. I may have been absent, but I wanted to support you.’
Sylvie sipped the chocolate thoughtfully. She had never realised that. Crichton took another sip of coffee. He was looking a little more alert now the caffeine was having an effect and his French was becoming more fluent the longer he spoke.
‘Maud and I have no children of our own. Maud wasn’t – we weren’t – ever able to. She’ll welcome you into our home. We live in Yorkshire, by the sea. You’ll have your own room. We have dogs and horses. We have a tennis court too. I can teach you to play.’
A home. Sylvie’s skin prickled. She had spent her life moving from place to place, boarding house to hotel. Never a home. It was a strange idea to be permanent. This felt like something in a moving picture where the poor heroine was whisked off to fortune and happiness. She had become little orphan Annie, to be adopted by a millionaire. But there was an arrogance in Arthur Crichton’s assumption that she would be happy to give up her entire life to fall in with his plans.
‘But The Firefly Girls. I belong with them,’ she explained. ‘I love dancing. I want to dance and create dances.’
Crichton laughed, shaking his head indulgently.
‘Travelling from place to place? Living from a suitcase? Associating with acrobats and musicians, female impersonators and suchlike. No. You are fourteen but look like you could be eighteen from the way you dress and do your hair.’
Sylvie reached a hand up to the sleek waves. Even though she had slept at Angelique’s side, they were still set. ‘Mother did them for me. She always liked us to look the same.’
Crichton smiled kindly. ‘You look so very alike. The way you move and your voice. It was quite a shock to see you. But it is time to become yourself, Sylvia. You could be so much more than a dancer in a touring sideshow. I’m offering you a home and a future. A chance to become a proper English young lady. Children should not be doing the jobs of adults.’
His voice had become commanding. He’d been a soldier, and whatever he did now, he had the air of being used to being obeyed.
‘Angelique wants you to come to me. That’s why she contacted me.’
Sylvie nodded reluctantly.
Angelique had loved Arthur Crichton and probably still did. No man she had been with had ever measured up in her estimation or heart to him. For her mother’s sake, she could try for a year or two. No one said she would have to stay forever.
‘We should go back to the hospital,’ she said. ‘I want to stay with Maman until she is gone. After the funeral,’ she said in a dull voice, ‘I’ll come with you.’
Nantes, France
1944
‘Monique? Monique? Where are you?’
Sylvie and Céline paused to look at the teenage girl holding a leash with a broken collar on the end. She was standing beside the drinking fountain in the small square around the corner from their apartment, peering around.
‘I’m looking for Monique,’ she said to the two women, turning desperate eyes on them. ‘Can you help me?’
Céline shrugged and switched her bag of groceries from one arm to the other. ‘Sorry, I haven’t seen a dog.’
Sylvie hesitated. The name might be a coincidence, but it was an odd choice for an animal. Also, the girl hadn’t specifically said Monique was a d
og; it was just a conclusion one might jump to.
‘Does anyone know you are out looking?’ Sylvie asked.
‘Tante Louise sent me,’ the girl said.
The hairs on Sylvie’s neck prickled. Too coincidental for two names.
‘I don’t mind helping you search. I have a little time free,’ she said. ‘Céline, be a friend and take my bag too. Leave it outside my room, and I’ll take it in as soon as I’m back.’
Céline raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows in surprise. ‘I thought we were going to fix your hat before we go to work. You won’t have time.’
It was only one o’clock. There would be plenty of time to search for a dog and fix a hat before they needed to leave for the club. Céline didn’t want to spend her time looking for a dog, which suited Sylvie fine.
‘I feel sorry for her. It won’t take long,’ Sylvie said. ‘I had a dog once, and I would have cried for weeks if Pepe had run away.’
She hoped the story would not motivate Céline to help. She quickly passed over her basket before the singer could change her mind. ‘Don’t eat the whole pastry before I get back,’ she said, referring to the precious slice of glazed cherry tart they had managed to buy by pooling their money and foregoing eggs.
Céline carried on towards the apartment, shaking her head as Sylvie’s foolishness. As soon as she disappeared inside, Sylvie turned to the girl.
‘Let’s go back down the hill to see if Monique is there.’
She led the way and sat on a wall beside a small empty café. The girl was skinny and flat-chested with her hair in two plaits. She wore a summer dress with a patched skirt that had been lengthened with fabric of a different colour. She looked about thirteen but with rationing meaning so many people were underfed, she could have been anything up to sixteen. Sylvie would later discover that she was almost eighteen, but at the time she appeared too young to possibly be involved in Marcel’s undercover world. Then again, the delivery boy at the bakery had been young too.
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