The Lavender Keeper

by Fiona McIntosh

  All in all, it had been a dream immersion into her new Parisian world. In fact, Lisette would almost consider herself happy if she only knew of Luc’s whereabouts. She was cross with herself for caring so much.

  Luc had refused to explain what had occurred between him and von Schleigel that night, or what had happened to the old man who had caught Luc’s attention. He’d all but dragged her onto the platform at Lyon, bundled her on the carriage and closed the door. When she’d opened the window to say farewell he had simply shaken his head.

  ‘Say nothing more, please. Be safe, Lisette. Forgive me the dangers I put you through.’

  There had been so much she wanted to say, but his expression and the way he took both of her hands and kissed them had choked her. His eyes could not hide the truth of pain. Something truly terrible had happened with von Schleigel.

  As the train lurched forward he’d let go of her hands – let go of her – and Lisette had felt as though something was tearing inside her. Even leaving France all those years before to board in England had been easier than this. Looking at Luc as the train pulled away, Lisette suddenly couldn’t bear to be parted from him. Would she be safe again without him? He regarded her sadly as he raised a hand in farewell. She’d clutched at the rim of the open window, and had uncharacteristically begun to cry as she watched him standing there forlorn, his gaze riveted on her.

  Lisette had felt instantly empty when she could no longer see him. She’d got used to the lilt of his voice, the way he spoke in French low and quietly, like he was telling secrets, and in German like a poet. She’d become familiar with his repressed energy and the bristling anger.

  Their link was severed on that platform in Lyon, but the memory of him travelled with her. He would likely take a German bullet fleeing from some place of sabotage. But she had made a promise to him, and if she survived this war, she would find Lukas Ravensburg again.

  Today was Lisette’s day off. Spring had arrived but it had been a cool morning – one of those crisp, sunny Parisian winter days that could almost trick you into believing life really wasn’t that bad. She was aware that daily British bombing raids over Germany were intensive, and the Wehrmacht was dying on its feet in the frozen fields of Russia. Yesterday the aero-engine factory at Limoges had been bombed. Lisette’s instincts sensed a change in the war. The previous year had been disastrous for the Allies and she hoped she wasn’t imagining that the tide might be turning. And now her tiny part in the fightback was finally becoming a reality.

  She felt a little guilty about Walter Eichel. He played an unwitting role in her cover story, and if she were discovered, Walter would suffer. He had warmly welcomed her into his plush office near the Champs Elysées. His office had the sweet smell of old cigars and Armagnac, the comforting sound of leather that creaked and a mantelpiece clock ticking sombrely over a fireplace that no longer had fuel.

  Her godfather lived well; she could see that from his paunch. Even so, his bearing was straight and his skin was not liver-spotted, his complexion healthy. He was not as tall as she recalled, but his genial grin was intact and his voice was thick and throaty, with that measured way of speaking that she had always liked. His hair was now fully silver but still lustrous, slicked back neatly. He was really very old-fashioned in his ways, but she found it all deeply reminiscent of childhood, when he would visit the family home.

  She had told him she was back in Paris because she couldn’t bear to be away from France, and he had accepted her story without further interrogation. He was happy to offer her a job, happy to make introductions, but she sensed that beneath the surface Walter did not entirely believe her reasons for returning to France.

  ‘When did you arrive?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been back in France for a while; I hated living in Britain,’ she lied. ‘As soon as I left school I came back to the Continent, travelling as a nanny with an English family. When war broke out they rushed back to England and I made my way to Lille. Then I took ill. I was sick for almost a year, Walter, but you may remember my family’s friends in Dunquerque?’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t recall.’

  She wasn’t surprised – they didn’t exist. ‘The Pernots took care of me. When I felt well enough to travel, I headed south for some warmth. I needed to get my strength back. I lived quietly and reasonably well with the family of one of my friends from school. I helped out in a local school. Last year I couldn’t face another alpine winter so I decided I’d come to Paris. That’s when I wrote to you.’

  ‘Well, I was very pleased to hear from you,’ he remarked. He didn’t ask anything else. He had loved her father and was determined to help her, but that was where their relationship ended. Lisette knew she could never take Walter into her trust. Nobody should have to choose between friend and country.

  He did warn her that she was never to mention her time in Britain. As far as he was concerned, she had come direct from Strasbourg via Provence.

  Since that meeting she’d been working at the bank, acting as an intermediary when required to bridge the gap between German and French. Walter and she had shared a couple of evening meals together, where he had regaled her with happy stories of her parents. If she were honest, she admitted that she had never enjoyed an evening in recent memory as much as she had with Walter – he was jovial company. He had insisted on paying her first few weeks’ rent until she was settled and earning, and impressed that she refused any further favours from him. He had, however, been determined to buy her some fashionable Parisian clothes.

  ‘I have no daughter of my own, Lisette. Let me do this for you. We can’t have you walking around looking like a peasant. It reflects badly upon me.’

  And so she’d agreed to go shopping, under the eagle eye of his German personal assistant who favoured austere, dark clothes. Without a need for ration coupons, Lisette had been kitted out in a series of winter outfits suitable for the bank, including two skirts, a dark suit, three blouses, two cardigans, a plain but elegant dress for evenings, an overcoat she cherished, leather gloves, two scarves, and two pairs of shoes – one for work, heels for evenings – as well as sundry underwear and a single pair of silk stockings. When given to her, she felt as though someone had just handed her a bar of gold bullion. Silk stockings were currency on the black market. She could probably get enough real soap in exchange to last the war. Or feed a family for weeks.

  Nevertheless, she needed those lovely clothes, now more than ever. From her first day in Paris, she had been trying to ingratiate herself with Colonel Markus Kilian. It had consumed her every waking thought. And this evening she hoped to finally meet him.

  She’d had a striking piece of luck from the outset: on the first day she’d met Walter, she’d learnt that he was an acquaintance of Colonel Kilian’s. If Walter knew her target, surely she could contrive a reason to be introduced.

  She took things slowly and patiently, stealing glances at his diary when she could. She had to find the perfect occasion before she made her play. She’d been working at the bank for several months without success but had held her nerve – and it had paid off. Two days ago she’d felt a pulse of excitement to see the entry in Walter’s diary for this Wednesday at seven p.m.: Les Deux Magots. Markus Kilian.

  Lisette’s fingers trembled as she buttoned up her square-shouldered, oyster-coloured silk blouse, teamed with the charcoal skirt that hugged her hips and showed off her slim, neat figure.

  She checked the time. It was nearing five, darkening outside, and the temperature was dropping. She would need to set off very soon if she was going to walk to St Germain. It would have been easy to take the Métro, but Lisette adored the cityscape, and there was far less likelihood of being stopped on foot.

  She checked herself in the small mirror, pinched her cheeks and made sure her eyebrows were perfectly groomed. In these days of sobriety, she had to make the most of her features without make-up. One of the older ladies in Montmartre village had given her some dried rose petals, sugges
ting she crush them and mix them with a little glycerine to make a sort of lipstick. Lisette now dabbed a little of the pink paste onto her lips with a handkerchief. She looked at herself critically, touching the bounce of a gleaming curl, washed as best as she could with a homemade soap. She cast a prayer of thanks to her parents for her high cheekbones, heart-shaped face, clear complexion. She’d never studied herself so critically before. Tonight, however, it was her looks as much as her language skills and ability to charm that would count.

  Finally satisfied, she pulled on her heavy coat, ensured her ID papers were in her handbag, dabbed on some lavender scent and reached for her gloves.

  Lisette Forester, now Forestier, with her sights firmly set on a ritzy café in St Germain, set out with purpose and the faint scent of lavender perfuming her thoughts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Kilian smiled broadly. ‘Herr Eichel, it’s good to see you again.’ He extended a hand as the banker stood to greet him. ‘Have I kept you?’ He hated to be late.

  ‘Not at all,’ the older man said, shaking Kilian’s hand before gesturing to the seat opposite. ‘My driver made much better time than I’d imagined she would.’ A friendly grin stretched across his features. ‘Call me Walter, by the way. I’m glad we’ve had this chance to meet again.’

  Kilian pulled off his gloves and coat. It was stuffy inside the large café after the brisk night air. ‘As am I. It’s cool but a magnificent evening, isn’t it? Perfect for walking.’ He looked around at the crowded space that was known for its scholarly and artistic patrons.

  ‘You walked here? I’m impressed. I thought all of you uniformed men liked your drivers and cars.’

  Kilian sighed. ‘I must admit that being behind a desk is a most unhappy place for me.’

  Eichel smiled. ‘What will you have?’ The waiter had appeared.

  ‘Cognac. Bring some food too. Something to graze on, or the cognac will go straight to my head.’

  ‘Of course, Colonel,’ the waiter said, recognising Kilian’s uniform. ‘And for you, sir?’

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ Walter replied.

  Kilian watched the waiter disappear into the crowd. ‘It’s certainly a busy watering hole.’

  ‘Been here before?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve been meaning to. I’m told it’s one of the places to be seen.’

  Walter shrugged, casting a glance around the thriving establishment. On a street corner in the elegant sixth arrondissement, it was said to be the best café in Paris. ‘It is, but I suspect that’s the very reason you’ve probably stayed away.’

  Kilian gave him a wry look; it seemed Eichel already had his measure.

  ‘You should come in the morning,’ Eichel continued. ‘It’s peaceful, just a few writers debating philosophy or working off hangovers, and even the wintry sun smiles here nice and early.’ He waved a hand at the nearby church. ‘And St Germain des Prés looks lovely in the morning light. It dates back to the sixth century, you know.’

  ‘Les Deux Magots? What does this name mean?’ Kilian wondered as the waiter returned with balloon glasses of cognac.

  Walter turned and pointed. ‘Those two statues on the central pillar are traditional Chinese merchants. Deux Magots – it came from a play of the same name last century when this place was a drapery, I gather. Now it’s the haunt of academics, philosophers, artists and particularly writers,’ he said, ‘a place where us Germans can feel intellectual … pretend we haven’t been imbecilic enough to wage war on the rest of the world.’

  Kilian gave a burst of laughter. He raised his glass. ‘What are we drinking to?’

  ‘How about to the survival of artists through these dark times?’ Walter replied. ‘Ever seen the work of the Spaniard, Picasso? Curious and haunting, always provocative. He’s here all the time. Likes that table over there.’

  Kilian clinked glasses with him. ‘To art and all things beautiful.’

  The food arrived and so began some small talk about the progress of the war, of business in troubled times, and ultimately of Hitler’s disastrous decision to take Germany into Russia, where men were dying daily in the tens of thousands.

  ‘The Russians don’t need bullets,’ Kilian was saying, ‘the weather and starvation is doing the work for the Soviets. Besides, the real threat is not the east – it’s in the south. The Americans already have North Africa. If they take Italy, it will open a new front and the British and the Americans can strike us right where we’re exposed.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not the only one who thinks this, of course.’ He couldn’t say more without crossing an invisible line. ‘I feel so pointless in the scheme of things.’

  ‘One can only wonder whose toes you stepped on to land yourself such a curious desk job.’ If anything, Walter sounded impressed.

  ‘Highest possible, I’m afraid,’ Kilian admitted. They shared a comfortable chuckle and sat back to sip their cognacs. The café had become even more crowded but Kilian liked its atmosphere. He glanced beyond the windows to the terrace, where lesser mortals braved the cool evening to enjoy their drinks on the pavement. His attention was caught by a young woman standing near the door, peering in as though searching for someone. He watched her absently, admiring her sweet heart-shaped face, pinches of colour at her cheeks from the cold; he was surprised when her gaze fell on their table and she reacted as if she knew Walter.

  ‘Walter, are you expecting company?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  Kilian blinked. ‘Well, a vision has just glided in and seems to be looking your way.’ He stared over Walter’s shoulder at the approaching woman, who became more beautiful the closer she came.

  Eichel swung around, frowning. ‘I can’t imagine … Oh, wait – yes, it’s Lisette, my goddaughter.’ He waved her over. ‘Her parents and I were very good friends; they are both sadly deceased. She’s been doing some work for me these last couple of months while she settles herself in Paris.’

  Kilian watched the young woman pull off her headscarf to reveal glossy, shoulder-length raven hair; she shook it carelessly as she weaved her way through the crowd. She had a dazzling smile, with dimples, no less, and what eyes! Now that Kilian could see them clearly he realised they were an incredible blue, like that child actress he’d seen on posters for a film about a dog called Lassie. He couldn’t think of a more beautiful colouring. He was even more enchanted when, ignoring him and full of gushing excuses and kisses, she allowed Eichel to help her off with her coat. Kilian couldn’t help but notice how her silk blouse tightened across her breasts – just for a moment – as she stretched to shrug off the heavy garment. He was staring, lost in a bubble of pure eroticism before he realised Walter was making introductions.

  He immediately stood to his full height, towering over the newcomer as she offered her hand. ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle.’ He kissed her hand.

  Her smile was as warming as his cognac. ‘Forgive me for interrupting you, Colonel,’ she offered in flawless German. ‘I thought I saw Walter sitting here and had to say hello.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Walter said, pulling out what must have been the one spare chair in the whole café. ‘Were you passing?’

  ‘No, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend, but …’ She shrugged. ‘He doesn’t appear to be here.’

  ‘Then you must let us claim you for ourselves,’ Kilian offered. ‘At least until your friend arrives.’

  ‘I don’t think I should interrupt—’

  ‘Please,’ Kilian insisted. ‘It would be a delight. Walter, we had nothing specific to discuss, did we?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He turned to Lisette. ‘The colonel is quite new to Paris so I thought I should make him feel welcome. This is purely social.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Forestier, can we offer you an aperitif?’ Kilian asked.

  He noticed how she glanced at her benefactor, almost as though seeking his permission. He found her deference charming. Walter gave a small nod. Bravo! The evening had brightened considerably; he was t
ired of talking about Hitler, the price of gold, the winter in Russia.

  ‘May I suggest a calvados?’ he offered.

  Her eyes widened. ‘Do you know, I’ve always wanted to try one.’

  ‘And you never have?’

  She gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. ‘I’m not very worldly, Colonel Kilian.’

  ‘Well, we must work on that,’ he replied. ‘I personally believe that very few French drinks, including your heralded champagne, can match the singular joy of a fresh calvados in the summer served over ice. Except perhaps the dark beauty of a calvados aged maybe four, even six years, in a barrel, served at room temperature on a frosty evening in Paris.’ He had held her gaze intimately, and it was worth it to see her break into a dazzling laugh.

  ‘Colonel Kilian, you make a drink sound like poetry.’

  ‘Calvados is art,’ he said, raising his forefinger for the waiter.

  ‘A glass of Boulard for the mademoiselle.’ He spoke in German.

  ‘Merci,’ Lisette said to the waiter with a polite smile, then turned to him with a much wider one. ‘Thank you. What a treat,’ she continued in German.

  ‘Walter, how is that you have a flawlessly bilingual girl working for you and I can’t find anyone who knows her German even vaguely as well as her French?’

  Walter shrugged amiably. He was leaning back watching, enjoying his cognac.

  ‘Mademoiselle Forestier, how about coming and working for me?’ Kilian quipped. ‘I shall pay you double whatever your godfather does.’

  ‘Oh, but I am very expensive, sir,’ she remarked in the same light-hearted tone.

  Kilian wondered whether this bright young thing was flirting with him. He did hope so. Her drink arrived.

  ‘Swirl it around the bowl,’ he advised.