The French Promise

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘I shall send it over immediately with one of our bellhops.’ Jane placed the phone back on the hook, staring at it, shocked.

  What had happened? Had Max been to see him? Had Luc decided to go south anyway? Why wouldn’t he have called? Surely he realised she would be waiting.

  She went down to the lobby to await the porter bringing Luc’s note with what she hoped was an explanation that was going to make her feel a whole lot better, when she saw Max return sheepishly to the lobby.

  ‘Jane … I didn’t expect to see you down here.’

  She gave him a look of soft annoyance. ‘I could say the same to you. What happened?’

  ‘I went to their hotel but Luc and Jenny had checked out.’

  She nodded. ‘So I’ve heard. Did you manage to discover where they went?’

  He shrugged. ‘I paid off one of the porters and all he would tell me is that the taxi was going to Gare de Lyon. Luc is headed south.’

  ‘Damn it!’

  ‘There’s no reason we can’t do the same.’

  ‘Follow him?’

  ‘Why not? We can’t make the last train south but we can catch the first one in the morning.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ She would not be deterred this time.

  ‘Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, near l’Isle sur la Sorgue.’

  ‘I think Luc might go via the Mont Mouchet region,’ Jane added.

  ‘That’s of no concern to me. In fact, it’s all the better for us to get to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse first. I’ll ring you later from my hotel once I work out the trains.’

  She nodded, let him kiss her cheeks again. ‘See you tomorrow, Max.’

  As he left she recognised the uniform of a young man from the Grand. She watched the exchange of dialogue between him and her hotel’s concierge and headed towards them.

  ‘Madame Aplin, a letter for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting it.’

  She turned, desperate to rip open the note but knowing she should wait until she was back in her room. The lift ride felt as though it took an eternity and she shared it with an American couple, clearly on their first trip to Paris. The woman giggled and her companion stole a soft peck at her temple. Watching them from the corner of her eye, Jane felt unreasonably and ridiculously envious of them.

  ‘Sorry,’ the young woman said. ‘We’re on our honeymoon.’

  Jane smiled politely at them and stepped out from the lift but had never felt as lonely as she did in that instant.

  She hurried to her room, hoping no tears would fall. She dropped her key and struggled to get the door open but finally she leant back against the closed door, breathing hard. The housemaid had turned down her bed and put the bedside lamps on. Jane sat on the bed and stared at the slightly crushed envelope in her hand. It was on his hotel’s stationery. The fountain pen’s ink was turquoise, which seemed altogether too feminine for a man but then Luc was full of surprises. He was strong, opinionated, hated frills and frippery, and yet he grew lavender. He was a Maquisard, might have killed people during the war, and yet he could speak about a moonlit evening like a poet. He was grieving for his wife – Jane knew he hadn’t let go of Lisette yet – but still he made love to her as though there had never been another woman in his life. He was an enigma.

  She pulled open the envelope and withdrew the note, holding her breath, her heart pounding like timpani:

  Jane, by the time you read this I will have left Paris. You were right, this trip should be focused on Jenny. Forgive me for this hurriedly scrawled note. I would rather have said this to you personally. The truth is, I am unnerved by the pain I felt on learning that you were dining with a man tonight when I rang your hotel earlier. You did warn me you’d had invitations and I suppose I was silly enough to believe our time together gave me exclusivity. My apologies. It’s too soon for a relationship and you’ve done the wise thing and I should take a leaf out of your book.

  I want you to know that it was a splendid time together and I won’t forget you.

  Wishing you a happy stay in Europe and I’ll give you my Australian address at the bottom. Feel free to write any time. Jenny especially would be so glad to stay in touch.

  Luc

  She read it twice in succession and by the end her tears had arrived to splash on the turquoise ink. Luc had gone. Her shock and hurt turned to annoyance that he’d not given her a chance to explain and that he’d consider her that fickle. Did he really believe she’d allow two men to romance her at the same time? What a low opinion he must have of her! And she had no right of redress.

  She was angry but the situation was too grave. It would sit on her conscience and she refused to spend the rest of her life feeling complicit in what could very well turn into murder. She could see the situation clearly and she had to save Max that burden – he was too young and idealistic to realise how life could punish a person repeatedly for a single error in judgement.

  She would go to Provence, most of all for Jenny’s sake. If Jane could save Luc risking his neck for revenge, then she would. She screwed up the note just as the phone began to jangle. It would be Max.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  They’d spent the night in Lyon and woken early to take another couple of trains into Le Puy-en-Velay, an impressive town because of its dramatic setting in the heart of Le Massif, surrounded by hills. Luc had heard about but not seen its famed chapel. Built at the pinnacle of a high, conical, volcanic structure, it reared out of the terracotta-roofed buildings that clustered at its base.

  He’d agreed to linger for a day and explore, trailing his daughter up the numerous steps to the tenth-century Church of St Michel, a wonder of architecture built this high.

  ‘The lady at Chanel told me that fashion draws its inspiration from the pages of history,’ Jenny said loftily. ‘She told me that I might like to study the history of art as that would not only give me a classical education but a fine appreciation of colour, design, stylings … I thought I could do History, History of Art and English Literature.’

  He shook his head, amused. ‘Tricky in France, that last one.’

  ‘I’ll work it out,’ she said.

  The view from the top was spectacular. They’d taken the ascent slowly and were now both breathing hard, their breath curling in ribbons of steam as they looked down onto the orange rooftops of the higgledy-piggledy town that had cluttered itself below.

  Jenny raised her gaze to look out across the wider sprawling landscape into the distance. ‘Makes me feel small and unimportant,’ she admitted.

  Luc understood what she meant. ‘This was one of the starting points in France for the pilgrimages to Spain. Santiago de Compostela and its cathedral was the destination of religious pilgrims from all over France and Italy and so on,’ he explained. ‘That was an incredibly long journey many centuries ago, mostly undertaken on foot,’ he said.

  ‘How long would they walk?’

  Luc shrugged. ‘In medieval times, perhaps six months to a year of continuous walking. It was hard going over the hills and there were no hotels to drop into along the way.’

  She nodded, impressed.

  They walked the cool cloisters together, sharing their pleasure at the unusual decoration of red, white and black mosaic around its arches.

  ‘Don’t you miss France, Dad?’ Jenny asked, touching the stone wall reverently, but not looking at him.

  ‘Every day,’ he said, and realised he had never admitted that out loud.

  Their gazes met and nothing was said but it felt as though he’d just agreed to let Jenny live in this country that she loved. He refused to discuss it yet and she was perceptive enough to know this was not the moment to push him.

  ‘Do you feel Mum’s here with us?’

  ‘No,’ he replied and knew it took her by surprise. ‘Your mother was born in northern France. Paris is more hers; I felt her there, especially in Montmartre.’

  ‘So Provence is yours, then?’

  ‘Yes. T
he highlands are in my soul. I admit your mother and I shared some events here in the south, including our first row and our first kiss. But Provence is very personal to me. Your grandparents and aunts were stolen from there, my three closest friends were killed in the south; one of them was a like a father to me. My lavender fields were …’ He let out a big sigh. ‘I want you to know your mother and I were very happy in Australia – much happier than in Britain. And although I never stopped loving your mother – wherever we lived – Australia was so good to us and showed me how to enjoy our life again. Tasmania gave me a new life, a new chance. I would never criticise it, but I am a man of Provence.’

  They sat on a bench. It was cold but it was too enjoyable talking honestly like this to let the moment go too quickly.

  ‘And what about Jane?’

  Luc’s gaze whipped around. There was so much he wanted to say but nothing came out.

  ‘Did you think I couldn’t work it out?’ Jenny wondered.

  ‘Work what out?’

  Jenny gave a soft snort. ‘Oh, come on, Dad. Jane’s lovely, she’s good for you. She’s not Mum – never will be – and I’d hate it if someone tried to replace her. But it doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy grown-up company again. Besides, if I’m going to live in France, I don’t want you being all sad and sorry for yourself, making it harder for me.’

  He was compelled to grin.

  ‘Is that selfish? Harry used to tell me that I thought the whole world was spinning just for me. I don’t mean to be like that.’ She shrugged. ‘I want to achieve so much and I don’t want to have to be worried about you.’

  ‘Not selfish,’ he admitted. ‘Pragmatic!’

  ‘And Jane?’ She turned to face him. ‘Why isn’t she here now? Anyway,’ she sighed, ‘I’m okay with it, Dad. Mum’s gone. You can’t spend the rest of your life alone. And Jane’s lonely – that’s obvious. You’re both perfect for each other.’

  ‘Do we have to talk about this now?’

  ‘Who else are you going to talk to about it? I’m all you’ve got, Dad. And I like her – aren’t we lucky about that?’ She dug him in the ribs with her elbow.

  ‘Jenny, I really do like Jane …’ He began to shake his head.

  ‘But?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be. If I like someone, they know it. If I don’t, they know that too.’

  As Luc began to respond, she waved a hand in his face. ‘And don’t say that’s because I’m a child. I’ll be driving in two years!’

  He burst out laughing. Jenny was priceless and he wondered which man would have the fortitude to take her on.

  ‘When it comes to people, we’re not all black or white in our emotions. Some of us shift in between the two,’ he said. ‘I’ve learnt how to see hundreds of shades in between.’

  She shrugged. ‘And your point is …?’

  He pulled her close, laughing. ‘I could imagine spending time with Jane. But neither of us came to Paris looking for romance. I’ve got all I want right here,’ he said, taking his daughter’s hand.

  ‘Don’t go soppy on me, Dad. I’ve done so much crying since—’

  ‘I know, I know … But this is a sentimental journey for me and I want to share it with you. Jane makes it more complicated, which is why we’re now travelling alone. This is about us,’ he said, squeezing her hand, yet he couldn’t look his daughter in the eye.

  ‘Fair enough, but I think Jane is crazy about you and—’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said, softly but emphatically. She stared at him, astonished. ‘Dad … girls talk.’

  Luc shook his head. ‘Come on. We’ve got the long descent to go and I have to wonder whether your dad’s old knees are up to it.’

  Jenny let it go, mercifully, but their conversation had planted the seed of doubt. Had he misjudged Jane? It mustn’t concern him now. He was on a course of action. Finding Robert and confronting von Schleigel were all that mattered.

  Luc had persuaded one of the few men of the town with a car to drive them to Pontajou, about thirty or so miles east. He paid the man, Henri, to wait for them in the village, covering the cost of a meal, some wine and the hours spent smoking quietly near a brazier. He’d also paid him to let him borrow the car to drive the mile or so to the farmlet he remembered once they reached Pontajou. It seemed Henri had never seen so much money at once and readily agreed to lend the vehicle for a couple of hours. Luc left his watch and passport as additional collateral.

  Luc visited a bar first, buying Jenny a hot chocolate. ‘Wait here,’ he said, leaving her at a table while he approached the counter to ask some questions about Robert Dugas.

  The barman shrugged. ‘Yes, I know him.’

  ‘Tell me about him,’ Luc urged.

  ‘You are a stranger, monsieur. We southerners don’t flap our gums about each other.’

  Luc nodded, handing over some money into the tips bowl so as not to offend. He told the man a potted version of his story that related to his time in Le Massif during 1944.

  Jenny sauntered up to lean against the counter.

  ‘You fought here? At Mont Mouchet?’

  ‘I did, monsieur.’ Luc rattled off the names of some of the rebels he’d fought alongside, including those of a few of the district’s men that he knew only local people would recognise. He saw the flare of recognition in the man’s hooded eyes. ‘I was wounded,’ he continued. ‘But I was taken to a farmlet where Marie Dugas and her grandson nursed me back to health.’ He glanced at his daughter, listening intently. She shifted her gaze to catch his and he knew she was intrigued, hearing his war tales for the first time. ‘I was there several weeks and we were visited by Germans twice. They were looking for survivors,’ he continued.

  ‘I know. They killed my mother and grandparents in Clavières as part of the reprisals for that battle. My name is Louis.’

  Luc swallowed. What could he say? ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Many families suffered, monsieur. Tell me about the farm.’

  Luc outlined it as best as his memory would allow.

  ‘Describe Marie,’ continued the interrogation.

  That was easy.

  ‘What do you know about Robert?’ Louis continued.

  ‘He was five at the time, dark-haired, curious, enthusiastic. Ah, yes, he had a small light-brown birthmark here,’ Luc recalled, pointing to his own wrist.

  ‘He would be twenty-four years old now,’ Jenny offered the barman.

  Louis nodded. ‘That would be right.’

  ‘Is he still here?’ Luc asked, excitement building.

  ‘You’ve come a long way to find him.’

  ‘I made him a promise that I would come back to see him one day.’

  Louis paused. ‘He is not the cheerful soul you remember.’

  ‘Are any of us?’

  The barman smirked.

  ‘I’m presuming Marie has passed on?’ Luc asked.

  ‘Many years ago. But his father is alive. Robert had a complicated upbringing. His life is still … complicated.’

  Luc frowned. ‘Robert’s all right?’

  ‘Go see for yourself. I am done talking. Do you want anything else to eat or drink?’

  He shook his head. It was clear he would get nothing further. ‘Ready?’ he said to Jenny.

  ‘Let’s go. Why didn’t you tell Harry and me about all this? How you were injured in battle?’

  ‘Honestly, Jen, most people never want to discuss their private hurts, especially with their children. Your mother always said: “It’s the past. Leave it there”.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have wanted you to do this, then?’

  He shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I do. How far away is the farm?’

  ‘A minute in the car.’

  He lifted a hand in farewell to its owner. ‘Back soon.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Henri said and raised a small glass of wine to them.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t get drunk while we’re awa
y,’ Jenny said in a scathing tone that reminded him of Lisette.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve told Louis. He won’t serve him more than another glass and he’ll feed him. Now, if my memory serves me right, we turn down here,’ he said, glancing in his rear-vision mirror although there was no traffic save a lonely pony and cart some way down the road behind them. Even so, the neighbourhood had changed dramatically since his time here. Back in wartime it had been a sleepy hamlet and now it had a couple of shops, including a bakery shop front, and a tiny art gallery.

  ‘There it is,’ he said in a tone of wonder. He smiled helplessly. ‘I loved this place.’

  ‘You nearly died here!’ Jenny said.

  ‘They kept me safe and risked their precious lives to do so. They were so good to me.’

  Luc slowed the car a short distance from the cottage and sighed. ‘I’m sure this is exactly how it looked two decades ago.’ He was shaking his head in private memory.

  ‘Do you want me to wait here?’

  ‘That might be a good idea until I check out the situation.’

  ‘Don’t leave me long. It’s freezing in here.’

  Luc approached the cottage by a small gate that was off one hinge and desperately in need of repainting. He heard raised voices and paused. Now that he looked at the cottage more critically and the surrounding farm itself, he realised he’d been tricked. It had become seriously dilapidated. Marie hadn’t had much but she’d kept a neat and tidy farmlet and was always busy at one job or another. She was an old woman with a small boy and her vegetable garden flourished, her hens laid happily and her goat was well fed. Now there was no sound of animals around and the place looked unkempt.

  He heard a glass shatter and one man’s voice shout with real anger. Just as Luc was wondering whether or not to leave, someone lurched out of the cottage limping, followed by a string of obscenities and threats.

  ‘Robert?’ he murmured to himself, shocked.

  The younger man heard his voice and stopped in his tracks, his gaze darting up nervously, although he kept his head hung low. ‘This is private property, monsieur. Are you lost?’

  ‘Are you Robert?’