In Darkness, Look for Stars

by Clara Benson

Genres: Coming of Age; Family Life; Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

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‘Utterly captivating.’ Goodreads Reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘I was completely hooked.’ Goodreads Reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘One of the best books I have read.’ Goodreads Reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Fantastic… My heart was in my mouth.’ Shaz’s Book Blog Paris, 1941: Going against her mother’s orders, spirited Maggie devotes herself to the Resistance. Her life is a whirlwind of forged passports and secret midnight runs, helping Jews escape Paris, which grows more dangerous by the day. Under the cloak of darkness, she bids farewell to fellow fighter Emil, who flees the city with the Nazis hot on his heels. Emil is bound for Maggie’s sister, Cecilia, hundreds of miles away in the south of France. Innocent and shy Cecilia is shocked to the core when Emil turns up, seeking refuge. Up until now, she has lived a sheltered existence: wild and dangerous Emil turns her world upside down. She risks everything to protect him and soon puts her life on the line to aid the secret work of the Resistance. As each day passes and the war rages on, Cecilia cannot help being drawn to Emil. But as the Nazis close in on them, she faces a terrible choice. Exactly how far is she willing to go for love? And will she be able to live with herself, whatever choice she makes? An evocative, riveting and stirring tale about the tragic realities of war, the fine line between loyalty and lies, and the power of love, even in the darkest of times. Fans of The Nightingale, The Letter and All The Light We Cannot See will be spellbound by this magnificent historical novel. Readers absolutely love In Darkness, Look for Stars : ‘ Amazing… One of my favourite stories... A brilliant story that is full of twists and turns… I felt like I was on the edge of my seat the whole time… A must-read.’ Chells and Books, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Oh my word, this was definitely an emotive and additive read, and then some… I felt myself well up… I fully immersed myself in the story and I knew that nothing much would be done for the rest of the day as I would be too busy reading!... I was too hooked… Superbly written… I became so emotionally involved with certain characters that every time they felt pain, I felt pain… The author uses such vivid and realistic descriptions that I actually felt as though I was part of the story myself.’ Ginger Book Geek, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Amazing… I truly loved this book… Clara Benson does a masterful job of bringing her characters to life… Fans of All the Light We Cannot See will thoroughly enjoy this book.’ Historically Yours, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Stirring, captivating and electrifying… So poignant it could sever readers’ heartstrings… A wonderfully written historical novel, In Darkness, Look for Stars was the first Clara Benson novel I read, but it shall certainly not be my last.’ Bookish Jottings, ⭐⭐⭐⭐ ‘A beautifully devastating book. Highly emotional and utterly captivating from the first page to the last.’ Loopyloulaura, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Fantastic… The author captures the relationships beautifully over the split time spans and intertwines them seamlessly. A real page-turner filled with suspenseful twists and turns.’ Goodreads Reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐ ‘This book was so good! The characters were so well rounded, you felt like you actually knew them! The plot was so good you didn't want the book to end! ’ Goodreads Reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐ ‘ Beautifully written.’ Goodreads Reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: April 17, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 390

Sample

His right leg was bleeding, and a feeling of warm stickiness in his hair suggested his head was too. Flight Lieutenant Alec McLeod didn’t stop to ponder the question – there was no time for first aid, as he had come down in the middle of a wheat field that was exposed on all sides. Anyone might be watching from the road that ran alongside it, or the farm buildings to the north, or the little cluster of cottages to the east. It was just after five o’clock, but already the hazy dawn light made him uncomfortably visible to anyone who might be passing, so it was vital to move. McLeod struggled to his feet and tested his weight. There was a nasty burn and a gash on his right shin, and his lower trouser leg was torn to shreds, but no bones were broken, thank God. Ignoring the blood that had now begun to trickle down his neck, he set about gathering up his parachute. That done, he glanced about. He needed to find cover, and quickly. The nearest shelter was a little patch of woodland two hundred yards away, and he headed towards it. If he was lucky enough not to have been seen, he could rest there for a few minutes and examine his injuries.

Once in the shelter of the trees he sat on the low-hanging branch of a large oak and took stock. He felt the back of his head gingerly. The blood was still running, but he was almost sure it was nothing more than a superficial wound. The gash on his leg was another matter, as it was unpleasantly deep. McLeod dug in his knapsack, brought out a roll of gauze bandage from his supplies, and bound himself up as best he could, cutting away the shredded fabric of his uniform with his pen-knife. He was longing for a cigarette, but the smell of smoke would give him away. Instead he ate a couple of squares of regulation-issue chocolate as he considered his next move.

The Germans would come searching soon. When he’d bailed out of the Spitfire and left it to its fate he’d waited as long as possible to open his parachute, mindful of visibility. Fortunately there was some cloud cover, but it was touch and go, and he couldn’t have been more than five hundred feet from the ground when he’d finally pulled the ripcord. But they’d soon figure out where he must be. He had a map, and he was fairly sure he could pinpoint his current location reasonably accurately, but he was a little woozy and his faculties weren’t working as efficiently as usual. It must have been the bump on the head. The question was whether it was safe to stay in the wood until nightfall, or whether, despite his RAF uniform and his bloodied appearance, he’d be better off trying to get away as quickly as possible.

He stared at the map for some minutes and tried to think clearly, aware that whatever decision he made could be the difference between escape and months in a prisoner of war camp. But before he could come to a conclusion there was a crack behind him, like a twig snapping, and he realised it was too late. He started to his feet and whipped round, ready for fight or flight. How had they found him so quickly? But it was not the Germans at all; it was a girl. She was small – not more than five foot two – with clear brown eyes that darted warily left and right. She was wearing an old pair of overalls and battered wellington boots, and had a brightly patterned scarf tied around her dark curls. She wore no lipstick and there was a streak of something that looked like oil on her face. She couldn’t have been much more than about twenty. She held up her hand to indicate silence as she tipped her head to one side, listening. Then she relaxed slightly and smiled.

‘Bonjour,’ said McLeod, feeling self-conscious. His French was a little rusty, and he hadn’t had much cause to use it in the field until now.

‘I saw you come down. We’d better get you out of here,’ she said. Her English was perfect, cut-glass, without a trace of a French accent.

‘You’re English?’ he asked in surprise.

‘My mother is. I suppose you’d call me half-and-half. Where’s your plane?’

He shrugged. ‘In pieces in a field somewhere, I hope. Rather that than sticking out of the side of a block of flats.’

Her lips twisted. ‘Rather,’ she agreed. ‘No bombs, I take it? There were no raids here last night as far as I know.’

‘No, I’m reconnaissance.’

‘Section C? I met one of your chaps a few months ago. Can’t remember his name. Ingram, or Ingleby or something.’

‘Ingram.’

‘Did he make it back in the end?’

‘No,’ said McLeod grimly. ‘He got picked up and sent to Düsseldorf. He tried to escape and was shot for his pains.’

‘Oh.’ There was a touch of sadness tinged with resignation in her voice. ‘What a pity. I rather liked him. Well, if you don’t want the same to happen to you we’ll have to move quickly. You haven’t picked the best place to come down, but we’ll do what we can. I know someone close by. We’ll go by road. There are bushes you can hide in if we see anybody. Can you walk?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about your head? No dizziness or anything?’

‘It’s nothing serious. Heads always bleed.’

‘Hmm,’ she said, giving him a sharp look. ‘We’ll see. Now, let’s go. There aren’t many people out at this hour, except farmers, and they’ll look the other way.’

She turned, and he followed her to the edge of the wood, where she had left her bicycle leaning against a tree. There was a basket on the front, covered with a blue and white checked oilcloth that had a cigarette burn on it.

‘What are you doing out at this time, by the way?’ he asked.

‘Best not ask,’ she said with a short laugh. ‘It was your good luck, though. I’m not strictly supposed to be here, but the Germans usually let me pass. Comes of having friends in high places, you see.’

‘Oh?’ he said curiously.

‘My father was a very well-known musician. He died a few months ago but Maman makes damned sure nobody will ever forget him.’ There was a harsh note to her voice as she said it. ‘Still, I oughtn’t to complain. Before this mess all began I used to go to any lengths to avoid the association, but now it comes in rather useful, and I blurt out my name to every German I meet. Now, you stay to the hedge side and I’ll wheel the bike, and if anybody comes, dive into the undergrowth. And for God’s sake try not to pass out before we get there!’

He didn’t know how she’d spotted it, but she was right that he was starting to feel unwell. Perhaps the bang on the head had been harder than he thought. But it was no time for a concussion, so he took a deep breath and set off after her as she pushed the bicycle down a scrubby incline towards the road.

She stopped and peeped out through a gap in the hedgerow. ‘Nothing. Let’s go. It’s only a few hundred yards.’

They walked along the road, trying to hurry without seeming to do so, but luck was with them and they met nobody. At length they came to the cluster of cottages he had seen from the field.

‘It’s that one on the end,’ she said. ‘He’s a grumpy old so-and-so, but I can usually talk her round. Now, pretend there’s nothing doing.’

It was easier said than done, given the state of him, but they strolled casually past the little group of houses. A dog behind a fence barked at them, and McLeod jumped.

‘Tais-toi!’ said the girl, in seeming unconcern. The dog ignored her, the barking becoming more frantic until they had passed. ‘Here we are.’

They were now outside a tumbledown house with peeling green shutters and crumbling plaster. The front garden was an unkempt and overgrown vegetable patch.

‘It kept getting requisitioned, so they stopped bothering,’ said the girl, by way of explanation. ‘Here, anyway. If they grow anything they do it elsewhere, out of sight.’

She parked the bike at the side of the house then came back and rapped sharply on the front door, which was the same faded dark green as the shutters. After a minute it was opened just a crack, and McLeod glimpsed the suspicious face of an old woman through the gap.

‘Open up, Suzette,’ said the girl in French. ‘It’s Maggie. I’ve brought you a present.’

The door opened further, and McLeod saw the woman in her entirety. Despite the early hour she was fully dressed. Her hair was grey and her face was worn and tired, but her bright blue eyes missed nothing. She gave a bark of laughter when she saw McLeod, then stepped back and opened the door to let them both into her little kitchen.

‘Oh, so this is what you call a present. We can’t eat him, can we?’

‘No, but you can look after him for a day or two, until we can get him out. It won’t be long, I promise you.’

‘That’s what you always say,’ said Suzette. ‘But what about the man last December? Almost a month we had him, and he ate so much! These British men are always hungry.’

‘Now, you know you liked him,’ said Maggie. ‘You told me so yourself. And he was awfully grateful.’

‘Gratitude’s all very well, but you can’t make an omelette out of it,’ grumbled the old woman. Then she smiled. ‘Come here and give me a kiss, child, and think yourself lucky I forgive you for only coming to see us when you want something.’

‘I promise next time I won’t bring anyone except myself. Where’s Pierre?’

‘Out,’ said Suzette, casting a wary glance at McLeod, who judged she didn’t want to speak in front of him. She started as she noticed for the first time the blood which was still trickling down his neck onto his collar. ‘Oh, but he’s bleeding!’

‘Ce n’est rien,’ said McLeod, although he wasn’t sure whether she was worried about him or merely concerned for her linoleum.

‘You do look peaky,’ Maggie said to him in English. ‘I’ll bet it’s concussion. You ought to lie down.’

He was about to reply when the kitchen door opened and in came a large, morose-looking elderly man, who smelt suspiciously of horse manure. He took one glance at Maggie and her companion and cleared his throat as if to spit, although without completing the action.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘You know we told you not to bring any more. So this is why the Germans are out this morning, eh? Well, you can go away. We don’t want any trouble.’

‘They’re coming now?’ said Suzette in dismay.

‘Out on the road.’ He cocked his head in that direction. ‘Four of them. They’ll be knocking on the doors soon.’

‘We’ll have to hide you,’ said Maggie to McLeod.

‘Non—’ began Pierre, but Suzette stopped him.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He can hide in the coal cellar.’ Pierre raised his voice to protest, but she talked over him firmly. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t say a word. Did anybody see you coming here?’

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Maggie. ‘Not on the road, at any rate. Someone might have seen us from one of the windows along the row.’

‘Well, if they did, they’d better not say anything or I’ll give them what for,’ said Suzette fiercely. It sounded comical, coming from such a frail-looking old woman, but there was no time to laugh, because she was already shoving McLeod through the house, towards a side door. At the side of the cottage was a coal bunker with a wooden hatch and rusting hinges.

‘We don’t have much coal any more, so there’ll be plenty of room for you,’ she said. ‘Now, in you get, and for God’s sake keep quiet!’

The coal cellar was deeper than it looked from the outside. McLeod stepped in and eased himself down a flight of steep steps. He had just enough time to see that it was almost empty of coal when Suzette banged the hatch down, shutting out all the daylight except for a tiny, crescent-shaped sliver where the wood had warped. He listened, but heard nothing. He closed his eyes. Sparks and stars and kaleidoscopic patterns floated before him. Opening his eyes did nothing to dispel them. He forced himself to take deep breaths, then rummaged in his knapsack and finished the chocolate. It tasted like sawdust in his mouth, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for a month.

He waited. After a while he heard voices outside the bunker and strained to distinguish them. They were not ones he recognised; two men, he thought. Germans. Then he heard Maggie. They were speaking French.

‘There’s nobody here, as you can see,’ she was saying. ‘Why would he come this way? If he has any sense he’ll have hopped on the first passing farm truck and headed south. That’s what I’d do.’

‘Never mind what you would do,’ said a bored-sounding male voice. ‘What about this coal cellar?’

There was the crunch of footsteps, and something blocked out the sliver of daylight. McLeod held his breath and pressed himself against the back wall of his refuge as the hatch creaked and rose a little way. Then there was a crash of metal. It sounded like a bicycle falling over.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Maggie hastily. ‘It was an accident.’

The hatch dropped and the cellar went dark again, leaving only the comforting crescent of daylight.

‘What is that you just picked up?’ demanded the first German, no longer sounding uninterested. ‘Show me. Tobacco? Where did you get so much? What else is in the basket?’

‘Nothing much,’ replied Maggie.

There was a pause. McLeod imagined the two Germans pulling off the checked oilcloth and peering inside.

‘These jars of jam and honey are only available in German shops. And this coffee. Did you steal it?’

‘No. It was all mine, from before the war. I brought it to give to Pierre and Suzette.’

‘Well you have no right to it,’ said the first German. ‘This belongs to the Reich. Show me your papers. And you two also.’

‘They’re in the house,’ came Pierre’s voice.

‘I’ll get them,’ said Suzette.

‘Go with her, Bauer, and check that she’s not hiding him in there. Now, mademoiselle. Marguerite Brouillard. Is this you? I know the name.’

‘I expect you do. It ought to be familiar enough. You’ve probably heard of my father.’

‘Ah!’ There was a moment’s silence, as though he were looking her up and down. ‘Very well, Mademoiselle Brouillard of the famous father, what are you doing out of Paris?’

‘These people worked for my family before the war. I came to give them the things in the basket. I have permission to travel this far.’

‘So I see, but this is a very strange time of day to do it. You must have left home before the end of the curfew.’

‘No, it doesn’t take long to get here by bike – less than an hour. And I have to go to work later. This was the only time I could come.’

‘Well, it seems you have wasted your journey. We will take these things, and you had better watch out. If we find out you were lying about where you got them, then… you understand?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’

The soldier gave a snuff of approval. McLeod heard the voices of Suzette and Pierre a little distance away. Then there was silence. He waited for what seemed like an hour, before footsteps approached and the hatch was lifted.

‘They’ve gone,’ said Maggie.

She held out a hand to help him up the steps, and he was glad of it because his legs were starting to feel like rubber. They went back into the kitchen and found Pierre and Suzette sitting at a rickety wooden table that had a folded magazine shoved under one leg. There was a certain tension in the atmosphere, and McLeod guessed they had been discussing him.

‘We can’t keep him,’ said Pierre stubbornly.

‘It’s just for a day or two,’ replied Maggie. ‘Look at him, he’s had a nasty whack on the head and his leg is in shreds. He needs bed rest. You can keep him in the attic for a little while, surely? We’ll get him out of here as soon as we can, but he’s in no fit state to travel at the moment.’

They all stared at him, Maggie dispassionately, the other two nervously. McLeod opened his mouth to tell them there was no need for them to put themselves out – he was quite all right and perfectly capable of looking after himself – but even that slight movement brought on a wave of nausea, so he said nothing.

‘You’d better sit down,’ said Maggie, and that was the last he remembered before he blacked out.

He woke to find himself lying on a narrow iron bed in a dim attic. Maggie was standing across the room, peering out through a dirty window. He watched her for a few minutes, and heard her give a sigh. She turned around.

‘You’re awake, then,’ she said, and her voice was brisk enough. ‘You gave us a fright just there.’

‘How did you get me up the stairs?’ he asked.

‘Pierre slung you over his shoulder, I’m afraid. I’m sorry we couldn’t manage a stretcher, but the stairs are narrow and he’s as strong as an ox so we had to make do with what we had. No, don’t try and get up. There’s no need, and it won’t do you any good.’

‘I thought they wanted me to leave.’

‘Oh, take no notice of Pierre. He’s hungry and grumpy but as loyal as they come. And Suzette, too.’

‘I’ll pay them.’

‘What use is money to them? There’s nothing to spend it on. I’ll get them some extra food, and they’ll be perfectly happy, you’ll see.’

‘But where will you get it?’

‘From my own rations, probably. And I know people.’

‘I’m sorry you had to sacrifice the jam and the tobacco.’

‘Don’t worry. I always carry something of the sort. It’s a kind of decoy. They see the goodies in the basket and I clutch my hair and pretend I’m terrified about the cigarettes and it distracts them from searching me. Food isn’t all I carry, you see.’ She grinned conspiratorially at him.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I won’t ask any questions.’

‘That’s probably wisest.’

‘Thanks, anyway.’

‘Don’t thank me now – we’re not out of the woods yet. You ought to be safe enough here until you’ve recovered, and then we’ll see about getting you out. I don’t know which routes they’re operating lately. I doubt we can get you to Brittany – they’re more likely to send you south to Marseille, then back via North Africa, or perhaps across into Spain. Stay here and do as Suzette tells you. She’ll probably try and mother you. She lost her own son on the Somme, you see, and for all her talk she really wants to help. She and Pierre will give you your instructions when you’re better. It’ll probably involve shivering by the side of the road at three in the morning, and two days of sitting crammed in the back of a truck under a tarpaulin, but I’m sure you’ve survived worse.’

His eyes were already growing heavy again. ‘Marguerite Brouillard,’ he murmured drowsily.

‘Oh, you overheard them, did you? Yes, but everybody calls me Maggie.’

‘Maggie. And you’re half-English.’

‘I spent a lot of my childhood in Hertfordshire. Went to school there. But Paris is my home now.’

‘You’re a loyal Frenchwoman.’

‘Perhaps. Although sometimes I wonder whether it’s worth it – all this fighting, and lying, and sneaking around, I mean. Sometimes I wonder whether it mightn’t be easier just to do as they say. It doesn’t look as though we’ve any chance of winning.’

‘Don’t talk like that,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t give up. It will all be worth it – you’ll see.’

‘I wish I could be as certain as you are.’

He felt himself starting to drift off. ‘Shall I see you again before I go?’ he asked.

‘Probably not. It’s safer that way.’

‘Then thank you and goodbye. Perhaps I’ll come and look you up after this is all over.’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ she said, and with that he fell asleep.

It was well after six now, and Maggie ought to have been on her way back to the city, but the British airman had held her up. She’d be late for school but she couldn’t go back without carrying out her errand, so they’d just have to start lessons without her. She said goodbye to Pierre and Suzette, but instead of fetching her bike and heading back the way she’d come, she followed the path down the lane a short way and then turned right down an overgrown footpath which led to some farm buildings. One of them was a hay barn, open on one side. Inside at one end was a ladder which led to a hayloft. Maggie went across to it and glanced about.

‘Emil!’ she hissed. ‘It’s me.’

There was a scuffling sound from above, and a shadow passed across the hatch in the ceiling. Then a man’s face looked down at her.

‘About time,’ he grumbled. ‘Where have you been? I’m dying for a smoke.’

‘Well, I’ve bad news for you,’ she said, climbing the ladder. ‘The Germans got all my tobacco.’

‘What?’

She stepped out into the hayloft, and Emil threw himself back onto the straw mattress that had been laid down for him in one corner.

‘I told you it was better to put you here rather than at Suzette’s,’ said Maggie. ‘I found an airman on the way and the Germans came looking for him. If you’d been there they’d have caught you.’

‘Did they catch him?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then.’

‘All right, but if they’d got him they’d have sent him to a PoW camp. If they catch you they’ll send you to Drancy with all the other Jews – that’s if they don’t shoot you on sight. Better here where it’s safer.’

‘Colder and more uncomfortable, you mean. Have you heard any news of Filip?’

‘I’m afraid not. Nobody’s talking, and it’s difficult to find out what’s happening. But I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.’ She went over and sat down on the mattress next to him.

‘I’m bored,’ he said. ‘I’m sick of kicking my heels here. I want to get out and do something useful.’

‘And so you shall. Here.’ She felt inside her overalls and brought out a screw of paper with some tobacco in it. ‘I kept some back, just in case.’

‘You’re wonderful.’ He made to grab the little package but she held it away from him.

‘Before you set fire to the barn we need to talk about where you’re going to go next.’

‘I’m staying in Paris.’

‘Oh, no you’re not. It’s far too dangerous, and I’m sure they’re keeping an eye on Club Madagascar. You want to keep doing useful work, don’t you?’

‘I can see by your face that you’ve had one of your ideas,’ he said, taking the tobacco. ‘Come on, then, out with it.’

‘What about going to Nice?’

‘Nice?’

‘My sister is there. You remember I told you? She won the Prix de Rome for music, and she’s studying at some fabulous villa or other. There are no Germans there, but lots and lots of Jewish refugees who need help getting out of France. You know all the unofficial channels, and the loopholes, and which visas to get, and whatnot. You could help so many people.’

‘But my home is in Paris.’

‘I’m sure that’s what all those people in Drancy thought, too,’ she said practically. ‘And now look at them – stuck in a concrete prison camp, and probably about to be deported.’

He looked at her.

‘So you want me to go to this sister of yours?’

‘Yes. I’ve written her a letter to take with you. Once we’ve got you smuggled across the demarcation line, go and find her and say I sent you.’

‘Is she safe?’

‘Well, she won’t inform on you, if that’s what you mean. She’s not a Resistant, but she’s not a collaborator either. To be honest, she’s in her own little world most of the time, and sometimes I think she hardly even knows there’s a war on. But she’ll give you a place to stay. She’s shy, though, and isn’t used to men, so make sure you don’t frighten her.’

‘She sounds delightful.’

‘Don’t be unkind. She’s my sister and I adore her. Now, here’s the letter.’

He took it and glanced at it, tucking it in his inside pocket.

‘You’ve got it all organised, haven’t you?’

‘I hope so.’

He pulled her down on top of him on the mattress. ‘You’ll make some man a wonderful wife one day.’

‘Well, I should hope that man will be you,’ she said, laughing.

He kissed her, and she returned the kiss fiercely, tangling her fingers in his hair. After a minute he rolled her over onto her back and started to undo the straps of her overalls.

‘Emil!’ she said, half-laughing, half-exasperated. ‘Not now. Not here. We should wait.’

‘If you ask me, we should get our fun while we can,’ he replied, but she slapped him away and sat up.

‘There’ll be plenty of time for all that. Go to Nice. Cécilia will look after you and send you back safe and sound once the war’s over.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Of course I am,’ said Maggie. ‘She’s my sister. I’d trust her with my life.’

It was a world of fog. A counterpane of silver-grey gauze had descended upon the landscape, wrapping itself around the trees, the road signs, the fences, the telephone boxes. It enveloped houses and cars in its caress, sinking like a dying breath onto the road ahead. Nothing could withstand its gentle advance – not even the low autumn sun, which struggled to penetrate the grey, making only an occasional pale appearance through the dense swirls.

Harriet put down her suitcase to adjust her gloves, which were second-hand and pinched at the wrists. She had come all the way from the station on foot, and her arms were aching. Not that her luggage was so very heavy, but it was quite enough to make the two-mile walk less pleasant than it ought to have been. And the weather didn’t help; droplets of water attached themselves clammily to her coat and hat, settling delicately on the curls she had tried her best with that morning. She thought of her destination. It was not far, and there would be a fire, or perhaps even central heating if the place had been modernised. The woman at the agency had spoken enthusiastically if vaguely of Chaffingham. A gorgeous old house, she’d said: big, but not so big as to be unaffordable or unmanageable. And the people were nice enough. Mrs Brouillard (she had pronounced it Broolard) was a bit formal, perhaps, but very polite and well-mannered.

‘French?’ asked Harriet, glancing at the paper she had been handed, and noting the spelling of the name.

‘I don’t think so. She sounded English on the telephone. Her husband was, though. He was a well-known musician, she said, although I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Jean-Jacques Brouillard?’

‘That might have been the name. They were living in France but came over after the war. You don’t mind the stiff type, do you? She probably just wants softening up a bit.’

‘I’m sure I can manage her,’ replied Harriet. She was trying to sound calm and uninterested, as if she had a whole selection of jobs to choose from and didn’t desperately need this one.

‘Well, we’ll see,’ said the woman, giving Harriet an assessing stare. ‘They’ve been through a few secretaries lately, and to be perfectly honest I wouldn’t have put you forward given your recent performances, but they want someone who speaks French and German, and we don’t have anyone else at present. But do try and make an effort this time, won’t you? We’ve no use for someone who can’t cope, and if you keep on proving unsatisfactory I’m afraid we won’t be able to keep you on our books.’

‘I can cope. I’m sorry about the other jobs, but…’ There was no use in explaining. Harriet wasn’t the only person with problems, after all. ‘I promise I won’t let you down,’ she finished. She was sitting up straight, trying to put on the face of the old, competent Harriet she’d once been.

‘You’d better not,’ said the woman, and so it was agreed.

It didn’t take Harriet long to make arrangements – it wasn’t as though she was leaving much behind, after all. Her landlady had been only too glad to see the back of her after one too many late rent payments, and there was nobody to say goodbye to, except her fellow lodgers, most of whom were transients like her: fleeting acquaintances to exchange meaningless pleasantries with over breakfast, who would leave for parts unknown after a month or two. She was lucky to have got this position, she knew; they hadn’t been exactly unkind at the agency but they weren’t in the business of curing broken hearts, and if she couldn’t do the work then they had no use for her. She’d try harder this time.

She picked up her suitcase and pressed on. According to the directions she’d been given it was only another quarter of a mile or so, but the fog made the walk more of a struggle. At last she saw something that looked like a stone pillar looming out of the dimness in front of her which, as she approached, proved to be a pair of gate-posts. A worn stone plaque on the nearest one bore the words ‘Chaffingham House’. Harriet turned in and set off up the drive. It was rough and unpaved – more of a muddy track than anything – but after a short distance the going became smoother and the road split off into a path that curved round through a thick clump of trees and eventually emerged at the front of the house. Harriet was too anxious to get out of the cold and damp to look at it closely, but she had the general impression of weathered grey stone, sharply gabled roofs and tall chimneys. The doorstep was uneven and dipped in the middle, worn away from hundreds of years of visitors, but the front door was modern and solid enough, with an electric bell, which was at length answered by an elderly woman wearing a black dress and grey apron. She peered at Harriet for several moments even after she had announced her name, then