The Englishman's Daughter

by Kay Brellend

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

Torn between two nations, she will risk everything

Seventeen-year-old Elise Bouchard has always called Northern France home. But when her English father, Sidney Cooper, is captured by the Nazis, her world is shattered. Fearing for her safety, Elise is forced to abandon the only life she has ever known - her beloved grandmother, her brother fighting in the Resistance, and the comfort of her maternal homeland. With the help of Nathan Hawkes, a British soldier, she escapes from Dunkirk on a small boat, seeking sanctuary across the Channel where unknown family ties are her only hope.

Yet East London's Silvertown is far from a refuge, and amid the chaos of war, Elise is plunged into a dangerous new reality when she is recruited as a spy by the Special Operations Executive. With her heart divided between two nations, Elise must summon all her courage to survive.

Suspenseful, atmospheric, and deeply moving, The Englishman's Daughter is a gripping tale of love and resilience in the face of unimaginable odds.

Praise for Kay Brellend:

'Vividly rendered' Historical Novel Society

'A fantastic cast of characters' Goodreads

'Thoroughly absorbing' Goodreads

Release date: July 10, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

31 May 1940, Northern France

Given a choice he would rather have died in England. But he’d left it too late to pick a side.

Had they set off for the coast yesterday they might have stood a chance of making it. But his children wouldn’t leave. They’d thought he was overreacting. Nothing like that was about to happen. The Allies were strong and would protect them. Victory was imminent. It would all be over soon, Papa, they’d reassured him.

The problem with the young was they’d not been there the first time round. He had, and had heard it all before: enlist and it’ll all be over by Christmas, they’d been told. Crafty buggers never said which Christmas.

Luc and Elise weren’t kids to be carted off whether they liked it or not. They were young adults and knew their own minds. Sidney Cooper had never hesitated in saving his own skin in the past. For the first time in his life, he’d behaved as a good father would and stayed by them, for whatever use he proved to be.

At almost sixty years old he was paying for four decades of debauchery and was tired and weak in body and mind. But he’d a gun, and if necessary he’d use it. And that was that.

He could hear them getting closer and his guts leaped and dived and gurgled in protest. Twenty-five-year-old memories flocked in his head: carrion shadows . . . shrill whistles . . . dawn sprints towards an enemy trench, never knowing if another second of life remained to him.

The inside of his mouth had dried out and he took a swig of wine. He’d immersed himself in the French custom of wine drinking but had already been a drunk before settling in France. His wives had tried to tame him for his own good: his first had been fifteen when they met in London’s East End. Nine months and a shotgun wedding later they’d been parents. When Iris passed away during those war years, he’d been serving on the Western Front. Newly widowed, he’d abandoned London and his children and moved in with his French mistress. They’d never married but had lived together as though they were husband and wife. Sophie Bouchard had been buried in the village churchyard seven years ago, dead of pneumonia. He’d made an attempt at rearing their two children for a while but found the business too trying. His son and daughter had been despatched to their maternal grandmother and he’d bolted back over the Channel. Being so much older, his English kids were less of a bother.

He’d come back to suit himself rather than Luc and Elise, but since being reunited with them, a sense of duty, and his mortality, had been making itself known. Too many women and too much alcohol had pulled apart his health, leaving him little time left to put things right. He’d been a bad father to all of his six children but his regrets were with Luc and Elise, the youngest two.

He drained the glass of wine, wiped his mouth on the back of an unsteady hand, and listened.

The noise was the same: boots beating time, heavy equipment creaking. A tank division, possibly. No horses this time. The stamp and snort accompanying the rattle of the gun carriages and mess wagons had been everywhere in 1914. Snatches of soldiers’ chanting drifted to him – bawdy songs no doubt, but he couldn’t understand much German. French was a different matter. He was fluent, having lived here on and off for more than a quarter of a century. His daughter would giggle at his accent mangling the words. They spoke mainly in English though, and it made him smile to hear his French girl twanging like a Cockney sparrer. His beautiful little Elise, the image of her mother: hair almost black and eyes as grey as the slate on the roof above. He’d wasted precious time they could have spent together.

As though his thoughts had conjured her up, Elise hurtled in through the back door, startling him out of brooding and almost giving him a heart attack to finish him off. He would have happily gone that way.

‘Papa . . . you were right. Tanks are coming. The Nazis are everywhere in the village and Luc is still in the fields,’ she panted out and rushed against his side to cling to him.

‘Hush now and listen to me.’ He stroked curls with the gloss of a raven’s wing off her flushed cheeks. ‘They might pass us by. But if somebody has told them an Englishman lives here they will stop. You must be prepared if I’m arrested—’

‘No . . .’ she interrupted, swinging her head wildly away from his comfort.

‘Hush . . .’ He cupped her face to still her agitated movements and gazed intently at her. ‘They might not take me but if they do you must go and find your brother. You must both stay with your grandmother and never come back here until I do.’

‘Nobody will betray you. They wouldn’t be so mean. The Nazis will think you’re French, Papa. You are French now,’ she said and stamped her feet in a rage of fear.

‘Yes, they might think that,’ he soothed her. To comfort himself he touched the weight of the pistol hanging inside his trousers. A cord tied around his waist held it suspended between his thighs. The Luger was loaded with two bullets and had been relieved from the corpse of a dead German officer. A souvenir from the Great War. A poor description if ever there was one.

Elise ground her forehead against the flax of her father’s shirt. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, you were right. We should have left for the coast earlier in the week.’ A spark of hope and determination lit her eyes. ‘There is still time. We could go out the back way and hide in the fields. Then pick up Luc on the way . . . Grandma too if she will come. There are lots of refugees already on the road.’ She started pulling her father towards the door that gave access into the poppy-headed meadows.

For a second Sidney was tempted, fired by her youthful optimism that everything could come right. But it was too late to outrun misfortune as he had in the past. ‘No, love, it would be worse to be caught fleeing. I was wrong, it wouldn’t have been wise to leave last night. The roads are dangerous . . . crowded with the retreating troops and their vehicles. It is safer for you here.’ His seventeen-year-old daughter’s beauty would attract the attention of soldiers of any flag. Her brother would try to protect her and put himself in jeopardy. At nineteen, tall and well built, Luc would be a target. He’d be rounded up as forced labour or sent to an internment camp. At least these flint walls provided some protection.

‘If they stop and come in we’ll play it by ear . . . let me do the talking . . . they might not have much French, these Boches.’ He led her to a chair hoping she couldn’t feel his hands quivering. ‘Sit down and do your knitting. Act naturally.’

Her upturned gaze was pitilessly direct and glistening with unshed tears. Acting naturally was impossible.

‘If they take you away will you come back here after you’ve answered their questions or stay with us at Grandma’s?’ She gnawed on her thumbnail while they waited in an agony of tension. The atmosphere rocked with the sound of marching and Elise’s jaw ached from clenching her teeth. ‘They will see you aren’t a threat and let you go, won’t they?’ Her whispers became quieter as the noise grew deafening.

‘I’ll return here.’

‘Why mustn’t we come back here then, Papa?’ She began to rise but he controlled her with an untouching hand that guided her back into her seat.

‘Just don’t,’ Sidney said softly. ‘When I’m sure it’s over I’ll fetch you from your grandmother’s.’

He couldn’t tell her that she mustn’t be alone . . . that she might end up like her mother. Sophie hadn’t wanted to catch a German officer’s eye in 1915 or be passed around his friends until she ended up diseased. Her distraught parents hadn’t intervened when their only child started working in a brothel. It had been too late to undo a scandal, and inviting attention from the men involved wouldn’t have been wise for Resistance fighters.

When Sidney met Sophie at the brothel she’d said she was clean again, so he needn’t worry. She’d said he was a gentleman in comparison to the others. It was the first time Sidney Cooper had received such praise. Women might tell him he was handsome but quite often followed it up by complaining he was a selfish pig. He couldn’t deny treating most of them badly. Sophie had rarely nagged him and it had made her special. She’d told him her parents had been shunned by neighbours who believed Sophie Bouchard was a collaborator as well as a whore.

The invaders were back, jogging memories, and it terrified and enraged Sidney in equal part that his children might become the victims of decades’ old grudges. Women were always at risk during war and soon he wouldn’t be able to protect his daughter from a similar fate.

‘I should fetch Luc. He’ll look after us.’ Elise couldn’t sit still. She jumped up and went to the open back doorway to search the horizon for her brother. Luc worked on a neighbouring farm. By now he would know about the enemy’s advance driving back the Allies. Everybody would know. Surely Luc would come home.

‘Sit down, Elise; say nothing about your brother to them. They might search for him and take him too.’ Their eyes clashed as several sets of footsteps became distinct from the rest.

‘Will Luc know to stay away?’ Elise hoped her brother would hide now rather than rush home to them.

‘He’s no fool.’ Sidney’s hissed reassurance was drowned out by a hammering on the cottage door.

It was burst open before Sidney could reach it. A German officer strode in, and behind him came two armed soldiers. His arrogant blue gaze flashed from the man with greying hair to the girl with defiance shining in her eyes.

A quiet ensued and Sidney noticed his daughter was drawing the most attention. ‘What do you want, monsieur? We have little food or anything else to give you.’

‘Are you the Englishman?’

Sidney felt as tense as a coiled spring. He’d not fooled the bastard. He’d spoken in French but the German had answered in English. Sidney sent his daughter a warning look. Elise reacted by barging in front of him.

‘Of course he isn’t English.’ She gestured away the absurdity. ‘My father’s as French as I am.’ She spoke her own language, but again the young officer smiled and answered in English.

‘You understand English, Mam’selle.’ He looked her up and down in a way that made her stomach squirm. ‘Who taught you?’

‘A schoolteacher. Who taught you?’

‘My schoolteacher.’ He removed his cap, revealing a neat head of blond hair. ‘So . . . as we are such good students we will talk in English so everybody understands. My apologies. I should introduce myself. Hauptmann Konrad Stein at your service.’ He extended a hand to her. She ignored it. With apparent reluctance, he turned his attention to Sidney. ‘Come with us please, Mr Cooper.’

‘No!’ Elise launched herself forward as though to push Stein away.

Sidney yanked her back before she could touch him. ‘You remember what I told you?’ he murmured hoarsely.

She nodded, but refused to let go of his hands.

Sidney raised them to his lips, rubbed his cheek against their soft backs. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see you again soon, dear. And I love you, Elise.’ He took his coat from the peg and shrugged into it.

She tried to follow but the soldiers blocked her way as her father went out with the officer. She watched from the open doorway, and listened to Stein shouting at his men in German.

Her father didn’t look back, but his captor did, staring at her over the car roof before getting into the vehicle. Elise glared back through a blur of tears that magnified the furious loathing in her eyes.

‘Papa! she cried as the car moved off. The brigade marched by watching her, not singing any more. She withdrew inside and leaned against the door, sobbing.

She knew now why her father had told her to go from here. Some of them might come back for her next time.

The Hauptmann didn’t make much conversation as the vehicle bumped over the rutted road. They’d make him talk though, Sidney knew that, and they wouldn’t accept he didn’t know anything, even though he really didn’t.

‘You are English?’ Stein sounded bored and surveyed the blooming hedgerows that were close enough in places to skim the car windows as they passed.

‘Yes, from London.’

‘Your daughter is also from London?’

‘No . . . she’s French. Her mother was French.’

‘Your wife is dead?’

‘She died years ago.’

‘Your daughter is all alone.’ Stein smiled to himself. ‘You will want to help us quickly then to return home to her. Pretty girls shouldn’t be left alone.’

‘I’ve nothing to tell you.’

‘We will see. You were here the last time. I think you were a Tommy who fell for a Mam’selle.’

‘I was. Now I’m too old for all of that.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m so old I need to pee all the time. In fact, I need to go now.’ No lies so far.

‘What?’ The younger man swung him a glance of distaste.

‘Got a bit of a problem with the old waterworks.’ He rolled his eyes at his groin. ‘If you don’t stop the car I’ll wee on the seat . . . and your nice uniform will suffer.’ He gazed at the grey thigh close to him and a highly polished boot. He’d enjoy pissing on that.

Stein gestured his disbelief but shot forward to clap the driver on the shoulder. He scrambled out before the vehicle had come to a complete stop, fearing he might be a laughing stock and soon stink of piss. He strode around to open the door and let his prisoner out, his teeth grinding on an easily identifiable German oath.

‘Don’t need no toilet paper, thanks,’ said Sidney and suffered a cuff for his insolence and having his coat pockets searched. He hopped from foot to foot to show it was an emergency. The Hauptmann gave him a shove, sending him away. With a smirk, Sidney walked to the shrubbery at the side of the road. He stepped modestly in among the trees, fiddling with his trouser buttons.

Half an hour had passed, he judged, time for Elise to be a fair distance away from the cottage. There was nothing else he could do to help his children than this. But he wished there was another way . . . turn back the clock and do things differently, be a better person . . . a better father. He’d killed before and not just during the war. Death didn’t bother him, it was the dying . . .

He wasn’t a spy; he was a coward. They would assume he was an English spy though, and he’d suffer for it. He slid his hand inside his trousers and pulled out the gun and his cock. Two bullets. It would be a shame to waste one of them. He began wetting the undergrowth in front of him as a drift of tobacco smoke reached him. He would have liked a final cigarette himself. He took a proper grip on the gun and let his leg get wet as he turned.

The first bullet hit Stein and spun him around, and Sidney felt a burst of elation that he could still do it. The second entered his own mouth before the driver had got his door fully open.

‘Your father’s gone?’ Mathilde Bouchard swung a horrified look between her grandchildren. Her son-in-law had abandoned these two in the past when things got difficult, but this time a more sinister reason than his selfishness was to blame for his absence.

‘They took Papa away. He said we must come here and stay with you until they let him go.’

‘He was right to do so.’ Mathilde hastily ushered them inside, closing the door against prying eyes.

When Elise reached the farm Luc had been stowing the tractor in the barn, having heard the noise of the approaching army. He’d jumped down the moment he saw her and listened in dismay to her report of their father’s arrest. His boss had been herding his poultry into the barns to keep it out of sight of scavenging soldiers. Luc had told him he’d no time to help with the chickens and they’d set off immediately for their grandmother’s village north of Lille. The settlement comprised a cluster of whitewashed cottages on a narrow lane. At its eastern end it widened into a square around which sat a church, a forge and a bakery.

To avoid the troops they’d used short cuts over the fields and along narrow winding paths offering some cover. Scouting parties would soon be infiltrating the countryside, though and they’d be stopped and interrogated.

‘Why didn’t you come and get me sooner? I wouldn’t have let them take him!’ Luc continued pacing to and fro, squinting at his sister. After the heat and glare of the midday sun the atmosphere inside seemed cool and shady.

‘Papa forbade me and there was no time anyway. What shall we do?’

‘I’m doing what I should’ve done before. I’m joining the army,’ declared Luc. ‘What’s left of it.’

‘If they’ve taken your father you should both keep your heads down here for a few days and see what happens,’ their grandmother cautioned. ‘Be quiet and stay inside until he comes for you. Did anybody see you arrive?’

‘The lane was quiet, nobody was about,’ said Luc.

‘Good . . . they’re all still at the market I expect.’ A weekly market in the neighbouring village drew most of the housewives away for the mornings. They’d be hurrying back now though to batten down the hatches at home. ‘Nobody must know you’re here with me,’ said Mathilde. ‘Why did you not heed your father and go to England?’

‘It’s my fault . . . I didn’t believe Papa when he said it would be bad for us.’ Elise covered her guilty face with her hands.

‘I wanted to stay put as well.’ Luc embraced his distraught sister. ‘Why’s this happened to France, anyway? This isn’t our fight. So much for Maginot and his line,’ he spat in disgust. ‘It’s all mad.’

‘War is mad. It always starts with some man’s insanity.’ Mathilde whirled an angry finger by her temple. ‘Here, drink this.’ She poured hot strong coffee from a metal pot and handed them a cup each. Before they’d tasted it a sound of strident conversation outside prompted Mathilde to shoo her grandchildren into the bedroom. She put a finger to her lips just as the door received a bang and a neighbour called to Mathilde to open up.

From their place behind the half-closed door they sipped coffee and listened intently to their grandmother being told about a calamity. The market had been alive with talk of a German officer having been shot by a local man. The advancing troops had halted not far away to deal with the incident. It was rumoured the assailant was English and had also been shot. Was it Mathilde’s son-in-law? Where was Sidney Cooper? The woman demanded to know. And what about reprisals?

Luc stifled his sister’s gasp of anguish with his hand. Quickly he put a comforting arm about her to prevent her bursting into the parlour. He’d picked up from his grandmother’s behaviour that not even long-standing acquaintances should be trusted.

Mathilde denied knowing anything and got rid of the elderly widow, who rejoined the others outside. At intervals the little group turned around to stare at the cottage.

‘Is she talking about Papa?’ Elise whispered, coming out of the bedroom.

‘I think so,’ Mathilde answered on a sigh, turning from the narrow casement through which she’d been spying on the gossips. ‘Do you know if your father had a gun?’

Elise shook her head in despair but Luc said, ‘When I was a kid he showed me a German revolver from the Great War. I didn’t think he still had it. I’ve not seen it in ages.’ He gave his sister a little shake to liven her up. ‘Could he have taken something like that with him, Elise?’

‘I don’t know . . . possibly it was in his pocket. He took his coat from the peg.’

‘If your father is responsible, you two aren’t safe,’ Mathilde interrupted. ‘You mustn’t go back to work, Elise. You will be easily found there.’ Hastily, she got from the larder half a loaf and a wedge of cheese, wrapping it in a cloth. ‘The town will be crawling with Boches.’

‘Madame Laurent locked up and pulled down the shutters as soon as the first soldiers arrived.’ The couturier where Elise worked sold gowns of fine silk and lace. Madame Laurent had told her that during the last occupation some soldiers – both Allies and enemy – had acted like swine when drunk. They stole her lovely clothes to give to their women back home. ‘Somebody betrayed Papa. The Hauptmann knew his name was Cooper.’

‘When people are frightened they think only of themselves. It was the same last time.’ Mathilde pointed to the window through which the neighbours’ rapid voices penetrated. ‘She was widowed during the Great War. Your grandfather survived the fighting but never recovered from what went on. He knew he wouldn’t make old bones. And so did I. Some people suffer their bitterness, others spread it around.’ She approached her grandchildren and raised her hands to cup their faces. ‘You two must think only of yourselves and travel to England somehow. You must shelter with your father’s family in London. We can’t be certain of his fate. But I know if he’s able to, he will somehow get there to be with you.’ She went to a drawer and found a tin, pulling out some folded banknotes. She halved the amount, holding out cash in both hands. ‘Here, you will need this until you find work.’ She pressed the notes on to them when they seemed reluctant to take her savings. ‘If it’s too risky to travel to Calais go south and hide among the refugees heading away from the fighting. Speak only French and keep to yourselves. Trust nobody.’

The voices outside became louder and Luc strode to peep through the window. Helmeted heads and grey torsos were all that was visible of the infantry approaching through the long meadow grass. The neighbours had spotted them and were dispersing indoors in a panic.

‘A patrol’s coming this way.’ Luc swung back. ‘It might be a coincidence.’

‘It might,’ said Mathilde. ‘They scavenge for milk . . . bread . . . anything they can lay hands on.’ She glanced at her white-faced grandchildren. ‘You two must go quickly. They won’t bother with an old woman. I’ll find them some beer and send them on their way.’ She gazed at her strapping grandson; they would find work for him. And Elise too would draw their interest. Mathilde pulled open the drawer again and withdrew a notebook. She tore out a page. ‘Your father gave me this address after your mother passed away, so I could let his English family know if he was about to meet his maker. Even back then I think he knew he’d get there before I did.’ She thrust the paper at Elise. ‘Guard it. Sidney told me these Coopers are good people.’ Her son-in-law had been a liar as well as all the rest. She’d believed him on that though. His other children had never visited him and Mathilde found that quite understandable. ‘Good luck and God bless and keep you safe.’ She gave Luc the wrapped food to put in his pocket.

‘Come . . . hurry . . .’ Luc caught his sister’s arm then let her go in order to briefly hug his grandmother in farewell. Elise also embraced Mathilde and kissed her wrinkled forehead. She was returned a swift kiss then pushed away.

‘Be brave, both of you.’ Mathilde warded off her granddaughter’s grasping hands. ‘Vite! There’s no time to waste. I love you both. We’ll see each other soon. God speed, my dears . . .’ The last was addressed to the door swaying on its hinges. She swiftly closed it without giving in to her yearning for a last look at them. She sank into a chair and put a thin hand to her forehead where her granddaughter’s warm kiss lingered.

She heard them in the lane and got up to peek out of the window at a trio of soldiers working the water pump. They were jovially filling their bottles and tin helmets then pouring water over their sweaty faces. Mathilde turned away and shook a fist at the ceiling. ‘Why?’ she cried in despair. ‘Only twenty years . . . why this again already?’

No guttural voices had demanded they halt as they raced along the banks of the stream. This was the shortest route to the woodland that would give them protection on their journey north. Finally they reached the oaks and plunged thankfully beneath a cool green canopy of leaves, hurdling undergrowth and zigzagging between trees. Luc led the way and at intervals stopped to encourage his sister as brambles tore at her legs and arms and her harsh breathing penetrated his own gasps.

Working on the farm had built his strength but Elise was slender and shop work hadn’t prepared her for this. He slowed down the second he glimpsed the road up ahead and within a minute Elise had caught him up. Luc turned and put his finger to his lips. Between pants she nodded that she understood. Close by, everything seemed still and quiet; in the distance though was the rumble of the German army and the intermittent crack of rifle fire as Allied troops skirmished with their pursuers.

They picked their way onwards until a few ancient trunks were all that lay between them and open space.

Luc grasped Elise’s arm then turned to look at her. ‘We’re still in front of them but need to keep going.’

‘Will you come to England with me?’ Elise read her answer in his solemn gaze. Her black hair was wild about her shoulders and she gathered up a thick hank and wound the ribbon more securely around it. Her eyes darted here and there as the gunfire got louder and startled crows from the trees flapped and cawed overhead.

‘I’m staying to fight, Elise. We must all fight or we’ll never get rid of the bastards.’ He touched her face, pink from exertion and scratched from a thorn. ‘I’ll stay with you until we reach the coast. Don’t be frightened, I’ll look after you.’ He crept forward to the road, signalling for her to stay put. Having got his bearings, he darted back.

‘We’re about nine kilometres from Lille.’

Although they’d travelled a good distance north from their grandmother’s house they were still far from the sea; there’d be no scent of brine to hearten them until late tomorrow.

A twig cracked somewhere close by. They ducked down in unison and strained to listen for another sound. There was nothing but the rustle of small creatures and the creak of timber.

Heavy running footsteps made them quickly conceal themselves behind a tree. Elise sent her brother an optimistic look. Luc had also heard somebody declaring himself ‘bleeding knackered’ in a London accent similar to their father’s. He prevented his sister breaking cover nevertheless.

‘English!’ insisted Elise. She was keen to speak to the soldiers and find out everything they could about what was happening.

‘Careful . . . could be a trap . . .’ Luc refused to let go of her arm.

‘Good advice . . .’ drawled a voice from behind. ‘So who are you two?’

Luc jerked around and immediately put up his hands on seeing a man in khaki battledress pointing a rifle at him.

‘Who are you?’ Elise boldly took a step towards him.

‘I asked first.’ He gave her a half-smile.

‘Luc and Elise Bouchard,’ Luc hastily said, sending his sister a warning glance to mind her tongue. This Tommy with two stripes on his uniform sleeve could be a godsend . . . or a danger.

‘Who are you?’ Elise insisted. ‘Are there more of you?’

‘Three of us; Middlesex Infantry.’

‘Is that it?’ she sounded disappointed.

‘The others might be about somewhere. With Jerry too close for comfort and taking potshots, we got separated.’ He studied them. They looked French with their dark hair and continental complexions. But that didn’t make them friends yet. ‘You speak good English.’

‘Our father’s English,’ said Elise. ‘He was taken by the Germans only a few hours ago.’

Luc frowned another warning at her not to say too much; he took up the conversation. ‘We’re not sure why they want him or what’s happened to him. We’ve. . .