The Secrets We Keep
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Synopsis
‘Truly gripping… I loved it.’ Jill Mansell, Sunday Times bestseller
A heartbreakingly beautiful novel which captures the endurance and strength of ordinary people in the darkest of times, and the courage of one woman who put her life on the line to join the resistance. Perfect for fans of The Nightingale and The Secret Messenger.
1944, the Cote d’Azur.
Artist Marguerite Segal is recruited by British Intelligence into befriending Etienne Valade, a local priest. Her mission is to persuade him to pass on information from the high-ranking German officers who attend his church: evidence of their war crimes.
Connected by a passion for art, Marguerite and Etienne soon fall in love, but their association increasingly puts her at danger of violent reprisals. With his church frequented by Nazis, Etienne is a suspected collaborator, and distrust is high.
And Marguerite is keeping her own secret too. Like the Jews whose identity cards she forges to hide them from the Third Reich, she is hiding behind a false name, her true identity and past known only to her closest friend.
Marguerite must get hold of the documents that will condemn the German officers but, in a world where everything is at stake, can she truly trust anyone – even the man she loves?
Praise for The Secrets We Keep:
‘I absolutely loved this… Vivid and heartbreaking.’ Lana Kortchik, USA Today bestselling author of Sisters of War
‘War, passion and tragedy unite in this atmospheric and moving tale.’ S D Sykes, author of the Oswald de Lacy Medieval Murders series
‘A wonderfully immersive, emotional read.’ Annabelle Thorpe, author of The Enemy of Love
‘I stayed up late into the night to finish… A thrilling, exciting story… You might want to have some tissues handy.’ Reader review
‘I enjoyed this novel very much!’ Reader review
‘I highly recommend reading this.’ Reader review
‘Wonderful.’ Reader review
Release date: November 10, 2022
Publisher: HQ Digital
Print pages: 352
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The Secrets We Keep
Theresa Howes
June 1944
It would only take the crack of a twig to give Marguerite away as she crept through the park in the dead of night. Even the unexpected crunch of leaves beneath her feet would be enough to reveal her position, but still she continued, bravely placing one foot in front of the other as she ventured into the unknown darkness.
The Allied air raids had continued along the Cote d’Azur until the early hours, leaving the night thick with the smell of cordite and distant fires. The bombs, scattered with abandon by the RAF Lancasters, had turned over the beaches and destroyed homes, as if the people weren’t suffering enough under the German Occupation.
She’d waited for the all-clear before slipping out, cycling through the least trodden streets in the quietest part of the town, clinging to her breath as if the release of it would somehow betray her. It was long after curfew and she’d taken a risk, keeping her head down while she locked her bicycle to a lamp post, her feet brisk as she slipped through a gap in the fence and made her way to the remotest corner of the park. Once a destination for lovers’ trysts it was now a place of quiet abandon. Since the Occupation, not even the greatest passion was worth the danger of being caught out after curfew by a German patrol.
Now, Marguerite waited at the appointed place, the pine cones giving way under her shoes like the moulding carcasses of rats as she shuffled from foot to foot, trying to shake off the cold and the fear, a shadow among the shadows in her black mackintosh, her hair shrouded in a crow-black scarf. With her head down and her eyes lowered she could have been anyone of any age, her war-starved figure giving away a girlishness as much as it could have indicated an old woman.
The person she was there to meet wouldn’t try to recognise her. In this case, it would be the opposite. This was how things went. When anonymity could be the key to survival, it was too dangerous even to exchange glances. A brown envelope, passing from one gloved hand to another, was all that was needed. Under these circumstances, there’d be no mistaking anyone or their purpose when that was what they were there for. At this time of night, and in this occupied land, who else would be brave enough to venture out and with what intent?
In the event of a bombing raid, it was a known rule that a pre-arranged meeting would be rescheduled to take place exactly one hour after the all-clear sounded. And so here she was, waiting. She’d gambled that the enemy patrols wouldn’t be out so soon after a raid. For all their bluster, the Germans were cowards when it came to facing the threat of Allied bombs. This was what she told herself as she listened for footsteps breaking the silence in a way that wouldn’t be noticed by anyone apart from those who were alert to them.
But this time she’d made the wrong guess. Suddenly, a beam of light swept the ground in front of her, barely missing the corner where she hid, the quiet broken by the bark of salivating Alsatians, their throats constrained as they pulled at the lead.
Marguerite snatched a breath. Somewhere to the right, she saw a tall shadow and heard the slip of a shoe unbalanced by the unexpected angle of a sharp stone. At the same moment, a burst of rough German voices demanded to know who was there. It was the dogs, smelling her fear, that had alerted them.
She held herself rigid against a tree, defying the swaying arc of light from their torch as it swung across the low growing shrubs and the empty flower beds. Surely the soldiers wouldn’t risk their pristine uniforms climbing through the overgrowth of thorns or dirty their boots among the decay of last year’s leaves? Still the dogs barked, the sound sharp and insistent as they stood on their hind legs, straining at the lead and refusing to give up.
The tall shadow moved closer, black-coated and stealthy in the darkness. Whoever it was, it wasn’t her contact, whose small silhouette always appeared in the shape of a woman. This was unmistakably a man.
There it went again, the glare of the searchlight, getting nearer with each sweep. Marguerite swallowed her fear, feeling the soft crack of the envelope tucked in the waistband of her skirt. If they took one more step, she’d no longer be in shadow. She’d no longer be able to pretend she was part of the undergrowth.
The soldiers were so close now she could smell their cheap hair oil. She could pick out the sound of the dogs’ claws scratching the earth to gain traction. It would only be a matter of seconds before one of the animals caught the movement of her lips, the rare blink of her eyelids.
And in that passing second, as the German voices shouted, the man in the black coat stepped in front of her, blocking her from the sight of the soldiers. He was a good head and shoulders taller, his body looming large as he tried to hide her. His gesture could have been an assault, but Marguerite had no choice but to trust him.
‘Kiss me.’
Instantly, she felt the dizzying press of his lips against hers, the rigid form of his lean body creating a barricade between her and the approaching soldiers as he wrapped himself around her. All at once the dogs were silent, the tread of the soldiers’ boots vanished as the world spun, and all she could hear was the rapid beating of her own heart, all she could feel was the heat of the stranger’s body as his passion overwhelmed her.
But there was no denying the presence of the three soldiers or their jeers as they enjoyed the spectacle. Eventually, the stranger stepped back and looked over his shoulder at the uniformed men standing only a few steps away, their torch focused on Marguerite’s face as she gasped for breath.
Faced with the aggressors, the stranger coolly took out a handkerchief and wiped Marguerite’s red lipstick from his mouth before pushing it back into his pocket, never once letting go of her.
‘What are you doing out after curfew?’
The smallest of the soldiers barked the question, his diminutive stature inspiring his vitriol. The German army were so desperate for soldiers these days that even the feeblest seemed to pass muster.
The stranger pulled Marguerite closer into his body. ‘Isn’t it obvious what we’re doing?’
The soldier laughed, skimming his boots along the ground. ‘You know I should arrest you for this?’
‘For what? For making love to a beautiful woman? When did that become a crime?’
The soldier looked Marguerite up and down in a way that made her skin crawl, but it could have been worse. He could have insisted on searching her.
‘Is there anything else we can help you with?’
He was pushing his luck with the soldiers, but after the way he’d come to her rescue, she’d forgive him anything.
The soldier considered Marguerite as if she were a carcass in a butcher’s window. ‘I’ll let you off this time. Go home to bed. You’re making the rest of us jealous.’
Before Marguerite could promise to obey them, the soldiers disappeared. The black-coated stranger, who she now thought of as her saviour, released his grip, the tension in his body finally easing as they found themselves alone.
‘Are you alright?’
Even in the blackout, she could see the startling blue of his eyes, the thick sweep of hair beneath his fedora.
‘Thank you for coming to my rescue.’
‘I think we rescued each other.’
The night air felt colder as he stepped away from her, creating a respectable distance between them. Suddenly, he was the polite stranger he was meant to be and not a passionate lover at all.
‘Given the circumstances, it’s probably best we don’t introduce ourselves.’
She nodded, pushing down the disappointment that he didn’t want to know more about her, that he could kiss her with such intensity and pretend it had never happened.
‘It’s not safe for you to be out alone. Will you let me walk you home?’
They left the park, crossing the road to where Marguerite had chained her bicycle to a lamp post.
‘I’ll be fine from here.’
He’d never tell her what he was doing in the park at such an hour and she knew better than to ask. He could be anyone from anywhere, and not knowing who he was had to be unimportant. They’d saved each other when it mattered and that was all there was.
He looked left and right, listening for the sounds of soldiers in the blackout, but the street was deserted. ‘Are you sure?’
She nodded, trying to show she was more certain than she felt.
He lifted his hat and said goodnight, his eyes lingering on her for longer than was necessary as she climbed onto her bicycle and pushed down hard on the pedal.
Gathering speed, she continued along the street, frustrated that her mission had been thwarted, wondering if the stranger was still there and not daring to look back, not daring to betray her desperate need to know if he was still watching her.
Marguerite was leaning her bicycle against the stone wall of the old farmhouse when Simone appeared at the front door, her eyes wide in the moonlight.
‘Is everything alright? You’ve been gone so long.’
‘I wasn’t able to complete the handover. I was almost caught by a German patrol.’
‘Were you followed?’
Marguerite pressed her finger to her lips, urging silence as she ushered Simone inside. Although their nearest neighbours were five hundred metres down the lane, it didn’t do to discuss these matters where there was the slightest chance someone could overhear. Even in this isolated place, uncertainty had led to denunciations over the smallest things; the keeping of hens, the perceived possession of an abundance of fruit on the apple trees.
It was a relief to be in the cool dark embrace of the old farmhouse. Marguerite took her shoes off at the door, instantly soothed by the chill of the stone flags beneath her feet. The house had stood for over two hundred years, giving it an atmosphere of solidity and steadfastness that always reassured her. For a decade, it had been her refuge and a place of inspiration for her paintings. Over time, her soul had become as entwined with it as the wild rosemary that grew in clumps in every dry corner of the garden.
She closed the door quietly and gave Simone a hug, reassuring her that she hadn’t been followed.
‘You look tired.’
‘I couldn’t go to bed until I knew you were safe.’
The continual strain of the war had added years to Simone’s beautiful face. Her hair was now more grey than black, her eyes sunken behind her broad cheekbones, and despite the freshness of the Mediterranean air, there was a pallor to her complexion, brought on by enforced hunger and her constantly troubled soul.
They were eighteen years old when they first met. Marguerite had been a student at the Slade School of Art and Simone had been a nanny to the children of one of her tutors. Soon they were inseparable, gadding about London during the 1920s – Simone with her dark-eyed beauty and Marguerite, much fairer, and a good head and shoulders taller than her friend. They were like chalk and cheese as the English would say, and yet for all their differences, theirs was a friendship built on a meeting of hearts and minds, on the habit of shared laughter and trust.
Simone opened the door to the sitting room that led off from the kitchen, indicating the shadow of a sleeping body on the sofa.
‘Jeanne is still here. She fell asleep hours ago and I didn’t have the heart to wake her. She’s exhausted. It breaks my heart, knowing the baby is growing inside her and we can’t get the right foods to nourish her.’
Jeanne was the daughter of Simone’s friend, Nicole. Her husband, Paul, had been taken to a forced labour camp in Germany, leaving Jeanne alone during her pregnancy, although with Simone, Marguerite and Nicole looking after her, Jeanne was never truly alone.
Simone rearranged the blanket where it had slipped from Jeanne’s body and closed the door quietly behind her. Returning to the kitchen, she retrieved the last of the daily bread ration from the larder and handed it to Marguerite, encouraging her to eat.
‘There’s a new padlock on your studio door. The key is hidden in the false drawer in the dresser. You’ll need to use the handle of a coffee spoon to prise it open. It should only be a temporary measure.’
Marguerite broke the bread in two and handed half of it back. She couldn’t eat when Simone was starving. ‘There was no need to go to so much trouble. There’s nothing in there anyone would want to steal.’
Marguerite’s art studio was in the old timber barn that stood to the right of the house. These days, it was the only place she could escape the war. When she stepped inside and closed the door, nothing else in the world existed.
Simone’s eyes betrayed something was wrong. Marguerite grabbed a coffee spoon from beside the sink and used it to lever open the false drawer inside the dresser. Once she’d retrieved the key, she marched to her studio in her bare feet.
Simone ran after her, whispering through a mouthful of bread. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. It’ll only be for a short time. Nobody will find out.’
It was an old padlock and it was a minute before Marguerite was able to negotiate the key in the rusty hole.
‘Don’t open the door too widely, Marguerite.’
Marguerite swallowed the last of her bread and stepped inside, pulling open the blinds that covered the windows at one end of the building and throwing a bar of moonlight across the room.
Simone followed, reclosing the blinds, but not before Marguerite spotted a rough blanket that had been used to cover something in one corner. Marguerite cursed as she pulled the blanket, revealing what was hidden beneath it.
‘Is this Armand’s doing?’
‘I’m sorry, Marguerite. I didn’t give him permission to do this. He promised they’ll be gone by tomorrow morning. He needed somewhere to hide them quickly. There was a tip-off that the garage where they were being stored was about to be searched.’
Marguerite stared at the cache of guns, the pile of ammunition that had been hidden beneath the blanket.
‘Where did he get them?’
‘From the Italian soldiers. Some of the guns were abandoned in the streets when they retreated from the advancing German army last September, others were offered to anyone who would take them.’
‘And they knew to offer them to Armand?’
Simone and Armand had been lovers for years, but it was a mystery to Marguerite why Simone allowed him to come and go as he pleased. He owned a popular bar in town, but that was only the half of it. His other activities were known and not known, his associates suspected by some and not others. During these dangerous times, most people chose not to know more than was good for them and few were brave enough to act in a way that would eventually lead to their name being carved on a stone monument.
‘I’m sorry, Marguerite. I know you can’t risk any unwanted attention, but Armand knows nothing of that; being occupied by a foreign army sits heavily with him. The liberation can’t be far away now. He’s determined to keep the weapons safe so the rebel fighters can be armed to help the Allies when they finally advance.’
Armand had been turned down for active service because of the tuberculosis he’d suffered as a child which had left him with a weak chest. He’d even been rejected by the Germans when they’d rounded up the men of working age for their forced labour camps. With his beloved country under occupation, he was determined to wage war against the enemy on his own terms.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, Marguerite began to spot other blankets in the far corners of the studio which had been used to hide more piles of guns and ammunition. The sight of the weapons in her sanctuary was more than she could stand, but none of this was Simone’s fault. It was all Armand’s doing.
‘Tell him to get rid of them as soon as he can. I have work to do. I want my studio back. I can’t paint with the blinds drawn.’
‘What’s going on? Your voices are loud enough to wake the town.’
Jeanne had wandered over from the house and was standing in the doorway of Marguerite’s studio, her body sagging with exhaustion as she cradled the smooth round of her stomach.
Marguerite lowered her voice to a soothing whisper. ‘It’s nothing. I’m sorry we woke you. Why don’t you go upstairs and sleep in my bed? I’ll take the sofa.’
Jeanne yawned, her eyes narrowing on the blankets covering the cache of guns and ammunition. ‘Is this Armand’s work again?’
Simone brushed off the question with a shrug. ‘You shouldn’t stand around in the cold, Jeanne. Go back to the house and take the offer of Marguerite’s bed before she changes her mind.’
Once Jeanne had gone, Simone tugged at the edges of the blinds, making sure nothing out of the ordinary could be seen from the outside.
‘Everything will be gone by tomorrow. Or the day after. I promise.’
Marguerite was unlocking her studio the next morning when Biquet appeared with a summons to report to the local mayor. The young boy waited while she read it; his hands pushed into the pockets of his ragged trousers, his fingers jangling the few coins that rested there.
She looked up from the note, her heart almost breaking at the sight of his pale face. ‘Have you had breakfast, Biquet? There’s a little bean casserole, if you’d like some.’
The casserole had been set aside for today’s main meal, but she couldn’t stand to think of Biquet going hungry.
‘No thank you, Madame. Maman says I mustn’t take food from anyone’s mouth.’
She ruffled his hair and pushed a few centimes into his hand. ‘Then off you go. Don’t be late for school.’
At the age of twelve, all Biquet’s thoughts of school had been left far behind. Since his father had been killed in action fighting for the French First Army, he saw it as his duty to take care of his mother. Sweet-natured and eager to please, if anything needed doing, Biquet was the boy to call upon.
‘Will you be coming back for your lesson later?’
Biquet stood up a little straighter, a smile breaking out all over his face. ‘Yes please, Madame.’
For the last two years, Biquet had helped Marguerite around the studio in exchange for art lessons. She had no need of an assistant and his help had little bearing on anything, but he was the most promising of all her students and she refused to let his inability to pay stand in the way of his education and his ambition.
Simone waited until Biquet had gone; her arms folded against uncertainty as she stood on the doorstep watching Marguerite climb onto her bicycle. ‘Why does the mayor want to see you?’
These days, it was too complex a question to even consider. ‘I’ll let you know when I find out.’
‘Stay safe, Marguerite. Don’t take any risks.’
Marguerite nodded, the unspoken pact already sealed between them. ‘Make sure Jeanne has something to eat when she wakes up. I left some dry crackers on the bedside table in case she’s feeling unwell. Tell her to nibble one before she tries to move.’
Jeanne’s morning sickness had carried on much longer into her pregnancy than would usually be expected. Marguerite put it down to the exceptional circumstances they were forced to live under. Until the Cote d’Azur was liberated, all they could do was take care of each other as best they could. Their survival was the one true victory they were determined to win over their oppressors.
It was mid-morning by the time Marguerite reached the outskirts of the town. These days, the streets were deserted. Before the war, everyone would have been out walking their dogs, but the lack of food meant most could no longer keep a pet and no one had the energy for exercise. People still nodded when their paths crossed, but the gesture barely covered the fear and suspicion behind their eyes and the gnawing hunger that was eating everyone alive.
At one time, the streets and the promenades had been full of colour and life, the hotels brimming with foreign visitors. Wealthy Americans and the British aristocracy had come for the sunshine, the wine and the food and stayed for love, while the writers and the artists had been drawn by the light, only to be dazzled by the freedom and the liberality. In those days, you couldn’t walk down the street without seeing a film star or a maharaja, or the disgraced mistress of a crown prince.
The summer of 1939 had been the most spectacular of all. Every night, there’d been fireworks and balls, open-air concerts and parties, the strings of lights glowing along the Croisette each evening at dusk throwing their gaze on the beautiful women dressed in Chanel and Schiaparelli. Everyone had lived as if the gaiety would last forever. No one had thought war would come. It was unthinkable that such a thing could happen in paradise. Everyone had believed that the Maginot line, built after the Great War to thwart another German advance, would be enough to prevent an invasion. It hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind that the Germans would simply go round it.
Now, many of the shops were shuttered and sandbagged, and the romantic spirit of the grand hotels had been trodden underfoot by the heavy assault of the occupying army’s boots, the glitter and the glamour of the high life, the comfort and assurance of any reasonable life at all, rubbed into the dust.
The arrival of the Third Reich had been a lesson in how quickly things could change in wartime. Only last September, Marguerite had stood at a high point on the grey limestone hills with Simone, the air brittle with the scent of pine and eucalyptus, as they watched the Italian troops begin their disorderly exit from the town, the black cockerel feathers in their hats making them ridiculous as they fled. They’d been the enemy occupiers for almost a year, but as soon as Mussolini signed an armistice with the Allies, the farmers’ boys from across the border who’d been made to swap spades for guns, had dropped their weapons and returned to their mamas, and it was some of those guns that were now hidden in Marguerite’s studio.
Within a day of the Italian departure, the German tanks had rolled in, the goose-stepping of advancing soldiers sending an earthquake through the quiet streets, their cold eyes peering out from beneath their metal helmets, assessing what kind of place it was they’d conquered.
From that moment, the region was subjected to a much harsher occupation, as the swagger of the Italian soldiers, who’d treated being stationed on the French Riviera as a holiday, was replaced by the stiff formality and iron-lawed scrutiny of the Third Reich, the swastika stamping its black mark of terror on every street and on every public building.
Now, as Marguerite entered the main square, she spotted a couple of German soldiers enjoying a cigarette beside the fountain. With everyone reduced to smoking parched vine leaves and dried eucalyptus, the smell of their foreign tobacco was a reminder of the otherness of the outside force that had been imposed on the town. Their grey-green uniforms were sharp and crisp in contrast to the shabby state of her own clothes; her culottes which were once a snug fit, were now pulled in tightly around her waist with an old leather belt to stop them falling down.
She focused on steering her bicycle as they nodded a formal hello, giving only the merest response in return, not daring to look up, or over her shoulder as she stopped to lock up her bicycle and contemplated the ornate stone building that accommodated the mayor’s office.
Its atmosphere of formality sent a chill through her. Until the war, it had been a place nobody had any reason to fear. The rules the office enforced were no more than minor irritants, dictating what colour you were allowed to paint your window shutters, how much eau de vie you could get away with producing in your private still without too many pairs of eyes rolling. Now, each day the mayor was obliged to impose ever more stringent laws.
She entered the building and smiled at old Emile who’d occupied the front desk and been the mayor’s assistant for as long as anyone could remember. In this hard living country, retirement wasn’t something that was recognised unless infirmity left no choice in the matter. The people here were as rugged as the hills that surrounded them, as formidable as the Mediterranean Sea that beat relentlessly against the harbour walls.
He looked up from his ledger, the twitch of his white moustache betraying his recognition. ‘Madame, the mayor is expecting you. Go straight in.’
It was with respect to her age that he called her Madame rather than Mademoiselle. To most people, it was unaccountable how Marguerite, now almost forty, could have failed to find herself a husband.
She expected to see the familiar soft-moulded face of Pierre Jupin sitting behind the mayor’s desk, just as he’d always done, and to suddenly be confronted with someone different caused her to hesitate at the door. ...
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