The Soldier's Girl

by Sharon Maas

Genres: World War II

Synopsis

France, 1944. The streets are filled with swastikas. This is the story of a brave English girl behind enemy lines, a German soldier, and a terrible sacrifice.

When young English nurse Sibyl Lake is recruited as a spy to support the French resistance, she doesn't realize the ultimate price she will end up paying. She arrives in Colmar, a French town surrounded by vineyards and swarming with German soldiers, but her fear is dampened by the joy of being reunited with her childhood sweetheart Jacques.

Sibyl's arrival has not gone unnoticed by Commander Wolfgang von Haagan, and she realizes that letting him get closer is her best chance of learning enemy secrets. Yet despite her best intentions, Sibyl soon finds that betrayal does not come easy to her.

When Jacques finds that Sibyl is involved with the enemy, he is determined to prove himself to her with one last act of heroism—an act that will put all of their lives in terrible danger.

A beautifully written, heart-wrenching, and unforgettable tale of love and loss in a time of war, The Soldier's Girl is perfect for fans of The Letter by Kathryn Hughes and The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah.

Release date: November 2, 2018

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

‘Girls! We’ll be there in five minutes! Put away your things, now, and tidy yourselves up!’

Obediently, silently, solemnly, Elena and Sibyl closed the books they were reading, packed them into the little canvas bags their mother had given them for the journey, bent over to find the shoes they had wriggled free of soon after leaving Paris, and buckled them into place on their feet. Without a word.

This wasn’t right, Kathleen thought. They should be bouncing up and down in anticipation, squealing with excitement. Not once had one of them cried out, Are we there yet? Not once, in so many hours. Sibyl hadn’t once complained, Mama, I’m bored! – screwing up her freckled pixie-face, tossing her auburn curls. As for Elena, her little chatterbox: she’d been as silent as… but no. Not that word.

Both girls had been perfect angels all the way from London; reading their books, playing card games, holding Mama’s hand at station platforms, sitting quietly on the ferry instead of running to the rails to peer into the Channel’s swirls, going to the lavatory when Mama told them to, eating their packed sandwiches without a grumble. This angelic docility was unnatural, disturbing; it might make life much easier for a parent, but Kathleen would have given anything for just one little squeal of impatience during the never-ending journey. Shellshocked. That was the word. All three of them. Still shellshocked. Though there had been no shells. The telephone call from Mervyn’s secretary, Miss Hughes had been bombshell enough.

And now, this flight to France.

Through her numbness Kathleen remembered train journeys from when she was their age, back in British Guiana. She and her sisters Winnie and Yoyo had been squirming bundles of eagerness, even though they knew the Rosignol to Georgetown trip like the back of their little hands. And her girls, too, had until recently, behaved like children should on day excursions to the seaside. Train trips were inherently adventures, even from London to Brighton. And now, London to Colmar? The girls should be brimming over with the thrill of it all, unable to contain themselves. But then she herself was hardly bursting with exuberance. Hopefully Margaux wouldn’t be too disappointed. For so many years they had planned and promised to meet again; and now that time had come and she was just a shadow of herself, of the bouncy schoolgirl Margaux would be expecting. Well, no wonder. Margaux would surely understand. That’s why she was here. To recover from it all. Kathleen sighed, and helped Sibyl with her bag. That’s why they were all here. Before they withered down to nothing from sheer sadness and broken hearts.

She stood up, straightened her clothes, removed a brush and comb from her travelling case and tidied her own hair in the compartment mirror, before attending to Sibyl’s tangles and Emily’s plaits, loosened considerably throughout the trip. They all put on their hats, edged themselves from their compartment into the narrow corridor and along it to the doors. They had left their three suitcases near the exit; now, Kathleen pulled them free as they waited for the train to chug into Colmar station. She leaned forward past the girls, pressed the handle, swung open the door and urged them to jump down to the platform. She got out herself and reached back into the train for the suitcases.

‘Kathleen! Kathleen! There you are! C’est moi! At last! You’re here! Welcome, welcome; and these are your little girls! Elena, Sibyl, I am your auntie Margaux! I am so happy to meet you at last! Let me look at you – Kathleen, you are so thin! And your girls, so tall! And so pretty! Little English roses! Come, give your auntie a hug and a kiss! You understand French? Shall I speak English? You understand me?’

It was Margaux, indeed, just as she remembered her, the words, bubbling from her lips, some English but mostly French. As ever, kisses and hugs everywhere, all the exuberance so lacking in herself spilling out all over them so that, in spite of herself, she smiled and flung her arms around her friend. And clung to her, not letting go. And shuddered, so that Margaux at last drew still and hugged her again, this time in silence, and in reverence, and in depth.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Margaux whispered into her ear. She only nodded. Yes, this was Margaux. The same Margaux who had coaxed her, Kathleen, out of her shell when she arrived at Château Montrouge, a shy eighteen-year-old shunted off to a Swiss finishing school by grandparents who, having failed to secure a suitable bridegroom, didn’t know what to do with her. Her dormmate Margaux, brimming over with energy and conviviality, had opened doors to Kathleen’s spirit; they’d giggled into the night, broken all the rules, and earned themselves the nickname les jumeaux terribles, the terrible twins. They had stormed the gates of adulthood together, only to be torn apart the following year when Margaux returned to her family vineyard in Alsace and Kathleen had been summoned back to Norfolk and staid British upper-class convention. Since then, the letters had flown back and forth; they had promised again and again to visit each other, but marriage and then childbirth had interfered. Until today: Kathleen precipitated into Margaux’s arms by catastrophe.

Aware of the girls, who stood silently watching next to the suitcases, Kathleen pulled away. The two women gazed for a few seconds into each other’s eyes. Kathleen’s were moist with unshed tears. She was afraid a dam would break, and it was too soon for that, so she forced a smile, and, for the first time since alighting on the platform, spoke: briskly, calmly, as if she had not just been on the verge of a complete breakdown. She had to hold on…

‘Come on girls, remember your manners: shake Auntie Margaux’s hand!’

Which they did, solemnly and politely.

Fortunately, Margaux too quickly regained her own composure. With the help of a porter and a luggage trolley she whisked the newcomers through the station and to the carpark, bundled them and the cases into the battered Renault waiting there, tipped the porter and settled herself into the driver’s seat. The flow of words continued the moment they turned into the road, and Kathleen was glad of it. Already she felt perked up. Hopefully the girls would feel the same, especially as Margaux was addressing them specifically.

‘My children are so excited,’ said Margaux. ‘They can’t wait to meet you. Elena, Marie-Claire is just about your age – you’re ten, aren’t you? Nine? Ten? She’s ten-and-a-half, as she insists, and she can’t wait to have some more girls her age around the place, because Victoire is only three – a baby. Leon and Lucien – well, they might be only boys but Leon’s Sibyl’s age and he is eager to show you around. He’s a bit rough and tumble, a typical boy, but he’s friendly enough. I hope you like animals, because Leon has two dogs of his own and he will share them with you – he raised them from puppies! And Jacques of course, like a third son to me… Is it the first time you have been to France? Your first time in wine country? Let me know if I am speaking too quickly – remind me to slow down and if you don’t understand something, just shut me up and ask! But your maman said you have a French nanny? So you are almost bilingual? Is that right?’

‘They had a French nanny,’ Kathleen corrected, in French. ‘We had to dismiss her, of course. After – after it happened.’

‘Oh. Oh, yes of course, I’m sorry. So sorry.I keep forgetting. How you say it in English? I put my foot in it, didn’t I? Me and my loose tongue. So terrible. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘But you must tell me. What happened… You said you’d write a letter with the details but you never did. Just telegrams. I only know that…’

‘I will tell you everything,’ said Kathleen, softly, looking over her shoulder to the back seat, where the girls sat quietly; looking out the window, hopefully absorbed in the countryside fleeing past. ‘Later.’

‘Yes. Yes of course. Later. Later we will have a long chat, you and I, and you will tell me the whole story. So sad. Devastating. When your telegram came I immediately rushed to the phone, but no-one picked up. But of course, you could come! You have always been welcome. You can stay for the whole summer, all of you, in fact, stay as long as you like. There is plenty of room at Château Gauthier. You have come at exactly the right time, too! Golden September, and the grapes are just plump and bursting to be plucked, little jewels shining in the sunshine, heavy on the vines! The whole of Ribeauvillé is golden with sunlight and everybody will be out in the vineyards and you will love it – those succulent grapes! And the wine, Kathleen! It is all exquisite, like heavenly nectar – the best wine in all of France! And now – here we are!’

She turned into a driveway and had not even drawn to a halt before the mansion at the end of it before the front door opened and a horde of small people poured out of it and swarmed around the car, squealing and hopping, hugging and kissing in French exuberance. Normal happy children, children whose lives had not been blown apart from one moment to the next. This will be the cure. Kathleen breathed out a long sigh of relief. She could already feel the healing seeping into her. Ribeauvillé was the remedy.

Margaux popped the cork from the bottle and poured golden liquid into Kathleen’s glass. The sun was about to slip behind the rolling foothills of the Vosges mountains, and shadows were growing long, but the terrace was still flooded with warm light. The children were off somewhere with the dogs, all of them, girls and boys, young and old together, Elena and Sibyl seamlessly assimilated into the flock. The transition had happened without a hairline break; gloom ignored and swept away like so much debris, smiles lured from long faces, sparkle returned to dull eyes. They had been first infected by Laroche effervescence and then whisked away on a joyful tide of bienvenue.

‘There is so much to explore,’ Margaux said. ‘They will be fine. Don’t worry about a thing. This is not London. It is safe. Let them run.’

And slowly her own tension was melting, slowly the tautness loosening; the cocoon of sheer desolation that had wrapped her in tight bonds over the last week releasing its grip.

‘Now, tell me,’ said Margaux. ‘How did he die? Raconte!’

Margaux spoke French, but Kathleen replied in English. So had it ever been, ever since their Montrouge days: though both were fluent in both languages, and understood perfectly, Kathleen would speak English and Margaux French. Kathleen’s letters were written in English, Margaux’s in French. Communication this way was perfect.

‘He hanged himself.’

Margaux’s jaw dropped in shock. ‘Oh no! Chérie! Oh, how terrible! Oh, you poor poor thing! How? Why? Did you find him? What happened?’

‘I didn’t find him like that, thank goodness. His secretary did. At the office. He tied a rope around the curtain rail and jumped from the window ledge, into the room. That’s how she found him. At least he didn’t do it at home. Imagine if one of the girls had found him!’

‘Awful. Horrible! But why? Do you know the reason? Had you suspected? Did you know he was thinking of suicide? Had he ever tried before, hinted that he wanted to end his life?’

‘Not a word, Margaux, not a single word! That’s the very worst of it. He never let it show, never hinted that he had a problem. He was always the wonderful husband and father to me and the girls. It was out of the blue. The girls were devastated. And so was I. I never… I never…’

The tears came then, and she faltered. Margaux reached out and took her hand. She sipped at her wine. It was delicious. Liquid gold, Margaux had said, and indeed it was.

‘I never imagined he could do such a thing to us. He loved us, loved us all. We were his whole life, I know it. He adored the girls. We had a good, strong marriage. And all the time he was pretending, pretending everything was fine and life could just go on the way it was. Living the good life in a lovely riverside house in Kingston, a perfect intact family. And it was all a lie.’

‘But… but do you know why? Why would he do such a thing? Why would he ruin everything?’

‘Because it was already ruined, Margaux. It was all a sham. We were in deep, deep trouble but he never let on. I still don’t understand what exactly it was. You know he was in finance – investment and that sort of thing. And you know me and numbers. I never asked what he did because it was his world and I just don’t get it. I let him get on with it. Signed things he told me to sign. He did things, Margaux; took some big risks. Our money, his clients’ money. He re-mortgaged our lovely house – that was the thing I signed. I suppose he thought he would get it all back. I don’t know what he thought; we never talked about his work or his investments because it all just bores me. Maybe I should have taken more interest, read the papers I signed. But I trusted him. And then, ten days ago, the London Stock Exchange crashed. We lost everything, Margaux, everything. The house, everything. I suppose he couldn’t handle it.’

‘So he just left you to deal with it! That makes me so angry!’

‘It makes me angry too but in a way I understand. Apparently, so I’m told, there wasn’t a solution. He was ruined. We were ruined. No way out. So he chose this way. Thankfully, apart from losing the house, I’m not compromised. He made sure of that.’

‘Did he at least leave a note? Apologise? Explain?’

Kathleen took another sip and nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, he did. He did say sorry, and that it was the only way out he could see. He told me to go and live with his mother. His mother! Ha!’

‘I remember you told me you can’t stand her!’

‘But only because she hates me. She’s a bitch.’

‘How could anyone hate you? You’re the nicest person I know!’

‘It’s not so much me she hates but my background. You know my mother’s half-Jewish. She’s Austrian, and she and my dad fell in love and he whisked her off to British Guiana to live on a sugar plantation. That’s where I grew up. So those are two strikes against me. Bad blood, bad background. She wanted a different kind of girl for her precious son, her only child. An English thoroughbred, with a perfect English upbringing. I didn’t have that. Growing up on a sugar plantation, in a distant colony – well, even my own grandparents found me too crude, too unpolished, for high society, unable to make a good marriage. That’s why they packed me off to Montrouge. Thank goodness for that, at least. I couldn’t stand living with them either, though I liked them well enough.’

‘But how did you end up living with them anyway? Why did you come to England? Why weren’t you with your parents?’

‘When I was seventeen my mother fell ill. It wasn’t a physical illness. I think she was depressed about some things. A baby died and her husband, my dad… well, it’s a long story, I won’t go into it now. And she was homesick for Austria, winter, snow, and didn’t like the tropics. Anyway, she and everyone thought it best she return to Austria to get better. You heard of someone called Sigmund Freud?’

‘The mind-doctor? Yes, of course.’

‘Well, she went to him to be treated… but anyway she was out of reach for us girls for a few years, and then she went back to British Guiana. She did pass through England on her way back and we do write, but, well, she can’t help. And my father. You know what happened to him. I wrote to you all about it.’

‘Yes, convicted of manslaughter!’

‘Yes, over in British Guiana. He got life imprisonment which he was supposed to serve in England but he died in prison. So for my dear mother-in-law, that was strike three against me, the last straw. And Mervyn wanted me to go and live with her! Imagine!’

‘So where are you going to live then? And what about the financial mess Mervyn left behind? Who’s taking care of that?’

‘One of my uncles is a lawyer, Dad’s youngest brother. I put everything in his hands. He’s trustworthy. He’s dealing with the whole chaos, making sure I have nothing to worry about. But also, nothing to go back to. No job. No income. If only I’d taken my education seriously, back then. Got a degree like my teachers encouraged me to!’

‘It was just all fun and games, wasn’t it, for us girls? Looking pretty to get a good husband!’

‘And I did get a good husband and I was happy enough until it all tumbled down on me.’

‘So what will you do? Go and live with your English grandparents?’

‘I can’t. They’re old and frail and their eldest son and his family lives with them and they certainly don’t want to take on responsibility for me and the girls.’

Margaux refilled both of their glasses. ‘Well, what I think is this. First you’ve got to get yourself healed. Recover from the shock. Get back on your feet, emotionally. You shouldn’t have to worry about your future while that is happening. You’ll do that here. You’ll stay with me, for as long as it takes.’

‘But – what’ll Jean-Pierre say about that?’

‘Jean-Pierre will agree. He agrees with everything I decide. I’m that kind of a woman – very wise. He makes the decisions concerning the business, but domestic decisions? I make those, all of them. And he will agree. And anyway, this is my house and I get to say who can stay here.’

‘Oh Margaux! If only! But I don’t want to be a burden. And I’m not quite empty-handed. I do have some jewellery, quite a lot in fact, Mervyn loved buying me jewellery. I’m going to sell it. It’s not enough to keep me and the girls in London forever, but…’

‘You’ll stay here. The girls will go to the local school. They will soon be perfect in French – children learn so easily, don’t they?’

‘They are both good. And they know German fairly well, too. They had a German governess for a while and I helped them learn. I’m fluent in three languages, you know. Languages are my one skill. And my mother always spoke to us in German.’

‘Excellent! French and German are the languages of Alsace. And you will all learn Alcasien, as well, a fourth language! You must now speak more French, become more fluent. It’s something to think about for the future because one day you will be strong and stand on your own two feet and it is good to know many languages. Languages are bridges to whole new worlds and you are fortunate. In the meantime, you’ll stay here. You’re most welcome.’

‘I’m thinking, Margaux; maybe, later on, I could be a translator or something? With German, French and English. It’s something to build on, isn’t it?’

‘Later. It’s a thought, but a thought that must be saved for the future. In the meantime, you’re here, with me, at long last. And I want to put a smile back on your face.’

Kathleen’s lips twitched, and she raised her glass.

‘I’ll drink to that! S’gilt!’ Margaux raised her own glass; the very chink as their glasses touched seemed to be a harbinger of better days to come.

It all happened so quickly. One minute she was in the car with Elena and Mama and Auntie Margaux and the car had come to stop before a big ivy-covered house; the next minute somebody had grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the sunshine. The somebody was a tall girl with long dark hair that was not in neat plaits, like Elena’s, but falling all over her shoulders and even across her face; and the girl was smiling – no, laughing – and once she had scrambled upright on the gravel in the sunshine, feeling a bit dazed, the girl was kissing her on both cheeks and chattering away in French. She understood every word, of course.

‘You are Sibyl!’ said the girl. ‘I know it because you are the smaller one. I am Marie-Claire and I am so glad you have come! I’m ten and I’ve been dying to meet you. And you’re Elena and you’re about nine, and I’m so glad to have another girl my age because I am surrounded by boys and boys are so méchants aren’t they! You are lucky to have a sister and not a brother. But they are not so bad, really. This is Leon, and Lucien. Boys, you must be kind to Sibyl because I think she is a little sad.’

Un peu triste. A little sad! What did this girl, this Marie-Claire, know about sadness, or what was in her, Sibyl’s, heart! She had obviously never known a day of sadness in her life, whereas her own heart was nothing more than a red-hot bundle of pain, a little ball of agony, and she didn’t know what to do about it. Somebody she adored had been ripped out of her life and the pain was devouring her from the inside; she couldn’t even think a proper thought because of it. Papa! Oh, Papa! Where are you? Come back!

Marie-Claire was still chattering, looking from Elena to her and back again. Obviously, she had taken control of the entire situation, installed herself as leader. ‘… and this is Jacques. He is not our brother but he pretends to be. He is here all the time and he is the most méchant of them all, and the oldest and biggest so he thinks he is the boss but he isn’t, because I am the very oldest. And my little sister Victoire, she is the very youngest. She is only three but she likes to be with us and I take care of her. And Elena! Let me welcome you too, I am so glad you are here! Welcome to Château Gauthier!’

Victoire had already flung her little arms around Sibyl’s waist, and then the boys were grabbing her hands and grinning; three of them when she had been expecting two. Sibyl didn’t know much about boys. She had encountered few of them in her short life; one or two cousins, Papa’s nephews, but younger than herself. There were no boys at her school in Kingston. It was a girls’ school. Boys were strange creatures, but they couldn’t be all bad because Papa had once been a boy and Papa was the most wonderful man on earth. Had been! Had been! Papa was gone!

Boys were loud and boisterous; that much she knew and indeed, that was what these three boys were being, very loud and very boisterous, knocking into each other, cuffing each other, bending each other’s limbs backwards (or so it seemed) and loud! Deafening! It sounded even as if they were arguing. What on earth were they speaking? It sounded familiar but she didn’t understand a word of it. It sounded like German, but it definitely wasn’t – Sibyl knew enough German to tell the difference – and were they arguing or not? It sounded like it, and they were almost fighting, it seemed, but laughing at the same time! Boisterous, indeed!

‘Leon, Lucien, Jacques! You must speak French now, because we have visitors! Mama said we have to speak French! And you have not greeted Sibyl and Elena properly!’

Hands were grabbing at hers now, boy-hands, and boy-lips were kissing her cheek, and boy-voices, shrill and loud and incomprehensible, filled the air – it was pandemonium, so much so that she couldn’t even feel that red-hot ball of fire that had replaced her heart.

Aunt Margaux was speaking now, telling Marie-Claire to take her inside, to their room, and then to show her around the place, and now Marie-Claire had taken her hand and Elena’s and was pulling them away towards the house. The boys were still prancing around and speaking – no, shouting – in that bizarre language. Was it some kind of secret code, like you read about in books? Everyone in France spoke French. That was simply a fact. But these boys seemed to have a language of their own, a boisterous boy-language that nobody else could understand. It wasn’t fair, and they were still hopping around and bouncing off each other and shouting so she could hardly hear Marie-Claire speak. Victoire had taken her other hand and so they entered through the huge heavy front door, into the cool darkness of the house, and then up a staircase – oh! She had forgotten her bag with the books and she needed it because she intended to do a lot of reading in France. Reading was the only thing that stopped the pain or at least kept it in abeyance, at least for a while. A parson had come to visit Mama several times in the last week and he had asked her if there was anything he could bring her and she had said books; and he had brought a whole box full. She had taken her pick, and brought as many as Mama had allowed to France, and she would read them all to dull the pain.

The boys tumbled backwards up the staircase, ahead of them, behind them, all around them, falling over the banister and still shouting in gobbledygook. Marie-Claire still held her hand but had let go of Elena’s and they walked up together. She liked having that hand in hers. It felt steady and strong, sending a message that said, it’s all right. You are here, I am here; you are in good hands. Everything will be fine. Though it couldn’t possibly be fine, ever again. Not without Papa.

‘This is your room, and Elena’s. Come in, Elena, see, this is your room. I wanted you both to stay in my room, it’s big enough for three beds! But Mama said you would want to be together, at least at first, but later when we become best friends you can move in with me, Elena – and you too, Sibyl! And we will have such fun. I always wanted a sister – I mean, I do have a sister, but I mean a sister my age because those brothers… well! And two of them! And Jacques, who thinks he is a third brother and everyone thinks so too. I am buried in boys so you can’t imagine how happy I am that you have come, you are like two new sisters. And we will go to school together, on Monday, and I will be able to show you off to all my friends and we will have such fun together! Do you like ponies? My friend Amelie who lives not far away, she has a pony of her own and I’m sure she will let you ride him, she let me! Look, I will show you Amelie’s house. It’s not far. Come.’

Marie-Claire pulled her over to the window and there they stood, all three of them –the boys had momentarily disappeared – gazing out over the valley. And she couldn’t help it; she sighed at the sheer gloriousness of it. Gently rolling hills spread out before her, each one of them covered in the neat rows that she knew were vines, golden-and-green vines, bathed in golden sunshine, rolling away from her in wide undulating folds. Dotted here and there among the hills, a building, a rooftop; and in the distance, a village, a church tower. Clusters of trees, a field of cows. Not a road to be seen, not a car. After the piercing noisy grey streets of London, the stuffy claustrophobia of Grandma’s place, this seemed like – well, like a piece of heaven. She could breathe again – a long, deep breath. And it seemed, though she couldn’t be quite sure, that the searing ache at the centre of her being seemed to heave a huge sigh and release one of the bands that had held her so tightly in the terrible last ten days.

‘That is Amelie’s house,’ Marie-Claire said, pointing, but Sibyl hardly heard her; she was too busy breathing in the splendour of the sight spread out before her. And for the first time since arriving, she spoke the one word, the only word, worthy of the vista spread out before her:

‘Magnifique!’

The boy they called Jacques was rude. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t a family member and so didn’t feel obliged to greet her and Elena; but mostly because he was the one that insisted on speaking that strange language. While the others at least made an effort to speak French, Jacques spoke stubbornly in that strange tongue and all the others followed suit, except for Marie-Claire. Everything Jacques said or did seemed to cause disruption.

‘Where shall we go first?’ Marie-Claire said now. ‘To see Gigi’s puppies, or to the vines? Gigi’s one of our dogs,’ she explained, as if that wasn’t obvious.

At the word ‘puppies’ Sibyl’s head jerked up, and at ‘dogs’ she smiled fleetingly and a sparkle leapt into her eyes. As far back as she could remember she had begged for a dog, and just as far back Mama had said no. A dog had been the one thing missing in an otherwise perfect life; the one family member whose absence she had felt day and night. Now, of course, it was different.

Papa! The wail came from deep inside and once again she collapsed internally. Gigi and her pups evaporated, the sparkle in her eyes snuffed out. But Jacques, once again, was shouting something loud and brash in his gibberish, and Marie-Claire arguing back, the two of them in a violent verbal battle. Jacques stormed off, followed by the boys. One moment they were there, in the room with them, the next, Jacques was out the door with Leon and Lucien behind him, thundering down the stairs, while Marie-Claire was still in mid-speech.

Sibyl turned back to the window, to the view, so that no-one would see the tears gathering in her eyes. Papa! The boys came into view beneath her, racing out the door, across the driveway and disappearing around the corner of a building that looked like a huge stone barn.

‘They have gone to see the puppies,’ Marie-Claire said. ‘They are four weeks old and so mignons! Jacques is besotted with them. He thinks he owns them. It is strange because Jacques is such a wild boy and he likes doing wild and naughty things but those puppies – oh la la! He thinks Gigi needs him to help take care of them but she doesn’t. He’s such a nuisance, that Jacques. I was going to take you to see them but now he is there, he’s s