Connie put her head in her hands and wept. The cause she had been enlisted to fight for had been lost in a blur of confusion. All the others seemed to know the game they were playing and their role in it. But she felt no better than a piece of flotsam, tossed to-and-fro on the whims and secret objectives of others.
“Lawrence,” she whispered, “help me.”
She looked around the library, and the books stared back at her, hard, cold, and inanimate, their outer skins so similar, betraying little of their contents. A perfect metaphor for the life she was currently being forced to live.
At lunchtime, Sophia, whom Connie had seen little of in the past few days, looked tired and pale. Connie watched as she picked at her food, then stood up from the table and excused herself.
Two hours later, when Sophia had not emerged from her bedroom, Connie knocked on her door. Sophia was lying on her bed, her face gray, a cold flannel pressed to her forehead.
“My dear, are you unwell?” Connie sat down on the bed and took Sophia’s hand in her own. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, I’m not ill. Physically at least . . .” Sophia sighed and gave a weak smile. “Thank you for coming, Constance. It feels as if we haven’t spent time together recently. I’ve missed you.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
“Oh, Constance.” Sophia bit her lip. “Frederik has told me he must leave within the next few weeks to return to Germany. How will I bear it?” Her sightless eyes brimmed with tears.
“Because you must.” Connie squeezed Sophia’s hand. “Just like I must bear being without Lawrence.”
“Yes. I know you think I’m naive and that I don’t understand the meaning of love. That I will get over Frederik because there’s no future for us. But I’m a grown woman and I know my own heart.”
“I’m only trying to protect you, Sophia. I understand how difficult it is for you.”
“Constance, I know Frederik and I will be together. I know it here”—Sophia put her hand on her heart—“inside me. Frederik says he will find a way and I believe him.”
Connie sighed. Set against the hardships of the past four years, when millions of people had lost either their own lives or their loved ones to the war, Sophia’s romance could be seen as trivial. But to Sophia it was all-consuming, simply because it was
hers
.
“Well, if Frederik says he will find a way, he will,” Connie consoled, realizing she could say little else. If Frederik was leaving soon, she could only pray the situation would be resolved naturally.
• • •
The next few weeks were full of broken nights as air-raid sirens shattered the still Paris air and its residents yet again retreated underground for safety. Connie heard of RAF attacks on both the Peugeot and Michelin factories in the industrial heartlands outside Paris. At home in England, she would have greeted this news with joy as she read it in the
Times
, but here, the papers were full of the numbers of innocent French civilians working there who had been killed.
As she took her daily stroll down to the Tuileries Gardens, Connie could almost feel the weakening heartbeat of a city and people who were slowly losing their faith that the war would ever end. The promised
Allied invasion had still not materialized, and Connie was beginning to wonder whether it ever would.
Sitting down on her usual bench, the air already heavy with mist, as though also in a hurry to rid itself of this miserable day, Connie saw Venetia walking toward her.
They went through the usual polite rigmarole of a greeting, and Venetia sat down next to her. Although she was in her “wealthy woman” uniform, today she had not bothered with her makeup mask. Her skin was translucently pale, her face desperately thin.
“Thank you for your help with the cellar that time. Much appreciated.” Venetia pulled out a Gauloises. “Smoke?”
“No. Thank you.”
“I live on these bloody things, they stem the hunger.” Venetia lit up.
“Do you need money to buy some food?” Connie asked, feeling she could provide at least this.
“No thanks. The real problem is I always seem to be haring around, never able to stay at the same place twice in case the Boche pick up my signal. I’m always in transit on my wretched bicycle, so it’s hard to find the time to sit down and eat.”
“How are things going?”
“Oh, you know, Con”—Venetia drew heavily on her cigarette—“one step forward, two steps back. At least our lot are a little more organized than they were when I arrived in the summer. But we can always do with an extra pair of hands. And I was thinking, perhaps it doesn’t matter if you’re no longer officially an agent. There’s no reason why you couldn’t help out as an ordinary French citizen. And then, perhaps, if you met the people I work with, they might be able to help you leave France.”
“Really?” Connie’s deadened spirits lifted immediately. “Oh, Venetia, I know my life is a picnic compared to yours, but I’d do anything,
anything
to try to get home and out of that house.”
“Well, I’ve already told my network that you helped me, and I’m sure they might be able to help you get out of France. What I suggest is that you join us at the next meeting. I can’t promise anything, and you must remember there’s always a risk there’s a traitor who will inform the Germans of our whereabouts, but a favor deserves a favor.
Besides, you’re my friend. And I feel sorry for you, stuck in that house entertaining those pigs.”
Venetia gave Connie a warm smile, and she saw a sudden flash of her friend’s beauty appear through the veil of exhaustion.
“By the way, I think the chap you’re staying with may be extremely high up in the Resistance. I’ve heard there’s a very wealthy man in Paris who’s number two only to Moulin, our late and revered Resistance boss. If it is your chap, sweetie, it’s understandable why London had to sacrifice your glittering career as an agent when you appeared on his doorstep in full view of the Gestapo. Anyway, must fly.” Venetia stood up. “I’ll bring you exact details of where and when the meeting is taking place on Thursday. So, tally-ho, and see you here then.”
A
s arranged, Connie was in the gardens on Thursday, but Venetia did not appear. Finally, after sitting on the bench at the appointed time for the following four days, Venetia arrived, wheeling her bicycle. She did not acknowledge Connie, merely paused, stared straight ahead, and said under her breath, “Café de la Paix, ninth arrondissement, nine o’clock tonight.” Then she was gone.
Connie spent the next few hours pondering how she could leave the house unnoticed. As sure as eggs were eggs, Édouard would not allow her out in the evening unaccompanied. She decided the best thing for it was to announce she had a headache and retire to her room after dinner. Édouard usually shut himself away in his study at this point. And when she knew he was safely inside, she would go to the kitchen and let herself out through the cellar, which still remained unlocked due to the lost key.
That night, after dinner, just as Édouard had left the table and she was following suit, the doorbell rang and Sarah answered it. She came into the dining room. “It is Colonel Falk von Wehndorf to see you, Madame Constance. He is waiting in the drawing room.”
Almost weeping at the bad timing, Connie walked into the hall and painted on a bright smile as she entered the drawing room. “Hello, Herr Falk. How are you?”
“I’m well, but I haven’t seen you for the past few days, fräulein, and I have missed your beauty. I wish to ask you if you would give me the pleasure of accompanying me out for some dancing later on this evening?”
Connie began to utter an excuse, but Falk shook his head and put a finger to her lips. “No, fräulein, you have refused me once too often. Tonight, I will not be dissuaded. I will collect you at ten o’clock.” Falk began to leave the room, then stopped as in afterthought. “I hope to
be in a very good mood. My officers have an important appointment at the Café de la Paix tonight.” He smiled at her. “Until later, fräulein.”
A horrified Connie watched him leave, her heart thudding against her chest. This was the café where she too was headed. She had to warn Venetia that the Gestapo knew of their meeting. Running upstairs and pinning on her hat, Connie raced back down and walked toward the door. Opening it, she had one foot on the doorstep outside when a hand grabbed her arm.
“Constance, where are you in such a hurry to go at this hour?”
She turned toward Édouard, knowing her face betrayed the panic she felt. “I have to leave now! It’s a matter of life and death! Please, you don’t understand!”
“Come, we’ll talk in the library and you’ll tell me what it is that has upset you.” Pulling her firmly back down the hall in a way that brokered no dissent, Édouard closed the door behind them.
“Please,” begged Connie, “I’m not your prisoner! You can’t keep me here against my will. I must go out now, otherwise it may be too late!”
“Constance, you’re not my prisoner, but neither can I risk letting you out without knowing where you’re going. Either you tell me or I will indeed be forced to lock you in your room. Do not think your activities, such as your meeting with a ‘friend’ at the Ritz, went unnoticed,” Édouard said grimly. “I’ve told you time and again we cannot risk any connection with the Resistance being made to this house.”
“Yes,” confessed Connie, horrified he knew. “The woman I met at the Ritz trained with me in England. She asked for my help. She’s my friend and I couldn’t deny her.”
“So, now tell me, where must you go tonight?” Édouard repeated.
“My friend told me this afternoon that her network is holding a meeting at nine o’clock tonight at the Café de la Paix. Falk has just informed me he knows of it too. The Gestapo will be waiting there for them. I must go and warn them, Édouard. Please,” Connie begged, “let me go!”
“No, Constance! You know I can’t let you do that. If you were caught and arrested, we know the consequences for the rest of us here in this household.”
“But I can’t just sit here while she’s walking into a death trap! I’m sorry, Édouard, whatever you say, I’m going.” Connie walked determinedly toward the door.
“NO!”
Édouard gripped her shoulders and she struggled against him, bursting into tears of frustration as she realized it was a physical fight she could not win.
“Constance, calm down, please, or I’ll be forced to slap your face.
You
will not be going out tonight to warn them.” Édouard looked at her and gave a deep sigh. “I will.”
“You?”
“Yes, I have far more experience in these kinds of situations than you will ever have.” He checked his watch. “What time did your friend say the meeting was planned for?”
“Nine o’clock. One hour from now.”
“Then I may be in time to contact someone who can pass on a message before it begins.” Édouard gave a brief, forced smile. “If not, I’ll go there myself. You must leave it to me. I’ll do all I can, I promise.”
“Oh, God, Édouard.” Connie’s last shreds of veneer crumbled and she put her head in her hands. “Forgive me for betraying your trust.”
“We’ll talk later. I must leave if I’m to be in time. If anyone should call here”—he raised his eyebrows—“then I’m in bed with a migraine.”
“Édouard!” Connie suddenly remembered. “Falk is collecting me from here at ten o’clock to take me dancing.”
“Then I must make sure I’m back home by then.”
As Édouard left the library, Connie collapsed into a chair and, a few minutes later, heard the sound of the front door closing.
“Please”—she wrung her hands as she spoke to the heavens—“let Édouard get there in time.”
• • •
Connie sat sentinel in the drawing room by the window so she could watch for Édouard’s return. The night was not cold, but she shivered unnaturally with fear. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked the seconds away, and when the doorbell rang, Connie jumped, suddenly remembering her appointment with Falk. Yet it was only just past nine.
Moving out into the hall, Connie watched Sarah open the door and saw Falk.
“You’re early, Herr Falk, I’m not quite ready,” she said to him.
“You’re mistaken, Fräulein Constance.” The man gave her an unusually warm smile. “It is Frederik standing here. I wondered if Mademoiselle Sophia was in? Perhaps she has told you that I leave tomorrow, and I wish to say good-bye.”
“Yes, of course, she’s in the library.” Connie indicated the door. “And I apologize for thinking you were Falk. I’m expecting him later.”
“Please do not apologize. It has happened many times before and I’m sure it will happen again.” Frederik nodded at her as he walked past and entered the library, shutting the door behind him.
As she climbed the stairs to prepare herself for her forthcoming ordeal, Connie wondered if things could get any worse. When she was ready, she walked back downstairs and resumed her vigil in the drawing room so she could alert Édouard immediately to Frederik’s presence in the house.
The hands of the clock read a quarter to ten before Connie heard footsteps climbing up to the front door. Running to it immediately, she opened it and Édouard fell through it into her arms. Panting, he staggered upright, and she gave a gasp of horror at the blood seeping through his jacket on his right shoulder.
“Oh my God, Édouard, you’re hurt! What happened?” she hissed.
“I wasn’t there in time. As I walked down the steps, the place was surrounded by Gestapo. The café was in chaos, both sides opening fire. . . . I’m not sure who shot me. Don’t worry, Constance, it’s only a flesh wound and I’ll be fine. Unfortunately, I cannot vouch for your friend,” he said weakly.
“Édouard,” Connie said urgently, “we have a guest, and you must not be seen . . .”
It was too late. Édouard’s eyes were no longer looking at Connie, but instead at Frederik and Sophia, who were standing at the other end of the hall.
Frederik was gazing at Édouard in surprise. “Édouard, are you hurt?” asked Frederik.
“No, it’s nothing,” he answered quickly. “I was simply coming out of a restaurant and got caught in a skirmish in the street.”
“What’s happened, Frederik?” Sophia asked, unable to see Édouard’s wound. “Are you badly hurt, Brother? Should we take you to hospital?” she asked, panic in her voice.