Never Leave Me (3 page)

He poured himself a glass of wine, glad that his cellars were still full. There was, he reminded himself, still a lot for them to be grateful for. Normandy was not suffering from the severe food shortages that were afflicting the rest of France. Butter, cheese, and eggs were still plentiful. Even after the Germans there were enough chickens for the pot. Enough milk and cream. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. He had not yet suffered in the war and guilt surged through him. He had no sons facing death fighting with the Free French. He himself had not fought. Had not been injured. He had simply remained, as a de Valmy had always remained, on his land.

He pushed his plate away, his omelette hardly touched. It could hardly be called his land any more, when it was under the heel of the Germans. His helplessness infuriated him and there was no way that he could give vent to his frustration. He rose savagely to his feet, and ignoring the startled looks of his wife and daughter, abruptly excused himself. Lisette rose anxiously, intending to follow him but her mother laid a cool hand restrainingly on her arm.

‘No,
chérie.
He needs to be alone. Leave him for a little while.'

The door closed sharply behind him and his footsteps could be heard crossing the stone-flagged hall in the direction of the library. Mother and daughter looked at each other for a moment and then, unhappily, continued with their meal.

Later, as they sat together in the front salon, Lisette wondered again why Major Meyer had been posted to Valmy. Perhaps he had been given a special assignment. André had said that his Horch had been accompanied by outriders. Surely that indicated that he was a man of importance? The fire spat and crackled, the scent of pine logs filling the high-ceilinged room. Her mother's head was bent low over her embroidery, a slight frown puckering her usually smooth forehead. Lisette tried to return her attention to the book she had been reading, and failed. The Allies were desperate for information regarding the coastal defences. If the defences were the reason for Major Meyer's presence … Her book slid to her knees. Major Meyer was occupying her father's rooms. His bedroom, his study.

Sharp footsteps rang out distantly on the black and white flagstones of the medieval hall. Brisk, decisive footsteps that she had never heard before. Her mother's hand paused, the needle held high over her work, her eyes flying to the door. There was a long ominous silence and then the heavy outer door opened and slammed shut. Seconds later the Horch's engine revved into life.

Her mother's relief that the Major had not walked in on them was evident. Lisette was too busy thinking to share that relief. For the moment Major Meyer was alone at Valmy. But for how long? Surely he would need a batman. An aide. His rooms might never again be empty. She might never again have such an easy chance.

‘I think I'll go to bed early, Maman,' she said, rising to her feet, her gentian-hued sweater and deeper toned skirt emphasising the colour of her eyes and the blue-black sheen of her hair. She kissed her mother lightly on the cheek, wishing that she could comfort her, and then walked quickly from the room. If she hesitated she was lost. He had only arrived that morning. If she were discovered she could always say that it was a mistake. That she had expected to find her father in his study.

The library door was closed: her father obviously still brooding over the day's events. There was no sound from the dining-room or the kitchen. Marie retired early. She would be in bed by now, her arthritic toes on a comforting hot bottle. The stone stairs wound upwards. An oil lamp had been set on the sill of one of the arched windows set deep into the wall and it gave out a soft pool of light. She hurried past it and on up to the first floor which housed her father's suite of rooms. She hesitated outside the bedroom door and then walked on. She had to be quick and there was more likelihood of papers being on the study desk than on a yet unused bedside table.

She paused outside the study door. It would be locked: surely it would be locked. Scarcely daring to breathe, her hands closed around the doornob and turned and pushed. The door opened easily. Unhesitatingly she stepped inside and walked quickly across the moonlit room to her father's Beidermeier desk. It looked abnormally neat: her father's habit was to leave letters and bills scattered at random and the precisely arranged blotter and ink stand were clear indications that the desk was no longer his. The wide, shallow drawers contained only stationery. Major Meyer had clearly not yet settled in. There was an inter-connecting door between the study and the bedroom. Her search so far had taken only a minute, probably less. She still had plenty of time.

The blue bedroom was silvered by the moonlight. It fell palely on the Rembrandt etching above her father's bed. Her stomach muscles tightened. The etching needed removing before the German cast covetous eyes on it. As she neared the bed she saw that very few possessions had been scattered around, proclaiming ownership. There was a gold cigarette case and an expensive looking lighter on the bedside table, and she saw with curiosity that they were both monogrammed, the inter-linking initials worn smooth with age and constant handling. Hurriedly she opened the bedside drawer. There was a slim volume of poetry, a novel by Zola, and a diary. She riffled through the diary, wondering whether she should take it and knowing that she dared not. What she was looking for were official papers; something with recognizable place names on; something that she could memorise. A suitcase stood at the foot of the bed, not yet unpacked. She bent down beside it, trying to open the catch, and then she froze. The study door fronting the corridor had opened. Her heart began to slam against her breastbone in thick, heavy strokes. Perhaps it was Marie coming in to turn down the Major's bed. Perhaps it was her mother, checking that he had all that he required. Or her father …

Her nails dug deep into her palms. There had been no knock at the door. Only one person could have entered her father's study, and that was its present occupant, Major Meyer. She stood up, her pulse pounding, backing away to the door that led into the corridor. It was seven or eight yards away. The connecting door was open and she saw his shadow as he crossed to the desk; heard the rasp of the drawer opening. She took another step backwards, and another. She had to keep her nerve. If she turned and ran she would be heard. She had to open the door slowly, carefully. She took another step and stumbled against a bedroom chair. Her hand flew out to steady herself, her mouth rounding in a gasp of alarm.

It took Dieter Meyer just two strides to reach the connecting doorway and punch on the light. His eyes flashed to her empty hands, to the still closed door behind her, and then he leaned nonchalantly against the wall, arms folded, eyes narrowed. ‘Just what the hell,' he said in perfect French, ‘do you think you are doing?'

Her hand tightened on the back of the chair. ‘I… Supper,' she said, her breath coming in harsh gasps. ‘I wanted to know if you wished to have supper.'

He was not at all what she had expected. There was no monocle; no steel-grey hair. His masculinity came at her in waves. The jacket of his field uniform was open at the neck, cut perfectly across broad shoulders, and the Knights Cross of the Iron Cross decorated his breast. She didn't move for fear he would seize her. She knew that the ease of his stance was deceptive. He had entered the room with all the speed of a natural-born predator.

‘You're a liar,' he said smoothly.

His hair was blond, cropped short, as thick and coarse as the coat of a dog. His face was clean-cut, hard-boned, the jaw line strong, the mouth finely chiselled, sensitive as well as sensual. The face of a man who read Zola. She thrust the thought away. He was a German. She didn't care what he read. Her initial shock was over. She was in command of herself again.

‘Yes,' she said, with a silent Gallic shrug of her shoulders. ‘I am. I came into my father's suite because I was curious.'

At her insolence a flicker of admiration flashed in his eyes and was immediately suppressed. ‘These rooms are no longer your father's,' he said, his voice snaking across her nerve ends like a whip. ‘If I find you in, or near them again, I will have you arrested. Is that understood?'

The menace in his voice was naked and a frisson of fear ran down her spine. He was not a man to make idle threats. She backed instinctively away from him towards the door.

‘I understand you perfectly,' she said tightly, her hands closing around the doorknob, the vast, silk-draped bed yawning between them. ‘Goodnight, Major Meyer.'

His brow quirked and she was immediately furious with herself. What deep-seated code of good manners had prompted her to wish him goodnight? Cheeks burning she spun on her heel, slamming the door behind her, wishing him in hell.

She had behaved foolishly and without thought. Paul would have urged her to be more careful. It would be twice as hard now to slip into his room in the future. He hadn't believed her when she had said she had entered them out of curiosity. He had known what it was she was trying to do, and he had also known that she had failed. She shivered as she hurried towards her own room. What would he have done if he had walked in on her holding the diary? Would he have sent her to Gestapo headquarters at Caen? Would she have thrown her life away on an impulsive and ill-thought-out plan of action? For the first time she realised how much she had risked and how thoughtlessly. She entered her own room and sat down on her bed, hugging her arms around her. The next time she would be far more careful. And successful.

She saw him again in the morning. He was in the hall as she descended the stairs, a grey greatcoat over his uniform, his cap under his arm as he drew on gauntleted gloves. Her eyes met his coldly. She wasn't going to fall into the trap of good manners again.

‘Good morning, Mademoiselle de Valmy,' he said, his voice tinged with mockery, as if he knew of her intention and it was amusing him to defeat it.

Her lips tightened and she gave him the merest inclination of her head, sweeping past him into the breakfast room on a tide of anger.

He was laughing at her! She had heard it in the lazy tone of his voice, seen it in the gleam of his eyes before she had swiftly turned her head away. When she seated herself at the breakfast table, she found, to her fury, that her hands were trembling. She clasped them together tightly. She had no intention of becoming a target for his sadistic amusement. No doubt he though she had spent the whole night in fear of what her parents would say when they discovered that she had entered his rooms. Well, she hadn't. She had slept soundly, regretting only her clumsiness.

From the high-arched windows she could see the chauffeur-driven Horch sweep round the circle of lawn fronting the chateau and cruise down the drive at high speed. Her eyes narrowed. Hitler's glamour soldier had neither impressed or intimidated her. He had only strengthened her determination to be of far greater service to the Resistance.

Her father's face was lined and drawn as he joined her at the table. For a moment she thought that Major Meyer had already spoken to him and then he smiled, saying with false cheerfulness, ‘Our guest is at least civil.'

‘Only on the surface,' Lisette retorted tartly, remembering the coldness of his eyes when he had threatened her with arrest.

Her father helped himself to a croissant. ‘He's highly decorated. The Knights Cross of the Iron Cross isn't given easily.'

‘For goodness sake, Papa! You sound as if you admire him!'

‘I don't,' her father said pacifyingly. ‘I detest everything he stands for. I'm simply trying to find a way to tolerate him.'

Lisette toyed with the knife on her plate. She had to tell him. If she didn't, Major Meyer would have a sizeable advantage over her. She put down her knife and said carefully, ‘I did something stupid last night, Papa. I went into Major Meyer's rooms when he left the house.'

Every vestige of colour left her father's face. ‘You did
what?
' he expostulated, pushing his chair away from the table, looking at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘Don't you realise that man could have us all turned out of Valmy? Don't you realise that he could have you
shot
if he ever found out?'

‘He did find out, Papa,' Lisette said, miserable at the distress that she was causing him. ‘He came into the room while I was still there.'

‘Dear God,' her father said softly, rising to his feet, his face grey.

She moved quickly, rounding the table and hugging him tight. ‘I'm sorry, Papa. Sorry that I got caught.'

‘But not sorry that you did it?' her father said, a curious expression in his voice. His hands tightened on her shoulders. ‘What did Meyer say to you?'

‘That I must not go near his rooms again.'

‘And you won't.' His voice was tight. ‘What were you hoping to find, Lisette?'

She sat down again slowly. ‘I don't know. Maps. Papers. Something to indicate why he has been stationed here.'

Her father sat opposite her, his face grim. ‘And what would you have done with the information?'

The room was very quiet. She could hear a clock ticking and the distant sound of Marie moving about in the kitchen. ‘I would have told … a friend who would have been interested.'

‘Paul Gilles?' he asked quietly.

The pupils of her eyes dilated wide with shock. He grasped her hand tightly. ‘I'm not a fool, Lisette. I know what goes on in my own village. I know who the collaborators are; I know who the Resistance are.'

‘Then why don't you
help
?' she asked fiercely. ‘The Allies may not invade in the Pas de Calais. They may invade here. And if they do, they will need every last bit of information about the coastal defences. About troop movements.'

‘If such information is at Valmy, then
I
will find it,' her father said quietly. ‘Not you, Lisette. Is that understood?'