The French Promise (43 page)

Luc stood on the hill overlooking Saignon and welcomed the breath of the early evening mistral whispering past him, carrying murmurs of distant voices from below and a heady scent of fragrant herbs. And it was as though the war that came stomping into his village in 1942 was finally a memory that could fade. It had been more than six months
of recuperation for him but Luc finally felt strong again and the dusky pink house in Saignon moved to a familiar rhythm, which was like pure oxygen to the fire in his soul.

Once more the swallows lifted from Saignon’s eaves and spiralled and swooped above her rooftops. The soft sigh of the evening wind stole down the narrow lanes to stir the freshly starched crewelwork cotton drapes when the
shutters were opened each dusk. And through those freshly painted blue shutters could be heard the voices of a family with its bursts of laughter and merry music.

On those summer evenings Jane’s vegetable garden was like
an open box of jewels: plump, shiny tomatoes, achingly bright lemons that oozed the sharp tang of their oil once touched, the pungent aniseed of the basil and the white and green
beans hanging tantalising from their vines. Jane’s potager was crammed with produce, which she joyously reaped for their evening meals. She had returned to England – alone and only once – simply to finalise her affairs and pack up her belongings, some of which she sent to Provence but most of which she’d given away.
A fresh start
, was her catchphrase for all of them now sharing the household.

Luc looked over at her now; she was walking the wild rows of the Bonet lavender fields, laughing with Jenny, and he felt his throat catch. His gaze then shifted to Max, deep in conversation with Robert. Max commuted between his grand house in Lausanne and the farm at Saignon, which he now regarded as his second home. He was threatening to move to Provence permanently and he and Luc were
well advanced in their plans to work together on a major project to take Bonet’s into the perfume industry.

It was Robert who had stoked the fire of Luc’s dream to go beyond farming the lavender. Quiet, hardworking, elusive Robert, who loved the loneliness and beauty of the fields as much as Luc and who had learnt fast. Here he was a king, showing an enviable green thumb for lavender. Robert lent
weight to Harry’s dream, querying why the Bonet family had always been growers and not moved to the next stage of being perfumers.

‘You extract the oil but you give it to the greedy chemists in Grasse, who make ten, maybe twenty, times what you do,’ he’d observed. ‘Make your own perfume. You have the raw product and can buy in the knowledge. I’ll grow it for you,
Luc, while you and Max have the
brains and funds to set up the new operation.’

He was right. This was the challenge Luc needed. And Max was excited at the notion of putting his excellent new business skills – as well as part of his fortune – to use in setting up the new enterprise. It was decided that while he worked out the business plan Luc could perfect the distillation process, sending over the most pure extract
from Australia. The raw product was free from pesticides and the choking hybrids that had begun to spring up all over Provence, as French manufacturers at Grasse couldn’t produce perfume quickly enough for the greedy market that wanted new, bright and varied scents each year.

The teenager in their midst, whom they all loved deeply, was usually away at school in Lyon. Jenny was flourishing in her
studies, loving her new life, and spoke French like a native. She’d won; worn Luc down, with the help of Jane as her ally. And despite the traumatic and teary phone call that had to be made to Launceston, she had chosen not to return to Australia to wish Nel and Tom farewell. She refused to say goodbye because she intended to visit often. Nel had wept bitterly.

Jenny planned to go to finishing
school in Switzerland – Max was insisting – but Luc didn’t mention it. ‘Are you ever coming home?’ Nel asked him.

‘I’ll be returning to Launceston, I promise.’

‘When?’

‘Soon. September, probably – in time for the next season.’

‘The place won’t run itself, you know,’ she warned and Luc felt the sting of her bitterness.

But he knew better about lavender; he believed he could
run the farm from a
distance with the right workers in place. ‘All will be well, Nel,’ he said, hoping to placate her. ‘We’re going to start exporting from next year, I hope.’

‘Strike me, Luc, whatever are you drinking over there? Or did you bump your head when you had your accident?’

He laughed; let her have her jest. ‘It makes perfect business sense. The quality of our extract is far superior than that
of the French.’

‘Bloody hell, that must hurt to admit,’ she said.

‘Not really. I’m proud of what we’ve achieved. We’re going to make perfume.’

‘Yep, you bumped your head for sure,’ she’d accused.

And he’d smiled and forgiven her, because he knew how much she was hurting.

That conversation was already four months past and Luc was making plans to return to Tasmania – but he’d now decided to take
his new family with him. All of them would go, and Bonet’s at Nabowla would ring with the sound of happy voices again.

He closed his eyes and sniffed the scented air. Lavender was all around in an iridescent pool of shifting blue. Luc turned to the highest point of the hill, where the original ghostly patch of white lavender had first appeared three decades earlier, and it was as though Lisette’s
spirit was with them, reaching across the oceans from her resting place on another hill, on another continent.

‘Luc!’ A voice interrupted his thoughts from the far distance and he turned at Jane’s call. She waved to him. ‘Come on. Dinner! Everyone’s hungry.’

He lifted a hand in acknowledgement and watched as the golden-haired figure of Max fell in alongside the smaller,
dark-headed shape of Robert
and matched his slower gait, slinging an arm around him as a brother might. In that moment Luc saw himself and Laurent as youngsters, coming home from a day in the fields, and he swallowed back the knot in his throat. Jenny waited for them and they affectionately took a hand each and walked with her back down the hill.

Jane turned once more, as though wondering at Luc’s slowness. She
was smiling, a hand shielding her eyes. He never tired of watching her – willowy as ever on those long legs, which were tanned now, her skin smooth and burnished, her arms always quick to hug, her lips soft on his.

Luc blinked, feeling momentarily frozen by his own happiness. Was it wrong for his heart to feel this full? He cast a look over his shoulder, back to the field of ghosts. And there,
as if she caught his heartbeat of angst, the heads of the white flowers bowed once as a small gust of wind bent their stalks and it was as though Lisette agreed. She approved of his life and the peace he had finally found.

The lavender keeper nodded, silently whispered farewell to all the ghosts that roamed that hill, before turning to walk towards his new life filled with promise.

The research for this novel took me from the ever-beautiful streets of Paris, and always-brilliant museums of London, to Krakow, my departure point for the concentration camp of Auschwitz-Birkenau, and back to sweltering,
lavender-scented
Provence in southern France where the original story began. Mostly my research was light-filled but I experienced
some harrowing times learning about the Holocaust and I would urge anyone visiting Paris to give half a day over to the museum of vigilance - the Memorial de la Shoah in the Marais district. It is deeply moving and important. Even more daunting is the deserted death camp at Oświęcim. I expected it to be profoundly disturbing and it was, but I believe it was relevant background to this story and important
for us to be reminded of this horrific part of our history.

Recreating Launceston of the 1950s presented an unexpected challenge but I had a troop of dedicated seniors in northern Tasmania who allowed me to plumb their memories so I could learn about life in a much sunnier, happier part of the world in post WWII. I would like to thank the Members of the Launceston Historical Society
as well as Gail Murray and especially Hugh and Tony Denny, whose family were the original farmers of the famous Bridestowe Lavender of my story - thank you all. Big kisses to Tony Berry and John Wallace in Hastings, Sussex who
know their English south coast and its history, and who took me on a whirlwind tour of Eastbourne to experience everything from chips and curry sauce on the Pier to striding
over the windswept south downs so I could get those scenes just right. I grew up on Brighton Beach so it all felt suddenly familiar and wonderful to be writing about a landscape that is in my soul.

Pat Gumbrell and Gerry Douglas-Sherwood taught me a great deal about lighthouse keeping. I’m sorry most of what I learnt didn’t get into the main pages but wow - it gave me such an insight
into Luc’s life. Meanwhile the wonderful Malcolm Longstaff gave me the SS Mooltan and its background as a suggestion for the passenger ship in the story.

The hotel in Paris needed to be spot on too and standing in its foyer in 2012 it needed vision to bring back the 1960s in a property that has been revamped many times. So merci beaucoup to Carole Rodriguez from the hotel for arranging a meeting
with Daniel Bellache, chief concierge at the Concorde Opera who was a bellhop in the era I was writing about and for his extraordinary ability to recall the finest of details.

The other location that felt daunting to depict accurately was the American Express headquarters on rue Scribe in Paris, now fabulously expensive retail space. But with the help of my cousin, Jonathan Patton, I was connected
me to Ira Galtman, corporate archivist for American Express in New York. It was Ira who outlined the rough sketch of the office in the sixties, so I could paint it for readers. Thanks to all in the US for their generous assistance.

Kathrin Flor, Head of Communications in Bad Arolsen, gave me so much incredible information about the International Tracing Service and I am also indebted to Klaus-D.
Postupa from the Bundesarchiv in Koblenz, Germany for teaching me
about researching Nazi records. And sincere thanks to Nicolas Gsell in Strasbourg for being a terrific guide.

Draft readers Pip Klimentou, Judy Bastian - thanks for having my back.

To Susie Dunlop and her fine team at Allison & Busby, my sincere gratitude for bringing this story ‘home’ for me.

And so to you lovely readers.
I wish I could meet you all individually and say it face to face but I hope, for now, my written thanks to you and all the marvellous booksellers across Britain will suffice.

Finally to family … Ian, first reader, harshest critic - love always, and to Will and Jack who, as I write this, are dreaming of summer holidays in Tasmania but waiting for third-year university results. Bonne chance, mes
amours … x

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F
IONA
M
C
I
NTOSH
was born in Sussex, and spent her early childhood in West Africa. After working in PR in London, she moved to Australia in the 1980s and together with her husband set up her own consultancy company, which later evolved into a travel publishing house. She is constantly roaming the world to research her novels and seeking new storylines,
hence the authentic and fascinating detail found in her books.

www.fionamcintosh.com

The Lavender Keeper

The French Promise

ALSO BY FIONA MCINTOSH

Provence, 1942. Luc Bonet, brought up by a wealthy Jewish family in the foothills of the French Alps, finds his life shattered by the brutality of Nazi soldiers. Leaving his abandoned lavender fields behind, Luc joins the French Resistance in a quest for revenge.

Paris, 1943. Lisette Forestier is on a mission: to work her way into the heart of a senior German officer,
and to infiltrate the very masterminds of the Gestapo. But can she balance the line between love and lies? The one thing Luc and Lisette hadn’t counted on was meeting each other. Who, if anyone, can be trusted – and will their own emotions become the greatest betrayers of all?