Chapter Seventeen #2
Mathilde tethered Mascotte to a tree and would have tied up Brioche, too, but she barked and Geoffrey was still nervous so she let the dog come along with them.
Yves took her to a smaller clearing deep in the wood where a line of tin cans had been arranged along a tree trunk.
First, he showed her the mechanics of the gun: how to load and unload the bullets, plus some basic safety rules that had to become second nature.
Then, standing at her shoulder with his arm stretched alongside hers, he showed her how to shoot.
She was distracted by his nearness, their cheeks almost touching and the smell of woodsmoke and the forest that clung around him, but her aim improved and she even managed to dislodge one of the cans – though not the one she’d had in her sights.
‘Thank you,’ she said, when they’d run out of bullets and had to stop. ‘This makes me feel safer.’ In the worst case, she would turn the gun on herself, rather than let the Nazis take her.
They were still close together. She’d been reluctant to look at him for fear of showing her feelings, but now she risked a quick glance and saw he was gazing at her intently.
‘Ma lionne,’ he murmured, smoothing a strand of hair away from her forehead, and then his arms were around her and they were kissing – desperately, hungrily, as though they would devour each other.
The countess’s warning didn’t enter Mathilde’s head; she was beyond reason.
All she knew was that she wanted this man whose touch healed her, who excised the pain from her broken body so pleasure could take its place.
When he began to unbutton her blouse, though, she broke away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, dropping his hand. ‘I thought you . . .’
She shook her head. ‘I do, but not here, and not now. I really must get back to the chateau.’
‘When will I see you again?’ he asked, breathing hard.
‘I don’t know.’ She was already retreating, straightening her hair and her clothing. ‘I’ll think of something.’
They walked back to retrieve Mascotte with his arm around her shoulders, Brioche following their every move. Just before they reached the camp, he kissed her forehead and said, ‘You know I can’t make any promises, Lionne?’
‘I’m not expecting you to.’ Mathilde kissed him back. ‘Neither can I.’
The usual black Citroen was parked by the lodge when Mathilde returned to the chateau and a policeman standing at the gates asked to see her papers.
She was fearless now, ready for anything.
There were no other police or cars in sight at the house, though.
After she’d unhitched Mascotte and handed her over to the stable boy, she went back to the kitchen with Brioche to return the key to the cellar door.
‘So you got that fellow away, then?’ Odile said as soon as she appeared. ‘Well done. I thought it was all over for us. Madame wants to see you – she’s in her study.’
‘Did the police find anything?’ Mathilde asked, thinking of the Michelin map which she kept hidden under her mattress.
Odile shook her head. ‘They turned the place upside down, though. When Madame lets you go, you can help me put things straight.’
The countess was standing by her study window when Mathilde knocked and entered.
Brioche ran over to her mistress for a pat before taking up her usual position under the desk.
‘Thank God,’ Madame de Courcy said, motioning for Mathilde to sit.
‘Tell me everything. How did you manage to get the Englishman out of here without anyone spotting him? And where is he now?’
Mathilde explained briefly most of what had happened, suddenly exhausted and shocked by the narrowness of their escape. The countess listened, eyes fixed on her face. When Mathilde had finished speaking, she asked, ‘But how did you know where to find Yves?’
‘Because he’d already shown me the camp,’ Mathilde replied simply, meeting her gaze. ‘He said it would be useful for someone to know where he was, and he was right.’
The countess raised her eyebrows but all she said was, ‘Well, I assume they’ll be moving on soon, and the harvest starts tonight so you’ll have no time for running around the wood. Have a rest this afternoon so you’ll be ready for work.’
‘Yes, Madame.’ Mathilde turned to leave, thinking it was just as well Brioche couldn’t talk.
‘Just a minute,’ the countess said, calling her back. ‘Did you tell anyone the Englishman was here?’
‘No, Madame – not a soul.’ They looked at each other, probably both thinking of the same person but neither willing to speak her name.
‘Well, thank you, Fleur,’ the countess said at last. ‘If I was in any doubt, you’ve certainly earned your place here.’
Mathilde spent the rest of the morning tidying various rooms ransacked by the police.
The damage was mostly cosmetic – overturned furniture, books swept from their shelves, a mirror broken – but true to form, a line of bullet holes ran along the ceiling of the uppermost landing, leaving a drift of plaster snowflakes scattered over the floor.
The blankets had been torn from Mathilde’s bed but her mattress was still in place.
She laid the gun next to her map under the mattress, sank on to it and closed her eyes.
When could she make it back to the camp?
Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps, taking a chance Yves would still be there.
She wasn’t having second thoughts – far from it.
If death came for her sooner rather than later, she wanted to die without regrets.
Yves embodied hope, courage and affection, if not love: she’d turn towards him, holding her face to his light.
Jacques would understand, she felt sure.
They’d once had a conversation about death, even before the war had broken out, and he’d said that if he were to go first, she must marry again and not feel guilty.
She wasn’t looking for another husband, but a decent, kind man who would wipe the nightmares from her mind was worth dreaming about.
They began the harvest at eight that night, when the heat of the day had died down, working with the aid of kerosene lanterns strung along the rows of vines.
The moon was almost full, and in the half-light, she recognised familiar faces: Paulette and her son Thierry, a gangly adolescent with a prominent Adam’s apple; and several of the farmers’ wives and daughters she’d met on her travels.
She greeted them all but there was no time for gossip.
They worked steadily, snipping off the bunches of grapes and tossing them into a pannier over their shoulder, which they then emptied into larger baskets on the cart.
Mascotte would repeatedly take her precious load down to the winery, where the grapes were destemmed and tipped into the wooden basket press, under the supervision of Monsieur Rousseau, for their juice to be extracted.
Mathilde was glad of this simple, repetitive task – glad also that her neighbours were sufficiently spread out so she didn’t have to make conversation as she worked.
She’d chosen a faraway row of vines to strip at the edge of the field.
After several hours, though, her back was aching.
She took off her pannier, put her hands on her hips and stretched her spine, gazing up into the velvety sky as she reflected on the strange shape of her life so far, and wondered what the future might hold.
Suddenly she felt someone grasp her shoulder and whirled around, ready to fight – or at least scream – until she recognised the man under the hat, holding a finger to his lips.
It was Yves, of course. She must have known he would come.
Dropping her secateurs into the pannier, she extinguished the nearest lantern and took his hand.
Together they stole away into the night.