Page 1 of The French Wife

PROLOGUE

AMÉLIE

Le Châtaignier, St Marie-des-Champs, Languedoc, May 1943

Amélie Garnier flew down the stairs and out through the back door of the mairie, where she grabbed her bicycle. She set off towards the farm and her husband as fast as she could pedal. As she sped through the cobbled streets of the little town and crossed the medieval bridge over the River Orbieu, in the back of her mind was the nagging question: who had betrayed them?

She pushed the thought aside. She needed to focus on getting home as quickly as she could. The rain was still falling; the road slippery and the farm track sodden. Amélie’s front tyre kept getting stuck in the rutted, muddy surface so the going was slow. She thought her heart would burst with exertion as she pushed on through the valley and up the hill towards the farm, praying she would get there before the SS soldiers, who could well be advancing on foot through the woods.

The rain kept coming, soft but persistent, and without a coat or hat, soon Amélie’s clothes were soaked through, her dark hair plastered to her forehead, but she barely noticed. She continued up the road through the grey-green maquis where the track rose and she was cycling between the rows of vines, verdant with spring growth. At last the farmhouse came into view at the top of the rise, smoke curling from the kitchen chimney, just as it always did.

She heard the first gunshot when she was halfway up the hill and rounding the bend that skirted the house, followed by the desperate screams of a woman. Her scalp tingled with horror. Then came another shot and then another. A sob rose to her throat – a sob of frustration and anger. She was too late. The soldiers were already there.

But perhaps it wasn’t the soldiers after all, perhaps it was Bruno hunting wild boar in the woods, or could it be the résistants doing target practice in the clearing? She got off her bike and pushed it frantically up the hill towards the buildings, and although terror burned through her, she knew she couldn’t turn round and pedal away to safety.

She reached the top of the rise and headed towards the courtyard gates. Another gunshot rent the air and she spun around to look at where it had come from, her heart hammering. At the edge of the forest, she glimpsed movement and shock washed through her. A line of soldiers dressed in grey-green raincoats and helmets was advancing towards the farm buildings, rifles drawn. She heard the woman scream again before more gunshots rang out and she realised the soldiers were being fired at from behind one of the barns. Maybe there was still hope.

The next second all hell broke loose: a fierce battle started, with volleys of gunfire hammering out from behind the barns and being returned by the German soldiers.

Amélie stood beside her bicycle, paralysed with fear and guilt. This was all her fault. People were losing their lives because of her.

She pulled herself up. There was no time for regret. She needed to find shelter, to get out of sight of the soldiers. But she had no idea where to run.

ONE

EMMA

Le Châtaignier, St Marie-des-Champs, Languedoc, August 2010

The old farmhouse was exactly as Emma remembered. There it stood, silent and forlorn, just as it had the first time she’d set eyes on it. As she drove through the spinney of poplars that sheltered the farm from the lane, on through the dilapidated gates and came to a stop in the courtyard, she felt a buzz of excitement at the sight of the old place.

She looked up at the tall windows, at the shutters with their peeling paint, at the honey-coloured walls glowing ochre in the evening sunlight, at the long sweep of the tiled roof and the solid oak front door. It was strange to think the house had stood like that for decades; empty and untouched, decaying slowly and silently while the world changed around it.

‘At last,’ she said out loud, realising now she’d turned off the engine how tired she was. Tired and aching from the endless drive.

She opened the door and stepped out into the courtyard where weeds grew rampant between the cobbles. Except for the gateway out to the drive, the courtyard was surrounded by enormous barns, all as dilapidated as the house itself, all built of the same mellow stone that blended with the rocks in the wooded valley. It was so much part of the landscape, it seemed as though the old farmstead had stood there for ever.

Emma dusted the crumbs from her jeans from the last baguette she’d eaten on the final leg of her journey through France. She stretched gratefully and looked around her with a deep, appreciative sigh. It was early evening, and the shadows were lengthening, but the air was still balmy from the heat of the summer’s day.

I can’t believe it’s finally mine, she thought. But despite her elation, she suddenly felt very alone. It had been a bold move, buying this decaying property on the strength of one visit during a recent road trip around southern France, but she’d instinctively known it was the right thing to do. With her interior designer’s eye, she’d seen instantly that the place had great potential.

The three-day drive from London had been exhausting. Emma was desperate for a cup of tea, but that would mean getting the Calor gas stove out of the back of the car and setting it up before she could even boil a kettle. The electricity supply in the farmhouse had long been disconnected, and she’d been told that extensive work was needed before it would be safe to use again.

The cup of tea could wait. She needed to see round the place first.

The estate agent had told her he would leave the key under the décrottoir – the boot scraper – and, sure enough, she discovered a rusting old metal object, pre-war from the look of it, hidden amongst the grass and weeds beside the porch. Emma lifted it and there was the key, predictably a large cast-iron affair, nestled in the flattened grass. She approached the huge oak front door, with its black metal studs. She wiggled the key into the lock, turned it and the black iron handle, then pushed open the heavy door with her knee. It made a creaking, scraping sound that echoed through the house as it yielded. As she walked inside, she was sure she heard the scurrying of rodents somewhere deep within the old building.

Leaving the door open to light her way, she wandered through the porch and into the wide, square hallway. Going straight to the windows, she threw them open and pushed back the shutters, letting the light flood into the darkened room. On one side of the hallway was the huge living room, with its flagstone floor and tall windows. Once she’d opened those shutters, Emma looked around at the long, beamed room, at its big, open fireplace. Was it her imagination, or was there still the faint aroma of chestnut woodsmoke hanging on the air?

The place was a time capsule. She noticed the wallpaper; decorated with water lilies, a pair of pink swans circling the flowers on a pale-blue lake. The flowers and swans were depicted in intricate relief. It might once have been more colourful, but the background had faded to a pale, silvery grey. The wallpaper was very unusual, but whoever had chosen it had subtle and sophisticated taste, and a bold eye for beauty.

Her interest was piqued. She’d never asked about the previous occupants while she’d been buying the farmstead.

‘The property was left without owners for decades,’ the estate agent had told her. ‘Because of that, it was repossessed by the state.’

There had been a lot of bureaucracy to contend with before she was even able to make an offer, so she’d not thought to ask who had owned it before. But now she began to be curious about them.

Leaving the grand living room behind, she wandered across the hallway and into the cavernous kitchen with its oak-beamed ceiling – another relic from the past. Once she’d opened the shutters in this room, the full extent of the decay became apparent. The terracotta-tiled floor was dull with age; a long, oak trestle table with benches either side dominated the middle of the room, its surface thick with dust. There were rings on the top, from generations of wine and beer glasses, and Emma had a sudden, powerful sensation that this room had once been the beating heart of the farmstead, with workers coming in to eat their meals. Standing there in the silence, she could almost hear their voices, smell the cigarette smoke and the cooking. It must have been full of life once. How quiet it felt now.