The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 22)

A small tear trickled on to Mireille’s cheek and she buried her face in Blanche’s curls, which were so like her own.

Lisette continued stroking her daughter’s hair, soothing her. ‘And now I know you are getting better,’ she smiled. ‘Because you are able to cry again, at last.’

On Monday morning, Eliane went, as usual, to the walled garden to check the beehives and collect the ingredients that Madame Boin had requested for the day’s menus. The upper frames in each of the hives were full of summer honey, capped off with neat beeswax seals. This week she would take the last collection of the year, making sure that she left a good supply to see the bees through the coming winter. If it was anything like as harsh as the last one they’d be needing a bit extra, especially now that rationing was making it harder to save any sugar.

As she settled the frames she’d been inspecting back in place, she heard the gate open and turned to see Monsieur le Comte.

‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

‘Bonjour, Eliane. How are your charges today?’

‘Thriving, thank you, sir. The colonies were much depleted after last winter, but they have survived and are back to full strength again now.’

He stooped a little lower, leaning on his cane, to examine a worker bee that had just landed at the entrance to the hive and was busily weaving her dance to tell her comrades where to find the richest sources of nectar.

‘It never fails to fascinate me, the way they do that.’ He straightened up and smiled at Eliane. ‘They are so clever, the way they work together as a community, each with its own role to play to ensure the colony continues to thrive.’

Beckoning Eliane to follow, he moved a little further away from the hives, so as not to get in the way of the bees’ flight paths and agitate them. ‘Show me what you are cultivating in this bed,’ he asked her.

She’d been spending more time in the walled garden since the gardener had left. He’d joined up a few months before the armistice was signed and, as far as anyone now knew, he was one of the thousands of captured French soldiers who’d been sent to labour camps in Germany.

Eliane began pointing out the late-summer crops of courgettes, beans and tomatoes, but the count’s attention seemed to be elsewhere. She fell silent. Still gazing at the neatly hoed beds as if intent on the produce, he said quietly, ‘Like that worker bee, would you be prepared to help your community, Eliane?’

Taking her lead from him, she too continued to face the garden, as if studying the plants. Her voice was soft as she replied, ‘Bien sûr, monsieur.’

‘I don’t want to put you in a position of risk. So all I’m going to ask you to do is to perform a sort of dance to send a message to others. You don’t need to know who they are, nor where they are. When I give you the word, you’ll just put on this headscarf . . .’ He fished a folded square of richly patterned red silk out of his pocket. ‘And then take your basket for a little stroll around the outside of the garden walls. It’s important that you wear the scarf and that you walk in a clockwise direction: those are the parts of the dance that communicate the message. Would you be prepared to do this?’

Eliane looked down at the bright scarf that he held out to her. Silently, she took it from him and slipped it into her apron pocket. After she had done so, she murmured, ‘But, m’sieur, this is too fine a headscarf for a girl like me to wear. Silk of this quality, and so intricately patterned . . . Won’t people think it’s a little odd?’

‘It belonged to my mother,’ he said. ‘But I’d like you to start wearing it often; and if anyone asks you about it, perhaps tell them it was a gift from your sister in Paris. She has access to such finery – people will believe that. And, if you are stopped by any of our “guests” on your walk, say that you’re searching for some of the wildflowers you and your maman use to make your healing potions.’

‘Very well, monsieur. But how will I know when to go for my walk?’

‘I shall be in the library as usual this morning. I understand that our “guests” have an important briefing that they must all attend at the mairie today. When the coast is clear, I’ll come into the kitchen and ask Madame Boin to prepare a peppermint tisane for me. That will be the time to dance your dance, like your bees, and send the message.’

‘Understood.’ Her voice was almost a whisper, but he heard her reply clearly.

‘Thank you, Eliane.’ He pointed towards the vegetable plot again, as though their conversation had been about that all along, and then sauntered back to the château.

Deep in thought, as she collected the ingredients that Madame Boin had requested, Eliane deliberately omitted to pick any peppermint.

There was the usual coming and going of German soldiers at Château Bellevue that morning; a motorcycle courier puttered up the drive to deliver documents for the general; a couple of soldiers marched past the kitchen window on their way to relieve the patrol at the checkpoint on the bridge in Coulliac; and a military truck pulled up at the main door.

‘Two more of them moving in,’ tutted Madame Boin, as she and Eliane made up additional beds in an upstairs room. ‘We’ll be full to bursting if this goes on much longer.’

The door of the adjacent room opened and they heard the crackle of a radio and German voices. The wireless station had been set up there and Eliane realised suddenly that it was directly above the library, where the count spent so much of his time these days.

Oberleutnant Farber knocked on the open bedroom door. ‘Mesdames, there is no great urgency to finish that. The new arrivals have been ordered to leave their bags in the hallway for the time being as there are other things to attend to now. If you could have the room ready by this afternoon then that will be fine. And there is no need to put out anything for lunch today; we will be making other arrangements.’

‘Oui, monsieur,’ Madame Boin said. And then, once the sound of his footsteps had faded away down the corridor, she resumed her grumbling. ‘First they give us no notice of these new arrivals and then they change their plans for the midday meal. How am I supposed to run the kitchen under such conditions? Talk about high-handed . . .’

From the bedroom window, as she finished putting a bolster into its linen cover, Eliane watched several of the soldiers climbing into the truck and then Oberleutnant Farber bringing the jeep to the front entrance for the general. As he was pulling away, the oberleutnant glanced upwards and caught sight of Eliane standing there. He smiled, and gave a very slight nod in acknowledgement, before turning the vehicle and following the truck down the steep driveway towards the town.

As the dust settled behind them, the château fell silent. Eliane hurried downstairs to join Madame Boin in the kitchen and set to work topping and tailing a colander of green beans. After a few minutes, she heard the slow footsteps and tap of a walking cane that signified the approach of the count.

He smiled at the scene of peaceful domesticity as he came through the door. ‘Madame Boin, please would you be so kind as to make me my morning tisane? I think I’d like peppermint today.’

‘Oui, monsieur.’ She put the kettle on to boil. ‘But Eliane, where is the mint? I asked you to bring me some this morning.’

‘Did I forget it? Oh, I’m sorry, madame. I’ll go and gather some now.’ She picked up the wicker basket that sat by the kitchen door and stepped outside. As soon as she was out of Madame Boin’s sight, she set the basket down and took the scarf out of the pocket of her apron. It was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen: a square of scarlet silk, patterned with exotic birds and flowers. She shook out the heavy folds and then held it by two corners to make a large triangle to cover her hair. She tied it behind the nape of her neck, peasant-style, and then picked up her basket again. She walked right around the outside of the walled garden, going clockwise as the count had directed, feeling self-conscious as she knew that somewhere someone was watching her. Indeed, she felt exposed and conspicuous as she progressed around the outside of the garden walls, aware that she must be visible from Coulliac, where the Germans were, as well as from the surrounding countryside. Her scalp prickled with fear beneath the covering of the headscarf, but she walked determinedly onwards.

After completing the circuit, she removed the scarf and carefully re-folded it, secreting it back in her pocket. Then she pushed the gate open and hastily gathered a bunch of sweet-smelling mint leaves to take back to Madame Boin.

About half an hour later there was the sound of a vehicle driving past and pulling up by the main entrance.

‘That had better not be any of those Boches coming back and wanting their lunch after all,’ scolded Madame Boin.

Craning to look, Eliane was surprised to see her father’s truck. ‘It’s Papa!’ she exclaimed.

Gustave got out, whistling cheerfully, and unloaded a sack of flour from the back. He came to the kitchen door and knocked loudly. ‘Good morning, Madame Boin. Et re-bonjour, ma fille.’ He smiled at Eliane. ‘After my deliveries today I discovered that I had one extra bag, which I must have accidentally omitted to hand in at the depot. I thought, rather than wasting precious gasoline going all the way back again, I would see if it might be of any use to you. I know you have a great number of “guests” to cater for these days.’