Always In My Heart

Three

1944

It felt strange to be back in England, her nervous tension still very evident, churning her stomach. At least Brenda no longer needed to speak French, and according to the latest news, France was now in the process of being liberated. De Gaulle had led a procession of the Free French down the Champs-Élysées. The Allies were also starting to arrive, including the British, the American and the Canadians. The war at last seemed to be drawing to an end. Would that help her to resolve her own problem?

The warmth of the big farm kitchen offered a small degree of comfort. The familiarity of the stove, the clutter of old chairs, Tiddles the cat rubbing against her leg, and the chink of the old flowered tea pot and mugs they’d used when she was but a girl were all still in evidence. As was Mrs Harding, the housekeeper, who pretty well ran this house. Busy rolling out pastry, she glanced up as Brenda entered, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘By heck, it looks like a bag o’ muck has just walked in.’

Brenda chuckled, accepting this comment as typical evidence of the cook-housekeeper’s Lancashire sense of humour. She had always been good to work for. ‘I dare say I do after such a long journey in this dreadful weather.’

Mrs Harding’s faded old eyes softened. ‘Eeh, and you’re soaked to the skin, chuck.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Oh, that would be lovely, thank you,’ Brenda warmly responded. She could remember enjoying the cook’s homemade biscuits kept in a jar on the dresser, a treat she would also welcome right now, judging by the ache in her belly. Brenda moved to seat herself at the big pine table but Hugh stepped quickly forward to block her way.

‘Take off your filthy boots, then come upstairs with me,’ he ordered in brisk, no-nonsense tones. ‘You said we needed to talk.’

Brenda made no attempt to argue but did as she was told. Setting her boots on the mat by the back door, she dutifully followed him in her stockinged feet. But, expecting to be led into the drawing room, she was startled to be shown instead into Sir Randolph’s study. Parking himself in the large chair behind the desk, he turned to glower at her with narrowed eyes, arms firmly folded across his broad chest. He looked very like his elder brother, save for the sour expression on his handsome face, which Brenda found most disconcerting.

‘What were you hoping to achieve by coming here?’ he snarled, not even offering her a seat. ‘Considering you are illegitimate, you were most fortunate to be given a job, thanks to the kindness of my mother. You then lured my brother into your bed and ran off with him. Had you not behaved so stupidly, he would still have been alive. So why on earth would I allow you to stay, in view of how you completely destroyed his life?’

Brenda stood rigid before him, still clutching her heavy bag, her wet hair dripping down the neck of her blouse. A shiver ran down her spine as she struggled to keep her temper in check. ‘We fell in love. What is so wrong with that? Your father found us kissing out in the woods, not in bed together. It was his decision to banish us from the house, and Jack’s that I go with him to France. Since I loved him, why would I not agree? We were very happy together, and I still do love him with all my heart. Losing him has been utterly devastating.’

Losing her darling child had been equally dreadful, but she was reluctant to speak of that right now. This did not seem quite the moment to explain all that had happened to her over these past years, and why exactly she had returned. If Hugh didn’t believe in her marriage or her devotion to his brother, why would he trust in anything she told him? And asking him questions while he was in such a foul mood wouldn’t work either, even though she desperately needed answers.

‘Jack would still be with us if he hadn’t joined the Resistance movement. What on earth possessed him to be so damned stupid?’

Brenda drew in a breath to calm the flare of irritation lit by this dreadful remark, holding fast to her courage. ‘In case it has missed your attention, France was taken over by the Germans back in June 1940. Being half French, as are you, why would he not join the Resistance? Jack was extremely brave and honourable, doing what was right for his mother, her friends and family, and the country.’ Lifting her chin, she met his furious glare with pride in her eyes.

He was silent for some seconds as he met her gaze, then grumpily remarked, ‘Jack should have left France long before the Nazis arrived.’

‘His mother wanted him to return home too, but he was reluctant to abandon her as she wasn’t too well. She’s a lovely lady, so why would he do that when she needed our care?’

‘She could have come with you. My father wrote to her countless times pressing her to do so.’

‘We also tried on numerous occasions to persuade her, but she declined. Camille is very much a daughter of France, and that is where she feels she belongs. Once the Germans occupied the country, it was not easy getting out. And as Jack’s widow, I cared for her after his death.’

‘Sadly, both my parents have now departed this life, so if you see this place as a future home you are very much mistaken.’

Horror unfolded within her. ‘Are you saying your mother is dead? Oh no, that’s dreadful.’ Wasn’t finding Camille the very reason she’d come? Striving to remain calm, Brenda struggled to decide how much she should tell him. Before she managed to reach a decision, a knock sounded at the door and the butler entered carrying a tray of tea, cakes and biscuits. Her stomach churned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, whether it was one day or two. Maybe even longer.

‘Thank you so much,’ she said, taking the cup and saucer with a hand that trembled slightly.

Relieving Brenda of her bag, he brought up a chair. ‘Mrs Harding says to tell you that she is warming some soup, which you can have when you’re ready.’

‘Oh, do thank her for me,’ Brenda said, giving him a grateful smile.

‘That will be all, Carter,’ Hugh snapped.

‘Sir.’ Giving a slight bow, the butler tactfully withdrew.

Brenda took a very welcome sip of tea and a quick nibble of one of Mrs Harding’s delicious ginger biscuits, striving to keep her nerves in check and hold on tight to her fading courage.

There was silence for some moments, then he gave a snort of derision. ‘So where’s the proof of this alleged wedding?’

‘If you mean by way of a marriage certificate, all papers were taken from me, being British.’

Slamming his fists on the desk, Hugh leaned closer, his jaw tight as his teeth ground together. ‘I do not believe a word you say. Had my brother truly married you he would have told me so, despite our father’s disapproval. As I say, Papa is no longer with us either, but I still need proof.’

‘You have my deepest sympathy for your loss,’ Brenda told him with some depth of emotion. ‘I fully understand how you must feel. It has taken me years to come to terms with my own grief, and it was the same for Camille. When did each of them die?’

‘Papa died of a heart attack less than a month ago, Mama some time in 1941, or so I believe.’

‘Do you know where she was living at the time?’ Brenda instantly asked, her heart thudding.

‘I assume she was still resident in Paris.’

‘No, she’d left by then. Her cousin Adèle had come to join her and the pair of them proved to be a great support for each other. But when the situation grew more dangerous in Paris they decided to move to her cousin’s home somewhere in the Loire Valley. Do you have her address?’ Now Brenda awaited his answer with a tremor in her heart. Wasn’t this the reason she’d returned to Trowbridge Hall, hoping her precious son would already be here waiting for her? But if not, she could at least find out where Adèle lived.

‘Never heard of the woman. But then I know little about the French side of my mother’s family. That’s enough talk for now,’ he said, and opening the study door, Hugh flicked his hand to order her back downstairs. ‘You can stay in your old room for tonight. We’ll speak again tomorrow.’

Brenda’s heart sank to her soaking-wet feet, and keeping her head down so that he could not see the tears in her eyes, she walked out of the study.

*

Taking himself off to the drawing room, Hugh felt an odd stir of guilt within him. His brother was indeed a brave man, and they’d been quite close. Was his reluctance to accept this girl’s possible marriage with Jack really because of her illegitimacy and low status, or because he’d lost all hope of a marriage for himself? Their father hadn’t listened to Hugh’s desire to join the army, insisting he become a farmer, as that was a reserve occupation. Even Susanna, his darling fiancée, had been against him joining the forces, quite happy with him being a farmer too, as it was much safer. An attitude which made it all the more tragic that while visiting her parents back in London, she’d died along with them when their home had been hit by a V-1 flying bomb just a few weeks ago. A lovely and perfectly innocent lady who wouldn’t hurt a soul was now gone from his life. How cruel and heartless war was.

But there were other problems.

He shook out the Manchester Evening News and scowled over yet another report depicting misery and gloom, the entire country complaining about rationing and poverty. This war was costing a fortune, both in men’s lives and coin of the realm. His own finances were suffering along with everyone else’s. There’d been a time when whatever the Stuart family touched had turned to gold, or brass at least, and plenty of it. Now, the biscuit factory was rapidly going downhill thanks to food shortages, and the best workers having joined up. Not to mention his father’s stubborn determination to remain in the Victorian age and never update anything.

Bearing in mind the state of austerity the country was in, it was astonishing they were also facing a huge inheritance tax payment, following his father’s death. Sir Randolph should have thought things through more carefully and prepared for this possibility. Sadly, he’d been entirely selfish, spending money on gambling, horse racing and grand cars, as if there was no tomorrow. An obsessive, and utterly controlling aristocrat.

How would they even survive as a consequence not only of war issues, but this huge amount of death duty?

And having lost everyone who mattered to him, Hugh’s appetite to acquire the necessary interest and energy to run the family estate and business had entirely disappeared, let alone the driving ambition he’d once possessed. He’d once been bursting with ideas and the desire to expand. But even increasing the low flour quota allowed due to rationing, could only happen if they acquired further outlets, which he really had no interest in doing, his mind now obsessed with debts.

Admittedly, they were probably much better off than this girl, but she really had no right to pretend to be his brother’s widow, simply to get her hands on family money. She was just a greedy little madam. Jack would surely have told him if he had married her? Yet he did probably love her.

He rang the bell for Carter. The butler quickly entered, again giving a slight bow. ‘Are you requiring a glass of whisky, sir, before you retire?’

‘That would be excellent. Oh, and tell that young girl she can stay for a few days, until she has made the necessary arrangements for her new future back in Manchester, although she’ll need to make herself useful in return for the free accommodation offered.’

Carter’s face tightened a little as he politely responded. ‘Very good, sir, I will inform her of that fact. I’m sure she will be most helpful, as she always was.’

*

Desolation still threatened to overwhelm her. But maintaining her courage, a skill she’d acquired over the years of war, Brenda savoured with gratitude a simple but delicious dish of home-made soup and a bread roll for supper, before climbing up to the attic room where she’d resided years ago.

It appeared that Hugh was in charge now. Not an encouraging prospect. But why had the conversation between them been so angry and difficult, his tone sharp with prejudice against her, not least because she was illegitimate? He was arrogantly treating her as if she was a greedy little scullery maid. The advice she’d received from her late mother-in-law had been to take care not to inflame her husband’s temper. His son appeared to be very much a chip off the old block, and vehemently defending herself wasn’t proving to be easy. Brenda did not want a penny off him, but she had to consider her own son’s future, once she’d found him safe and well and brought him home.

But it seemed that yet again all her efforts had been to no avail.

One moment she’d felt she had all the riches in the world: the love of her life and a child on the way. Now all of that happiness had gone and the pain in her heart made her feel weak with agony. Dropping into bed with exhaustion, she fell asleep within minutes. It was then that the nightmares once again surfaced.

Four

France, 1941

In theory, as an enemy alien, Brenda was required to go to the Mairie every day to sign in. But the thought of presenting her British passport to the German officers now in control of the city hall filled her with fear. She really had no wish to reveal her identity, or to be searched by anybody. Thanks to Jack, her French was now reasonably proficient, and Brenda did her utmost to give the impression she was of native origin, even making sure she never wore any of the clothes she’d brought with her from England.

However, she was all too aware that as an English woman she presented something of a danger to Camille and her cousin. Anyone found harbouring British nationals would be liable to arrest, or worse.

‘I wish I could find some form of employment to justify being stuck here,’ she said to her mother-in-law one evening. It was over a month now since baby Tommy had been born and she felt quite fit and capable of working. Being January, winter was upon them and the cost of food and fuel was increasing daily, assuming they were able to find any.

‘Your job is to care for your child,’ Camille smilingly told her as she rocked her grandchild in her arms before handing him over for his nightly bath.

Determined to at least pay her way, Brenda looked for work day after day, enquiring about jobs in hospitals, canteens and various factories. Unfortunately, none seemed impressed by her lack of skills. ‘I may not be a nurse but I can cook and clean,’ she insisted after yet another refusal.

‘We’ll let you know,’ the stern-faced manager told her, holding open the door to show her out. As always, there were several people milling around, or sitting in the waiting room, probably equally desperate for employment. Reaching the street outside the hospital, she suddenly found a man at her elbow.

‘Are you looking for a job?’ he asked, speaking in fairly rapid French.

‘I am, yes.’

He nodded. ‘I might be able to help.’

‘Really? That would be wonderful.’

His full lips widened into an appealing smile. ‘You can call me Étienne, or Monsieur Bresson if you prefer. I can offer you good money and accommodation too, if necessary.’

‘What kind of work do you have to offer, and what skills would I need?’ Brenda prepared herself for the usual string of questions, but his response stunned her. ‘You speak French quite well for an English girl.’

‘What makes you think that I am?’ she asked, keeping her tone light, even as her voice trembled and a chill settled within her.

‘I heard you speaking to the manager, and your accent does have a slight British twang to it,’ he said, his dark eyes sparkling with humour.

So despite her best efforts, she was still obviously British, which was no doubt the real reason she couldn’t find employment. Making no comment, Brenda gave a little shrug and began to walk away, only to find him again at her side.

‘I’m aware that finding a job if you are British is not easy, but I can help. I provide work for many ladies with foreign passports. Come, I’ll introduce you to them. Very few skills are needed, as they will teach you everything you need to know.’

Unable to resist the offer since he seemed so helpful, and obviously held no prejudice against her nationality, Brenda dutifully followed. He led her along the street then down an alley to a tall, four-storey building tucked into a courtyard.

‘Ah, is this a hotel?’ she asked, mentally preparing herself for yet another interview. ‘If so, then it would indeed suit my skills, as I can certainly cook and clean.’

Giving a little chuckle, he opened the door to show her into a shabby hall. ‘It could be considered as such, yes, although those are not necessarily the skills I am seeking.’

Glancing around at the wallpaper peeling from the walls and an array of scruffy doors in bad need of a lick of paint, Brenda politely smiled. ‘Well, I could start with this entrance hall, and give it a good scrub and polish.’ Alarm bells suddenly began to ring in her head as she saw a German officer in uniform standing by one of the inner doors. Was she about to be arrested? Reminding herself this was a hotel and not the city hall or a military head quarters, she gave a little nod in his direction. ‘I take it you accept Germans as guests?’

‘Of course, they are regular clients. This man is a member of the Wehrmacht, the German defence force, and acts as a protector for the women who work here. Come with me,’ he said, ushering her through the door the man was guarding into a small parlour. It was lined with chairs and sofas, occupied by young girls dressed in floaty gowns or bathrobes, giggling and chatting happily to each other as they smoked cigarettes or sipped wine.

‘What is this place?’ Brenda asked, suspicion beginning to form somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Young she may be, but not stupid. Why would these women be sitting around half-dressed on this chilly winter’s day, even if there was a blazing fire in the grate? As her fears began to escalate, another German soldier appeared out of nowhere. Seeing her standing by the fireplace, he came quickly over, an expression of curiosity lighting his face as his gaze roamed over her from head to toe.

‘You must be new. Take off your coat, then I can see you better.’

‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘Do as the gentleman asks,’ her escort instructed.

‘Why would I do that?’ she snapped, giving a little frown.

‘Because he is an important client, and has the right to inspect a possible candidate.’

‘Candidate for what? You haven’t yet informed me what kind of work you are offering, Monsieur Bresson.’

‘I assume that, in view of your nationality, you’d be agreeable to do anything in order to avoid arrest. You’re a very pretty lady, and I know of many young soldiers who would be only too glad to pay for the pleasure of your company. I can also offer you safe accommodation. The Germans visit this brothel regularly and don’t care about a girl’s nationality, so long as she is good-looking and amenable. Weekly visits are considered mandatory for all young soldiers to prevent them indulging in sexual excesses with all and sundry, thereby spreading venereal diseases. The girls employed here make good money and are given regular scheduled medical check-ups to keep them safe from such problems, so there’s nothing for you to worry about on that score.’

Brenda stared at him in stunned horror. ‘What on earth are you suggesting? How dare you! I’m a widow, not a prostitute.’

Glowering at her, he turned to speak in rapid German to the client who, laughing loudly, tugged open Brenda’s coat and began to grope her breasts with his large hands. ‘Hm, quite full and promising,’ the officer said, in perfect English. ‘Yes, she’s ideal, I’ll take this one.’

Gasping with a mix of fury and terror, Brenda slapped his hands away, spun on her heels and stalked off at a rapid pace across the hall and through the outer door, holding her head high. The moment she reached the courtyard, she took to her heels and ran as if the devil was on her tail, because in a way he was.

Respectable jobs, it seemed, were as hard to come by now as transport.

*

Her heart was pounding with fear and exhaustion by the time Brenda reached Camille’s apartment. She’d taken great care that she wasn’t being followed, and felt hardly able to breathe as alarm reverberated through her. How stupid to trust an absolute stranger and follow him, without even knowing what he had to offer. She’d put herself in serious danger as a consequence of such naivety, and must never do such a thing again. She dreaded to think what he might have done to her.

‘What is wrong, dear girl?’ Camille asked, watching in dismay as Brenda collapsed on to the velvet sofa in tears.

‘You wouldn’t believe what’s just happened.’ The two ladies came to sit beside her, Camille dabbing at the tears dripping down her cheeks with a lace handkerchief.

‘Do tell us what has upset you. Are you all right, dear?’

‘Fortunately, yes. I thought I’d at last found employment.’ Quickly explaining her terrifying story, tears again filled her eyes at the sight of their shocked expressions. ‘Once I realised that it was a brothel and not a hotel, I ran hell for leather, as we say in England. How dare that German officer grope me, the bastard! Nothing on earth would persuade me to give myself to any man.’

‘What a dreadful world we are living in now,’ Adèle said with a sad sigh as she wrapped her arms about Brenda to give her a comforting hug. ‘I’ve heard that Polish and other foreign girls, some as young as fifteen, have found themselves kidnapped and taken to a brothel to be sexually exploited. Thank goodness you managed to escape, darling.’

‘You are perfectly safe here with us, but I think you should stay indoors for a while, just in case they come looking for you, dear,’ Camille suggested.

Brenda nodded in agreement, feeling bleak and even more trapped. Perhaps it was not a good idea for a British girl to seek work in this occupied city. She really had no wish to ever again be approached by such rogues. Picking up her child, together with his little toy monkey, Brenda gave him a kiss and a cuddle. How she adored him. Bathing, nursing and feeding him in the days following helped to ease her anxiety as the sweet baby scent of her son brought joy to her heart.