The Hidden Palace, page 38
Dodging the dancing couples but having to speak to one or two who congratulated her and told her what a fine man Jack was and how much he deserved some happiness, she finally made her way through the cigarette smoke and the loud voices to the exit. At last! The moment she was outside she took deep breaths of cool air. In the sweet breeze her lungs expanded, and a feeling of calm washed over her. She closed her eyes and let everything drift. She was married. A day that she had hoped for but had thought might never come, had come. She loved Jack. With all her heart, her soul, her body, she loved him. She patted her tummy, a little rounded now but not too obvious if you didn’t know. And I shall love you too, little one. And that is a promise. When she opened her eyes, she saw birds flying over and heard others singing in the trees. A few clouds drifted by, and she felt something she couldn’t quite name. She spotted a couple walking up the road and for just a moment she thought the woman might be Hélène. It wasn’t. Her insides twisted with longing. She turned to go back inside but heard her name being called.
‘Baudin,’ a young lad was saying. ‘Telegram for Baudin.’
‘Yes,’ Florence said, seeing the telegram boy, and with a shiver of anxiety she held out her hand for it. ‘That’s me.’
She tore open the telegram, saw the words Post Office at the top with the picture of the crown and read.
So sorry. I won’t be able to make it after all. I wish you both well. Hélène.
‘I tried to deliver it to your house,’ the boy was saying. ‘Meadowbrook, ain’t it? But a neighbour up on the hill said you’d be here getting married like, so I came. Not strictly allowed, mind.’
‘No,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘You’re fine. Thank you.’
Duty done, he backed away, gave her a nod, and hurriedly left.
Florence stood on the pavement not a bit aware of the passers-by who’d stopped to stare and were giving her curious looks, a girl in her wedding dress with tears in her eyes.
‘Bad news, love?’ one kind soul asked and patted her hand. ‘Never mind dear. You just get on and enjoy your day.’
Florence nodded then pressed a hand to her mouth. Hélène really wasn’t coming and at that moment Florence understood how deep the rift between them had become. It seemed impossible. How could she be getting married without her eldest sister?
She turned back towards the hall, and stopped in the doorway where Jack and Élise were talking.
‘There was a telegram,’ Florence said, fighting back tears again. ‘Hélène isn’t coming.’
Élise put an arm around her. ‘I’m so sorry. Did she say why?’
Florence shook her head and handed Élise the telegram to read for herself. Jack shot her a worried look.
‘I’m all right,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘I can’t let this spoil everything. Come on, let’s cut the cake.’
She glanced inside the hall and, seeing the broad smiles on the faces of the people she loved most in the world, apart from Hélène, Florence felt the joy and the sadness at almost at the same.
‘Where’s Vicky?’ she asked.
Élise sighed dramatically. ‘With Rosalie, thank God. Our aunt is a miracle worker because I tell you, much more of this behaviour and that little girl will be the death of me. Are small children always this rebellious?’
Florence laughed. ‘You were, God help you when she’s a teenager.’
Élise frowned for a moment, about to deny it, but then she gave in and laughed too.
‘Come on,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t know where it came from, but my father has unearthed some real champagne to have with the cake.’
As she and Jack walked up to the main table, Florence glanced at all the people gathered there and thought over the day. She had married the man she loved, surrounded by all the people she cared about, except for one. She vowed she would do everything she could to rectify things with Hélène – her sister would surely have to forgive her one day, wouldn’t she?
‘Isn’t it amazing?’ she said to Jack. ‘All this. Life goes on, doesn’t it?’
He nodded.
In this post-war time, with life still so grim, rationing still happening, and people suffering from the loss of friends and family, it had been a funny make-do kind of wedding, but even more magical because of that. And seeing the radiant smiling faces, her heart danced, and Florence knew she would never forget the generosity of her friends. Jack’s quiet loving presence throughout the day had filled her with such a feeling of intoxication she felt she might simply take off and fly. She laughed at herself. Perhaps she had just drunk too much elderflower champagne.
At the table she closed her eyes briefly, said a prayer for her mother and all her family and then, with her hand on top of Jack’s, they cut the first slice of their wonderfully lopsided home-made wedding cake. Jack grinned at her and her heart seemed to explode with possibility and hope. They had survived the war, in France and England, and their whole lives lay before them. Florence couldn’t wait to see what would come next. The birth of their child of course, which meant more than she could say. But as she looked down the years all she could see was the love – the love that would see them through – whatever might be heading their way.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Sadly, I couldn’t visit Malta when I needed to because of the pandemic. Instead, I hope I’ve conjured a convincing Maltese setting, mainly by referring to countless books and sifting through piles of wonderful photographs. I talked to people who know Malta. I watched films, documentaries, and videos on YouTube. I did, however, stay in a beautiful, thatched Devonshire cottage beside a water meadow, and it became the inspiration for Jack’s Meadowbrook. I adored the cottage and its setting, and I hope my enthusiasm for it has brought it to life.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Cheers once again to my fantastic literary agent, Caroline Hardman. I couldn’t do this without you. Thanks also to the marvellous team at HarperCollins. I’ve so loved working with such an enthusiastic bunch of people. It’s been a blast. I must own up to putting my husband through the highs, but also the dreadful lows of a writer’s life, when everything seems impossible. Thank you, Richard – for the delicious food that gets me through, the not always gracefully received plot suggestions, and for always being there. And, finally, I can’t overestimate how grateful I am to everyone who has bought and read this book.
And read on for an exclusive preview of the next book in the series
Night Train to Marrakech
Coming 2023, and available to pre-order now.
CHAPTER 1
Clemence
Morocco, Kasbah Clemence, July 1966
The mountains had never been a problem. Blinding sunlight. The deepest shadows. Isolation. Snow. All that just felt like a part of who she was now. Of course, people did vanish, but after what had happened in Casablanca, the mountains had never been where she felt lost. And here, at night, she was so much closer to the stars. Perched up high, the kasbah had once been a fortress built to withstand attack. Now a sanctuary, it spelt safety for Clemence, and was still firm enough to resist assault, albeit of a possibly different kind.
But one day. One day it would come.
She stood gazing out of her open bedroom window, hoping to catch the subtle changing of the light. These daily rituals kept her steady: exactly as expected, the mist burned off, the high Atlas Mountains began to shine, and the scent of wild herbs drifted into the air.
A perfect day.
She wrapped the turquoise robe around her, fastened its ties, then left the main house and crossed the terrace, pausing for a moment to run her fingertips over the climbing roses and sniff their scent. Blowsy, crimson, and almost at an end, their petals dropped at her touch. Like blood, she thought. At the annexe she unlocked the door, slid the bolts, and went inside.
Something was wrong.
She heard the clamour of the birds first then, inhaling sharply, spotted two small copper-coloured butterflies dancing around one of the windows. Overlooking a private courtyard with access to the mountains beyond, the window should not have been open. She glanced around the room, taking in the tray of uneaten breakfast – cooling French coffee, two pieces of freshly baked baguette, butter melting in the early sunlight – and the white robe lying crumpled on the rug. ‘Fingers crossed,’ she muttered, then ran to the bathroom.
A tap had been left running but no one was there, so she turned the tap off and went to the living room, where she also found no sign of her.
‘Madeleine,’ she called, aware of the tremble in her voice, but all she could hear in response were the birds.
The woman had bolted.
Then, right then, she felt the panic. As the distant past reared up, her mouth felt dry, the old fear fluttering as if it were one of the butterflies. She dashed outside and called for Ahmed.
‘Help me,’ she pleaded, and held out her hands to him as he approached. ‘She’s gone.’
He enclosed her hands in his much larger ones and then let go. ‘She can’t have gone far, Madam. I carried her breakfast in only half an hour ago. Has she eaten it?’
Clemence shook her head.
‘Then she can only have been gone half an hour at most,’ he said as they left the terrace.
‘Did you unlock the window?’
Ahmed nodded. ‘She complained about the room being stuffy.’
Her heart sank. ‘We have to keep her inside her rooms. She can’t be allowed out alone. Not ever. I thought I had explained.’
‘You did. But the window is so stiff, I didn’t think she’d have the strength to push it wide open.’
‘I’ll have to install bars. Or a wrought iron screen would at least look better. Assuming we find her.’
‘We will.’
But Clemence wasn’t so sure. Madeleine could be devious. ‘You head down the track,’ she said. ‘And I’ll check the grounds.’
She turned her back and set off to search the entire complex. With few remaining perimeter walls, her kasbah was at the same altitude as the last of the trees, and nothing much grew above it, the mountain sides barren and rocky.
Looking down it was different; looking down it was lush.
Imlil – a collection of little villages – huddled where three rivers merged into one, and the year-long supply of water ensured the terraced hillsides were cultivated. From her vantage point now, she could mainly see the walnut and pine forests, where she walked and collected cones for the fire, and below them, the orchards of apples, quince, almonds, and apricots. She pulled a face at the thought. No one could ever entice her to eat an apricot. Beyond the trees the agricultural land was where villagers grew vegetables, potatoes, and onions, plus alfalfa for feeding a few cows. But there was no chance Madeleine could have walked that far.
The air blowing down from the mountain top was thin and pure and, feeling the cool of it on her cheeks, she glanced up at the rocky slopes. Where had she got to? ‘And in a nightdress,’ she muttered. ‘Pour l’amour de Dieu!’ No wonder she had felt so harried these last few months with Madeleine to look after. Keeping her eyes peeled, she investigated every shrub and every trellis in her garden. This would happen now, just when she wanted to prepare for her granddaughter’s arrival. And she had no idea how that was going to turn out. She passed through the bougainvillea-clad pergola, peered behind the rosemary hedge, checked in between the palms, and went back into the private courtyard where the walls were drenched in jasmine. Nothing. No sign of her at all.
She ran towards the steep downward track Ahmed had taken, leading to where she kept her 1950s Hotchkiss jeep close to Imlil. They’d need it if they had to take the two-hour journey to Marrakech. But if they had to climb the high barren mountain peaks and canyons to search, it would have to be on foot. She swivelled round and then round again. Please, please, let us find her soon. They had to, for the heat and the mountains were cruel if you didn’t know your way. So, so, cruel, and Madeleine did not know her way, and the longer she was out there, the greater the danger. And Clemence could only beg God that if Madeleine began to talk, people would just shrug their shoulders and pay no heed. ‘Oh, it’s only her,’ they’d say. ‘The French woman.’
For more information, follow Dinah on
Facebook, @DinahJefferiesBooks, or visit her website,
www.dinahjefferies.com.
Keep Reading …
And now, read the first book in the Daughters of War trilogy
‘A wonderfully evocative and sensual writer’
Santa Montefiore
‘A warm and engrossing tale of passion and courage. I loved it’
Rachel Hore
Deep in the river valley of the Dordogne, in an old stone cottage on the edge of a beautiful village, three sisters long for the end of the war.
Hélène, the eldest, is trying her hardest to steer her family to safety, even as the Nazi occupation becomes more threatening.
Élise, the rebel, is determined to help the Resistance, whatever the cost.
And Florence, the dreamer, just yearns for a world where France is free.
Then, one dark night, the Allies come knocking for help. And Hélène knows that she cannot sit on the sidelines any longer. But secrets from their own mysterious past threaten to unravel everything they hold most dear …
Read it here now
Also available from internationally bestselling author
Dinah Jefferies
Available wherever books are sold
About the Author
Dinah Jefferies began her career with The Separation, followed by No.1 Sunday Times and Richard and Judy bestseller, The Tea-Planter’s Wife. Born in Malaysia, she moved to England at the age of nine, and went on to study fashion design, work in Tuscany as an au pair for an Italian countess, and live with a rock band in a commune in Suffolk.
In 1985, a family tragedy changed everything, and she now draws on the experience of loss in her writing, infusing love, loss and danger with the seductive beauty of her locations. She is published in 29 languages in over 30 countries and lives close to her family in Gloucestershire.
To find out more about Dinah Jefferies:
www.dinahjefferies.com
dinahjefferiesbooks
@DinahJefferies
Also by Dinah Jefferies
The Daughters of War Trilogy
Daughters of War
The Separation
The Tea Planter’s Wife
The Silk Merchant’s Daughter
Before the Rains
The Sapphire Widow
The Missing Sister
The Tuscan Contessa
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201 301, India
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
Dinah Jefferies, The Hidden Palace
