The Americans arrived late the next morning and scooped up the prisoners with cheerful efficiency. They also left crates of supplies, food mostly, but a good amount of fuel too, for the returning townsfolk of Cosne-d’Allier and a couple of structural engineers who were tasked with rebuilding the bridge Gaspard had just blown up. News that Paris was liberated reached them mid-afternoon.
Once the prisoners were gone, including Böhm, the tension in the town began to dissipate and by the early afternoon the mayor was said to be organizing a party. Every member of the Maquis had a girl on his arm and flowers in his buttonhole and the owner of the chateau arrived, not to throw them out on the street, but to break open the wine cellar and share out the contents.
When she’d shaken hands with the Americans and gone through the latest instructions from London, Nancy withdrew to her chamber and tried to sleep. She had known Henri was dead. Known it for months now really, and since the bike ride it had felt like a certainty, but she had not faced it, really stared it down, until Böhm had told her last night. It left her empty. She had said goodbye, begun her grieving without even knowing it.
“No moping, Field Marshal!” Denden bounced into the room as dusk approached, his face pink and his grin wolfish and pleased.
She pulled herself up onto her elbows. “Made up with Jules again, Denden?”
His smile faltered. “To a degree. We are friends again, but he daren’t…”
“I shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be. It is his choice. Now be a good girl and brush your hair. I have a little surprise for you.”
She struggled out of bed and found her brush and her lipstick. Shame about that compact she had hurled into the void. Maybe Buckmaster would give her another one if she asked nicely. She examined herself in the spotted mirror over the dressing table, wondering how often the lady of the manor had peered into it, arranging her diamonds round her neck. The reflection she saw looked surprisingly like Nancy Wake.
“Denden, was it luck?”
“Was what luck, sweetie?” he replied.
“That shot in the bell tower when you took out the man about to kill me. You always got such terrible marks at marksmanship, but I saw you take the shot. Textbook. Not to mention an impressive reaction time.”
He shrugged. “You know I hate guns. I had to make that clear to the instructors. Doesn’t mean I can’t shoot straight in the right circumstances.”
“Thank you.”
He watched her put down her brush, then grabbed her by the hand and led her out of the room and down the grand staircase, pulling her arm so hard that she had to protest, then shoved her out onto the front steps, holding her shoulders as he stood slightly behind her.
“You already thanked me. Now come along.”
Fournier, Juan, René, Tardivat and Gaspard were waiting on the steps. Juan had his arm in a sling, and Gaspard had put on a suit. Even with the eyepatch, he looked like a prosperous middle-aged businessman, the sort who would open the door for the ladies on the way into a decent restaurant in Montluçon and leave a good tip, which, Nancy realized, was probably what he was. She remembered some rumor about an electronics shop he used to run. He was carrying a large bouquet, fresh flowers from the gardens of Cosne-d’Allier. He presented them to Nancy, thrusting them a little awkwardly at her with a bow.
“Alors, Madame Nancy,” he said.
She took the flowers and shook his hand. Gaspard blushed then put his hand out to Denden.
Denden shook it briefly. “Now, let’s get this party started, shall we?”
Gaspard cleared his throat and yelled. “Field Marshal Wake, we salute you!”
So it began.
Troops of Maquis, some carrying French flags, some with banners of their villages and towns, began to march from the rear of the chateau and draw up in ranks in front of her. They did it pretty well too, despite a bit of shoving and laughter, and they kept coming. Tens, then hundreds of men drawing themselves up in front of the steps until the courtyard was packed. The breeze pulled at the flags making them snap and flutter.
Denden leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “And after this, drinks!”
Gaspard stepped forward. “Three cheers for the Field Marshal!”
The noise almost knocked her off her feet.
The Great Hall was packed. They hung up the flags around the beams, managed to shift the huge oak table and bring in new ones, then for hours the Maquis and their guests ate, drank and sang the national anthems of the Allies, or versions of them. They slurped their wine and blushed when the matrons of the town cuffed their ears and corrected their table manners, grew sentimental, then started singing again. The boys around Nancy at the top table were discussing their plans for the future. Tardivat and Fournier planned to rejoin the regular army, Gaspard was thinking about going into politics, and Denden declared sourly he was buggering off to Paris as soon as possible to see exactly how liberated they actually were. René astonished them all by declaring he was going to Paris too, to fulfill his dream of writing books for children and, once he and Denden had sworn they would share digs on Montmartre, was describing in great detail the plot of his first masterpiece about a little white Australian mouse who came to Paris for a series of exciting adventures. While he was rejecting some of Denden’s increasingly obscene story ideas, Nancy recognized a familiar figure at the back of the hall.
“Garrow!”
She left the others and all but ran into his arms. He held her tightly for a moment, then pushed her away so he could look at her properly. He was dressed in civilian clothes, looking like an English tourist on a motoring tour. All tweed and brogues.
“When did you get here?” she asked.
“Not long ago, Captain Wake. And no, I am not going to address you as Field Marshal.”
Nancy pouted and he laughed.
“I came to give you the word from London. Bloody good show, in Buckmaster’s own words.”
“Thank you,” she replied, meaning it.
Garrow grew more serious. “Look, Nancy, can you get away for a couple of days? From what I can see you’ve got everything in order here and I have the car. I thought you might like to come back to Marseille with me. We can leave in the morning.”
Nancy looked around the room—the men flush with victory, these men she had led, cared for, fought with, who had fought alongside her. Another rendition of the Marseillaise began, and they were all on their feet and belting it out so the walls shook. There would never be a better time.
“Can we leave now?”
He patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll fetch the car.”
When she found him again out on the drive, Denden was in the back seat, his pack by his side. “Paris can wait, dearie. I’m coming too.”