China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3) by Madalyn Morgan (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

touched a wooden box at the end of the single bed, and then slipped from between the coarse cotton sheets. She crossed barefoot to the window, pushed it open, and caught her breath. On the horizon she saw fields of purple flowers. Lavender, or perhaps flowering broccoli? She knew lavender was grown mostly in the south of France, but maybe it was grown in the middle regions too. She stuck her head out of the window, inhaled deeply, and coughed as the smell of cow dung filled her nostrils. She didn’t care and flung the window open wide. She was in France at last.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Claire? I have brought you water,’ Édith Belland called from the landing. ‘I shall leave it outside your room. Breakfast is ready when you are.’

‘Thank you, Madame.’ Claire skipped to the door and opened it, but Édith Belland had gone. Claire threw the towel over her shoulder and lifted the bowl. Placing it on the tiled washstand at the side of the window, she washed and dried her face. She dressed quickly, brushed her hair and ran downstairs.

As she entered the kitchen, Claire was greeted by four smiling faces. ‘Good morning, China.’ Mitch looked at his wristwatch. ‘Or is it afternoon?’

‘French, Alain! While we are here, we must only speak French. Bonjour, Alain.’

André smiled. ‘Claire is right, Alain. What is it that you say in England? The walls, they have ears? They have ears in France also.’

‘I stand corrected,’ Alain said in perfect French.

Madame Belland pulled out a chair. ‘Sit, please,’ she said, pouring Claire a small cup of coffee.

‘Thank you, Madame.’ Claire took a sip. It was too strong. She added milk to the dark brown liquid until the cup was full to the brim. Lifting it carefully, she drank again. It tasted better. It was still potent, with a slightly burnt aftertaste, but it was preferable to Camp coffee, which didn’t taste like coffee at all. She didn’t take sugar, but a little might take the edge off. She looked at the condiments on the table. Two small glass bowls – one with salt, the other pepper – a dish with butter and several bottles of different coloured oils, but no sugar. Oh well... when in Rome, she thought, and, drinking the coffee, she tucked into croissants and bread spread with soft cheese.

When they had finished eating, Édith Belland cleared the dishes, leaving the cups. Placing a refreshed pot of coffee in the middle of the table, she sat down. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘if you are the children of my brothers,’ she looked at Claire and Alain, ‘you will have known me all your lives – and so you would not address me as Madame, you would call me Aunt Édith. Of course now you are grown up, you might have dropped the title aunt and just call me Édith, but you would not call me Madame.’

‘Édith it is,’ agreed Alain.

‘I shall call you Aunt Édith,’ Claire said, squeezing Édith Belland’s hand and smiling at Alain.

‘May I have another cup of coffee, Édith?’ Alain said.

‘Of course you may.’ Édith Belland laughed and filled Alain’s cup, before pouring coffee for everyone else.

When they had finished their coffee, Frédéric left the table. Taking his work overalls from the back of the door, he began to step into them. ‘Can I see the animals?’ Claire asked.

‘Of course,’ Frédéric said.

‘Frédéric will show you round the farm, while Alain and I go to the barn. We must check that the package for Jacques is in one piece.’

‘What time will we be taking it to Jacques, Alain?’ Claire asked.

It was André who answered. ‘I think the first time Jacques meets new agents it should be with me, someone he already knows and trusts. He is passionate about a free France and a loyal Resistance member, but he is suspicious of people he doesn’t know. There will be plenty of time to meet Jacques in the future.’

‘Coming, Claire?’ Frédéric called, before Claire had time to argue about being left behind. She thanked Édith for breakfast and ran out to join Frédéric, who was sitting on the wall of the well smoking a cigarette. Skipping across the cobbled yard, she sat next to him.

‘You’ll need these,’ he said, handing her a pair of wellingtons. ‘It can get muddy in the cowshed.

Claire took off her shoes and put on the wellingtons. ‘It’s a big well,’ she said, jumping down and picking up her shoes. She took them to the house and dropped them at the side of the kitchen door. On her return she picked up a pebble and dropped it into the well. She heard a hollow plop as it hit the water, but not another sound. ‘It must be very deep,’ she said, leaning over and peering into the dark water.

‘So you had better be careful. If you fall in you might disappear forever,’ Frédéric said, pretending to push Claire while holding the top of her arms securely. She squealed and Frédéric lessened his grip to allow her to move away. ‘Come on,’ he said, turning the handle at the side of the well’s ornate roof until the bucket disappeared into the water. Hauling up a full bucket, he said, ‘One more to fill. Will you pass it, please?’ Claire turned and saw a metal pail on the ground. She lifted it as Frédéric swung the well’s bucket over the wall. After filling the pail he lowered the bucket back into the well until it was a couple of feet below the top. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we have work to do in the cowshed.’

‘Are we going to milk the cows?’

‘We?’ Frédéric hooted. ‘You’ve milked cows before, have you?’

‘Not exactly, but I was brought up on a country estate.’ Frédéric raised his eyebrows. ‘And one of the estate farms had