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PROVENCE, 1987
The Abbey de Saint-Michel was a beautiful old building surrounded by gardens and lavender fields. It sat on a rocky promontory, a few miles away from the hilltop village of Lamarin which dated back to Roman times. It was part of the northern area of outstanding natural beauty that was the Luberon.
Sabine and Gilbert had hired a car and made the drive from Paris, which had taken them just over nine hours. It had been years since she’d driven, but she found that though rusty, it all came back. The same could not be said for Monsieur Géroux, who had wanted to share the burden of driving, and gamely offered to do the first half of the trip. After he kept putting the wrong gear in place and grinding the clutch, she had had to lie and tell him how much she enjoyed driving. In relief he’d allowed her to take over, confessing it had never been one of his passions.
When he pulled to the side, she’d given the car a pat of apology and had gamely pretended it was one of hers.
They stopped only twice for the lavatory and for a quick baguette – ham and wedge of cheese – which they ate as a mini picnic on the side of a road overlooking a field of poppies, needing to take off their jumpers from the heat. They were definitely not in Paris anymore.
When at last, they arrived, she pulled into a parking area where a noticeboard advertised tours of the garden. The garden, so the informative sign said, had been in operation for the local community since medieval times, the flowers used for homeopathy, aromatherapy and the lavender supplying some of the perfume trade.
As they made their way up the path, they were given a tantalising glimpse of vast rose gardens, as well as beds of other beautiful summer blooms, like hollyhocks, snapdragons, and dahlias, not to mention the breathtaking views of lavender that surrounded it all.
Despite the beauty before them, they were both nervous now they were here. Monsieur Géroux’s hands shook and Sabine’s mouth had turned incredibly dry in her anxiety.
They took a moment to calm their nerves, and take a sip of water from the bottle they’d bought when they had their impromptu roadside picnic, before making their way to the tall, arched entranceway to the abbey.
Inside the thick walls, their footsteps were noisy on the flagstone floor. A nun was sitting behind a vast oak desk, dispensing tickets for the lavender tours. A group of six people was queuing in front of her.
When Sabine, at last, stepped forward, and asked for Sister Augustine, the sister hit a buzzer, and soon afterwards another nun, tall with dark eyes and a wide smile, came out of a concealed entrance behind her. The first nun whispered something to her, and she smiled and then indicated that their guests should follow her. They went around the corner and then up a flight of stairs. The journey took them along a passage deep in the abbey. Along one of the walls was a tapestry depicting the apostles; another had various baskets as well as other old-fashioned-looking farming equipment.
‘These are some of the old tools that we used to use to collect and distil the lavender,’ the tall nun explained, seeing Sabine’s curious expression.
‘Oh,’ was all Sabine and Monsieur Géroux said in response.
‘Things have changed a bit since then,’ said the nun with a smile.
They all managed a laugh.
They were then led from the passageway to another building, by crossing a small courtyard which was full of large potted ferns, and a table and chairs. From there they were taken not into the building that led on from the courtyard, but outside to a gravel path that led them to a rose garden around the side. They were led to a table where another nun was standing in wait.
She appeared curious, like a small blue-and-white bird, in her habit, with her head cocked to the side. She had dark eyes, and a kindly looking face, edged by deep lines. But it was difficult to determine her age – she could have been in her sixties or eighties, it was impossible to say, but if it were the latter she was in remarkably good health, and seemed spry and wiry.
She stared at them for a moment, and then came forward holding out a small, slim hand to Sabine. The fingers were swollen with age, and slightly reddened. The skin, however, was soft, and cared for.
‘Sister Augustine?’ guessed Sabine.
‘Forgive me for staring, but it was – for a moment – like getting a glimpse of the past. You look so much like her. The eyes – the shape of the face even. It is disconcerting.’
Sabine drew in a breath.
‘Y-you knew Marianne?’ uttered Gilbert.
‘Marianne?’ said the nun, raising her brows. ‘Yes, later she called herself that, of course, but to me she was always Elodie.’
Sabine shared a look of amazement with Gilbert. ‘Was that her real name – Elodie?’
‘Oh yes. It was her given name. I knew her from when she was a child, not long after she came to stay with her grandmother every summer. We were friends, you see.’
‘Friends?’ said Sabine.
Sister Augustine’s revelation had been a shock for Sabine. Somehow, in her imagination, she had been convinced that Marianne had given birth in the abbey as a matter of convenience, perhaps in an effort to disguise her true identity, but this was something else entirely. The nun had known her. She looked at Gilbert and he looked just as floored as she did. It was more than they could have hoped.
Sister Augustine looked thoughtful. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell us about her?’
The nun stared at them for a while. ‘Is that why you’re here, to find out who she was? Or is it to find out why she did what she did?’
