Island of Secrets

  An Island of Secrets

  (Ile d’Olèron series)

  by

  Karen Abbott

  Three novellas set on The Domaine St. Clare on Ile ‘Olèron, an island off the west coast of France.

  Book One - Summer Island

  Since the death of her parents, Christi has lived with her aunt and cousin, Samantha. When Samantha decides to go to work in London for the summer, she arranges for Christi to go to an island off the west coast of France to spend the summer with her God-mother whom she has never met. Christi isn’t too happy with the idea but her life is soon to take on new meaning as she discovers family secrets that have been hidden for two generations. As her feelings for the handsome Jean-Claude St. Clare grow deeper, Christi wonders how she will manage to walk away at the end of the summer.

  Book Two - A Matter of Trust

  After taking a course at a Parisian Art College, Gini St. Clare returns to her island home, intending to open a dress shop to sell her designs. But when her promised backer steals her idea and buys the shop she intended to rent, Gini decides to branch out on her own. A beach boy, Hugo Bonneville, helps her to prepare her chosen premises but, when someone seems intent on ruining her business, she wonders if Hugo is all he appears to be.

  Book Three –( prequel ) A Heart Divided by War

  During World War Two, the German occupation of Ile d’Olèron brings fear and hardship to the islanders. As the underground freedom fighters strive to liberate their beloved island, Francine Devreux finds her heart torn between two brothers—but it seems she has fallen in love with the wrong one! The events following the Normandy landings force her to think again—but has her change of heart come too late?

  Table of Contents

  Summer Island

  A Matter of Trust

  A Heart Divided By War

  About The Author

  Author’s Books

  Summer Island

  (Book 1 in The Domaine St. Clare Series)

  Originally published 2000 by D.C. Thomson & Co., Ltd.,

  185 Fleet Street, London EC4A 2HS

  First Linford Edition published 2002 by F. A. Thorpe (Publishing)

  Anstey, Leicestershire. LE7 7FU

  Copyright © 2000and 2002 by Karen Abbott

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Karen Abbott 2012

  Chapter One

  “Of course, Christabelle never listens to a word I say. She is determined to waste her life with the wrong sort of people! I’ll never make progress at work whilst she is hanging round my neck! I tell you, I just had to do it!”

  Christabelle Davies froze in her steps as she heard her cousin Samantha’s scathing tones. She had just come in from an afternoon at the Job Centre followed by an hour or so at the local cafe with some of her friends—the very people whom her cousin so obviously despised—but all thoughts of a quick change into clothes more suitable for Ten-Pin Bowling rapidly slid from her head. She felt incensed! Just who did her cousin think she was? And who was she talking to? And about her!

  She drew in a sharp breath as Samantha’s voice rattled on.

  “Well, it gave me quite a shock when the Company she worked for closed down two weeks ago. I thought, ‘That’s my plans gone!’ I couldn’t believe my luck when Mother remembered Christi’s mother having left a few old papers in her care. She’d quite forgotten she had them. When she realised there was a wartime connection with a family in France ... yes, her grandmother’s friend or something like that. She’s Christi’s mother’s God-mother apparently. Well, it was a real life-saver, I can tell you! … Well, yes, next week. … No, not yet. I thought I’d tell her tonight.”

  Christi dropped her bag at the foot of the stairs and marched into the living-room, her green eyes flashing fire, causing Samantha to let out a squeal of surprise. Somehow, Christi’s auburn hair seemed to glow with amber highlights, looking for all the world as if it were about to erupt into flames at any moment.

  As it was, the eruption came from her mouth as she stormed forth into battle.

  “How dare you speak of me and my friends like that? I’ll have you know that my friends are perfectly respectable—heaps better than your so-called friends! Spineless creatures, everyone of them!”

  She snatched the phone from Samantha’s hand. “Did you hear that, whoever you are? Find someone else to gossip about behind their backs. This conversation is over!”

  She stabbed her finger on the ‘off-button’ and thrust the handset back towards Samantha, delighting in the mixture of guilt and anger that covered her cousin’s face.

  “I’ll thank you not to talk about me over the phone like that! Who I mix with ...” She glared, as Samantha’s lips began to form the words, ‘With whom I mix’ but carried on heedlessly. “... is no-one’s concern but my own. Not even yours, dear cousin. Much as you’d like to run my life—and ruin it! I’m almost twenty now and quite capable of making my own decisions, thank you very much!”

  She paused, hands on hips, waiting for Samantha’s reaction. She wasn’t disappointed.

  “Ungrateful brat! You’d be out on the streets but for my mother and me. I don’t know anyone else who would have taken you in when Aunt Fleur and Uncle Andrew died—as if she hadn’t done enough for your family having more or less brought up your father as if he had been her son instead of her younger brother. And you have been nothing but trouble from the start. Mother gave up on you long ago. And now … well, I’m telling you straight, I’ve had enough!”

  A slightly shamed and guarded expression covered Samantha’s face as the last words hung in the air between them.

  Christi narrowed her eyes as a sudden pang of apprehension gripped her.

  “What do you mean?”

  She paused, her brain suddenly recalling something else Samantha had said. Two things, in fact. Samantha’s final statement sprang to the tip of her tongue first.

  “What were you talking about … something that you’ll tell me tonight?”

  Samantha’s gaze faltered for a moment. She took a deep breath before returning to Christi’s stare.

  “I … I’ve been offered a place on a Management Course at work—and I’ve accepted it. The course starts properly in September—but, in the meantime, I’ve been asked to take on some relief-work at the branch in London where I will be on placement. It’ll be good experience and I’m sure …”

  She got no further. Christi, who had listened in uneasy silence up to that point, now exploded. “London! And what makes you think I want to go to London? You haven’t even consulted me! Well, you can think again! I’m not going!”

  Too late, she realised that she had created an excellent opening for Samantha’s second blow.

  Samantha smiled.

  Christi wasn’t sure whether it was relief or triumph that glistened in her eyes.

  “I thought you wouldn’t … that’s why I have made other arrangements for you.” Samantha’s voice suddenly became more businesslike and she hurried on. “I … er ... heard from your mother’s Godmother … and she has … er … invited you to stay with her for the time-being. It’s a nice place. You’ll like it. I almost envy you really. And there’ll be work for you to do—so you needn
’t feel that you will be imposing yourself on her and her family, or anything like that. There’ll be …”

  Her voice suddenly tailed away as she became aware of Christi’s stunned expression. “Why on earth are you looking at me like that? You should be grateful that I’ve gone to so much trouble on your behalf!”

  Christi shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “Grateful?” she echoed. “Maybe I would—if I knew what you are talking about.” Her brain clicked into gear again. That was the other thing that had barely registered as she overheard her cousin’s blatant gossiping on the phone. Now, Samantha had said it again!

  “What do you mean about Mum’s Godmother? It’s the first I’ve heard of her! Where does she live? … And how come I know nothing about her?”

  Samantha grimaced in exasperation.

  “What does it matter who she is and where she lives? Just be thankful she’ll have you! … All right! All right!” she hastily continued, as Christi looked as though she were ready to explode. “Her name is Madame Francine St. Clare and she lives on a farm on an island off the west coast of France called Ile d’Oleron. It’s a lovely place, so I’m told, and you should be …”

  “France? How come my grandmother had a friend in France?”

  “It was during the war. I don’t know how they became friends. It was before I was born,” Samantha replied impatiently. Really, what a fuss Christi was making! She was beginning to wish she had simply made arrangements to enrol her cousin in a women’s hostel in town, except her mother had said that, as family, they had to make better arrangements than that.

  “Well, why would this Madame Francine St. Clare be interested in me?” Christi now demanded. “I’ve never heard of her before … and she hasn’t shown much interest in me up till now, has she? So, what’s changed?”

  Her forthright question momentarily silenced Samantha.

  “Well … I … er, as I said, I heard from her. Well, actually, I … er … wrote to her about my predicament,” she finally admitted, uncomfortable under Christi’s demanding stare. “I didn’t know what else to do. Mother can’t take you now that she’s living in an apartment. You can’t come with me … and I can’t leave you here.”

  “Why not? I can look after myself. I’m on an agency list. I’ll probably get another job quite soon. I’ll be able to manage until then.”

  “You haven’t made much headway up till now,” Samantha snapped. “And anyway, it wouldn’t make any difference. I’m letting the house for the coming year. It will help to pay my accommodation costs in London. It’s quite expensive to live there, you know!”

  Christi opened her mouth to ask ‘why go there, then?’ but was immediately forestalled.

  “And there’s no point in arguing. It’s all arranged. We leave a week on Monday. I know it’s a bit rushed … but I had to make a quick decision. The house is being let furnished and I’ve ordered packing cases for our personal things. You need to sort out what you want to take with you—and the rest will go into storage until something permanent can be arranged. And that …” She spread her hands in a dismissive gesture. “… is the end of the matter!”

  It may have been the end of the matter as far as Samantha was concerned—but it wasn’t for Christi. She demanded to see the letter.

  It was written in French in a bold hand. Madame St. Clare must be quite old, Christi reflected. So, she must have got someone to write the letter for her ... which was probably why it was so brief. As far as she could make out, it simply said that she was welcome to spend part of the summer with them and, if she would let them know when to expect her, arrangements would be made to pick her up from Rochefort, the nearest railway station.

  She closed her eyes and imagined a white-haired old lady, sitting in a rocking chair, basking in the warmth of the spring sunshine as she watched her family at work on the farm. She’d never been to France but she didn’t think it would be all that much different from England. A bit warmer perhaps, since it was further south; and a different language, of course. She suddenly wished she had tried harder to master the intricacies of the French language when she had had a chance.

  Now in her twentieth year, it seemed a bit late to start. But didn’t everyone on the continent speak good English? That’s what her friends whose families had holidays abroad always seemed to find. Continental holidays were becoming very popular, now that the post-war deprivations were over and the economy of Britain was recovering. In fact, Christi’s generation, born twenty-five years or more after the end of the war accepted the growing prosperity without too much thought.

  “Why are they suddenly keen to help me after all these years?” Christi persisted. “I don’t remember Mum and Dad saying anything about them. Who are they exactly?” She didn’t particularly want to go to stay with strangers and feel beholden to them. She wasn’t a ‘charity case’ ... although she often felt like one in Samantha’s care—but at least Samantha was ‘family’, not just friends from two generations ago.

  “How should I know?” Samantha was getting impatient. She made an effort to calm the situation down. “Look, Mother just said that, as far as she had heard, your grandparents were in some sort of disgrace over there. It was during the Second World War. Your grandmother was stationed there during part of the war so she probably met your mother’s Godmother at that time ... but it was never talked about and, as you know, by the time your mother was born, your grandfather had already died in the war. Your grandmother never got over his death. She pined away and died soon afterwards, leaving your mother to be brought up by your great-grandparents. You should be very grateful to them!”

  “I am … but that doesn’t explain why these people now want to get to know me, does it?”

  “Does that matter? Just be grateful that they are!”

  Christi wasn’t satisfied—but Samantha remained resolute. She had done her duty in taking over the task of looking after Christi she left school and now she deserved a life of her own. The plans had been made and they weren’t about to be changed!

  Christi tried all that she knew to find a viable alternative. She even applied for a place in a local women’s hostel ... but without success—though they offered to put her name on a waiting list in case a vacancy occurred.

  Completely disheartened by her lack of success, Christi studied the brief letter once more. It mightn’t be too bad and maybe, at last, she could discover something about her family history? No-one had ever been willing to say much.

  ‘We’ll talk about it when you are older,’ her mother used to say—but the fatal car crash seven years ago had put paid to that.

  Her friends were more envious than sympathetic.

  “Just look on it as a holiday job,” Fiona Brewer advised. “Just think … sea, sun and holiday fun. Wow! I’d jump at it. In fact, if they have room for another, let me know. I’ll be over there like a shot!”

  Christi wavered. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad … and it wasn’t for ever, was it?

  Her friends said they would miss her but most of them thought she was fortunate to be able to go to spend the summer on a French island without having to pay anything ... and probably be able to earn some money at the same time. By the time Christi’s cheap flight ticket to La Rochelle airport was bought, she was resigned to her enforced exile and, if pressed, would even admit to be quite excited by the prospect.

  It was mid-afternoon when Christ alighted onto the platform of the small French railway station at Rochefort. This was where she had been told to phone the St. Clare number to see if someone could come to collect her from there, but the subsequent phone call left her a little confused. She wished she had paid more attention in her French lessons at school? She had made little sense of the rapid words she had heard coming from the receiver—and she doubted if her halting phrases had been understood any better.

  Eventually, she realised that the repeated word Bourcefranc was a place and chateau was a castle, wasn’t it? She’d look out for that. And the word autobus
was obviously meant to indicate her mode of travel. So, no-one could come for her. How welcoming was that?

  Still, she felt quite proud of herself to have understood the instructions. She glanced around, wondering in which direction to set off to look for the bus station. It surely wouldn’t be all far away, would it? She had better delve into her memory of French lessons at school again. She remembered ‘ou est’ as being the French for ‘where is’ and added ‘ l’autobus’, accompanied with what she considered to be a true mimic of Gallic shrugging of her shoulders. Her request was met with numerous arm movements with a torrent of well-meaning but unintelligible words.

  She felt quite pleased when she found the right bus stop, even though she had to wait another hour before the next departure time. The man had understood her and she had, more or less, understood him. Maybe it wasn’t going to be too difficult to learn the language. Feeling optimistic, she bought an almond croissant from a small patisserie that was just opening after the afternoon siesta. No, that was Spanish, wasn’t it? Or was it Italian? She couldn’t remember.

  It wasn’t a long bus journey ... only about twenty minutes, thought the bus seemed to go all the way round the world on a scenic tour. By the time she arrived in Bourcefranc, heavy rain had started to fall and more grey clouds hung low in the sky. She shivered, wishing she had packed a warmer jacket ... or something water-proofed. Unless she was very much mistaken, more rain was on its way.

  From where she was standing, she could see Ile d’Oleron across a narrow channel of water. It was a low-lying island that stretched both to the left and to the right. There was a small fort or castle on an outcrop of rock lying midway in the channel—that must be what she’d been told to look out for; and, to her left beyond that, a viaduct stretching from the mainland to the island. The choppy sea looked cold and uninviting ... and the island, shrouded in mist, seemed a depressing grey.