by Janet Tanner
‘I have to. You haven’t heard yet whether we are to have the pleasure of von Rheinhardt’s company?’
‘I haven’t heard, but I should think it’s likely. He doesn’t usually pass up an opportunity to dine with us. He’s a cultured man, which is more man can be said for some of his friends. I think he enjoys our company.’
‘He certainly enjoys yours,’ Paul said drily. ‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! I hate the man and he knows it.’
‘Perhaps knowing you hate him adds a certain spice. And besides, you are a very attractive woman.’
She felt the colour burning in her cheeks and changed the subject abruptly.
‘What are we going to do about your arm, then?’
‘First see if I can get a jacket on over the bandage. I couldn’t manage it myself. If it’s too tight a fit we’ll have to think again.’
The jacket was hanging over the rail at the foot of the bed. She picked it up, resisting a crazy urge to bury her face in it.
‘Let me help you then. Left arm first.’
She eased his hand through the armhole, trying to wriggle the sleeve on without hurting him too much, but the.wad of the bandage prevented it. He swore, a mixture of frustration and pain.
‘We’ll have to take off some of the bandage.’
‘But supposing it starts bleeding again?’
‘It won’t if it’s up in a sling. Anyway, I can hardly go down to dinner wearing a sweater.’
‘All right. I’ll get some scissors. But don’t try to do it yourself. Leave it to me.’
A few minutes later she was back with her dressmaking shears. She rolled up his shirtsleeve, took out the safety pins securing the bandage and began to unwind it. The doctor had done a thorough job; soon the wad was considerably thinner and the dressing still not exposed.
‘Let’s try the sleeve again.’
She was bending over, concentrating on fixing the safety pins neatly, when she felt his good arm go round her waist. For just a second she froze, her heart pounding, then she pushed the pin into place and fastened it.
‘Try that.’
She looked up, straight into his eyes. He was gazing down at her, not moving, not speaking, but his look said it all.
‘Paul …’ she said, a catch in her voice.
His arm tightened round her waist; he leaned towards her very slowly. Her throat felt constricted; she could scarcely breathe. His face was close now, going out of focus, yet somehow she could see him more clearly than ever before, every line, every shadow. She knew she should poll away, end this now, but she could not She stood, mesmerised, still holding his bandaged arm carefully, and felt the first gentle touch of his lips on hers. Just a brush, the smallest, lightest caress, yet it started a fire within her. She stood unmoving, savouring the tenderness of the moment within the maelstrom of seething emotions, feeling as if she were suspended somewhere in space with only the stars for company and the terrors of the past twenty-four hours nothing but a dark shadow on the earth far beneath. He lifted his mouth momentarily and she wanted to cry out at the loss, then he was kissing her again, harder, deeper, and she moved her own month in response, returning the pressure, parting her lips beneath his.
When he released her she was breathless, dizzy, achingly aware yet somehow unreal.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that for days. Longer. I’ve been wanting to do it ever since I first met you.’
‘Have you?’
‘Yes. I want you, Kathryn.’
‘And I want you.’ It was little more than a whisper.
‘But this is not the right time. I have a job to do and so do you.’
‘Yes.’ He was right, of course, but she still felt bereft. Her whole body was alive with the urgent need of him, every nerve ending tingling with sharp awareness, every tiny muscle straining towards him as if drawn by a powerful magnet, and aching with desire. She longed for him to kiss her again, longed for the feel of that hard seeking mouth on hers, and more, much more than that – his hands on her breasts and between her thighs, his body against hers, in her. Without a single coherent thought she knew she wanted all these things more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Yet at the same time she knew he was right – this was not the time or the place.
As if understanding and responding to her longings he tilted her chin up with his hand, looking deep into her eyes.
‘When this is all over, Kathryn. If we get out of it alive.’
He kissed her again, lightly this time, subjugating his own desire with the iron will that was so much a part of his make-up. For a few moments he had allowed his personal need to rule his professional judgement. It must not happen again.
With a movement almost brutal in its decisiveness he pulled the jacket round his shoulders, forcing his injured arm into the sleeve. She fixed the scarf around his neck to form a sling but like a sleeper awakening from a dream she did not feel in full control of herself. Her hands were clumsy, not deft, and with the new awareness each touch revived the desire, sparking it to new life so that normality was merely a pretence, a thin veneer covering the seething cauldron of her emotions.
‘That’s fine,’ he said briskly when it was done. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’
He touched his finger to his lips then pressed it briefly against hers.
‘Be brave, Kathryn,’ he said.
By dinner Kathryn’s nerves were taut as a well-strung violin and she did not know how she was going to get through the evening. Charles had come home and told her von Rheinhardt had soil not confirmed acceptance of his invitation.
‘Does that mean he won’t come, do you think?’ she asked hopefully.
‘It means I don’t know,’ Charles snapped. He was a worried man and anxiety made him ill-tempered. ‘He’s still busy with the investigation into the deaths of his men, I suppose, which is hardly surprising. If I were in his position I would feel exactly the same – that everything else had to take second place to finding the murderer.’
‘It’s quite different!’ Kathryn flared back. ‘ If it was your men who had been shot you’d be concerned because you cared for them and their families. Von Rheinhardt isn’t. He simply sees it as an insult to him, to Nazi Germany and the efficiency of his forces. That most of all. Inefficiency is the most heinous of crimes to the Boche, isn’t it?’
‘For God’s sake, Katrine,’ Charles said wearily. ‘You never give up, do you? Not even when the lives of your own family might be at stake.’
A cold shiver ran over her skin.
‘What do you mean? He isn’t holding any of us responsible for what happened, is he?’
‘I don’t know. But he is a powerful man and you would do well to remember it.’
How could I forget? she thought bitterly. But at least perhaps all the activity meant von Rheinhardt would not come. She prayed he would not.
They had still not received word one way or the other by the time they assembled for dinner. Christian was first down; he was already in the salon with a drink in his hand when Kathryn and Charles went in, and she was glad to know that at least she had an ally in the camp.
‘How is Monsieur Curtis’ arm?’ Christian asked with perfect naturalness and a tiny conspiratorial glance at her that was quite unnoticeable to the others.
‘Painful, I think,’ she replied carefully.
‘What is wrong with Monsieur Curtis’ arm?’ Guillaume enquired, coming in with Louse in time to catch the end of the conversation.
‘He fell off his bicycle and sprained his wrist.’ Her voice was tight but fortunately Guillaume was scarcely listening.
‘This is a bad business,’ he said, pouring a sherry and handing it to Louise. ‘I dread to think what the outcome of it will be.’
‘How could anyone be so foolish as to shoot German soldiers?’ Louise wondered aloud, sipping her sherry. ‘Such a very dangerous thing to do.’
But as always she looked remarkably unworried. Lou
ise hasn’t a brain in her head, Kathryn thought irritably. To her the most trying aspect of the war is the fact that she can’t go to Paris and order a new wardrobe of fashionable clothes each season as she used to.
‘I’d put my money on it being someone from outside the district,’ Guillaume said testily. ‘I’m sure everyone around here has too much sense.’
‘Especially considering the example you set them,’ Louise murmured.
‘I just hope to God von Rheinhardt gets whoever was responsible. Coming here and making trouble! If he doesn’t, we may well see the innocent pay the price for the guilty.’
As he said it the door opened and Paul came in. Kathryn’s heart seemed to stand still, partly from nervousness, partly because the sight of him was making her stomach turn somersaults.
‘Good evening,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I hope I’m not late. It took me a little longer than usual to get ready tonight.’
‘You fell off your bicycle, I hear,’ Guillaume said. ‘How did you manage to do that?’
Paul was saved from replying by the sound of a car coming up the drive. They all looked towards the window. Bright lights were cutting a swathe through the darkness, a large black staff car drawing up outside.
‘Von Rheinhardt. He’s here then.’ Christian spoke for all of them.
Otto von Rheinhardt swung his tall frame out of the staff car and straightened, looking for a moment at the château and absorbing, as he always did when he came here, the sense of history that emanated from every stone of the centuries-old building.
What was it about great institutions, he sometimes wondered, which could inspire him with such passion? Where his fellow human beings were concerned he had no feelings at all. His men he treated like robotic machines, nameless ranks who were there to do a job and who he would see were severely ctisdplined if they failed in their duty in even the smallest degree. The French natives were the enemy, but for the most part, in his opinion, were stupid and weak, unworthy of anything more than his scorn – unless, of course, they stepped out of line, in which case he would exert his authority with cold fury. Even his family, at home in Germany, meant little to him. His mother had died some years ago and he and his father had little in common. Otto senior was a coffee importer – the coffee he selected and distributed was drunk in the finest establishments across Germany and Austria – and he had always been too concerned with the business to have much time for building a close relationship with the son he found hardhearted and aloof.
Not even the women in von Rheinhardt’s life had the power to stir anything more than superficial emotions – occasional lust and the sense of satisfaction and pride that came from having a beauty on his arm – as Ingrid, the fiancée who adored him, would testify. She had his ring on her finger and waited for him in war-torn Germany, but she could never be sure of him, for even loving him as she did she was aware of his total detachment, though she would never have admitted to it or to the basic truth of the matter – where people were concerned von Rheinhardt was totally without care or compassion.
All his energy was reserved for the furtherance of his career and in this he had been outstandingly successful, gaining his promotions in the army of the Third Reich by his single-mindedness and a determination which even his superiors had found daunting. He was hard, he was cold, he was ruthless. He dealt with those who opposed him as he would have dealt with a fly that annoyed him, swatting it to the ground and crushing it underfoot with never a thought for human misery, and not caring, or so it seemed, for the fact that he was almost universally disliked. No, people did not matter to Otto von Rheinhardt. Only Aryan supremacy and his place in the order it created were important to him.
Yet for all his apparent heartlessness, beauty and culture and a sense of history touched him in a way nothing else could. His home he loved, not for its memories of the happy childhood he had spent there, but for its aesthetic value, and the Château de Savigny stirred him in much the same way. Its faded grandeur pleased him – the square-turreted building, the courtyard and well, the fountain, the moat which had repelled other invaders, but not him. And within its walls he was continually finding new things to pleasure his senses. Whenever he visited he hungrily devoured the treasures it housed with his eyes, feeling his spirits raised by the beauty of the glowing paintings and works of art, the silverware, gleaming dully in the soft lamplight, the delicately fashioned porcelains, the chunky whole-some bronzes. He looked at them and coveted them, promising himself that one day, when he was finished with soldiering and had a home of his own, he would fill it with just such treasures.
He seldom refused an invitation to the château and in fact actively sought excuses to visit this oasis of culture in an alien land. He had thought that tonight he might he unable to take up the Baron’s offer of dinner – two of his men had been shot last night and as a result he had spent a trying day in an effort to discover who had perpetrated this outrage, which he looked upon more as a threat to his control of the area than a tragedy for the men concerned. But thanks to his efforts that matter now appeared to be well on the way to being satisfactorily resolved and he had felt able, after all, to keep the engagement.
A small cruel smile played around von Rheinhardt’s mouth. He straightened his uniform jacket and walked towards the château.
As Guillaume ushered von Rheinhardt into the salon Kathryn found herself moving to Paul’s side. Imperceptibly he squeezed her arm. Courage, that squeeze said. Stay calm and everything will be all right. She wished she could be so sure.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Guillaume was asking.
‘Yes. Thank you.’ His tall courtly figure dominated the room. Each of them, for their own reasons, was looking at him, each asking their own silent question.
‘We weren’t sure if you would be able to be here,’ Guillaume said. ‘You have been very busy, I am sure.’
‘Busy, yes.’ Von Rheinhardt took a deep sip of his drink. ‘But also, I am glad to say, successful. Thanks to some good work on the part of my officers we have apprehended an enemy agent who was, I believe, dropped into the area last night. He has been found at the house of a farmer, about twenty kilometres from here.’
Kathryn glanced at Paul. His face was expressionless and she could only guess at what he was thinking.
‘How do you know he is an enemy agent?’ Guillaume asked.
Von Rheinhardt laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh, something between a derisive snort and a chuckle.
‘He was in possession of not one but two sets of papers – false, obviously. And hidden in his belongings was a radio transmitter. Fairly conclusive proof, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What has happened to him?’ Christian asked.
‘He has been arrested, naturally. And the farmer stupid enough to harbour him has been arrested too. They will pay the price for their folly – in full. But before we execute them we shall endeavour to find out if anyone else is involved in this criminal resistance. We need to know – I need to know – if they were working alone or whether there are others.’
‘Surely not,’ Guillaume said. ‘I can’t believe there can be many people who would act so irresponsibly.’
Von Rheinhardt drained his glass.
‘I hope not. So far I have been treating the people well. But if they are going to behave like rebellious children then I am afraid the kid gloves will have to come off.’ He said it casually, but there was no mistaking the ruthless cruelty beneath the smooth exterior and Kathryn shivered violently.
‘At least this means though that you are satisfied you have found your murderer,’ Guillaume said. ‘At least – I presume so? There will be no reprisals on innocent villagers?’
‘For the moment, no. If anything of the kind happens again, then I shall have to consider teaching them a lesson they won’t forget. But we don’t want to talk about this now, do we? Let us hope last night’s incident was an isolated one. I don’t want trouble. You know that.’
‘Of course,’ Guillaum
e said with an ingratiating smile. ‘ Let’s have dinner – such as it is.’
He steered von Rheinhardt towards, the table and the others followed, Kathryn and Paul bringing up the rear.
‘Better start praying,’ Paul said softly in her ear.
She looked up at him questioningly.
‘That they are able to kill themselves before they can be persuaded to talk,’ he whispered.
For Kathryn the evening passed in a haze of unreality. Uppermost in her mind was the terror inspired by Paul’s whispered words. Supposing the farmer who had been captured did talk? What would happen to them all? What would happen to Guy? It was all she could do to stop herself from jumping up from the table and running upstairs to take him in her arms, holding him close and assuring herself of his safety. But she knew she must not. For his sake – for all their sakes – she must hide her dread and continue to act normally.
Later, however, lying in bed beside Charles, she found certain vignettes returning to her, illuminated in her mind’s eye as clear and frozen as lantern slides. Von Rheinhardt was there, handsome, distinguished even, the candlelight making his close-cropped fair hair appear almost white, a gleam of self-satisfied triumph in his very blue eyes; Guillaume, the perfect host, almost jocular in his relief that disaster had been, as he thought, averted; Louise, flirting in a genteel but thoroughly sickening way with von Rheinhardt; Christian, putting on the act of his life as he strove to be his usual debonair self. And Paul – most of all Paul – ice-cool, parrying questions about his arm, hiding all his emotions beneath that inscrutable exterior. She could only guess at what he must be feeling – dismay that he had lost his new radio operator before so much as a single transmission had been sent, anxiety not only for the unknown agent’s fate but also for his own, worries as to how he should proceed next. All these things must, she knew, have supplanted any thoughts he might otherwise have had about her and what had happened between them. Unlikely now that he would look at her and remember a kiss when he had so many other things of paramount importance on his mind. And crazy that, in spite of everything, it should matter so much to her that he should.
