The waiter came with the aperitifs. Another waiter came with the menus.
‘Let’s choose and order,’ he said, ‘then we’ll talk.’
She sipped her raki, chose figs oozing with goat’s cheese for a starter, and lamb braised with quince for a main course.
What she didn’t do was immediately start showering him with questions.
Lewis was grateful, but unsurprised. He’d long ago got over his annoyance at Kit Sinclair for having thrust Kate on him as a member of his team. Since that inauspicious start to their relationship, she had rarely irritated him and, apart from the previous year’s New Year’s incident in the Villa Ariadne’s library, never disappointed him. That being the case, it was unlikely she was going to start doing so now.
He said flatly, ‘I don’t think we’re going to be able to complete the excavation of the palace, Kate. I thought it only fair to let you know.’
So he was about to fire her. Kate’s stomach muscles tightened. No more Crete. No more living at the cafeneion. No more camaraderie with the team. No more Little Palace and sacred cave; blissful sunshine; snow-capped mountains; fields and fields of wild flowers; hot sun; lammergeiers hovering against brassy blue skies; and last, but by a long way not least, no more Lewis.
She said, trying not to let the violent emotion she was feeling show in her voice, ‘Is this because the funding is to be withdrawn?’
‘No. Funding is the least of the problems. A major problem is that now the importance of the dig is so clearly evident, there is no avoiding the British School becoming more and more involved in it, and that would radically change the nature of the dig – something I very much don’t want. But there is something else, something graver and equally likely.’
He paused, frowned, picked up a knife from the table and replaced it.
At last he said, ‘The likelihood of war with Germany is overwhelming, Kate. Hitler may have walked into Austria without a shot being fired, but it won’t be the same with his threatened invasion of Czechoslovakia. Prague has already ordered troops to what is now the Austro-German border, and all Czechs from the age of six to sixty have been ordered to have defence training.’
They had been served their first course. He pushed it away, untouched.
‘I don’t know how much you’re keeping up with world events – it’s not easy here, when British newspapers don’t reach Heraklion until the news in them is well out of date – but Britain has just signed a pact with France to defend Czechoslovakia from any aggression by Germany.’
Kate thought of Kit and Lewis returning to Britain to serve in the armed forces and, with a sickening inner lurch, of Helmut returning to Germany to serve in the Wehrmacht. In those circumstances, of course the dig would come to an end. How, unless the British School in Athens took it over, could it continue?
The wine steward poured their wine and she said apprehensively, ‘We will be able to finish this year’s dig, though, won’t we?’
‘Yes, and thanks to the new team who are working together very well, we’re going to get a lot done. Hopefully we’ll find a ceremonial terrace and artefacts that will explain the mystery of the palace’s single-megaron layout, and its setting halfway up a mountain.’
Kate took a drink of her wine. It was like nectar. Far superior to the King Minos that was her usual tipple.
‘If there is a war, then afterwards – and if the British School hasn’t taken over – surely you will be able to return to Crete and, if the excavation was left unfinished, finish it?’
He liked the fact she so utterly assumed that, if war came, it was a war Britain would win.
‘Probably,’ he said, deciding to leave it until the end of the meal before he put his proposition to her.
When their meal was over and coffee had been served, he said, ‘I’d like to return to what we were talking about earlier, Kate. The strong possibility of war, and the possible scenario with regard to the dig.’
‘You mean about it being on hold until you return, once the war – if there is one – is over?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I mean earlier.’
She waited for him to explain.
He hesitated, aware that what he was about to suggest could have all kinds of repercussions, especially if Julian Kermode’s prediction was correct and the Germans tried to occupy Crete. Although he didn’t think such an attempt would succeed, there could well be fighting on the island; fighting that Kate could easily be caught up in. Was that a risk he was willing to run, for a woman about whom he had such complex feelings? There was, however, always the chance that such a situation might never come about and, in that case, as long as he put her fully in the picture, he saw no reason why he shouldn’t give her the chance of at least considering his suggestion.
He went on, ‘If war is declared, the only reason excavation will come to a standstill is because both Helmut and I will be serving our countries.’
He didn’t need to spell out that they would be serving them on different sides; nor, aware of the Official Secrets Act that he had signed before leaving Julian Kermode’s office, did he tell her where his war service would be carried out.
‘In theory,’ he continued, ‘excavation work could continue under someone else’s direction – someone who was already familiar with it; someone who could be trusted.’
‘Christos?’
‘No, I have something else in mind for Christos.’
‘But there isn’t anyone else who is both familiar with the site and has the necessary experience.’
‘Yes, there is Kate. You.’
She drew in a sharp breath.
‘There is a major drawback you need to be aware of. Although Greece pitching in, if war is declared, is unlikely, it is likely, because of her strategic position, that she will become involved in it against her will; and as Crete possesses the biggest harbour in the Mediterranean, it particularly applies here.’
‘You mean the Germans will try to take over the island?’
He nodded. ‘If a German invasion became a strong possibility, I think all British civilians on the island would be taken off it by the Royal Navy, although that couldn’t be guaranteed.’
‘And so I could find myself sitting out the war under German occupation, alongside Ella and Christos, Agata and Andre, Eleni and Kostas, and everyone else who I think of as being part of my extended family?’
‘Yes.’
Her mouth tugged into a smile. ‘Then in that case, it’s a risk I’ll take.’
He smiled back. She’d never seen him smile with his eyes before. Desire shot up like a flame inside her. She fought it down fast, before he could become aware of it.
‘Let’s take a stroll around the harbour,’ he said, signalling for the bill.
Once outside, they began walking along the road skirting the harbour. Everywhere couples hand-in-hand, or arm-in-arm, were doing the same thing. The difference was that although she and Lewis were walking close together, unlike everyone else they were carefully not touching. She said suddenly, asking him something she would never have dreamed of asking him only hours earlier, ‘Are there going to be long-term difficulties for Ella, once she is married to Christos?’
‘No. I don’t think so. The present difficulty is because the work team are embarrassed. Suddenly they don’t know how they should be treating her. Unspoken barriers have been breached, and it’s going to take a little time before they feel at ease about it.’
She wanted to say, ‘And will you meet the same reaction, if you marry Nikoleta?’ but it would have been a pointless question. He wouldn’t; she didn’t have any doubt at all about that. Instead she said, ‘What is so special about the role of a koumbara? What differentiates her from other bridesmaids?’
‘You mean why couldn’t you be Ella’s koumbara?’
They had reached the harbour’s causeway, the water at their feet an inky, glittering black.
She nodded, and he said, ‘The role of the koumbara is a very important one, extendin
g far beyond the wedding day. The reason she has to be Greek Orthodox is that she will act as a godparent to the couple’s first child.’
The late-evening breeze had turned chilly and he came to a halt. ‘I think it’s time we were heading back. Not a word to anyone of what I think the future may hold, Kate. It may never happen.’
‘I hope it doesn’t.’ Her voice was fervent, but there was also something else in it, for because the possibility of war had been brought up between them – and because of what Lewis had suggested to her, and the trust it showed he placed in her – their relationship with one another had been entirely reshaped.
Somehow, over the last couple of hours, the seemingly impossible had happened. A link had been forged between them and, if friendship was perhaps too strong a word for it, it was something very close to friendship; something that hadn’t been there before; something that, to her, meant a very great deal.
Chapter Twenty
It was September and an Indian summer. Daphne was seated in a deckchair in the rear garden of the Cadogan Square house that she and Sholto had moved into immediately after their wedding. Some yards away, in the shade of a tree, Caspian was in his Harrods perambulator, blowing bubbles and kicking legs that were blissfully unencumbered by sheets or a shawl. If his nanny had been on-duty she would have objected to his lack of coverings, but to Daphne’s great pleasure, nanny was having an afternoon off.
Deirdre Holbeck-Pratchett, also in a deckchair and separated from her by a small garden table on which stood an ice-bucket holding a bottle of white Bordeaux, said, ‘Toby and I had been thinking of driving down to the South of France and sailing across to the Porquerolles Islands. Apparently they’re known locally as the Isles of Gold. They sound dreamy, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, Dee. They sound lovely.’ Deirdre never allowed anyone to call her by her full name as she said it sounded too like ‘dreary’, something she most certainly was not. ‘However, I’m not tempted by anywhere abroad at the moment. It would mean leaving Caspian behind and, much to Sholto’s irritation, I’m not ready to do that yet.’
Dee, who had barely seen her children until they left the nursery – and not very often then – thought she’d never heard anything quite so ridiculous, but kept her thoughts to herself.
Daphne was also keeping her thoughts to herself. Dee was wearing a shocking-pink dress – the colour, and the silver buttons in the shape of tambourines, shrieking that it had come from Paris and that the designer had been Elsa Schiaparelli. Perhaps, Daphne thought, she could tear herself away from Caspian long enough to make a short trip to Paris? The House of Schiaparelli was now the Parisian fashion house and she hadn’t yet stepped foot across its threshold.
Dee gossiped on, this time about how Toby, who was senior to Sholto at the Foreign Office, was hoping to be posted to the British Embassy in Cairo. ‘He thinks sitting out a war in Cairo will be far preferable to sitting one out in London. And he may be right. I believe Cairo nightlife is very lively.’
Daphne said she’d heard the same thing, but her thoughts weren’t on Cairo and certainly not on Toby, whom she found a pretentious bore; they were still on Dee’s shocking-pink dress. Shocking pink was a difficult colour to carry off, if the wearer was the teeniest bit overweight, and though she had lost a noticeable amount of weight since Caspian’s birth, Daphne still wasn’t exactly svelte. Dee was. Dee was as svelte as a whippet. So, where a Paris dress was concerned, perhaps not one in the newest, latest colour for herself; perhaps lime-green instead. Certain shades of green had always suited her near-white blonde hair.
Dee was now talking about someone other than her husband, and not doing so in a very complimentary way. Daphne sometimes wondered why she persisted in the friendship. Dee was a good ten years older than her, and the friendship had begun only because of Sholto’s working relationship with Toby.
Dee had now moved on to a christening party they were both invited to. ‘It’s bound to be tedious. Everything the Carringtons do is tedious. All that money, and no style. Tragic, absolutely tragic.’
Daphne had forgotten all about Albert George Henry Carrington’s christening party. Would Sholto have bought a suitable christening gift? No, he wouldn’t. Not without having mentioned it to her. Would he assume she had bought a suitable christening gift? Yes, of course he would. It was the kind of thing wives were expected to do.
Sholto had gone to Asprey’s for Caspian’s christening present. Asprey’s had been the royal jewellers for more than two hundred years. If she went to Asprey’s for Albert George Henry’s christening present, she couldn’t possibly go wrong.
She was still thinking about the christening present when Dee had said her goodbyes. What should she buy? A christening mug? But usually only parents and godparents gave christening mugs. A silver baby rattle? But perhaps a baby rattle was a tad déclassé? Apostle spoons? Apostle spoons were definitely not déclassé. Apostle spoons it would be, then. And as Sholto had an account at Asprey’s, all she need do was make a phone call.
‘The entire set of twelve, Lady Hertford?’ the male assistant at the other end of the telephone wire asked, ‘or the four?’
‘The four?’
‘The four is a Matthew, Mark, Luke and John set.’
‘Dear me. Only four spoons seems a little on the mean side.’
‘Believe it or not, Lady Hertford, we are occasionally asked to supply just one spoon – although only ever, of course, in situations where the baby’s first name is also the name of one of the apostles.’
Daphne never minded being pleasantly chatty to sales staff and said, with amusement in her voice, ‘Fortunately that isn’t the case with this particular baby and so I can fight temptation. The full set, please, delivered to my London address.’
‘Certainly, Lady Hertford. And the initials and birth date for the engraving?’
‘A.G.H. The fourteenth of July 1938.’
‘And would you like the same font style as on your husband’s last purchases?’
‘I expect so. Can you remind me what his last purchases were?’
There came the sound of paper rustling and then the young man – Daphne was sure he was young, from his voice and manner – said, ‘A Georgian silver christening mug, a silver bracelet and a gold-and-emerald tiger brooch, although only the christening mug and bracelet were engraved.’
Daphne frowned. That only Caspian’s christening mug and the bracelet had been engraved made sense. The gold-and-emerald tiger brooch had been Sholto’s present to her when Caspian had been born, and nowhere on it would engraved initials have been suitable. She knew nothing about a silver bracelet, though.
She felt an unpleasant tightening sensation, deep in the pit of her stomach. Why, when buying the brooch, would Sholto also have bought a second piece of jewellery – a piece of jewellery that he hadn’t given to her? And what had he had engraved on it?
‘What type of font was used on the items my husband bought?’ she asked, wondering how she could find out who the bracelet had been bought for.
‘The font used on both items was cursive, Lady Hertford.’
‘Then I’d like cursive used again.’ She hesitated and then said, her voice as casual as before, ‘Am I right in thinking there was a little difficulty with the spelling on the bracelet?’
‘I don’t think so, Lady Hertford. There may been a query about it from our end. Pet names and foreign names are often checked, just to be on the safe side. Foreign names can be especially difficult.’
Indeed they could. The name Francine, for instance. An engraver not over-familiar with French might well have telephoned Sholto to check whether or not a cedilla was to be used beneath the letter c. After all, the French name Françoise was spelled with one.
Francine. Was that who Sholto had bought the bracelet for? If so, when had he restarted his affair with her? Obviously it had only happened after their marriage. Her head swam. Their passionate lovemaking had come to a temporary halt in the later stages of her p
regnancy. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ he had said, lovingly apologetic. ‘I believe some men find heavily pregnant women erotic, but I’m afraid I’m not one of them.’
Why hadn’t it occurred to her that, if he wasn’t making love to her, Sholto was most likely making love to someone else? And surely the most obvious person was Francine. Francine who was, no doubt, still associating with high-ranking Nazis.
‘Was there something else, Lady Hertford?’ the sales assistant prompted.
‘Yes.’ She thought fast on her feet. ‘I’m curious as to the near-miss spelling mistake on the bracelet. What exactly was it?’
‘There wasn’t one, Lady Hertford, though there could quite well have been. The name “Dee” could so easily have been mistaken for the initial D, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ The world rocked around her, the breath suddenly so tight in her chest that she didn’t know how she was continuing to breathe. ‘Yes, it would have been an easy mistake to have made. Thank you for all your help.’
Before he could tell her what a pleasure it had been, she’d dropped the receiver heavily back on its rest.
She was shaking from head to foot.
There could only be one Dee. Deirdre. Of all the people to have been having an affair with, Sholto had opted for the most trite option: a woman who was one of his wife’s friends. Or had it been Deirdre who had made a play for Sholto? Either way, it didn’t matter very much. The result was the same. Sholto had been unfaithful to her. Worse – he had been unfaithful to her when, in the run-up to Caspian’s birth, she had thought the two of them so deliriously happy.
Since Caspian’s birth, their lovemaking was again enthusiastically back on keel – so did that mean his affair with Dee was over, or was it still continuing? Either way, what was she going to do about it? Trembling violently, she sat down on the nearest of the drawing room’s three lavish sofas. If the affair was still continuing, she would bring it to a very abrupt halt, even if it meant shooting Sholto in the kneecaps to do so. And if the affair was over? Then a lot would depend on how contrite he was. One thing was a given: their marriage would continue. No one in her parents’ families had ever been divorced, and neither had anyone in Sholto’s family. She was all for being innovative, but she wasn’t going to be so where her marriage was concerned. There was also the question of her pride. How could she allow a woman ten years her senior to derail her marriage? The answer was that she couldn’t. It would be just too utterly shaming.
Beneath the Cypress Tree Page 22
