‘She’s the cousin of the Earl of Shillings.’ Another lie. But still the easiest explanation. ‘She … taught me all that matters.’
She could sense his suspicion growing. ‘Is she a spy?’
‘No.’ Though she was no longer sure if that was true.
‘Why couldn’t Miss Lily help you herself, then? Or the earl?’
‘I couldn’t contact the earl in time. I … I don’t know where Miss Lily is.’ If she said that Miss Lily had vanished at the beginning of the war, he would assume that Miss Lily was a spy, and that Sophie was a spy too. But there was no quick way to explain Miss Lily.
A shadow flickered past the door. German, she thought, recognising the helmet. The soldier gave a cry as blood blossomed on his uniform. He fell onto the cobbles, spasmed twice in the light from the rocket fire, then lay still. The dog shivered, its head in Sophie’s lap as if to say, ‘I am a sheep-herding dog. Dead men are not my business.’
Sophie stared out at the body in the flash-lit darkness. Last week I’d have tried to help him, she thought. Or at least wondered if I should. But my life isn’t mine to risk just now.
She felt the warmth of her companion’s hands as he pulled her further back against the inner wall of the chimney. He unwrapped another square of chocolate, broke it into halves and gave her one, then pulled her into his arms again. For warmth, she thought, feeling the chocolate’s sweetness melt on her tongue. And then, No, he’s trying to cover me so that if someone shoots us they’ll hit him, not me.
Is he doing it because a man protects a woman, or because he loves me, in spite of everything?
The dog looked at them, considering, then clambered onto Sophie and lay down, curling as much of itself as possible on top of her. Its fur was warm, as comforting as the arms around her.
‘I don’t know you, do I?’ he said at last. ‘I never did.’
‘No. I’m sorry.’ She wasn’t quite sure what she was apologising for: for bringing him here, or for failing to tell him the whole truth. Maybe it wasn’t even an apology. She was just … sorry. For him. For herself. For the giant blood-spattered dog across her lap. For the whole bloody mess of war. And that isn’t swearing, she thought. Just truth.
The guns had hypnotised her. That, and his warmth so close to her. She had faced this burden alone all week. Would he understand? And if he did, would he still try to help her?
He stroked the dog’s furry back. It put its head on its paws, slobbering again, and reassured.
‘By tomorrow,’ he said quietly, ‘we may be dead. So eat your chocolate and tell me about Miss Lily. Tell me about yourself — all of it, not just the bits I knew before. Tell me everything.’
‘My whole life?’ asked Sophie.
‘We have time.’ She caught a glimpse of a half-smile in the growing dark. ‘And if we run out of time, we will be dead. How did an Australian girl meet the cousin of the Earl of Shillings?’
He had risked his life for her. She owed him the truth. ‘It started with corned beef,’ she said.
Chapter 2
Never try to manipulate a child. Children sense false smiles. Speak to them honestly and they’ll like you, which is the best way to charm their mothers too.
Miss Lily, 1913
SYDNEY, 1902
The most important problem in life, decided Sophie, was how to spoon up the last of the ice cream and caramel sauce from the silver dish before her. When you are seven and three-quarters, and visiting the Quong Tart Tearooms, leaving a spoonful is a tragedy.
Scraping the edges of the dish would make a noise that was unladylike. Other patrons might hear — the women in the feathered hats that only other women would appreciate, their bodies erectly corseted; the girls in their frills and white muslin dresses, eating with as much greed as she was, though politely, of course. A lady must always be polite.
Here at the Tearooms, where men were a rarity — Quong Tart was a Chinaman, so he somehow didn’t count — female gluttony was allowed in a pact unspoken by any of the patrons. Plump scones damp with melted butter, piled with raspberry jam or thick with dates; apricot jam on pikelets with cream … the servings were lavish. A woman who moved food gracefully around a plate in front of men could eat with visible pleasure here.
The Quong Tart Tearooms also made The Best Ice Cream in Sydney. Sophie knew that for certain, because her father employed The Best Cook in Sydney, like he bought the best of everything, but Mrs Cleaver’s ice cream was like toffee. It stretched. The Tearooms’ ice cream was like frozen clouds. Perhaps the ice cream at home was intimidated by the portraits on the wall: Papa in his best waistcoat, holding the silver chain of his watch; Mama looking like the angel she now was.
‘Sophie, have you finished?’ asked Miss Thwaites patiently. She was a tall woman, with a face like a friendly cow.
‘Yes, thank you, Miss Thwaites,’ said Sophie.
Miss Thwaites was no Gentlewoman in Reduced Circumstances, who taught girls a deliberately cultivated ignorance. Miss Thwaites’s father was an English vicar, and her mother had been ‘an honourable’. Miss Thwaites had even attended Somerville Hall at Oxford on a scholarship — though not gained a degree, of course. Women couldn’t be awarded degrees, even at The Best University in the world.
It was good that Miss Thwaites was Sophie’s governess, especially now that Mama was an angel. She had never known her mother, but she loved Miss Thwaites. Miss Thwaites was also the most interesting person she had ever met, even more interesting than Papa. If Miss Thwaites hadn’t had four sisters, she might never have had to become a governess, never have come to Australia, never have joined the Women’s Suffrage Association. Sophie was pretty sure Miss Thwaites had singlehandedly got Australian women the vote.
She clicked the heels of her white patent-leather shoes against the chair, earning a frown from Miss Thwaites. She stopped kicking — not because Miss Thwaites would lock her in a cupboard when they got home, like one of the Suitable Friends whispered her governess did, but because she liked Miss Thwaites. Instead she looked around the Tearooms while Miss Thwaites finished her scone.
The ladies all looked much the same, in their silks and feathered hats, their big drooping sleeves that almost — but never quite — trailed in the jam.
The waitresses were more interesting, like the one who limped, as Papa did, but only as she approached the doors to the kitchen, just like Papa tried to limp only at home and not in the street. The limping waitress always gave Sophie two wafers in her ice cream too, standing up like tiny sails.
Would ice cream float like a paper boat? wondered Sophie. Miss Thwaites would say it wasn’t done, even if Sophie were willing to risk her treat.
‘But if I do it, then it can be done,’ Sophie had said once.
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Miss Thwaites had replied, but she’d said it with a smile. Miss Thwaites was iron under her grey silk, but it was warm iron, like the stair railings on a sunny winter’s day.
Miss Thwaites finished her scone, dabbed her mouth with her napkin and looked up, a signal to an attentive waitress that they were finished.
The not-quite-limping waitress came with their bill, and a pen and ink well. Miss Thwaites signed the bill in her sloping handwriting, pushing the nib neatly up the paper like a mob of ants pushing a stone up a pyramid. Papa kept an account at the Tearooms, and at David Jones and Anthony Hordern’s Palace Emporium and Percy Marks the jewellers and any other place Miss Thwaites might need to take his daughter.
There’s no point stinting when you have only one chick, Papa said. Whatever Sophie wanted she should have, and he didn’t want to be bothered at work by a governess asking for five pounds for a new bonnet and some ribbons.
‘My dear Miss Thwaites! And little Miss Sophronia Higgs, isn’t it?’
Miss Thwaites looked up, but didn’t stand, which meant that this woman must be Encroaching. Lots of people Encroached, Miss Thwaites said, when your father was the richest man in New South Wales. Miss Thwaites’s smile diminis
hed, from Friendly to Just Barely Polite.
The woman noticed. Her own smile widened. Definitely Encroaching: either a governess or a recent widow. Governess, Sophie decided — a recent widow couldn’t eat scones at the Tearooms, and a widow of longer standing would wear silk and jet jewellery like the Dear Queen used to, not shiny poplin.
The boy at the woman’s side was a few years older than Sophie, his blond hair neatly oiled and wearing a dark blue velvet knickerbocker suit. He looked at her curiously.
Suitable Friends came to afternoon tea every Tuesday and Thursday — daughters of other businessmen, and sometimes their brothers too. This boy was not one of the Suitables.
He might even be interesting.
‘Do sit down,’ said Sophie, in the tone she had heard one of the Suitables’ mothers use.
Miss Thwaites’s top lip tightened, but she couldn’t draw back after Sophie’s offer. ‘Please do. Sophie, this is Miss Wilson. And this must be Master Malcolm Overhill?’
Sophie looked at the boy even more curiously. The Overhills had Warildra, the property out at Bald Hill, next door to their own Thuringa. Mr Overhill was the local Member of Parliament. But she had never met the Overhills. She was vaguely aware that many people thought the Overhills Most Suitable Indeed, but Miss Thwaites said that Australian squatters were just jumped-up sheep farmers. Sophie imagined the squatters in their moleskins, jumping over sheep. Miss Thwaites said that a man like Papa, a man who had made his own fortune, was worth a thousand sheep farmers.
The Encroacher sat. The boy — Malcolm — sat too. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Miss Thwaites,’ said the Encroacher. ‘It has been so long since I spoke to anyone from home …’
Sophie looked at the boy.
‘Hello.’
‘You’re the corned-beef girl.’ The boy gave a slight snigger.
‘What’s funny about corned beef?’ demanded Sophie coldly.
The boy smirked. ‘Gentlemen don’t own factories.’
Definitely Unsuitable. And stupid. Sophie sought a weapon. ‘Why don’t you have a tutor? Only girls have governesses.’
Malcolm flushed. ‘She’s my sister’s governess. She’s just taking me to buy a new school uniform.’
‘I think she’s really your nurse,’ said Sophie flatly.
Malcolm reddened. ‘She’s not!’ He lowered his voice. He glanced at his governess, but the woman was intent on trying to interest Miss Thwaites, one gloved hand resting on the other woman’s unwilling one. ‘You’re the girl whose mother vanished.’
Sophie stared. ‘My mama died.’
The boy shook his head. ‘No, she didn’t. She just vanished. But Mama says she probably is dead. There was an article in The Bulletin a few months ago saying the case has never been solved,’ he added with relish. ‘Didn’t you read it?’
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘My mama would never vanish. My father wouldn’t let it happen.’
‘She vanished six weeks after you were born. Policemen from three states were looking for her! There’s a reward too. It’s never been claimed. Mama says that’s why our family doesn’t meet yours. Your father might be a murderer. And he makes corned beef.’
Sophie gave him a sharp kick under the damask tablecloth. He winced. She moved her legs so his retaliation missed.
‘My papa is the most wonderful man in the world! Everyone wants to meet my papa!’
‘Not my family.’ Malcolm glanced at his governess. ‘My mother is going to be cross when I tell her Miss Wilson made me sit with you. But Miss Wilson is leaving at the end of the month, so maybe she thinks it doesn’t matter that you are Not Acceptable.’
It was a lie. It all had to be lies. Mama was an angel in heaven and Papa was the best man in New South Wales. Sophie narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t pinch Malcolm, not in public.
‘If it wasn’t your father, then maybe white slavers took your mama and —’
‘Malcolm!’ The Encroacher seemed to suddenly notice her charge. ‘What have you been saying?’
Sophie stood up. ‘Silly things,’ she said. ‘We need to go now, don’t we, Miss Thwaites?’
‘Indeed we do,’ said Miss Thwaites. She stood too, and bowed slightly. ‘How nice to meet you, Miss Wilson.’
‘We must meet again,’ said the Encroacher, desperately. ‘I … I will be seeking a new situation soon. I wondered … perhaps tea next week?’
‘We will be out of town next week,’ said Miss Thwaites coolly. ‘May I recommend Miss Sorrel’s Agency? It is in Macquarie Street. Come along, Sophie.’
The boy smirked. He knows that there’s nothing I can do about his lies, thought Sophie. For they had to be lies, surely.
One day she’d get even.
Chapter 3
Is there any such thing really as a happy childhood? Children must be taught to be who they are expected to be — which is usually very different from who they are. Childhood is a time of moulding. Adults only pretend that it is pleasant.
Miss Lily, 1913
FLANDERS, 12 JULY 1917
Darkness clung around the ruins of the farmhouse. The guns thrummed in the distance, but there had been no shots from the sheds nearby for the last ten minutes. The dog seemed asleep.
Were all the soldiers in both patrols dead?
No. Waiting.
Sophie should be terrified — for herself, for the men who would suffer unimaginable horror if she were to fail.
No, not unimaginable. She had seen too much not to imagine it all.
But she didn’t feel terrified. Instead she felt alive, as though the last shell of Sophie Higgs from Australia had cracked and fallen away. The only rules in this landscape of burned trees and shattered farms were those of war.
She was free. A chuckle rose, impossible to suppress.
‘What’s so funny?’
She wished she could tell him there was no need to hide his terror. But that was another rule: men were brave, and soldiers were braver. ‘Rules. The ones we never speak about. Even when I was small I knew there were rules ladies had to obey but never talk about. Men too.’
‘I obey army regulations because I have to,’ he said stiffly.
‘And you think army regulations are the only rules you obey without question? Would you stab the Kaiser?’
‘What?’
‘If he were here now. And if you had a bayonet. Would you stab him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You see? You’d end the war if you did. But it would be unsporting. Not following the rules.’
‘This isn’t a game of football.’
‘Isn’t it? It’s just bigger. Anguish instead of bruises. But still the same stupid rules.’
He sighed. ‘Go on with your story. I don’t know what to ask about first. Did your mother really vanish?’
‘She vanished when I was six weeks old,’ said Sophie flatly. ‘I found the article in Dad’s desk in the library. Cuttings from other newspapers too.’
‘People don’t just vanish. Were her clothes there?’
Sophie looked at him in the dimness. ‘People vanish every day. Thousands of them. Don’t you read the papers? Missing in action …’
‘But that wasn’t wartime.’
‘No. And, yes, her clothes were there. Her jewellery. Nothing taken, except the nightdress she’d been wearing.’
‘She can’t have gone far in that. The servants saw nothing?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘If they did, they didn’t tell.’
‘And there was never any clue? What about her family?’
‘My mother was an orphan. English. She’d come to Australia via India as a governess. My father had a thing for governesses. Still has, I believe.’
‘Miss Thwaites?’
Sophie smiled. ‘Miss Thwaites spends every Sunday afternoon with him. I was fifteen before I realised.’
‘You said she had a face like a cow!’
‘She did. Does. But a friendly cow.’
‘But your father …’
‘My father is rich enough to have a beautiful mistress?’ She frowned. ‘I think that beauty intimidates Dad. Or maybe it reminds him of my mother. Anyway, as far back as I can remember, he and Miss Thwaites were close. We’d all play with the model trains at Thuringa. Dad loves model trains; he’s got one whole room filled with them. Miss Thwaites and Dad share the controls. They never shared a bedroom though, even at Thuringa.’
‘One doesn’t marry a governess.’
She smiled. ‘You forget — he already has married one. But he can’t marry anyone now. Not unless my mother is declared dead.’
‘I admit I … I’ve never thought about that sort of thing.’
‘Why should you? The next of kin has to apply to have someone who is missing declared dead. My father never has.’
‘Why not?’
‘In case of more gossip, I suppose. Raking it all up again. Maybe he’s always hoped that she might still be alive. I don’t know.’
‘Sophie …’ He hesitated. ‘It must have occurred to you …’
‘That my father might have killed my mother? Other people thought so. He could have bribed the maids to assist, the coachman to take her body. Men as rich as Dad can buy many things. But I know he didn’t kill my mother.’
‘Because you love him?’ His voice was gentler now. Good, she thought. The terror seemed to be easing from his body.
‘I suppose I do. But I know he didn’t do it.’
‘Why? How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I asked him,’ said Sophie.
Chapter 4
Some men want children desperately, often those who don’t like children much. To men like that, a child is an extension of who they are. Sometimes I wonder if they ever truly see their child at all.
Miss Lily, 1913
SYDNEY, 1902
Sophie let Nanny Jenkins change her clothes after the tearoom visit, then obediently lay on the bed for half an hour with The Girl’s Own Annual stories Miss Thwaites had sent from England. But today even the adventures of two schoolgirls in ancient Egypt could not grab her.
Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies Page 2
