Then he turned to look at Juliet. She was the star. She was stunning, chic, and totally fascinating, and he wondered why her pale blue eyes had the haunted look of someone who seeks redemption.
‘Is everything all right, darling?’ Lady Anne asked Juliet, as they all retired to the conservatory for cups of bitter camp coffee after lunch.
‘I’m fine, Granny. I just… erm… just had a shock when Gaston told me he knew Daniel Lawrence.’
Her grandmother raised her eyebrows, a shadow falling across her face. ‘I see. I suppose they’re involved in the same organization.’
Juliet looked startled. ‘What organization?’
Lady Anne hesitated. ‘I can’t be sure, because of course Gaston couldn’t tell me what he’s doing owing to the Official Secrets Act.’
Juliet looked over at Gaston, wondering if she could persuade him to tell her more. But he was deep in serious conversation with Andrew Pemberton. They sat close together, talking so quietly she couldn’t catch a word. Gaston was gesticulating wildly with his expressive hands, while Andrew, a typical Englishman, from his neatly clipped moustache to his polished lace-up shoes, sat with his hands folded on his lap, his. observant eyes never leaving Gaston’s face.
Juliet ached to know what they were talking about, but as she rose and went over to join them, they stopped and the conversation became general.
At that moment the party started breaking up.
‘We’ve got to get back to town tonight, Mother,’ Candida told Lady Anne, gripping her shoulders and kissing her robustly on her wrinkled cheek. ‘Take care of yourself. I must say you’re looking grand. Come on, boys,’ she called to Andrew and Gaston. ‘Time we were off.’
‘Can I give you all a lift?’ Juliet suggested, seizing the opportunity to be with them on her own.
‘Thanks, but I’ve got my car,’ Candida replied, enveloping Juliet in her ample arms. ‘You need to put on some weight, dear girl. You’ll fade away at this rate.’
‘Candida?’ Juliet drew her to one side, and spoke in a low voice. ‘Do you know what Gaston’s doing? I have a friend who may be working with him. I’m afraid he might be involved in something dangerous…’ Her voice faded away as she met the suddenly cold and disapproving gaze of her aunt.
‘I’m surprised you should ask such a question,’ she said briskly. ‘You know Talk Costs Lives.’ Turning away, she said goodbye to the rest of the family, before climbing into her ancient Daimler.
Then she revved the engine, and shot off down the drive, waving jauntily.
* * *
Juliet couldn’t get the idea of Daniel being in acute danger out of her mind. Candida wouldn’t tell her, and Juliet could understand why, and she’d no idea how to get hold of Gaston, so she arranged to meet her father for lunch the following week.
‘I have to know, Dads,’ she said directly, as they sat drinking aperitifs at a discreet little restaurant in the city. ‘What is Gaston actually doing? It’s one thing if he is part of some secret operation, but quite another if Daniel’s involved because of being Jewish.’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea, darling,’ Henry said sympathetically. ‘Because Gaston and Daniel have met, it doesn’t mean they’re doing similar jobs, does it? Are you sure you’re not just panicking? Why don’t you ask Ian? He might know, although he might not be able to tell you much, if it’s top secret information.’
Juliet stiffened. ‘I don’t want to talk to Ian,’ she said mutinously.
Henry frowned. ‘What have you got against him? He may be a bit indiscreet, but he knows he can trust me not to repeat what he says. He’d trust you, too, if you asked him something.’
‘Oh, yes. He knows he can trust me.’ There was sudden bitterness in her voice.
‘What is it?’ Henry asked, annoyed. Ian was his best friend. Witty, intelligent and possessing great charm. ‘I simply don’t understand what you’ve got against him?’
She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter. I’ll find out about what Gaston’s doing another way.’
‘Why on earth don’t you telephone Daniel, direct if you’re so worried about him?’ Henry asked, in a maddeningly reasonable voice.
Juliet took a cigarette out of her gold case and placed it in her long holder. Her hands were shaking. ‘I can’t possibly do that,’ she retorted dismissively. ‘Let’s order.’
They talked about other things, but a barrier had suddenly sprung up between them that had never been there before.
Henry chatted cheerfully about how the RAF had bombed Nazi harbours, industrial plants and rail junctions, in daring low-level daylight raids, which had forced the Germans to withdraw from the Russian front.
‘With the help of America and Russia, I think the end is in sight. Maybe not for another year or so, but things are going well in North Africa, and in the South Pacific, and once we’re in a position to invade France and push the Germans back, we’ll be on the home straight. It’s the Might of Right, against evil,’ he added, pleased with the phrase.
Juliet nodded, but Henry found her distraite. He stretched out and laid his hand over hers. ‘I wish you could get a real break, darling, away from the First Aid Post.’
She looked up in surprise, her eyes dazed, as if she’d just awoken. ‘What? Oh, there’s no need, Dads. There’s been a lull in the raids. Anyway, I like having something to do. I don’t know how Mummy can bear to carry on as if there wasn’t a war.’
‘I don’t think Mummy knows quite what to do,’ Henry replied carefully. ‘It’s so peaceful down at Hartley, the war seems a million miles away.’
‘Why don’t you let her come back to London?’
Henry hesitated. He couldn’t admit to Juliet that he’d grown to relish his time away from Liza. It was wonderful not to have to go out every night, to have to dress up, to make Smalltalk to people who frankly bored him, to keep a social diary. He’d grown used to grabbing himself something to eat after a long day at the under-staffed bank, and then, if he wasn’t fire watching, reading the newspapers and listening to the wireless.
‘I might suggest it,’ he replied unconvincingly. ‘The flat’s rather small for three of us on a permanent basis, though.’
Juliet didn’t press the matter. It would drive her crazy to have her mother living with her, too.
* * *
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Rosie exploded, throwing Jonathan’s dirty nappy into the bucket of cold water. ‘I’m sick of being a drudge.’
Nanny looked up from cleaning the wash-hand basin. ‘Now, now. It’s not an easy time for any of us,’ she said reprovingly, as if Rosie were still a six-years-old.
‘But it’s different for me. I’m still young… though only just!’ Rosie slammed the lid down on the white enamel bucket in disgust, and stormed out of the nursery bathroom.
She was fed up that there was no one in her life these days. No one to love her; no one to make her feel good. The future was like looking into a bottomless pit. She was tired of wearing the same old clothes month after month, and not even having shampoo to wash her hair. Soap was rationed, make-up was hard to get, and nail varnish and lipstick impossible. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been to a restaurant, or received a bunch of flowers.
The trouble was she never even got to meet anyone interesting stuck at Hartley, because all the young men were in the armed forces.
Thoroughly disgruntled, she poured out her vexation to her mother that evening.
‘Well, I don’t know what you can do about it,’ Liza said rather firmly. In spite of Nanny, she dreaded the idea of being landed with the grandchildren, if her daughter were to go to London.
‘I’m twenty-six this year,’ Rosie protested. ‘I don’t want to be a widow all my life.’
Privately, Liza wondered why not. Rosie had been married, got a title for life, and had had two children; surely that was enough?
‘Anyway,’ Rosie fumed, ‘the children need a father figure. Daddy is the only man they know.’
‘I’m going to ask Juliet if I can stay with her for a bit,’ Rosie said, determinedly. ‘I don’t see why she and Louise should have all the fun.’
‘What about the babies?’ Liza shrilled, appalled.
‘Mother, they’re hardly the Lost Babes in the Wood,’ Rosie mocked. ‘What has Nanny done for the past thirty years, but look after babies? They’ll be fine with her. And you’ll be here, to keep an eye on them.’
Liza suddenly saw her daughter as an obstacle between herself and the party circuit. It had been one thing to bring out a fresh, beautiful, youthful creature who did her credit; quite another to find a twenty-six-year-old titled woman blocking her own path to an enjoyable life.
‘I’m not going to be down here myself much, this summer,’ Liza said coldly. ‘The King and Queen are going to Royal Ascot for the first time since 1939, and I want to go, too.’
‘I might go as well,’ Rosie said thoughtfully.
‘But who could you go with?’ Liza asked querously.
‘My mother-in-law,’ Rosie retorted, eyes flashing. ‘She usually gets invited to tea in the Royal Box, too.’
‘So? Daddy and I are always invited to lunch at the Jockey Club,’ Liza retorted, pettishly.
Lady Anne, walking past the open drawing-room door at that moment, paused and looked in at them, her eyes steely blue.
‘I think we should remember that this country is fighting for survival, and thousands of lives are being lost on both sides, every day,’ she said coldly. ‘If I may say so, I really don’t think Ascot race meetings feature very high on a list of priorities, do you?’
‘I will not have her talking to me like that,’ Liza fumed sulkily, when Lady Anne had gone to her sitting room. ‘Who does she think she is? This is my house, and I’ll damn well do as I like.’ Then she stalked off to her bedroom, filled with determination to go to London. And so was Rosie.
* * *
Liza’s shrill voice could be heard all over the house.
‘Our lives are being destroyed because of this wretched war, Henry. We’re missing out on everything!’
Henry, sitting at his desk in the library, closed his eyes wearily for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice flat. ‘I don’t know what you expect me to do about it, but this is the reality of war.’
She looked bewildered, her usually neat blonde hair ruffled and untidy. Her expression filled with discontent.
‘But all our friends are in London, Henry. Lady Cunard is entertaining every night, in her permanent suite at the Dorchester. The Duke of Westminster and Chips Channon…’
‘You’re talking about exceedingly rich people, Liza,’ Henry protested. ‘Multi-millionaires.’
She stopped short, stunned. ‘But we’re rich!’ she bleated.
‘We were very well off before the war, but we’re not any more.’ His voice was steady. ‘I shall be fifty-five next year, and as soon as the war’s over, I’m going to retire.’
‘Retire?’ she asked in a small terrified voice. She still thought of Henry as the young Army officer she’d married in 1914, when he’d been twenty-five. Apart from greying hair he didn’t seemed to have aged much, either. Retire? Was he as old as that? Was she as old as that?
‘Why do you want to retire, Henry?’
‘I’m tired. I’m on the roof of the BBC, fire watching, every other night. I work up to sixteen hours a day at the bank. I can’t wait to get back here at weekends, and be able to go for long walks with the dogs. Breath the fresh air. Wake up to the sound of the dawn chorus.’ As he spoke, he leaned back in his chair, gazing through the windows to the garden beyond.
‘Yes, but…’ Liza panicked, her face quite white with anxiety.
He turned at looked straight at her. ‘When the war is over, this will be our permanent home, my dear. I don’t intend to get another house in London, nor one of those beastly new flats.’
Liza shrunk like a balloon left over from a children’s party.
‘You can’t do that…!’ she exclaimed, bursting noisily into tears. ‘We must live in London. All our friends live in London…’
‘… Social acquaintances,’ he corrected her.
‘No, Henry. Friends. Before the war we were out every night.’
‘I know,’ he said hollowly.
Liza spun round, angrily. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It was a superficial existence, Liza. And then bringing out Rosie and Juliet, both of whom made disastrous marriages. I’m not going through all that again with Amanda and Charlotte, whatever you say. We’re going to stay down here from now on,’ he added firmly.
‘I won’t! I won’t!’ she wailed. ‘You can’t do this to me. What am I supposed to do with myself, buried down here?’ She slumped down on the old leather sofa, holding a handkerchief to her mouth.
Henry sat immobile, looking out of the window again, the fingers of his right hand thrumming lightly on the arm of his chair. He’d spoilt Liza, of course, so he was partly to blame for this. But they were both getting on now, and he, especially, was aware of the passing years.
The idea of getting another town house and doing it up and going back to things being the way they were before the war appalled him. Made him feel quite sick with exhaustion just to think of all those late, champagne-fuelled nights.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘no one will be able to get the staff. People like Parsons and Mrs Fowler will be too old, and the younger generation, having found a living away from domestic service, are not going to want to go back to it.’
‘Juliet’s going to go on living in town, in that grand house of hers,’ Liza pointed out, sitting up and blowing her nose.
‘Cameron very generously made sure Juliet will always be rich,’ Henry commented.
‘What about the flat you share with Ian?’ she asked, clutching at straws. Even a basement flat in Campden Hill would be better than nothing.
‘It’s Ian’s flat and I think he’s going to go and live in the country, too, when the war ends.’
With a yowl like a cat that’s been trodden on, Liza jumped up and rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
‘They had a fearful fight,’ Rosie informed Juliet, with a certain relish. ‘Especially when I said that I was going to stay with you for a while. It is kind of you to have me,’ she added, with a sudden wave of genuine gratitude.
Juliet shrugged. ‘God knows, the house is big enough, and Dudley seems happy, which is the main thing.’ She grinned. ‘As long as you and Louise realize that you’re both out the door if Dudley finds it all too much. He’s more important to my life, right now, than anyone else.’
Rosie laughed. ‘As long as he doesn’t end up in prison. Where does he get all that extra food and petrol from?’
‘I don’t dare ask. Listen, I’ve got some American friends coming to supper tonight. Louise is out, meeting some girls from her First Aid Course, but you’ll be in, won’t you?’
Rosie’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, I’ll be here. What shall I wear?’
Rosie was expecting a bunch of gregarious GIs, bearing gifts of stockings and chocolates, who would want to paint the town red as soon as they’d eaten, and dance until dawn, but instead, Juliet’s friends were connected to the American Embassy: two charming couples in their forties, who’d been in London for several years; a lawyer called Salton Webb; and Colonel Rourke Zimmerman.
‘I’ve put you next to Salton,’ Juliet whispered, as she led the guests down to the dining room after they’d drunk several White Ladies. ‘He’s single.’
Rosie looked askance at her sister. ‘And Colonel Zimmerman isn’t?’
Juliet pursed her scarlet lips. ‘We don’t enquire about his wife,’ she said with mock primness. ‘She’s somewhere in Iowa.’
Salton Webb was in his thirties, with a deeply tanned face, crinkly hai
r and a light-hearted approach to life. It was obvious Juliet had told him about Charles’s death, for he questioned her sympathetically about her children, and asked her how long she was staying in London. She enjoyed talking to him, but beside Juliet she felt increasingly inadequate.
In the past few years she’d only seen her sister down at Hartley for occasional weekends, but now, in the magnificent setting of ninety-nine, Park Lane, Juliet seemed to have metamorphosized into a woman of starry sophistication and confidence. Able to hold her own with anyone. This was an altogether different Juliet, who was engaging in serious discussion about politics and the state of the country, entrancing the men because she now had the art of appealing to them both cerebrally and physically.
Rosie watched in awe; and this was her younger sister, acting as if she was an equal of these older intellectual guests. Where were the flushed-faced boys she used to go out with? The debonair escorts who whisked her around the town, bringing her back as dawn was breaking, as were their hearts, because she’d led them up the garden path?
By comparison, Rosie was now feeling like a naïve country bumpkin, frumpy and plain, only able to talk about different ways of making jam without fruit or sugar, and teaching her children to speak.
‘How long are you staying in town?’ she heard Salton ask.
‘I’m not sure,’ Rosie replied diffidently, her self-confidence low. That was the galling part of it: being the eldest sister but feeling like the youngest, in need of a perm and wearing a dress she’d had for years.
‘Do you like the theatre?’
She nodded, sipping her wine.
‘I hear Noel Coward is doing a tour of England with his plays,’ Salton continued.
‘Really?’
This was dreadful. Rosie felt ashamed of her lack of small talk, and her total inability to fit in.
‘What part of America do you come from?’ she asked in desperation.
‘Washington, DC,’ he replied, pride in his voice. Then, as if she’d turned a key in a lock to open a door on to a great vista, Salton started talking about himself. He told her about his humble beginnings, living in a trailer park with his widowed mother, and with hardly enough to eat; then his aptitude at college, and how he went on to get a degree in law, and finally how he’d set up his own practice in the capital, where he now handled a lot of work for the White House.
The Granville Affaire Page 23
