The Lily in the Snow

by Jackie French

  John had said he lived each day for his twin who had died; he had taken his name, too. She had asked James Lorrimer to search for him with what information she had, but James had found no twins who fitted their ages and names among the Australian forces. Why had John claimed his stepbrother as his twin?

  The John she had loved had vanished, like so many who were precious to her. He had become the well-dressed, silent Dr Greenman. This was why she cried — and it had taken Miss Lily and the scent of crumpets for her to find her grief.

  ‘Here.’ Miss Lily handed her a crumpet dripping honey and butter. Sophie ate. Reality seeped back. She licked the butter from her fingers, as she had so many years before.

  ‘Thank you for being here,’ she said.

  Miss Lily smiled. ‘A husband is not the right person to talk to about a lost love. Miss Lily may be, perhaps.’ She looked back at the fire. ‘I asked Green to bring my things to Paris with us.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sophie. ‘Things’ presumably meant the wig, the clothes, the make-up, the undergarments that subtly changed Nigel’s thinness into the figure of a slender woman. There was perfume too: a touch of rose and oakmoss under the scent of toasting crumpets. Miss Lily had taught all her girls to choose a signature scent, one that would speak of comfort, beauty and charm, each time another smelled it.

  ‘I loved him,’ Sophie said simply.

  ‘Yes. And now he seems to be gone. Though Dr Greenman must also be a compassionate man if he has chosen to support his sister-in-law through this.’

  Could John and Dr Greenman really be two entirely different people? Sophie did not believe it, even if perhaps Dr Greenman did. They were aspects of each other, as Nigel and Lily were aspects of the one person too.

  And she loved both Lily and Nigel, mourned that at any one time the person she loved could only show part of their personality. Was that because society could not accept a person born a man, who wished to be a woman? But Sophie did not believe that was entirely true of Nigel. The Earl of Shillings could have conveniently remained ‘in the East’ while Miss Lily appeared at his estates often enough to ensure they were well run.

  But although she suspected that the person she loved was more comfortable — and certainly more effective as an espionage agent — as Miss Lily, Nigel Vaile had returned regularly to his estate, and even remained at Shillings and entered the House of Lords after the war, nor had he vanished when his hoped-for political career did not blossom.

  And sexually? Sophie was not attracted to women; had not been sexually attracted to Miss Lily until she had known the other part of her persona. But she’d felt a sexual tension in her love for Lily after her marriage. Was it because she did desire Nigel? She didn’t know. Nor did it matter.

  And Miss Lily’s feelings? Miss Lily had only known Sophie a few months before she had hoped Sophie might marry Nigel, even if it would be years before Miss Lily would make the proposal again. Had Miss Lily desired Sophie?

  No, that did not matter either.

  She gazed at the woman she loved, who was the man she loved. And yet she had loved (did love?) that green-eyed man in the hut, too. But that person might not be the man who was Dr Greenman now. ‘Possibly John . . . I mean Dr Greenman . . . is simply seeking his brother and an answer to a mystery. He told me he was dead.’

  ‘Yes. That too. But it cannot be easy to mourn a beloved brother, then travel across the world to see if he might still be alive, only to face that your brother has been alone, neglected, living on charity and turnip stew for twelve years.’

  ‘The food will be better now. I’ve arranged for money to be sent regularly, with the first draft telegraphed to Mother Antill today.’

  ‘Of course you have,’ said Miss Lily gently, in the tone that meant that while the young Sophie Higgs had believed money and determination could achieve whatever she wanted it to, Sophronia Vaile, Countess of Shillings, knew better. ‘Dr Greenman has a look of Rose,’ Miss Lily added quietly. ‘The same green eyes.’

  ‘But Danny looks just like the portrait of you — of Nigel — as a child on the staircase,’ said Sophie quickly.

  ‘Sophie, my love, there is no way to ever truly tell who is the father of our children. But you do know this: they are loved by you, by me, by Green and Jones, and always will be. Perhaps you must give Dr Greenman the chance to love them too.’

  ‘Perhaps?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘You are right. There is no perhaps. If he asks —’

  ‘He may not ask,’ said Sophie desperately.

  ‘I think he will. I saw his eyes. His hands shook, which is why he held them behind his back. He will ask.’

  Sophie nodded dumbly.

  ‘I would like us to travel to the hospital early tomorrow morning,’ Miss Lily changed the subject deftly. ‘You and me, rather than you and Nigel. Is that . . . acceptable . . . to you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve missed you. Missed you desperately.’ Who was Miss Lily? Friend, mentor, mother substitute? No, none of these, or all of them, and more. She was herself, and there was no one like her.

  ‘I have missed myself too,’ said Miss Lily lightly. ‘Would you mind leaving at six o’clock?’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘I would like us to talk to Matthew before his wife and brother arrive. Just you and me.’

  Sophie knew once again that Miss Lily did not mean Nigel. ‘You think Matthew really is Major McDonald?’

  ‘I think he might be. And I think he may talk to the two of us, when he will not to Mother Antill, or his wife or brother.’

  Sophie did not ask why. The girls Miss Lily trained were very good at questions — gentle, charming questions. One could not charm without compassion. One could not be compassionate without understanding. She accepted another crumpet, nibbled, tried to understand.

  A man with neither voice nor hands, hideously scarred, who screamed at night remembering sights no one apart from him could understand. What had he felt, twelve years ago, when he had understood what he had become? What was he feeling now?

  Chapter 12

  Never weep for what you cannot do, or even what you fail to do. Keep your tears for others, to give you strength to try again.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  Sophie drove. She was, in fact, a more experienced driver than Nigel, having found her way across war-splattered Belgium and France while the Earl of Shillings was being chauffeured both to and from the battlefront and at home. But no woman of sensitivity would suggest she should drive when a man could take the wheel.

  But Miss Lily, of course, was different. Sophie even found herself wondering if Miss Lily were able to drive, before smiling at the thought. Nigel and Miss Lily shared the same body, and the same skills. But if they had been the same persona there would be no need for Miss Lily to be with her that morning.

  Nor would Sophie have been so grateful that she was.

  The sun had more warmth there than at Shillings, but the wind slithering along the fields was colder, although Green had still laid out silk for her to wear: a dull gold dress, its colour accentuating her hair, high necked and low waisted, with a coat of the same silk that had a caped lambs-wool collar in thin stripes, like a most elegant tiger, felt-lined and warm.

  Miss Lily wore silk too, in silver grey. Sophie remembered the afternoon Miss Lily had explained to the girls sitting on the hearth by the fire that the sound of silk, the scent of it, whispered ‘woman’ in a way no fabric also worn by men could do.

  The Ritz had provided another hamper. Sophie suspected the hotel would have found them a performing elephant and a troupe of jugglers if they had needed them. Though, now she thought of it, Rose and Danny would appreciate the jugglers.

  The hamper contained more coffee in a Thermos, held in place inside the lid by a strap. Straps also secured the coffee cups, the saucers, the plates, cutlery and damask napkins to lay under the brioche, for surely no client of the Ritz would risk crumb marks on her frock.

  Sophie spread the napkin on her silken lap a
nd nibbled as she drove, as Miss Lily broke the brioche into manageable pieces and spread them with jam and butter for her. They paused just before the turn-off to the hospital to drink the coffee. Sophie was glad of the flood of energy.

  If this did not work two lives might stay shattered, and maybe other lives, as well.

  This time the door was opened by a taller nun. She led them through the courtyard, then apologised, in French, for leaving them. ‘It is time for the men’s breakfast. This takes a while, you understand. Some can feed themselves, at least the easier foods, but others cannot.’

  Sophie opened the stable door. This time the room smelled of real coffee and fresh bread, and the rich, buttery scent of croissants. She smiled. Mother Antill had lost no time using the new funds for her charges.

  The man in the first bed eyed them: two women, with shining hair not covered by a wimple, clothes that subtly showed the shapes beneath, smiles that acknowledged him as a man. The other men in this ward could only listen to the click of women’s heels on the cobbled floor. The man in the last bed listened too, his hand stumps carefully wielding a long piece of French loaf spread with jam.

  ‘Excuse us interrupting your breakfast, Matthew,’ said Sophie quietly. ‘It’s Lady Shillings again. Sophie. This is Miss Lily; she is a relative of my husband.’

  No answer. But he had heard her. He bent his head to push the last of the narrow loaf into his mouth, then rested his stumps in his blanket-covered lap and chewed. The two chairs still stood by the bed. Sophie moved them so the partition gave them privacy. They sat.

  He waited.

  Sophie waited too, expecting Miss Lily to speak. Instead she glanced at Sophie.

  What was she supposed to say? She had assumed Miss Lily had a plan for this particular conversation. But it seemed Miss Lily was leaving this to her.

  I am no longer the student, Sophie realised. Miss Lily was leaving this task to the one who — perhaps — had been the most successful of her ‘lovely ladies’.

  Sophie placed her fingers gently on what had been a man’s hand, moving her fingers slightly in what might have been a caress. Or not. The man looked sharply in her direction, as if trying to force his ears to see where his eyes could only dimly make out a shape.

  ‘I knew a man in 1915,’ said Sophie softly. ‘He had no eyes. His whole head was covered in scar tissue, red ridges instead of hair. He married his assistant accountant after the war. They manage the accounts of a factory together. I am godmother to their daughter.’

  The man was silent, but he listened.

  ‘I flew from Australia three years ago. The woman pilot who flew me to Europe had been a nurse. She lost most of her face rescuing the pilot of a burning plane. He lost his sight. They are married now, running an aeroplane route through northern Australia. It was a shock to see her face,’ she added, ‘but only the first time. The second time I looked in recognition. The third time I looked at her I saw her beauty. They are happy, the two of them.’

  The man twisted his head in an impatient gesture.

  ‘No,’ said Sophie, ‘I am not pretending that the world would see her beauty, nor even understand their happiness. But their friends see them, and not their scars. Or rather they accept those scars as evidence of their determination, their love as well as their pain.’

  Once more the man was still.

  Miss Lily leaned forward. ‘There is a woman who loves John McDonald,’ she said, her voice a soft caress. ‘She intends to devote her life to him. If he will not return to Australia with her, she intends to return here, to help tend him.’

  The man in the bed gave a brief jerk of shock.

  ‘The question you can’t stop asking yourself, of course,’ continued Miss Lily, ‘is what John McDonald has to give to her.’

  ‘Nothing.’ The word was no more than a breath, a croak. The sound seemed to surprise the man on the bed as much as Sophie.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Miss Lily, and surely the man could sense the smile, that deep and perfect smile, the one that had charmed for decades now. We are partners now, thought Sophie with relief. Miss Lily and I can work together . . . ‘Mrs McDonald loves, and asks for love. Can John McDonald give her love?’

  The man sat still.

  ‘Love is love, no matter what has happened to the body from which it comes. Can John McDonald give the woman who loves him companionship, listening as she talks about her day? Caring about her day? Caring for her? Can John McDonald give her that?’ Miss Lily’s smile grew deeper. She leaned forward again, touched his ankle, then ran her hand slowly, so very slowly, up his pyjama-clad leg. ‘Children?’ whispered Miss Lily. ‘Can John McDonald give her children? A baby to hold in her empty arms, arms that will remain empty unless he fills them. Mrs McDonald knows her husband lives. Somehow she has always known, in her heart, that he is living. She will not marry again.’

  ‘Unless her first is dead.’ The words were only just intelligible, the bitterness profound.

  ‘I think she would not believe in his death, especially now she has found him after he was supposed to have been dead for so long, unless she saw the body. And if she did see that body, after looking for him for so long and then succeeding, only to find tragedy again, I think the heartbreak would be so great she would not risk loving, or trusting, in marriage again.’

  The man on the bed was still, except for the blinking of his lashless eyes.

  ‘Can John McDonald give her a child’s laughter?’ whispered Miss Lily, her hand still resting gently on his thigh. ‘Can he give her grandchildren to cherish when she is old?’

  The stumps of the hands moved to mound the blanket less revealingly about his loins.

  How had Miss Lily known, thought Sophie wonderingly, that John McDonald could still father children? For if he had not been able to, this conversation would only have made him more determined than ever to spare his wife.

  Miss Lily sat back, her hands now in her lap. ‘Your wife loves you very much,’ she said quietly. ‘But it is not just that. She knows you, John, even after everything. She told Sophie yesterday that she recognised the scent of you, after fourteen years. She did not even know it was possible, until she did. You are the man she loves, the man she knows. Not the man you were fourteen years ago, but the man you are now. She has spent weeks with you, and she is not a fool. You are who she wants.’

  He lay back against the pillows. It took a minute for Sophie to realise he was crying, for the gas had burned his tear ducts along with his eyes.

  ‘John?’ Sophie turned. Mrs McDonald stared at her, fury gathering in her small form. ‘What have you been saying to him, the two of you?’ she demanded, bending over the man in the bed like a small tiger in blue wool. ‘How dare you upset him like this?’

  ‘Harriet . . .’ Once again the word was more breath than voice and yet intelligible. Mrs McDonald gave a cry.

  ‘Love you,’ said the voice. ‘Have always loved you. Did not want to be a burden . . .’

  ‘A burden? John!’ Mrs McDonald flung herself against him, sobbing. The scarred stumps of arms closed about her, protective, as if they would never let her go.

  Miss Lily stood. Sophie followed her. It was only then that she saw Dr Greenman standing watching her, his brother, his sister-in-law and Miss Lily.

  Chapter 13

  True empathy means feeling another’s pain, but also their joy. It takes time to learn, my dears, but empathy is possibly the most selfish talent you can have. Once you have true empathy, the more you lose, the happier you can be that someone else has gained.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  The three of them stood in the cobbled courtyard. It had rained in the night. Mud oozed between the stones. The men from the stable ward were limping out into the feeble sunlight, helping one another. Perhaps they too wanted to give the couple in the last cubicle privacy. Sophie hoped they would be happy in their fellow patient’s joy.

  Miss Lily pressed her hand. ‘I will tell Mother Antill the good news. You will take
your brother with you today?’ she asked Dr Greenman.

  Dr Greenman nodded, his face closed to all emotion. Perhaps he, too, did not yet know what to feel, though he did not look as strained out there as he had in the stable ward.

  Sophie thought again of the man by the gate, his hut, the song and silence of the bush around him, the wide sky above and the far blue horizon. Even the smells of the ward, the sight of rows of beds, must bring back memories hard to bear. He looked at Miss Lily, not her, as he answered, ‘Yes. Harriet and I are staying at the Ritz. I am sure they can make arrangements for John too. There is a lift.’

  We might have seen them there, thought Sophie. He might have already seen Danny and Rose. And then: the Ritz. Money. The man who had lived in the hut by the gate at Thuringa had been penniless, except for threepences given to him for opening the gate. Burrawinga was evidently a prosperous property, and such families usually had other investments too. And had he returned to his profession?

  ‘I will be inside when you need me,’ said Miss Lily. She smiled at a pair of men limping past, then made her way into the main building.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Dr Greenman. He did not look at Sophie directly.

  ‘A close relative by marriage. My teacher. My best friend.’ All true, thought Sophie. Almost, indeed, the whole truth, though this man would not know it.

  ‘How did you manage that, you and . . .?’

  ‘Miss Lily.’ Sophie shrugged. She could not say, ‘Miss Lily knows exactly how to arouse a man.’ Nor was she able to casually remind Dr Greenman that his brother would by circumstance have been denied — release — for many years.

  She had once thought she knew this man, his simple goodness, the way he could see to the heart of love. She could have spoken of what had happened in the old stable to John. But to Dr Greenman? ‘There’s a seat over by the fence,’ she said. ‘We can talk privately there.’