The Lily in the Snow
Page 11
Mrs Maillot smiled. ‘That is supposed to be its charm.’
Violette shrugged. Fantasy led to stupidity, and stupidity could end in death, like the pretence of certain villagers that the Boche could be their friends, and the refusal of so many to accept that the hungrier people grew, the more savage they became. This ‘Alice’ would not have survived long in wartime, or in the . . . readjustments . . . afterwards if she had confused her fantasies with the reality around her.
Grandmère had taught her adopted granddaughter what a girl in the post-war world must know: that the best way to kill a collaborator was with a knife struck just there, into the kidney, so they died almost immediately and quietly, with little blood; how hemlock could be disguised in a liqueur; how felt could be soaked in evaporated urine for an improvised explosive; and how the tears of an old woman or a girl would mean no one guessed that you had set that explosive under the railway bridge.
For only a fool believed war would not come again. Grandmère had not been a fool. And she had learned all too well only to trust the smallest possible number of comrades.
Violette only dimly remembered the war years. The 20s had been more vivid: the return of men who had lived with violence and who saw no reason why it should be entirely put away, men who believed that all women should be owned by a man, be it a father or husband, and any who were not so owned were fair prey.
Grandmère had shown her how to deal with men like that too.
She missed Grandmère. Grandmère could turn stale bread, two onions and a hard heel of cheese into a soup for an emperor. Mrs Maillot, on the other hand, turned a very good piece of beef into grey leather, with grey gravy and grey potatoes too. And she approved of books like this Alice in Wonderland.
But that would change when they reached the south of France.
For Violette had a plan. If — when — she killed Lily Shillings, she would need a new life. Mrs Maillot needed a fresh start too. Down in the south of France they would be free of the London fog blanketing the crouching bungalows, the yellow grey sky, the smell of coal in that small house where only small lives could be lived.
All they needed was money. As soon as Violette had seen Shillings she had known money could easily be obtained. A woman who lived in magnificence like that would wear jewels, almost certainly pearls, and rings, and perhaps a brooch. That woman would not interview the most embarrassing girl claiming to be her daughter in the hall, where servants might overhear. She would take her to a drawing room, which would undoubtedly be rich in small valuable items that could be secreted under her clothes.
Miss Lily Shillings might even offer to pay an allowance. That would be tempting — years of money, and no worry about interfering police. But it would not be justice; nor would it be revenge.
A few weeks earlier justice and revenge had been all she sought. Now she was going to take whatever she could manage from Shillings to support herself and Mrs Maillot in a land with warm, clean air, and where they spoke a civilised language. Mrs Maillot might find it strange at first, but the fresh air and warmth would be good for her, Violette thought firmly. She was also sure the older woman would do anything, including follow her to a foreign land, rather than lose a daughter a second time.
Violette touched Mrs Maillot gently on the hand. ‘Will you be all right when I go to Shillings tomorrow?’
Mrs Maillot did not buy newspapers, but she and Violette did visit the library, and there Mrs Maillot had seen the photo in the Daily Mail — ‘The Earl and Countess of Shillings Return from the Continent’.
It was time. Time for one life to end, and hers and Mrs Maillot’s to truly begin.
‘Of course I will, my darling girl. You must wrap up warmly. I will wait at the station again for you to return on the evening train. But if . . . if you do decide to stay I will phone Shillings,’ said Mrs Maillot with uncertain determination. ‘I must hear from your own lips that you have found your mother, that her family will accept you. I must know that you are safe.’
Violette smiled. ‘I do not think an earl will murder me.’ He would not have a chance to.
‘But nonetheless, if you are not on the train I will go to the call box at eight o’clock tomorrow evening. I will write down its number for you too. If you are in trouble someone may answer it and fetch me.’
Who? wondered Violette. They had yet to meet any neighbours. Even at church Mrs Maillot had not greeted anyone. Her life seemed to have been sliced away by the death of her husband and daughter.
But she smiled and nodded anyway. ‘I will be back before eight or expect your call,’ she lied. Instead, if this time she did find her mother and exact the retribution she deserved, she would send Mrs Maillot a telegram from the train station telling her not to worry, and that she would contact her soon. It might not be possible to discreetly kill the woman who had abandoned her.
She would need to vanish. That would not be hard. She had already chosen the clothes from the wardrobe of the dead Monsieur Maillot — trousers that could be worn under the coat. Mrs Maillot had loaned her a coat, and her dress would do as a shirt. She would hide her hair under a hat, and pull a too-tight chemise over her bosom. A boy, not a girl or man. Enough of a disguise to reach the Channel . . .
And that might be all that would be needed. For she did not think that the family of Lily Shillings, those aristocrats, would admit who had killed their relative. They might tell the police about a mad girl, perhaps, who had attacked poor Miss Shillings for some unknown reason. But they would not want it known she was Lily Shillings’s bastard daughter. Nor, perhaps, would they even want her caught, to tell her story.
They might not even mention the thefts, in case the jewellery and whatever other items she might take led to her capture, and headlines in the News of the World.
A little disguise only, and for a short time, then Violette would become Daisy, springing up anew.
Chapter 17
There are two ways to achieve power over another: slavery and domination, or service, understanding what the other person needs and wants, and providing it. The latter sounds like sainthood. It isn’t. It will be you, of course, who will decide what the other needs, though hopefully with empathy and compassion.
Miss Lily, 1913
SOPHIE
It was good to be home.
They had spent another month in Paris, while the McDonalds waited for passage home on a ship that could accommodate a wheelchair.
Sophie and Harriet McDonald had walked in the sunlight each day, Mrs McDonald pushing her husband in his wheelchair, a hat and scarf concealing his face from those who might stare.
They talked of Burrawinga, of Thuringa, of horses, dogs and children.
It was a hesitant friendship at first. Sophie Vaile, née Higgs, was not of the squattocracy. Indeed, she had first come to England to be remade into a level of respectability sufficient to become a squatter’s son’s fiancée. Now, as a countess and mother of the heir to an ancient title, she was socially well above Mrs McDonald, while simultaneously several rungs below her.
Within two days none of that mattered.
John McDonald did not try to talk during these outings, partly because he was only beginning to articulate through his scarred lips, but also because the world bewildered him, even as he enjoyed it. He was in shock as well as joy, as was his wife. Luckily both realised it. They treated themselves gently: walking, talking, eating and watching, his brother and the Vailes their only companions.
Sometimes Daniel accompanied them, and Nigel on rare occasions too. But Nigel understood that social ties are essentially wrought by women, even if they do so on behalf of their men. If the McDonald–Vaile connection was to be easy, Sophie and Harriet must like each other.
Luckily they did.
Now and then the children also went on these walks. As Sophie expected, neither showed anything but transient interest in John McDonald’s scars. Rose had traced his face gently, as if waiting to see if her touch hurt, then, reassured, gav
e him a slobbery kiss and toddled off after pigeons. Danny had shaken his hand, a skill he had only just acquired, looking only curious when the ‘hand’ presented turned out to be a stump.
Both then happily departed in search of ice cream or pomme frites with Uncle Daniel, ostensibly to leave Sophie and Harriet to talk. If Harriet noticed that Rose shared the intense green eyes of her brother-in-law, she did not mention it.
Sophie also spent part of those weeks in Paris conferring with her agent, who almost successfully hid his knowledge from her that this close attention by his employer was not needed except, perhaps, by her.
In between she was . . . coaxed . . . by Green to the new fashion house of Schiaparelli, who had not yet proper headquarters, and believed that the ancient Greeks had given to their goddesses the serenity of perfection and the fabulous appearance of freedom.
Elsa Schiaparelli had discarded the chemise, believing that clothes should not only give freedom, but celebrate the body beneath them. Sophie wished Miss Lily could have attended these visits too, but an experienced fitter might be too perspicacious; nor could Miss Lily abandon undergarments as Sophie might. Sophie found that she could not ask if Green had already given the fashion house Miss Lily’s measurements — if that had been done, had Miss Lily asked for it, it could be a sign that she intended to return sometimes once more.
The new fashions were adorable. Pleated overdresses in lace and chiffon, shorter knee-length silk sheaths below: the natural female shape had returned after nearly a decade of flat chests. Sophie, whose chest was decidedly not flat, rejoiced.
Divine suede culottes, much like men’s Oxford bags, but shorter; evening dresses that clung to the shoulders and bust but then hung in tiers of pleats, allowing one to run from a charging polar bear, if by any chance the fireside rug should come to life; even man-style suits cut to show the female figure, though with larger buttons and embroidered collars, topped by fur-trimmed coats or velvet cloaks, diamonds daringly hung on ribbons, instead of gold chains, or crafted into ivory or ebony and ringed with topaz.
Only once, at a private showing, the models parading in creations madame was sure la Comtesse would adore, did Sophie see a small woman with slightly too blonde hair being shepherded into another room, an older man in smiling attendance.
Sophie had carefully forgotten the woman who was her mother, or had at least placed her in a locked room in her memory. On her father’s death she had reduced the monthly payment to her. It was enough to live on, but not to afford ‘Schiap’s’ clothes. But the deeply self-centred woman who had borne her had, unsurprisingly, found another protector.
She almost didn’t care.
‘Almost’, however, was enough to reduce her pleasure in houses of fashion. It was time to head home.
It was strangely sad to wave to the McDonalds and Dr Greenwood as their car left to take them to the ship. Sophie had expected to miss Daniel, but in the past month Harriet, and to a lesser extent John, had become friends whom she missed almost as much. Those who were not just marked by war, but who had refused to bow down to its ravages, would always have a bond.
The first small breaths of spring gusted warmth and blossom as they drove down the lanes. The snow had melted. Even the rain showers seemed made of brighter drops than in winter. Each tree’s leaves were at a different stage of opening, from bud curl to pale green. Cuckoos called, and woodpeckers tapped.
At last they drove through the Shillings gates. The lawn was spring green, and snowdrops clustered by the lichened walls. Shillings had always wrapped itself around her, even when she was Miss Lily’s student before the war, though Thuringa was more deeply in her heart.
Now, with the mellow stone and mossy tree trunks, the hedges that had grown small communities of flowers and ferns over centuries, and Hereward and the staff lined up to welcome them, this was home.
And it was a lovely home, she admitted next afternoon as she blotted a letter to Cousin Oswald, so perfectly managing her businesses in Australia. Waking to the sounds of the children down the corridor had been a delight, as was being served at breakfast by Hereward, and deciding the day’s menus with Mrs Goodenough.
Nigel was out on the estate to admire six new breeding sows and the growth in the new plantations. She had a letter from Emily, inviting her to an ‘African Safari’ at their London house to raise funds for a regimental widows and orphans fund; a more welcome letter from Giggs, now living happily with her mother-in-law on the estate her son would inherit; cards from seven women she had met once and only vaguely remembered, offering social delights that varied from a Tahitian Breakfast to a supper ‘with artistic dancing’, which probably meant half-nude and untrained. A hilarious note from Ethel also awaited her, about the responses of East End mothers seeking family planning, or, as Ethel put it, ‘Not-Family Planning’.
David had even invited them to Balmoral with Queen Mary’s blessing though, unusually tactfully for David, it had been an unofficial invitation — one did not turn down formal ones. Sophie did not want to go — court protocol bored her, and court conversation bored her even more. Poor David, who had to endure so much of it. They would use Nigel’s health as an excuse.
She had a library full of books, some of which she might even wish to read, a divine new wardrobe she might try on, a pony to choose as a birthday present for her goddaughter, darling Mouse’s child, and a whole estate’s worth of households to visit and benevolently interfere with. She might even plan another glasshouse in which to grow flowers for the London market and provide at least three jobs for ex-servicemen or widows.
And yet . . .
Her youth had been full of the excitement of being in England, a colonial challenging society and winning, then the war and its aftermath. She had restructured her business and stood for parliament — and then the flight across the world to Nigel. Life could not always be as urgent as all that when one had children.
She looked at the garden beyond the window, spring-wet grass rather than snow-melt sludge, yellow daffodils shoving their heads into the light. Daniel, Harriet and John would be on their way back to Australia now, while she just sat there . . .
What did women in her position fill their lives with? Supporting their husband’s political career? Nigel no longer seemed to want one. Nor had he the stamina perhaps, even if he managed to be successful. Costume balls and luncheons? Playing roulette on the Riviera? She smiled at the thought. The only people she wanted to ask for luncheon were busy — Midge and Maria in Australia, Ethel running her clinics (her mind still boggled at the concept of Ethel instructing the fecund women of the East End of London in the use of Dutch caps), Anne, who she had liked enormously the year before, back on an archaeological dig in Mesopotamia, the Dowager Duchess of Wooten too frail in mind and body . . .
For a moment she thought enviously of Hannelore and her Herr Hitler. At least she was working to change the world as Miss Lily’s protégées had been trained to do. I need a cause, she thought, or at least a project. But what could she do here, isolated at Shillings, intending to leave for Australia before next winter?
The library door opened. ‘Yes, Hereward?’
‘Excuse me, your ladyship, there is a young person at the door. She wishes to see Miss Lily, your ladyship.’
Not a ‘young lady’, but not someone to send around to the back either. ‘What does she want?’ Collecting for charity, perhaps, though Hereward would have asked one of the members of the Ladies’ Guild to wait in the hall, or in the drawing room if she were an acquaintance.
Hereward experienced just-visible pain in not being able to answer this question to his mistress’s satisfaction.
Sophie put down her pen. ‘You explained that Miss Lily is no longer in residence?’
‘Yes, your ladyship. The young person has called before, while you were in France. She is more — insistent this time, your ladyship.’ Hereward’s face became even more impassive. ‘She has just claimed that Miss Lily is her mother, your ladyship.’
‘What is her name?’
‘She calls herself Violette Shillings, my lady.’
‘I need to ask his lordship about this. Show her into the small drawing room when I ring,’ Sophie said at last. The small drawing room had been Miss Lily’s sanctum. It was also in the wing of the house below their bedroom and could be reached by the side stairs, where the servants or other guests would not see Nigel ascend, and Miss Lily descend. ‘We don’t wish to be interrupted.’
She slipped the letter into its envelope, then went to tell her husband that his alternative persona seemed to have produced a child.
She found him not at the piggery, but in the field below the orchard, inspecting a bull. A very fine bull, who would service many cows. Human society would be so much more convenient, Sophie thought, if the best male specimens could be put to stud, leaving all other arrangements to love. ‘A visitor,’ she said quietly.
‘Excellent choice,’ Nigel said to the farmer — Roger Rothomley, Greenie’s second cousin . . . or was he twice removed? They were confusingly inter-related here. ‘If you’ll excuse me old chap, I’d better attend to this.’
She and Nigel walked to the house arm and arm, while Sophie explained. ‘What on earth are we to do with her?’ she finished. ‘The girl must be deluded, of course.’
‘Possibly not,’ said Nigel.
Sophie stared at him. ‘You can’t be serious. Whatever do you mean?’
Nigel shrugged. ‘Maybe nothing.’
‘Or something. What?’
‘I’ll explain if it’s necessary. Sophie, I’m sorry, I don’t really have the right to explain unless I have to. But if this “young person” wants to see Miss Lily, then she should see her.’