‘Not Violette?’
‘No. I hadn’t had her baptised — I wanted Huw — Jones — to be there, perhaps even see if we could be married first, so she would seem legitimate. James Lorrimer might have arranged that. But I can’t take her name away now. It’s been changed too many times already,’ said Green bitterly. ‘How does the stupid man think I could have told him I was pregnant? In a letter, to be read by the censor and his Commanding Officer? For all I knew they’d have him up on a charge, at the very least report him and make him sign away part of his wages, as they did with married men. I had to wait till I could see him.’
‘You didn’t think to tell him after the war?’
‘That he’d had a child and lost her before he even met her? After he had lost a wife and child before? It would have been cruel.’
And honest, thought Sophie. And a permanent link to Jones that Green obviously had not wanted.
Green stood and grabbed a hairbrush angrily. ‘I suppose we should get married. But, knowing Huw Jones, now that there is actually a reason to get married he probably won’t want to.’
Jones was one of the least temperamental people Sophie had ever met. He would be reasonable about this too, once the shock subsided. But this was not the time to say that to Green.
‘If you keep brushing like that I will end up bald.’ Sophie took the hairbrush from her and began the required hundred strokes each side. ‘I don’t see why you need to marry.’
‘Everyone else will see the need.’
‘For a while, perhaps. It would be different if Violette were younger, or if you couldn’t give her a secure home without marriage. But, after all, you both live in the same house anyway. Greenie, darling,’ she tried to find the words, ‘I know it is unfair when you have only just found your daughter. But she is what, nearly fourteen? In a few years she will have her own life — one that hopefully has you in it, but not necessarily with you. Dad used to say, “Children are only borrowed.”’
Sophie felt a sudden longing for him, the man she had loved and admired completely. ‘He was middle-aged when I was born, his only child, yet he arranged for me to come to England, leaving him behind. I only had a few months with him after I came back from the war. Even if you and Jones were married, Violette would be learning to be independent, at school, perhaps, then married.’
‘I can’t see her going to school.’
‘I can,’ said Sophie with feeling. ‘Though I would pity the school. But Greenie, darling, speaking as the fairly respectable Countess of Shillings, I don’t think you need to be bound to Jones for the sake of the few years left that your daughter will be with you. You and she and Jones will still be together whether you marry or not.’
‘Yes,’ said Green with feeling, not quite slamming the dressing table drawer.
‘What do you want?’ asked Sophie gently.
‘I want my baby back,’ Green wailed. ‘I want Angélique! I want to feel her in my arms, to hold her, hug her. My arms are so empty. I want to teach her to sew and take her to the circus . . .’ The tears began to fall again. ‘And I can’t have any of it. None!’
‘The sewing is possible,’ said Sophie, incurably pragmatic. ‘And you might take her to the circus. Though she might then demand an elephant to ride.’
‘She is going to be trouble.’ It was almost an apology.
‘Yes, thank goodness. I was becoming quite bored.’
‘I know,’ said Green.
‘Were you bored?’
Green considered, wiping away the last of the tears. ‘Only a very little. I think I have been happy, the last two years, being here, being with Huw. His lover, but not having to cook his breakfast and darn his socks. Knowing I did not have to be his lover tomorrow, if I didn’t want to, but knowing too that I probably would want to be and keep wanting to . . .’
‘Nigel says he has earned a peaceful life at home.’
‘I think perhaps I have too,’ said Green. ‘Perhaps I even want one now.’
Sophie grinned. ‘I doubt your motherhood is ever going to be peaceful.’ She did not add that she had asked Hereward to set a footman to watch the door of the Blue Bedroom, just in case its inmate decided to steal the Botticelli in the hall or the Constable in the library or a silver coffee pot or two. Or burn down the house.
She had no doubt Violette was who she claimed to be: the girl’s fury hid too much anguish. But she also knew that past horror led to instability. A girl who was used to a life that was dangerous, hidden and at times bizarre would expect her future life to be like that too. Her expectations might even create it.
Shillings contained Sophie’s children, husband, friends. Her people.
She would make sure they were safe.
Chapter 25
Some men think size matters most to their lovers, or their wealth or the ability to do clever things with their fingers. On the contrary, I have always found sexual success depends mostly on one’s partner’s empathy, imagination, and a sense of fun.
Miss Lily, 1913
VIOLETTE
There was a footman in the corridor outside the bedroom, seated behind a . . . a thing . . . tall, with a pot on it. His legs were stretched out, so presumably he was going to sit there all night.
Violette was not experienced in the homes of noblemen, but she assumed that footmen were not usually perched about the house each evening. This one was watching her.
A nuisance.
She shut the inch of door she had unobtrusively opened, sat on the bed — the luxurious bed, with a satin cover and linen that smelled of lavender, just like the far thinner sheets had with Grandmère — and considered.
She could stay here. It would be sensible: security and comfort.
Sensible however had never been a major feature of her behaviour, nor Grandmère’s.
If she stayed here she would be the daughter of servants. The woman called Green clearly did regret losing her child, but she did not know Violette and, quite possibly, would not like her when she did.
Men, in Violette’s experience, were more easily manipulated than women. She was reasonably certain she could manage Jones. But did she want to? She had slightly more experience of fathers than of noble houses — there had been fathers in the village where they lived, all of whom expected their daughters to do as they were told. It could be wearying, having to manipulate a father all the time.
Her ladyship had said that Violette could do whatever she wished. But evidently did not include learning to fly, which she had suggested to see what their reactions might be. ‘Whatever she wished’ might only be chosen from those activities selected from a narrow menu of school and helping in the house, which here might mean helping to tend her ladyship.
The clothes of her ladyship and Miss Lily — who had not appeared again — were the greatest inducement to stay. Violette’s greatest pleasure, after manipulating fools, was gazing at beautiful garments, their flow, their cut, their fabric and ornamentation. But clothes were not enough. For now, for the first time since Grandmère’s death, there was someone who did love her, someone whose life she could change with warmth and comfort. And the south of France!
Violette had seen the south of France often in the illustrated papers. Aristocrats and film stars sunning on the Riviera, beaches and bathing suits and handsome men who might be useful, plus many, many gorgeous outfits that with good fabric she might even imitate with her needle. All she needed was money.
She used her knife to unpick the stitching that had sewn Mr Maillot’s trousers, shirt and jacket onto the lining of her coat — the disguise she had expected to need once she had killed Lily Shillings. She quickly slipped them on, shrugged the coat over it all, and then slid the men’s shoes and hat into the pockets.
She inspected herself in the mirror. With her hair loose she still looked like a girl, if a trifle bulky. If a servant saw her now they would only wonder why she wore a coat indoors.
She opened the window, then tested the wide window ledge. S
olid. Excellent. A well-maintained window was a rarity, in her experience. She crept out, sat, twisted, bent till her fingers held the edge of the ledge, then grasped the bare ivy stems and dropped.
Ivy was not enough to take the weight of a girl, even one as slim as Violette. But it was enough to guide her fall so that she didn’t land too heavily on the ground. She peered in the nearest window. A curtain and darkness. She had not seen what this room was, but it seemed likely to be unused at this time of night, when the servants would be asleep. She lifted the window.
It didn’t move. She hadn’t thought it would. She wrapped her sleeve about her knife and hit the glass sharply, only once. It cracked, but did not shatter, and the noise was not loud. Nonetheless, she waited.
Ten quiet minutes later she quickly pushed at the glass again, removing shards piece by piece until the way was clear, then slid inside past the curtains. She lit a stub of candle retrieved from her pocket and looked around.
A wooden table, with silver serving dishes on it, and cleaning cloths. Tempting, but a silver tureen would be noticeable, unless she pretended to be enceinte. She grinned at the idea but quickly rejected it. Silver teaspoons: yes.
She opened the door quietly, waited, then slipped down the hall towards the library. She had noticed some most useful items there. The most useful of all, of course, were the pearls in her pocket that she had palmed when . . . such a good child . . . she had gone to say another good night to the woman who had borne her. Three very long strands of such large pearls should keep her and Mrs Maillot nicely for many years. Violette opened the library door and reached for the small painting above the desk.
Chapter 26
Love, friendship, justice: each has been constructed by people, for people, so we can co-exist. Do not expect fate to deal with you with justice. It does not know the word.
Miss Lily, 1913
SOPHIE
‘She’s gone,’ said Green grimly.
Sophie woke, sat, looked hopefully for the cup of tea and Bath biscuits, and saw none. The bed beside her was empty. Nigel had slept in his own room that night, as he did sometimes when he was in pain, and his restlessness might disturb her.
‘Violette?’ and then more urgently, ‘Rose and Danny?’
‘In their nursery, still asleep.’ Green glared at her. ‘You didn’t think my daughter would harm your children, did you?’
No more than you did, if you have already checked on them before coming here, thought Sophie. ‘Are you sure Violette hasn’t just gone for a walk?’
‘Hereward fetched Jones. The window in the butler’s pantry has been broken, and the Blue Bedroom’s window is open. Samuel was in the hall all night and didn’t see her leave.’
‘Which means she didn’t want to be seen,’ said Sophie slowly. She pulled the bell, as Green evidently was not going to bring tea and she needed it. ‘But she broke in again. Why?’
Green looked at her mutely.
‘What has she taken?’ asked Sophie.
‘We don’t know yet. Your pearls to begin with. Do you want my resignation?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly.’
Green frowned at her.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Can you forget I employ you for a few minutes? And that Nigel’s bloody ancestors employed yours and impregnated half of them for the last thousand generations? Of course I don’t want you to resign. I thought . . .’
. . . that we were a family, thought Sophie, if an unconventional one. But she supposed that even in families one person might decide to remove themselves . . .
‘Your pearls,’ repeated Green.
‘I heard you. Giggs gave them to me and I loved them, but they’re just jewellery. And, yes, I know,’ she said wearily, ‘that it is easy for the owner of Higgs’s Corned Beef to dismiss the loss of tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of pearls. Ah, Amy, tea please, two cups, no, three, extremely strong, and with a vast amount of toast and honey, not just biscuits. Quickly, if you’d be so good.’ She waited till Amy had left. ‘Has Jones gone to find her?’
‘He rang from the station. No one boarded the milk train except a young man.’
‘Ah. I hope he has followed the young man.’
‘He should catch up with the train before London. He’ll be able to check anyone who gets off at most of the stops after that. Sophie, are you going to call the police?’
‘Of course not.’ The door opened again, revealing an earl, not tea, but just as welcome. ‘Nigel, darling.’ She lifted her cheek for a kiss. ‘I’ve called for tea and toast.’
‘Good. The Rembrandt from the library has gone.’
‘Clever girl, to recognise a Rembrandt.’
‘And cut it from its frame,’ said Nigel grimly.
‘Someone has trained her well. Or badly. You know what I mean.’
Green sat numbly on the dressing stool. ‘I’m sorry. I . . .’
Sophie swung herself out of bed and took her hand. ‘You don’t know what to feel.’
‘I know exactly what I feel. Angry. Manipulated. I . . . I know what I don’t feel.’
‘Love?’ asked Nigel quietly.
Green nodded. ‘I don’t love her. I loved Angélique. I loved her desperately, but I don’t even know her now, this Violette. Do you think she guessed? That she knew I didn’t love her as I should, and that’s why she left?’
‘Possibly,’ said Sophie. ‘I . . . I don’t think motherhood is quite that instinctive, not if you haven’t seen her for most of her life.’
‘It should be,’ said Green miserably.
‘Greenie, darling, it may still work out.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie honestly. ‘What was this grandmère of hers like?’
Green smiled. ‘Formidable. She was the driving force behind what would become La Dame Blanche in the whole region, though most of us only knew a very few other members. Safer that way — each group would have contact with a single member of one other group. The old lady once slit the throat of a soldier trying to rape the fishmonger’s wife, then strangled the companion who came looking for him with her stocking. A useful technique for any woman — you slip off a stocking, tie a slip knot, loop it around their neck as they come towards you then fall back, letting your weight do the strangling. Then you put the stocking back on — it only takes seconds, completely quiet, and the stocking shouldn’t even be laddered.’
‘Thank you. I will remember that technique the next time I am bored at a dinner,’ said Sophie drily. ‘What happened to the men’s bodies?’
‘Madame had them arranged carefully in the forest, trousers at their ankles, so that it looked as if they had been . . . interested . . . in each other, and one of their comrades had killed them in revulsion or jealousy. No reprisals on the village for those two, at least.’ Green seemed calmer relating her wartime stories.
‘Where had the grandmother learned all this?’
‘I taught her,’ said Green. She glanced at Nigel. ‘Some of it I knew already. Mr Lorrimer also arranged for a few weeks’ training for those of us heading into Belgium.’
‘You didn’t think to come home when you found out you were pregnant?’ asked Nigel.
‘My pregnancy was partially why I was in Belgium. What home? You and Jones were in France. I was unmarried! How could I come back here? The scandal would have been all over the estate. And at my age too. A sixteen-year-old unwed mother may be forgiven. A forty-year-old one? And besides, my pregnancy was a useful disguise. No one suspects a pregnant woman of violent sabotage.’
‘At least Violette didn’t blow up the glasshouses,’ said Sophie. ‘Oh, Greenie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘All right, yes, I did, but tragedy is easier if you can find something to smile about. Oh tea, wonderful!’ as the bedroom door opened. ‘Amy, thank you. On the dressing table, please.’
Tea might not solve a problem, but drinking it was a comfort an
d a pause.
Chapter 27
Men too often ignore women. Many a wife has had an interesting life as a mathematician or botanist and her husband hasn’t noticed, especially if their work is published only under their initials. No, I am not suggesting a discreet academic career for you, my dears. I am instead strongly advocating that before you marry, you find out what fulfils you, fascinates you, and then forge a life that will allow you to achieve it.
Miss Lily, 1913
VIOLETTE
A man’s hat, clothes and a carpetbag found in the housekeeper’s room fooled a half-asleep station guard in the pre-dawn light. Violette alighted at the first junction, changed her clothes swiftly in the toilet block, thankfully deserted at this hour of the morning, then bought a ticket to Edinburgh, just in case anyone enquired who had bought a ticket that morning, and where they might be travelling to. The journey to Edinburgh would mean changing at London, and the railway station nearest Mrs Maillot’s home was on the London line.
The tickets took all the money she had, apart from a few pennies; nor, she knew, would the pearls, the silver spoons or the painting be easily converted into cash. Pearls could be rethreaded into smaller necklaces and go to a pawnbroker, but finding a buyer for the painting was beyond the skills she had learned from the girls at the orphanage.
The Riviera, however, would have wealthy people, and where there were wealthy people there would be others who supplied whatever they might want. In a year or two Violette was sure she could dispose of the Rembrandt — one of the few artists whose name she knew. They would not get its true value, of course, but enough to buy a cottage.
No one seemed to have noticed her, not muffled now in Mrs Maillot’s coat with a cloche hat pulled down over her ears. She felt secure enough to alight at the right station, well before the ‘change all’ at Waterloo. Of course Mrs Maillot was not there to meet her — they had spoken only the night before and naturally she would expect her to stay with her new mother. Perhaps she should have divulged to her her intentions. But no, not with all the operators listening in, including the Shillings operator who would have certainly warned his lordship . . .
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