The Lily in the Snow

by Jackie French

  But now it seemed Miss Lily did not have a child. But she did have a wig, mysterious appearances and disappearances, and both Nigel and Sophie were quite unnecessarily reticent about anything involving her.

  Twenty years ago, even ten, the Prinzessin von Arnenberg would not have considered the possibility that the Earl of Shillings might lead a double life. But erotic games and gender shifts were not just commonplace but fashionable in the Weimar Republic’s Berlin. The more she thought about it, the more ‘possible’ became ‘probable’.

  So, she had . . . probable information. She had the means to use it, too. Hannelore continued to sit, thinking about the repercussions of what she planned to do.

  For there was now a problem. A major problem. If, as now seemed possible, Miss Lily and the Earl of Shillings were the one person, they would find Hitler’s views on such matters abhorrent.

  Hannelore herself did not share the Führer’s views on this particular matter. But that was such a small part of his political agenda. If — when — he achieved power, what could he do about it, except make such activities illegal? There were already laws against homosexualists in England. It simply meant one must be discreet, unlike poor Oscar Wilde who wished to shout his desires in every newspaper across Europe.

  If she approached this carefully, discreetly, with compassion, as Miss Lily herself had taught them to use, surely no one would be hurt by this, she told herself, certainly not Sophie — who she loved, even as she envied her.

  Hannelore smiled. Who would have thought, all those years ago, that the Prinzessin von Arnenberg would ever envy Miss Sophie Higgs, corned-beef heiress from Australia?

  Sophie would not like the trickery, of course. But Hannelore had also recognised her friend’s restlessness. It was familiar because she too had felt that way until Herr Hitler showed her a new future for Germany, and Europe.

  Like all of Miss Lily’s ‘lovely ladies’, Sophie needed a cause. Hannelore knew she had attended Bolshevik meetings with Lady Mary, and then to Hannelore’s relief abruptly attended no more. But National Socialism would fill that void, even if Sophie could not accept that yet.

  Hannelore glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. She must dress for Mrs Donald C. Ottaway’s Venetian luncheon: ‘Such larks, Prinzessin. Gondolas on the Thames. And Venetian costumes, of course.’

  ‘Don’t Venetians wear much the same as we do?’ Hannelore had met several Italians the last time she had been in Paris.

  Mrs Ottaway stared at her. ‘Not present-day Italians, darling. The real ones.’

  ‘Real’ meaning five hundred years earlier, perhaps. Hannelore wondered if she would be more of a real princess if she wore a glass slipper and arrived in a coach shaped like a pumpkin? Mrs Donald C. Ottaway would probably adore it.

  But one must be seen and one must be seen to smile; and possibly among those on the chilly gondolas there would be some already sickening of this febrile gaiety: men and women she might invite to dine, or even to tea. Such a productive meal, tea, Miss Lily had always said . . .

  The door opened again. ‘His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.’

  Hannelore rose. ‘David, how delightful!’ More delightful than he knew, she thought, as the next stage of the plan could not be put into place without him. And such a plan — a plan that might change the history of Europe.

  All her life the Prinzessin von Arnenberg had been taught she could play a part in history. Now, at last, she would.

  ‘You are glowing, Cousin Hanne!’ said David lightly. ‘I am not interrupting anything, am I?’

  Hannelore metaphorically cast Mrs Donald C. Ottaway and her gondolas out the window. ‘Nothing serious, my darling David. A hundred lovers are waiting for me on the tiger skin rug upstairs. But they can wait . . .’

  ‘You did say come to tea.’ He smiled. ‘But a tiger skin sounds far more interesting. Especially with you.’

  ‘But my tiger skin is already occupied by my hundred lovers.’ She sighed melodramatically. ‘Tragic, to have one’s tiger skin occupied by boring lovers when the Prince of Wales finally comes to tea. But it is only mid-morning, and I am sure you don’t really want tea. Is it too early for a cocktail?’

  ‘Not today,’ he said, a trifle grimly.

  She rang the bell. The butler appeared — he would have known she would ring almost at once and had waited outside the door. ‘Cocktails. A Prince of Wales — brandy, champagne and a touch of Cointreau. Am I correct, David?’

  He bowed over her hand. ‘Sadly, you are always correct.’ He kissed the hand. ‘Far too correct.’

  The butler backed from the room.

  ‘David, darling, do sit.’

  ‘I would rather make love to you, even if we cannot use the tiger skin.’ He was not serious. They both knew it.

  ‘I don’t dare face Freda’s wrath.’ Though the current royal mistress was not the jealous type; far from it — Freda was known to even encourage her friends to ‘care for David’ when, as a married woman, family affairs meant she was temporarily unavailable.

  But David was always careful not to have affairs with any eligible women. Marriage with a German cousin would not be wise, politically, but Hannelore was still — just — eligible as a wife. Which meant ineligible as a mistress. Though not, luckily, as a friend.

  She observed him and the smile that did not change his eyes. ‘David, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I have decided I am a poodle.’

  She waited for him to explain.

  ‘I am primped by my valet, just like a poodle. All I need is a bow in my hair. And then I am shown off to the world, as if I were the star of Crufts. I make a speech about nothing. A photograph. A poodle would do as much good and probably play the role better than I.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I am supposed to open a garden show this morning. A garden show! Two hours of looking at flower displays and saying, “Jolly good” and “I say, well done, old chap”. Do you know there is even talk of having parliament pass a law to forbid me from flying?’

  Hannelore waited till he had sat down on the sofa, then took the chair opposite him. One waited for permission to sit in royalty’s presence, but after all, Hannelore was a prinzessin, even if there was no longer a German throne.

  ‘I truly do understand, David. You were born to be a king. It is in our blood, our bones, and it has been taken from us as surely as if we had faced a firing squad. Once I, too, thought I would make a difference to the world. And after the war?’ Hannelore shrugged. ‘I was nothing.’ She reached over and took his hand. ‘But I am nothing no longer, David.’

  ‘Thanks to this politician of yours?’

  ‘Some are calling him a saviour.’

  ‘Hanne, my sweet, I cannot invite a German politician to England. My father would not allow it. The press would have a field day. I must be Prince Perfect —’

  ‘Then send an emissary to talk to him, assess his views. Someone you trust. Let him meet Adolf Hitler in your place. David, this is a chance for true peace, and not just between our nations. You know the danger of bolshevism as well as I do. No royal house is secure while bolshevism spreads across Europe. Everyone like us is at risk, even if they do not see it, refuse to see it. They drink and dance and laugh as if there is no danger lurking from slums to drawing rooms.’

  David looked at her, half serious, half flirting, wholly intrigued. ‘Whom should I send?’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I know the perfect pair. And so do you.’ She moved next to him on the sofa.

  Chapter 30

  Life is rarely as expected. This is diverting when you are young. It is not quite as diverting as you get older.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  The library door opened. ‘The post has arrived, my lady. Will you read it here?’ Hereward had carefully failed to look curious when his mistress had arrived an hour earlier than usual for breakfast, turning the kitchen into a small, speedy circus with Mrs Goodenough as its ringmaster, conjuring the us
ual array of scrambled eggs, coddled eggs on buttered asparagus toast, as well as thinly sliced liver and bacon and an offer of a ham, or cheese or fines herbes omelette to replace the kedgeree that took too long to create in ten minutes. Better no kedgeree at all than a second-rate one from Mrs Goodenough’s kitchen.

  ‘Thank you, Hereward.’ She put down her coffee cup. Green was upstairs, ostensibly cleaning a spot from Sophie’s newest dinner dress and probably sobbing. Nigel, who’d had a bad night, was breakfasting in bed on toast and tea. Jones was hunting a girl who was at best a thief and at worst . . .

  . . . she would think what the worst might be later. For there, on the silver salver, were two letters postmarked Madeira. She recognised the handwriting on neither envelope but knew instantly who they were from.

  She picked up the one in the most delicate hand first.

  The SS Lady Grey

  Cape Town

  My dear Sophie,

  Once again I must thank you and your sister-in-law for giving me and John back the lives we thought we had lost forever.

  Sophie skimmed the next page — an easy voyage so far, the two male nurses hired to care for John were proving excellent, and the stewards so kind too. She had bought small gifts for the children — possibly too many, but how could one resist? — which would arrive separately, and she was always hers, with love and gratitude, Harriet.

  She put the letter on the table for Nigel to read, then, slowly, carefully, picked up the other, deeply glad Nigel was not here to watch her as she read it, nor Jones nor Greenie.

  My dear Sophie,

  This is the letter that says what I could not say in France, for to do so would have implied that I expected you to act upon it. So this will be posted from Madeira and you will not be able to respond till we reach Melbourne.

  Quite simply, it is this: I love you. I loved you long before the night of the election. It was you, I think, who brought me back to who I am, who healed the damaged soul that left the war, who could not bear four walls enclosing him, much less the scent of hospitals or antiseptic, who was fit only for the company of kookaburras.

  I had excused myself from the world beyond the gate, you see. I had seen so much anguish, so much death. Surely I was owed a life of leaves and birdsong. I expected Harriet to marry again, once a year or two of grief had passed, and she was well provided for. I left the world and found a gate to open and close as others directed me, the simplest of lives a man could have.

  The peace healed me, slowly. I might even have returned. But why should I? I had done my duty, had seen too much. Then you entered my world. Sophie Higgs, who had seen as much as I had and yet kept going, fighting not just for the wounded in the war, but for decent lives and decent jobs for them in peace. Sophie Higgs who was beautiful and far more vulnerable than she would ever admit. Sophie, who was both of the world I’d left behind and in my new world too, of gum trees and the glinting river.

  I had so many plans that morning. No, I would never have expected you to live in a hut. John would have become Dr Greenman again, a brief source of gossip for a while, but I didn’t think you would mind that. Sophie Higgs had not given herself to a man until that night. Why should I doubt you would give yourself to me forever?

  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had waited to leave until you woke. Even if that telegram had arrived just two days later. Would you have agreed to marry me? Having agreed to marry me, would you have jilted me for your earl? Or would you have flown to save him, as a friend, but then come back to me? Would you have been happier if you had?

  That too is what I couldn’t say in France. I do not believe Sophie Higgs married to become a countess. Nor, though I like your Nigel very much indeed, am I confident you would have married him if you had not felt it was necessary to help to save his life and the people of the estate he cares about so deeply.

  He told me, you see, while you and Harriet walked ahead with the children, how you had flown to him, cast out his vampire cousin, arranged his surgery and his recovery. He also told me you had refused to marry him seven years before and had insisted that your true home was Australia.

  He is a good man, Sophie. But he knows that at some deep level you are not content.

  Hence this letter. It is not the missive of a would-be lover. I am not urging you to leave your husband and I never would. Like John and Harriet, I believe marriage is a merging of two lives and not something that can be cast away and another taken up.

  I am however, urging you to talk to Nigel: to return to Australia not just for a short visit, but to see if you are happier here, where you are not subordinated to an English estate and title. I am also trying not to let my longing to see you, and the children, influence me in this, but of course it does. Take that into account too as you consider my advice.

  This is a strange love letter, isn’t it? I have never written one before. I am not sure I ever will again. There is unlikely to ever be another Sophie Higgs in my life, a woman I not only love but trust and deeply admire, but who could also understand so completely what will probably continue to be brief lapses, when I am in 1917 once more and find it difficult to fight my way back to the present.

  Don’t worry: I will not pester you by repeating what I have said here. My other letters to you — and there will be more — will be from Uncle Daniel, giving you news of Harriet and John, of Midge McPherson, whom I will visit as soon as John is settled, of Thuringa and the river, and of the life and medical practice I will slowly establish in Sydney.

  My darling Sophie: let me indulge myself by saying those words for the last time. I love you and wish you happiness always.

  Yours, forever more,

  Daniel and John

  Two men, she thought. Am I forever doomed to love men cleft in two? Daniel and John, Nigel and Lily. But Daniel had found himself again. And Nigel?

  Nigel was happiest as Lily. She knew it. He knew it. In saving Nigel’s life and his estate — and by giving him a wife and two children he adored — Sophie had also separated him from who he truly was. And neither of them could admit it to the other.

  A door slammed. No one who lived in this house would slam a door. The breakfast-room door opened.

  ‘I’ve found her,’ said Jones.

  Chapter 31

  This is the truth no girl ever dreams of: she too will grow a moustache as she gets older. I recommend a dextrous maid and cooling toffee spread across your upper lip, which will take the hairs with it when it is removed. The method is also useful to remove the hair on your legs. You may think stockings and a skirt will hide leg hair. They do not.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  SOPHIE

  Sophie slid Daniel’s letter into the desk drawer, then looked at the girl in the doorway. She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said the girl at last. ‘I have brought your pearls back, and the painting.’ She pulled the ropes of pearls and then a roughly folded square of canvas from her coat pocket. ‘I hope you can glue it back in its frame.’

  Sophie winced. She knew little about art. She did, however, know that one did not glue a canvas to its backing or frame and that a Rembrandt with creases cutting through the oil paint was worth considerably less than one intact. ‘Are you apologising for robbing me or for hurting your parents who have done nothing to deserve the pain that you inflicted? Or are you sorry for worrying us? Or are you sorry only for yourself?’

  The girl considered. ‘All of those,’ she admitted.

  Sophie glanced at Jones. ‘Did Violette want to come back, or did you make her come?’

  ‘No one makes me go anywhere!’

  ‘That answers that then,’ said Sophie. ‘Perhaps you will tell me why you have decided to return.’

  ‘I had nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Ah. Jones, I think Greenie should be here to hear this, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ said Jones grimly. ‘And Nigel.’ He left the room.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ asked Sophie.


  ‘You haven’t called the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you are offering me coffee?’

  ‘And cherry cake. It is extremely good cherry cake.’

  ‘I know. But I do not know why you do this.’

  ‘I could say because your parents are my friends as well as our loyal employees, and both my husband and I care for them deeply and owe them a lot,’ said Sophie slowly. ‘But that would not be the whole truth.’

  She smiled at Violette, flirtatious, pretty Violette who had not yet learned how one could beguile other women as well as men. Nor had she learned that the most effective charm depended on understanding the person you wished to please or manipulate.

  And once you understood, you felt a little of their joy and pain.

  ‘You are a casualty of the war just as much as Hereward, or any other man injured in the trenches. You were born in war and brought up in its aftermath.’

  ‘So you feel sorry for me?’ demanded Violette.

  Sophie nodded.

  ‘I do not want your pity!’

  ‘Too late. You have it. But pity would not lead me to offer you a home with us, in my home or homes. I like you,’ said Sophie simply. ‘You remind me a little of myself.’

  Violette frowned. ‘We are nothing alike. You are rich, and small, and I am tall and —’

  ‘And ruthless, loyal and extremely interesting.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Violette. ‘Are you ruthless, loyal and extremely interesting?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Sophie evenly.

  ‘My father, Mr Jones, says he will teach me jiu-jitsu,’ offered Violette.

  ‘Excellent. I will ask him to teach me too.’

  ‘You really intend to study this jiu-jitsu?’

  ‘Of course. Violette, if you choose to give us the loyalty you gave your grandmother and that she gave her comrades, then we will be loyal to you too.’ Sophie heard Green’s and Nigel’s voices in the hall. ‘Can you promise us loyalty?’ she asked quickly.