The Lily in the Snow

by Jackie French

  James took another asparagus roll. ‘There is also a butler who reports to me, and a spy hole — which must be used discreetly — in a shadow below a gas lamp in her drawing room, through which conversations can be observed and overheard.’

  ‘And another spy hole in her bedroom?’ Sophie was not sure why she was angry on Hannelore’s behalf. Hannelore was betraying her, and Nigel too.

  ‘The prinzessin has given no reason for us to think that any supervision of her bedroom might be useful,’ said James calmly.

  Sophie was silent. Did James know Hannelore had been raped with bayonets? Had nearly died? That she would not only never take a lover, but never bear a child?

  Probably, she thought. The essentials, at least, if not the details.

  ‘You know about Violette?’ asked Green flatly. Sophie noticed that she did not call him sir, as a servant would do. ‘You know who she is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you tell me my daughter was still alive?’ Green was not quite able to keep the anguish from her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said James quietly. ‘We only discovered her existence when the prinzessin located her. As she was bound for Shillings, it seemed best to let things unfold naturally, so the girl did not become suspicious, and pass those suspicions on to the woman who called herself Maillot.’

  ‘She intended to kill me,’ said Green.

  ‘You are undoubtedly a match for a thirteen-year-old girl. The fact that you are still alive, and unwounded, would seem to support that.’

  Green made a small noise, impossible to interpret.

  ‘Miss Green, forgive me. I know this isn’t a matter for levity. It is in fact so momentous that I am not sure how to speak of it. Like you, we assumed the child had died. Madame Larresse, the woman who became her grandmother, was a formidable woman. I only wish we had realised what the prinzessin intended to do with the information before this girl came here.’

  ‘It would probably have made no difference,’ said Nigel, still impassive.

  ‘But Hannelore can’t ever know for sure about you and Miss Lily!’ protested Sophie.

  ‘She probably can,’ said James. ‘Fingerprints.’

  ‘We’re not in a Conan Doyle story!’

  ‘Actually the police now use them regularly,’ said James mildly.

  ‘Hannelore can’t be sure she has Miss Lily’s fingerprints, if they were retrieved from any item in a house where Nigel lives too,’ insisted Sophie. ‘Do you know if she even has samples of Lily’s fingerprints? How could she? She hasn’t seen her since the war.’

  ‘As far as I know, fingerprints have not been mentioned,’ said James. He hesitated. ‘Possibly she would not need proof. Gossip does not need any. Any gossip that damages Lily’s reputation, that makes her an object of scandal and curiosity, would destroy the entire network we’ve spent decades creating.’

  ‘The immediate question really,’ said Jones, ‘is what are we to do about the request to go to Germany?’

  Nigel shrugged. ‘When one’s prince orders you to be his emissary, one obeys.’

  ‘But Nigel, you and Lily —’

  ‘It is the only way to make Hannelore doubt what she thinks she has found out. It’s possible. You know it’s possible. We will meet Lily there. I can meet this firebrand German, and Lily can meet him on another occasion. Glimpses in the distance can even be arranged, with Greenie in play.’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘Too risky. Tell His Royal Highness that Lily is still travelling, that you do not know how to contact her, that she is, as always, erratic.’

  ‘Not this time. If both Vailes do not obey a royal request, Hannelore will know her suspicions are correct. After all, Miss Lily was in England only last night. She cannot have gone far enough today for a message not to reach her.’

  Sophie had never seen Nigel like this, not even during the depression before his surgery. It is because Hannelore was one of Miss Lily’s lovely ladies, thought Sophie, and has turned on her; because Hannelore is my friend; because Hannelore is sure of this in her own mind, even if she does not have the proof that would convince a court. She can now use this conviction to compel Miss Lily to appear.

  Gossip from a Mrs Maillot could be ignored. But gossip from the Prinzessin von Arnenberg, a close friend of both the earl and his wife, a long-time visitor at Shillings? Hannelore would be listened to. Others across Europe, some of them the ‘lovely ladies’ Miss Lily had instructed in the years before the war, must have also wondered how Lily was actually connected to the Vaile family. They would be fascinated. All of society would be intrigued.

  The gossip would spread like jelly on a hot plate. The Earl of Shillings? Is he, or isn’t he . . .?

  Surely Hannelore would not do that to us, thought Sophie desperately. Maybe I can explain, can make her understand . . . ‘I’ll speak to her —’ she began.

  Nigel shook his head. ‘This is Hannelore’s life, Sophie. Don’t you understand? It is all she has left. She knows that Miss Lily has influence across Europe and she will not give in until her protégé has been given access to it.’

  He crossed the room and kissed her head. ‘No escape, my dear. It’s over the top with this one. But you need not come with us. Stay here with the children, and —’

  ‘No. If you go, I go.’

  ‘We all go,’ said Jones. Green nodded. She, at least, had to go, Sophie realised, to help the complete transformation of Nigel to Lily as needed, to even give glimpses of ‘Lily’ so that others would assume they had seen Miss Lily and the Earl at the same function, a dance, perhaps, or a crowded café. And why would a lady’s maid go with an earl if his wife did not travel with him? ‘But what about Violette?’

  ‘She will come with us,’ said Jones quietly.

  ‘And what do we tell her?’

  ‘The truth, or part of it. That His Royal Highness wishes Nigel to sound out this German miracle man.’

  ‘Ah, that reminds me.’ James reached down into his satchel and brought out two documents. He held them out to Jones.

  Jones looked at one and then the other, then back at James, his face impossible to read.

  ‘What are they?’ demanded Sophie.

  ‘Two birth certificates,’ said Jones expressionlessly. ‘One for a Violet Jones, born in Shillings in 1915, one for a Violet Green.’

  ‘It is simpler if she legally becomes a British citizen,’ said James. ‘She is already a British citizen by parentage of course. But this is . . . easier. Whichever one of them you wish to use.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you brought a 1914 wedding certificate too?’ asked Green bitterly.

  ‘No. But one can be procured, if you would like one.’

  ‘Thank you, but that will not be necessary,’ said Green.

  ‘As you wish,’ said James.

  Chapter 34

  Remember this my dears: shock passes so does despair. All lives, if they are long enough, contain anguish and tragedy. The scars will remain. But the feeling of utter helplessness will not.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  Violette did not wear mauve to dinner, nor did she flirt with James. Sophie had decided that she should dine with them, and not on a tray. She needed to see how the girl behaved in public.

  Violette sat, quiet and well mannered, in a white, high-necked dress suitable for a girl who had not yet ‘come out’. The dress looked as if it might be a pre-war style, hastily refigured for modern fashion. Sophie presumed Green was already planning her daughter’s wardrobe.

  Just then she didn’t care.

  Nigel presided at the head of the table, his face pale, his smile in place. Sophie’s heart bled for him. Miss Lily had trained her lovely ladies for almost two decades, instilling in them the need for loyalty to each other, as well as giving them the skills of charm and insight that had then been the only tools a woman might wield in the world of men — and the fortitude to use those skills. Now she had been betrayed by one of them.

  But it was more th
an that, Sophie realised. She had never truly understood why Miss Lily had not returned post-war. Yes, she had tried to strengthen the ties between England and Germany, which made her suspect once the war began. But so had many others, including James. The Great War had not been inevitable. Many, or even most, in Germany had no wish for war, and without the German High Command’s successful plan for a coordinated and brutal attack on Belgian civilians, the British people might not have been sufficiently moved to support the declaration. Only once they had chosen — or been manipulated — to aid ‘plucky little Belgium’ could Germany aim for its true target — not France, but England.

  Those who had worked for peace had, for the most part, been redeemed politically, as long as they had not declared themselves pacifists during the war, like Ethel’s Quaker brother, and even he had been forgiven for the sterling work Carryman’s Cocoa had done in feeding the troops.

  Had Miss Lily not returned because women like Sophie Higgs, or Ethel Carryman, now had rights that had seemed almost impossible when Miss Lily began her work? They had the vote, the right to earn degrees, to own their own property, and even the ability to enter professions like medicine. Perhaps they would become legislators themselves.

  Most women still did not have the ability to use these freedoms: they remained mothers, daughters, servants, wives. But the upper-crust girls Miss Lily had sought out could forge their own lives, if they wished to; if other, older kinds of duty didn’t bind them. Perhaps Miss Lily had decided she was no longer relevant to the flappers of today. And, of course, the Shillings estate and its families had needed their earl to help them recover from all they had lost in the war, from their sons to their horses, their sanity or their limbs.

  Hereward brought in the roast duck, redolent with sage and onion stuffing, and spring peas, new potatoes. A good meal, that pompous old writer, Samuel Johnson, would have said, but not a meal to invite a man to. (Horrid human being. Why had any hostess ever invited Samuel Johnson to dine again?) But a meal like this also said, ‘James Lorrimer is our friend.’

  And James is a friend, thought Sophie, watching him engage Violette in the potential delights of the English seaside. Because James too must have wished to use Miss Lily’s influence and ability to move relatively unobtrusively in society over the past decade. She might not still wish to hold her court of lovely ladies, but she had two generations of contacts of which he could have made good use since the war.

  And James had either not asked or he had accepted a refusal. And James had what Hannelore did not have: proof.

  Hereward removed the duck; he brought in chocolate mousse, managing impeccably with his single hand. Samuel followed with the cream.

  Only a few months earlier Sophie had sat here with Hannelore. How could you, Hannelore? she thought. Have you any idea what you have done? What damage you can still cause?

  Green was just removing the last of the cold cream from Sophie’s face when Nigel appeared in his dressing gown. He sat on the corner of the bed till her preparations for the night were complete.

  ‘Greenie dear . . .’ Nigel touched Green’s hand as she passed, then stood up and kissed her cheek. ‘It will work out, you know,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve seen out worse,’ said Green. She did not sound convinced.

  Sophie had never seen Nigel touch Green in all the years she had known them. The master of the house did not touch a lady’s maid, except with ill intentions. Green and Miss Lily must have touched, but not Green and Nigel . . .

  He is already beginning to say Miss Lily’s final goodbyes to her, thought Sophie. And as for her . . .

  She acknowledged now that in marrying Nigel she had thought she would have Miss Lily too. Sophie was not sure how she loved her — not as a mother, and certainly with no schwarmerei or sapphic desire. There are not enough words for love between women, she thought. Sisterhood, comradeship . . . none of them was enough.

  She sat beside Nigel on the bed and held him. He rested his head on her shoulder, his eyes closed as if he was trying to see the past or even, perhaps, another future.

  At last Sophie said, ‘We can leave for Australia tomorrow. Have you thought of that? Drive to Southampton, take the first ship on which we can get passage and then travel on to Australia from whatever port we end up in.’

  Nigel leaned back against the bedpost. He smiled at her gently. ‘I think one of the things I love most about you is your ferocity. Cyclone Sophie.’

  ‘But it’s true. We don’t have to stay here. We can be gone long before David asks or orders you and Lily to do anything.’

  ‘He is Prince of Australia too.’

  ‘But it would take us weeks to get there. Weeks too before we could get back to England. I suspect David would want to speak to you in private about this, anyway. He wouldn’t risk a telegram, or even a letter. The whole point is that no one must know the heir to the English throne is interested in a German politician.’

  ‘We would need to come back to England some time, Sophie. Shillings may run beautifully, but it needs a master. Or mistress. Someone who loves it. This will be Danny’s one day too. He needs to know his land. All we’d be doing by leaving now is delaying the inevitable. Even if this Hitler fellow vanishes, as he probably will, Hannelore will find another cause to support. Nor can we risk antagonising her by disappearing before she can put her plans into action.’

  He glanced at himself in the mirror, something else Sophie had never seen him do, then looked away. ‘We need to do this, Sophie,’ he said at last.

  ‘To obey a prince? He’s just a man! You are worth a hundred of him. Or to give in to Hannelore’s blackmail?’

  ‘No,’ said Nigel softly. He took her hand. ‘To convince Hannelore she is mistaken. To make Miss Lily safe forever.’

  Chapter 35

  The test of true beauty comes at fifty. It is then that half a century of expressions have been etched upon the face, be they joy or discontent.

  Miss Lily 1913

  VIOLETTE

  She was not going to meet the prince! This, in Violette’s opinion, was unfair. Had not the king himself declared that his son should marry an Englishwoman? Which she was now, according to the piece of paper that officially made Mr Jones her papa.

  Violette had even behaved herself most beautifully at dinner, and coffee afterwards, and even at breakfast the next morning. She had not flirted with Mr Lorrimer, though as an expert in susceptible men, Violette was not entirely sure she could have enchanted him. But nonetheless, her manners had been most excellent, and where she had not been sure what to do, she had watched her ladyship for guidance. She was entirely respectable enough to meet a prince!

  Being Miss Green’s daughter might have been an embarrassment, however, had not that most interesting Mr Lorrimer sent within the week yet another two pieces of paper, these ones asserting that her parents had been married and had then divorced.

  It was slightly bewildering, suddenly having two parents, neither of whom she wished to kill. Violette even quite liked the man she now called Papa — and being legitimate, as well as having a house which was not quite a palace to live in and being — officially it seemed — the protégée of the Countess of Shillings.

  But only slightly. Violette’s life had been event-filled from her birth. And now the Prince of Wales would visit! His equerry had called that morning to say His Royal Highness would call in on his way back to Sandringham. An unofficial visit, which meant the staff would not be lined up outside to bow or curtsey to him as he entered the house, so that he could not even catch the eye of the beautiful and now entirely English, almost, young lady, who would be attired most perfectly in white.

  She could catch a glimpse of the prince from upstairs, her ladyship had suggested, as long as she was not too visible. She might even help in the nursery, as the prince would quite possibly ask to see the children.

  But if he met her there Violette would seem to be a nursery maid. A prince would never marry a nursery maid, nor even make her
his mistress. Being a royal mistress was respectable, it seemed from all she had read, even if being the mistress of any other man was not.

  Besides, Violette was not a nursery maid, though she quite enjoyed playing with Rose and Daniel, as long as it was always quite clear she would never be a servant, like her mama.

  It was impossible not to feel a little contempt for the woman she still thought of as Green, content to serve another woman instead of having a life of her own, as Violette would have, especially as there seemed to be an unlimited amount of Vaile — or Higgs — money that might be spent on finding out what that life could be.

  Exactly what her life would entail she had not yet decided. Possibly she might become a couturier, designing garments even more beautiful than those in Paris, or an aviatrix. Or, of course, she could become the Princess of Wales.

  This required a plan. The earl, it appeared, was to have a private talk with the prince in the library. The library doors opened onto the terrace. What could be more natural than the protégée of the countess wandering in the orchard and gardens, picking flowers, thus getting prickles in her most flattering white dress, and so needing to enter discreetly through the library door, flowers in her arms and, perhaps, a few tucked in her flowing blonde curls? She would then find in complete surprise that the library was occupied by a young, handsome prince. She would blush, laugh, apologise, offer him a flower . . .

  What prince could resist?

  She waited till the car drove up, till the prince had entered. Violette glimpsed him from above the stairs, as her ladyship had suggested. Smaller than he seemed in the photographs and thinner too; nor was he smiling — until her ladyship greeted him.

  Men did smile when her ladyship spoke to them, and women too. Even her mother was able to make people smile, though she did not use the art as often as the countess. That deserved further study. But not today.

  Violette waited until her ladyship emerged from the library, then slipped down the servants’ stair and out into the kitchen courtyard. From there it was an easy stroll to the orchard, full of lichened trees bearing hard green cherries and still miniature apples, pears, quinces and medlars, then through the orchard to the carefully cultivated ‘wilderness’ with its cornflowers, in full bloom now, and far more suitable for a beautiful maiden’s careless gathering than the formal roses from the beds nearer the house.