The Lily in the Snow

by Jackie French

  So why were they here?

  She took Ruffi’s arm as they entered the dining room. He wore white tie — no newfangled dinner jacket. At least no animal heads adorned the walls there: only ancestors’ faces, all long nosed and none bearing any resemblance to Ruffi. Sophie wondered mischievously if they had been purchased at the same time as the animal heads, and the portraits of the true ancestors had been lost along with the estates up north. Nigel sat opposite her, for there was no other company. Ruffi, it seemed, had not married, though he did not explain the absence of a wife or hostess.

  Carp in wine sauce was served by Ruffi’s butler, not by Hereward, who must be seriously annoyed that his right to serve his master was usurped. But a butler in residence outranked the one who was visiting. Sophie stared at the fish head on the plate. The head was recognised as the most choice part of a carp, but she didn’t like the way its dead eyes stared at her.

  ‘I never serve soup,’ said Ruffi. ‘So wishy-washy. You will like the carp. I have the fish live in a pond of fresh water for a month to remove the taste of mud. Of course we never have eaten carp’s head at court. Nor even pork knuckle.’ He laughed, dabbing sauce from his chin. Sophie looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘The Kaiser’s withered arm,’ Ruffi explained. ‘He could not use a knife to cut his food and so, of course, none of us was permitted to use a knife and fork either. Currywurst, day after day, and Königsberger Klopse, with Spätzle. His favourite meal was Kartoffelsalat, potato salad. Even a one-handed man can manage that. I have never eaten Kartoffelsalat again.’ Ruffi shuddered. ‘For a time I wondered if the whole court would turn into a potato.’

  ‘You spent much time at court?’ Sophie managed a smile that Miss Lily would have been proud of. Nigel looked amused.

  ‘Of course. I was His Royal Highness’s right-hand man. Or perhaps his left.’ Ruffi smiled at his little joke. ‘One needed . . . tact . . . in dealing with His Highness. I remember one morning he came down with a freshly slaughtered hare strapped to his left arm. He was sure the strength of the hare would transfer itself to the limb. But of course it did not.’

  The plates — and most of the carp’s head on Sophie’s plate — were removed. A boar’s head was borne in next. It had bright blue eyes, presumably glass, and sat on frills of endive so it looked as if the creature had been given an Elizabethan ruff.

  ‘I was one of the White Stag Dining Club,’ Ruffi stated. ‘Created by His Majesty, and supposed to be a secret, but now,’ he shrugged, ‘the secrets have gone the same way as royalty. At every meeting each member had to tell a joke.’ Ruffi raised an eyebrow at Sophie. ‘The kind I could not tell in your company, of course.’

  At least not with my husband here, thought Sophie a little grimly, as Ruffi patted her hand.

  ‘On entering the dining room we all had our backsides slapped by the flat of His Majesty’s sword too. One slap for each member, but for a young man he liked,’ Ruffi raised his eyebrows suggestively, ‘he might have three slaps, or even five. We would count them, to see who was the current favourite. The Kaiser was always in uniform of course — he had hundreds of uniforms for different occasions, all different. By preference, he ate sitting on a saddle at the dining table. Luckily he did not demand that of us all.’

  Was he joking? But Nigel was calmly eating his boar with sauerkraut and potato dumplings as if he had heard all this before.

  ‘We had such fun!’ Ruffi patted her hand again.

  Try that once more and I’ll bite it, thought Sophie. But of course she would not. She was the Countess of Shillings now, and even if she were not, she could not risk what was in effect a royal commission.

  ‘One of the Kaiser’s favourite games was doughnuts,’ continued Ruffi. ‘Perhaps we should try it after dinner. An officer places his helmet by the fire and guests must try to throw a doughnut so its hole lands over the spike. The ladies would sometimes climb up onto the sofa, or the men on chairs. All was permitted as long as one did not step upon the hearth rug. His Majesty would run around the room, suggesting vantage points.’

  And that man engineered a war in which millions died and many millions more were injured, or damaged for life, thought Sophie.

  But tonight, across Britain, other leaders who had so ineptly played their strategic war games with the Empire’s troops might be at a costume ball or playing mah jong, or anything else just as trivial. For surely only those capable of filling in their time with inanity would have the capacity to ignore the tragedy of the war they commanded.

  ‘I remember one dinner,’ Ruffi continued dreamily, ‘at the hunting lodge of Prince Fürstenberg. The chief of the army danced in a pink ballet skirt! “His legs are so fine,” the Kaiser said, just as the poor man dropped down dead. A heart attack. The dinners were not quite the same after that. But of course the Kaiser’s greatest love was for women’s hands.’

  And yours is gossip, thought Sophie. Was this why they had been sent here, to see how gossip about Nigel might be spread across the Continent?

  Ruffi swallowed another forkful of meat, leaving the vegetables untouched. ‘He had perfected the art of removing a woman’s glove. Every woman at court had to wear one long white glove, leaving the other hand bare. But it was the gloved hand he would kiss. It took quite ten minutes to remove the glove, and another five for the kiss itself, pressing his lips to the very centre of her hand. Plump hands, by preference, and the softer the better, but never scented. It would make him quite cross, to miss what he said was the essential scent of a woman’s hand.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ said Sophie, trying not to look at the boar’s bright eyes. The meat had been carefully carved from the underside, so the head with its tusks seemed undamaged. She wondered, slightly hysterically, if each boar’s head was given fresh eyes, or if cook kept a small carton of them to reuse. If we have caviar next, I will scream, she thought.

  ‘But you, Ruffi.’ She forced her eyes to look artlessly up at his. ‘What are your interests now?’

  ‘Why, pleasure, my dear. What else is left to us?’

  ‘Indeed,’ she murmured. She took a small bite of the dumpling served with the boar — she had been unable to eat its flesh — and it turned to glue in her mouth.

  What am I doing here? she thought. I have extended a business empire across the world, founded hospitals, relief systems, stood for parliament and almost won . . . Yet I sit here powerless while this useless man gloats about scandals of the past and do nothing, can do nothing, because I am a wife now and must protect the reputation of my husband.

  Sophie glanced up to find Nigel looking at her. He understood. And because he understood she remembered that she was a mother too, and his reputation as well as hers would determine those of their children and, after all, this was not for long. A few months at most, and they would be gone, back to the clean air of Australia where she would resume her life again . . .

  Frozen meat, she thought, as an antidote to all this indulgence. Higgs needed to move into refrigeration, not just canning. If frozen beef and lamb were already being shipped to England by others, what else might be frozen and exported? As soon as they arrived back she would arrange for Johnny Slithersole to instigate the necessary research . . .

  ‘And of course I have my collection,’ said Ruffi, still smiling. He pressed her hand, then lifted it to his lips, almost but not quite touching it. ‘One day perhaps, before you leave, I must show it to you.’

  ‘It sounds delightful,’ said Sophie, carefully not asking exactly what he collected — the second-hand knickers of royalty, perhaps, or ancient Roman erotica.

  The footmen removed the boar, its eyes still sightlessly staring. Caviar was brought in (of course, thought Sophie, mildly hysterically), a thousand dead fish eggs, like tiny glossy black eyes, with the smallest of new potatoes and tiny forks made of some pink shell for them to eat with.

  Chapter 40

  The world runs on secrets, of course. Few people acknowledge their secrets even to themselves,
much less to others. Governments keep their own counsel, especially those that have been elected. Knowing secrets brings you power, but once you enter that world of ‘intelligence’ it is impossible to step out of it again.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  VIOLETTE

  Violette hesitated in the narrow hall that led to the servants’ stairs on one side, and the baize door that led to the rooms her ladyship, the earl, and her family occupied.

  She was not a servant, and she and her parents slept on the same side of the baize door as her ladyship. But even so, each meal, they must dine in the room set aside for visiting senior servants, on the same floor as the servants’ hall.

  She wore linen, not a servant’s serge, but she must still use this servants’ back staircase. If she wished to leave or enter the house she must use the back door only.

  She did not wear a servant’s apron, but today the family — her ladyship, the earl, the children — had ridden in a horse-drawn carriage around the district, while her day had been spent darning her ladyship’s clothes, removing stains from fabric, creating the exquisite being that was her ladyship, instead of herself, a glorious Violette.

  Violette snarled internally. (Externally she kept her face delightful always, or nearly always, in case someone might be watching.) She had been promised a family holiday where she could walk through any door she wished. This had not happened.

  On the other hand, it was only the woman who happened to be her mother who had informed her that she must spend today invisibly darning a ripped hem. Her ladyship had given no such order. Was Violette bound to obey the whims of her ladyship’s maid, simply because that woman had borne her nearly fourteen years beforehand? No.

  Violette glanced out the window, where the midsummer sun hung indestructibly in the sky, as if it could not conceive of winter, and made up her mind. Head high she crossed to the baize door, and opened it, then walked down the small hall that led to the main staircase down to the Great Hall.

  Which was where she met Count von Hegenhof, walking up the stairs as she walked down.

  Violette hesitated. She would not curtsey to him, she decided. Her ladyship had not curtseyed, and anyway had not titles been made illegal by the German government? Besides she did not feel like curtseying, she who had been ignored by Heinrich, a servant, with not even a response to her ‘Guten Morgen’ after breakfast.

  ‘Ah, Miss Jones, is it not?’ Count von Hegenhof did not sound annoyed. He even seemed pleased.

  So the count knew who she was and that she should be addressed as ‘Miss’, not simply Jones. This was good, even if he was a Boche.

  ‘The little . . . protégée of her ladyship . . .’ the count continued, the smile spreading as if he were genuinely amused, not just by her presumption in trespassing beyond the servants’ stairs and failing to curtsey, but by something else. Or perhaps Count von Hegenhof assumed that those who climbed the front stairs had a right to climb them, and she had risen in his estimation.

  He did not click his heels though or kiss her hand. She was glad he did not try the latter. There was something frog-like about Count von Hegenhof, not his appearance but coldness under the warmth. Nor, of course, would she ever permit herself to be kissed by a Boche.

  ‘I am sorry you missed the expedition this morning,’ he said smoothly, the smile still in place. ‘I did not expect a Miss Jones, you see, so made no provision for a place for you in the carriage.’

  Ah, an acceptable excuse, though Violette could easily have been found a place — but it was good that he thought an excuse necessary. ‘I hope at least you enjoyed your lunch?’

  Violette regarded him haughtily. Her ladyship did not use hauteur nor condescension when she looked at people, yet managed to look indeed a ladyship. But that was a skill Violette had yet to master. ‘I did not enjoy luncheon,’ she informed him. ‘It was mostly cabbage, and sour, and the pork, it was tough.’

  ‘But cabbage is so good for you, my dear. We have a saying here: A cabbage has a hard heart but it nourishes a man.’

  Violette decided one of her less charming smiles might work better. ‘A pineapple has a hard heart too and nourishes, but it is delicious. I prefer pineapple to cabbage.’

  He laughed. ‘May I make amends?’

  ‘How, your lordship?’ That might not be the correct way to address a German count — she was more familiar with how people killed Germans than how their titles should be used. But it seemed to do.

  ‘I have a little collection upstairs. It may amuse you. Come. I will show it to you, to make up for the expedition you did not have. Perhaps we might both even have fun with it.’

  He preceded her up the stairs. Violette hesitated on the landing, then followed him up, past the third floor, with the servants’ bedrooms, then to a small doorway. He took a key from a chain around his neck, unlocked the door, then gestured her through it. She peered up at the narrow winding staircase. It smelled faintly of mouse overlaid with furniture polish, and must go up to one of the towers.

  It would be stupid to go up those stairs, leaving a door that could be locked behind her, when no one knew she was there. On the other hand, she was curious and had her knife with her and, besides, it would be far easier to push a man behind her downstairs than for him to grab her.

  She walked up the stairs. She had expected them to be worn and slightly slippery stone, but they were well designed, with a solid handrail to one side.

  Four bends and another door, unlocked this time. She opened it herself, and looked around inside.

  The tower room was round, with long narrow windows evenly spaced around it and a vaulted wooden ceiling. At first glance the contents were incomprehensible: a machine that looked like a see-saw, but that had handcuffs at both ends. She walked over and pushed it. Yes, it was a see-saw. She glanced back and saw Count von Hegenhof smiling at her. He looked even more like a creature that belonged at the bottom of a well, as if in this room he was entirely free to be himself.

  She moved to the next machine. It was a curious kind of gate that looked like the base of a guillotine, with two armholes and a cushion on which to rest the neck, but no guillotine above it. Once again there were manacles, though these looked as if they were for ankles, not wrists. A portion of wall padded by a vast velvet cushion, with straps and manacles, confirmed exactly what this room was used for. There was no need to examine the rest of the implements. The house to which she had been sold in Brussels had clients with . . . less usual tastes.

  Violette smiled. She knew exactly how to manage men like Count von Hegenhof. She saw him note the smile, and misunderstand it entirely.

  ‘You’d like to play? Shall we start with this, my dear? It was the first of my collection.’ The count stroked the see-saw lovingly. ‘It is a spanking machine. The naughty little girl stands here . . . come, you must try it. I promise I will stop when you say enough. Or would you prefer this one . . .?’ He moved to what might be a swing. Or might not.

  He was between her and the door. He was older and stronger and had possibly even learned to box, which was something she had learned that ‘gentlemen’ did. She, however, had her knife, and many years of most useful knowledge.

  Violette sighed mentally. She had promised her ladyship not to kill anyone. Her ladyship probably would not like her to wound her host, either. Which meant she must not use her knife at all. And once she threatened the count with it, he would know she had it. He might try to get her up here again. And next time, he might arrange for Violette to be fetched.

  It was better, always, to be underestimated.

  Violette gave a small cry, then buried her face in her hands to cover her lack of tears. Two sobs, then a stumble towards the staircase. She heard rather than saw him step back to let her pass.

  She fumbled down the stairs till she was out of sight, then proceeded fairly calmly to the doorway. The door was not locked. She used the back stairs this time to go down to the room they had given her as a bedroom. An adequate room, with rich mat
s upon the floor, brocade curtains and a fire and dressing table, even if it had a wardrobe in it, not a dressing room attached.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Her mother looked suspiciously at her from the dressing table, a froth of white in her lap, a needle and thread in her hand.

  ‘Why are you in my bedroom?’ demanded Violette.

  ‘I have been removing the lace from the top of your dress for this evening. The lace is not suitable now we are not here alone.’

  ‘You mean I must look more like a servant?’

  ‘I mean exactly what I said. You must look appropriate. Where have you been?’

  There was no reason not to tell her mother. Every reason, in fact, why she should be told, so that her parents and her ladyship and his lordship would know about the man in whose castle they were staying. It was only the anger, anger she had been unaware of but that still slept within her that made her say, ‘It is not your business.’

  ‘Of course it is my business!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am your mother.’

  ‘You gave birth to me. You fed me perhaps for a very little time. Since then her ladyship has done more for me than you.’

  ‘That is irrelevant.’

  Violette shrugged. ‘You are the one who is irrelevant. Do you love me? Do I love you? I do not even respect you.’

  Silence from the woman at the dressing table, then, ‘Why don’t you respect me?’

  ‘You are a servant. Just that. You serve. You serve good people but, still, you do no more than serve. You have had chances to be more than a servant. And yet, when the war was over you went back to serving. What should I respect about that?’