Darling Midge,
Your letter finally reached us! How lovely that Dr Greenman has been visiting you. I am so glad he looks well, and seems to be settled in Sydney. I am even happier that he intends to visit often, and has no need to hide away as in those years at Bald Hill. Sometimes there are ‘happy endings’ to stories, aren’t there? I hope there is much more happiness to come for the man we knew as ‘John’.
I am writing this hastily before breakfast from a far too pretty German castle where we have been holidaying for the past month to soak up the European summer. I apologise for its brevity, but I may not get time to write again as we leave here today after breakfast. By the week after next we should be back in England and embarking on the Margaret Marshall for Australia, so any letters I write after this may arrive after we do! I keep thinking that I cannot wait to be home again, and then reminding myself I must.
The children have grown so much this summer! Rose is now speaking in full sentences. Of course they are almost entirely incomprehensible but I am still most proud. Danny’s articulation, on the other hand, is perfect, though he wisely keeps to one- or two-word utterances. At the moment he is saying ‘good morning’, ‘good afternoon’ and even a ‘good evening’! He greeted Nanny, me, his father, his breakfast and his toy zebra yesterday morning, but refused his sister a simple ‘hello’.
It is delightful that they are so different, and not at all like bookends. I wonder if I will ever stop marvelling over them. I am relying on your ‘brats’ to show them all the joys of a country childhood — including the ones it is best parents do not know about. I never had older children to show me illicit activities and things, only ‘suitable friends’. I don’t want my children to ever be restricted to the ‘suitable’.
There is not much more to write or, rather, our time is mostly composed of walks by the lake or hay rides and meals that go on forever — I am sure that the castle consumes at least three pigs a day. None of it is at all as interesting as . . . we are coming home!
Give my love to Harry and the ‘brats’ and to Thuringa and of course to you, always,
Sophie.
Sophie put down the pen and wiped the nib on Ruffi’s family crest, the heads (what else?) of boar and deer on a gilded shield.
What would Midge say if she knew of Lily? Her pragmatic Australian friend might simply hug her and say, ‘Darling, we are all made as we are.’
Midge might also hug her and say, ‘Darling, I understand. But others mightn’t. For the sake of the children, perhaps it would be best if they don’t meet Nigel or . . . Lily. But you and I can still meet. At church, and the CWA perhaps . . .’ And soon Miss Lily would be gone forever, except brief moments of privacy with her and Green and Jones. Even Rose and Daniel would never know ‘Aunt Lily’. She could not bear this charade. But she must. Nigel was right. There was no other choice now.
And they would succeed — must succeed — in disarming all of Hannelore’s suspicion, while leaving her to exist, even if only barely seen. Even now Green and Violette were packing her clothes, and Nanny was preparing the children. One final meal and the waiting would be over and they could begin the real purpose of the journey . . .
And soon Miss Lily would be gone forever, except brief moments of privacy with her and Green and Jones. Even Rose and Daniel would never know ‘Aunt Lily’. She could not bear it. But she must. Nigel was right. There was no other choice now.
Breakfast was always served cold: a dark-fleshed, double-smoked ham on the sideboard, game pie, a platter of pale, cold sausages and a selection of cheeses with small triangles of black bread, pickled walnuts and pickled onions. Only the rolls that were served instead of toast were hot, in damask-lined baskets: round white rolls with onion seed tops, and flaky croissants rich with yellow summer butter, which Ruffi insisted were Austrian, not French at all — ‘Stolen from us, like so much that is German that the traitorous French purloin’ — and coffee or chocolate, either thick with cream.
To Sophie’s surprise Ruffi was already in the breakfast room that morning as she and Nigel entered.
‘Ah, the Wandervogel are about to depart!’ Ruffi stood, bowed to Sophie and then pulled the bell. ‘Fresh coffee, Heinrich.’ He held out Sophie’s chair for her. ‘I was wondering if you were still communing with the swans.’
She smiled at him. ‘You see everything, Ruffi! The swans and I had a most enlightening conversation. Do they stay here all winter?’
Ruffi shrugged. ‘Yes, I believe so. I spend my winters in the south of France, or sometimes Morocco. So amusing, Morocco.’ He grinned at her. ‘You should have advised the swans to do the same.’
‘I think your swans are as happy here as we have been, Ruffi.’ Nigel helped himself to the rolls Heinrich the footman had brought in, while Hereward carried the coffee. His bearing seemed to say: coffee outranks hot rolls in the servants’ hall, but these barbarians do not know it.
‘We have encroached on your hospitality long enough.’ Sophie spread cherry jam on her croissant. The pale sausages looked extraordinarily like a platter of deformed penises. She’d had to fight an urge to giggle at them each breakfast time.
‘Nonsense. But as you insist.’ Ruffi shrugged. ‘I have told Heinrich to have my things packed also.’
‘You are leaving too?’
‘Of course! Do you think I would not escort you to Berlin? And once you are there,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘there are most interesting places I can show you, ones that my dear cousin Hannelore certainly would not.’
‘Then perhaps I should not see them either,’ said Sophie.
Ruffi patted her hand. Sophie wondered if she might have a pair of gloves made, with spikes to keep off hand patters, and especially hand kissers. ‘What is the point of being in a city where no one knows you if you do not take advantage of it? And what else is there for you to do in Berlin? Its fashions are Parisian second hand. But the night life . . . or even sometimes in the mornings; you will find it deliciously decadent.’ Ruffi raised his eyebrows again at Sophie. ‘And most educational. Ah!’ His tone changed. ‘Here is a parting gift to you — kedgeree for breakfast! Hannelore said it was your favourite but it has taken the kitchen a while to find the recipe.’
‘How delicious,’ said Sophie, thinking of the long and bumpy journey ahead of them. She helped herself to what she hoped was an enthusiastic-looking portion.
Nigel stood. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have some final arrangements to make.’
‘Of course, dear chap.’ Ruffi patted Sophie’s hand yet again. ‘This may be my last chance to be alone with your so lovely wife. You are such a lucky man, Vaile.’
‘I know,’ said Nigel. He smiled at Sophie, then left the room.
Deserter, thought Sophie. ‘You will be staying with us in Berlin?’ She tried to make her voice sound eager as she forked up kedgeree. It was far too buttery, ridiculously rich in smoked fish and curry powder. Kedgeree’s charm was its hints, not a slap in the mouth.
‘Sadly not. Hannelore’s aunt has quite a small establishment. But I will make sure you see everything.’
‘You are so kind,’ said Sophie. What else was there to say?
Chapter 43
Beware of following your dreams, my dears. Dreams change as you learn more of the world. How many girls who dreamed of being princesses found that the role of minor royalty is opening flower shows and bearing heirs, with no time to even assess the broader issues of the day. A mistress, on the other hand, has both power and freedom, especially with a husband who approves of her role.
Miss Lily, 1913
VIOLETTE
Violette spread tissue paper between the layers of fabric in her ladyship’s trunk; Green glanced up from her folding to check the work, and nodded approvingly.
The holiday had improved since the first day at the castle.
True, she now used the servants’ stair to get to the rooms she and the family occupied, but by choice, she told herself, so as not to meet the count again. She
and her parents still dined downstairs, an upper servants’ meal, invariably of roast pork, potatoes and cabbage, when those upstairs dined on venison, turkey, salmon and varied other delights, including a dessert of thin layers of pastry, cream and wild strawberries. She’d even had to make do with black bread instead of white rolls or croissants for breakfast.
When we are in Australia I will eat croissants for breakfast every day, she thought, with much cherry jam.
At least Violette had accompanied the family on their expeditions in the countryside, like the previous week’s journey up a snow-topped mountain to a meadow where the flowers still bloomed, even now in August. They travelled in small carts filled with hay and topped with soft blankets because motorcars could not reach so high.
Today, however, she must travel with Nanny and the children, and eat brown bread sandwiches cut in the shape of circus animals to amuse the children, who had not even seen a circus yet. She must help her mother pack her ladyship’s clothes, just as if she too were a lady’s maid, while her father checked his lordship’s trunks had been attended to correctly.
She hesitated, listening. That was his lordship’s voice, and her father’s. The door opened. His lordship said, ‘Green, I think we need to discuss . . .’ he stopped when he saw Violette.
Green (Violette still refused to think of her as ‘mother’) smiled at her. ‘Go and stretch your legs. It’ll be a long journey.’
Five minutes before she had wanted to do just that. Now she said, ‘But you need help packing.’
‘It’s nearly done. Go.’
‘Of course. Thank you,’ said Violette. She presented his lordship with one of her best smiles, then slipped out, then up the servants’ stairs (no carpet . . . pah!) and slipped into the servant’s bedroom above her ladyship’s. Kept empty, naturally, for a maid slipping back for a handkerchief might interrupt the entertainment of the count gazing through the spy hole to the room below.
Violette had discovered the small spy holes in her bedroom and her ladyship’s on her second day at the castle. She had pointed them out to her mother, who had merely shrugged and said, ‘Of course.’
Her mother was entirely too reticent about matters Violette needed to properly understand.
This spy hole seemed to be used solely by the count, who was breakfasting with her ladyship below. Interesting that his lordship wished to talk to her parents when both her ladyship and the count were safely out of hearing.
Violette pushed at a slightly discoloured section at the base of the wall. It opened to reveal a small passage in the wall between the rooms. The three were still talking, his lordship sitting on a dressing chair, her father pacing, Green standing immobile, as if considering.
‘I don’t like it,’ her father was saying. ‘It’s too dangerous, Nigel. Far too dangerous.’
His lordship leaned back on the chair, ‘I can see no other way out. Neither can James.’
‘You should at least tell Sophie.’
‘No,’ said Green. ‘Sophie has to remain out of this. The prinzessin knows her too well. The wrong words at the wrong time, an expression that is not quite right . . . the prinzessin has been born and bred playing politics. Sophie is a brilliant organiser, but she has little experience of intrigue.’
His lordship shut his eyes. ‘I wish I could tell her. I think she could carry it off. But Greenie is correct, Jones. Cyclone Sophie must be . . . unabated . . . if this is to succeed.’ His lordship opened his eyes and stared out the window at the mountains where his family had so recently been picnicking. ‘I only hope she will forgive me.’
‘She loves you,’ said Green softly.
His lordship smiled. ‘I know. That has always been both the joy and the dilemma.’
‘I still don’t like it,’ repeated Jones.
‘We’ve been in worse situations.’
‘Yes. And each time we had a plan. This is too . . .’
‘Dramatic? Theatrical? Final?’ suggested his lordship.
Jones gazed at him, his expression impossible to read. ‘You are my oldest friend. It . . . it is not easy to face losing you.’
‘It may not come to that. I hope it doesn’t come to that.’
‘We need more contingency plans,’ said Green, almost desperately. ‘We have always had back-up plans before.’
‘We can’t know what we are going to face this time,’ said his lordship quietly. ‘Nothing can be counted on. Even here we expected to have the lodge to ourselves . . .’
‘There’d still have been local servants, potential spies,’ said Green.
Like me, thought Violette.
‘The main thing is to keep Sophie and the children away from risk. And Violette.’
His lordship smiled again, a strange smile, taking in both of her parents. ‘We always knew it might come to this,’ he said quietly. ‘Remember that last day in Japan, when you prepared to board an English ship for the first time with Lily? If just one person guessed, we agreed we’d give it up.’
‘But no one did guess! Not in all these years,’ said her father.
‘Because until my marriage Lily and Nigel did not move in the same social circles. But once I was married to Sophie, who had friends like Hannelore who knew Lily, that separation became impossible. And it will become increasingly impossible as the children grow older. It can’t go on like this. I should have realised nearly four years ago that this was inevitable, whether it was initiated by Hannelore or someone else. But back then I expected to die. I have had nearly four more years than I expected. Four wonderful years.’
He looked from Jones to Green. ‘We have had our times, haven’t we?’ he said. ‘So much friendship. So much adventure. None of us guessed we’d have so long, so much.’
Green sat on the other dressing-room stool, the mending forgotten. Jones sat on the window ledge. ‘What would we have done,’ he wondered, ‘if someone on that ship from Japan had guessed?’
His lordship shrugged. ‘Bought a small Scottish island, for select friends only. Or a Moroccan fort, no Europeans allowed. Or gone back to Japan.’
‘And gone mad with boredom within six months,’ said Green.
‘There is that,’ his lordship admitted. He raised an eyebrow at Green. It was a gesture that reminded Violette of someone. ‘Have you been bored these last four years?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t call it bored exactly.’ Green glanced at Jones. ‘I have been happy.’
‘Not the same thing.’
‘No, it isn’t. Well, at any rate, I’m not bored now.’ Green stood and reached for the sheets of tissue paper. ‘I’d better get on with this before the little miss returns.’ Violette realised with a shock that Green was speaking of her. ‘She hasn’t enjoyed the way she has had to live here. That girl needs to learn a bit of gratitude. She could be starving in the gutter.’
‘Not her,’ said his lordship, and suddenly he looked weary, more tired than Violette had thought possible. ‘But I have enjoyed it. The last months, probably, of the only marriage I will ever have. An island of calm before we strike out for the shores of war. I . . . There is so much I am going to miss.’
Green crossed over to him. To Violette’s shock she kissed the earl on the forehead. ‘There’s a lot we’re all going to miss. But we’re with you, Nigel. Always and in every way, just as we promised all those years ago. The three of us, together.’
‘Always,’ echoed Jones, as Green picked up the tissue paper again.
Chapter 44
Friendship matters. Every woman needs five friends to whom she can confide everything, though it may not be the same five with whom you share each tragedy, joy or problem.
But when those friends are far away, and letters take far too long for guidance, remember the advice of friends who are always with you: those of memory, and those you will find between the leather bindings in the library. An author may be two thousand years departed from life, or far older even than that, but they may still become your friend.
Mi
ss Lily, 1913
James Lorrimer, His Majesty’s faithful servant — and the more-faithful-still servant of his nation — stood to greet the woman on the other side of his desk. She was not a ‘lovely lady’. He doubted she had even made her debut, much less been presented at court. His butler, in fact, had even hesitated before announcing ‘A . . . lady to see you, sir.’
Six feet tall if she was an inch, with shoulders like a navvy’s, hands that looked capable of handling vats of her family’s cocoa — or empires, for that matter — and the face of a friendly horse. No one like her had ever stood in that study before. But just now James Lorrimer needed someone with broad shoulders — physically and metaphorically. And he had always been fond of horses.
‘Ah, Miss Carryman. Thank you so much for coming.’
Ethel Carryman grabbed his hand, which he had not expected — one did not shake hands with ladies — and pumped it up and down enthusiastically. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
James withdrew his fingers, hoping they were not irrevocably bruised. ‘Miss Carryman, you realise this mission is going to be dangerous.’
She grinned at him. ‘Mr Lorrimer, I’ve been teaching family planning in East End slums to women who’ve had ten kiddies, and whose husbands expect them to lie back, open their legs and be given yet another one, or get a black eye instead. The coppers try to arrest me for talking about contraception at least twice a week. They haven’t managed it yet. And I did have my moments in the war. Don’t talk to me about dangerous.’
‘You like danger,’ he observed.
The grin grew wider. ‘Aye. Noticed that, did you? Sophie always said you were a noticing kind of chap.’
‘Did she now?’ James murmured.
The grin faded. Ethel Carryman met his eyes squarely. ‘Sophie trusts you. She trusts me too. And I’ll tell you this for nothing: I’ll do anything for Sophie.’
‘Even if it involves hurting her — hurting her badly — to avoid a worse tragedy?’
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