Hannelore had not written before. There had been no flowers from her at the funeral, for which Sophie had been grateful. She would like to throw this in the fire, watch it shiver into blackness. But she suspected that whatever was in this single, slender communication after so long needed to be read, and possibly passed on to James.
She called for fresh coffee, drank half a cup, re-read the other letters to fortify herself, then put down the coffee cup and took up the letter opener.
There was no address at the top. It began simply:
Liebe Sophie,
It is impossible to express my sorrow for what I have done. Please believe that even if I cannot find the words, the guilt, regret and horror at the results of my actions are there.
I give you my word I will not contact your family again, including Miss Lily. I owe her so much, and that is only a small fraction of what I owe you. The only repayment possible now is to ensure you do not have to meet me as you go about your lives in England or elsewhere.
Herr Hitler assures me he knew nothing of those brutal actions that night. I believe him, and still feel he is the man to lead Germany through the troubled times ahead. But those men wore brown, and even if Herr Hitler cannot admit it, the National Socialist Party was responsible. While privately supporting Herr Hitler, I will not seek wider support for a party capable of that atrocity.
I do not say ‘accept my sorrow’. I no longer have that right. But know that I sign myself always,
With all my love,
Hannelore
So, she thought, Nigel has won. This, as well as safety from scandal for his family, and Lily’s decades of work, was what he wanted. He had gained it all. Colonel Nigel Vaile’s final victory. She would need to transcribe this letter for James, even the most personal parts of it, so he could judge the sincerity, and like her, find it real.
She looked out the window, at the grey lowering the sky till it seemed she might even touch it, if she wished to feel anything so cold and unsubstantial. The roses stood with bare thorny legs. Only the orchard was still beautiful, the lichened tree trunks as lovely as any sculpture.
Even as she watched, a faint white feather floated past the window, and then another, though they melted before they reached the ground.
‘Your ladyship, it is snowing!’ Violette erupted into the breakfast room. She began to lift the covers on the sideboard, filling her plate with kidneys, scrambled eggs and bacon. Hereward arrived with fresh toast and the milk coffee with a hint of chicory that Violette preferred, then departed.
Sophie remembered her joy at the first snow she had ever seen; how she and Hannelore had made a snowman; how Miss Lily had looked through this very window, and laughed. ‘If there’s more snow would you like to make a snowman, Violette?’
Violette snorted. ‘Why should I do that, your ladyship? Snow is cold and wet.’
‘True. But it is romantic,’ said Sophie.
Violette shrugged at the idea of romance. She took a mouthful of kidney, then looked at Sophie speculatively. ‘If I am your ward, should I address you as Aunt Sophie?’
‘Do you like having me as your aunt?’
Violette nodded. ‘You are rich, and capable, and I like you.’
Sophie laughed. ‘Thank you for your honesty.’
‘I will always be honest to you, unless it is not good for you. I would also like you to be my aunt even if you were not rich, or a ladyship. But I am glad you are.’
‘I’m glad I am rich and a ladyship too. But though I will always be your Aunt Sophie, there may be times when it will not be . . . tactful . . . to use the term.’
‘When we are on adventures for Mr Lorrimer?’
‘I was thinking more of when we are moving among people in society, who might not understand the relationship. But on second thoughts, society can go jump in the sea. I am your Aunt Sophie always, except when — or if — we are working for Mr Lorrimer.’
‘I am looking forward to the next adventure,’ said Violette, reaching for toast.
And I am not, thought Sophie. I have given many years, my youth and a husband to the Empire and its battles. The snow was falling more thickly now, a world of fluttering white, though the ground was merely wet.
It was time for sunlight, the song of cicadas, the pounding of roos’ feet at night, the noisy tide of emus as they swarmed towards the river.
It was time for hope, not grief. Time to see, perhaps, if a dimly seen possibility might just be true.
It was time to leave.
Chapter 68
I do not like books that have ‘The End’ on the last page. Life goes on, even if a chapter of life finishes. All we have given to life continues when we are gone.
Miss Lily, 1902
Seagulls shrieked, tearing the air with their sharp wings. The sea slapped against the pilings, as if saying, ‘Follow me, and I will take you to the end of the earth, where you will find Australia.’
There had been no problem obtaining adjoining suites. The first London stock market crash had been followed by an even larger Wall Street disaster, a short rally, and then another crash. Businessmen leaped from the tops of their office blocks. Financiers shot themselves, with a maximum of publicity. Others jumped from windows. Even those who had not been wiped out, or ‘badly bitten’, were playing cautious now, staying home, not travelling expensively for pleasure.
It was odd to hear upper-crust English accents again as they crossed the gangplank, after so long in Germany and among the rural accents of Shillings.
‘. . . she is heartbroken of course, but without money it’s impossible. He’s off to try and find another heiress . . .’
‘. . . has even had to sell his hunters, by Jove. Terribly hard on them . . .’
‘. . . the Cape Town climate is so restorative. I don’t think his lungs would take another English winter . . .’
‘Crosswords, my dear. I’ve brought enough to last the entire voyage. I say, what, do you mean you’ve never tried them?’
The ship was . . . big, and far too perfect, every chandelier gleaming, every staircase massive, carpeted, as if trying to combine the most opulent features of every baronial hall in England, with none of their shabbiness or quirks, with the shiny splendour of a Regent Street department store. This ship was beyond quirk. And it would take them almost directly to Sydney, via Madeira, South Africa, Perth and Melbourne . . .
Six weeks to home, to sunlight on the harbour, to gum-tree trunk dapples and light that went gold as it was filtered through a million twisting, heat-narrowed leaves.
Midge and Maria would be waiting for her, surely, at the wharf, and Harry too and ‘the brats’, and possibly, probably, Daniel Greenman, about whom she would not think, could not think. She would let the sea wind wash away the knotted thoughts infesting her mind now and bring the clarity she lacked in its salty sharpness . . .
Nanny, Amy and the twins occupied a double stateroom next to Violette’s. Jones and Greenie shared a suite, for a wonder. Possibly this marriage that legally existed, even if it had never actually been celebrated, might actually work.
Their cabin was next to Sophie’s, and yet Sophie was not surprised when Green paused at the cabin door and said, ‘I’ll leave you to settle in. Knock on the wall if you need me, or use the ship’s telephone.’
Of course the stewardess would have unpacked for her; nor did Sophie need to change into yet another black dress for dinner for another two hours, but still it was never done for a maid to leave her mistress unattended when she entered her cabin.
And yet . . . unless . . .
Sophie closed her eyes, prayed, found her nails digging into her palms through her gloves. Impossible to mend those holes invisibly, she thought vaguely, then opened the cabin door.
‘Hello, Sophie,’ said Miss Lily.
A heartbeat later. An hour later. A century perhaps. She didn’t know. She stood, not knowing what to do.
For this was not her husband. Nigel Vaile was dead, and this woman
had planned that death, and executed it. But Miss Lily always knew the perfect way to effect a meeting, even such a one as this.
She held out her hands. Gloved hands, long cream kid gloves that reached to her elbows; the gloves matched a cream shantung suit with a multitude of thin black stripes, for she was in mourning for her brother. Sophie stepped forward, took the gloved hands, bent to kiss the cheek, felt herself held, and held with love, by Miss Lily.
A minute of wordlessness. One enormous sob of relief. At last she broke free, her cheeks still warm with tears, and sat beside Miss Lily on the bed.
‘I wondered if you might faint,’ said Miss Lily.
‘I never faint, except when drugged by Jones. It was his drugging me which gave me the first clue.’
‘You expected this?’
‘I hoped. A tiny crumb of hope. But Green had told me I must be surprised, and so I didn’t let my hopes fly too high. But why else should Jones drug me, instead of leaving me to sit with Nigel’s body? He would know what a comfort that would be. They know?’ Sophie smiled at her own question, ‘Of course they know. Violette knows too, I imagine.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Lily.
‘And so I was left out yet again,’ said Sophie, trying to keep her tone light. ‘The first few decades of ignorance I forgive, as I wasn’t born or was far too young. But if the four of you plan anything else without me I will be seriously annoyed.’
‘I promise that we won’t.’
Sophie examined her. The beloved face, the blonde and grey hair in a chignon, which must surely be a wig, though she imagined Miss Lily’s real hair was growing underneath. Lines of grief that had not been there before.
Lily too, it seemed, was mourning Nigel.
‘I could have asked you,’ said Miss Lily apologetically, ‘who do you want more, Nigel or Lily, if you couldn’t have both? But it wasn’t fair to make you choose.’
‘Or to hurt Nigel by not choosing him? I don’t know what I would have said,’ admitted Sophie honestly. ‘And I cannot say now I wouldn’t have chosen him. But I’m speaking as if you are two people. You’re not, are you? That was just how you presented to the world.’
Miss Lily nodded wordlessly.
‘If we were on a desert island forever,’ said Sophie, ‘with Jones and Greenie and the children, of course . . . who would you be?’
‘Lily-Nigel Vaile,’ said Miss Lily softly. ‘Who is not an earl, nor a leader of men into battle. Who dresses in silk beach pyjamas and chiffon evening dresses, but sometimes, just sometimes, would wear trousers to go tree climbing or fishing with my wife and my children.’
‘We would need a couturier on our island,’ said Sophie lightly.
‘Of course. And a library and telephone, for Sophie Higgs-Vaile to run her business empire.’
‘Thuringa will give privacy,’ said Sophie quietly. ‘But it’s not a desert island. Gossip spreads faster than a plague of grasshoppers.’
‘I know. It’s enough that you understand who I am, who I have always been through our marriage. Who I will be, even now.’ Miss Lily suddenly looked as if she might cry, too. ‘I . . . I could have become Miss Lily permanently at any time. Left Nigel living on a Himalayan mountain, and run Shillings with a competent agent. I might even have adopted a child heir the Vailes would have found difficult to renounce. But I was Nigel too, I wanted to be able to be Nigel sometimes, until for the sake of all that we had worked for, I could no longer be. But I didn’t know if you knew that Lily never wished that Nigel did not exist.’
‘I think I did know, even if I wasn’t sure. And I know what I feel now. I have you in my life again, and if you ever try to leave me I will chain you by the ankle. I love you and I am glad.’
‘Thank you.’ For the first time Miss Lily did not seem quite in control. ‘That . . . that means . . . everything. The children?’
‘Will have their Aunt Lily. Forever.’
‘I am not quite sure I can last for eternity. But I will do my best. Should we ever tell them?’
‘No. But they are my offspring and yours and thus extraordinarily intelligent in their different ways, and stubborn too. If they suspect and ask, we must tell them.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Lily slowly. ‘That will be best. And Dr Greenman?’
Sophie sat very still. ‘What about him?’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Yes. But you always knew that.’
‘Nigel always knew it, and knew too that you had chosen to marry him, and to stay with him. This is . . . not quite the same.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you are a widow now,’ said Miss Lily gently.
‘But I’m not —’
‘The law says you are. James Lorrimer has been extremely thorough. Lillian Vaile, who at times used the name Shillings, sister of the late earl, now has a birth certificate, baptismal register, a bank account, investments, and sundry other proofs of her existence which we did not realise were necessary before. She is not even illegitimate — my father made an unfortunate early marriage that ended in divorce and mild disgrace. Which serves his memory right. I am honourably an Honourable. As for Nigel — if ever anyone tries to claim to be Nigel Vaile, Earl of Shillings, or that I am he, they will probably be locked up in an insane asylum. Or in comfort and security on the top floor of a very private clinic, for Nigel Vaile has a family who will be compassionate even to those who wish to discredit him. Nigel Vaile is dead, Sophie, and must remain so.’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie honestly. ‘I accept that legally I am a widow. Having you sitting here does not make me less legally a widow. But the person I love is alive, Lily.’
‘As a friend?’
‘Is that what you want? We have never discussed this, but we should. Do you desire me . . . now?’
‘Yes. But I thought . . .’
Sophie found it possible to both laugh and cry. ‘I am not sapphic. But to me you will always be the . . . the person I love, physically and in every way possible.’
‘Sophie . . .’
‘But sex of any sort pains you.’
Miss Lily smiled. ‘I think as I age I become androgenous. I have had little sexual desire the past year — even when close to you. And yes, there is pain. You deserve freedom.’
‘That was why you chose to die?’ The anger she had never admitted rose to the surface. ‘You had no right to decide for me . . .’
‘Sophie darling, no, that was never part of it.’
‘Oh,’ said Sophie. She leaned against the person she loved, arms around each other now. What did she want? Just now, she realised, she did not want to even think of ‘wants’. ‘Widows are expected to have a year of mourning before they begin to consider life ahead. I need that before I can even work out what this may mean. But we can be together?’
‘Always, or for as long as you may wish,’ said Miss Lily.
‘Then it will be “always”.’ Sophie glanced out the porthole, still showing the bustle of the docks, then back at Miss Lily. ‘One day, in a year or maybe more, I might . . . just might . . . think . . . what next? And even how. But not till then.’
‘You were always wise,’ murmured Miss Lily. ‘The impetuous Cyclone Sophie, but wise within it all. What will you wear for dinner?’
Dinner dress was not worn the first night at sea. ‘Black silk, with long strips of jet beads from shoulder to hem. Black netting with jet beads for my hair too, on this night at least. And we will not sit at the captain’s table, not while in mourning.’
‘Poor Violette,’ said Miss Lily. ‘She was so looking forward to that. And to the birthday party she couldn’t have in a house of mourning.’
‘We will make up for that with her Christmas presents. And she will have won the heart of every officer by the time we reach Madeira.’
‘And if she hasn’t, then we must teach her how. The two of us,’ added Miss Lily. ‘I will enjoy the challenge.’ She stood. ‘My cabin is next door. Green will come and help me dress, then come to you.�
��
For a moment Sophie’s heart clenched tight once more. I cannot bear this. Cannot bear it. Because despite the promise of ‘together forever’ it would always be the cabin or the room next door, or down the hall, never in the bed beside her. Only Nigel had ever shared her bed. Miss Lily would not change that now. Nor did Sophie want her to, not if it meant pain for Nigel, or rumours that might hurt their children.
Nigel, she thought. I love you. Will always love you, always miss you. You have taken so much from me, yet given me so much. And there are still a million tears to shed for you, and maybe more.
Miss Lily looked at her with perfect understanding. She always had. ‘Perhaps, some time,’ she said quietly, ‘we will cry for Nigel together.’
Chapter 69
‘Every journey is a new beginning’ is perhaps the truest cliché that I know. Every second may be a new beginning. Know that, my dear young ladies, and you will be truly mine. Miss Lily’s lovely ladies, who will conquer worlds . . .
Miss Lily, 1913
SOPHIE
The table was discreetly in a corner, set for the five of them, with lush potted plants giving privacy even in a dining room whose expanse rivalled the playing fields of Eton. The room shrilled with the locust buzz of upper-class England.
‘. . . it was a simply thrilling party, darling, with the most divine new cocktails, absinthe, pineapple juice and rum. You will never guess who the Prince of Wales appeared with . . .’
‘. . . a score of ninety-eight not out. A jolly good show all round, what?’
‘. . . says it is a favourite for the Derby. Clear soup, old chap, don’t you think?’
‘. . . the purser says it will be a calm crossing, but of course one never knows. Monty is a martyr to seasickness, aren’t you, sweetie?’
Sophie took a small bite of her lobster thermidor. Tonight, perhaps as the ship ploughed the ocean, she would mourn her lost marriage. But this was a time to let joy return, too. ‘You will find Thuringa strange at first,’ she said to Violette, who was clad in a black silk dress of total elegance and suitability, with just enough lace, embroidery and jet beading to make the girl content. ‘But you will love it too. The sky goes on forever.’
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