She was staring at the sandwiches again, trying to convince herself to eat one, for she had missed lunch and still had another appointment to keep before dinner, when Emily appeared, another young woman behind her.
Tall, bobbed hair, and wearing spectacles. No society woman ever wore spectacles in public even if she was in danger of mistaking the housekeeper for the door to the lavatory. The spectacles alone were an indication of Lady Georgina’s retreat from good society. Her rust-coloured silk dress was fashionable, but unsuited to her faded ginger colouring — Sophie guessed that the dress was a cast-off from the darker Emily, worn once at a public affair and so not suitable to be seen in again.
‘Georgina.’ Emily made it clear in the order of introduction that, in need of employment or not, her cousin outranked Miss Sophie Higgs. ‘This is my friend Miss Sophie Higgs. Sophie, Lady Georgina FitzWilliam.’
Etiquette required that Lady Georgina speak first. Etiquette, however, had not caught up with the possibility that a woman might employ her social superior. Sophie stood, as she had not politely stood when her ‘social superiors’ entered the room. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Georgina.’
‘Thank you.’ The voice was reserved, the face as carefully set in a smile as a footman might set a knife and fork on a blank white tablecloth.
Sophie sat. Lady Georgina and Emily sat too, Emily with a hint of annoyance that Sophie had not waited for her and Georgina to sit first. But this was, after all, a job interview, thought Sophie with a touch of malice. She inspected Georgina more closely, suddenly recognising the expression she had taken for resentment.
She had seen faces like this before: in men with shell shock, a term the military had banned in 1916, worried about pension demands when the war was over. What had this woman been through to look like this? The loss of her parents, her brothers, her sister? Yes, there’d be grief and shock from those, but not this look of emptiness, tinged with both distaste and desperation. This woman did not want this job, or perhaps any job. But she would take it, and not just because Emily’s hospitality might be growing grudging.
‘Emily has told you what the position entails?’
‘Yes. It is very kind of you to offer it.’ The words held no gratitude.
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Sophie frankly. ‘I want someone who can work hard, capably, discreetly and be utterly trustworthy. You will also possibly be going into danger. I have no idea what it will take to locate my friend, nor to bring her out of Germany.’ She did not mention Dolphie, who she hoped, just possibly, might also accompany her, not just back to Australia but also into a partnership of love. ‘You might also find life in Australia . . . limited.’
Lady Georgina hesitated. ‘If I may also be frank?’
‘Please do.’
‘The journey to Germany and Australia are not a problem, but attractive. I gather we will set off soon?’
‘Tomorrow if we can, though I think in three or four days may be more realistic, or even optimistic. My father’s London agent, Mr Slithersole, is arranging connections for us on the journey. Part of your job will be to assist him. You will find him cooperative and efficient. You speak German fluently?’
‘Of course.’ Lady Georgina seemed both imply that a true lady did no less. ‘I speak Hochdeutsch — standard German — and Low German. I also speak several dialects. My family spent a lot of time in both Austria and Germany when I was a child.’
‘Going out to Australia doesn’t worry you either? It can be . . . brash. And insular.’
‘I spent a year before the war in Ceylon. I doubt Australian society is more limited than the native colonies.’
‘Excellent,’ said Emily briskly. ‘Sophie, if you will just . . .’
‘Just sign on the dotted line? Excuse my bringing the language of the office into your drawing room, Emily. But perhaps you can now tell me exactly what is going on? A woman of good family does not accept a journey into the various revolutions occurring in Germany, nor even to Australia, quite so readily.’
‘An employee cannot have secrets?’ enquired Lady Georgina, doing an excellent job of almost keeping the distaste of all that might be associated with Higgs Corned beef from her voice.
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘Or at least not the employee I need. I know that is neither polite nor discreet,’ she added. ‘But you will inevitably learn secrets of mine. Trust needs to be mutual.’
Lady Georgina glanced at Emily. Emily sighed. ‘Sophie was still working in Belgium last year.’ She turned to Sophie. ‘I presume you didn’t see the English papers?’
‘I rarely had time to read more than the headlines.’ Sophie did not add that even that was mostly in the trench latrines. She glanced at Lady Georgina. ‘You were in the newspapers?’
‘The gossip columns. Even in war there is gossip.’
‘And what is this particular gossip?’
‘I left my husband,’ said Lady Georgina flatly. She waited for Sophie’s horrified reaction. It didn’t come.
‘Did he beat you?’ said Sophie flippantly.
‘Actually, yes.’ The voice once again was unemotional.
She had been a fool. And a cruel fool. She of all people should know that Georgina’s face of anguish turned to concrete, that desperate will not to feel at all, came from the same cause in women as it did in men. But the battleground that had caused this woman’s wounds had not been in France or Belgium.
Georgina — it was suddenly impossible to add the ‘Lady’ — slid back one shoulder of her dress. The scars showed deep, ridged and red. Sophie had seen worse, but only as scars of war.
Georgina slid back the neck of her dress back into place. ‘He preferred a riding whip, but sometimes used a cane for variety. Never where it showed. Every Wednesday and Sunday evening — I was not permitted to accept or offer an invitation to dine on those nights. We always had roast meat on Wednesdays and Friday nights. Of course it was always tough, as it must be in Ceylon and so I deserved my punishment. It was our little . . . ritual. And . . . chastisement . . . at other times as I deserved it.’
‘You stayed a year with this man?’
‘He is her husband,’ said Emily. ‘But of course, Sophie darling, you have no experience of the bonds of matrimony.’
Georgina regarded them both impassively. ‘I stayed with William for two years, counting our time in England and the voyage out. I tried to do my duty as a wife as long as possible. And then it became . . . impossible. And no, there was no hint of what his . . . husbandly behaviour . . . would be like until he legally owned me.
In late 1914 after war was declared I took what I hoped was the last civilian boat home. The duties of war meant William was unable to follow me. He did, however, arrange an English court order for Restitution of Conjugal Rights. The matter was finally heard last year. I attempted to fight the charges. I lost,’ said Georgina flatly.
‘Of course you lost. You should never have made a spectacle of yourself . . .’ began Emily.
‘I don’t understand,’ interrupted Sophie. ‘Surely the court wouldn’t order you to go back to a man like that.’
‘A woman cannot divorce her husband because he beats her, nor even if he commits adultery. He must desert her too. William has no intention of deserting me. The gutter press was . . .’ Georgina paused ‘. . . avid, I think is the correct word. William is the only son of Baron Lynley.’
‘I can imagine what the press made of it.’ Sophie tried to make her tone as impassive as Georgina’s. ‘But you are here, not with him, despite the court’s judgement?’
‘It is still not easy to get a passage to England from Ceylon. Even the Court cannot order the war office to find a berth to Ceylon for a deserting wife. William arrives in England in three weeks’ time. I planned to leave before then, for France perhaps. But he has friends and connections in France.’ She smiled slightly for the first time. ‘He will not think of looking for me in Germany or Australia.’
‘Why doesn’t he let you go? Excus
e me,’ Sophie added. ‘That is impertinence, a curiosity that is personal and not that of an employer.’
‘He is not particularly interested in me at all. He wants his son, Timothy. I was pregnant when I left. I had,’ said Georgina flatly, ‘miscarried twice during our marriage, both after severe beatings.’
‘The court did not take the miscarriages into account?’
‘Legally it is of no account. The gutter press, however, found it of vital interest.’
‘Where is Timothy now?’ asked Sophie gently.
‘Being cared for. William of course was granted custody of his son. A wife who desserts her husband has no right of access to her child. But William had to find his son before he can claim him.’
‘Georgina does not care to let even her family know the boy’s whereabouts,’ said Emily curtly, helping herself to sponge cake.
Sophie glanced at Emily, successfully hiding her anger by gracefully forking up the sponge cake. One could not gracefully fork cake and look annoyed. Miss Lily had taught her charges well. Emily had not even bothered to mention the boy’s name. To Emily the boy was a problem — a major one — rather than a person.
No wonder Emily was keen to move her cousin to the other side of the world. Even with a different surname, last year’s publicity must have been detrimental Emily’s husband’s career. Her Majesty’s public servants, and their relatives, appeared in The Times only under Hatch, Match and Dispatch, or for honours received. Never, under any circumstances, in the Divorce Courts, or the front pages of the gutter press.
‘Georgina,’ Sophie tried to keep her voice steady, ‘we can’t take a young child with us into Germany. But Timothy could join us in Australia —’
‘Timothy is safe where he is now. He will remain there till he can join me. I can’t risk him leaving his refuge now. Once his father has physical as well as legal custody of him I would no longer be allowed to see him, even communicate with him.’
Georgina closed her eyes, as if to try to block out the vision of what her son’s life might be with his father. ‘Timothy is his father’s heir, of course, but once he is twenty-one his father will have no power over him, not even financial power — I have money of my own. I only need to keep him safe till then. When Timothy is an adult . . .’ Georgina took a deep breath. ‘He can face his father on an equal footing. William enjoys hurting people, but only those who have no power to protest. He is extremely charming to his equals and betters. The native workers were terrified of him. He said it made them better workers.’
And those workers needed their jobs. Timothy must be four or five years old now, Sophie calculated. Not quite old enough to understand why his mother had abandoned him — if she had. Sophie strongly suspected Timothy was either in London, or, more likely, within a few hours’ train ride, where his mother could visit him. But that must be discussed in private. Like Georgina, she did not trust Emily, who so obviously believed that a man must not be separated from his son and heir — or at least not if it created unfortunate publicity.
She stood. ‘I can offer you a salary of a hundred pounds a year, to be reviewed after three months. Could you move into the Ritz tonight? I will inform them I need another room. Ask for me — there is no need to give your own name. In fact when we begin our journey perhaps it will be best if you assume another name. Smith would be adequate but possibly too common to avoid suspicion. You could be Mrs Wattle, perhaps.’
‘Wattle?’ Georgina sounded dazed, the first emotion she had shown.
‘An Australian flower. There is no reason your husband should ever discover that a Mrs Wattle in Australia is Lady Georgina FitzWilliam.’ Sophie would hire two rooms at the Ritz tonight, one in the name of Mrs Wattle, that Georgiana would most definitely not occupy. But the misleading name might divert Emily’s bloodhound instincts until they had left England.
She scribbled a second name on Mr Slithersole’s card and handed it to Georgina. ‘Here is your new name, in case you forget it. Telephone Mr Slithersole from the hotel. I will leave it you and Mr Slithersole you to finalise the business contacts we need to make in France, Belgium and then hopefully in Germany.’
‘You’re not put off by my notoriety?’
‘On the contrary. It demonstrates you are determined, capable, can be discreet where possible but do not value discretion above love, and have every reason to stay in my employ. And no scandal is attached to Mrs Wattle in Australia, so you will not embarrass me or the firm of Higgs’s Corned Beef. I may be back late tonight. We will meet for breakfast in my suite at eight am.’
‘Yes, Miss Higgs.’ Was that a smile?
Sophie stood. ‘I had better see about getting that maid. Thank you for your help, Emily. You have been magnificent, as always.’
Emily gave her the smile that said, Miss Lily taught me too to use praise as manipulation. But she seemed sincere when she said, ‘Give Hannelore . . . my best wishes.’
Chapter 1
There is an art to feeding a man so he is no longer hungry, and yet longs for more.
Miss Lily, 1913
LONDON, 20 DECEMBER 1928
VIOLETTE
Rats scampered, frozen footed, across the snowdrifts in the alley next to Worthy’s Teahouse in Mayfair. The child stood singing by the doorway, angelic in her plain white dress, paler than the grey slush of London, her curls blonde, her face and fingers tinged with blue. Her voice soared, high and pure.
In front of her, fashionable London hurried home dressed in fur coats, fur-lined gloves or fur-collared overcoats, arms loaded with Christmas presents, or with footmen to carry the parcels walking behind.
Only those who paused to listen noticed that, though the words of the Christmas carols were English, the accent was French, perhaps, or Belgian. Others might wonder if the child’s thinness disguised her true age, closer to thirteen, maybe, than ten. None saw the calculation in her eyes. She made very sure that they did not.
An elderly gentleman pushed open the teahouse door, then paused to drop a shilling in the cloche hat at the girl’s feet. Such small feet, stockingless, in shoes slightly too large. ‘Are you hungry, my dear?’
‘I am always hungry, monsieur,’ she said, presenting him with a smile that might have been worn by the angels in the battered convent, years before.
He gestured to the doorway. ‘If you would like . . .’
‘Thank you, monsieur,’ she said demurely. She bent to pick up her hat with cold stiff fingers, wrapping it around its coins.
He followed the girl inside. This would never do at the Savoy, of course, nor even at Simpson’s. But taking a shabby child into the warmth of Worthy’s for a cup of tea was so obviously a charity.
The room smelled of toasting teacakes and damp shoes. He sat across from her and watched her read the menu, her hat and its coins on her lap, the snowflakes melting in her blonde curls. It was not easy coiling naturally straight hair in rags each night to ensure ringlets, but the effect was worth it.
‘Hot chocolate, monsieur?’ the girl asked shyly, glancing up with wide blue eyes.
‘Of course, my dear.’
‘And may I perhaps have buns?’
He smiled expansively. ‘Anything you wish.’
‘Buns and cheese on toast? Oh, thank you, monsieur!’
He gestured to the waitress.
Worthy’s service was efficient. The cocoa and buns were brought immediately. The kind gentleman waited till she had sipped her hot drink and eaten half a bun quickly but delicately. ‘What is your name, my dear?’
‘Violette, monsieur.’ The girl finished the first bun, and began on the next.
‘It’s a miserable day for a child all alone in a big city,’ he suggested.
She raised blue eyes to him. ‘Oh, yes, Monsieur.’ The answer might have been an admission that she was alone, or simply agreement. She finished the second bun, then smiled as the toasted cheese was placed in front of her.
‘You are French?’
‘Belgian, monsieur
,’ she said shyly, as if she did not like to correct such a knowledgeable man.
‘A refugee?’ he asked, sympathetically. The Great War had been over for a decade but some, at least, had not returned home, their villages destroyed or haunted by the atrocities they had suffered.
‘No, monsieur. I have come to England to find my mother. Her name is Lily Shillings. She came from a village called Shillings too, but I cannot find it on a map.’
She offered the information, as she always did, in the hope that it might elicit information, an ‘Ah, I know the family well’ or ‘You mean Shillings in Yorkshire?’ But the man showed no sign that he knew the name.
‘How did you lose her?’ The kind words did not quite disguise his, still unspoken, quiet planning. ‘During the war?’
Almost every family across the British Empire had been fractured by the war, but those countries where it had been fought had suffered worst, homes turned to rubble, farmland to blood and mud, families running in the night.
‘Yes, monsieur.’
The gentleman didn’t query how a Belgian child had an English mother. Violette was used to that. This conversation was simply to establish that she was, indeed, unprotected, and to suggest that he, a nice man, grandfatherly — though of course he would think of himself as virile, an elder, not really old — might help. He touched her thin bare hand briefly with his gloved one. ‘What will you do when you find your mother, my dear?’
Violette finished her cocoa before she answered. Usually she gave an answer the gentlemen would like — ‘I will never leave her side’ or ‘I wish so much to be loved’ — before quickly pocketing whatever tip they left on the table then escaping into the crowd before he offered her a warm, safe . . . and, presumably, discreet . . . place to stay.
But this was the third teahouse and friendly gentleman today. Violette was no longer hungry and the money in the hat would pay for her lodging. And so she smiled at him, her first genuine smile of the day. ‘When I find her I will kill her, monsieur.’
Christmas in Paris Page 7
