Christmas in Paris

by Jackie French

  Chapter 3

  Duty is such a simple word. You will meet it often, I hope, if your lives are to be rich ones. And each time it will have a different meaning.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  David ate his porridge almost without noticing, as Sophie told him yet another story from her wild impossible flight across Australia and north to India. ‘Miss Morrison was extraordinary. Her face had been burned off when she rescued a pilot from wreckage at the Somme, but she flew her aircraft like an eagle.’

  David absent-mindedly took a bite of the parsley-dotted scrambled eggs Sophie had placed in front of him. ‘I think I will learn to fly.’

  ‘They’ll tell you it’s too dangerous,’ warned Nigel, forking kedgeree.

  David shrugged. ‘My father still has two other sons.’

  One of whom was addicted to morphine, fast women, the occasional fast man, and even faster cars, and the other crippled by shyness and a stammer, thought Sophie. ‘Toast?’

  ‘Far too fattening.’

  ‘David, for the fiftieth time, you are not fat. Eat up your toast and marmalade then we can go for a nice fitness-enhancing walk. Unless of course you intend to go to your launch.’

  ‘Terribly bad manners to be late,’ the prince said lightly. ‘Best not go at all. What have you to show me? A fascinating new enterprise to breed zebras?’

  Sophie laughed. ‘Only a few new pigsties. But a walk in the snow will be . . . bracing.’

  ‘I’d rather ride.’

  It was a command from a man used to his every wish being granted, except the ones that mattered most. It hurt Nigel to ride these days, but nonetheless Sophie rang for Hereward to ask Billson to bring the horses round.

  The good sweet smell of hot horse droppings on fresh snow almost reconciled Sophie to the English winter. She and David raced along the road to the cottages. Nigel would follow sedately in the car, thus allowing the prince an illusion of flirtation. David won the race by leaping the stone wall — foolhardy when one didn’t know what might be behind it — but one could not say that to a prince, especially one who needed reassurance.

  They slowed the horses to a walk after that. Word of the prince’s arrival had flowed from manor house to estate cottages. The doorways were crammed with women curtseying, girls trying to look both demure and enticing in what was obviously their Sunday best, hair hurriedly loosened from plaits, or adorned with ribands for those who had dared their parents and ‘bobbed’. One of the men called out, ‘God save His Highness!’ The cry echoed along the line of houses, each with its post-war tiled roof, modern plumbing — water piped to a tap indoors, with another pipe to remove it — and new plaster. Each had its vegetable gardens of cabbages and leeks poking green heads out of the snow, and brambles that would be roses come summer.

  ‘A model estate,’ remarked the prince, as Nigel parked the Rolls and joined them. And an extremely damp one, thought Sophie as the horses walked slowly past the last cottage, Nigel at her side. If the grey sky was any lower she’d be able to poke a hole in it with her umbrella.

  ‘We do our best, sir.’ Nigel looked at a crop of winter wheat with satisfaction. ‘Sophie found the perfect estate agent after the war. It’s a pity he’s at a sale today — he’ll be wrecked at missing the Prince of Wales. The estate runs like clockwork. Or better.’ Nigel grinned at her. ‘It doesn’t need winding up every eight days.’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie slightly regretfully. ‘It doesn’t need much managing at all.’

  ‘If only England was as well run and prosperous,’ said David lightly.

  This was her cue to say, ‘It will be when you are king, sir.’ Sophie was silent. As a successful businesswoman, as well as a graduate of Miss Lily’s teaching, which encompassed as much politics as charm, she knew how fragile the peace was with Germany. That country was still suffering under the unjust reparations France had suddenly imposed once the German army had been disbanded in good faith.

  The stock market boom in the United States worried Sophie too. Too many fools were making fortunes in what was essentially no more than a gamble that stock prices would keep rising. Her father used to say to be wary when fools could make fortunes . . .

  Her horse tossed its head as two cars proceeded carefully down the snowy Shillings driveway, breaking her from her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, dear. David, I’m so sorry, I forgot. The Prinzessin von Arnenberg and James Lorrimer are coming to luncheon.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I need to change out of my riding clothes. It is all your fault, David darling. You make me forget everything else.’

  ‘Except, I hope your husband,’ said Nigel.

  ‘I never lunch,’ said the prince. ‘And I would prefer not to meet Lorrimer. Always talking about duty — and you know about his first wife?’

  Sophie shook her head.

  ‘Jewish,’ the prince said shortly. ‘Wealthy, of course, like all that kind, but a good thing for Lorrimer’s career that she died.’

  Sophie stared, speechless, as the Prince of Wales turned his horse’s head for the stables.

  Too late. The second of the cars stopped. A furred and elegant hand waved. David sighed audibly and reined in his horse as the chauffeur opened the rear door.

  Two perfect shoes, clear stockings on the best legs of European royalty, glimpsed beneath a coat of pure white Arctic fox. A sparkle of diamonds at her throat and at the edge of the neat fur hat — Sophie might wear pearls, but diamonds were suitable for royalty at any time of day.

  Sophie wasn’t sure how Hannelore afforded dresses and gems now that her and Dolphie’s estates were in Bolshevik hands, but today she was fairy princess meets Theda Bara. Sophie tried to remember how one presented royalty to royalty, especially now Germany had abolished royal titles. Luckily the chore was taken from her.

  ‘Cousin Hanne!’ The prince’s tones were truly warm. ‘It has been far too long.’

  Hannelore paused before she spoke, the ‘Miss Lily pause’ that made the audience focus on whatever was said next. ‘But you did not come to Sandringham when my Uncle Dolphie and I were there,’ said Hannelore, reproachfully, slowly letting her eyes rise to meet his and hold his gaze. ‘We missed you so.’

  Queen Mary had invited her German relatives to visit again as soon as the war ended. They were there often now, although of course these meetings were never mentioned in court circulars.

  David dismounted, removed his riding gloves, then lifted Hannelore’s hand to his lips. ‘My mother had you on my list of brides before the war. I should have spoken then.’

  Hannelore laughed. ‘And now it is impossible. The handsome English prince must wed one of his subjects: your father says so.’ She kept her hand in his. ‘But perhaps instead of marriage you might . . . come to tea?’ The words and tone were almost innocent.

  ‘I would love to come to . . . tea.’ The prince kissed her hand again.

  Hannelore is gathering him in as her protégé, thought Sophie. It might be good for the Prince of Wales to learn more of real politics than just weeping when he visited a mining village and saying, ‘Something must be done.’ Hannelore would be an excellent teacher, despite her foible about her almost-known German political protégé.

  But Hannelore would not marry David. An English prince must not marry a former enemy. Nor would Hannelore become his lover. Hannelore would never have a lover now.

  A hurried half-hour later, Green had removed Sophie’s riding dress and boots, quickly restyled her hair, carefully fastened yet another dress, this one with panels of green lace between panels of gold silk, hooked the pearls back around her neck, and reapplied the powder and lipstick. Green was a miracle. Sophie descended the stairs.

  ‘Hannelore, darling, you look beautiful. James, it is so good to see you.’ She presented her cheek to James to be kissed, and kissed Hannelore’s cold skin in turn. ‘Where is His Highness?’

  ‘David has departed already,’ said Hannelore. ‘He says he will adore you forever, and left two very large stuffed toy zebra
s for Rose and Danny. I must see your twins too, Sophie.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hannelore looked tired now that she was no longer charming the Prince of Wales, and far older than when they had been students of Miss Lily’s. ‘Though I hope they have had their lunch already,’ Sophie added, ‘and are down for their nap. But we can peer in at them.’

  Sophie smiled at James. Step one, Miss Lily had taught her, back in those magic months before the war. Smile, and almost everyone will smile with you. ‘James, do excuse my tardiness. You know what it’s like with HRH. One has to drop everything! You’d love a brandy snifter, wouldn’t you, after that cold drive? Or do you think whisky is a better warmer?’

  Ask a question to which they will answer ‘yes’ to forge a link between you. Ask questions to which they know the answer.

  Hannelore, Nigel and James knew exactly what she was doing. Charm was as automatic to her now as the swan-like glide, the slight pause on entering a room, the grace with which she moved her hands. Nonetheless, James smiled as expected.

  ‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘The Shillings whisky is superb.’

  Nigel laughed. ‘I can’t take any credit. My father put down the barrels before I was born.’

  The two men moved towards the library. Sophie had a sudden nostalgic pang for the quiet winter days in Miss Lily’s private drawing room along the corridor, toasting crumpets by the fire with Hannelore, Emily and dearest Mouse, laughing as they dripped butter and honey.

  Mouse had died in childbirth; Emily was Mrs Colonel Sevenoaks, corpulent and envious of Sophie’s more prestigious — and far happier — marriage. Hannelore had lost her estates to the Russians in the war and had been captured and tortured by Munich revolutionaries, but she now seemed to be reestablished in society, though Sophie had seen little of her since she’d returned to England, wary of meeting the uncle Hannelore regarded as a brother, who had tried just a little too forcibly to convince Sophie to marry him.

  Such long journeys we have all made, she thought, as she led the way upstairs, except for Mouse, her travels through life so tragically cut short.

  ‘Sophie.’ Hannelore paused on the stairs. ‘I must speak with you.’

  ‘Speak away, darling.’ But I am not coming to Germany, she thought. Too many memories and none of them good. Nor am I going to write a cheque for your fiery little politician, no matter how good his intentions.

  ‘I must see Miss Lily. It is urgent. Truly urgent.’

  Sophie stopped, schooled her face, then turned around to face her on the staircase. ‘Hannelore, you know Miss Lily vanished at the start of the war. Her . . . friendships with . . . those who became our enemies made her suspect. She has retired. Even Nigel . . . only rarely hears from her.’ Which was true, if not the whole truth.

  ‘But Miss Lily wished for peace. As we wish for peace. It is the Bolsheviks who are our enemies now.’

  ‘Fighting for peace?’

  ‘You of all people must know that sometimes one must fight. It is who we fight that matters. Our common enemy is to the north, in Russia.’

  Hmmm. ‘Perhaps. What a mistake it was for your Kaiser to arrange for Mr Lenin to return to Russia during the war. If it hadn’t been for that piece of treachery, the revolution might not have happened.’

  ‘Is that analysis from Miss Lily?’

  ‘No, it is my own, and from an editorial in The Times. Truly, Hannelore, I can’t arrange a meeting with Miss Lily.’

  ‘Nigel must know how to contact her! Miss Lily is his —’ Hannelore stopped. Miss Lily had never exactly explained her relationship to the Earl of Shillings, nor why he allowed her to use Shillings for three months each year to school her chosen girls.

  Neither Burke’s Peerage nor Debrett’s gave any clue, either, for there was no Lillian Vaile there. When they had first met Sophie had wondered if Miss Lily were possibly an illegitimate child of the late earl, and thus Nigel’s half-sister. She wondered if Hannelore was too tactful to put forward the same theory now.

  ‘Why do you need to see her so badly?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Because Miss Lily would understand. She of all people would accept that England and Germany must be allies. Her network of friends across Europe and the world, all those girls who are now women, in so many royal houses and families of power . . .’

  A network gathered for British influence and knowledge, not for a would-be German politician. ‘You think Miss Lily would convince those influential friends to support Herr Hitler?’

  ‘Of course. If she could only meet him she’d understand how much good he could do with the right connections. Sophie, you cannot know how bad it is in Germany now. The communists in Berlin have their own army. They battle on the street with any who do not support their cause. The desperation, the . . . the decadence, as if no one can bear to look at reality and so seeks any escape. The heart of Germany is dying, Sophie. I cannot see my country die.’

  ‘Hannelore.’ Sophie shook her head helplessly. ‘I wish I could help. But I can’t take you to Miss Lily. Nor can I support Herr Hitler, either in person or with my money. I’m sympathetic to the need for a peaceful Europe, of course I am sympathetic. But my own country needs me too. Needs my factories, my energy.’

  Actually her factories were running perfectly without her now, managed by the Slithersoles, father and son, and Cousin Oswald, except for a few hours’ guidance by mail or telegram each week. She did in fact have both the money and the energy to devote to Hannelore’s Herr Hitler, if he was as miraculous as Hannelore believed. The nasty taste in her mouth, however, legacy of both her rescue mission to brutish post-war Germany and the little Nigel had shared with her of the man Hitler’s manifesto, meant she doubted she would spend either on him.

  ‘And of course you have a family now, as well,’ said Hannelore softly.

  Which Hannelore would never have, after the injuries inflicted on her in the revolution.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sophie. It seemed cruel to take Hannelore to see the twins now. How could anyone see Rose and Danny and not long for children too?

  ‘Please,’ said Hannelore quietly. ‘Please, help me to see Miss Lily. It is more urgent than you can know.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Sophie softly. She added, with perfect truth, ‘I wish we could all be together again. I wish it far more than you could know.’

  THE CROWN OF ENGLAND IS UNDER THREAT . . . FROM WITHIN

  BOOK 4 – April 2020

  As the King of England wavers between duty and love, Sophie knows that she must choose duty.

  The year is 1936 and the new King Edward VIII wishes to marry American divorcee, and suspected German agent, Wallis Simpson. Topsecret documents that the king must read and sign are being neglected for weeks, and some are even turning up in Berlin.

  And as Germany grows its military might with many thousands of new fighter planes every year, Britain and its empire are under increasing threat.

  Can Miss Lily’s most successful protégé, Sophie Vaile, the Countess of Shillings, seduce the new king, prevent his marriage to Wallis Simpson, and turn him from fascism? And if a man can sacrifice his life for his country, should a woman hesitate to sacrifice her honour?

  Based on new correspondence found in German archives, Lilies, Love and Lies is a work of fiction. Or is it?

  In the fourth title in the Miss Lily series, Jackie French explores one of the most controversial events in history that saw the unthinkable happen when a king chose love over duty.

  ‘The story is equal parts Downton Abbey and wartime action, with enough romance and intrigue to make it 100% not-put-downable’ – Australian Women’s Weekly on Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies

  ‘With lots to say about women, relationships and power, The Lily in the Snow is all you could want in a book – smart, thought-provoking and endlessly engaging’ – Better Reading on The Lily in the Snow

  About the Author

  JACKIE FRENCH AM is an award-winning writer, wombat negotiator, the 2014–2015 Australian Chi
ldren’s Laureate and the 2015 Senior Australian of the Year. She is regarded as one of Australia’s most popular authors and writes across all genres — from picture books, history, fantasy, ecology and sci-fi to her much-loved historical fiction. ‘Share a Story’ was the primary philosophy behind Jackie’s two-year term as Laureate.

  jackiefrench.com.au

  facebook.com/authorjackiefrench

  Copyright

  Angus&Robertson

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, Australia

  First published in Australia in 2019

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Jackie French 2019

  The right of Jackie French to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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