An elephant, perhaps, to ride up Piccadilly? Monkeys for the conservatory? She had better not mention either even in jest, or he might see them as a quest her knight needed to perform . . .
‘Dinner at the usual hour, your ladyship?’ asked Hereward from the doorway.
‘Yes, thank you, Hereward.’
‘Mrs Goodenough asks if His Majesty will dine?’
Sophie smiled. ‘Not tonight, thank you. But please say how much His Majesty enjoyed her cherry cake, and the teacake was also superb.’
David had not in fact eaten the cherry cake, though he had admired its appearance when Rose, who loved it, had drawn his attention to it. And he agreed with Danny about the teacakes. David still ate far too little . . .
She stood. ‘I had better change for dinner.’ And bathe, she thought. Normally she would have suggested they all dine informally in the library, but it was just possible David might impulsively call in. It would not do for him to see her tête-à-tête with two eligible bachelors, one of whom had travelled from Australia with her.
An old friend, she would say, if David ever asked about Daniel. Which was entirely true. But possibly, probably, it would not occur to him to ask. David had always been the centre of his own universe. It had often been a hard and even horrible universe, but he had still been at its centre. If he had refused to admit the photographic evidence of a naked Simpson with another man — or even men — he probably would not so much as notice Daniel.
A bath, she thought. A long bath, and gardenia bath salts . . .
Chapter 29
True duty is done quietly, without publicity, without reward, even without hope you will succeed. It is perhaps the greatest virtue, for it must be done with love.
Miss Lily, 1914
‘Sophie?’ She woke to find Daniel sitting on the side of her bed. He had not shared her room in England. The staff were to be trusted, but still it would not be safe. Nor did she think she could easily accept the caresses of two men, even if she truly reciprocated only his.
‘Daniel, what is it? Are you all right? The children?’
‘They are fine. I . . . I am not.’
‘What is it?’ she demanded urgently, sitting up.
‘It’s hard to explain. Maybe if I just said I am closer to being John tonight than Daniel . . .’
‘What can I do?’ she asked softly.
‘Walk with me. Walking always works. Or nearly always. And I need you with me.’
He had already dressed. She scrambled for a dress, stockings, shoes, coat, a hat pulled down both for warmth and to hide her face, a thick scarf.
They walked quietly down the stairs. Daniel headed for the front door. She shook her head and led him out the servants’ entrance then up the stairs to the footpath.
Fog swirled, dense as custard, then vanished and appeared once more. She took his arm. ‘We could get lost in this.’
‘Not if we keep to the left-hand side each time, then the right-hand side on the way back.’
‘You’ve done this other nights.’
‘Yes. But not with you.’
‘You should have asked me.’
‘I didn’t want to distract you.’
‘You wouldn’t have. I think this would have steadied me too.’ For somehow, there in the fog, their footsteps echoing, it was just the two of them in the world.
A one-eyed cat snarled at them as if they might be after the rat it had spied behind a rubbish bin, then it too vanished in the fog. Turn left. Turn left. Turn left. She could smell the river, that vast appalling stench, or another river, just as smelly. She could smell coal and sausages . . . yes, over there — taxis pulled up outside — was a working man’s café, with sausages and eggs and fried bread all night long, and tea strong enough to dissolve a spoon.
She didn’t want tea. She wanted Daniel and the river at Thuringa, and Rose and Danny and Lily and Midge and so much else she loved and one day she would have them again. And just now she, and this man she loved, alone in the fog, were enough.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked quietly. Even being in London must bring back so many war-time memories.
‘I am now we are walking.’
Her heart burned, just a little. ‘Promise me you will always ask if you need to walk, or anything else?’
‘I promise.’
‘Sometimes,’ she offered, ‘I close my eyes and think I can smell the hot sand by the river.’
‘And the female wombats on heat.’
‘Is that what that stink is? I’ve always wondered.’
She could almost hear him smile. ‘I may be the first scientifically trained wombat watcher who has ever spent years in their company. They are not always the quietest of neighbours, especially when mating or defending their patch of tussock.’
‘But better than motor buses and horns.’
‘We’ll be back there soon.’ He said it with confidence, she thought, either to convince himself or her.
Finally they turned and began to turn right, then right again. Her heart was now calmer, as well as her mind, and she felt the tension had gone from Daniel’s arm too.
‘Daniel, I . . . I know I have betrayed you.’
His hand tightened on hers. ‘No, you haven’t.’
‘I let him kiss me.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘But it does! I feel grubby every time.’
‘There’s no need.’ Suddenly it was John who spoke, with all his quiet wisdom, not Daniel Greenman, psychiatrist and lover. ‘You acted for the good of others, despite your own feelings.’ He lifted her hand to kiss it, and this time he was Daniel, who loved her, whom one day she would marry. ‘And everyone who knows you loves and admires you all the more for what you’ve sacrificed in coming here.’
‘I didn’t even realise there’d be any need for . . . for sexual contact, not till we were nearly here. I heard what I wanted to hear. But if that is what David had wanted, I would have had to pretend to that, too.’ She thought of the Krafft-Ebing book, the black corset. ‘They expected he would need to be seduced.’
‘They tricked you.’ There was an edge of anger in his voice now. ‘They tricked me too.’
‘I don’t think so. They told us the truth.’ She smiled slightly. ‘Lily and James are both experienced in telling just enough of the truth. Thankfully David doesn’t want a lover — he only needs the world to think he has one. He wants a family, someone who cares more for him than for his position.’
They were nearly at the house now. She did not say ‘I’ll stop this charade any time you ask me to’. She would not put that burden on him: his fault if she went through with this, his fault if she did not. She just said, ‘I love you.’
He said, ‘I love you too.’ They stepped inside the door, in case of watching photographers or journalists, before he kissed her, and then simply held her: for years perhaps, or decades, till their hearts beat in the same time and their skin temperatures equalised and the world was steady and would stay steady.
No matter what.
They climbed the stairs hand in hand, kissed briefly once again, then went to their respective beds. And she slept deeply, calmly, happily, waking only with the arrival of the tea tray and the curtains being pulled to display a small patch of blue sky.
Chapter 30
Mrs Goodenough’s Cherry Cake
Ingredients
1 cup well-aged whisky
1 cup seedless sultanas
1 cup currants
3 cups finely chopped crystallised cherries
2 cups whole crystallised cherries
half a cup apricot jam
3 tbsp grated fresh orange rind
1 cup brown sugar
juice of 1 lemon
1 tbsp almond essence
Method
Place all the above ingredients in a large bowl in the larder overnight, covered. Place in the fridge.
Now melt 1 cup butter; take off the heat and mix in five eggs one by one, then add
a cup of ground almonds and 2 cups of plain flour and the fruit mixture. Mix gently but well — don’t keep beating once it’s all amalgamated.
Butter a deep cake tin well then dust it with flour. Wrap the tin in thick newspaper, dampen the paper by dipping the tin in water, then pour in the cake mixture gently. Place the tin on a tray covered with thick newspaper, then dampen that. Smooth out the top of the cake mixture and decorate it with whole blanched almonds in a star pattern. Bake in a cool-to-warm oven for four hours. If the cake seems to be browning too fast turn the heat down. It will be ready when it smells ready, or when the top springs back when you press the middle with your finger, but do not overbake it or it will be dry.
Cool the cake in the tin before turning out. Do not abandon this recipe if it does not work perfectly the first time it is made. You need experience to know exactly how long it needs to cook, but even under or overcooked it will still be good, though not superlative.
This cake will last a fortnight under glass, or wrapped in buttered brown paper in a cool place.
LONDON, DECEMBER 1936
‘Your ladyship!’
Sophie sat up, glanced at the clock. Six am. She’d barely had two hours’ sleep. ‘What is it, Beatrice? The children? Daniel? Lily?’ She blinked at the kitchen maid, in sudden alarm.
‘No, your ladyship. I’m sorry, your ladyship. This just came for you by messenger.’ She handed Sophie a sealed envelope.
And the poor girl must have struggled as fast as she could from her ‘cleaning the grate’ overall into her morning uniform, suitable for wakening a countess. ‘Thank you. Tea please. And a plate of plain oat biscuits please, buttered.’
‘Yes, your ladyship.’
Sophie opened the envelope.
Dear Sophie,
Excuse the brevity, and please destroy this once you have read it. Bishop Blunt of Bradford — never has a man been more aptly named — has put his foot in it by giving an address on the moral duties of the king. To give him his due, the poor man was alluding to the forthcoming coronation, not any other matter. But the press, who have held back till now, have chosen to see this as a public declaration that they are now free to comment on David’s determination to marry Mrs Simpson and repeat all the gossip from the American papers. Ironic that, just as David begins to doubt, he is going to be forced to say publicly whether he will or whether he won’t.
I need to see you urgently, and so will he. It is best however if neither of us are seen at Vaile House. Could you come to Emily’s as soon as you read this? The press will be looking for you too, so use discretion.
Yours, always,
J
She glanced out the window. Fog, and a five-minute walk to Emily’s. The car — any car — would attract too much attention, even photographers, at this time of the morning. For once she blessed the fog. She washed hurriedly in the bathroom next door.
‘Sophie?’
It was Green, blinking at her. Sophie thrust the letter at her, then stepped quickly over to her wardrobe, hauling out a dress. Green pushed her hand away. ‘No, not that one. This one and the long plain blue coat. No one has seen that in England yet. A low hat. Ah, Beatrice, thank you. Drink the tea and eat the biscuits on your way down the stairs.’
Green pulled a comb through Sophie’s hair. ‘Hush and let me do my work. I expect James and Mr Churchill will want you there when they advise His Majesty what to say to the press. But don’t make any statement yourself unless they advise it.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ said Sophie, slightly irritated that Green might think she would.
‘There, you’ll do.’ Green stepped back. ‘Good work, Sophie,’ she added quietly. ‘Brilliant work. And nearly done now. This is the week when Simpson either succeeds or fails.’
The irritation vanished. It was true, thought Sophie. If David publicly repudiated Mrs Simpson now, the affair would be finished. A few more months and Sophie might even be able to go home — a ‘temporary absence’ that would become permanent. ‘Thank you. I shouldn’t be long. Don’t wake the others.’ Daniel needed sleep, and so did Lily. ‘But when they wake, tell them where I’ve gone and why.’
Green shook her head. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘There’s no need. It’s only a few minutes away.’
‘I will just get my coat and hat . . .’
‘Green, I am quite capable of getting myself to Emily’s.’
‘Sophie . . .’
‘You’re needed here, to explain to Lily and Daniel. They can telephone Emily if they need to speak to me or James.’ She once again took the handbag Green held out, hurried down the stairs and then out into the sting of early morning London air, half cold air, half semi-frozen coal dust. A wonder anyone survived a winter here without pitted skin. She began to walk, the yellow fog twisting and wisping about her, thick here, then thin again . . .
‘Miss? The lady said I was to give this to you now. Said it was important.’
Sophie looked down. A small boy, red-haired, grubby-faced, a man’s coat tied with string around him, peered at her from the laneway between two houses, the pile of newspapers he’d been selling still under one arm.
‘Where is the lady?’
‘Dunno. She vanished, soon as she give me this. She gave me a shilling, said you’d give me one too.’
Sophie doubted the latter. She reached into her handbag and handed the child a ten-shilling note.
‘Coo, thanks, miss.’ The child vanished into the fog-darkened laneway, in case any other urchin had seen and envied the largesse.
For the second time that morning Sophie tore open an envelope, then stared.
My Dearest Always Sophie,
This is hard to write, nor do I know if I have the courage to send it. But I must see you, must explain, must tell you what I know.
Love, Hannelore
Sophie stared at the writing. This might be connected to the matter James needed to discuss. Indeed, it probably was. Von Ribbentrop could have divulged Wallis Simpson’s plans, for surely in the past forty-eight hours the German ambassador would have become aware of a very real threat to his power over the British throne. Yet Hannelore could not phone James without at least one telephone operator listening, much less visit or send him a letter, without attracting notice. It would take hours, at least, to arrange a casual meeting. And Hannelore’s Mayfair flat was between Vaile House and Emily’s.
She could give Hannelore five minutes to pass on whatever information was necessary and be on her way again. She turned the corner, and into the doorway of the apartment house where her oldest friend lived, although it was a place she had never entered.
She had expected Old World elegance. This was art deco, cream and green and the foyer severely sparse. The building housed modern efficient apartments with servants’ quarters below, and presumably a dumb waiter so meals could be sent up at the request of the mistresses or masters on the building’s higher floors.
She gave her name to the doorman. He looked fresh and cheery, presumably having just taken over from the night porter. He inspected her briefly, nodded and opened the lift for her. The liftman — one-legged, propped on a stool, half-asleep, his wooden leg outstretched — leaned over to close its metal doors. They clanged shut and she ascended, seeing the underpinning of each floor as she rose to the sixth.
The door opened onto a small landing adorned with two gilt pots holding palm trees and a single door. The knocker was a tapered rectangle, bronze and polished. She lifted it and knocked.
The door opened. A maid stood there, dressed in the correct black and white. ‘The Countess of Shillings to see the prinzessin,’ said Sophie.
‘Please to come in.’ The accent was German.
Sophie stepped onto the parquet floor, also well polished. A painting hung on the wall. To Sophie’s shock it was a landscape, unmistakably Australian, with sheep in the background.
Someone grabbed her arms from behind. She had time to say ‘Oh, no you don’t’, and prepared
to fall limply, breaking the hold, when she felt the prick of a hypodermic syringe. The person behind relaxed their hold. She lunged towards the lift but found her legs already sagging.
‘You shot me once,’ said Dolphie’s voice, hovering in some other faint reality. ‘I think we may call this a fair exchange.’
Sophie reached for the lift gate but found her hand on the floor instead. Felt Dolphie lift her, her legs, arms, hanging limply. She tried to scream, but found her mouth failed to work as well. ‘I have not killed you. You may still have to be killed. I hope you will choose not to be killed, but if you do, wouldn’t you prefer to die by the hand of a man who loves you?’
He actually seemed to be offering her a choice. She gathered every crumb of strength, managed to fumble her fingers briefly, found her hatpin, and inserted it fully into some unknown part of his anatomy. She hoped it was somewhere vital. His scream filled her last conscious moment.
Chapter 31
The more wealthy or powerful someone is, the more they have been used to fluttering eyelashes and sycophancy. Neither will attract them. What will? Ah, that is the question, my dears. Understand them and do so with compassion, no matter how distasteful you find some of their qualities, and you will find the way to charm and influence them for good.
Miss Lily to her lovely ladies, 1910
‘Mr Lorrimer on the telephone for you, Miss Lily.’
‘Thank you, Hereward.’ Carefully showing no sign of urgency Lily glided into the study, where Nigel had once sat at the mahogany desk. Miss Lily had never appeared in London. This had been solely Nigel’s domain, and was now used by Sophie for the business matters that occupied some of her time, even on the other side of the world. ‘James darling, how lovely of you to call.’
‘Didn’t Sophie get my note?’ he asked so abruptly that she knew this was too urgent for too much subterfuge.
‘Yes, of course she did. Green woke me as soon as she left. We have been waiting for news.’
Lilies, Lies and Love Page 17
