‘What a pleasant surprise.’ They spoke in German, as they always did there at the embassy.
She smiled, shaking her head at the footman who offered to take her furs. ‘I have come to steal you away. I have an English treat for you. Sandwiches in the park!’
‘In November? Even the English do not eat sandwiches in the park in November.’
‘But we are pure Aryans and far hardier stock.’
He understood her then. He reached for his own overcoat from the hat stand. ‘Then let us show the decadent English what the Aryan race can do.’
They had walked past four flowerbeds and a pond before she spoke, sure now that there were no watchers close enough to read their lips or even expressions. Even so, Hannelore kept her face as relaxed as if she were merely admiring the evergreen hedges as she carefully remarked, ‘Sophie has been missing since yesterday morning. I was to have morning tea with her today. Dolphie, I can think of only one reason why she might be missing.’
‘Really? I can think of many. A lover, perhaps,’ he added bitterly.
‘Do you really think that, Dolphie?’
‘No.’
‘You still love her?’
‘I am a married man.’
‘And you still love Sophie.’
He did not answer. At last he said, ‘She was only a shadow of who she would become when I first met her. But even then she was . . . extraordinary. I should have courted her properly back then. Back then, we might, perhaps, have had a chance together.’
But he had not courted Sophie, thought Hannelore, had not even let her glimpse that he would have liked to do so until the day he and Hannelore left for Germany. Dolphie had known that soon they would be on opposite sides of a war, and that Sophie was as loyal to her own nation as he was to his. Dolphie had been honourable.
He was a different man now. But was he so very different?
He turned to Hannelore, his face unreadable, perhaps, by anyone but her. ‘Yes, I still love her. But love is not important now.’
Love is always important, thought Hannelore. That is what Miss Lily tried to teach us, what we only dimly understood. Perhaps no one as young as we were can truly understand that love matters more than anything in the world. Instead she said, ‘Where is she, Dolphie?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
Hannelore felt her breathing begin again. So Sophie was alive and not captured by Bolsheviks — not that she had any reason to believe that Sophie had dealings with any Bolsheviks, besides the slightly deluded Lady Mary, but she had feared them ever since her own torture at their hands — though by Hannelore’s own people.
And she was alive.
‘Is she safe?’ Hannelore asked carefully.
‘Yes.’
‘How can you be sure?’
He hesitated, then said, ‘Because I have seen her. Hannelore, Sophie only spent three days with the king, yet he spoke of taking her and her family to Scotland, leaving Mrs Simpson behind. We cannot afford that. Things are precariously balanced. Sophie must vanish until the king commits himself irrevocably to Wallis Simpson.’
‘And you trust those who guard her not to hurt her?’
Another hesitation. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Reasonably,’ he said, and this time his eyes showed concern. He did not look at her as he added, ‘I will visit her again, as soon as I can. And I will make sure that those who guard her know I will be coming and will tolerate no ill treatment.’
It was all she was going to get. And, possibly, it was enough, for all James Lorrimer had to do now was have Dolphie followed until finally he led them to Sophie, even if that took days or, possibly, weeks. But she did not think he would wait that long. Not for Sophie.
‘Dolphie, does Sophie know you are involved in this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then when she returns . . . she will return, won’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then she can identify you? Have you arrested as a kidnapper?’
‘I have diplomatic immunity,’ he reminded her. ‘But I do not think Sophie will accuse me, or even make it publicly known that she has been kidnapped.’
‘Why not?’
‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Dolphie, I need to know!’
He stopped, and took her by the shoulders. ‘No, you of all people do not need to know! You are her friend. When she returns — and she will return — you can comfort her. But the fewer people who know the details of this the better.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I do not think Sophie would want you to know, either. I will not tell you more, Hannelore. Except this. Sophie thought she was visiting you. She received a letter from you, asking for her forgiveness, saying you wished to see her.’
‘But I sent no such letter —’ She stopped, for she had written many such letters, over the years, even if she had never had the courage to send them. Or the temerity to force herself on Sophie’s notice, perhaps risking further cruelty to a friend she had so wronged. ‘You kept my letters? The ones I began to write, the ones I threw away?’
‘Yes.’
Something cracked, just slightly, then. Which of her servants had been spying on her, stealing the contents of her wastepaper basket, and for how long?
She had trusted Dolphie all her life. He was more a brother than an uncle, the one person in her family who cared for her utterly, who would always help her, at any cost to himself. And yet it must have been Dolphie who ordered this. He had acted for his country, not his niece. He would do so in the future.
It was good, perhaps, that she should find this out now.
Dolphie had tried to detain Sophie once before, for his own benefit, though he’d believed it would be good for Sophie too, as well as for his country. Now he had imprisoned her and once again believed he did it for the greater good, believed that if this was not good for Sophie — for how could it be good? — seemed to hope that it would do her no permanent harm.
She took his arm. They began to walk again, back towards the embassy. ‘I will trust you,’ she said, although now she didn’t, not entirely, yet still with some belief in him remaining. ‘But will you tell me as soon as you have seen Sophie again? Assure me she is safe, and well.’
‘I will tell you,’ he said.
She believed him, for she noticed he did not say when.
Chapter 38
Food that is to be eaten with the fingers must not leave them sticky or stained; nor must they allow crumbs onto the décolletage, or those tiny almost unnoticeable accretions at the corner of the mouth. Cheese straws may be fashionable, but badly made they can crumble into what looks like dandruff.
Miss Lily, 1906
LONDON
They met at the home of Mrs Manley-Ffyfe, at a time suitable for cocktails before dinner. Lily blew a kiss to Gwyneth Manley-Ffyfe as the butler led her and Daniel to the downstairs study, for this was not the time or place to talk.
Gwyneth had been one of the lovely ladies of 1905 . . . or was it ’06? Not brilliant, but totally trustworthy in a crisis. Chirping noises like far-off seagulls indicated guests upstairs chattering over their martinis, with properly moist cheese straws — the secret was a sufficiency of butter and a young and not crumbly cheddar cheese — as well as smoked oysters with finely chopped celery on crackers and creamed lobster in light but sturdy pastry.
James sat reading a notebook at the desk. He stood politely as they came in. This and other meeting places were merely to disguise the frequency with which they needed to confer and allowed more discretion than a phone call would allow.
‘No news?’ asked Daniel immediately, as Lily sat, her face deceptively calm. If there had been news James would already have told them. This must be about strategy, not information.
‘None. I’m sorry. Whisky? Sherry?’
‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ said Daniel impatiently. Lily merely shook her head.
Daniel sat on the edge of the armchair next to hers. ‘Has Count Ad
olphus von Hoffenhausen gone nowhere?’
‘He has gone to many places,’ said James drily. ‘And we have followed him to all of them, as he would expect us to.’
‘Then the prinzessin has told him he is being followed?’
‘It doesn’t matter if she has or not. Sophie’s disappearance has not been publicly announced. He knows that we believe that his men have her and that we will, of course, be following him. They have followed him to the opera, Kew Gardens, two nightclubs and to a small public house sixty miles from London where his and ours were the only cars on the road. He drank one beer, saluted our driver, and returned to London.’
Lily tried to keep the desperation from her voice. I am too old for this, she thought. Nor have I ever been clear-headed when Sophie is involved.
‘Yet he promised Hannelore he would visit Sophie. And if she is to be trusted — as I think she is — he has not yet done so.’
‘Yes. This means that either she is being held in London — even in the embassy, though the diplomatic risk of that is probably far too great — or he has no intention of leading our men to her.’
‘What about the clubs?’ insisted Daniel.
‘Investigated extremely thoroughly. One did, in fact, have several women kept there against their will — and who incidentally have now been freed and are being cared for — but no kidnapped countess.’
‘So we just wait?’ said Lily blankly.
‘No. There is no time to wait. The king is being bound closer to Simpson and Herr Hitler with every day parliament opposes him.’
Daniel shook his head. ‘Damn the king.’
‘We already have half the police force and two-thirds of the various British intelligence agencies searching for her. They would not be doing this as thoroughly for a vanished Countess of Shillings who might simply be disporting herself on the Riviera with a young lover. All we can do is being done.’
‘It’s not enough,’ said Daniel flatly. Lily shut her eyes breifly. Duty had kept her professionally cool through wars and intrigues. But this was Sophie.
‘No, it isn’t. We need Sophie.’ James looked from Daniel to Lily. ‘I don’t speak just as one of those who loves her. It is vital that she sees the king as soon as possible.’
‘My word, man, you can’t seriously expect Sophie to return from being kidnapped and immediately lure the king away from Wallis Simpson once again!’
‘No. There are . . . other reasons. Reasons you do not need to know, because the end result is the same. We must find Sophie. And there is still one person who can help us.’
‘Yes,’ said Lily, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘I have been thinking about her too. But to ask her to do this . . .’
‘She would leap at the chance.’
‘Of course she would. But if she was caught or injured — or even failed and found it difficult to face her failure — her parents would never forgive me.’
‘Are we talking about Violette?’ demanded Daniel.
‘Yes.’ Lily turned to him. ‘She is small, and can be made to look like a street urchin. She is trained, intelligent and totally ruthless. A ragged girl may escape notice where men are all too visible. She is also totally unknown to those who have been watching us.’
‘But a girl her age . . .’ said Daniel.
Lily sighed. ‘Daniel, the women of La Dame Blanche were the most effective operatives of the Great War. Violette was trained in their techniques — and the more savage moral edge some of them honed — since babyhood. Do not underestimate her. I don’t want to involve her, as much for her parents’ sake as her own. But I agree with James. Violette is our best, perhaps our only, hope of finding Sophie. And she will do this willingly.’
Daniel gazed at her, his eyes suddenly hard. ‘That is exactly what worries me. She will be all too willing. Violette should not be encouraged . . .’ He stopped.
Lily’s heart bled for him. Violette or Sophie? For Daniel, there could be no choice. Nor did she believe that this would give Violette a taste for intrigue or even violence. The girl had that already. This, if anything, might teach her control.
James nodded. ‘You will ask her? Miss Carryman’s nephew will have an aircraft waiting to take you to Paris at dawn.’
‘I will ask her. I have no doubt she will say yes. I will try to placate her parents. But as she is of age they cannot stop her.’ Lily’s voice was bleak.
These were her oldest friends. She would be risking their only child, the daughter they had lost until only seven and a half years earlier. In the past decade Lily had lost her other identity as Nigel; had lost Sophie as a wife; had lost the Shillings estate except as a visitor, a caretaker. Now she risked losing her dearest friends, and their daughter.
For her country or for Sophie?
It does not matter, she thought. As long as they find her. As long as Sophie is safe.
Chapter 39
There may come a time when your maid is ill and the hotel maid or ship stewardess hands you your evening gown with what she hopes, but of course is not, an imperceptible scorch on its silk. Act quickly. A half-hour soak in fresh hen manure, Fuller’s earth and white wine vinegar will remove the stain sufficiently, as long as the actual fabric has not been destroyed. As fresh hen manure may be hard to locate, I advise always carrying a small glass container containing a mix of the dried material and an equal amount of Fuller’s earth. White wine vinegar is usually readily available. If not, white wine may be used in its place.
Miss Lily, 1912
PARIS, DECEMBER 1936
Paris smelled of Gitanes, the cigarettes Violette had tried but disliked; of most excellent coffee; of oxtail simmering with onions and garlic in red wine in the café across the road. Violette herself still carried a remnant mix of the perfumes of many customers, which was not pleasant; nor was the arrogance of Madame Patrice’s casual gesture to sweep up trimmings, or serve coffee. Madame’s head seamstress, Mademoiselle Lafortune, even had the audacity to slap her briefly on the ear if Violette was not swift or courteous enough in her responses.
Violette crossed the cobbled courtyard and counted her blessings, possibly the only habit she had learned from the sisters who had briefly cared for her. The apartment her papa had rented was a good one, her own room sumptuous even if the wallpaper was overblown roses that looked more like the mess an ill dog might make in the street than flowers. The street was tree-lined, the concierge almost smiled when she said bonjour each morning.
The meals too were most excellent; Madame Bernard had been acquired with the apartment. She knew the best bakers for the croissants, the long baguettes bought fresh three times a day, a tarte Tatin that was almost as good as her adopted grandmère’s and her soups were most excellent too.
There was even a gendarme who had shown the poor lost newcomer to the street she had somehow mislaid while luckily her father was also absent, spending an evening with friends. Her papa gave her much latitude, but she did not think he would have sat back and read his newspaper while Violette entertained.
The gendarme had proved an even better lover than the second officer. What was not good: the supervision of apprentices for all except a few days each fortnight; the lack of invitations to the parties that the other girls at Madame Patrice’s spoke of every Monday; the black serge dress she must wear as an apprentice — it was well cut certainly and of excellent fabric, but it made her look like every other apprentice. Violette did not wish to look like anyone but herself and certainly not to wear black serge.
And the work. Pah! She had only been there two weeks and already had learned all that she must know: that she would never run an atelier or manage its accounts.
Violette would be a designer who fitted only the most favoured clients and made them beautiful. Already she had sketched a garment in gold and silver stripes streaked with a translucent green ribbon, its low hem held with ribbon too, for Paris, at least, was not bound by the colour choices of the mourning period in England. Unless, of course, one was an appre
ntice. And yet, despite her talent and her loathing of anything to do with routine, or contracts, or numbers — other than to know the cheapest sources for fabrics and the amount extra she must pay to steal the best artisans — her parents for some reason believed that long steady employment was a virtue even when it was dull and unnecessary and she was bored, bored, bored . . .
She opened the door to the scent of Madame Bernard’s cassoulet, and the more exotic, but most familiar, fragrance of gardenias, a scent she now wore herself, combined with a little orange blossom to add a note of youth, though not at work where the apprentices were forbidden perfume.
‘Aunt Lily!’ She ran to the sitting room.
Aunt Lily sat arranged most perfectly on the sofa, in a dress of pale rose silk — ah, she too must be so tired of black. Of course Aunt Lily would change her costume as soon as she left England. And the jet embroidery on the silk scarf was the most perfect touch of all, the weight of the jet keeping the scarf exactly as it should be, as so often scarves did not sit as they should.
The scent of gardenia grew stronger as she kissed Aunt Lily’s cheek. It was only then that she noticed that her maman was there too as was her papa, each in armchairs opposite the sofa. Her papa looked worried; her maman, stubborn as the day she had forbidden Violette to cut her hair, a most ridiculous order from a woman who had assumed motherhood far too late to have authority, which was why Violette’s hair was now a neat black bob, like silk above the coarseness of her dress.
‘You have come to shop, Aunt Lily?’ Violette sat beside her as her mother rang the bell for fresh coffee and the small gougère Violette had grown fond of. There was never time to eat properly or well at work.
‘Your Aunt Lily has a proposition,’ said Papa quietly.
Violette studied his face briefly, then her maman’s and, finally, Aunt Lily’s. Aunt Lily looked tired, she realised, the rose dress worn to give an illusion of colour to her cheeks. She liked Aunt Lily, possibly even loved her, though Violette was never sure exactly what that emotion entailed.
Lilies, Lies and Love Page 20
