And then they drove away.
Chapter 50
Your mother undoubtedly told you always to wear immaculate underwear in case you are struck by an omnibus but, given that is unlikely, I will give you different advice: your outer clothes are for the world. Your underwear is your own. If you wish to — or need to — entrance a man with your beauty wrapped in silk, by all means do so. But a favourite chemise, however mended the lace, a soft pair of cotton bloomers where the stains have never quite faded: these will be items that seem like old friends and you will want them near you.
Always remember: your underwear is your own.
Miss Lily, 1910
They drove to Vaile House. The children were out in the park with Miss Letitia. It seemed they had not missed their ‘Uncle David’, and the short period with their mother yesterday afternoon had been enough to reassure them she was well again. Rose had even made her a card with a drawing of a kangaroo on it, unless it was an emu.
Rose and Danny were old enough to understand that visits from kings bearing exotic gifts did not happen regularly or often, or perhaps even more than once in a lifetime. Thank goodness, Sophie thought, there had not been enough time for David to have found a permanent place in their hearts.
James opened the door for her. He must have told Hereward to return to the butler’s pantry. He led her and Daniel to a room she had not seen before. It had possibly once been a housekeeper’s sitting room, or the sewing room from the days when all mending, alterations and stitching of underwear happened in the home. Old walls were faded blue; an even older carpet lay on the flagged floor with no magic to fly her back to Australia. Even the sofa was slightly frayed.
Sophie sat as James arranged cushions and very gently arranged her too, tucking a quilt about her. Daniel sat beside her, holding her hand.
‘So,’ she said to him flatly. ‘It’s done.’
‘Not quite.’ James sat on a narrow chair beside them. ‘Parliament still has to ratify his abdication. But that will be a formality. And then David will make his speech for the radio broadcast . . .’
When would David find out that the Duke of York was ready to accede to the throne? That Lilibet would stand, straight and determined, as she accepted what this would mean for her too? Would they give David an hour of ignorance and victory, so he could telephone Mrs Simpson and tell her the false plan he’d trusted was true?
No, for telephonists would be listening. No word on this betrayal could even be rumoured. The government men would keep him quiet.
When I return to myself I will grieve for him, she thought. He had done bad things, but was not an evil man. Not a man at all, as both Daniel and Lily had told her, in different ways, but a child still, with all of a child’s inability to understand the consequences of their actions to others.
Poor little king without a throne. He had given up his family today too, nor would he ever gain another, for Wallis had none to give him, nor could she bear his children, if indeed he was capable of siring them. There would be no close friends, either, only sycophants, for Wallis Simpson would keep other women from him, not just mistresses.
It was done.
She must have dozed on the sofa. She woke to find Lily sitting on the chair, a small table beside her, a teapot, a plate of buttered toast. She did not speak as Sophie sat, sipped tea, retched into the bowl that Lily produced from under the table. But it was a dry retch. The bowl went back unused.
Sophie sipped again, then nibbled toast. It tasted of nothing, yet she was ravenous.
‘Can we go home now?’ To her shock her voice was a little girl’s.
‘Yes,’ said Lily gently. ‘To Shillings, and then Thuringa.’ She hesitated. ‘There will be no thanks, Sophie. You understand that? All you went through — and I don’t just mean your kidnapping . . . There is gratitude. But your role, your presence, can never be acknowledged. Even what happened in that room this morning must remain secret. No one will speak of it.’
‘James can’t ensure that.’
‘I believe he can.’
‘He can no longer control David. What if David tells the world he has been tricked?’
‘Wise counsel will already be explaining to him that he cannot . . . unabdicate. All he would do would be to make himself look a fool, even a trickster. I doubt he will even tell Wallis — he will let her think he freely gave up all of it for her.’
Yes, she thought, that was possible. Probable even. She ate more toast, which made the world seem more substantial, till suddenly it wasn’t. She lay back again, pulling up the quilt. ‘Where is Daniel?’
‘Playing skittles with the children in the bedroom corridor. Giving them the normality we cannot have ourselves. Sleep for a while. We will motor down to Shillings this afternoon.’
Yes, thought Sophie. If they motored then they would not hear David’s speech; regret would not tear through her. No, not regret, for James was correct, the Church was correct, the Foreign Office was correct. Somehow David had to be lured away from either Mrs Simpson or the throne. Sorrow, yes — that was the word. And a slight feeling that she too was unclean.
‘Do you really think that James did wrong?’ asked Lily, as shrewd as ever.
‘No.’ The word came so automatically she knew it was indeed what she felt. And she had always known that while James loved her, he loved his country more. Nor would she want it to be any different.
‘Violette was there at that house, wasn’t she?’
Lily looked startled. ‘She said you were asleep.’
‘I smelled her perfume.’ And saw the bodies, she thought. ‘She found me?’
‘Yes. And saved you. They had chosen a place where no one could follow without being seen — except for Violette. She showed extraordinary courage, determination and imagination, as well as a quite frightening level of skill.’
‘Then I owe her more than I can repay.’
‘That at least is not true,’ said Lily drily. ‘You can provide a vast amount of money to set her up in an atelier of her own, with staff poached from the great fashion houses.’
‘She wants to stay in Paris?’
‘Yes.’
Sophie felt guilt at her relief.
Lily sat silently for a moment. ‘Sophie?’
‘Yes,’ she managed.
‘May I ask a favour?’
She shut her eyes. ‘Of course.’
‘Would you and Daniel marry at the Shillings church? It would only take a day to arrange a special licence. It would mean so much to me.’
Sophie could feel the smile, even though she kept her eyes shut. The world looked — wrong, though she could not tell quite how.
‘My first husband giving me away to my second?’ She could say that to Lily, now, with her eyes shut. If she did not look at her she could speak to Nigel too.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Lily tentatively. ‘Mostly . . . I do not know exactly what lies ahead for all of us. I hope we can delay war until England has a chance — a slim chance — to re-arm and win. I would feel happier knowing Daniel had the legal right to protect you and our children in the times to come.’
‘Yes,’ Sophie said, because it was easier, because Lily was right, and . . . because . . .
The dragon breathed fire across the battlefield again, the tin soldiers were melting, and before she realised she had drifted into sleep and nightmares once again.
Chapter 51
If ever you feel you cannot face the world, or even life itself, try this: a cup of tea, a strong sniff of rose oil, something warm about your shoulders or, if it is hot, the lightest of gauze shawls. And the words of a friend in your ear, no matter what they say. Somehow all is bearable with this.
Miss Lily, 1902
ENGLAND
Sophie slept almost all the way to Shillings; she awoke to the scent of frost on late pears and apples, no host of servants in a line to welcome them, just Hereward, his single hand at her elbow to help her from the car.
She slept again all tha
t night, alone in bed, Daniel next door, dreamlessly, as if the nightmares had been burned out. Lily arrived with her morning tea tray. ‘I thought a picnic,’ she said. ‘You and Daniel and me and Rose and Danny. We could hike up to the top of Forest Hill. The view is wonderful there, especially if some autumn colour is left.’
Somehow that seemed far more important than what parliament would say today or David or the new King Albert, or however the Duke of York decided to style himself.
‘I’d like that.’ Sophie sipped her tea, nibbled a Bath Oliver.
‘Do you feel up to coming down for breakfast?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Beatrice ran her a bath and laid out her dress, or rather her extremely fashionable slacks and a cashmere jacket. Hereward blinked, exactly twice, at the sight of his mistress newly bifurcated, but recovered enough to pour her coffee as if no revolution had taken place. The children breakfasted upstairs as usual at Shillings or Vaile House — anywhere except Thuringa — but were racing each other around the library and front hall when Lily appeared, also in slacks.
Sophie did not manage to keep her face as impassive as Hereward had. And yet Lily in slacks was even more feminine than Lily in skirts. Her scarf today was the finest tan wool, the same colour as her slacks, tucked into a blouse of palest fuchsia, gently pleated at the front.
They had left the house before parliament sat; before the radio broadcast. James, it seemed, had rung the night before, while Sophie slept, had told Lily what Churchill had sketched our for David to say: ‘The burden which constantly rests on the shoulders of a Sovereign is so heavy that it can only be borne in circumstances different from those in which I now find myself. I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility, and to discharge my duties as king as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love.’ For it seemed that David had indeed decided to fight for his throne, and had written a speech calling on the people of the British Empire to re-instate him. But David was now entirely subject to British law. Prime Minister Baldwin had refused to let that speech be broadcast. Churchill had won this first battle, at least — only the beginning of the war to come.
The family reached the hilltop, frost-burned grass, the air almost ice but clean and fresh, and the children were well mufflered and in woollen combinations. Sophie spread out the contents of the picnic basket that Daniel had lugged uphill for them, with Danny and Rose carrying the haversacks with the Thermoses.
Oh, wonderful Mrs Goodenough. Cherry cake, of course, and egg and cress sandwiches, and small chicken and leek pies, and even smaller veal pies, Scotch eggs, a chicken with lemon stuffing, carefully jointed then made whole again with the tactful application of gelatine so they could each choose their own joint or slice with an amount of stuffing; Russian salad, and Shillings’s pears, apples and walnuts with a walnut cracker to remove the shells, a job for Rose and Danny, and tea and coffee and lemon barley water and another Thermos of hot water to wipe sticky fingers with damp damask napkins, and, yes, tiny lamingtons, as good as those made in Bald Hill, though Sophie would not dream of telling that to anyone back home.
Home. Had the first cicadas begun to sing? And how were the banana exports going? And the lambing at Midge and Harry’s? It had been weeks since she had even looked at cattle prices . . .
Even now they couldn’t be back in time for Christmas, unless George Carryman arranged for them to fly to Italy; none of her memories of aircraft was a good one. Should they stay here, where Hereward was already organising the Christmas tree?
No. She needed home. They would sail, if James could arrange it — and James could always arrange it, she thought, somehow without the bitterness she would have felt even yesterday. They’d once more have Christmas on a ship where there would be no newspapers yelling headlines about whatever David, parliament or the new king were doing now. They could call it a honeymoon, disguising the fact that both she and Daniel longed for Thuringa far more than any exotic destination, and wanted the company of their children too. A ship was civilised. And aircraft still not quite.
She was hungry. How wonderful to be hungry. And though still not quite herself, she had the energy to walk, to laugh at Daniel, Rose and Danny kicking round a ball with trees as goalposts.
This was reality. And the other reality, that would shake the Empire, change the world, being broadcast perhaps even now? She would not think of it. Her part was done. This was what mattered, the sharp cold air, the children’s laughter, her family and love.
Chapter 52
We all live our own dramas. How many realise that while our own dramas are being played out, other simultaneous ones are happening all across the world?
Miss Lily, 1906
ELSEWHERE IN ENGLAND
The plane sat on the grassy field and Violette stood in the Carryman’s Cargo and Passenger Line waiting room, a new building where passengers could wait out of the rain. A middle-aged woman in black-and-white and the frilled cap of a maid served tea and currant buns. The bun was fresh, and quite acceptable; the tea stewed. Violette wore a plain blue coat, perfectly cut, and the pearls Sophie had now given to her to keep, looped several times around her neck as was suitable for daytime.
The clock on the wall ticked off the minutes. Four ticks later Violette heard the whir of the aeroplane propellers.
It was a different plane today, a four-seater, though the other seats were empty, for her parents would both stay in England until whatever crisis was unfolding was over.
It was something involving the king, who it seemed was no longer the king or would not be as of today. Which presumably meant that the crisis would soon be over. But meanwhile her part in it had been played out and she would be alone in a small plane with George Carryman. And best of all, tonight she would be unchaperoned by either parent. Not that their presence would have stopped her, of course.
George grinned at her as she climbed up over the wing, now wearing a leather coat the staff had provided over her own. She could have designed a better one and perhaps she would do so one day. But for now she smiled back at him, a smile of happiness and promise, as he taxied across the field then lifted the plane steadily into the sky.
She watched his hands. Capable hands. Hands that might do most interesting things . . .
‘Job done?’ He spoke loudly over the noise of the engine as he navigated around a dark-laced cloud then further up into the blue.
‘My job?’ She did not know what he had been told, nor how much.
‘Auntie Eth said one of her friends had an urgent job for you. A new ball gown?’
She shrugged. She did not want to lie to him. She did not agree with his ideals, but she respected them, liked them, liked even more that he had them. She had met so few truly good men — or women — in her life.
George was . . . not innocent, nor untouched. Violette did not know the correct word in English or in French. But he had not been in the war; he had not lived nightmares. Sometimes she wondered if her soul had been twisted, just a little, by what she had seen and done.
But that was nonsense, for the men she had killed were bad men. It was good, surely, to rid the world of men who were bad.
‘Not quite like that,’ she compromised. ‘But your aunt now has a hairstyle that is most suitable and make-up too, and I have promised that within a week I will have four dresses at least for her, that will make her beautiful.’
‘You’re not serious? Auntie Eth, beautiful?’
‘You do not think I can do this?’
It was a smile this time, meeting her eyes. ‘I think you can do whatever you decide to do.’
A satisfactory answer.
The engine was too loud for more conversation, except for a yelled ‘Hold on!’ as they entered another bank of cloud.
The world vanished. The plane bucked up, then dropped down. She gasped as it steadied and then laughed in sheer delight.
She found him staring at her. ‘Not scared?’ he shouted.
> ‘Why should I be scared? There is still much air between us and the ground, and you need only pull that lever to get us up again.’
‘Not quite as simple as that,’ he yelled as the plane swung to the right. He and the stick seemed to argue for a moment. But George won. He will always win, thought Violette. She liked that too.
Suddenly the cloud vanished, as if the wind had sucked it away instead of their engines carrying them beyond it. There was the coast of France, the vast monastery of Mont-Saint-Michel, an island now. It must be high tide. Sheep like small white toys on green grass and land marked into squares, the grey mud of a piggery and a green crop she did not know, and bare-limbed apple trees.
And, finally, the airfield, with two planes already there, and women in fur coats and men with expensive hats climbing into one far larger than theirs.
‘Afternoon flight to London,’ called George. ‘I say, dinner tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Ritz?’
‘Yes.’
‘Eight o’clock?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She gave him the longest, most special smile she had and noticed that they over-ran the airfield and had to turn again. Most excellent.
He met her at the apartment. She did not ask him in, for Madame la Concierge would be counting the minutes he was there. She had not minded the bribe needed for the gendarme’s presence, but George was the man who one day, soon, she would present to her parents. She wanted nothing furtive to surround George Carryman.
She had dressed carefully in a thin pink sheath cut down to her waist at the back, showing the slimness of her shoulders, a faint hint of breast, but high cut to a narrow panel at the front, the shoulders fastened with diamond clips and brilliants, with a slightly darker sash around her hips.
Her mother had not seen this dress. Violette would make sure she never did.
No underwear. Even the thinnest cami-knickers would make a line under the fabric, as would a camisole. All she wore were two thin garters to hold her stockings up — and the knife, thinner and even sharper than the one she had lost in England. But it was still a respectable dress, falling well below her knees, and her gloves were long, as was the gold chain with a single diamond, a birthday gift from her Aunt Sophie, around her neck.
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