‘For me to use as blackmail?’ asked James wryly.
‘Probably, but also more. She is intelligent, James.’
‘I never doubted it.’
‘I . . . I hope she can be happy. What am I saying? She is extremely happy now, and will undoubtedly find interesting ways to remain so. But I will always wish we had known about her, had been able to rescue her as a child. Daniel says such people are made, not born.’
‘How is Daniel?’
‘Still Daniel, not John. He’s relieved he coped so well with all that has happened, though he has not said so explicitly.’
‘And Sophie?’ James’s voice was slightly too casual.
‘Recovering. She does not know about the photograph, by the way, and as Violette removed the film, hopefully there is no reason why she ever should. The Germans can have no wish to disgrace her now. She has forgiven you, if that is what you are really asking. She also wishes to be on the other side of the world from Britain, Europe and their politics. She says she needs to feel the sand of the Thuringa River under her feet again.’
‘Sophie with sandy toes.’
‘I think neither of us realised how much that is a part of Sophie. She needs Australia and her “bush”, not to mention cattle.’
‘Which she will love then turn into corned beef?’
‘Just as well. The Empire’s armies will need all the corned beef she can provide soon enough.’
‘And you, Lily?’
‘I am well, thank you, James. Ah, Hereward, tea, perfect. And Shillings honey to eat with the crumpets. James, could you hand me a toasting fork?’
‘I have missed this,’ said James quietly, as once more Hereward vanished with all the tact a butler might employ.
‘So have I,’ said Lily softly, as she impaled a crumpet, and held it to the flames, fragrant with apple wood.
Chapter 59
It would be good to say that for every death there is a birth, every grief a wedding. If only life were like that . . .
Miss Lily, 1932
SHILLINGS
Shillings in mid-winter: flames blazing red and gold in the fireplaces like the searchlights on the battlefield, icicles on bare branches outside her window, and red robins pecking at the bird table. The Christmas tree stood green and massive in the hall, with its decorations gathered over a hundred years, including the cardboard stars and sheep added by Rose and Danny yesterday.
Sophie still felt both restless, as if like Puck she could — and must — gird the world in seconds, as well as feeling as if every bone had turned to the port wine-laced calves’ foot jelly Mrs Goodenough kept sending up to her.
She had been asleep when she had arrived back from meeting Hannelore in London; had woken in the bedroom that had been hers when she first came to Shillings. For Lily it seemed now had her own bedroom once again, the one Sophie too had slept in when she married Nigel, and as his widow. Daniel had dozed beside her as reality slowly distanced itself from dream, though he was officially housed respectably in the bedroom next to hers, which had once been Mouse’s. It was an art all good cook–housekeepers possessed, placing lovers in adjoining rooms so servants could at least pretend not to see movements in the corridors at night or in the early morning.
Sophie had cried, that first morning, as Daniel held her: cried for the tragedies not just of the present, but the past and all that was to come, for Mouse and for herself and for the world and for her children, who must face the coming storm.
But her children would not face war in England. This morning she and Daniel would marry. Tomorrow the family would drive in convoy to Southampton and sail for home.
She lay back on her pillows — Daniel appropriately back in his room next door — trying to feel joy, excitement, even anxiety. But since that single burst of tears she had felt nothing. This was not, of course, what a bride should feel. But this bride trusted Daniel, trusted Lily. If they said it was best to marry — if they said that by mid-ocean she would again be herself, though called Sophie Higgs-Greenman (the hyphen useful for the connection with the business name) — she would drift in their wake till they were proven right and she had turned back into someone she recognised.
The door opened. ‘Cocoa,’ said Ethel, already dressed for the wedding in two acres of glorious medieval-style velvet, an entire forest of shades of green, so wonderful that like a forest you felt that it should not be less by even an inch, a handkerchief skirt that showed glimpses of perfect legs, and a collar of pearls Sophie recognised as being from the Vaile collection, and quite gorgeous shoes.
She looked beautiful. Ethel always had been beautiful, of course, but it needed Violette and Miss Lily to make this obvious to the world.
A maid followed — Beatrice, that was it — carrying a tray.
‘I like coffee at breakfast,’ said Sophie, then realised that was the first time since her kidnapping she had expressed or even felt a preference.
‘Coffee’s on the tray too.’ Ethel sat on the armchair next to the bed.
Beatrice set the tray on its legs, then plumped her pillows. ‘We’re all so excited, your ladyship,’ she said.
Your ladyship. She would no longer be that this afternoon, though Queen Mary had arranged for her to hold the courtesy title Dowager Countess of Shillings whenever it was appropriate. And now there was another queen, small, plump, intelligent and far more comfortable in her role already, Lily had said, than her husband. But the new king would do his duty.
Sophie thought of the little girls playing horsey with David, just as he had played with Rose and Danny. Lilibet would do her duty too. How could David have ever dreamed that small, determined girl would accept a regency in her adulthood?
Where was David now? But the thought drifted away as she gazed at her tray. No kedgeree — she could not face anything strong-tasting — but porridge, perfect, with Shillings’s hothouse rhubarb, honey and cream, and toast and cherry jam, every ingredient except the sugar in the jam from the estate.
Ethel helped herself to toast and watched as Sophie ate, and actually tasted. She did not ring for a servant, but carried the tray out herself, solid, formidable, and possibly the kingdom’s most impressive product, for no other country could have made her.
‘Aunt Sophie, I have brought your dress!’ Violette burst into the room, carrying a froth of a mauve so softly coloured it was almost white, trimmed at the sleeves and hem with ermine. ‘It is my own creation. Perfection, is it not?’ Her French accent had strengthened again.
‘Magnificent,’ said Sophie. ‘Violette, did you —?’ She stopped, as Violette bent and kissed her cheek. ‘My maman, she says I must not tire you. But you will be beautiful and I am loving France and have already twenty customers, because I made them dresses in secret.’ She shrugged. ‘I think it is not so secret now, for they show them off, and I lost my job for coming here without Madame’s leave. But to come to the wedding of the Countess of Shillings, to bring her dress which I have made myself, me . . . This will be in every newspaper, that is a good reason to leave, n’est-ce pas?’
‘An acceptable reason,’ said Sophie.
‘I have brought a friend too. Well, he brought me. I know Aunt Lily says I should have asked but I did not wish to bother you,’ said Violette artlessly.
‘That was kind of you.’
‘He is George Carryman and anyway we owe him much, for he rescued us from Berlin as well as being so much help this year. And he is quite magnificent,’ added Violette dreamily, ‘when he takes off all his clothes.’
‘Presumably you have not mentioned that to his aunt. And I profoundly hope he will not do that at the wedding.’
Violette looked thoughtful. ‘At the wedding, no. But later, perhaps, it would be interesting to see if I could tempt him to . . .’
Sophie waved a hand. ‘This is my wedding day. I don’t want to hear your plans.’ She smiled. ‘Except perhaps, years later, when we might laugh together about whatever it is you do today.’
‘I
will miss you most very much, Aunt Sophie.’
It was true. Sophie also told the truth when she said, ‘I will miss you too, Violette. I owe you my life, and possibly my sanity, which I value even more. You are a woman most admirable.’
But it was also true that she was glad Violette would no longer be her responsibility, and that nothing Violette might choose to do, impulsively or from a calculated conviction that anything she thought was right was therefore permissible to do, would touch Sophie’s children.
Violette left, leaving a hint of some exquisite perfume that was slightly familiar. But that was not a memory to linger over on her wedding day.
Two hours later, perfectly made up, the dress in swirls about her feet, she stood with James, Ethel, Rose and Lily at the doors of the church.
She glanced inside. The church was full, the congregation mostly from the estate, except for those in the first two rows. Lady Mary, Sloggers, Anne, Maria down from Scotland with her kilted husband. Emily sat unencumbered by Colonel Sevenoaks, who presumably had business at ‘the house’, preparing for the coronation. Sophie was surprised at the small dart of pleasure she felt seeing Emily there. Miss Lily had been correct, all those years back. She and Emily might be competitors at times but had grown into stalwart friends. Green and Jones and Violette, with George Carryman seated next to her, in the opposite pew and Danny as best man was standing next to Daniel.
Lily took her hands, then kissed her cheek. ‘Go with all my love,’ she said. ‘To both of you.’ She smiled. ‘I think this is possibly the second-happiest day of my life.’
She glanced down at Rose in a dress that was far too pink. Rose could out-stubborn even Lily and Green, who had wanted a colour more suitable to the season and occasion. Lily walked slowly down the aisle to the seat by Green, smiling and nodding, pausing to kiss cheeks with Emily.
The organ began the ‘Wedding March’. Rose stepped forward, already a small swan — even if a true swan would never dress so brightly — holding her bouquet of lilies, a miniature version of the one in Sophie’s hands.
‘You’ll be right, lass,’ said Ethel quietly. ‘You’ll have a good man at your side.’ She grinned at James. ‘And I don’t just mean as you walk up the aisle.’ Ethel too stepped into the church.
James took Sophie’s arm. ‘Do you remember . . . ?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, for without him having to say, she too would never forget the years that they had both expected he would be holding her arm as they walked out of a church, not into it, nor could either forget the previous ceremony in this church, when she married Nigel.
And now to walk to Daniel. And as she stepped between friends, towards friends, it was as if the blanket of the drugs dropped away at last and sunlight filled the church.
Then Daniel smiled at her, Danny so small, so serious and dutiful at his side. And the sunlight filled the whole of her as well.
I have come home, she thought. For Sophie Higgs, corned beef heiress and farmer, was marrying Dr Daniel Greenman, son of the land, just as she might have, all those years ago. As suitable a marriage of social equals as her father and darling Miss Thwaites might have arranged. Yet marrying there at Shillings was perfect too.
I am the most blessed of women, she thought, looking at all those she loved, and who loved her, and those two front rows, a veritable monstrous Regiment of Women. And we are a regiment, thought Sophie. We will continue to remake the world, and no man — even Herr Hitler — is going to stop us.
‘Do you, Sophronia Higgs-Vaile, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband . . . ?’
And the bells rang and rang and rang across England, and she was married.
Her second wedding breakfast at Shillings: once again a buffet, once again tenants, farm workers and servants mingling with aristocracy; once again the dishes carefully selected to bring pleasure to all, the hot lobster patties, the oysters on their bed of ice, hot smoked haddock tarts, a magnificent whole salmon in a light curry sauce, kept warm in its salver, hothouse asparagus hollandaise, a baron of beef, carved then reassembled, with several sauces, as well as horseradish and pickled walnuts, roast turkeys at each end of the buffet, also pre-carved and reassembled, the joining disguised with a port and orange sauce, potatoes Duchesse, seasonal mince pies, tiny meringues in four colours, sandwiched with pastry cream, tiny trifles of liqueured sponge cake, custard and red currant jellies topped with cream and hothouse strawberries in crystal glasses, and three tiers of wedding cake with marzipan sprigs of wattle.
‘Violette, you look divine!’ The Honourable Anne and her children — her husband was back in Mesopotamia, but to use his connections on some errand for James, not to dig.
‘Manure, fresh and keep it steaming. That’s the secret for hothouse flowers and winter asparagus too,’ old Mr Hereward proclaimed to James from his wheelchair. His grandson, unable to quite forget his butler duties, hovered by the buffet table, in case the beef or salmon might need attending.
‘She will be presented at court next season. His stammer? Darling, I hardly noticed it. A lovely man.’
‘Winston will need to watch out for . . .’
‘Twelve dozen Dutch caps, and I tell you now each one will have gone to a good home within a week. The women in the East End are desperate . . .’
‘It’s called Dachau. We’ve had no other word from him since. Yes, most worrying . . .’
‘. . . putting down the south pasture to potatoes. Well, my dear, you remember the last war. The estate may need to live on eggs and potatoes, but I am going to make dashed sure this time that no one starves . . .’
‘Emily, my dear, it is so good to see you. We must meet for tea . . .’
Sophie turned to see Lily kiss Emily’s cheek. She moved towards them. ‘Lily, darling, can I speak to you for a moment?’
‘Of course.’ Lily met Emily’s eyes with that familiar warmth, making her the only person in the room while still excluding no one. ‘I will telephone you, Emily darling. We have so much to catch up on.’
They moved into the hall, and into the small drawing room, Miss Lily’s room, with its grey silk walls, the tall-backed chairs and indirect lighting. Lily sat, in the same chair she had used when Sophie had first met her. But now her eyes showed love and regret, not startled amusement.
‘You will have tea with Emily?’ asked Sophie. ‘When will you do that? Is she planning to fly to Thuringa, like James did?’
‘Can you imagine Emily in a plane?’
Sophie grinned. Suddenly it felt so good to grin. ‘Actually, I can.’
‘Naughty Sophie. Darling, I am not going back to Australia with you. Neither are Jones and Green.’
Sophie had known it, even while not admitting it to herself. Had known it since Lily shut her eyes as they arrived back here months before and breathed in the scent of Shillings’s autumn, the potpourri in the hall, its ancient stones.
And, once again, Lily’s country needed her and Green and Jones. And Lily needed Shillings, and Green and Jones needed to be closer to Violette, and with Lily who, somehow, by being the absent third, kept their marriage together.
‘But I want our children safe.’
‘They will be,’ said Sophie.
Suddenly she realised Lily was crying. ‘I . . . I almost wish you would try to persuade me to come with you. Never think I do not long to be with you, with Rose and Danny, or at Thuringa. But Winston and James are in the political wilderness. Baldwin, Chamberlain — almost the entire parliament will give Hitler whatever he wants to avoid war. And when Hitler is sure Britain can be ground into the dirt, he will attack.’
‘Lily . . . Lily darling.’
‘I need you to be safe. All of you. I need to do what I can, here at Shillings and politically. But you are my heart, my family.’
In the dim light, the voice choked with sobs, the figure in the chair could almost be Nigel’s. She could sit on that lap and be comforted — and shock anyone, or almost anyone, who came in and found the bri
de in her wedding dress sitting on the lap of a weeping woman who had once been her sister-in-law.
‘Bless whoever invented telephones and underwater cables,’ Sophie managed. It was far, far too little, but the only comfort she could give. ‘I know people listen in on telephones. But at least I will hear your voice, and you can hear Rose’s and Danny’s.’
‘Yes,’ said Lily, almost as if she wasn’t properly listening, but storing up the sound of Sophie’s voice.
‘And we Australians will be in it too, you know. England has an empire, and hopefully the English generals will let us fight properly this time.’
‘Be happy,’ whispered Lily. ‘My darling, please be happy.’
‘I am. I will be,’ Sophie promised. ‘I will give our children happiness as well. We will come and visit next year —’
‘No,’ said Lily.
Sophie stared at her. ‘It will happen as soon as that?’
‘Not if we can delay the alliances Herr Hitler needs. But it will be soon. Put Higgs Industries on a war footing.’ Lily dabbed her eyes. ‘I have no idea what a war footing is for corned beef and canned vegetables, but you do. It will be an enormous amount of work and it will be needed.’
‘Wool for uniforms, meat for armies.’
‘And England cannot feed itself, or clothe itself, without its empire. I need to make sure Shillings at least has food to feed its people, and food to sell too.’ Lily hesitated. ‘May we say goodbye now? A different farewell from the public one?’
Sophie nodded. She stood, and moved towards the chair. Their hands and lips met. Lily-Nigel kissed her, a different kiss from any they had shared before.
The first true kiss, perhaps, between Sophie Higgs-Vaile-Greenman and Lily-Nigel Vaile.
‘I will always love you. Always. Always,’ said Sophie fiercely to Lily-Nigel.
‘As I love you. In thee I’ve had mine earthly joy.’ Nigel had said those words to her before. And now?
War, the beast whose foul wet breath and rotting bodies, the ashes of dreams she could almost smell. Hard work, for a chance at victory. But somehow even war seemed small now, in the majesty of love, of friendship, the community of good people working for the good things that surrounded her, that would exist even as Hitler’s troops goosestepped across the world.
Lilies, Lies and Love Page 30
