by Anne Perry
“Didn’t Pilate say, ‘What is truth?’ ” he asked. “Does it make sense if I say, ‘What is love?’ ”
“No, but we’re not twenty-three; Cecily is. Falling in love is still magic for her. It can overcome all sorts of things.”
“And does that stop?” he said ruefully, but the amusement did not fade from his eyes. “Don’t give up, Margot. You’re still in your prime, if you are even there yet. And don’t expect anyone like Paul Driscoll to cross Cecily’s path. Young men aren’t like that anymore, but there’s room for a different kind of heroism: quieter, perhaps, and in many instances unknown. But of the highest order nonetheless.”
“Are you thinking of Elena and—”
“All sorts of things,” he cut across her. “Nothing in particular. Times are not as quiet as you think. Just enjoy the wedding, and be there for Cecily…and Winifred.” He touched her hand lightly, just with his fingertips. “You make a great difference.”
She was saved from having to think of a reply by the maid coming into the kitchen and offering to make Margot breakfast.
* * *
—
The morning passed pleasantly. Cecily, rather shyly, showed Margot her wedding dress, uncertain if she should or not. She knew Margot had had little time to prepare her own, and with wartime rations and restrictions, extravagance had been impossible, and, anyway, would have been in poor taste when there was so little to go around. Cecily’s dress was simple: plain white silk with a little lace appliqué at the throat.
“It’s absolutely gorgeous,” Margot said sincerely, surprised how happy she was to say that and mean it. “I hope the photographer is good. You will be one of the loveliest pictures he has taken.”
Cecily blushed with pleasure, then modesty made her bend her head. “Do you think so?”
“I do,” Margot said. “I really do.”
“Mrs. Beckendorff, Hans’s mother, is coming for luncheon. I can’t call her mother-in-law yet. My tongue slipped, and I did once. She gave me such a look. You won’t like her, but please try to see the best in her, for my sake. I dare say no one would be good enough for her son, but certainly not someone who’s English…and dark-haired.”
“I dislike her already,” Margot agreed, “but I will not show it, I promise.”
“And don’t make me laugh,” Cecily added. “She thinks loud laughter is vulgar in women.”
“She doesn’t strike me as a woman with much to laugh about,” Margot replied.
* * *
—
Cecily was right. Frau Beckendorff arrived exactly on time for luncheon. She had a striking appearance, but only because of the beauty of her gleaming halo of pale hair, her perfect complexion, and the art with which her linen suit had been tailored. It was the color of tomato soup, a little harsh for a woman of her bleached-out coloring.
Winifred introduced them in the hall and Margot was instantly aware of Winfred’s inner tension, though only because she knew her. It was the pitch of her voice, higher than usual, that gave her away, as if her throat were tight. Naturally, she spoke in German.
“How do you do?” Margot replied with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frau Beckendorff.” She looked at the pale blue eyes and thought of jumping into iced water. It was supposed to be good for your health, if it didn’t kill you.
“I believe you have come for Cecily’s wedding,” Frau Beckendorff observed. “I’m so glad she has someone here from her home country.”
It was a double-edged remark: nice at first, with a bitterness inside, as it reminded Cecily that she did not belong here. It was on the tip of Margot’s tongue to say, “We are here because we conquered you,” but of course she bit it back.
She was aware of Winifred’s stiffness beside her.
“Do come in and sit down,” Winifred insisted. “Luncheon will be in about fifteen minutes.” She turned and led the way into the sitting room, and they all followed her.
Frau Beckendorff sat down, started to speak, and then bit it back.
Margot knew that Winifred would have practiced something to say. She was an ambassador’s wife, for heaven’s sake. She had a lifetime’s experience of being charming to people she did not especially care for. Now, however, she remained tongue-tied.
“Obviously, you care for fashion, Frau Beckendorff,” Margot plunged in. “That suit is most beautifully cut. It becomes you very well, and it is not in the least ordinary.”
Frau Beckendorff looked Margot up and down, noting the equally fashionable cut of Margot’s dress. “Thank you,” she replied, a little less stiffly. “One has to find where to shop. There is a lot of rather poor taste around.” She carefully did not look at either Cecily or Winifred. “I hope you enjoy your stay in Berlin. It is a little battered still, but we are rising to our feet again, and there is much to see.” Her voice was polite, even warm, but her face was expressionless.
“I’m sure I shall,” Margot replied. “Do you travel much, Frau Beckendorff?”
“To Salzburg, occasionally, of course. To Vienna, one of the most beautiful cities.”
“I don’t know it,” Margot admitted, although she would have pretended not to even if she had known it as well as she knew London. “What would you recommend?”
From there, the conversation went quite well. Winifred knew Vienna also, and Cecily was content to listen. She shot Margot a quick glance of gratitude.
The maid announced lunch and they went through to the dining room. Frau Beckendorff looked at it briefly, but neither smiled nor made comment. It was a pleasant room, meant for family life, with photographs of places in England they could barely remember now, and ornaments of value for the memories more than for their intrinsic worth.
Margot hardly knew what she was eating; she had to look at it in order to compliment Winifred on the meal.
“Thank you,” Winifred murmured, looking at Margot to see for herself if she meant it. Satisfied that she did, she nodded her acknowledgment.
After several mouthfuls, Margot turned her attention to Frau Beckendorff again. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting Hans,” she said with feigned interest. “And I’m keen to learn something about him.”
That was sufficient to animate Frau Beckendorff, who regaled them through the rest of the meal with Hans’s achievements, all his life to date. It was a momentarily chilling thought to Margot that this woman knew the list so intimately! Never once did she hesitate. It was a dance she had choreographed.
“I’m sure he has a great future ahead of him,” Margot said with as much enthusiasm as she could, to keep out the sarcasm. She was not a natural sycophant. She turned to Cecily. “It’s going to be a great adventure.”
Winifred looked at Cecily with a smile and an intense hope.
Suddenly, Margot felt tears in her eyes and a wave of hatred for Hans Beckendorff, his mother, and all his family and friends. It was ridiculous. This woman was arrogant and insensitive, but neither Margot nor any of the rest of them knew what grief or pain lay behind her.
It was Frau Beckendorff who broke the silence. She turned to Cecily. “I think Hans planned to take you out this afternoon,” she said. Then she turned to Margot. “It’s a lovely day for a walk in the park. He would be happy to show it to you, I’m sure. Any friend of Cecily’s is a friend of his.”
It suddenly occurred to Margot that Frau Beckendorff, too, was nervous. Instead of making her tongue-tied, it had affected her the other way. She was mounting a defense, almost in expectation of attack. She was old enough to have been an adult all through the war. What loss of family, shame, and grief had she known? And perhaps at the hands of British soldiers. And now her only son was going to marry an English girl.
“How kind of him,” Margot said back to her, and then to Cecily, “If you don’t mind my coming along, I should like it very much. In fact, I can’t thi
nk of anything nicer.”
Winifred settled further into her seat, relaxing for the first time.
* * *
—
Margot disliked Hans on sight, but she masked it for Cecily’s sake. He was everything that set her on edge in a young man: the pale skin, tidy hair, a handsome enough face, but with no lines of laughter, or of pain. He was a little taller than Margot, which gave him two or three inches over Cecily. He was slender in build, but he had been trained militarily and was obviously strong and graceful. He had a faint dueling scar across his cheek, which, to a German soldier, was a mark of honor. Margot could make believe she saw imagination in his face, dreams of achievement to come. What she did not see was humor. Somehow, she found that chilling out of all proportion.
Perhaps it was the change she saw in Cecily that was the real measurement. As they walked in the quiet sunshine, along the graveled path in the park, trees in full leaf, only a few of them turning gold, Cecily kept glancing at Hans, even when she was pointing out to Margot her favorite places. There was no trace of Cecily’s usual wit, just pure admiration for Hans. Did she think Hans would not understand her dry, self-deprecating British humor and would mistake it for criticism? Or was it that her thinking had so changed in his company? Was he so sensitive? Was the stiffness she had taken for arrogance really shyness?
Margot walked and talked automatically, finding something pleasant to say about everything that was pointed out to her. She saw how Hans looked at Cecily when she was unaware of it. There was a tenderness in him, even moments of awe, as if he could hardly believe his good luck that she had chosen him.
To her surprise, Margot felt a wave of sympathy for him. What was it like to be the only son in an ambitious family? A ridiculous thought occurred to her: Did his parents’ prosperity, even their safety, depend on him? What a burden. Of course he did not trust Margot. The only person he could trust was Cecily, and maybe that was only partially. If she was naïve and put her trust where she felt she should, rather than where it was wise, then she could betray them all without knowing it.
That was absurd. Margot was letting her imagination run away with her. She turned to Hans. “How old do you suppose that tree is?” she asked, pointing to an ancient cedar. “It must have seen so much history.”
He responded immediately with a long and unexpectedly interesting account of Berlin’s history through the last 150 years. His observations were cleverer than she expected, and at times drily amusing. By the time they arrived back at the Cordell house, they were conversing with pleasure.
* * *
—
The evening party at an excellent hotel was a different matter. It was very formal, and while the wedding itself was Cordell’s responsibility, this dinner was hosted by Hans’s family and most of the guests were from their social circle.
Winifred had prepared Margot for the event and its formality. Margot was tired from travel and all the new experiences of the last two days. She would have chosen to have a quiet evening and early night, but she was not offered that option. She was there to support Winifred and, more than that, Cecily.
And perhaps she was there to help Hans himself stand firm against his parents’ gentle but powerful insistence on his path upward, and all that it involved.
She hesitated among the gowns she had brought with her. Finally, she selected one that was more daring than the others. It looked at first to be only mildly sophisticated, a heavy black silk. Her arms were covered, and it was modest at the front. But when she turned, the whole impact was stunning. The skirt swung wide, the sleeves were broad and cut off at the elbow. The bodice commanded the eye, cut so low at the back that it was very nearly to the waist. It was a dress for a young woman, a bold and daring woman who would know that her figure benefited from a suggestion, rather than anything obvious. It was all subtle…and outrageous at the same time. It might not please Frau Beckendorff at all, but no one would forget it. And it was so utterly elegant that any criticism expressed would seem mean-spirited and, from a man, cause laughter and a vague pity for someone so lacking in art or humor.
When Margot came down the stairs, Winifred’s eyebrows rose. Roger Cordell’s rose even higher, but his expression was impossible to read.
“Brava!” Cecily said with laughter. “That’s the Margot I remember! Whatever I wear, I will appear unforgettably modest.”
Margot flashed her a wide smile. “As long as you’re unforgettably lovely, my dear, as modest seems to be the excellent thing for a bride. In fact, perfect. Hans will never forget it, and who cares what anyone else thinks?”
Cecily shook her head, but she was blushing with pleasure.
* * *
—
The party was already in full swing when Roger, his wife and daughter, and Margot arrived. An instant silence fell over the large room, almost a lull, then after the noise resumed, a longer hush as Margot turned to Winifred to say something and her startling silhouette was observed. Whether it was awe or not, she thoroughly enjoyed it.
Frau Beckendorff came forward to welcome them. Introducing Margot to their friends, she had a change of expression, which Margot found amusing. She caught Cordell’s eye and a brief laugh in it, before he was instantly sober again.
Margot accepted a glass of champagne and drifted from one group of conversations to another, all of them in German. The room was packed with people: women dressed gorgeously, men in formal black or military dress uniform. The noise was often punctuated with laughter. Several times Margot found herself with the same half dozen officers as Hans, and he seemed hesitant to introduce her. But it was his social duty to make everyone’s name known. It was his parents’ party, but he was, in a sense, the host, and there was a look of pride in his face as he introduced Cecily to many of his friends from society and from the army or associates of his parents.
Several times, Margot found herself standing next to a man named Berthold. He was handsome, in a bold way, strong, and yet he moved with the grace of an athlete. She thought his sport might well be dueling, more likely with a saber than an épée.
To begin with, the conversation was bland enough. He inquired where she lived. He was interested in the time she had spent in Berlin when her father had been ambassador, and he asked her about it with curiosity. They had memories in common, and it was easy and natural to share them. Only gradually did they include older memories, things said and believed by the generation earlier, recollections of times before the war, at the beginning of the century.
At first Margot did not find it uncomfortable. Those were the days when at least the aristocracy of both countries mixed with pleasure and ease. She did not expect mention to be made of Germany’s defeat at the end of the war, but it lay just beneath the surface of their remarks, and the bitterness was unmistakable.
She made a sudden decision. “It was a political mistake,” she said quietly, and could hardly believe her own voice speaking the words. “And one for which we will all have to pay.”
Berthold froze, but only for an instant. Then he gave a small smile, only a tightening of the lips. “You see that?” he asked softly. “But Britain does not suffer.”
“We will,” Margot replied, meeting his eyes candidly—or at least she meant it to be. If you are going to lie, do it wholeheartedly. “Germany is our natural ally, don’t you think?”
His eyes widened a fraction. “Natural?”
“You want me to start as near as I can to the beginning?” she asked, the first thing that came to her mind. She was in dangerous territory; one step had taken her there—it was as easy as that—but she felt impelled to seize the chance.
Now Berthold was intensely interested. It showed in the rigidity of his shoulders, the fact that his arms did not move at all, even to set down his glass. “And what do you consider that to be?”
“The origin of our language seems the place to me,”
she replied, making it up as she went along. She hoped her racing mind did not show in her eyes.
“Yes,” he nodded so fractionally as to be barely visible. “They are two trees from the same root. But you were conquered by William of Normandy in 1066. Now you have more French than we do. They were your overlords for years,” he said bleakly, “as were the Romans before them. Hence, all the Latin among your words.” He was smiling now. A petty nationalist victory.
She smiled back. “And we have collected thousands of words and ideas from having an empire that stretches around the earth, but we’re happy to share them.”
There was a flash of appreciation in his eyes. She had been right; he did not respect an easy victory.
“Do you think there are many English who think that Germany is your natural ally?” It was a question to which he wanted an answer. She could tell in his carefully affected disinterest.
“Not so many,” she replied equally levelly. “But they are all in very interesting places.”
“Such as?”
“For example…” Her mind raced. “One cabinet minister is worth more than a thousand agricultural laborers.”
He breathed out in a gentle sigh. “I think you are unusual in your understanding, but not unique.”
“I hope not,” she said, suddenly earnest. The instinct was too deep to deny. “It’s a bit like a river, don’t you think? It starts with a spring bubbling out of the ground, far from the sea. Other streams join it. It gets bigger, deeper, maybe faster. By the time it reaches the sea, it is scouring its way through valleys, over waterfalls, until it is an irresistible force.”
“Frau Driscoll, you are a remarkable woman,” he said softly. “I hope you stay in Berlin after the wedding. There are people I would like you to meet, interesting people I think you would like; and I’m sure they would like you.”
