by Anne Perry
“But there you have some people you know are your friends, who would save you if they could and die beside you if they had to,” she said with an edge of bitterness she would rather not let him hear.
“You have that here, too.” He smiled with a downward turn to his mouth. “Even if they are far more difficult to recognize. Howard might just be right about you. We are about to see. There are some people you should meet…”
CHAPTER
13
Margot gave herself one last quick glance in the bedroom mirror. She looked almost as she had wished. There were always slight imperfections, but perhaps that was Nature’s way of keeping her from too much arrogance. Her next really big birthday would be forty. She was more than half a decade off yet, but it would come soon enough. The faint lines on her face would be harsher then, if she was not careful. She remembered Grandma Josephine telling her that at twenty, or even thirty, you had the face Nature had given you, but at sixty, you had the face you deserved, the one you had made for yourself. Maybe that was why Josephine looked so good: all the lines in her face went the right way.
Margot laughed a lot, but did she smile? To be honest, possibly not.
Tonight, she wore a russet-gold dress that had cost a fortune, and it had been worth it. She was not meant for pastel shades. The burning bronze and gold and brown, close to black, were perfect. She had an ideal figure, and she moved with the grace of a dancer. All those lessons in deportment and etiquette had not been wasted.
This was to be a celebration dinner for Cecily’s wedding. When it was over, Cecily and Hans would leave for their honeymoon. It would be short, of course. The demands of duty bent for no one. Their honeymoon would be in a hunting lodge in the Black Forest, lent to them by a man in very high office. That was an honor in itself.
Margot went down the stairs to the main room, where Roger and Winifred would be waiting for her.
Roger was standing, as if he knew exactly when she would appear. For a moment, he was speechless, eyes wide.
Margot smiled, then looked at Winifred, who wore a gown in that shade exactly where green turns to blue, of silk, which made it look almost liquid. The two women could not have been more of a contrast. Margot wondered if that had been simply an accident of natural coloring, or if perhaps they were equally different in nature.
Today, Winifred had handed over her only child to the care—or lack thereof—of an immature young man already destined for high office in Hitler’s army. But whatever happened, whether Cecily remained close to her or not, she would still have Roger. Margot had no one on whom to lavish her emotional care. Except, of course, Elena, but that was no substitute.
“You look wonderful,” she said to Winifred.
“Autumn and winter,” Cordell said, and then, as if he thought better of it, quickly added, “The fulfillment of the year.”
Margot smiled widely and caught his eye. “Well rescued, sir,” she said very softly.
His mouth tightened in an instant’s amusement and acknowledgment. “The season when you reap what you have sowed,” he said under his breath.
They went out to the waiting car and were driven through the dusk of the early evening streets, as the lights came on, and stopped at the hotel where the reception and dinner had already begun. This was hosted by Hans’s parents, as the wedding itself had been by Roger and Winifred.
Their arrival caused a slight stir, even in so distinguished a crowd, full of women wearing the latest fashion. Margot guessed that many of the gowns were imported from Paris.
Margot understood that it took more than money to carry off style. One needed a figure, grace, and above all, flair. It would be false modesty to pretend she did not have all of them. This was reinforced when she felt everyone’s eyes on her as she moved forward to meet people, to be charming, to remember that this evening, of all evenings in her life, belonged to Cecily.
Cecily stood beside Hans and waited for Margot to join them. He was in full dress uniform. Whatever Margot thought of Hitler’s soldiers or police, their uniforms were splendid. Hans would never look better. And he was smiling. Cecily wore a shade of rich apricot, which only someone of her vivid coloring could carry off. Margot decided she must try it herself sometime.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Cecily said softly, when she kissed Margot on the cheek. “You made the day for me. The best of the past, with the best of the future.” She touched Hans lightly with her other hand, without turning to look at him.
For a second, there was a shadow in her eyes, then gone again. Had Margot imagined it?
They were greeted by his father, his fair coloring faded, almost nondescript. His mother stood like a wedge of ice in ivory-colored lace, which was no doubt expensive, as were the diamonds at her throat.
“So nice of you to have come, Mrs. Driscoll,” she said with a faint smile. “We have several of your countrymen here. You might know them. Or…perhaps not. Lord Wolstenholm? Lady Wolstenholm is quite charming. Her father was, I believe, something to do with the Foreign Office.”
“Then my father might know him,” Margot replied, wondering if her smile looked as artificial as it felt. “He was ambassador in Berlin for several years.”
Frau Beckendorff’s fair eyebrows rose. “Lord Wolstenholm? Really? How modest of him not to have mentioned it.”
“I’m referring to my father,” Margot corrected her. “But he probably wouldn’t have mentioned it, either.” She deliberately left her expression blank this time.
That seemed to kill the conversation, which prompted Margot to walk away, not needing to pretend interest. She kept smiling as she walked toward Hans. He had moved on and was speaking animatedly with a group of young men in uniforms like his own. They were joined by an older man, far more highly decorated. They treated him with obvious deference. Naturally enough, considering the occasion, most of this man’s remarks were directed at Hans. He nodded and smiled, then continued his conversation with some intensity.
Margot listened, but she caught only snatches, as she was obliged to speak to others. She made a few flattering remarks, expressed interest, and sipped her wine.
“…and a fine future ahead of you,” the man in the senior uniform was saying to Hans.
“I shall do everything I can to serve the Führer, sir, and the Fatherland,” Hans replied.
It was an ordinary enough response, but it was the underlying emotion in his voice that caught Margot’s ear. It was more than a polite reply, more like the fierce reiteration of a vow, an oath of dedication. On his wedding day, it struck a jarring note in Margot’s mind.
The older man was saying something enthusiastic. The others joined in with earnestness.
What did it bother Margot if Hans was speaking to a senior officer in his own chain of command? Of course he would use all the enthusiasm he could. Today, of all days, he must feel as if his whole life were before him and all things were possible.
She moved on again and caught sight of Winifred, who beckoned her over. There were more introductions and polite, optimistic conversations. One of the other women, about Winifred’s age, had a son in the diplomatic service. They spoke of recent postings to Vienna. There were comments on the quality of music, the rich culture he was experiencing.
“Well, after all, the Austrians are our natural cousins,” someone replied.
“More than that. They are Germans, really,” another put in quickly. “They should lose Hungary and come back into a greater Germany. They’d be far better off.”
There was a brief exchange of opinions about that, which Margot was careful not to join. It was an idea she had not heard before. But then, in England she would not have.
“They may not be worthy, at first,” one of the women said. “But they will see the sense of it.”
“At least the ordinary people will,” another agreed. “The Führer will accom
plish it, you’ll see.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, there are things ahead we can’t imagine,” the first woman replied. “This is going to be a great country again. It’s our destiny.”
Margot opened her mouth to say something, and then changed her mind. She had spoken only German, and no doubt they took her for one of them. It would be a disservice to Cecily to stand out in their company in anything other than glamour.
“You make it seem inevitable,” one of the women said.
“It is,” her companion replied. “The question is only how long—and, of course, who will prove to be brave and loyal, and who might not. There will be sacrifices…”
“There always are, for anything worthwhile.”
“Loyalty does not come cheap,” another woman agreed, her voice trembling for a moment.
Margot wondered who she had lost in the war, its ashes of ruin still warm.
They went on talking. Were they comforting themselves with delusions?
Margot drifted from one group to another, stopping longer with some. She found herself lectured to enthusiastically on the hopeful and positive things that were on the brink of realization in Germany. These hopes for the future, not only of the people gathered here, but of the whole country—indeed, of all Europe—were part of the optimistic air of a wedding. If there were dark undertones, Margot tried to ignore them, put them down to the ambitions of young men, perhaps a little drunk from the very excellent wine. All German, no French champagne here.
A little while later, she found Cecily again. She looked flushed and excited. Margot was happy for her. Her own wedding had been nothing like this but all memories of Paul were happy, filled with hope of good things. There had been no greed, no desire to dominate, only to build a life for themselves and others, to heal and do it without hate or blame.
She would not have changed places with Cecily and have to spend tonight, and all the nights after it, with Hans, with his ambition, his hunger, the fear she thought she glimpsed in his eyes just for an instant. Everyone in this crowded room expected so much of him. They were here to rejoice, but so many of them were also here to keep him on the narrow road to success, especially in the favor of Hitler.
Did Cecily see that?
“I wish you happiness,” Margot said with intense feeling, although she touched Cecily’s arm only lightly.
Cecily gulped. “I know you do.” She blinked rapidly. “In spite of the fact that you don’t like him.”
“Cecily…”
“Don’t,” Cecily said quickly. “I know what you’re going to say. You are not as hard to read as you think. Be careful, Margot. This is not a time for selfishness. We have to think of our families.” She gave a dazzling smile to a senior officer passing by, and he acknowledged it warmly. Her smile vanished as she turned toward Margot again. “Don’t say anything to my mother, or I’ll not forgive you…not ever. Father knows some things more than I do, other things less, but we don’t speak of it.”
“Did you have to marry Hans?” The instant the words were out of her mouth, Margot regretted them, but it was too late. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That was cruel and none of my business.”
Cecily met her eyes. “I love my parents very much. My mother has invested everything in me, all my life. It’s time to give her something back. The illusion of safety, at least. Maybe the reality. If you question my choice of Hans, you’ll break that. You won’t do that to me.”
“No,” Margot said vehemently. “Of course I won’t.”
Anything further was interrupted by Hans joining them and putting his arm around Cecily protectively. His eyes met Margot’s with a candid smile, as if for an instant they really knew each other. “It was so generous of you to come all this way to wish Cecily well, Mrs. Driscoll. It was a kindness we shall not forget. Now, if you will excuse us, I have some very important people eager to meet Cecily.” And without waiting for an answer, he moved away. Cecily went with him, close to his side, and she did not look back.
Margot stood stunned. Suddenly, the nightmare was so much clearer, and it made hideous sense. She had no idea how long she stood motionless. Other people swirled past her, full of chatter, laughter getting louder as the wine bottles emptied. Perhaps everybody had their own memories of weddings, theirs or somebody else’s. The beginning or the end of happiness. Change, always change.
“We’ll miss her,” Winifred said from beside Margot. “But it’s important.”
Margot was startled. “What is?”
“Peace,” Winifred said so quietly even the nearest group of people to them could not have heard. “It doesn’t happen by itself, just because you’ve stopped shooting each other at some borderline. We have to forge links that both sides believe in. We have to forget what we lost and start thinking of what we can still keep and build on. You might have to swallow your words sometimes. Roger is good at that, and he’s taught me how to do it. Cecily will…” She stopped, unable to say the words.
“She’ll make a better man of him than he would be without her,” Margot filled in quietly. She had no idea whether she meant to say these words or not, but something like that needed to be said.
Winifred gave Margot’s arm a little squeeze, then disappeared into the crowd to speak to someone else she knew.
* * *
—
After that, Cecily and Hans left to have their first night in an expensive local hotel and set out in the morning for the hunting lodge. At this time of year, it was still mild, but autumn was coming and the trees were turning color. Occasionally, there would be a nip of frost in the air. For the newlyweds, the honeymoon in the countryside would feel like being on an island away from the world, drenched with beauty. Too short a time, but idyllic. One they would not forget. Margot hoped that, at least for a few days, they would utterly ignore everything to do with the political situation in Berlin, Vienna, or anywhere else. They had so much to learn about each other, day-to-day things that would be woven into the rest of their lives. They could weave memories to carry them through the bleak times of illness or anxiety, the habits and minutiae of daily life.
Margot could have envied Cecily that, but there were also dangers in it. The first tide of magic did not last. Reality could be as gray as a fog-ridden dawn. There were icy mornings when one could not see a single step ahead. You needed courage and good manners to sustain you then. Her memories of Paul had never been marred by a later reality. There had been none, at least not together. Paul had never disappointed, said or done anything shabby.
She suddenly became aware of a man next to her. He was speaking and she had ignored him completely. “I’m so sorry,” she said, embarrassed at her own unintended rudeness. “I was…daydreaming…”
He smiled. He was quite tall, standing very straight in his German army officer’s uniform, and it was a moment before she even noticed that his left sleeve was empty, folded back on itself and pinned. He had lost an arm at the elbow. He seemed almost her own age. There was a touch of gray in his dark hair, but many more lines on his face than on hers. Perhaps she had misjudged his age? Or, more likely, he had seen harder times; more physical pain, at least.
“Konstantin Buresch,” he introduced himself, with an inclination of his head, rather than a bow, and a silent clicking together of his heels.
“How do you do, Major Buresch?” she said, reading the marks of rank on his uniform. “Margot Driscoll.”
“Driscoll,” he repeated. “I met a man named Driscoll once. Perhaps I can recollect where. It seems to me it was a good memory, or at least there was good in it.”
Margot froze for an instant, then recalled it was not an uncommon name entirely. “Have you spent much time in England?” she asked. It sounded a harmless enough question. There were plenty of Germans in England, as there were English in Germany, and just about everywhere else!
“A few years,” he said quietly. “But they treated me well…”
She felt clumsy. She should have foreseen that possibility. So, he had been a prisoner of war. She looked at him frankly and saw no anger in his face.
“You are surprised.” It was not a question, but an observation. “Actually, it terrified me.”
Now she felt a chill settle over her. What was he going to say? It was too difficult to think that her own people were capable of the atrocities she had heard of, but history is written by the victors, not those who lost. Except that, in a sense, everyone who fought had lost. The real winners were the ones who stood apart and then fed on the pickings of the dead of both sides.
She felt a gentle touch on her arm. He had put down his glass and used his one hand to reach out to her.
“We all lost people, we have that in common.”
It was as if he had read her mind and the confusion in it. Maybe she was more transparent than she thought. “And yet we learn so little,” she said quietly. “We have a generation rising now who knows only the stories of war, not the taste of it, the exhaustion and the loss. I look sometimes, listen to what they are saying—hatred, excuses, blame, solutions that will only make it worse—and I am ashamed. If we do it again, we will all be ashamed.”
“Fifteen years. See what another five will bring. But I have found the memory. It was the fifth battle of Ypres. It started in September. I remember it was dark. Mist and smoke drifting across no-man’s-land. I was lying in the mud. My arm hurt unbelievably. I had never felt anything like it before, although it was not the first time I was wounded.”
Margot forced herself to listen. “But you were rescued.” She made it a statement. He was here, he had survived it, he was home.
“Yes.” His smile was distant, far away in time and place. “By a British soldier. I must’ve been making a noise, crying out, because he told me to shut up or we’d attract attention and get shot at. He half carried me and half dragged me, until we got to a trench. We practically fell into it. He went first and caught me, so I didn’t fall on my shoulder.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “We both thought it was a trench with people in it, and help.”
