Legends of the Lost Lilies

by Jackie French

  Dedication

  To the begetters of these books: Lisa Berryman,

  Cristina Cappelluto, Shona Martyn, Eve Tonelli,

  Kate O’Donnell, Kate Burnitt and Angela Marshall,

  without whom this series would not have existed;

  and to ‘the Lilies’, those magnificient women who forged

  the roles we women (and men) accept with so much

  freedom today, with love and gratitude eternally.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  I taught the arts of love for many years, so perhaps I am the only person to be surprised never to have been asked, ‘Have you ever killed a man?’ The answer is, ‘Yes.’

  One of them was myself.

  Miss Lily, 1942

  THE ENGLISH CHANNEL, OCTOBER 1942

  SOPHIE

  She should have learned to knit. Or be sitting safely in her office, sipping tea weak enough for four cups a day till the next ration coupons were due, while deciding the ideal amount of salt gravy to add to each can of Higgs’s ‘bully beef’ for the army.

  Instead Sophie Greenman née Higgs, Countess of Shillings, buffeted by invisible air currents, clung to her seat in a grey plane in grey cloud, as if the war had sucked away all colour. Even the grey waves of the English Channel below them had vanished. Perhaps the entire world had disappeared into the impossibility that allowed another world war to happen.

  More likely German fighter planes would flash through the cloud at any moment, spitting fire and death. Her first warning would be pain, and then unconsciousness (she hoped) as the plane dropped, flaming. She fought to keep a pleasant smile on her face in case the pilot next to her glanced in her direction. But he focused on his controls and the grains of grey beyond the cockpit.

  What was she even doing there?

  Once, in another world war, a much younger Sophie had risked her life each day. Now that life was owed to her husband, Daniel, his face clouded with loss he would not express aloud as he’d waved at the plane rising from the Thuringa landing strip; to her daughter, Rose, now sixteen, her life divided between boarding school, young men and the Red Cross; and to Danny, her son, resolutely insisting he would volunteer to join the forces in New Guinea as soon as he was eighteen and defend Australia from the enemy.

  Instead his mother had flown across the world to join the battle. Mothers were supposed to step back in war, to be the helpmates, the comforters, to keep the home fires burning. They could be Rosie the Riveters in factories perhaps, but not vanish in a Lancaster aircraft. Rose and Danny would not even know yet that she had gone.

  The pilot’s eyes flickered again to his instruments, then back to the grey around them, fine as sifted flour.

  ‘Hope you’re a good shot,’ said Sophie. Once she had discovered that the pilot knew nothing more than his orders to fetch her, she had spoken little to him, focused on paperwork, directions for the factories that must continue at maximum production in her absence.

  The man smiled wryly. ‘No idea. I’ve never fired a gun.’

  ‘What? George, you’re in the air force.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘I assumed . . .’ When a telegram arrives from the head of one of Britain’s most secret agencies, summoning you urgently to England, and two hours later a plane that has crossed a world at war to fetch you lands in your home paddock, it was natural to assume the pilot who insisted you must leave with him at once was in the RAF, even if he wore no uniform and the plane discreetly had no insignia.

  ‘I’m a conchie, a pacifist. Mr Lorrimer pulled some strings to get me assigned to his organisation.’ George stared ahead, waiting for her reaction.

  Sophie tried to think what to say. Her own husband would probably have been a conscientious objector, if the need for his psychiatric services had not been so great. He would not kill again, but he could best serve humanity now as Captain Greenman. But Daniel had already fought in one world war. Anger spurted. How many would die in this war so that this man might — possibly — stay free?

  ‘Be kind,’ Miss Lily had taught, back in the months she’d trained Sophie and the other girls the arts of charm at Shillings, for a purpose Sophie’s father had never suspected when he’d persuaded Miss Lily to introduce his daughter to the aristocracy. ‘Kindness is the simplest act, and the most powerful. Kindness persuades when anger alienates.’

  But how could your soul keep its kindness towards the enemy when so many young men — friends, neighbours, Higgs employees — had already died in Malaya, Singapore, New Guinea, or in Egypt with the British Army?

  While they were flying now, Japanese planes would be making reconnaissance missions across the coast of her homeland. Japanese planes rained bombs on Darwin, Broome and Townsville, though few civilians knew the extent of the raids, nor the desperate loss of so many cargo ships sunk along the north and east coasts. Even Sydney had been attacked by submarines a few months earlier. Sydney housewives turned brooms and carving knives into bayonets to defend their homes; the government sent supplies to Alice Springs to prepare to possibly evacuate Australia’s children there; air-raid shelters were ubiquitous and public buildings sandbagged; and everyone carried gas masks at all times.

  And England? The London Blitz had been portrayed as stoic citizenry carrying on despite the devastation. Sophie knew better than to swallow brave headlines whole.

  Yet here was this man, blithely talking of pacifism.

  George glanced at her. ‘I’m what you’d call a Quaker. The Society of Friends. I thought you knew. Violette didn’t mention it in any of her letters?’ he added tersely.

  Sophie’s informally adopted niece had mentioned many things about her lover in her letters to Sophie, until the Occupation stopped all communication, including George’s preferences for breakfast (‘Porridge! Pah!’), his appreciation of pale mauve silk underwear, the dexterity of his fingers, and his general magnificence when nude, but not his religion, nor the consequences of his beliefs.

  ‘I won’t kill another human being,’ said George quietly, his eyes back on the controls. ‘You
know Auntie Ethel’s a Friend too.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ Sophie hesitated. Ethel Carryman was one of the dearest women in Sophie’s life, now a secretary at the Ministry of Food in London, the kind of secretary who worked sixteen-hour days to keep Britain from starvation and had other secretaries working for her, and who made most of the decisions for her boss while ‘Chummy’, a product of England’s most exclusive schools and clubs (Eton, Balliol, White’s), lunched, drank, dozed or committeed.

  George gave a wry grin, his eyes back on his instruments. ‘But any decent man would be prepared to kill for his country?’

  ‘I know there are conscientious objectors.’ Sophie tried to keep her tone light. Pacifist or not, George risked his life. ‘I just didn’t expect to find myself flying over occupied Europe with one.’

  ‘Auntie Eth gets people fed. It’s what she did in the last war too, only this time it’s for the whole of Britain. I fly. I’m good at it. But this plane is unarmed.’

  Sophie sat extremely still. ‘So we’ve come all this way with no means of self-defence?’

  ‘As you’ve seen, I have carefully avoided flying across anywhere occupied by enemy forces until now. And, in fact, we have the best means of self-defence.’

  ‘Trust in God?’ suggested Sophie.

  George laughed. ‘I was going to say “the human brain”, plus two decades of flying experience, but I admit to a prayer or two. We’ve got this far, haven’t we?’

  Sophie peered into the grey, trying not to show nervousness. Or terror. Would James really have risked her life like this? ‘Surely we should have weapons. There’ll be German fighters here over the Channel, even over England.’

  ‘Not many now in daylight. Let’s hope it stays cloudy.’ He gave what he obviously intended to be a reassuring smile. ‘Trust me, Mrs Greenman, ducking and hiding is a lot safer than fighting an air battle.’

  Which sounded sensible. But surely hiding among clouds and whatever weaponry planes now used would be even safer.

  The plane dropped suddenly again, once, twice. Sophie wished planes would do what they were supposed to do: fly, and steadily too. If pigeons could keep a straight course, why couldn’t planes? George manoeuvred the craft’s nose upwards, and they rose into sunlight, pouring gold upon the clouds. The sky was an arc of perfect blue, the horizon visible around them. Just as they were now visible to any enemy in the vicinity.

  ‘We can duck back and forth into the clouds, if necessary,’ George assured her. ‘I’ve been dodging German fighter planes for three years. I’m still here, so I must be doing something right.’

  ‘Only for Lily,’ muttered Sophie.

  George glanced at her again. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Greenman?’

  Sophie thought of the telegram in her handbag, one that must have been sent days after George had been dispatched to fetch her. She knew James Lorrimer well enough to suspect that the short notice had been deliberate, to give her no time to reflect or others to persuade her not to come.

  The telegram was carefully innocuous, having passed through innumerable post offices and telephone exchanges to reach her:

  ‘Lily needs you stop George will drop in stop love to all stop James stop’

  Sophie found that George was looking at her strangely. ‘You don’t mean . . . Miss Lily? Your . . .’ He hesitated.

  ‘Sister-in-law,’ said Sophie evenly. That was the public face of their relationship. George was one of the few people who knew — or guessed — it had once been something entirely different.

  ‘You’re expecting to see her at Shillings?’

  ‘Of course.’ Lily had stayed at Shillings after the abdication in 1936, instead of returning to Australia with Sophie, to prepare the estate for the war they both accepted was inevitable.

  George sat silent, his hands lightly on the controls. When he finally spoke it was with compassion. ‘Mrs Greenman, didn’t Mr Lorrimer tell you? Or even Auntie Eth?’

  ‘Tell me what?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Miss Lily is dead, Mrs Greenman,’ said George gently.

  The cold air outside seemed to consume her body, too. Was this why she’d been summoned? Lily, dying . . .

  But surely the telegram would have said if Lily was ill, or injured. ‘How?’ managed Sophie.

  ‘Over a year ago, it seems, in France in the invasion. I’m sorry, I don’t know any details. Just what I’ve heard.’

  Sophie sat frozen, all words lost. But none it seemed were needed.

  ‘Enemy to starboard,’ said George calmly. ‘Brace yourself.’

  The plane soared towards the sun.

  Chapter 2

  Men rarely see women, only the roles they play in relation to them: their wife, their daughter, their servant or mistress, or the friend, perhaps, of any of these. That male blindness can be useful when a woman does not want to be noticed.

  Miss Lily, 1908

  PARIS, OCTOBER 1942

  VIOLETTE

  The new client’s bedroom wallpaper had vast pink roses — Violette had discovered that a certain class of French woman adored rose wallpaper. It also possessed a pink silk coverlet with gold fringes, silk curtains with more fringes, a hovering maid and a fire in its pink-tiled fireplace, despite the severe rationing of coal and firewood and the relative warmth of the autumn day. The stench of perfume was stifling.

  Violette took the smallest breath possible and spoke quickly as the room’s owner stared at herself — and her new Maison Violette creation — in the mirror. ‘The dress is beautiful, Madame. Exquisite! You look magnifique!’

  Violette used the elegant French accent she had quickly acquired six years before, when she had also procured the accountant, chief cutter and two most talented embroiderers from the fashion house where she had worked before opening Maison Violette. Poaching staff had been easy when Aunt Sophie’s money flowed as freely as the river back at Thuringa.

  The money no longer flowed from Australia, nor even dribbled, since the Boche occupied Paris the previous year and all communication had ceased. But by now Maison Violette was most prosperous indeed. And the Occupation provided other most excellent . . . opportunities.

  Violette stepped back to admire her design. It was indeed lovely, even if the middle-aged figure within it was not, despite the strength of the corset built into the dress as one could not always rely on clients to choose the correct undergarments.

  True, one must obey the war-time fashion that dictated the least possible amount of cloth in every dress, even for such a person as Madame, wife of a monster in the Vichy collaborative government. But the almost-invisible pleating of the skirt! The quality of fabric! Ah, that was Violette’s genius. For, while other Parisians had congratulated themselves that the Maginot Line made France impregnable, Violette had known the tide of war would flow this way again. There would be shortages, rationing — though even Violette had not expected Paris itself to be taken.

  But war? Only fools had not prepared for it. Violette was no fool. She had been born in war, educated in war, and she’d grown wary and determined in its aftermath. Even in 1936 war had been sniffing and snarling in the shadows of Europe. And so, when the cellars of Maison Violette were restored in 1937, half the space had been carefully hidden behind a brick wall and a door concealed by a set of shelves that swung back. Several rooms also had new walls that left hidden storage rooms between them, all built by constructeurs anglais who could not betray the secret now.

  For three years Violette had bought bolt after bolt of the fabric most perfect, as well as beading, furs, lace and feathers to give a chic shimmer to the plainest garment. Enough to see her house shine till the Boche were finally destroyed.

  ‘It is marvellous. The way you display my bosom — it has always been my best feature.’ Madame twisted, gazing at her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘You are delighted. Good! You will outglow the moon tonight, Madame, and every other woman in the room.’

  Which was not quite a lie. Madame was stout,
as were most of the ‘BOFs’, those who could afford black-market foods like beurre, oeufs and fromage while others in France grew gaunt. Plumpness was a sign of power in Paris these days. As Miss Lily said, a beautiful woman needed the simplest of designs to complement her loveliness. Madame and those like her must have a dress so stunning that all looked at the garment, not at Madame.

  Violette smiled at her customer graciously. ‘I will see myself out, Madame. And next week, perhaps, something for Christmas? A red velvet, embossed with rosebuds and trimmed with fur?’ Fur and leather was supposed to be kept for their German overlords, but there were exceptions. Violette bent to whisper. ‘I have a secret store kept for customers such as you.’

  ‘You are a genius, Violette!’

  ‘There is no genius without those who have the panache, the elegance to wear what I create. You, Madame, have the genius!’

  Violette accepted the kiss on both cheeks, as if they were friends, and the dozen eggs as ‘a little gift’. Merde! Into the corridor, as the maid began to most carefully remove the treasured dress, then down the stairs. No servant appeared. Excellent. Violette quickly opened the door to the dining room, slipped inside, reached for the first decanter on the sideboard and emptied her vial into it. A moment more, and she walked innocently to the front door as the butler appeared, smelling of the fish he must have had for lunch.

  Violette gave him her second-best smile as he opened the door for her.

  A fulfilling day’s work. And tonight, tomorrow or next week? Violette did not know who would drink from the decanter. Madame, her husband, his Vichy collaborators? Even perhaps, one of the Boche they worked for. It did not matter. All deserved to die. But they would die at a time when there could be no connection to Maison Violette, nor its proprietor, a woman who had access to nearly every house that mattered in occupied Paris, whether it was via wife or mistress.

  That was important. Each death must be a different method, so that no pattern could be discerned and no one would look for an assassin.

  It was not easy, devising fresh methods every time. A burglary gone wrong. She, Violette, was a most excellent burglar. A pin scratch that would turn septic — Violette had not known if the transfer of pus would work, but it had been so easy, and so effective, she wished she might use it again.