by Rhys Bowen
Through the trees they could see an eerie glow. Flames shot into the night.
“It’s Farleigh,” Ben shouted. “They’ve dropped a bomb on Farleigh.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At Farleigh
The colonel put his foot down, and they shot forward toward the glow. As they reached the gates of Farleigh, they could see that Ben had not been wrong. Flames were rising above the trees and shooting out of the top of the west tower. It seemed to take forever to reach the house. Ben’s heart was thudding, even though he knew that Pamela and her family could only just have arrived home minutes before. They wouldn’t have been upstairs in their bedrooms. But a worrying thought was creeping into his head—that it might not be a complete coincidence that a man fell into Farleigh’s field and right afterward the house itself was bombed. He hadn’t considered before that the fallen man could possibly have anything to do with family members.
When the car finally emerged to the forecourt, they saw the house was already a hive of activity. Uniformed men were carrying sand buckets. Others were trying to hook up a hose to a pump by the lake. Ben jumped out even as the car came to a stop. As he moved toward the house, he was met by a terrified Lady Westerham, standing on the steps with the dogs barking wildly beside her.
“Charlie’s up in the nursery,” she shouted to Ben, grabbing at his arm. “Livvy and Pamma have gone up to fetch him. And where’s Phoebe? I don’t see her anywhere. Surely she can’t still be asleep. And I don’t know where my husband has gone. Be quiet, for goodness’ sake,” this latter addressed to the dogs. “Oh, Ben. Isn’t it awful? Why us? Why our beautiful home?”
“Don’t worry. Those army chaps will soon have everything under control,” Ben said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. He covered her hand with his own, something he’d never have dared to do at any other time.
“I must go and find Phoebe,” she said, but Ben put a calming hand on her shoulder. “You stay here. I’ll go and find Phoebe for you. Don’t worry, the flames are nowhere near the main floors yet.” And he ran up the steps and into the house. The foyer was in half darkness, and he was not familiar with the way the house had been divided by the army’s occupation. Men in uniform rushed past him.
“Out of the way, sir,” one of them said. “You’d best get out, just in case.”
“There’s a baby in the nursery on the top floor, and a little girl missing,” Ben shouted and pushed on past. He tried to force his stiff knee to move faster as he went up the first flight of stairs. He wasn’t nearly as confident as he had sounded to Lady Westerham. How could they put it out? How could any hose reach up to the roof? He swallowed back the dread he was feeling. He reached the first landing. Still no sign of Phoebe. She must be sleeping, and he had no idea where her bedroom was—where any bedrooms were, now that the house had been divided up. He presumed that this first floor would be where the family slept, and he opened a door tentatively. Yes. Definitely a bedroom. The hallway seemed unscathed, but he ran down it anyway, hammering on doors and yelling “Fire, fire! Get out.”
A door at the end opened and Phoebe stood there in a white nightdress. “Golly, Ben,” she said. “What’s happening?”
“I think the house got bombed,” he said. “The upper floors seem to be on fire. They’re putting it out, but you should go straight down to your mother outside.”
“But what about Gumbie?” she demanded, her eyes wide with fear.
Ben thought she was referring to a favourite toy.
“Just leave everything,” he said.
“But she sleeps on the top floor in the little turret room,” Phoebe said, already trying to move past Ben. “I have to go and rescue her.”
Ben realised that she was talking about a person. He grabbed her arm. “You go on down,” he said. “I’ll make sure Gumbie gets out safely.”
“I want to come with you. Poor Gumbie. We have to rescue her.” She was almost hysterical now.
Ben put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Phoebe, I promised your mother I’d get you out safely. She’s terrified. You need to go straight down to her, and I promise I’ll find Gumbie for you.” He had to half drag Phoebe along the hall and then force her down the stairs. As he went up the second flight, he met servants, hurrying down in their nightclothes: maids clinging to each other, Mrs. Mortlock with curlers in her hair, a sobbing kitchen maid with a dirt-streaked face.
“Mr. Soames has gone with his lordship up to the roof to fight the fire,” the cook shouted as she ran past. “I don’t know how they are going to put it out. And Mr. Soames is no longer a young man.”
“My ceiling fell in,” the maid gasped between sobs. “I could have been crushed. I could have been burned alive.”
“Oh, stop snivelling and get on down the stairs, Ruby,” Mrs. Mortlock said, giving her a little shove. “It was only a little bit of plaster came down.”
Ben went on past them. Now he could smell smoke and hear the crackle of flames. He grabbed at the banister to haul himself up; his leg was tiring and no longer wanted to obey him. Smoke curled out to meet him, and he was relieved to hear a voice saying, “Come along, Nanny. You’ll be all right.”
Livvy came toward him, her son in her arms—not crying but clinging to her, eyes wide open in terror. Behind them followed the nursemaid, dressed in a flannel dressing gown, her hand pressed to a large breast to control her panicked gasps.
“Ben!” Livvy looked relieved to see him. “Isn’t it awful?”
He nodded. “Is everybody out from up here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I saw some of the servants going down, but I don’t know where Daddy went. Up to the roof to help with the firefighting, I think. I hope he doesn’t do anything silly.”
“Where’s Pamma?” Ben asked, his heart suddenly racing. “Wasn’t she with you?”
Livvy looked around. “She must have gone to make sure all the servants are out. I hope she’s not trying to find Daddy on the roof. I told her not to, but she never listens to me.”
“Oh, your ladyship, please don’t dally. Let’s get the baby to safety,” the nursemaid gasped, tugging at her sleeve. “The whole place is about to go up.”
“You go on down. I’ll find Pamma,” Ben said, urging her forward.
“Do be careful, Ben,” Livvy called after him.
He hauled himself up the last steps to the corridor. The smoke was thicker now, and the crackling sound overhead had become a roar.
“Pamma?” he yelled, his voice coming out as a harsh croak. There was no answer. No sign of her. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest. He checked room after room—some doors opened, some closed—but found nobody. At last he reached the end of the hall, and through the smoke he could make out a stone spiral staircase that went up into darkness. “The turret room,” he muttered. He pulled out his handkerchief and held it over his nose, not knowing how it might make a difference, then forced himself up the narrow stone steps, feeling his way along the wall. The stone felt warm to the touch. At the top of the steps, he could just make out a doorway, and a door that stood open, leading into a glow, like an entrance to hell.
He took a breath, then plunged into the smoke-filled room. Part of the ceiling had come down, and the room was lit with a red glow from above. He looked around briefly, taking in the large number of books, on shelves and stacked on a table by the window. There were also papers on that table as if someone had been working, and, to Ben’s surprise, a telescope. At first he thought it was unoccupied. The bed was empty, the sheet turned back.
“Hello!” he shouted. “Anyone in here?”
When a figure rose up suddenly from behind the bed at the sound of his voice, he took an involuntary step back and almost fell down the steps. Then he identified her through the smoke.
“Pamma!” he croaked.
“Oh, Ben,” Pamma said. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s Miss Gumble. I can’t move her.”
Ben picked his way over debris and around the bed to where a wo
man lay half under the bed, with part of the ceiling lying across her.
“Is she dead?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Pamma replied. “But I’m not strong enough to lift her.”
Ben grabbed the lump of plaster and threw it aside, then they drew her out from under the bed together. “Grab her feet,” Ben said. “I’ll take her shoulders.”
Before they could lift Gumbie, there was a cracking sound above, and Ben was conscious of something falling. “Pamma,” he shouted and flung himself at her. Together they crashed to the floor as the smouldering beam fell across the bed.
“Are you all right?” he stammered, realising that he was lying on top of her. Her face was inches from his.
“I . . . I think so,” she replied.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”
“You saved me. That was quick thinking.” She sounded equally breathless.
He got to his knees, stood up, then helped her to her feet. “Let’s get her out of here,” he said. Together they half dragged, half carried the unconscious woman across the room. Burning embers floated down onto them. The smoke stung Ben’s eyes so badly that he could hardly see where they were going. He could no longer even make out the door.
“This way,” Pamela shouted. They staggered down the steps. Miss Gumble felt surprisingly heavy for a thin and bony woman. At the bottom, they put her down for a moment, both gasping for breath.
“Thank goodness this hall isn’t carpeted,” Pamma said. “We can drag her down to the stairs.”
“What if she’s injured in some way?” Ben said. “Broken spine?”
“We have to get her out somehow, and quickly,” Pamma said. “Here, take her nightdress and pull.” They half ran down the hall, dragging the woman behind them. Halfway down the hall Pamma looked at Ben and grinned.
“I bet Jeremy will be furious that he isn’t in on this,” she said.
“He wanted to drive us home, but his parents wouldn’t let him,” Ben said, returning her grin. “And quite right, as it turns out. This smoke might have finished him off.”
“It might finish us off if we don’t get Gumbie down the stairs quickly,” Pamma said. “Do you feel up to carrying her, or shall we try to bump her down?”
“I’m still worried that we might make her injuries worse. Let’s try to carry her.”
“What about your leg?”
“I’ll be okay.” He put his hands under Miss Gumble’s shoulders and lifted. Pamela lifted her legs, and they proceeded one step at a time. It was slow going, and Ben wondered how long he could hold out when he heard the tramp of feet and a group of soldiers came running up, carrying sand buckets.
“Casualty, sir?” the officer in charge asked.
“We found her lying unconscious in her room,” Ben said.
“Right, two of you—Ward and Simms—you leave your buckets and carry this lady down, then get back up here on the double,” the officer barked. Ben and Pamela handed over Miss Gumble, and the men set off with her as if she weighed nothing at all. Ben and Pamela followed.
“It was a miracle that you showed up when you did,” Pamela said. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Phoebe was worried about Miss Gumble,” he replied, not wanting to admit how frantically he had looked for Pamela.
As they came out onto the front steps, Ben heard the bell of an approaching fire engine. The local fire brigade had come to help. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.
Phoebe gave a cry and ran toward the two soldiers. “Oh, Gumbie, Gumbie. Is she dead?”
“I think she’s going to be all right, miss,” one of the soldiers said. “Smoke inhalation, probably. When she gets some fresh air . . .” And as he spoke, the woman stirred and coughed.
Phoebe grabbed his arm. “Thank you so much for saving her.”
“It wasn’t us, miss. The young gentleman here and the young lady rescued her. We just helped carry her down the stairs.”
Phoebe turned adoring eyes on Ben. “Ben, you’re wonderful. Thank you so much.”
“Your sister got there first,” he said. “Neither of us could have brought her out alone.” He felt himself blushing and was glad it was dark.
“You are both heroes,” Phoebe said, “and will earn my undying thanks.”
Pamela looked at Ben and smiled. “Undying thanks. We’ll remind her of that one day when she accuses me of taking the last biscuit.” She paused, looking up at the burning roof. “If only we knew that Pah was safe.”
“Do you want me to go up and look for him?” Ben asked.
“No, don’t do that.” Pamela put out a hand to restrain him. “The fire brigade is here now. And loads of soldiers.”
“I wonder if it can do any good?” Ben said, but while he studied the outline of the mansion, it did seem that the flames had died down to a dull red glow. He looked around and saw his father coming toward him.
“I’m glad to see you in one piece, my boy,” he said, holding out his hand to shake Ben’s. “That was foolhardy of you. But well done.”
Ben felt an absurd rush of pleasure that, for once, Jeremy had not been the hero. That he had been the one to rescue the damsel in distress.
Miss Gumble was now sitting up, coughing, with Phoebe beside her.
“You’re the vicar’s son, aren’t you?” she said. “They tell me you came up to save me. My deepest thanks.”
“You were jolly brave, Ben,” Phoebe added.
“It was Lady Pamela who found you first,” Ben said. “I helped her carry you down.”
“I remember smelling smoke, trying to get up, and that’s the last thing I remember,” she said. She looked at Ben. “If you hadn’t come in when you did . . .”
“Phoebe was worried about you,” he said. “She sent me up to find you.”
Suddenly she tried to stand up. “But my things. My books. My papers. I have to go and rescue them. I can’t leave them to be burned.”
Ben put a hand firmly on her shoulder to prevent her from moving. “You can’t go up there, I’m afraid. But don’t worry too much. It looks as if they are managing to put the fire out. So all may not be lost. Let’s hope for the best, shall we?”
Ben watched as Phoebe squatted beside Miss Gumble and tried to comfort her, and a strange thought began to form. So many books and papers . . . and a telescope. Why did a governess need a telescope?
They waited on the forecourt, glancing upward anxiously, then focusing on the front entrance, not speaking to one another. The servants stood off in a huddle to one side. Soldiers who had been sleeping in tents on the grounds had gathered to watch. Others stood ready to move vehicles parked close to the house. But in the early hours of the morning, a group of blackened faces emerged from the front entrance with the news that the fire had been put out. What’s more, the damage was not too devastating. Part of the roof and attic had been destroyed. The ceiling had come down in some of the servants’ bedrooms, but the fire had not managed to reach the main floors of the house.
Among the firefighters who came down wearily was Lord Westerham, soot-covered like the rest of them.
“Damned fine group of men we’ve got staying here,” he said as his wife rushed to his side. “We’d have lost the whole bally place without them. I consider it an act of God to have stationed the West Kents at Farleigh.”
Lady Esme just smiled and wisely said nothing. Then she reverted to her role as lady of the manor. “Mrs. Mortlock, why don’t you make everyone hot cocoa? I think we all need it.”
“Very good, my lady,” Mrs. Mortlock said. “But do you mind if the other servants go up and see what damage has been done to their rooms? They’re worried that they’ve lost their possessions.”
“Of course. By all means,” Lady Westerham said. “And tell them not to worry. We’ll replace what they’ve lost and find them somewhere else to sleep. We’ll all pull through this together.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Mrs. Mortlock answered with a catch in her voice
.
Miss Gumble was now standing. “I’d like to go up, too,” she said. “Just to see what might have survived.”
Ben watched her go into the house. And he found himself wondering whether the bombing of Farleigh was an accident or deliberate. He thought of those planes flying over. Why would anyone bomb a country house in the middle of nowhere?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Paris
The first thing Margot noticed as she came to consciousness from sleep was the scent. Rich, smooth, heady. Her nose wrinkled at the unfamiliar perfume. She didn’t use more than a dab of eau de cologne herself, and this was a muskier, more powerful smell that hung in the air. It took her a moment to identify it. Minuit à Paris—Midnight in Paris, the signature perfume of Gigi Armande. And with the identification came the full memory of where she was. She opened her eyes to see the pink silk drapes, tied back with tasselled swags. Early-morning sun streamed in through tall windows. She was lying on a narrow cot, but the other occupant of the room still slept in a luxurious bed, a face mask keeping out the light. She was at the Ritz, in the room of Madame Armande.
The details of the past twenty-four hours came flooding back to her. The complete feeling of unreality that began when she was awakened in the middle of the night by a German soldier, taken to what was presumably Gestapo headquarters; then the almost miraculous intervention of her employer, Madame Armande, resulting in being whisked away and winding up here, at the Ritz, of all places. It was beyond comprehension. To have gone from pure terror to pâté de foie gras in such a brief time moved into the realm of fantasy.
The lackeys at the front entrance had opened doors for her. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” they muttered, bowing. Her small suitcase had been taken from her. They had crossed the magnificent foyer and gone up a flight of red-carpeted stairs. The only people they encountered were German officers, some with a lady at their side. Their wives, or maybe not. Then Madame Armande opened double doors and ushered Margot into her suite.