by Emma Jameson
At last it was time for the pudding, Turkish quince. There was a wobbly moment when Dinah dripped syrup on the tablecloth, recognized her minor transgression, and nearly dropped the entire dish in horror. That shook Juliet out of her fog. Rising, she rescued the nervous girl by helping her serve. When she sat down again, she was back on planet Earth, truly aware of her fellow creatures for the first time since the signing.
Ben looked ill at ease. Perhaps he was tired. Or perhaps he’d simply grown weary of watching Ethan do what he did best, utilize his gift of gab. As the quince was doled out, tasted, and complimented, Ethan launched into a fresh story about dinner at an elegant Paris chateau. He claimed to have been so intimidated by the waiter, he ordered pureed beetroot for dessert.
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Lady Victoria said warmly. “Your French is better than that.”
“Alas, proof to the contrary arrived in a tureen large enough to serve six. The abominable waiter knew I’d got it wrong. I was far too cowed to object, so he had the cheek to curl his lip under his absurd pencil mustache and sneer at me. Voilà.” Ethan imitated the waiter removing the lid with a flourish. “The other tables were riveted. I heard them whispering, what would this overdressed English buffoon do?”
“What did you do?” Juliet didn’t actually care to know, as the entire story was almost certainly a charming fabrication. But her relief had transmuted into something like affection and a willingness to play the straight man.
“I tucked in with gusto. I did my best to convince my guests that pureed veg was all the rage in London. That stylish hosts were replacing Stilton and pears with turnips and peas. Needless to say, I convinced no one, but I kept my pride. Speaking of turnips,” he said, looking pointedly at Duggin. “You’re silent as veg. Can you offer any amusing anecdotes on the topic of fine dining, in gay Paree or elsewhere?”
Duggin looked up from his plate. It had been methodically cleaned, like every plate that preceded it. Either he didn’t believe in waste, or he rarely ate so well. “Beg pardon?”
“An anecdote?” Ethan prompted.
“No, thank you.” Duggin signaled Dinah to bring him a second helping of quince.
“How about you, Bonesy?” Ethan asked Ben. “I’ll wager you have some stories to tell.”
Ben seemed at a loss. Juliet sympathized. Ethan had that effect on people. A normal man couldn’t take two punches, eat in the company of his supposed romantic rival, then jovially prod said rival to join the conversation. But Ethan liked being the center of attention more than he liked holding grudges. As long as there was one person left to impress or win over, his enthusiasm never flagged. He reminded her of champagne—sparkling, frothy, and likely to result in a blinding headache come morning.
“Stories?” Ben repeated warily. “I’ll see what I can come up with. In the meantime, how’s your jaw? And your solar plexus?”
“Agonizing,” Ethan boomed happily. “I’ll never speak out of turn to a physician again. You devils know how and where to attack. You’ll notice I never took a swing at you. Why? I’m rubbish in a fight, that’s why. Case in point….”
As Ethan embarked on a story about an investment scheme that proved fraudulent, Juliet viewed her estranged husband with new objectivity. He’d grown more distinguished since turning forty. The threads of silver at his temples lent him gravitas; the bit of extra weight suited him. She could appreciate all that without the slightest rekindling of emotion. Their marriage was well and truly dissolved. It might take weeks or months for the King’s Proctor to affirm that truth, but for Juliet, the knot was untied at last.
She shifted her gaze to Ben. His attention was on Ethan, who was reenacting his escape out the second story window of a Mancunian hotel.
I’ll be taking an awful risk, she told herself, but that was a lie. She’d taken an awful risk. The die was cast. If he told her that he thought of her quite as his own sister, if he stood up with Rose Jenkins and said “I do” before God and St. Mark’s congregation, Juliet knew she would continue to love him, silently and without hope. She was all in. It felt terrible, and wonderful, and exhilarating, like a plunge into darkness that could end in only two ways: victory or death.
“… and then I was cornered,” Ethan cried, breaking through her reverie. “Trapped like a rat with Scotland Yard—yes, none other—right outside my door. They had a warrant for my arrest on charges of fraud by representation. Fraud by failure to disclose information. And conspiracy to defraud. Do you think I was afraid?” He drained his wine glass. “Well. Let me remind you, I would never utter profanity in the presence of ladies,” he said, favoring Lady Victoria with a wink, “but at that moment, should anyone have asked for bricks, I was producing them at an astonishing clip.”
Everyone laughed, even Duggin. Ben said, “I’m surprised you aren’t in prison.”
“It was a very near thing. A very near thing. Fortunately, the men of the Yard are no fools. They saw in me a man with vast connections and rarefied gifts that could be put to use.”
“As easy as that?” Juliet scoffed. “Come now. You specialize in tall tales, but this is too much. You must be quite a talented solicitor, Mr. Duggin.”
Duggin cleared his throat. “I simply made the case his transgressions were small. Given the state of war, he should have a chance to do his bit.”
“Ethan, surely you don’t expect us to believe you joined up?”
“I did not enlist, my dove. Or should I say, my soon-to-be-ex-dove,” Ethan said. “The worthies at the Yard proposed a special arrangement, the details of which are confidential. But even kiddies gathering scrap and ladies keeping themselves lovely may be said to be doing one’s bit. Now I can make that claim as well.”
* * *
Juliet expected the men to linger over brandy and cigars, but apparently the trio had had enough of each other’s company. She and Lady Victoria had hardly sat down in the parlor before Ben popped in to say good night.
“It’s a touch early, I know,” he said. “But I’m having bad luck with sleep lately. Breakfast, too.”
“We’ll feed you well tomorrow, never fear. Thank you for coming,” Juliet said warmly. “I do wish you could have witnessed the signing. Though I’ll probably tell the story of that climactic event so often, you’ll soon feel that you did.”
“Please accept my thanks as well,” Lady Victoria said. “I suppose this may go down as the worst dinner party of your life. Does your hand still hurt?”
“There’s no point asking a man such a question,” Juliet said. “You’ll never get an honest answer.”
“On the contrary,” Ben said, flexing his fingers with obvious pain. “I was going to say you feel no pain, and consequently, neither do I.”
She caught her breath. Fortunately, the moment passed without her blurting out anything humiliating.
After Ben went upstairs to his guest room, Juliet paced the parlor. She didn’t know whether to pour sherry or ring for tea. Sherry rarely did anything for her, and tea might keep her awake.
“I’m having another sherry. I believe I’ve earned it,” Lady Victoria said. She looked exhausted. Despite her determined efforts to carry on normally, she was still a woman living with heart failure, and acting as hostess could overtax her. “Did you believe Ethan’s story about doing his bit?”
“No. Yes. I suppose it’s possible,” Juliet said. “He hasn’t lost his looks. Perhaps the Army wants to use him on posters to get gullible young women to join the ATS.”
“I’m afraid you’re off the mark there, Ju, darling.” Ethan entered the parlor with the eternally blank Duggin in tow.
“He’s telling the truth. My name is John Duggin, but I am not a solicitor,” he said, stepping forward. “Lady Victoria, I apologize for accepting your hospitality under false pretenses, but a certain amount of covert behavior is essential if we’re to win this war.”
“I don’t understand.” Lady Victoria looked from him to Juliet and back again. “If you’re not
a solicitor, what are you?”
“He’s rather like a civil servant,” Ethan replied. “One of those cloak-and-dagger types you hear about on the wireless.”
Duggin looked displeased at the term “cloak-and-dagger.” “It so happens I work from a rather unremarkable room near St. James’s Park. What’s more, I work for our side.”
“Please believe me, the deception was never meant to stretch on,” Ethan continued. “I would have put my cards on the table before dinner, but Ju took the step of bringing in Bonesy. The truth had to wait until he was out of the picture.”
“Why?” Juliet demanded, struggling to contain her rising fear. “What do you have to say that can’t be mentioned in front of him?”
“Most of what we have to say,” Duggin said gravely. “It’s a matter of national security. That means beyond a certain point, your participation is governed by the Official Secrets Act. You’ll be asked to sign a paper, which amounts to an oath of loyalty to the King and Parliament. Repeating what we tell you to anyone else, anyone at all, renders you subject to prosecution. That leads to the noose.”
“How dare you threaten me and my daughter in my own home?” Lady Victoria stood up. “I insist you leave. Both of you, this instant. Take your chances with the blackout. I won’t have you under my roof.”
“Jack meant no offense, Victoria,” Ethan said. “Only these chaps have no idea how to speak to those who are blameless without sounding threatening. Believe me, I learned the hard way.”
“I assure you I have authority to warn of prosecution. I invite you to examine my credentials,” Duggin said, reaching inside his suit jacket.
“Put that away. You’re making my point for me.” Ethan looked from Lady Victoria to Juliet. “Please. Hear us out. It’s terribly important.”
Juliet’s heart dropped. The note of sincerity in his voice told her this wasn’t one of Ethan’s flights of fancy. This was something so important, a blank-faced man from London, from that maze of government buildings on Whitehall Road, had come all the way to Birdswing, population 1,022.
“But you signed the papers,” she said weakly. “We’re as good as divorced. Why should I care what arrangements you’ve made with the government?”
“Because when you hear them,” Ethan said, not unkindly, “you may be persuaded to rip up the petition.”
“Ladies Have So Few Opportunities”
No sooner had they arrived in the library than Duggin made the rounds, checking for ways inquisitive maids might overhear what was said. “It’s early yet,” he explained, “and the evening has been unusual enough to pique their curiosity.”
Juliet folded her arms, still uncertain if he were really some kind of agent or spy. When he swung toward the room’s west corner, she had her answer.
“What’s that gap between bookshelves?”
“An entrance to the Master’s Way,” Ethan said. Never one to miss an opportunity to expound, he continued, “When Sir Thaddeus Linton built Belsham Manor—”
“Good Lord, Ethan, give it a rest,” she cut across him. “It’s a hidden door to a private passage.”
“Put your hands under the middle shelf,” Lady Victoria told Duggin. “Feel the latch? Slide it left. Now pull hard.”
He obeyed. The hinged door swung inward, revealing a shadowed corridor. “Does the staff know about this?”
“Yes, of course,” Ethan replied, clearly determined to explain something to someone. “It’s meant for convenience, not skullduggery.” Reaching inside the passage, he flipped the switch that turned on the lights. “Sir Thaddeus valued his privacy. This allowed him to pass easily from bedroom to dining room to library without interrupting the staff or being accosted by—”
“Sir Thaddeus kept a mistress,” Juliet broke in. “This allowed her to move about without unduly embarrassing his wife.”
“How many other entrances are there?” Duggin asked.
“Four,” Lady Victoria said, taking a seat.
“Could someone enter the corridor and eavesdrop on us?”
“Unless we lock the other four doors, yes.”
Duggin regarded Juliet expectantly until she sighed and crossed to the mantel. Opening a cloisonné box, she withdrew a large, old-fashioned key, carrying it with her into the Master’s Way. As a little girl, she’d delighted in using this “secret passage,” though it looked like any other hall, with the same wallpaper, carpet, and sconces. These days, it was merely a cut-through where skiving maids liked to hide. More than once, the smell of cigarette smoke had led to the exposure of a maid who’d decided to take an unauthorized break.
“Sorted,” Juliet announced, returning to the library a few minutes later. The brief excursion had cleared her head; she felt more confident. This was simply more of Ethan’s nonsense. Clearly, he was trying to access the Linton purse by appealing to their patriotism. He’d stoke goodwill by signing the divorce petition, then ply them with a sob story about wartime service. A request for money would surely follow.
“Gentlemen, I have no intention of ripping up those papers,” she said, closing the hidden door and leaning against it. “Knowing that, you may proceed, preferably in a minimum of words. Mother is tired, and so am I.”
“Won’t you sit down?” Ethan asked.
“You’re planning on speaking quickly, so I needn’t,” Juliet said sternly. She was prepared to stand until the end of time, barefoot on a bed of red hot coals, if it proved her resolve, but Lady Victoria shot her a worried glance.
“Fine. I’ll sit.” She settled behind the desk. “For heaven’s sake, get on with it.”
“The story I told over dinner, about being drawn unwittingly into a fraudulent scheme, was true. Apart from the more amusing details,” Ethan began. “The escape out the hotel window was on the ground floor, involving a drop of perhaps three feet. I didn’t actually clamber up a library’s drainpipe….”
“Ethan,” Juliet said warningly.
“… and none of this took part in Calais. I was in Penzance chartering a sunset trip to the Isles of Scilly. There I met an engaging young person who was charming to talk to, so I decided not to leave until dawn….”
Juliet closed her eyes, dropped her head, and pretended to snore.
“… but alas, my new friend was working for Scotland Yard. She maneuvered me into revealing certain personal details. I was arrested, transported to Truro, and left to sweat in a cell for three terrifying days.”
“Of all your women, I like her best,” Juliet said.
“I offered up many fervent prayers. Then, like an angel, there appeared—this man.” Ethan pointed at Duggin. “And he said….”
Duggin frowned. “Forgive me. I said, ‘Is it true your mother-in-law is a Nazi sympathizer?’”
Lady Victoria sucked in a breath. Juliet jumped to her feet, and Ethan lifted both hands in supplication. “There’s no need to hit me again! I said no, never. I swear it, may I be struck down if I lie. I told Jack no in the strongest possible terms.”
“He did,” Duggin agreed. “My next question was, ‘Then what is Lady Victoria Linton’s true relationship with her eldest brother, the Earl of Calprin?’”
“I said, to my knowledge, she had none,” Ethan said. “Duggin told me the fate of my country might depend on my absolute honesty. Mind you, this was last year, when there was still hope the war could be averted. I hope you will forgive me, Victoria, but I told Jack everything I knew about the earl, and everything I suspected.”
“I don’t understand.” Juliet turned to her mother, who was taking short, shallow breaths.
“What has Reginald been up to?” Lady Victoria asked in a tightly controlled voice.
“According to our sources,” Duggin began, “the earl’s ties to Germany have deepened. Did you know his daughter, Fiona, married Franz Von Koppenow? The earl used to visit her twice a year in Pomerania, till it became impossible.”
“That doesn’t make him a Nazi sympathizer,” Juliet said.
“Perh
aps not, but his financial ties to the Vereinigte Stahlwerke A.G. are no secret,” Duggin said. “He still writes letters to the Daily Mail, contrasting Der Fuhrer’s ‘strength,’ as he puts it, and Old Blighty’s supposed weakness. These facts are a matter of public record.” Reaching into his coat, Duggin withdrew two envelopes. “To go further, we must first discuss the Official Secrets Act and obtain your signatures.”
Juliet listened in silence as he explained the government’s oath of secrecy in simple, unemotional terms. Lady Victoria also said nothing, but she twisted her hands in her lap. They had no questions and chose to sign with no more than a glance between them. Juliet’s hope that Ethan had simply devised a new con was dead. She felt like a woman trapped in a flooding room. There were no doors or windows; the water lapped against her chin, and still it rose.
“Thank you, Lady Victoria. Lady Juliet.” Duggin tucked the envelopes away again. “Ordinarily, we take little interest in low crimes of the sort Bolivar usually commits….”
“I object to the word ‘crimes,’” Ethan muttered. “Particularly ‘low crimes.’”
“Oh, yes. Let’s pause to inflate your ego regarding the grandeur of your career,” Juliet snapped.
“But Bolivar turned up in our sights time and again,” Duggin went on. “We observed him attending parties at the Duke of Cornwall hotel in Plymouth, which is always thick with fascists. We saw him have lunch with Oswald Moseley. And, er—pardon me, Lady Juliet—we tracked his evenings with a certain lady deeply connected to Lord Rothermere.”
“I was only after her money,” Ethan told Juliet.
“Shut it,” she said, not looking his way.
“Moreover, we noted that Bolivar enjoyed a very cordial relationship with Lady Victoria’s brother, the earl, not to mention several other well-placed people on the Continent,” Duggin said. “Therefore, once Bolivar agreed to work for us, we asked him to resume his everyday life, with two new wrinkles. First, he would present himself as a convert to the pro-Hitler, anti-Semitic philosophy. Second, he would report back to us about what he heard, what he saw, and what he could gather when the opportunity presented itself. A peek into a man’s desk, a glance at a lady’s diary, intercepted notes, and so on. As it turns out,” Duggin said with a half-smile, “he’s far better at extracting secrets from the upper crust than he was at bilking money out of ordinary investors.”