The Angel and the Sword

by Sally Wragg

  ‘I do believe you’re on the lookout for your Count,’ she teased.

  ‘I was doing no such thing!’ the older woman bridled, affronted, so, rather ashamed of herself, Hettie apologized at once. She was relieved when breakfast was over but emerging from the dining room into the hotel foyer, as luck would have it, at once they spied their Count, the suitcases piled around his well-shod feet suggesting his departure was imminent. Poor Dizzy and when she’d only just met him, Hettie thought, glancing at her companion’s stricken face and pleased for her that at least, after his offer to visit him in Berlin, there would be opportunity to see him further along the tour. And then her heart skipped a beat. She saw now that the Count was talking to a young man who stood with his back towards them. Spending so long in its proximity, Hettie would have recognized that back anywhere. The Count saw them and smiled, causing the young man to turn around, revealing thereby his handsome if still scowling face. Wondering if that was his natural expression and, if so, why so, she fixed a smile on her face and made her way towards him.

  Her rescuer and now, at last, she had the chance to discover exactly who he was. . . .

  Chapter Three

  The dawn chorus had subsided, drawn into the low mist that lay blanketing the ground and shrouding the low-roofed farm, which loomed behind the slim, energetic-looking woman walking briskly up the lane. A cow bellowed. It was too early to be up. Calling to the brindle bitch with the short, stumpy tail, snuffling in the hedgerow, Ursula walked on, deep in thought, mulling over her argument with Freddie last night, every single, uncomfortable word of it, the cause of her sleeplessness and early rising, too early even for the farm and its myriad of chores. Freddie had argued it was unfair of her to neglect her duties when there was so much needed doing about the place. Ursula’s indignation grew. As if he thought she didn’t realize, with the harvest on top of the usual chores, she’d had no business swanning off to Derby and, worse, forgetting all about her promise to lend a hand getting in the potatoes.

  Well, she had forgotten and part of her ill humour now, and thus the need to walk it off, was the fact that her husband had a right to be angry with her. She’d been selfish and seeing him so bewildered had only made her long to throw her arms around him and tell him she’d never be so thoughtless again. Pride had stopped her – that and his plain speaking, putting her so firmly in her place it had only made the situation a whole sight worse.

  ‘We can’t afford to carry passengers, Ursy. Not even you. . . .’

  ‘But surely, your wife. . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know exactly what I mean.’

  She did know. Running a farm, a successful farm, meant giving in to it heart and soul so there was never to be room for anything else – as if she hadn’t known right from the start, when Freddie had been so insistent on their getting married, on and on until he’d worn her down. They must marry. She couldn’t leave him now! She should forget her reservation because it was being together that mattered and, that being the case, everything else would fall into place. Even now, even given the baby – or lack of a baby. Perhaps if things had worked out with the baby, she wouldn’t feel as bad as she did now. Hemmed in, trapped, like being a farmer’s wife was the last thing she was cut out to be or wanted to do with the rest of her life. It wasn’t Freddie’s fault, Ursula conceded but, there again, neither was it totally hers.

  She’d reached the brow of the hill leading down to the pasture. With a start of surprise, she pulled up short, to stare in some perplexity at the plot of land more normally hired out to campers and today, supposedly untenanted, ready for the party of hill walkers due at the weekend and using Loxley for their base. At first, the cluster of gaily decorated vardoes she saw there now failed to register, crouching as they were at the top end of the field like a colony of giant and gaudy insects, the horses that had brought them here contentedly cropping the grass around. As Ursula stood watching, the door to the nearest caravan opened and a man emerged, owner to a head of startlingly white, shoulder-length hair, swept back from his face, and dressed in an open-necked shirt, his trousers held up by a length of string. Holding his face up to the sun, he stretched and yawned, an action which startled Ursula’s little dog, Fern, who jumped down from the low stone wall marking the boundary of the field and barked, the hair on her neck bristling.

  ‘It’s alright, girl,’ her mistress murmured soothingly, yet not quite sure if it was. Gypsies! And what right had they taking ownership of this land, ruining all her carefully thought-out plans! Full of righteous indignation, Ursula let herself through the gate and marched down the field towards him. Close up, he was older than she’d thought, yet his face, tanned by his outdoor life, was curiously unwrinkled, dominated by an imposing, aquiline nose. But it was his eyes immediately catching her attention, so deep set and penetrating, and of such a startling blue, that they seemed to see more than what was before him which, for the moment, was her.

  ‘I’m sorry but this is private property. I shall have to ask you to move on,’ she began, curtly.

  Apparently unfazed, he stooped to fondle Fern’s rough head. ‘As you see, we do no harm,’ he murmured, straightening up.

  Ursula’s smile grew more fixed. ‘That may very well be but. . . .’

  ‘We’re peaceful people. You won’t even know we’re here.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I hire the field out,’ she persisted patiently. ‘It might be empty now but I have a party of hill walkers booked for this weekend.’

  The gypsy’s gaze swept the length of the field. ‘There’s plenty of room,’ he observed.

  ‘I’m fairly sure the party concerned won’t wish to share.’

  And certainly not with gypsies, Ursula thought, though not wanting to be rude, not saying as much. There was no point goading him. He smiled, not one whit put out.

  ‘Then it appears we have a problem,’ he replied, evenly.

  Before she could answer, there was a movement in the caravan behind and a small child emerged, still in her nightdress, a little girl of some two or three years of age, knuckling her eyes and stumbling down the steps towards them. Something about her eyes, which were large and thick-lashed and of a bright and dazzling blue, staring from her small, sharp face, framed by its mass of dark curls, stamped it as belonging in some way to this man. At the sight of her, the gypsy man’s smile deepened. ‘Maisie May! It’s early for you, child,’ he said, sweeping her up into his arms.

  ‘Gwamps,’ she lisped, still half asleep, snuggling contentedly into his chest.

  Ursula’s swift retort died on her lips. That there was going to be trouble over the gypsies’ presence here was only too clear but to argue the point and in front of such a little one was patently not on. For the moment, any enmity she had with Freddie was forgotten. She’d go straight home and tell him what had happened so, between them, they could decide what should be done.

  ‘I’ll be back later,’ she said, her tone striking a warning note.

  Nodding curtly, calling to Fern, she made her way from the field to regain the lane and struck out, back towards the farm, aware of the gypsy man standing, straight as a die, the child still clutched to his breast, watching her out of sight.

  Hettie had seen so many sights, this holiday was beginning to feel a trial of endurance; so much so, this morning at breakfast in the hotel, bleary-eyed after the previous day spent investigating seemingly every brick and stone of the pastel-yellow facade of Berlin’s Charlottenburg Palace, she’d found herself thinking longingly of home. Vienna had passed by in a blur of elaborate palaces and coffee houses; Prague, the city of a hundred spires, all medieval cobbled streets and ancient squares, so many, she’d lost count. Hardly a chance to draw breath, this morning they’d spent in Spandau Old Town, lunching briefly in a little cafe in the Schlosspark before Dizzy had returned to their hotel. Ostensibly this was to make the final arrangements for their journey to Bruges tomorrow but more, to Hettie’s mind, to allow her chaperone time to put
the final touches to a toilette designed to make good impression on Count Charles Dresler. They were meeting him this afternoon, taking him up on his offer to visit his gallery whilst they were in Berlin and which, according to directions given by their efficiently brisk hotel receptionist, was a five-minute stroll from the Palace gardens. Hettie herself had spent the last hour drifting happily in and out of the shops along the Kurfürstendamm, arranging to meet Dizzy outside Count Dresler’s. Hettie wasn’t sure what she thought of Berlin so far, a beautiful city, no doubt, but she was shocked by the air of menace she’d discovered, amazingly to her who’d paid such scant attention to politics, foreign or otherwise. Here, it was hard to ignore, buildings draped with the flags and swastikas of the National Socialist Party, pavements ringing to the sound of marching boots which seemed to Hettie so ominous and automated. Evil was stirring and, for the moment, she didn’t want to think what that might be.

  Making the last of her few small purchases, she consulted her street map before setting off, relieved, finally, a few minutes later to turn into the quietly affluent and leafy little street she discovered housed Count Dresler’s gallery; an elaborate frontage sandwiched between two large, private residences, where she saw Dizzy hovering nervously by. Here, at least, the hustle and bustle of the Kurfürstendamm was left behind.

  It would be a relief to move on to Bruges, Hettie thought, waving happily to her former governess, though she had to admit, if Dizzy was keen on reacquainting herself with the Count, she, Hettie, couldn’t deny an interest in the Count’s young companion, Lewis Steed. Her pace quickened, thinking now of their unexpected encounter in the foyer of Venice’s Duono Palace Hotel, the morning after he’d rescued her from the city’s myriad complexities of streets. At least she’d managed to get a name from him, indeed, she’d even managed to worm herself into his confidence enough to learn that he was apprenticed to the Count and had been accompanying him on his trip to Venice to gain insight into the art world in which he was employed. He’d been reluctant to impart even this small nugget of information. But if their meeting had been brief, it had still been enough to whet Hettie’s appetite. She smiled inwardly. Oh yes, there was no doubt she was looking forward to reacquainting herself with Lewis Steed, if only to see if his scowling face was every bit as disconcerting as she remembered it!

  ‘There you are!’ Dizzy beamed before leading the way into the gallery.

  As chance would have it, they entered the thickly carpeted and hushed atmosphere of the entrance hall as the Count himself emerged down the broad sweep of stairs directly across from the door. At first sight, the German appeared bulkier and more imposing than Hettie remembered, his heavy features breaking into a smile as he hurried towards them, holding out a surprisingly elegant hand. Of Lewis, there was disappointingly no sign.

  ‘But how wonderful to see you again!’ he murmured gallantly. ‘You’ve had a good journey, I hope? Let me show you round the gallery and you must tell me, truly, exactly what you think!’ Hardly pausing to draw breath, giving every indication that he was pleased to see them, he conducted his two visitors upstairs and along an ornate balcony which overlooked the well of the hall, whilst in his effortless and near perfect English, he extracted from a becomingly flushed Dizzy their itinerary since they’d first arrived here in Berlin. That Hettie’s former governess was susceptible to the Count’s obvious charms was only too clear, even to Hettie, watching on in delight. But why shouldn’t the old fusspot be allowed her dreams over her undeniably handsome Count?

  The following hour passed too quickly, reeling them from one anteroom to the next, each containing a blur of paintings and sculptures by artists most of whom, Hettie, in her ignorance, had never even heard.

  ‘Are these all German works of art?’ she asked, a little shamefaced.

  ‘We do our best to support German talent – as this artist here – a Hamburg man,’ the Count agreed, positioning them in front of a particularly striking etching of a lake at night, the moon shining down from a brooding sky illustrated in all its depths and shadows.

  ‘But you exhibit foreign artists, too?’ Dizzy ventured, nervously.

  ‘But of course! Alex Windrow has an exhibition here shortly,’ their companion returned quickly. ‘You’ll have heard of him, no doubt? A compatriot of yours, a fellow Englishman settled here in Berlin! Assessing the market, what’s back in fashion, what’s most likely to sell is what I most enjoy!’ His gaze moved questioningly towards Hettie. ‘But growing up amongst such exquisite works of art, you’ll know this already, Your Grace?’

  So he’d done his homework, Hettie thought, the knowledge jarring with her in what was proving to be an otherwise surprisingly enjoyable afternoon. It was too easy to forget this man was first and foremost a businessman and, oddly, the realization brought with it the first inklings of an idea. Hettie frowned. Despite her mother’s attempts to keep it from her, she was only too well aware of the colossal tax duties that had resulted from her father’s death. The bills back home were piling up. Her face lit up, more with eagerness than thought.

  ‘You must pay us a visit, Count. I may even be able to put some business your way,’ she answered eagerly and at once deliciously aware of how grown up this made her sound, a heady, intoxicating feeling, convincing her, as nothing else, she was taking her first, tentative steps towards her adult self. This grand tour of Europe had made her grow up quickly and no wonder her grandmother had been so keen that she should come!

  ‘Oh, but my dear, you mustn’t waste the Count’s time!’ Dizzy protested at once, if with her customary gentleness of manner, appearing perplexingly disconcerted. Hettie frowned. Whatever was the matter with her now?

  ‘But I’m not wasting the Count’s time – I meant it, every word!’ she retorted, indignantly. ‘Even you must know how we’re fixed, Miss Pettigrew! Why, I overheard Grandmamma telling Mother that she’d had to sell some jewellery even to finance this trip. There’s absolutely loads of paintings at home no one’s the slightest bothered about and I’m jolly sure Mother would like to get shot of at least one or two!’

  That her enthusiasm had led her to unforgiveable indiscretion was proved both by Dizzy’s shocked expression and the acquisital gleam shining, if only momentarily, in the Count’s pale, blue eyes.

  ‘I’m sure something could be arranged, my dear,’ he murmured. ‘I could at least proffer opinion on what might sell or otherwise?’

  ‘But that would be wonderful!’ Hettie responded enthusiastically, refusing to be put out by her companion’s odd behaviour. She beamed happily. ‘That’s settled, then! We must fix something up?’

  ‘Indeed and before you leave.’ The Count smiled, once again the perfect host. ‘Now, if you’ll allow me to offer you some refreshment? Please. . . . We’ll make our way through to my private rooms. . . .’

  Hettie shook her head. It would be good for the Count and Dizzy to have time alone together, she considered. It might at least put a smile back on Dizzy’s face! ‘I’ll join you shortly,’ she told them airily, her attention already caught by a movement in a small anteroom directly across from Alex Windrow’s painting. ‘I’d love a little look round on my own if you wouldn’t mind. . . .’

  Matters arranged to her satisfaction, whilst the Count ushered Dizzy away, Hettie headed firmly towards the anteroom, as she’d hoped, discovering a familiar figure inside it, balanced precariously at the top of a ladder and in the process of hanging a painting. Engrossed in the task, he hit his thumb with the hammer and thus, she was happily a party to his oath, soft and succinct, in English. Suddenly aware of her presence, he craned his head and saw her.

  ‘We’re not open to the public yet,’ he muttered, frowning.

  Their paths met again. Lewis Steed hadn’t changed one iota. Delighted, Hettie smiled.

  ‘Hello, Lewis.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he returned, ungraciously.

  ‘It’s nice to see you too,’ she replied, discovering she meant it. ‘You really do work here?�
�� she enquired, coming closer and gazing up at him.

  ‘Didn’t you believe me?’ He climbed down to stand beside her, gazing with obvious pride at the paintings adorning the wall before them, numbering some dozen in all. Scenes of Berlin skyscapes in the main, rooftops and spires, illumined by light or in darkness and shadow, the skies above filled with wild, storm-tossed weather, all depicted with an artistry which, little as Hettie knew, she guessed belonged to a master craftsman. They were suggestive of some danger lurking and she wondered if the artist saw the peril lurking in modern Germany too.

  ‘Alex Windrow,’ she murmured, guessing this was the exhibition to which the Count had referred.

  ‘Alex Windrow is my uncle – well, adopted uncle to tell the truth,’ Lewis agreed, still sounding proud. ‘He’s my stepmother’s nephew.’

  ‘Sounds complicated.’

  ‘Don’t ask!’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream! But these are wonderful paintings,’ she enthused.

  The young man’s features softened. ‘Aren’t they just! Charles Dresler doesn’t usually take clients but he’s made exception for Alex,’ he proffered without further prompting on her part. He’d mellowed since last she’d seen him, Hettie mused, attractively so, she considered, when, as now, he was regarding her with such a decided interest. He was good-looking, she decided quickly, his mobile features full of light and shadows of their own, lending to his face a vivid and vibrant life. ‘But I thought you worked for Charles Dresler?’ she asked curiously.