by Rhys Bowen
“I will see if the contessa has gowns she no longer wears,” Gerda said. “It is a pity that the other English lady is so much smaller than you. She has much money and beautiful clothes.”
I realized then that she did not know that the other English lady was my mother. Good, I thought. Let’s keep it that way.
As she talked she eased me into the black dress. It was long, tight and quite slinky. It didn’t go at all with Camilla’s personality, which I felt was definitely county set, like her parents. She would have been more comfortable in jodhpurs and boots. I couldn’t picture her in a backless dress like this one. I couldn’t picture myself in it either, until I glanced in the wardrobe mirror and I actually looked rather good. I suppose my one asset was my height and boyish figure. Even Gerda nodded approvingly. “Yes,” she said. “That will do, I think. Now we make the hair. Sit please.”
I sat at the dressing table. She brushed my hair, forced it into waves and added a black feather into a diamanté clip she had apparently brought with her. Something else she had borrowed from the contessa, I thought. Golly, I hope those aren’t real diamonds. And then, even more disturbing . . . I hope Camilla doesn’t look at me in the middle of dinner and say, “Who said you could wear my diamond clip and my dress?” in front of everybody.
Gerda was now applying dabs of rouge to my cheeks, brushing my lips with lipstick and drawing a line over my fair eyebrows. “There,” she said. “That is better. Now your jewel case, please?”
I indicated it on the chest of drawers. She opened it and made another small grunt of despair. “You did not bring diamonds with you, I see.”
I didn’t like to admit that the only diamonds I possessed were in the family tiara I had inherited and I wasn’t allowed to wear that until I married. “I only bring the minimum of jewels when I travel without a maid,” I said.
“Diamonds or emeralds are the only stones that complement a black dress,” she said. “I see you only have rubies.”
“Or pearls,” I pointed out.
She sniffed. “Pearls are never worn in the evening. Then it must be the rubies, I suppose.” She sighed as she removed them from my jewel case and draped them around my neck. “That will have to do. You have no perfume?”
“Also left at home,” I said. “Just some eau de cologne for the journey.”
“One cannot wear eau de cologne at the dinner table,” she said firmly. “Tomorrow I will see what perfumes my contessa has tired of.”
Golly, I was to be the poor relation. Pitied and donated to. This had to stop right now. “Please, Gerda, I’m sure you mean well,” I said, “but I’m only here for a few days and I really came to be with a sick friend.”
“The contessa would not want a fellow Englishwoman to look inferior to Continental people, I am sure,” she said. “She is proud of her heritage. We must all be proud of our heritage. Especially Aryan people like you and me when we are among non-Aryans.”
She removed the towel that had been covering my shoulders, took a clothes brush from the dressing table and whisked it a few times. “Yes,” she said. “You are now ready. You may go down to join the others. But please take care on the stairs. This skirt is quite narrow.”
I was being dismissed. I found myself thinking back to Queenie with great fondness. True, she was hopeless as a maid. It was true she had ironed my velvet the wrong way, burned a hole in another of my dresses, unraveled my knitted skirt and generally destroyed most of my clothing. But if having an efficient maid meant feeling as if I was being lectured by Nanny in the nursery, then I’d choose Queenie any day.
As I came out of my bedroom the door next to mine opened and to my horror I saw Rudi emerge, looking devastatingly handsome in tails.
“How fortuitous,” he said. “We are neighbors. Tonight we shall lie next to each other like two peas in a pod. How delectable. So convenient.”
I wanted to say we were not going to be lying next to each other, but I didn’t think I could do it without blushing. And a thought did go through my mind that someone more skilled than me could arrange a romantic tryst with Rudi and get him to confess where he had hidden the photographs. I was not about to try it. I was also trying to remember whether there was a lock on my bedroom door. Oh dear. I hoped so.
As we came to the better-lit part of the corridor he examined me and exclaimed, “You look very nice. Quite the sophisticated lady. Now I shall no longer believe you to be the innocent schoolgirl. I think you have been hiding your true nature from me, Lady Georgiana.”
“I have no reason to hide anything from you, Count Rudolf,” I said.
For a moment his eyes held mine, questioning. Then he laughed, a gay, carefree laugh. “You really are quite delightful. So no more of this girlish pretense, my lady. I am sure you would enjoy a romantic encounter just as much as I would. And I assure you I am very good at it. There are ladies here who would testify to the fact.”
“I told you that I am engaged to be married,” I said, channeling my great-grandmother to the best of my ability.
He was still laughing. “What has that to do with anything? All the better when a woman is married. Then she has nothing to worry about.”
“Apart from her husband finding out,” I said.
“Some men are less open-minded than others, this is true.” We had reached the top of the stairs. He took my elbow and helped me down, step by step. Since I couldn’t shake him off without risking falling down the staircase I had to endure his closeness. And I was thinking about what he had just said and the snatch of conversation I had overheard coming from his room earlier that day. Surely there were no women here other than my mother, Paolo’s mother and Camilla. And my mother had been in the garden with me. That meant that the woman’s voice I had heard in Rudi’s room had to have been Camilla’s. Camilla and Rudi . . . So my mother had been wrong about Camilla being straightlaced.
I broke off these thoughts as the sound of laughter came from the long gallery to our right. Rudi had not released my elbow and I couldn’t think of an efficient way to shake him off. As we entered, the laughter ceased as suddenly as if somebody had flipped a switch. To my horror I saw that all eyes had turned to me. And among those staring was Mrs. Simpson.
“Good heavens, Georgiana,” she said. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve certainly grown up in a hurry. Has Count Rudolf been teaching you a thing or two?”
“Count Rudolf has done nothing more than escort me down the stairs in a very tight skirt,” I said. I was trying to gauge whether Gerda had actually asked her mistress’s permission to lend me the dress. “How nice to see you again, Mrs. Simpson. And you too, sir.” I nodded to the Prince of Wales.
“Good to see you too, young Georgie,” he said. “And looking absolutely spiffing too. Quite the elegant lady these days. But what are you doing in this neck of the woods? I was quite surprised when Mother wrote that you’d be joining us.”
“I was quite surprised too, sir,” I said, returning his smile. “I had tea with your mother and happened to mention that I’d be coming here to visit a friend who is currently in a clinic nearby, and of course she thought it would be lovely for me to join you. I didn’t have much say in the matter.”
“One doesn’t, with the queen,” Mrs. Simpson said. “She certainly likes to get her way. She didn’t instruct you to push me off a cliff, did she?”
The others laughed a trifle nervously. I couldn’t think of a suitable answer to this and was glad when the prince replied. “If she’d only get to know you, I’m sure she’d like you, Wallis. She’s just being stubborn.”
“But are you not still married to Mr. Simpson?” Paolo’s mother asked.
There was an intake of breath and a moment’s silence before she said stiffly, “We are officially separated these days until a divorce can be amicably arranged. He has no wish to continue the marriage any more than I do. He’s gone home to Amer
ica and here I am, footloose and fancy-free.” And she turned to give the prince an adoring glance.
I heaved a sigh of relief. They weren’t legally divorced yet. There would be no sneaking off to hold a secret ceremony. This thought was followed by one of annoyance that the queen had put me through this for no good reason. I wondered how soon I could make my excuses and go back to Belinda. Then I remembered Mummy. Bugger. (Yes, I know I should not even think words like that, but it did seem the most apt sentiment.) The moment she had entered my mind we heard footsteps tapping on the marble and Mummy herself came down the stairs, her arm slipped through Max’s. They looked a very handsome couple, he in his white tie and tails, she in red silk evening pajamas and a bright red feather in her hair. In her other hand she trailed a white mink stole.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the actress herself,” Mrs. Simpson said. “How are you, Claire, honey? Looking good for your age.”
“And you look good for yours, Wallis,” Mummy replied, her comment delivered with undertones as only a great actress can. “I have never been better. I have found the man of my dreams and we are going to get married. What could be more perfect?”
“I congratulate you,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Have you learned to speak German yet?”
“I’m taking lessons. And Max’s English is making great strides.”
“A stride? This is a walk, no?” the German general asked.
And we were into another discussion on the silliness of the English language. I was relieved when the dinner gong sounded and we followed the prince and Mrs. Simpson into the dining room. I was even more relieved to find I was seated beside my cousin and the silent German officer Klinker. Rudi was on the other side of the table between Mrs. Simpson and the priest. I thought that was a just punishment for his sins. I glanced down the table and realized that there were thirteen of us. Surely that was a bad omen. I should never have come.
The dinner passed easily enough, course after course with a never-ending stream of antipasti—prosciutto, tiny mussels and clams, stuffed baby tomatoes, spicy sausage. Then followed mushroom risotto, veal in cream sauce, a rich sponge cake, fruit and then a cheese board to die for. Each course was accompanied by the correct wine and I began to feel a little woozy by the end of the meal.
The wooziness grew worse when we went through after the meal and were served after-dinner limoncello and chocolates. Mrs. Simpson complained that they had had a long day in the fresh air and she was ready to turn in, so I took my cue from her and excused myself as well. I gave a sigh of relief when Rudi did not attempt to follow me. I let myself into my room and my heart jumped as a figure stepped out to greet me. It was Gerda, who had been waiting, apparently in the dark.
“The evening was satisfactory, I hope?” she said as she took off my rubies and removed the pins from my hair.
“Very satisfactory, thank you. The dress was much admired. Please thank the contessa for me for allowing me to wear it.”
From her silence I got the feeling that she had not asked the contessa and that Camilla might be feeling seriously miffed. She continued to undress me with terrifying efficiency, immediately putting my shoes on the top shelf of the wardrobe and hanging up the dress. “You may wish to wear it again,” she said.
Then she helped me into my nightdress and turned back the bed. “Will that be all, my lady? May I bring you up some hot milk to help you sleep?”
“No, thank you. I’m sure I shall sleep very well. It’s lovely to be taken care of so well,” I said.
“It is my job. For this I am trained,” she said. “I take it you would like a cup of tea in the morning, as this seems to be the custom of English ladies.”
“Yes, please. I do like morning tea.”
“At what hour shall I bring this?”
“When is breakfast usually served?” I asked.
“Around nine o’clock,” she said. “Should I bring your tea at eight?”
“Thank you.”
“Then I bid you a pleasant good night.” She gave a little bow and let herself out, leaving me feeling breathless. I crossed the room and turned the key in the lock. At least I’d not have to worry about any nighttime visits from Count Rudi!
Chapter 13
THE NIGHT OF APRIL 21
MY ROOM AT VILLA FIORI
Trying to sleep but I am so wound up. If I could just slip away and escape back to Belinda I would do so. But I promised my mother . . . damn.
I wandered around the room for a while, reluctant to turn the light out, feeling uneasy and unsettled. I went over to the French windows and opened them, having been used to sleeping with the windows open even in a howling gale from a childhood at Castle Rannoch. Then I stepped out onto my little balcony. The scent of jasmine was heady in the night air. The gardens below were bathed in darkness. It was like being in the middle of nowhere. I stood there, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of loneliness. What was I doing here when I could have been chatting with Belinda, or even keeping Lord Kilhenny company in Ireland? Anywhere rather than this. It was clear now that the queen had jumped to conclusions and that the prince and Mrs. Simpson were not planning a secret wedding here. So there was no good reason for me to stay. Except that Mummy had foisted her latest problem onto me. It was her own fault, I thought angrily. If she had a tryst with another man when she should have been faithful to Max, then she should suffer the consequences. I should just pack up and leave in the morning and go back to the friendly little room near the clinic.
But of course I knew that I couldn’t leave Mummy in the lurch. I would try to help her. It was that Rannoch sense of duty that had been rammed down my throat from the day I could toddle. Although how I was ever going to find those photographs in a place like this was mind-boggling.
“Damn and blast,” I muttered. I should point out that I swear only when alone, again as a result of my upbringing and having my mouth washed out with soap by Nanny for once saying “bloody.”
A night breeze blew up and I pulled my robe more firmly around me. I glanced across to make sure that Rudi was not watching me from his balcony. I was relieved to see that there was too big a gap between us to make a leap across possible. At least that was one thing I didn’t have to worry about and I could leave my window open.
I gave one last look across the gardens. If only Darcy had been here it would have been a romantic scene. Why did he have to be so far away?
“I want to go home,” I whispered to myself, but the problem was that I no longer knew where home was. One day I’d have a home with Darcy and I would be safe and loved. I’d just have to be patient a little longer.
I went inside, pulled the French doors half closed, climbed into bed and turned out the bedside lamp. I still felt queasy from the big, rich meal and just prayed that sleep would come. Outside my window I heard the sigh of the breeze, the rustle of wind in tall trees, the distant hoot of an owl. From down the hallway I heard voices, the sound of doors closing. I lay there, tense, waiting to hear if someone was trying my door to see if it was unlocked, but the sounds had died away to complete silence.
“You’ll be all right,” I told myself. “There are other people sleeping on this corridor.”
• • •
I MUST HAVE drifted off to sleep because I awoke to the smallest of sounds. I sat up, instantly alert. My gaze went to the door. A narrow strip of light showed beneath it and no shadow seemed to be blocking that light. Then I heard the sound again—the slightest of squeaks of a rusty hinge as one of the French doors was opened. It was still completely dark. Had it just been a trick of the wind that had opened that door?
Surely there was no way that Rudi could have made it across the big gap between our rooms. The walls were smooth stone. All the same I was going to be ready for him. I considered finding something to use as a weapon—the jug from the washbasin? The statue in the niche above my bed? Then I decided that much as I
’d like the satisfaction of bringing either of them down on his head it was too risky. He was an odious man but that statue was marble. I couldn’t risk killing him. So I slipped silently out of bed and retreated toward the door. My hand closed around the key, ready to turn it, scream and flee if necessary. If someone had come into my room, at least he would have as hard a time finding me as I was having seeing him.
I stood there for what seemed an age, hearing and seeing nothing. I was imagining things, I told myself. The wind had blown open the French door. I should go back to bed. I had just made up my mind to leave the security of the door handle when I heard the floorboards creak. Then I thought I heard somebody whisper, “Georgie.” Suddenly I felt more angry than afraid. I was not going to be intimidated by a lecherous blackmailer like Count Rudolf. My hand left the doorknob and slid across the wall, trying to locate the light switch. I found it and took a deep breath. Then I flipped the switch, while saying in my most Queen Victoria–like voice, “How dare you come into my room! You’d better go back the way you came instantly or I shall open this door and waken the entire household. And have you thrown out like the despicable person you are!”
I stood blinking in the light from the bulb high in the ceiling above. Nobody was standing near the French windows. Then I looked over to my bed on the opposite wall and let out a little gasp. He was actually sitting on my bed, presumably thinking that was where he’d find me.
“Caught like a rat in a trap!” I said. “Now you’ll be sorry.”
As I turned the key in the lock he stood up. “Wait, Georgie,” he whispered. “It’s me. Darcy.”
I froze, staring at him as if I were seeing a ghost. Darcy was standing there, dressed in a black fisherman’s jersey and black trousers, his dark curls windswept.
“What on earth are you doing here?” I blurted out as I went over to him. He put a finger to his lips, warning me to keep my voice down.