by Teri Brown
“Fräulein Sophia Thérèse, may I introduce Mrs. Elsa Tremaine? Mrs. Tremaine, this is Sophia Thérèse von Schönburg. You will be sharing the same compartment.”
She raises her hand as regally as if she were a princess, and I’m unsure whether she wants me to shake her hand or kiss it. In the end, I awkwardly touch her fingers with mine. “Nice to meet you,” I murmur.
“It’s mutual, darling.” Her words have a lilting quality and I can imagine that her singing voice is lovely. She turns to Maxwell and switches to German. For the first time I notice a slender young man standing behind both of them. “Please make sure my trunks are all loaded,” she says. “I would hate to arrive in Berlin only to find that my costumes were left sitting on the platform. Arnold, go with the nice soldier and make sure all is well with my things.”
Arnold bows his head and follows Maxwell, while Mrs. Tremaine settles herself across from me. She places a white fur muff on her lap. It’s only after the muff yawns that I realize it’s a dog. I giggle.
“Do you speak English? Please say you speak English. My German is atrocious.” She sighs in relief at my nod and turns to the dog on her lap. “This is Penny,” Mrs. Tremaine says, bending to rub her face in her pet’s fur.
I smile at the dog. “Good morning, Penny.”
Mrs. Tremaine raises her head. “You speak wonderful English. You hardly have an accent at all.”
I groan mentally at my stupidity and give her a weak smile. “I have a gift for languages. That’s one of the reasons the duchess wishes me to teach the children.”
Mrs. Tremaine seems to accept it. “So we’ll be rooming together? I do hope you don’t snore. Penny snores enough as it is.”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Wonderful. So you’re traveling to Berlin to be the governess to the prince’s children?”
I nod. “An assistant to the governess, actually. The prince’s boys are apparently very active.”
“I never had children of my own, but they seem like such a trial. Penny is enough for me.”
“Are you married?” I ask politely, though from her name I know she must be.
“I was. And, of course, you are not—you’re much too young and you wouldn’t be considered for a governess position if you were. Have you been to Berlin before?”
“Yes. But I was very young. I’m from a little town outside Cologne.” I steer the topic of conversation away from me. “And you?”
Mrs. Tremaine shakes her head. “No. None of my tours brought me to Berlin, unfortunately. I’ve heard it’s quite lovely.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So you decided to do a German tour in the middle of a war?”
She waves a hand. “People need music even more during times of trouble, don’t you think? Besides, music knows no nationality, so I must ignore it as well. Do you know the governess? What’s she like?”
I shake my head. “I’ve never met her.”
The train jerks forward and I startle.
“Here we go,” Mrs. Tremaine murmurs so softly I can barely hear her. “May God preserve us.”
I’m about to ask her what she means when Maxwell reenters the coach and informs Mrs. Tremaine that the prince wishes to speak with her. With a small smile, Mrs. Tremaine, carrying Penny, takes her leave.
I lean back and watch as the train gathers speed, taking me out of Luxembourg and closer to Germany and Velvet.
Whoever she is.
I wake up early the next morning only to find that Sophia Thérèse’s birthmark rubbed off on the pillow overnight. With a glance at Mrs. Tremaine’s sleeping figure, I quietly draw the birthmark back on, then add a light dusting of powder to set it.
This birthmark may end up being the biggest challenge of the entire mission.
After making myself presentable, I tuck the Bible under my arm—in case I run into the prince—and head to the servants’ coach in search of some tea or perhaps coffee. I’d barely slept and instead spent my time tossing and turning worrying about today. The train had stopped last night in Frankfurt, and the prince, Mrs. Tremaine, and a half-dozen officers had left to visit with generals, though I have a feeling it was more of a social visit than a military one, judging by the dress Mrs. Tremaine was wearing. Penny stayed behind in a basket, shivering until I took her out and settled her in her mistress’s bed.
I must have slept at some point, because Mrs. Tremaine was asleep in her bed when I awoke.
Some spy I am.
Though I suppose my spying won’t truly start until I meet Marissa Baum and Lillian Bouchard. I’ve memorized their data and their faces, of course, but facts and figures can’t really give me the information I need. Will I know them when I meet them? Why would either one of them spy for England? What would motivate them to put their lives on the line, much as I am?
A tea cart has been wheeled into the coach. I pour myself a cup and take one of the soft bread rolls stacked next to the pot, before sitting at an empty table.
My brain continues to spin while I eat. Why would an American girl be visiting Germany during a war? As an American citizen, Marissa Baum could easily leave the country. The United States has so far successfully managed to stay out of the conflict, though that could change at any minute. But still . . . with an American passport, why would she choose to stay in Berlin? And how will I get close enough to her to be able to tell if she’s Velvet?
It’ll be much easier to get to know Lillian Bouchard, since I’ll be working with her. Being so close to the kaiser’s family and also half French, she’d be the most obvious choice—but perhaps too obvious? And honestly, how would a governess obtain such sensitive information? Unless it’s true that Velvet is conducting an affair with a highly placed general.
I don’t even want to contemplate the unthinkable, that Velvet is neither of those two women.
I stare out the window and spot a military convoy traveling down a long road. The motorized vehicles carrying an unimaginable number of troops are followed by legions of men on horseback. I wonder where they’re going and how many of them will return. Sadness tightens my throat as I think of all the children who will never see their fathers again.
“Lord, this tea is horrid,” Mrs. Tremaine says, settling in next to me. The strong scent of her perfume almost chokes me. “I don’t understand why you Germans have such a difficult time making tea, do you?”
I smile. “Not all of us are so poor at it. Where’s Penny this morning?”
“Arnold is taking her for her morning walk. Then she’ll probably take a long nap, lucky girl.”
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” I ask.
Her musical laugh rings out, causing several of the soldiers’ heads to swivel in our direction. “No,” she says, ignoring our audience. “I’m not a great sleeper. Plus”—she leans closer to me and lowers her voice—“I’m a bit nervous meeting the royal family. The kaiser has a terrible temper and there’s tremendous rivalry and infighting among his grown children, not to mention all those cranky generals.”
I raise an eyebrow. The prince must have a loose tongue for her to be so knowledgeable about royal affairs. I wonder if the kaiser knows about his son’s penchant for family gossip.
“Then why are you going?” I ask.
“Because I thrive on that stuff, darling. I just wanted to warn you to watch your step. It can be quite frightening for the uninitiated.”
Her eyes gleam and her mouth purses with suppressed excitement. I lean away, unsettled by her intensity. England has its own version of such women, women who flourish on court intrigue and gossip. Some so much that they spend their entire lives doing nothing else but attending parties and gossiping. Perhaps Mrs. Tremaine is one of those women. She is, after all, cultivating an affair with the heir apparent to the German throne.
“Who is Arnold?” I ask, changing the subject.
“He’s a pupil of mine. I give him free voice lessons and in return he takes care of me. He’s quite talented, really. I know I’ll lose him
eventually, but I enjoy his devotion for now.”
My eyes widen as she pulls needles out of the straw bag she seems to carry with her at all times and begins to knit. She sees my surprise and smiles. “It relaxes me.” She settles herself more comfortably and accidentally kicks the bag over. A ball of yarn falls out and begins to roll across the car.
“I’ve got it,” I say, jumping up. I bend to retrieve it from under a seat and then roll it back up before returning it to the bag. As I settle the bag upright, I spot a small red book lying in the bottom of the bag. My heart slams into my ribs and I stare up at her.
She takes the bag from me. “Thank you, darling. That could have been a real mess if you hadn’t reacted so fast.”
I nod before picking up my own small handbag and surreptitiously feeling for my codebook. I want to cry in relief when I locate its hard outline. I sit back down, my heartbeat slowly returning to normal. The book in her bag simply looks like mine. It’s not as if small red books are that unusual. For a moment I thought— Well, I don’t know what I thought, but the incident serves as a warning to me. I mustn’t lose sight of what I’m doing for a moment. To do so is not only foolhardy but downright dangerous.
I think of that later as we reach our destination. Though parts of France and even Luxembourg looked as if spring might not be that far off, Berlin is still locked in the gray, icy grip of winter. Looking at the city now, it’s hard to believe that it can be lovely and full of life. Nothing can hide its unique mixture of history and modernity, though. Modern brick buildings sit incongruously next to baroque churches, and while the old streets tend to wander haphazardly here and there, the streets of the newly built sections of the city are ruler straight and meet at perfect ninety-degree angles. The Germans are a strange blend of the industrious and the artistic and their capital city shows this intermingling.
In spite of everything—the nerves, the danger, and the assignment that weighs heavily on my shoulders—a small part of me is oddly excited to be back in the city I’d loved so much. My heart leaps when I see the restaurant where my parents took me to celebrate my eighth birthday. I felt so grown up going out to a late supper. The headwaiter brought out a beautiful Donauwelle cake covered with sour cherries and candles just for me.
We’d been so happy here.
Mrs. Tremaine has already said good-bye and that she’d no doubt see me at the palace. I wonder. Somehow I don’t think an Australian opera singer will be mingling much with the governesses.
Maxwell turns up to help me with my things. “Thank you,” I tell him, even though I know it’s part of his job.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I’m to make sure you are settled. It seems as if no one knows quite what to do with governesses or ladies-in-waiting. You’re not really servants, because of the family tie, and yet you’re being paid. It always seems to cause such confusion.”
“It’s like we’re being paid to be family,” I say, and he laughs.
“That’s it exactly, but on the bright side, you are getting a motorcar to yourself.”
Maxwell hands the driver my trunks before helping me climb up into the backseat of the town car. The thin light of the sun casts shadows over the street and Max suddenly feels like the last friend I have in the world.
“Will I see you?”
He must catch the wistfulness in my voice, because he squeezes my hand before letting it go. His eyes, velvet brown, reassure mine. “Undoubtedly, Sophia Thérèse. I’ll make sure of it.”
He nods to the driver and gives me a snappy salute. I watch him until the motorcar turns the corner and he’s gone.
TWELVE
WZHOYH
Target: The victim of surveillance; the subject.
Sighing, I settle in to watch the buildings go by, wondering how many changes the past seven years have wrought on the city. The streets are all lit with electric lights now. Before, many of the streetlamps were gas. Lights glow from most of the windows as well, making me think that the Germans have been successful in wiring most of the city. Or at least the area between the train station and the Berliner Stadtschloss.
I’ve seen the City Palace before, of course, but have never been in it. My father had been inside several times, but had no reason to take his little girl there. Built in an unheard-of short amount of time during the Middle Ages, the Stadtschloss has been renovated several times and is the kaiser’s chief residence, though the prince and the duchess spend a great deal of their time at the newly modernized Marble Palace in Potsdam.
I’m taken to the servants’ entrance, a small, nondescript door in the back. Several men in livery are standing next to it, smoking, and I can feel their leering as the driver and I go through the door. The driver hands me off to a maid, who silently escorts me to my room, which is somewhere in the back and near the attic. Learning the layout of the Stadtschloss is going to be my first priority.
“Have you worked here long?” I ask the maid, in an attempt to be friendly, but the glance she gives me is less than sociable.
“Two years, miss, and I like my job.” The answer is short and to the point, and I know further questions are useless.
This won’t be the person to give me a tour.
My room is small and scrupulously clean, but plain in its appointments. Not like servants’ quarters—the furniture is too nice for that—but definitely not a luxurious guest suite, either. The bed is covered with a pretty yellow counterpane and I see fresh flowers on the dark wood dresser. I smile. At least someone tried to make it welcoming. There’s a key on the dresser next to the flowers, and I let out a sigh of relief. At least I’ll be able to secure my door when I leave. Not that the housekeeper doesn’t have a set of keys, but at least not everyone will be able to walk right in.
I scan the room, looking for a hidey-hole, as I unpack. Miss Tickford told me to get my papers out of the trunk as quickly as possible, as that’s the first place someone would look. Unfortunately, I don’t run across any loose floorboards or secret drawers. Not that I really expected to. It just would have made things easier.
I kneel next to the bedstead and run my hand underneath until I find a place between the wooden slats. After making a slit in the bottom of the mattress with the small knife Miss Tickford gave me, I pull out enough cotton batting to hide the folded papers in. Once the papers are safely concealed, I shove the batting back in as best I can.
After I’m done, I sit on the edge of the bed and look around in a kind of stunned disbelief. How did I end up in Germany impersonating a dead woman? As a teacher to the kaiser’s grandchildren? Panic flutters in my stomach and I quickly turn to the practical. If I dwell on my situation for too long, I’ll be paralyzed by fear and won’t accomplish anything.
I make a mental list. One of the first things I have to do, after meeting Lillian and Marissa, is to plan an escape route in case of an emergency. I hope it won’t come to that, but it’s essential to have a contingency plan. Then I need to make contact with LDB to ensure that communication is properly established. The tension across my shoulders eases as I plan my next steps.
There’s a knock on the door and I take a deep breath. It’s time to put the plan in motion.
I open the door to a pretty young woman wearing a plain blue suit.
She holds out a hand. “Hello there! I’m Lillian Bouchard. We’ll be working together in the schoolroom.”
I know from my research that Lillian Bouchard is twenty-three, though she looks much younger in spite of the severe ash-blond knot at the back of her head. There’s something different about her and it takes me a moment to notice that her eyes are dissimilar colors—one is spring green while the other is a light blue.
I smile. “You must be responsible for the flowers,” I say, switching into French.
Her eyes light up. “I am, and your French is lovely. You have no accent at all, which is unusual for a German. No offense, of course.”
I shake my head. “I have a talent for languages.” I
wonder how many times I’m going to have to say that.
“I can see. That’ll come in handy with the children. Their grandfather is insistent that they be fluent in multiple tongues. Would you care for a tour of the schoolroom now? Or are you tired from your journey?”
It doesn’t matter how tired I am, I jump at the chance for a tour. “I’d love to see the schoolroom and at the very least this wing of the palace, if you could show me. I’d like to get my bearings.”
She nods. “Very wise. The children will lead you on a merry chase if you lose sight of them.”
I hang up my coat and follow her out of the room, half listening as she shows me the servants’ quarters, which take up almost the entire upper east wing of the palace. While the servants’ area is not extravagant, by any means, I’m surprised by just how clean and up-to-date it actually is, considering. Most royal families have installed running water and electricity in the main parts of the house while letting the rooms the staff live in languish from neglect. In the Stadtschloss, even the hallways of the servants’ quarters are warm and clean.
“This is the servants’ lounge,” she says, passing a spacious room with a battered piano, a large rectangular table, and several worn sofas and chairs that look to be hand-me-downs from nicer parts of the palace. I give a tentative smile to several young women playing cards in the corner of the room, only to be eyed coldly in return.
“Don’t mind them,” Lillian says in French. “They’re jealous of our position and education. They’ll never be more than maids, while both you and I can move on to other positions or marry well. I don’t spend much time here.” She gives a typically French sniff and I hide my grin.
We walk on, through several doors and down a narrow stairway, until we reach what I assume is the children’s area of the palace. Rich tapestries, depicting panoramic scenes from Roman or Greek myths, hang from the walls. Long red carpets create pathways on the gleaming parquet floors and elaborate chandeliers hang from the ceiling every twenty to thirty feet. The area is completely silent—even our footfalls are muffled by the carpets.