by Janet Tanner
‘It is also expedient. Surely you realise how awkward he could make things for us if he chose? It’s important to keep him sweet, for everyone’s sake.’
‘That might be your way of looking at it – it’s not mine.’
‘Be sensible, Kathryn, I beg you,’ Charles pleaded. ‘Don’t you see it’s asking for trouble to take this attitude?’
‘I don’t care. I won’t have dinner with that bastard. I couldn’t. If I tried it would choke me. You can say I’ve got a headache, if you like. Say whatever you choose – I can’t stop you.’
‘He’ll see through that. You’re never ill. He will be very offended, Katrine.’
‘Not nearly as offended as if I said something dreadful about Hitler, and I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t.’ Her eyes were flashing in earnest now and Charles shook his head helplessly.
‘Oh Katrine, Katrine, what am I to do with you?’
‘You don’t have to do anything. Just allow me my principles.’
‘That’s all very well. But can we afford them?’
‘What has that to do with anything? The Germans are our enemies! I won’t socialise with them just to please your father.’
‘Not to please my father. To please me.’
‘Isn’t that the same thing?’ she flashed.
She saw him whiten and felt a frisson of fear, knowing she had gone too far.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing,’ she said defensively. This was not the time to tell him she believed he would do anything – anything – to gain favour in his father’s eyes, that he would sacrifice anything – his principles, his marriage, her respect – to be the son his father wanted. If she started down that road she would say a great deal more than she should – that it was his weakness his father deplored, his inability to stand up to him on any single issue, and that the more he strove to please, the more his father despised him. She might even tell him how pathetic she thought him, how his endless belly-crawling disgusted her – and she knew instinctively that such things, once said, could never be retracted. One day she would tell him. But not now.
‘Katrine.’ He was changing tack. ‘ You must understand why my father behaves as he does. All he is trying to do is make life bearable, not only for us, for our family, but for everyone who depends on us – estate workers, village folk, everyone. The Germans are in control, whether we like it or not, and whatever garbage Pétain spouts about ‘‘the renaissance of France being the fruit of our suffering’’. Don’t you know what happens to those who resist? They are taken away, tortured and shot. At least this way we are allowed to get on with our lives virtually unhindered. There’s a lot to be said for that.’
‘Is there indeed? And when the war is over and the Germans sent packing, what will your life be like then? How will you live with yourselves, knowing you appeased the enemy – collaborated with them?’
‘At least we will be alive!’ Charles said harshly. ‘Have you thought what could happen if we antagonise them, Katrine? It wouldn’t be just you that would suffer, either. It would be Guy too. If you won’t consider the rest of us, at least consider him. If you can’t do that, what sort of a mother are you?’
The mention of her son brought a quick flush to Kathryn’s cheeks.
‘Don’t bring Guy into this!’
‘But he’s in it, can’t you see? The Nazis are no respecters of little children or anyone else.’
‘How, then, can you possibly bear to entertain one at your dinner table?’
‘General von Rheinhardt is a soldier who happens to be in control of this district. He’s not Gestapo or SS. They are the real devils. And some of our own Vichy police are almost as bad, I’m ashamed to say.’
‘Typical French,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘What did you say?’ he demanded, his patience finally snapping.
She did not answer, feeling again the sharp thrill of fear, of knowing she was saying things she should not say, thinking things she should not even think, but the depth of her disillusion was too great to be stifled. She had loved France just as she had loved Charles and both had let her down. She couldn’t bear to see people she had cared for and respected ingratiating themselves with the enemy.
They were everywhere, the collaborators, village girls walking out with soldiers, business people making a fast buck from their custom, and the de Savignys treating them as socially acceptable. Charles could excuse it as the manifestation of the instinct for survival, she thought it degrading and repulsive. She would rather die, she thought, than lie back, and pretend to accept their dominance. At least that way she would retain her self-respect.
Charles stared at her coldly for a long moment; she stared back and saw only a stranger.
‘I’m ashamed, Charles,’ she said quietly at last. ‘And so should you be.’
For a moment anger flashed in his dark-blue eyes and she wondered if he might strike her. He had never done so, though sometimes during their more violent arguments she had seen his hands clench into fists, but there was always a first time. He had shocked her in so many ways, why not this? In fact she thought she would prefer it if he struck her. At least hitting out was a typically masculine reaction whereas spineless appeasement put her more in mind of a frightened old woman begging not to be hurt.
But Charles did not strike her. After a moment he turned away wearily.
‘I won’t say any more, Katrine. I can see I am getting nowhere. But think about what you are doing, I beg you. If you are willing to jeopardise your safety, and mine, at least don’t jeopardise Guy’s. Now – I am going to dress for dinner. If you have any consideration for your son, you will do the same.’
He turned abruptly and left the drawing room. Kathryn stood for a moment, conquering the urge to pick up one of the priceless antiques which adorned it and hurl it after him. Then, as her anger began to ebb away, the desolation crept in, yellow and scummy like the foam on the tide, and helpless tears filled her eyes.
There was nothing she could do. Nothing. She was trapped here with her little son and it was not only the Nazis who were the jailors but also her husband and his family. How could she hope to fight all of them?
‘Katrine is refusing to dine with us, Papa,’ Charles said.
Guillaume looked up from his desk to see his son standing in the doorway of his study and experienced a flash of familiar impatience with him.
‘What do you mean – she’s refusing to dine with us?’
‘Exactly that. She says she won’t sit down at the same table as von Rheinhardt and I think she means it.’
‘Didn’t you tell her he is my guest – that if we want to keep our home we’d do well to cultivate his goodwill?’
‘I’ve tried to talk some sense into her, yes, but she won’t listen. I thought perhaps you would have a word with her.’
Guillaume’s impatience grew.
‘What’s the matter with you, Charles? Can’t you control your own wife?’
Charles said nothing. His brows had contracted, giving his face a sullen look, and Guillaume thought he looked more like a small boy afraid of being sent to his room in disgrace than a grown man, heir to the ancient Baronage de Savigny.
It had always been the same, of course. He was probably reminded of a small boy now when he looked at Charles because that was the very same expression he had worn when chastised as a child. It had infuriated Guillaume then and it infuriated him now. Did the boy have no backbone at all? Why wouldn’t he let fly in return instead of standing there, taking it, and looking utterly wretched? At a very early stage Guillaume had discovered he had little time for his son – even now, across the years, he could remember with perfect clarity the first time he had acknowledged it.
Charles had been about three years old and Guillaume had acquired a pony for him. An enthusiastic horseman himself, he was keen that his son and heir should learn to ride as soon as possible. He had taken Charles to the stable block at the rear of the château,
expecting him to be pleased and excited at having his very own pony. But Charles’ response was quite the opposite. When Guillaume tried to lift him into the small saddle he clung to his father, white and shaking, and nothing would induce him to relinquish his grasp on Guillaume’s neck.
‘Don’t be so stupid, boy! I won’t let you fall!’ Guillaume had said, less gently than he might have done because it was beyond his comprehension why Charles should behave in such a fashion. He had taken him riding plenty of times before, sitting the child in front of him on Beau, his chestnut hunter, and telling him to hold tight to Beau’s mane. But of course he had never seen the terror on Charles’ face as he cantered across the hillside with him and he had imagined that the tears on his cheeks when he lined him down were the result of the wind.
‘Non!’ Charles had yelled, kicking so hard with his heels that he raised bruises on Guillaume’s side that had lasted for days. ‘Non – non! Papa – non!’
It had been the same when Guillaume tried to teach him to swim. He had hung back at the edge of the pool, screaming in terror. Eventually Guillaume had climbed out and thrown him in bodily, diving in after him and rescuing the spluttering child whose open mouth had filled with water, then wading away from him and forcing him to doggy-paddle frantically to reach the safety of his arms.
Charles had learned to both ride and swim eventually, of course, mastering his terror by the sheer force of his desire to please his father, but Guillaume’s impatience with him had scarcely diminished. Rather it intensified. If the boy really did not want to do these things why didn’t he at least have the guts to stand up and say so? The lack of spirit seemed to Guillaume to be almost worse than the physical fear.
As Charles grew older the relationship between them failed to improve. The boy was afraid of him, he knew, and knowing it made Guillaume despise him the more. A vicious circle was set up, Charles continually striving for his father’s affection and respect, Guillaume growing colder and harder and more impatient. He could not understand why a son of his should be so spineless. His mother, making excuses for him, said he was gentle, with a kind heart and a sweet nature. Guillaume merely thought him a milksop.
Matters were not improved either by the fact that Christian, Charles’younger brother, was everything Charles was not. Christian was a tearaway, fearless to the point of recklessness, with an athleticism to match. Though two years younger than Charles, he could soon beat him across a swimming pool, and in their rough-and-tumble games it was always Christian who came out on top. If anything he was too uninhibited, too forceful, too dismissive of authority. If he could have taken the two boys and jumbled them up a little, Guillaume thought, he might have been able to produce the perfect son. That, of course, was not possible. Unfortunately the required balance had materialised in only one of his children – his daughter Celestine, who was everything he could have wished for.
But Celestine was not only the third child and still at college in Paris, she was also a girl. The Baronage would never pass to her. He was left with doing the best he could with Charles. And an unrewarding struggle it seemed to be. Couldn’t the boy get anything right? If he couldn’t control his own wife what hope was there of him making a good job of running the de Savigny estates when the time came?
If the de Savigny estates were still there to be run. Guillaume gave his head a tired shake. It was more than a year now since the French army had laid down its weapons, more than a year since the lines had been drawn and the country divided up – occupied territory in the north and east, heavily policed by Hitler’s forces, the rest still governed nominally, at any rate, by Pétain from his base in Vichy, the demarcation line slicing through the heart of Savigny land.
It made life difficult, that line. A pass was necessary in order to cross it for even the most mundane, everyday reason, and the border patrols were surly and suspicious. But Guillaume tried to view it as an inconvenience and no more, part of the price that had to be paid for the moment at least for having resisted the German invasion. It would not last for ever. When the conflict was finally decided things would settle into some sort of pattern closer to normality. In the meantime it was in everyone’s best interests to keep on the right side of the invaders. Anything else was asking for trouble. Keep them sweet and the heritage of Savigny and all those who depended on it would be safe. Antagonise them and property would be destroyed and lives lost needlessly.
He had explained the position he intended to take to his family when France had fallen and they had gone along with it. Louise, his wife, hated violence in any form and in any case always abided by his decisions. It was a pattern that had been established early in their married life; she accepted his authority without question, content that by reason of his gender and position he must know best. Charles, typically, had agreed with him that though it was far from an ideal situation there was no point in having blood spilled on Savigny land to no useful purpose. Christian and Celestine he was less sure of – Christian was a hothead who hated living under the Nazi regime and where Christian led Celestine was likely to follow. But Christian had been wounded during his brief period of service in the French army – a serious leg wound which was taking a long while to heal – and for the present, at least, was incapable of doing anything stupid, and Guillaume was reasonably confident that the family tradition of putting duty and heritage above all else would persuade them to follow his lead.
No, Kathryn, Charles’ English wife, was the greatest threat to the fragile peace at Savigny, Kathryn, whose countrymen were still at war with Hitler and who showed, by her every word and gesture, her contempt for his minions.
Guillaume experienced a stab of anger for the young woman who could so easily, he felt, do something to endanger the rapport he had established with the occupying power. Yet in spite of himself it was qualified by a grudging respect. Kathryn had spirit – that was more than could be said for Charles. He had recognised it in her the very first time Charles had brought her to Savigny and introduced her as his bride-to-be, and he had been glad. They might not always see eye to eye but if some of that spirit could be handed down to the children of the union then there might be hope yet for the Savigny line. And his hopes appeared to be justified. Already in Guy, their little son, Guillaume could see a great deal of his mother’s character, though physically he was very like his father. Now just short of his fourth birthday, Guy was already bolder than Charles had ever been and showing clear signs of the self-confidence that was lacking in Charles. Guillaume knew he had Kathryn to thank for that.
But it did not mean that he intended to pander to her. She had to understand the danger she could place them all in if she continued her stand against von Rheinhardt. Already Guillaume had noticed how she had gone out of her way to avoid him and how ungracious she was about the presents of food, cigarettes and precious petrol coupons he had made to them. At the moment von Rheinhardt was well disposed towards them, appreciating the advantages of being in charge of a relatively trouble-free district, but he could turn against them just as easily if he was upset in any way and his revenge would be terrible. Kathryn must be made to realise that.
Of course, he thought, Kathryn was an optimist. If she had not been she would not have been taken in so readily by Charles’ surface charms. Now her optimism refused to allow her to countenance defeat in the long term.
Guillaume was not so optimistic. He was very afraid that the old order had gone for ever and the German regime was here to stay. If so it was his duty to try to establish a place in the new order for his family and all those who depended on them. The de Savignys had discharged their responsibilities to their estates and those who lived and worked on them for more than five hundred years, providing for them in almost feudal fashion. They had survived the Revolution, they would survive the German occupation. They must survive and Guillaume would do whatever was necessary to make certain they did. Kathryn and her pride and obstinacy could not be allowed to jeopardise that.
Guillaume look
ed at his son with a mixture of scorn and pity. If Charles could not convince his wife of her duty to conform then Guillaume would have to do it for him.
‘All right, Charles,’ he said wearily. ‘I will speak to Kathryn.’
A strange expression, half relief, half resentment, flickered across Charles’ sallow features.
‘It won’t do any good. She won’t listen to you.’
Guillaume’s mouth tightened.
‘Oh yes, Charles, I think she will,’ he said.
The long refectory table had been set for six but as yet the dining room was empty. The de Savigny family were gathering in the salon as they always did for pre-dinner drinks. The food, when it was served, might be meagre compared with what they had been used to in the days before shortages and rationing; the old traditions were maintained nevertheless.
Guillaume and Louise had been first down, as they always were, followed by Christian, and a rather sombre Charles. All were formally dressed, as was their custom. They had been joined by General von Rheinhardt, resplendent in the uniform of an officer of the Third Reich. The only member of the party who had failed to put in an appearance was Kathryn and as Guillaume poured wine, made from his own grapes, and passed it around, Charles found himself watching the door and hoping without much optimism that she might yet walk through.
His father had been up to speak to her, he knew, but he couldn’t imagine that anything Guillaume could have said would make much difference. Kathryn was impossible – a law unto herself. He didn’t know what had happened to the charming girl he had met and married, a girl so acquiescent and naive he had had no doubt he could mould her into the wife he both wanted and needed, a girl whose admiration of him had amounted almost to hero-worship so that she made him feel powerful, amusing and mature – all the things he had striven all his life to feel and yet which, under his father’s critical eye, had eluded him.