by Helen Bryan
After the service everyone was subdued, but kept a stiff upper lip for the sake of the rest. Alice nudged her mother firmly into the queue to shake Oliver’s hand.
Frances walked out of church, then paused to wait for Hugo. She was meant to have lunch with him and Leander at Gracecourt. She had accepted the invitation the day after her party, too distracted by the birth of Tanni’s baby and a racking hangover to make an excuse. Now she realized that to both men it would appear a luncheon to celebrate her and Hugo’s engagement.
Hugo had a word with Oliver, then came over and took her arm possessively.
“Hugo, I must speak to you at once.”
“Frances, darling, could it possibly wait? I’ve suddenly been summoned to a meeting of all the Home Guard units in the area, and I shall have to join you and Father later. Then we can tell him…”
“Hugo!” Frances turned to face him. “It can’t wait. I have to tell you that I can’t marry you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I’m fond of you, but I’m not sure I feel quite—oh, I don’t know—in love enough to be very good wife material. And with the war on, well, I just don’t…”
Don’t need a husband who wants to know where I’m going and what I’m doing, she thought.
“I see.”
She was uncertain whether he was angry or offended. “In the circumstances I oughtn’t to lunch with you and your father. I’m so sorry if you’re disappointed, but it’s for the best.”
“Frances, do please have lunch with Father. I shan’t be there, and he’s been looking forward to it. I can drive you—I must go home and pick up a few things for the meeting,” he said stiffly.
“You needn’t drive me, I’ll go on my bicycle,” said Frances. “I must change first anyway. Oh, Hugo, I wish we might stay friends.”
“Do you?” He looked at her intently. “Then so do I. And I shan’t lose hope. Perhaps I might change your mind one day.”
Oliver called him, and Hugo shouted, “Coming!” then turned away before Frances could say anything else.
It would be horribly awkward alone with Leander today.
At Glebe House Frances changed her hat for a head scarf, donned her godmother’s old mac, and cycled off in a drizzle. She was in a bad mood by the time the towers of Gracecourt loomed into sight, in the middle of the vast sweep of park.
She found Sir Leander alone. As she hung her wet mac on the fireguard he said, “Kind of you to keep an old man company, my dear,” and poured them a glass of sherry.
The small sitting room off the long gallery that Sir Leander used as his study was cozy. Two logs blazed on vast Tudor firedogs and the linen-fold panelling glowed. Beyond the curtains the park was gray and wet. Looking out of the window Frances saw that the tennis courts were overgrown and abandoned, and the box bushes along the brick path needed trimming. The rectangular pools Sir Leander had been so proud of were only half full. It was hard to remember Gracecourt before the war, when it had been the scene of such gay times, tennis, lunch on the lawns, summer cocktails in gardens strung with paper lanterns, weekend house parties when Hugo’s cosmopolitan friends had come to shoot pheasant.
There was an awkward silence. Sir Leander, now confined to his wheelchair, looked terrible. He turned to face Frances, who was perched on the sofa. “Not often I get to lunch alone with a pretty girl these days.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the good health of you energetic Land Girls. In my day no one would have worked women so hard. Doesn’t seem right, you having to clear ditches, do all that rough work, war or no war.”
“The cows are the worst part,” said Frances lightly, wondering how to tell him tactfully that she had refused Hugo.
He saved her the trouble. “Now, my dear, I’m going to come to the point. Hugo was here for a few minutes a little while before you arrived, and I understand you have turned him down.” He raised his eyebrows.
Frances nodded.
“But I hope and trust that you will change your mind.”
“I’m very fond of Hugo of course, but with the war on, everything’s so unsettled…”
Sir Leander shook his head. “He told me what you’d said, and I encouraged his belief—his hope—that you would come round. You know, young women often believe a lot of twaddle about romance and being swept off one’s feet, that sort of thing, but it’s really not sound, my dear, not sound at all. Of course Hugo’s terribly fond of you, but in these troubled times young people, especially in a family as old as ours, need to take a longer view. When it’s a question of a certain position in society, continuation of an ancient, distinguished family…”
Sir Leander had always been kind to Frances, taking an almost fatherly interest in her, marking her out for special attention and small courtesies even in the days when other, more prominent women guests had been present. Frances had become genuinely fond of him and now she stared at her lap feeling awkward and wishing she hadn’t made an old man unhappy. She looked up suddenly and saw that, despite his frailty, Sir Leander’s demeanor was haughty and aggrieved. He looked at her keenly. Oh dear.
“I speak for your own good, my dear, in loco parentis, as it were. I realize that your father may have been too busy to…ahem. But let me remind you that in marrying Hugo, you would become mistress of a fine estate, and after my death, you would be Lady de Balfort, secure in the state that is what all women are meant for, marriage and motherhood, in the highest station of our society. Your father entirely approves. His solicitors and mine have already discussed marriage settlements. Forgive my bluntness, but if you felt you could be tolerably happy with Hugo I should like to see the two of you married before I die, and I should like even more to know there was an heir on the way to ensure the future of the estate.”
This was too much! Frances stared stonily into her glass, feeling she could cheerfully have strangled all the solicitors with her bare hands.
Sir Leander continued: “The admiral’s no time for beating about the bush, and he rather feared you had hatched some madcap scheme for doing intelligence work or some such thing.” He chuckled as if the idea was preposterous. “Surely not? He and I agree it’s hardly a job for a girl, and he assured me, he put his foot down.”
Frances seethed.
“Think it over, my dear. Now, if you’ve finished your sherry, my cook has left us something on the sideboard in the chafing dish—probably quite dreadful, with all this rationing and whatnot. We’d better go and eat it, though. I can manage, thanks very much.”
He led the way in his wheelchair.
In the long, dark dining room, with its rows of family portraits, the polished table was laid for two with ancient Limoges and crested, if tarnished, silver. Something was steaming over a spirit lamp. It did indeed smell dreadful. Frances took the plates and spooned onto them brownish lumps in a thin gray gravy. There was a dish of limp boiled cabbage and another of carrots.
“Corned beef rissoles, I think,” muttered Sir Leander. “Promise me, if you do change your mind about Hugo and become mistress of this house, the first thing you will do is engage a housekeeper who understands plain cooking.”
In despair, Frances helped herself to mustard.
“Fortunately,” her host said with a smile, lifting a dusty bottle left open to breathe at his place, “a few bottles of Burgundy in the cellar—laid down long before the war. Thought we’d have one today to celebrate your engagement, but if that’s not to be the case, at least it will help this travesty of a meal go down.”
The wine was lovely. Frances managed to cut her rissoles into tiny pieces and hide them under the cabbage. The excellent wine had given her a warm glow. She fetched the pudding from the sideboard—spotted dick and custard—and gamely ate a bit, trying not to notice how dried eggs made things taste of dried egg no matter what you did. Sir Leander poured the last of the wine.
There was a small fire in the grate, and the French clock on the mantle ticked musically. The small dining room was one of the oldest rooms in the house and still had leaded wi
ndows. Frances lit the spirit lamp again and made them a jug of ersatz coffee. Then she excused herself.
“You remember where the cloakroom is, of course?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She headed for the downstairs cloakroom next to the gun-and-boot room at the far end of the panelled passage with more de Balfort portraits on the walls. She peeped into the little gold-and-white salon on the way. It had been Hugo’s mother’s private sitting room, and Frances had spent many delightful evenings there before the war. It had always been her favorite room in the house, its full-length Venetian mirrors, painted ceiling, and view of the park beyond.
Now, like the rest of the house, it was somewhat the worse for wear. A pane of glass in the french window was broken and patched with cardboard, and the parquet floor was warped. The ceiling had a dark patch of mildew. The de Balforts must be short of money. Aunt Muriel had always been highly critical of Sir Leander’s extravagant schemes, and now Frances thought that perhaps she had been right. Why had he not spent the money on keeping the house in order? It was in a dreadful state.
She continued down the passage to the cloakroom, opened the door, and squealed. Something large and black was blocking the lavatory. She peered cautiously. It was a dead bat. She shut the door and went back down the passage toward the grand staircase. There was a bathroom on the landing. A whiff of tobacco smoke told her that Sir Leander was having his after-lunch cigarette. She wouldn’t disturb him by mentioning the bat. She tiptoed past the half-closed dining room door and up the wide staircase with its worn Turkey runner. Halfway up a noise from somewhere higher in the house stopped her dead in her tracks.
The housemaids’ rooms were in the attic, but they had all left for factory jobs. Now there was only the aged cook, who was too old for the factory and always had Sundays off to visit her sister in Brighton. Hugo was at the Home Guard meeting and Sir Leander, unable to climb the stairs to his bedroom on the first floor, now lived on the ground floor in the butler’s old quarters. She listened harder and tiptoed up to the landing. Something was moving about on the second floor where Hugo had told her the day and night nurseries were.
“Hello?” she called. The noise ceased. It must have been a rat. Or had squirrels got in? Frances listened for another minute but heard no more. She went on to the bathroom. It was covered with cobwebs and full of old books and broken chairs, but at least the Victorian plumbing contained no bats. And it flushed. She washed her hands with a scrap of desiccated soap and looked for something to dry them. She remembered that airing cupboards were usually positioned next to the hot water pipes. A heavy gilt picture frame was leaning against the stretch of wall behind the bath, but she could just make out the outline of a cupboard door. She nudged aside the frame and opened it, but there were no towels, just a broken radiogram, a rusty oil tin, and a large torch.
Frances wiped her damp hands on her skirt. She picked up the torch, wondering if they had forgotten where it was and needed it, but put it back, not wanting to explain how she had found it.
When she went to join Sir Leander in his study, the warm glow the wine had imparted had worn off and she was cold. The old man was sitting with a tartan rug over his knees, looking pinched and done in. The wireless was on in the corner and she could hear Beethoven. Outside it was getting dark.
“Sublime music,” said Sir Leander. “German. This war is a sad business. Should never have happened, you know.”
“It’s getting late and I should be off,” Frances said. “I’ll draw the blackout curtains for you first. I hate leaving you on your own, though, Sir Leander. It’s the cook’s day off, isn’t it? Is no one else here?”
“No, we always hope Mrs. Jones doesn’t go off leaving something to burn or catch fire in the kitchen. Not as young as she was and getting forgetful. Never know how she manages the journey to Brighton. The buses are so unreliable—can’t use their lights to see where they’re going, just creep along. Shame Hugo isn’t here. Perhaps you’ll see him on his way home. Will you remember what I said, my dear? And reconsider?”
“Of course. Thank you for lunch.” Frances pulled the black drapes across the windows. “I’m sure you understand…I need to think…getting married is such a serious decision, isn’t it?”
“Very,” said the old man, staring into the fire. “Everything in the future depends on it, my dear. Absolutely everything.”
21.
Crowmarsh Priors and
Sweden, January 1942
At the end of the third week in December Bruno had a week’s leave for Christmas and hurried down to Sussex, anxious to see his new baby daughter, who was now almost a month old. He had been worried when he heard that Tanni had given birth at Glebe House after a party. He had rung at once, and Evangeline had told him there had been a problem with the birth and Tanni had been ill afterward, but the baby was fine.
When Bruno arrived he rushed upstairs to find Tanni better but still tucked up in bed, looking pale but pretty in a faded pink bed jacket and her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her face was thinner and somehow less girlish, but her eyes lit up when he came into the room, kissed her, and told her how much he loved her. She insisted on sitting up with her sewing basket to hand stitch away at things she had promised villagers, feeding the baby and reading to Johnny. They had named the little girl Anna.
Bruno made himself useful, carrying meals on trays to Tanni and seeing that she ate them, helping an overworked Evangeline, playing with Johnny and the evacuees, and, whenever he had a free minute, scooping up Anna, sleeping or not, to sit with her in the rocking chair Evangeline had found in the attic. He was entranced by his small daughter, who stared at him solemnly from the crook of his arm. “She has your eyes and my nose,” he said to Tanni, stroking Anna’s downy little head. “Are all baby girls so beautiful?”
He was amazed at how people from the village called to admire and coo over Anna, bringing outgrown baby clothes, nappies, and toys. Margaret Rose Hawthorne begged to hold her, and he let her, but hovered nervously. “Awww, she’s so little,” exclaimed Margaret Rose.
Even the vicar came. Bruno was taken aback to see him in his clerical collar bending over the cot, but when Oliver smiled and held out his finger, Anna curled her tiny fingers round it. Babies seemed to like Oliver; even the fussiest ones at the baptismal font calmed when he held them. “What a fine baby!” he said. “This dear child is cheering up the whole village in a very dark hour indeed. Am I imagining things or does she have her mother’s eyes?” Bruno warmed to him at once.
Too soon the happy interlude was over. Ten days after his arrival, Bruno kissed Tanni, Johnny, and Anna while they were still asleep and left Crowmarsh Priors in the dark. Though Bruno didn’t smoke, on the way they stopped for him to buy a packet of Players from a shop that had opened early, then motored on to Norfolk. The car stopped at a windswept airstrip where they waited until a military vehicle pulled up and a man in handcuffs accompanied by an armed guard got out. He and the others were given breakfast in a hut—powdered eggs scrambled into a watery mess, sausages, heavy gray buns, and lukewarm tea. Bruno usually made a sandwich of the sausage and the bun. He was never hungry so early, but he ate those breakfasts, awful as they were, because he knew it would be a long time before he got another meal.
Afterward the three passengers boarded the waiting Norseman aircraft with two pilots on board. No one spoke as the propellers roared and the small plane taxied down the runway creaking and rattling. The light flickered off and on as the plane lifted and climbed sharply, bouncing through air pockets. Bruno hoped they wouldn’t run into a snowstorm, although he knew the plane could land on ice or water if it had to. He wanted more than anything to be back in the warm bed with Tanni, Johnny, and Anna but forced himself to focus on the job ahead.
The weather grew worse as they flew north, and Bruno sat back, bracing himself. The plane was not made for comfort, and the passengers—Bruno, the man in handcuffs beside him, and the military guard—were all bundl
ed against the piercing cold in heavy coats and scarves.
The man beside him looked steadily away from him through the window. He had a thin, haughty profile, stern eyebrows, and an unblinking fixed expression. He had not touched breakfast.
Hours later he turned to Bruno. “Sweden. We are headed for Sweden judging by the time we’ve been flying.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Near Sweden,” corrected Bruno.
“Ah, so I thought. The coast. The island where your government and mine exchange prisoners of war. Secretly, of course. One spy for another. Quid pro quo, as you English say. Though you are not English yourself, but Jewish.” The haughty face smiled mirthlessly. “One can always tell. Something…inferior in the face. They send my Jewish interrogator to escort me to the exchange as one of their subtle insults. The English understand the nuance of insult better than any other race.”
Bruno regarded him impassively. The man was an Anglo-German with important connections in aristocratic circles. He had had a job in Military Intelligence, where he had been spying for the Germans for years, eluding detection. He had even had access to Churchill and passed confidential information to his superiors that had resulted in the loss of untold numbers of lives before he had been traced and arrested.
“The British spy for whom I am being exchanged—I must assume he is someone important?”
Bruno said nothing.
“You will not tell me his name, naturally. Perhaps it is one of your girl spies? Your Special Operations Executives? Not one of their little wireless operators, I expect, or a decoder. They are expendable, and in any case we normally shoot them ourselves after extracting all the information they can give us. A few are remarkably brave, of course. But for me, there will be someone important. Ah, well, whoever it is, I shall be in Berlin soon. We’ll meet again when the Fuhrer decides the time has come for the invasion. There are many more like me in England, waiting for the final victory. And we shall be victorious.”