On her fraught-filled journey from Berlin to London – certain she was going to be stopped and arrested at every border check – Judith had tried to remain calm by imagining what her future life with her mother was going to be like. She had imagined countless different scenarios, and not one of them had come close to the reality. Though her mother had been overcome with emotion at meeting her – Thea had told her afterwards that she and Olivia had been utterly riveted by the sight of Zephiniah in floods of happy tears – her mother clearly hadn’t envisaged the two of them living together.
‘Roberto and I spend far too much time on the move, darling,’ she had said, after explaining to Judith that her home would be with Gilbert and Thea. ‘We spend months and months in either France or Switzerland, and if Britain goes to war then we shall leave for Argentina.’
Something else Judith had never expected was how caustic Zephiniah could be whenever Thea, Olivia and Carrie’s names came into the conversation. Her mother could barely speak about Thea – with whom Judith had bonded immediately – without shuddering. She wasn’t quite as hostile when it came to Olivia, though she never tired of saying what a fool she thought Olivia was for not making capital out of her friendship with Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, now that Elizabeth was the queen consort.
It was when it came to Carrie, though, that she became truly incandescent. ‘How can I take pride in the courtesy title of Zephiniah, Viscountess Fenton, when Lady Markham’s former housekeeper will, when she marries Gilbert, have the title Viscountess Fenton? There will be jokes as to whether I, too, was a former housekeeper. I’m going to be a laughingstock – as is he!’
Judith couldn’t imagine Gilbert ever being a laughing-stock. He was far too well loved and respected – and certainly so by her. In the few short weeks since she had known him, he had become like a second father to her. He was as upright and as honourable as her adoptive father had been. More, he had travelled to Vienna in order to save her from horrors that she knew her mother – and anyone else who hadn’t lived in Hitler’s Germany – couldn’t begin to imagine.
Exiting the square, she walked down a road blessedly free of black-uniformed, jackbooted SS officers and swastika-bedecked flags. The miracle of being in England – a sane, sensible country that had no time for maniacal, rabble-rousing, hate-filled dictators – was one she knew she would never take for granted, and every morning she prayed that the coming day would bring Violet to similar safety.
When she thought of what Violet had done for her, her heart filled with such gratitude she thought it was going to burst. Even Zephiniah had realized the enormity of Violet’s action in enabling Judith to leave the Reich with Olivia. Whoever else Zephiniah spoke disparagingly about, she never did so about Violet.
Her mother also never had a cutting remark to make about Rozalind.
Two weeks ago Rozalind and her husband had spent Christmas at Gorton Hall. Rozalind’s stepbrother, Kyle, had driven up from London to spend Boxing Day with them, and Rozalind had told Judith there had once been a romance between Thea and Kyle and that she, Olivia and Carrie were all hoping it would spring into flower again. Despite still officially being Monkswood’s housekeeper – a situation that wouldn’t change until her employer, Lady Markham, arrived home from Madeira – Carrie had spent as much of Christmas as she could at Gorton, the garnet-and-pearl ring sparkling on the fourth finger of her left hand.
On Boxing Day evening it had been open house at Gorton, and Judith had met Miss Calvert, who had once been Carrie’s teacher at Outhwaite village school; Jim Crosby, who had been Gorton’s odd-job man and who now had a little business of his own, doing odd jobs for people far and wide; his wife, who was a barmaid at the Pig and Whistle; Hermione Hardwick, who had been Thea and Olivia’s governess; Charlie, her husband, who was Gorton’s head gardener and who wore a piratical black eye-patch and had a scarred face that was the most genial Judith had ever seen.
When she had met up with her mother – who had spent Christmas in Monte Carlo with Roberto – she’d known that as well as having her birth mother back in her life again, she also had a family who, though not blood-related to her, might just as well have been, for their love and acceptance of her were so total.
Deeply grateful for them, she entered Claridge’s dining room to find her mother already seated and waiting for her.
Seeing the roses in Judith’s cheeks, Zephiniah said in immediate concern, ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve walked here in the freezing January weather all the way from Mount Street, darling?’
Judith, who in far worse weather had tramped Outhwaite’s moors with Thea, Gilbert and two cocker spaniels, said with amusement, ‘Mount Street is barely five minutes’ walk away, Mother.’
‘Nevertheless, you should have had Gilbert’s chauffeur bring you.’
Zephiniah, who had never in her life fussed lovingly over anyone, took great pleasure in fussing over her beautiful newly acquired daughter and had staggered everyone by insisting that, as she was Judith’s mother, Judith should address her as such.
Judith seated herself at the other side of the small table for two and Zephiniah said, ‘Is Rozalind still in London? Perhaps I should have asked her to join us.’
‘She is still in London, but this morning she’s at a meeting at the Knightsbridge agency that handles her photographic work.’ She broke off their conversation to ask the wine waiter for a dry sherry.
‘And Olivia?’
‘Olivia and Dieter are in Ireland, looking for a property to buy. They are going to live there, and finding a home has become a matter of some urgency.’ Judith’s mouth curved in a wide smile. ‘On Christmas Day, Olivia announced she was having a baby.’
Zephiniah’s response was typically tart. ‘That news has been long enough in coming! They must have been married for at least ten years. Is Gilbert over the moon at the prospect of becoming a grandfather?’
‘He’s very happy for her. Everyone is.’
Out of the corner of her eye Judith saw a waiter hovering and gave her attention to the menu.
Zephiniah, who had already studied the menu, said, ‘And was there any other announcement – such as an announcement of when Gilbert’s marriage to his former nanny’s granddaughter is to take place?’
Judith moved the menu to one side. ‘Please don’t speak so disparagingly about Carrie, Mother. She never speaks about you in that way. As for the wedding – neither Gilbert nor Carrie has any intention of it taking place until Violet is safely out of Germany.’
The waiter gave a discreet cough and there was a judicious pause in the conversation as they gave him their orders.
When they were again left in privacy, Zephiniah said, ‘And Thea? Is it true she’s standing as a Labour Party candidate in a North Yorkshire by-election?’
‘It is. And as I can’t apply for a position as a junior hospital doctor until Violet is safely home and the tangle of how I entered the country is sorted, I’m going to help her with her electioneering.’
Zephiniah stared at her, aghast. ‘But she’s standing as a Labour Party candidate!’
‘I know – and yes, I also know that Gilbert is a Conservative government minister, but he’s fully supportive of Thea, and he’s fully supportive of my wanting to help her. He’s a quite extraordinary man, isn’t he?’
There was no way, after Gilbert’s actions when she had told him of Judith’s existence and situation, that Zephiniah could disagree with her.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He is.’ But as she reached for her wine-glass, it wasn’t Gilbert she was thinking about. It was Roberto, a man not at all extraordinary in the way Gilbert undoubtedly was, but a man she had come to realize was her soulmate.
The funeral of Lord Hubholme was taking place in the church that stood in the grounds of his Suffolk country estate. Gilbert had been at Eton with Henry Hubholme and had counted him a good friend for well over thirty years. It was a funeral he couldn’t possibly have avoided attending, but it was one he was finding it difficul
t to bear, for reasons other than Henry’s far too early death.
From the moment he had decided to marry Carrie he had known that the social consequences would be profound. What he had not expected was that he would be made aware of them so soon.
He had travelled down from Gorton especially for the funeral, and it had been immediately obvious to him that news of his Christmas engagement was already common knowledge.
The reactions, though subtle, were just as he had anticipated. He could sense people’s unease at being seen in conversation with him – especially because at his death Henry had been an equerry, and the King and Queen were fellow mourners.
Social ostracism was something his broad shoulders could easily bear, but he had no intention of exposing Carrie to it. Rather than do that, his plan was that the minute it became necessary he would resign from the Cabinet, close up the Mount Street house and retire to Yorkshire. None of which he would mind doing, not if it meant his own and Carrie’s continuing happiness. He knew that Carrie, though, would mind for him, and that her unhappiness at being the cause of his changed lifestyle would be deep.
The thought of Carrie being caused unhappiness on his account was an agony to him, but as he fled out of the church with the rest of the mourners he couldn’t for the life of him see how it was to be avoided, not when, among the upper classes, snobbishness and sense of caste were so deeply ingrained.
It was the Queen who, with great sensitivity and inborn kindness, removed all his anxieties.
‘How nice to see you, Lord Fenton,’ she said as, on the way to the royal Rolls, she paused to exchange a few words with him, ‘though I must say I would rather have run into you at a wedding than a funeral.’
‘My feelings entirely, Ma’am.’
She shot him her sweet, still-girlish smile. ‘Speaking of weddings, I understand you are newly engaged?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ He hesitated, his tension showing. Did Elizabeth know the identity of his fiancée? Was she about to congratulate him, in ignorance of who it was he’d become engaged to?
Elizabeth adjusted the collar of her fur and tilted her head a little to one side. ‘When, some years ago, I was taken ill at Gorton, your fiancée was extremely kind to me. I seem to remember asking her to let me know when she married, in order that I could send her my best wishes.’
‘That was very kind of you, Ma’am.’
Periwinkle-blue eyes held his. ‘I would hate to think of a girl as sweet-natured and kind as Miss Thornton meeting with social difficulties, and so I wonder if I might suggest something to you?’
‘Please do, Ma’am. I would be grateful for anything you have to say.’
Even though Bertie and Elizabeth had now been King George VI and Queen Elizabeth for just over two years, Gilbert still found formality when speaking to them in public a little difficult to maintain.
The affection in the Queen’s eyes showed him that she often had the same problem.
‘I’m sure,’ she said, ‘that under the circumstances you felt a quiet engagement was more suitable than one celebrated with a large party – and a party in London, not at Gorton – but I think it a mistake.’ Her gloved hand touched him lightly on the arm. ‘A large party, with absolutely everyone you know in public life in attendance, would be much the best thing. The King and I will propose ourselves and, by being guests and so conspicuously giving your coming marriage our blessing, there will be none of the social unpleasantness the two of you might otherwise meet with.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ The words came from the bottom of his heart, and were it not that clusters of other people were only yards away from them – and that she was now his queen – he would have given her an enormous hug and a smacking great kiss.
Elizabeth removed her hand from his arm, adjusted her fur one more time and said, before continuing to make her way to the waiting Rolls, ‘And we shall propose ourselves to the wedding as well – no matter whether it be a London wedding or a Gorton Hall wedding.’ Her blue eyes danced with laughter. ‘Though a Gorton Hall wedding, with all of the very interesting Outhwaite friends Carrie told me about when we exchanged shared reminiscences, could very well prove to be far the most interesting option!’
Chapter Forty-Two
With a fast-beating heart Violet strolled into Berlin’s most fashionable cafe, the Romanische. Able to hold more than 1,000 people, it was frequented by the famous and so had been her cafe of choice for years. Every fellow movie actor she knew – and by now she knew absolutely everyone employed at Babelsberg – could, at one time or another, be found there.
The waiter who, after her frantic telephone call to the safe number of her American contact, had been told to expect her, weaved his way towards her between tables thronged with the cafe’s late-afternoon clientele.
A table alone, as it is Wednesday?’ he asked in English, as she had been told he would ask.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t correct him by pointing out it was a Friday.
He seated her at a table placed discreetly against one of the far walls, and she ordered a coffee and a slice of chocolate Herrentorte.
In all the years she had been passing on information this was the first time she had done so in the Romanische, and it was the first time she wasn’t passing information by word of mouth, but was handing over tangible top-secret evidence.
She glanced down at her watch. It was a minute or two after five o’clock and as dark as night outside. How long would it be before Goebbels realized that carbon paper had been removed from a memo he’d had with him on his visit to Babelsberg only an hour and a half earlier? If he did realize the carbon paper had been removed, he would know immediately who had taken it. His briefcase had been left in her dressing room when he had gone to look at uncut footage of propaganda film. Never before had he been so careless, and if there was in his briefcase documentary proof of Hitler’s intentions towards Poland as well as Czechoslovakia, then she’d known that never again would she have such an opportunity of obtaining it.
If such a document was in the briefcase.
If the briefcase wasn’t full of unimportant material that it was not worth her risking her life for.
It hadn’t been.
On official stationery, with carbon paper still attached, there had been a handwritten memo to Goebbels signed by Hitler. Dated two days earlier, it was short and to the point.
She had read it at speed, translating it with ease:
Poland’s existence is intolerable and incompatible with the essential conditions of Germany’s life. As a result of her own internal weaknesses, Poland must go and will go! The total obliteration of Poland must be one of the fundamental drives of German policy. In spring, the liquidation of the rump of Czechoslovakia. In autumn, the occupation of Poland. Meanwhile, on my anniversary speech to the Reichstag next week, I will speak in warm terms of ‘the friendship between Germany and Poland’ and declare it to be ‘one of the reassuring factors in the political life of Europe’. When we unleash a Blitzkrieg against Poland, Britain and France will be totally unprepared for our action. We will hold the upper hand and then be able to look even further east for yet greater living space.
The German word Hitler had used for ‘living space’ was Lebensraum. She’d stared at it, momentarily bewildered. What further ‘living space’ could there possibly be for the Reich further east? Further east from Poland and Czechoslovakia there was only Russia . . .
Russia.
She’d sucked in her breath, knowing that – whatever the risk – she had to get the document into American, and then into British, hands.
When Goebbels returned to her dressing room and found her gone he would assume she was on one of the film sets working, and as he’d made no arrangement for her to travel back into Berlin with him, or to have dinner with him that evening, he would, if luck was on her side, merely pick up his briefcase and continue on to wherever it was he was next going. And if God as well as luck was on her side, he wouldn’t notice the carbon paper w
as missing until she had passed it on to the Americans and until, with the false passport already given to her, she was well out of Germany and halfway to Ostend and a ferry home.
The waiter returned with her coffee and slice of cake.
Neither of them made eye contact with the other.
The waiter carried on serving other tables. Violet unfolded a serviette, picked up a cake-fork and turned her attention to the sickly-sweet Herrentorte.
When she had finished the cake and her coffee she raised a hand, signalling for the bill, then reached into her handbag for her purse. She had folded the flimsy carbon paper into a neat, small square and withdrew it from her bag along with three Reichsmark banknotes.
When the waiter breezed up to her with the bill on a salver, she slid the carbon paper onto it, under cover of the banknotes.
Two minutes later he had disappeared into the kitchens and she was walking out of the Romanische and into Auguste-Viktoria-Platz, dizzy with relief. The deed was done. All she had to do now was retrieve the passport from her Gartenstrasse house and shake the dust of Berlin from her heels.
She’d parked her little Roadster in an alleyway off the square and she hesitated beside it. If Goebbels already realized what she had done, then it was quite possible the Gestapo were already in Gartenstrasse, waiting for her. If they were, she’d stand more chance of successfully escaping the area in a taxicab than she would in a car known to be hers.
She flagged down a cab, feverishly calculating what the odds were of Goebbels not realizing – of his never realizing.
When a carbon copy of any document had been taken, the most usual thing was for the flimsy, messy blue carbon paper to be removed and destroyed. Goebbels was fastidious about his personal cleanliness. He certainly would never want to risk getting carbon ink on his fingers, and it was more than likely he was accustomed to carbon paper being scrupulously removed from documents before he received them.
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