His hand was holding hers, warm and comforting. ‘Will you be able to make the journey all right?’ he was asking. ‘I’m going to be stationed in Paris for the next six months. I want you with me, and I have to be back there by tonight.’
Her father was standing against the fireplace, his pipe in his hand, his face strained. Luke was standing only a few feet away, his brilliant blue eyes burning into hers. They were both waiting for her to tell him. She knew when she did that there would be no future for her as Greg’s wife. Luke would want her to marry him, but she didn’t want to marry Luke. He was her friend, but she wasn’t in love with him. She was in love with Greg.
Her hand tightened its hold on his. ‘Will I be able to bring Dominic to Paris with me?’
He grinned. ‘Hell, yes. I told you. There’s going to be no more partings. Not ever.’
She sensed Luke stiffen, every nerve in his body taut. Her father had begun to clean his pipe, his eyes carefully avoiding hers.
She looked up into Greg’s handsome face. If she hadn’t fallen in love with him she knew she would have told him the truth. But she had fallen in love with him. And she was terrified at the thought of losing him.
‘I’m ready to travel whenever you want me to be,’ she said steadily.
She heard Luke gasp. Saw him take a quick step forward. Her eyes flew pleadingly to his.
‘That’s settled then,’ Greg said, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll help you pack.’
‘I need to talk to you,’ Luke said to him, white-faced.
Lisette sprang to her feet. ‘No!’ she said, her voice anguished. ‘Please Luke!’
Greg looked slowly from Luke to Lisette and then back again. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it,’ he said quietly. Their eyes held for a long moment and then Luke shrugged. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said tersely. ‘I was just going to ask if you could give me a lift as far as Caen. I’ve been here long enough. It’s time I started to make my way back home.’
They left Valmy at dusk. The ruins of the chateau stood stark and bare against the darkening sky. Her father had held her tight, telling her not to be homesick. To be happy.
While Greg and Luke were piling cases into the jeep, she had slipped away to say another, harder goodbye, running down the drive to the gatehouse and plunging through the long grass to the churchyard.
‘Where’s Lisette?’ Greg asked, the last of the cases safely stowed away.
Luke shrugged. ‘Having a last look round I expect,’ he said, knowing full well that she was in the churchyard and feeling a flare of jealousy that was, for once, not directed at Greg.
When she returned, her father was holding the baby. She took him gently. ‘Au revoir, Papa,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘I love you.’
‘Au revoir, chérie,’ he said tenderly. ‘Have a good life with your American.’
Greg was already in the driving seat and revving the engine. ‘Goodbye,’ he yelled to Henri. ‘I’ll bring her back to you on vacations, I promise!’
She sat in the front passenger seat, the baby on her lap. Behind her, in the rear of the jeep, Luke sat grim-faced, his eyes bleak. ‘Au revoir, Papa,’ she called again as the gravel crunched beneath the wheels. ‘Au revoir!’
Chapter Fifteen
The sun was still golden on the linden trees as they sped down the drive and past the gatehouse. She hugged Dominic tightly. She was leaving. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. She had known for a long time that this moment would come, but she was still unprepared for it.
Greg was talking easily to Luke, asking him what he intended doing, now that the war was over. She didn’t listen to his reply. They were speeding through the beech woods, the sunlight filtering amber-coloured through the leaves. She kissed the top of Dominic’s head. Greg had promised her that they would return. It was a lavish promise but one she knew he would keep. He wanted her to be happy, and from now on she had to learn to be happy away from Valmy.
The streets of Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts were quiet as they flashed through them and she was grateful. She didn’t want to say any more goodbyes in case the tears she was holding back spilled down her cheeks. The poplar trees lining the streets, the high slate-roofed houses, were left behind them. They were out in the countryside, speeding towards Caen, and Luke and Greg were discussing de Gaulle. She could hear the underlying tightness in Luke’s voice. He had not been able to say goodbye to her alone. She knew what he was feeling and she wished that she could turn to him and tell him that she was sorry.
Though she was not in love with him, a deep bond had been forged between them. He was the only person in the world, apart from her father, who knew the truth about Dominic’s paternity. She would never forget the assistance he had given her when Dominic had made his impetuous entrance into the world. She could be at ease with him because she had nothing to hide from him. He knew about Dieter. And he didn’t care. He was the truest and dearest friend she would ever have.
As they approached the bomb-shattered suburbs of Caen she wondered if she would ever see him again. If she came back to Europe it would be to France, not England. Her throat hurt. She was going to miss him. In the few months he had been at Valmy he had become part of her life. They roared into the centre of the city, screeching to a halt amidst a cloud of dust and gasoline fumes.
‘This is where we say goodbye,’ Greg said, shooting Lisette a swift glance. Her face was pale, her eyes suspiciously bright. He swung himself from the driving seat to the ground. ‘I think I’ll go in search of some Gauloise,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
Lisette felt a rush of gratitude towards him. He was leaving them alone in order that they could say goodbye privately. It was the act of a man who not only loved her, but also trusted her. As he strode away from them, Luke sprang from the rear of the jeep, swinging his kit over his shoulder.
‘Write to me at this address,’ he said, handing her a piece of card. ‘It’s my mother’s address. Wherever I am, she’ll forward letters on to me.’
‘Thank you.’ As she took it from his hand their fingers touched. His brilliant blue eyes burned hers. ‘If it doesn’t work, if you’re unhappy, write and tell me,’ he said urgently. ‘Promise me!’
She nodded. ‘I promise,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘But I’m going to be happy, Luke. I know I am.’
The skin was tight across his cheekbones. He’d discovered some very unpalatable things about himself in the last few weeks. He didn’t want her to be happy with Greg Dering. That kind of unselfishness was Greg’s department, not his. He wanted her to be as miserable as hell. He wanted her to recognise the mistake she was making and to rectify it. To leave Greg and to join him in London.
‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ he said fiercely, and he tilted her face to his, kissing her so hard that she tasted blood. She was shaking as he released her, as she heard Greg returning. His shadow fell across them.
‘Guess this is goodbye, Luke,’ he said, and nothing in his voice indicated that he had seen their embrace or had been crucified by jealousy at the sight of it.
Luke took his preferred hand stiffly and then turned once more towards the jeep. ‘Goodbye, Lisette,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ll miss you,’ and then he wheeled on his heel, striding away from them. Not looking back.
‘He’s still in love with you, isn’t he?’ Greg said, a nerve ticking at his jawline as he swung himself back behind the steering wheel. She nodded, unable to speak. His hand closed over hers. ‘Just as long as it isn’t mutual,’ he said, and then put the jeep into gear, driving off through the rubble-strewn streets towards the main highway and Paris.
She said very little for the rest of the journey. She was tired, physically and emotionally. Too tired to appreciate at first the sumptuousness of their new home.
‘Let me take Dominic,’ Greg said gently as he helped her from the jeep in front of a large house in the 16th arrondissement.
‘Where are we?’ she asked curiously.
&n
bsp; His teeth flashed in a grin. ‘Home,’ he said. ‘At least it’s going to be home for the new few months.’
They approached a tall wrought-iron gate set in a hedge and he unlocked and opened it, leading the way into a carefully tended garden.
‘Who does it belong to?’ she asked, intrigued.
‘A banker. In the days immediately prior to the Occupation, he left Paris for the healthier climate of Geneva. The Germans appropriated it and now we’re renting it. There are two servants in residence, both elderly. They won’t be much help with Dominic, I’m afraid. We’ll have to look round for a nanny.’
She smiled, the soft, effortlessly sensuous smile that turned his heart over. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said, sliding her hand into his. ‘I looked after Dominic by myself at Valmy. I can look after him by myself here.’
He didn’t argue with her. He knew she hadn’t realised yet how her lifestyle had changed. Paris was in holiday mood. Drunk with the heady wine of freedom. Every night was party night. She would need new clothes. Perfume. A reliable babysitter to care for Dominic while he wined and dined her in what was still the most beautiful capital city in the world.
Hand in hand, with Greg in full uniform, the baby held incongruously in the curve of his arm, they stepped up to the door of their new home.
It was a magnificent house. The floor of the grand entrance hall was of rose-tinted marble. The painting in the salon was a Monet. There were delicately inlaid Louis XV chests, velvet upholstered chaises longues, Persian carpets and crystal chandeliers. It was all breathtakingly elegant and freezingly formal. Within twenty-four hours she had turned it into a home, filling it with masses of flowers and silver-framed photographs.
They lived there for six months and they were six of the happiest months of her life. Paris was en féte after the dark, stifling days of occupation. The boulevards were thronged with pretty girls and American soldiers, the pavement cafés were festooned with flags and bunting, the tree-lined streets full of the sound of laughter. The war was truly over and the realization was exhilarating.
They employed a Savoyard girl as a nanny. She was young and pretty and Lisette was able to leave Dominic in the evening, knowing he was being well cared for as she strolled with Greg through the dusk-spangled streets, dining at Maxims or Le Moulin, dancing until dawn at Le Quarante-Cinq.
He had insisted in buying her new clothes. A dozen new dresses, two suits, half a dozen hats, shoes, handbags, scarves, lingerie, a cornucopia of gifts that took her breath away.
‘I’ve never seen so many new clothes all at once,’ she said, laughing, as she stood in the centre of their vast bedroom, knee-deep in opened boxes and tissue paper.
He grinned. ‘Can you bear to open another box?’ he asked, and sliding his arm lovingly around her shoulders he handed her a small, velvet-padded ring box.
The wool coat she had been trying on slid from her shoulders. Slowly, carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a pink diamond, large and flawless, surrounded by smaller white diamonds and set delicately on a narrow gold band.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful, Greg,’ she whispered as he gently removed the ungainly signet ring she had worn for so long and slipped the guttering diamond in its place.
‘Not as beautiful as you,’ he said huskily, his arms sliding around her, his mouth closing passionately on hers.
They left Paris for America in November. The chestnut trees were gaunt, the dome of Sacre Coeur sharp against a rain-washed sky. She took one last look round her before stepping into the limousine that was to take them to La Gare-du Nord. Paris had been an interlude. Now it was over and her new life, in a country half a world away, was about to begin.
They sailed on the Liberté. Simonette, the young Savoyard girl they had employed as a nanny, came with them. When Greg had asked her if she would consider accompanying them to America and working for them there, she had accepted unhesitatingly. They were her first employers, but she was convinced that she would never find anyone nicer to work for than Madame Dering.
‘This is a little different to the tub I came out on,’ Greg said with a grin as a steward escorted them into a wonder of gold and scarlet and Lalique glass.
‘It’s marvellous!’ Lisette said with the husky note of laughter in her voice that so entranced him. ‘Like a palace!’
Her hair shone, wound into a sleek figure of eight. Her incredible amethyst eyes sparkled. The mink he had insisted on buying her swung casually from her shoulders. Beneath it, she wore a crimson cashmere sweater and a grey, narrow, exquisitely cut skirt. There were pearl studs in her ears and a rope of pearls around her neck. Her shoes were black crocodile, ridiculously high; her stockings sheer. She was so effortlessly chic, so lovely, so graceful, that he hurt with love for her.
He remembered how she had looked when he had first set eyes on her. The sweat-damp tumble of her hair. The deathly paleness of her face as she had stepped across the blood-spattered bodies of the Germans and welcomed him with heartbreaking dignity to Valmy and to France.
He had wanted then to make her happy, and he was confident that he had done so. Luke Brandon had written to her and she had showed him the letter and also her reply. It had been loving and caring but it had not been the letter of a woman to a man she still loved. She had been telling him the truth when she had said that she had never really been in love with Brandon. His surge of jealousy when he had seen Brandon kiss her goodbye so passionately, had been unnecessary. The emotion had all been on Brandon’s part. Lisette wasn’t in love with him. She never had been. He, Greg, had her love and he was determined that he was going to keep it.
She became aware of many things on their nine-day trip across the Atlantic. She had realised, in Paris, that Greg was wealthy and the realisation had filled her with pleasant astonishment. Now, for the first time, she realised that he was not only wealthy, but very wealthy, that the name Dering was one that was instantly recognised by their fellow passengers and accorded respect. She realised, too, that she was not alone in finding him devastatingly attractive. Other women did so, beautiful, sophisticated women.
‘My goodness, isn’t that Greg Dering?’ she overheard a willowy blonde ask her female companion as she entered the Liberté’s cocktail bar a few paces behind them.
‘Dering as in banks and steel?’ her companion asked, a carefully plucked and delicately pencilled eyebrow rising speculatively.
‘Yes, but curb your hunting instincts darling. I read in Paris-Match that he married a French girl shortly after D-Day.’
Her titian-haired companion, exquisite in a dress encrusted with bugles of jet, gave a low-throated laugh. ‘My God, a war bride! How will the Derings react to that?’
‘She isn’t quite a little matchgirl, darling. Her father is a Comte.
Isabelle Dering is so unorthodox that she’ll probably find it all terribly romantic and be absolutely delighted.’
‘Jacqueline Pleydall won’t be,’ the other said drily. ‘She was all set to become Mrs Greg Dering the minute he returned home.’
The blonde laughed, her eyes on Greg who was standing at the bar, his thick brown hair curling crisply into the nape of his neck, his shoulders broad beneath the expensive cut of his white tuxedo. ‘Yes, there’ll be no warm welcome from that source for the returning hero.’ She ran the tip of her tongue speculatively around glossy lips. ‘He really is a dish, isn’t he. I think I could be very accommodating. Given the chance.’
Aware of several male heads turning appreciatively in their direction, the two women strolled into the rococo and gilt cocktail lounge. Lisette paused on the threshold, a slight frown puckering her brows. A war bride. Was that how Greg’s family and friends would regard her? And who was Jacqueline Pleydall? Greg had never mentioned her and yet it was obvious they had been engaged, or unofficially engaged, before he had left America to fight in Europe.
She was oddly disconcerted. It had never occurred to her to wonder about the personal life Greg had led before they had met
. Yet he was an accomplished lover. She should have realised that there would be a woman waiting hungrily for his return. A woman for whom news of his French marriage would come as a bitter shock and disappointment.
Greg lifted his head fractionally and across the crowded room their eyes met. A blaze of happiness shot through her. He loved her and he had married her. She flashed him a dazzling smile and began to ease her way through the crush towards him, happy for herself, but feeling intensely sorry for the unknown Miss Pleydall.
That night, as she lay in bed flicking through the glossy magazines that Greg had purchased before they sailed, she came across a three-page article on Berlin. Greg was in the shower carrying on a conversation with her over the noise of gushing water, asking her if she intended visiting the gymnasium with him in the morning. She didn’t answer him. Berlin, the city Dieter had loved so much, lay wasted and devastated.
Photographs showed a civilian population queueing in tattered clothing for bread and potatoes, waiting at standpipes for driblets of brackish water. The once proud city had been divided by the Allies into four occupation zones. American soldiers, chewing gum, swaggered through the Schoneberger Volkspark where, as a child, Dieter had walked hand in hand with his father. British soldiers lounged outside the battered facade of the Hotel Adlon where, long ago, he had drunk iced lemonade.
She closed the magazine, sick at heart. How Dieter would have hated the occupation of his city. How he would have loathed the sight of Allied soldiers strolling at ease through the streets. Her stomach muscles tightened. Was Dieter’s mother one of the weary women queuing for food? Was she, too, one of the dispossessed and homeless? She remembered the photograph that had stood on Dieter’s dresser in the turret room. The laughing woman with the trug of flowers at her feet. The woman who had lost her son and who would never know that she had a grandson.
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