She fought back an urge to say, ‘Guten tag, Comrade,’ to him, another member of the brotherhood of the bleeding. But that would waste precious and ebbing energy.
One more flight of stairs. She could see a doorway now. Daylight. It took . . . time . . . to get there. Pain, as she tore her fingers and bare toes to propel herself down and forwards. The wounds themselves stayed beyond pain, which was useful, though she knew she teetered on the edge of consciousness. She left a trail of blood behind. Vaguely she wondered how much more she had to lose.
And then she reached her target. The door, and blessed sunlight, and air that smelled of gun smoke and the tang of blood. A thrush sang above her. She almost smiled. How much better to die under the gaze of sunlight, and with a thrush’s song.
But she still did not want to die.
She crawled from the door, down two more stairs, onto a footpath. Leaflets everywhere, crumpled, dirty, windswept into piles by the wall, trodden into mud. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
Shots in the distance, not just the sporadic shots of fighting, but the orchestrated volleys that meant execution squads. She heard boots, tramp, tramp, tramp, then saw them, boots that might have once been issued by the German army.
‘Helfen mir, bitte,’ she murmured to the boots.
The boots did not stop. Why should they? The city must be littered with bodies today. She must do better.
More boots. More than two, less than a regiment. She summoned every ounce of the authority of her ancestors, the last rags of energy, and looked up from boots to faces. ‘Ich bin Hannelore, Prinzessin von Arnenberg. Helfen, Sie mir!’ I am Hannelore, Princess of Arnenberg. Help me!’
She did not add ‘bitte’. Please.
The boots stopped.
Chapter 9
Coffee sharpens the brain; tea relaxes it, but leaves you alert. You can deduce much from which your companions choose. If they choose tea, they are relaxed; if they choose coffee, then they want something from this meeting — status, information, or possibly just your friendship. Remember, when serving, that tea always outranks coffee. Leave the teapot for the most senior woman present to pour.
Miss Lily, 1914
They all breakfasted in her suite: Sophie, Nigel, Jones, dressed in a pre-war chauffeur’s grey uniform that almost fitted him, Georgina in plain black and perfectly ironed linen, as if she had costumed herself as the insignificant ‘ladies’ companion’ she was now to be and, at Sophie’s insistence, Green.
Green was a small woman, and wiry; her grey hair was cut short, stylish but not overly so. She wore no cap, just a grey serge dress, shoes so sensible they could balance the national budget, and a white apron. She was totally forgettable, until you saw her eyes and realised forgettable was exactly what Green wanted you to think she was. The ambition of a good maid? Or something more? There would be time to find out.
She would also find out why Jones and Green were so carefully casual about the way they looked at each other.
‘This is a strategy meeting,’ said Sophie, as Green made her selection from the dishes in their warming trays on the buffet (no post-war austerity at the Ritz), rejecting the kedgeree, bright with curry powder and yellow smoked fish, the bacon, fat sausages, the luxury of grilled autumn tomatoes weeping red juice, the porridge, and selecting devilled kidneys, scrambled eggs and toast with the enjoyment of someone who had worked in a good as well as ‘great’ house, where servants automatically ate much the same food as ‘those upstairs’.
Nigel ate sparingly; Jones consumed his meal with the dedication of a former army batman who was never sure of the next one. Georgina filled her plate with kedgeree, then liberally spread three slices of toast with butter and marmalade. Sophie wondered if perhaps her place at Colonel Sevenoaks’ table had been a somewhat grudging one and had unconsciously restricted her helpings to suit, especially of food like marmalade with its rationed sugar content.
Sophie tried to make herself feel hungry. This would possibly be the last kedgeree she saw till she could instruct a cook in Australia on the intricacies of richly buttered rice, fish and curry powder and the vexed question of whether to add chopped hard-boiled egg . . . or not. But though she had devoured the previous night’s crumpets and honey, once again her appetite had crept away.
Sophie handed James’s copious notes, some written in several hands, others typed, to Nigel. They had been delivered to her bedroom at seven am by the chambermaid, with apologies for the early intrusion.
Green had magically appeared two seconds after the chambermaid to take the notes before the woman could cross the room to Sophie’s bed; had handed the notes to Sophie herself; ordered tea, biscuits and a pot of hot chocolate from the chambermaid; then had laid out a freshly pressed green linen dress. Green had also somehow procured fashionable beige stockings overnight, though not, thank goodness, high-heeled shoes.
Sophie’s short hair, usually flying in at least two unwanted directions, behaved itself as soon as Green touched it with a comb. Green fixed a silver bandeau across her hair and forehead, provided in Paris by the dressmaker at the same time as her other clothes, but which Sophie had never bothered wearing. Green must have already sorted through her clothes most thoroughly to have found it. A touch of powder; a few dabs of almost invisible lipstick in the perfect shade. Green must have remembered her colouring from years before, and, somehow, found time last night to acquire the necessities of a 1919 ensemble. Sophie relaxed as pearls, perfect for daytime wear, were draped around her neck, then matching earrings. Green fastened the buttons at the back without Sophie having to imitate an orangutan or discreetly find another woman to help. Being tended to once more made the world of peace feel closer, almost possible.
And I am about to leave it deliberately, she thought, sitting at breakfast in her most suitable green, a damask napkin on her lap, nibbling a corner of toast, for a land of revolution.
Nigel flicked through the pages of notes. He glanced up at Sophie. ‘Lorrimer’s conclusions?’
Ah, she thought. Nigel — or Miss Lily — does know James, or at least his reputation. She had suspected they might. ‘He has obtained train timetables for us — or rather, the times the trains are most likely to really depart. He suggests we travel mostly that way — less chance of being caught up in civil unrest — and that we stay at hotels near stations, hiring taxi cabs where necessary, though the businesses we visit may well send a car for us. Mrs Wattle, do you have anything yet from Mr Slithersole?’
‘Mrs Wattle’, who until last night had been Lady Georgina, pulled a sheaf of papers from her handbag and handed them to Sophie. ‘A list of potential clients, Miss Higgs. Mr Slithersole asked me to express his continued best wishes and the news that “Johnny has been demobbed”.’
‘His son,’ explained Sophie.
‘So I gather. I have drafted a telegram and following letter to each of the contacts. With your permission I will send them after we have finished here.’
Efficient, thought Sophie. But perhaps not so surprising, as Georgina was used to estate management. ‘Well done.’ She took a forkful of kedgeree. It tasted excellent, and rich. She felt no temptation to take another. ‘Please proceed as planned.’
‘Jones has letters of introduction,’ said Nigel. ‘You may not need most of them, or any of them. But it is useful to have contacts. Telephone Shillings of course, or telegraph, if I or my cousin can be of service.’
His cousin? Sophie realised that of all the people at this table, Georgina was the only person who did not know Nigel and Miss Lily were one, or rather two who could not exist at the same time.
‘Very well,’ said Sophie. ‘Green, would you mind obtaining, well, whatever you think Mrs Wattle and I may need? You too, perhaps, Jones?’
‘Pistols, ammunition, maps, bandages, disinfectant,’ said Jones, helping himself to more toast.
Sophie pulled the bell to ask for more. ‘I’m glad you can joke.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Jones, spreading strawberry
jam.
‘Several lengths of wire,’ said Green, sipping tea neatly. ‘You can do many things with a length of wire, and more quietly than a pistol. And two pairs of metal knitting needles, as thin and sharp as you can find them, and four balls of brown wool.’
‘Noted,’ said Jones, flashing her a quick grin. Green grinned back fleetingly.
Sophie stared at them. Lengths of wire? Sharp metal knitting needles? Who WAS Green? What exactly had her ‘war work’ been? And what could you do with lengths of wire, and why should Green want to?
She had accepted the different roles Jones played in Nigel’s life: batman, then butler; batman again and now secretary; and always friend. Jones was the first person she had met at Shillings, and a constant presence there. She had only glimpsed Green twice, down in the servants’ hall, for none of the ‘lovely ladies’ had been admitted to Miss Lily’s private wing where Green had tended her mistress.
She had always thought of ‘Miss Lily and Jones’, or more recently ‘Nigel and Jones’. For the first time she realised Jones, Green and Lily/Nigel must have been a threesome. Or had it been ‘Jones and Green’ with Miss Lily? Then why weren’t Jones and Green married? Butlers and ladies’ maids rarely were permitted to marry, but surely Nigel would have allowed it, even encouraged them. What were the relationships? Had Jones and Green been together once, and quarrelled? What had the three of them been doing, in all those years before she met Miss Lily?
And the last four years? Nigel and Jones had spent the war with the county regiment, in France, where so many boys and men from Shillings had been lost. Had Green been a VAD? Sophie observed her across the table. Green might be a ladies’ maid, but someone who had been maid to Miss Lily possibly would not want to endure the rigid subservience of a VAD . . .
‘I must head back to Shillings,’ said Nigel, breaking into her thoughts. He smiled at Sophie’s unasked query. ‘I am quite capable of driving without a chauffeur.’
She had hoped he would stay until she left, that Miss Lily might even reappear. She wanted to ask him a million questions, not about the journey, but himself: how was he faring; and did Miss Lily return, just sometimes, in the solitude of Shillings, as she had here the night before?
She looked at him across the table — those kind, sad, intelligent eyes. Had part of her reluctance to marry him been because of the risk she would always be slightly the outsider, tacked on to her husband’s profound friendship with Jones? Had she been mistaken? She wanted to cling to him, to take his hand and not let go, to ask him about the almost twenty years of which she knew almost nothing, except Miss Lily and her lovely ladies.
But she was committed. Committed to going to Germany, and then home. She forced herself to smile back at him. ‘Thank you, more than I can say. For everything.’
He stood, bent, and kissed her cheek. A hint of Miss Lily’s perfume lingered under the bay rum in his hair. ‘Travel safely,’ he said quietly. ‘Telegraph me, if you have time, so I know you are safe.’
She imagined Jones would report as well. ‘Take care too,’ she said. She would have liked to add, ‘I love you. No matter who we are or in what kind of way, I love you.’ But not with the others listening. It seemed Nigel was deliberately not giving her the time or privacy to say more.
Georgina stood too as the earl departed. ‘I’ll send the telegrams.’
Green followed her, with a bob to Sophie that was the post-war replacement for a curtsey.
Which left Jones.
‘Good sausages,’ he said, as the chambermaid appeared. ‘More toast, please,’ he requested, sounding suddenly like a gentleman who often dined at tables like the Ritz. He glanced at Sophie. ‘And more coffee?’
‘Please,’ said Sophie. She needed it.
Jones waited till the maid had left. ‘Eat some toast,’ he ordered her. ‘You’ve eaten almost nothing. You’re getting far too thin.’
Sophie blinked. She was not used to servants giving her orders. But then Jones was . . . Jones. The maid arrived with fresh toast, another silver coffee pot, gently steaming. Sophie let her cup be filled again, added milk, then obediently took a slice of toast, avoided the butter, and spread on chunky marmalade.
‘We’ll have to put you on one of those fattening diets if you don’t watch out,’ said Jones. ‘She wanted to accompany you to Germany, you know,’ he added while applying brown sauce to a second helping of sausages.
‘Miss Lily?’
‘No, Queen Adelaide. Of course, Miss Lily. She came ready packed to do so.’
‘But why didn’t she?’ Surely I made her welcome, thought Sophie. And to have Miss Lily back, for weeks . . .
‘Because you are going to meet this Count von Hoffenhausen,’ said Jones. ‘Nigel wouldn’t want to play gooseberry. Or see you with another man either.’ He seemed to have no trouble talking about his friend, companion and employer as two people, not one.
‘I . . . I didn’t realise.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t,’ said Jones. ‘He does love you, you know. And Lily does too.’
‘I know. And I love them both. But can you see either Nigel or Miss Lily living in Sydney?’
‘Nigel? No. Not while Shillings needs him. And the estate needs him now, if it and the farms are to continue. Miss Lily,’ Jones chewed his sausage thoughtfully, ‘perhaps.’
Sophie had never considered that the colonies might suit Miss Lily. Miss Lily had wanted to be at the centre of political Europe — even if it was a discreet and mostly hidden centre, directing events off stage. Maybe now, like so many others, she merely wanted refuge.
But Nigel’s life was Shillings, its people so devastated by war. Nigel would not abandon his duty. There was no way to free Miss Lily now.
Chapter 10
A gentleman stands when a woman enters the room. He is silent when she wishes to speak. Of course that does not mean that he will listen.
Miss Lily, 1914
Sophie managed a conversation with Georgina that evening. Jones had tactfully refused an offer to dine with them: he and Green would have dinner together. Sophie realised that her presence would inhibit conversation — and possibly more — between the two old friends. Though if they were more than friends, why hadn’t Green gone back to Shillings after her ‘war work’?
Which left Georgina. One dined with one’s ‘companion’, though not necessarily with one’s secretary. Possibly Georgina too would prefer solitude to forced conversation with her employer each evening. She would need to be carefully given the choice.
Tonight though, there were matters to discuss.
It had been a long time since Sophie had automatically changed for dinner. Tonight Green laid out a low-cut burgundy silk, trimmed with crystal beading, and a necklace of small diamonds to be twisted into the modern style of double strand bracelet. The new style left more of her back and shoulders bare than she was used to, as well as showing a lot more of her legs. With the weight of hair and petticoats gone it felt curiously and enjoyably liberating.
The table in the living room had been set for two, the silverware gleaming. Sophie offered the hotel menu to Georgina, who shook her head. ‘You choose, Miss Higgs.’ She too wore evening dress; a rather dismal grey silk, just low necked enough for it not to be dowdy.
Sophie felt like saying, ‘Choose your own meal. It’s your stomach.’ But this scene must be humiliating enough for Georgina without offering an uncouth comment that Georgina could not respond to. Yet, thought Sophie.
It would be impossible to live with a ‘companion’ who did not become a friend who could speak up honestly. If friendship were impossible, she would have to find another solution for Georgina in Australia — and for her son.
The footman knocked and entered to take their order. Sophie consulted the menu quickly. ‘Consommé royale. No fish, I think, unless you would like it, Mrs Wattle? No? I think we will pass on the game course, as well. Chicken cutlets, asparagus with Hollandaise —’ it would be forced hothouse asparagus, of course,
in May, and possibly the last she’d have till she could arrange for the delicacy to be grown at Thuringa ‘— and potato soufflés. Prunes on horseback for a savoury, oh, and Bombe Imperial.’ Surely ice cream would spark her appetite. ‘Could you bring all but the ice cream at once, and we will serve ourselves?’
‘Of course, Miss Higgs. Cheese and biscuits, Miss Higgs? Coffee? And to drink?’
‘Champagne,’ said Sophie, who knew nothing of wine beyond the vin ordinaire of the villages she had lived in, and the champagne she had drunk for celebrations. Tonight did not qualify as the latter, but the talk would flow more freely with some alcohol. ‘Cheese, yes please, but no Stilton.’ They served it almost rancid there. She did not think she could bear the gangrenous smell. ‘And coffee.’ Which she would not drink, but Georgina might wish to.
They talked of inconsequential matters till the champagne was poured and the meal delivered. Sophie held up her glass in a toast. ‘To the future.’
Georgina hesitated. ‘To the future,’ she repeated, then drank.
Sophie put down her own glass, and regarded her. ‘Do you resent me terribly?’
Georgina glanced up from her consommé. ‘Of course.’
Sophie nodded. ‘I am far from your social equal; I suspect you have no need of the salary I will pay you, but take it so you have the protection and camouflage of being my employee. If I were you, I’d be steaming.’
‘I can’t afford to steam. May I be frank?’
If you can’t afford to steam, you can’t afford frankness, thought Sophie, sipping soup then rejecting it. Instead she said, ‘Please.’
‘You and my cousin are exactly the kind of women I despise. You play with the world. And, yes, you do good works, but only because you enjoy it. You are even enjoying this escapade into Germany.’
The Lily and the Rose Page 6