by Kelly Doust
After Victoria had been talking for a while, she stopped, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She hoped he didn’t think she was boasting, but somehow Emil was so easy to talk to, so different from anyone she’d ever met before.
‘But where do you come from? And your own family – tell me about them,’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything from them in so long. But I have people looking out for them. Old friends I have helped . . . I’ll return as soon as I can, but for now it is too dangerous.’
With some prompting from Victoria, Emil told her about his three boisterous, talkative younger sisters and his bossy, confident mother, whom he clearly loved very much, and his engineer father who had died when he was fifteen, leaving him to look after them all. Emil seemed so solitary and self-contained, Victoria reflected, but that wasn’t the real man at all. When he spoke about his family, it was with a catch in his throat and a rush of emotion that showed how much he cared for them.
‘The soldiers came. My little sister Daria answered the door, but my mother was ready – she knew what would happen before I did. There had been . . . trouble at the university. They had finally come to take me away.’
Emil talked about the Nazis and how they had systematically swept through his department, sending away all the Jewish professors, then his colleague Jan, and eventually anyone else who did not agree with them. ‘There were so few of us left, but I wasn’t prepared . . . it all happened so quickly.’
‘How did you escape?’
‘My mother had made arrangements. There was a – what do you call it – a secret door in the attic that led through to our neighbour’s house. She had even prepared a bag for me.’ He laughed, still incredulous at his mother’s meticulous planning. ‘Even as they were knocking on the front door, she was pushing me up to the attic. She would not let me stay . . . I escaped that night, and made my way to the border. But I— I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed, fought, taken care of them somehow . . .’
Emil’s chin dropped to his chest, his voice faltered, and she realised he was crying.
‘Oh, you poor, poor man,’ she whispered, throwing her arms around him. He wept against her shoulder, and Victoria started crying as well, and it was somehow the most natural thing in the world, even with the tears still wet on their cheeks, that she should lift her face to him, and he should bend down and kiss her.
They kissed like that for a while, deliciously slowly and carefully. Gentle, feather-light touches on her skin as his fingers played across her clavicle. Then Emil’s lips were on her earlobe, his breath hot and thrilling against her neck. Playing with the buttons on her shirt, he opened one and then another, before he cupped her breast in his palm.
Their caresses grew more feverish and urgent then, until Victoria barely knew what she was doing. She pulled him down against her, the welcome crush of him, tearing at his shirt and suddenly wanting him against her bare skin and inside her, in a way she’d never wanted anything in her whole life. The night air was cool, but her skin felt like it was burning up.
As he shifted over her, naked in the moonlight, Victoria’s eyes caught his. She almost cried out with gratitude – he wanted this too. It was wondrous, the soft slickness of her, and the way he slid inside her so easily. She moaned in delight, and it felt like she was home.
It was still dark but birds were starting to call and sunrise was not far off as Emil walked Victoria up to Lizzie’s front door. They had barely set foot on the first step when the front door suddenly opened – Lizzie must have been watching out for Victoria from the hall window.
‘My God, you’re safe! I’ve been up all night, waiting for you . . . Thank heavens. But where have you been?’ she asked, sweeping Victoria into a hug and eyeing Emil warily over her shoulder.
‘At Morton’s. Lizzie, this is . . .’ Victoria hesitated, the colour high in her cheeks, seeing her sister’s deep frown as she pulled away. ‘Mr Emil Bruckner. Emil, this is my sister, Elizabeth Fortescue. Lizzie, Mr Bruckner helped me to the Tube in yesterday’s air raid. Then we went to Morton’s, hoping to find you . . . We stayed at Morton’s until late. I was . . .’ Victoria faltered. ‘I was too scared to go out again. And he was kind enough to walk me home.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr Bruckner,’ Lizzie said, looking him up and down.
Victoria could see her register the shabby coat and scuffed shoes, and noted the slight sniff of disapproval.
‘I’m grateful to you for chaperoning my sister,’ Lizzie said coldly. ‘I have been ever so worried. But,’ she tightened the belt of her dressing gown, ‘I hope you’ll understand why I don’t invite you in.’
‘Of course,’ Emil said courteously. ‘It’s late. I mean, early. I wasn’t expecting . . . Well,’ he coughed. ‘Mrs Fortescue. Miss Dearlove . . . Goodnight to you.’
He turned to walk down the steps, and suddenly Victoria couldn’t bear to see him go. ‘Mr Bruckner!’ she called, running down the steps after him, leaving Lizzie standing at the front door.
He turned around and smiled down at her with his crooked smile. Just as in the Tube station, her heart contracted and she couldn’t help but smile back.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Will I see you again?’
‘But certainly,’ he said. And then in an old-fashioned gesture, he bowed slightly and bent to kiss her hand.
Dipping his head politely at Lizzie, Emil walked down the street, leaving Victoria staring after him.
Lizzie called out from the door. ‘Victoria? For heaven’s sake, come inside – what will the neighbours say?’ She shepherded Victoria into the reception hall, then turned and hugged her sister fiercely.
‘What a strange man. Thank God you’re safe. I was so worried.’
Only later, as Victoria was turning off the last of the lamps and readying herself for bed, did she look outside her window to the street below. Emil was standing there in the grey half-light of dawn, lingering on the corner. When he saw that she’d seen him, he nodded up to her. She smiled in the dark, placing a hand upon her cheek, remembering his kisses. Placing his hand upon his chest, Emil nodded again and turned to leave.
Victoria sank down on the bed, tremulous with joy, her hands over her mouth in case she laughed out loud. She shut her eyes but couldn’t stop herself smiling, caught in the memory of his hands, the park bench in the square, the music and candlelight of Morton’s . . . and his dark, warm eyes looking down at her. Was this what love felt like?
But now, back at Lizzie’s house after the doctor’s, all that Victoria felt was a dull aching fear and a growing sense of helplessness. She looked down at the material bunched in her hands and groaned out loud. She was meant to be working on her dress for her impending engagement party, but – as her eyes swam with sudden tears – it suddenly felt so stupid and so meaningless. Victoria put the dress aside and from her pocket pulled out her handkerchief, which was pale blue and embroidered in happier times with tiny forget-me-nots.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Lizzie asked impatiently, looking over at her from the opposite couch. ‘You’ve had a face like a wet weekend ever since you came back from your walk.’
Victoria clutched her handkerchief and decided to come clean – no good could come of keeping secrets from her sister. She needed Lizzie’s advice. Her sister would know what to do – she always did.
Lizzie, predictably, was horrified.
‘But what about Oswald?’ she cried, her face a rictus of shock and anger. ‘My God, darling, how could you be so stupid? You’ll get rid of it, of course?’
Victoria’s hands began to shake. She shook her head vehemently. ‘I can’t,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I just . . . I won’t.’
‘God, Victoria, don’t be so naïve! You have to! Whatever will people say? You’re due to be married in a month and the engagement party is almost upon us.’ Lizzie was pacing in front of the fireplace, smoking furiously. ‘Be sensible, my darling! I know someone you can go to . . . Mis
ty went, after that dreadful summer in Italy last year, when she found herself in a spot of bother. She said it was fine.’
‘No!’ cried Victoria, the stab in her gut almost winding her. ‘I will not get rid of it. I won’t.’
‘All right, all right . . . We’ll bring the date of the wedding forward, then!’ Lizzie said wildly, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘We’ll tell them there’s no more time to waste, with the war, or some such . . . We have to come up with something!’
Victoria looked up, her face wet with tears. ‘But Lizzie, I can’t marry Oswald. Not now.’
‘Of course you can,’ her sister snapped. ‘And you will.’
‘But—’ Victoria started. She was silenced by Lizzie holding up an imperious finger for quiet as she paced up and down, her lips tightly pursed.
Suddenly she stopped, turning to Victoria. ‘I’ve got it,’ she said, a strange smile spreading across her face. ‘Seduce him.’
‘Oswald?’ Victoria asked, horrified. ‘I couldn’t!’
‘You’ll have to. There’s no other way. Do it at the engagement, if not before. There’s any number of girls I know have slept with their future husbands at their engagement parties. I mean, why wait? It’s the perfect opportunity. And when you’re a little early with the baby, well, everyone will understand. There’s plenty of premature babes born during wartime.’
‘I . . . but I barely know him, Lizzie! I hardly think he’s going to jump into bed with me when we’re to be married in a month anyway.’
‘Ha! You don’t know men,’ Lizzie shot darkly, looking like she was about to say more but thought better of it. ‘And look, you don’t have a choice. Unless you want Oswald to chuck you. Don’t you think this sort of thing has happened before? It happens all the time, darling. More than you think.’
Victoria hid her face in her hands, utterly mortified. ‘What must you think of me, Lizzie? Do you think I’m a complete fool?’ she whispered.
‘No, my lovely,’ said Lizzie, her voice softening as she sank down onto the sofa beside her, pushing aside the engagement dress. She gently stroked her sister’s hair. ‘Never. You’ve got to go through with this, though. For us. For Bledesford. Pretend the baby’s Oswald’s – he needn’t know otherwise. And as for that Bruckner character . . .’ She sniffed disdainfully. ‘Well, it’s obvious, darling, that he used you. He’s foreign, isn’t he, after all. Has he even contacted you since that night?’ Lizzie peered into her face closely.
‘N-no . . .’ faltered Victoria, twisting her handkerchief in her lap. Tears coursed silently down her cheeks.
‘Well, good,’ said Lizzie briskly. ‘That settles it then. He’s moved on and forgotten all about you. I suggest you do the same.’
Victoria knew she was right. But she bit her lip as she remembered Emil’s thin, hard body against hers, her desire mirrored in his eyes. She felt so . . . abandoned. Why hadn’t Emil been in touch, or come to visit? He knew where she lived, and she’d felt so sure that there would be many more visits, more evenings like the one they’d spent together. She’d allowed herself to imagine a lifetime – days and years stretching ahead – with Emil.
‘I wish Mama were here.’ The words were out before she even realised.
‘What?’ Lizzie asked sharply. ‘What on God’s green earth are you talking about, Tori? She’s dead. Dead and gone. Nothing will change that.’ Her voice softened. ‘You have me, darling. You’ll always have me.’
Victoria felt terrible, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. There was so much more she could say, but now wasn’t the time. She buried her head in her hands.
‘Tori? Tori!’ Lizzie had clearly been speaking to her for the past few moments, but Victoria hadn’t registered a word.
‘Good, you’re finally listening. Seduce Oswald at the party, that’s what I say. Take him to bed or even the cloakroom if you have to – the fellow will think his ship’s come in! Then we’ll be home and dry. Don’t worry.’ Lizzie frowned and was up and pacing the room again, pinching her bottom lip between two fingers. ‘It’s going to work,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘It has to.’
Victoria was filled with doubt.
‘Victoria. You’ll do it. Yes?’ Lizzie stopped suddenly, her eyes boring into her sister’s.
‘Yes, all right,’ Victoria sighed, sinking back against the sofa. Looking up to the chandelier, her vision blurring in front of her from the tears, she felt like she was drowning.
Oh God. What have I done?
26
The pretty stone walls of the village hall in Witham Friary were covered in flowering honeysuckle, and bumblebees buzzed around drunkenly as Sylvie walked up the steps of the local post office, deftly stepping aside to avoid one.
‘I sent you a package – haven’t you received it already?’ Rufus had asked when she’d finally rung to discuss Rose. She’d been so caught up with the offer on Bledesford, and in having so many circular conversations about what they should or shouldn’t do with Nick, her parents and Gigi, she’d almost forgotten her pact with her mother to investigate her great-great-grandmother’s story further.
‘No – what’s in there?’
‘When it arrives, take a look and then give me a call back.’
Standing at the counter now, she held out the red notification card. Annoyingly, the postman had tried to deliver the package to her last week, but they’d all been out and it required a signature. She’d only just unearthed the card this morning, hidden in a pile of junk mail on the breakfast table.
When the heavy young man with thinning hair returned with the brown package, Sylvie was surprised by its weight and thickness. Unable to wait until she got home, she rested her tote on a standing desk by the window and tore the package open. Inside was a copy of Barty Telford’s lengthy biography, One Extraordinary Life. Rufus had used fluorescent Post-it notes to highlight certain pages, but as she opened the book she found that he’d underlined certain passages as well in thick black pencil.
One page in particular caught her attention – it was a letter from Barty to Lady Clarissa Hardcastle, dated 1929. Reading down through the page, Sylvie felt a strange prickle creep over her. There was a thick black star pencilled next to the last line: And I can faithfully promise you, my dear – a Rose by any other name does smell as sweet, with a message from Rufus beneath: Note the capital – Rose Dearlove???
Sylvie flicked through the other pages, scanning them quickly. There was mention of Barty’s sudden and unexpected departure for Europe, but nothing conclusive. The letter was dated almost a year after her great-great-grandmother’s death, and it did seem awfully pointed, but surely that was not all Rufus was basing his theory upon?
In the bar that night Rufus had mentioned something else, Sylvie remembered, a contact he’d spoken to, who had mentioned that Lady Clarissa had a carer who looked after her in her old age until her death. She was still alive and living in the country, apparently. Rufus was trying to track her down, but what was that going to achieve? Surely he had to have something more than this.
She flicked dispiritedly through the book, looking at the photographs. Barty was a small, dapper man, always with a wicked grin on his face. Sylvie couldn’t help smiling – he looked exactly like the kind of person she’d want to be friends with. Turning over a page, her attention was caught by one of the photographs and she peered at it closely.
Sylvie snatched up the car keys and ran out to her parents’ beaten-up old Land Rover. Slamming the door, she started the car with a jerk and sped home along the country lanes and hedgerows, chasing a strange feeling.
‘Get out of the bloody way!’ she cried in frustration, finding herself stuck behind a tractor, which was trundling along at an astonishingly slow pace and making it impossible for her to pass. When she finally did reach a safe spot to overtake, she roared past, then turned sharply into the service gate of Bledesford and sped up the driveway. She screeched to a stop outside the back door.
‘Mum! Where’s tha
t folder?’ she cried, slamming through the kitchen door.
‘Which one, darling? What are you talking about?’
‘The one from the historical society,’ Sylvie cried impatiently. ‘The one with all the photocopies.’
‘Oh, that one. It’s in the desk in the study. Can I get it out for you?’
‘No, it’s all right . . . I just remembered . . .’ Not finishing her sentence, Sylvie tore through the house, finding the wooden roll-top desk and pulling out the folder Pam had given them, flicking through all their photocopies from the historical society files.
‘What is it?’ Wendy asked, coming up behind her.
‘This! Look.’
Sylvie pulled out a picture of Lady Clarissa Hardcastle and Rose standing beside a pretty rosebush in a Somerset garden, posing for a photographer from the local paper. It was reproduced next to an article about them judging the local flower show. The photograph had been taken just before Rose’s death.
Sylvie pulled out One Extraordinary Life from her tote and rummaged through its pages.
‘It is her . . . Bloody hell. Rufus was right.’
Beneath Sylvie’s finger was a black and white photograph of Barty, his head tilted to the side with a rakish smile, striking a pose with a hat and a cane against a grand garden in Italy, snow-capped mountains behind him in the backdrop. And there, in the foreground of the photograph, slightly blurred and half-turning away to smile at someone out of the frame, was a tall, slender woman.
If you just looked quickly at the photo, you wouldn’t notice it, thought Sylvie. The woman in the photo had straight, pulled-back hair and wore simpler clothes than Rose had in all her formal photographs and the Sargent painting, but Sylvie was convinced it was Rose Dearlove, her great-great-grandmother – who, if the date scribbled on the photograph’s white border was to be believed, had officially been dead for close on a year.
‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ Wendy trailed off, shaking her head in amazement. ‘My God. I think you’re right. It’s her profile, definitely.’