No, she had never been loved by a man. No man had ever seen her as she was, as God had made her.
The croquet. The thumping.
She smiled, though her mood was not one of gaiety. It was one of longing.
What should she say in her note to him, a note that was to ask him to visit her again?
‘Please call, please bring me to life again.’
No, not quite those words. He would have to read between the lines of a far more formal invitation.
Chapter Eight
Edward was at work, pencil moving flowingly, abbreviating words as Dickens had when a court reporter. Would became wd, regiment became rgt, position became pn, artillery became aty, Ypres became Yp. His treatment was factual, entirely so, though he could not view the battle completely as an historian, for he had been there himself. Casualties evoked pictures of men blown to pieces by the power and ferocity of the German guns.
Rosamund was engrossed in her book a few yards away. On the other side of the lawn, Mademoiselle Dupont had Colonel Brecht by his ear. Edward, able to shut out extraneous sounds when his concentration was at its best, was patently not to be interrupted. Rosamund seemed equally unapproachable, such was her interest in her book, a biography of Queen Victoria. That left Colonel Brecht a helpless prisoner in the hands of Mademoiselle Dupont. From time to time he looked across at Rosamund, obviously in the hope that she would rescue him from the vivacious loquacity of the lady from Paris. Rosamund’s conversation might have a teasing quality, but Mademoiselle Dupont’s could be numbing. It reduced one to merely being a sounding board.
Rosamund was quite aware that Colonel Brecht was in need of help. She let him suffer at length, however, on the perfectly reasonable assumption that she would be seen as an angel of mercy when she did finally exercise pity.
Monsieur Valery, as dapper as ever, made an appearance. He strolled around the garden, calling an affable good-morning to everybody, saw that the attractive Mademoiselle Dupont was determinedly latched to Colonel Brecht, smiled a little disappointedly and wandered away.
Celeste came out, ready to take orders for morning coffee. She was pleased to see that Edward was by himself and that it was poor Colonel Brecht who was suffering the attentions of the flirtatious Frenchwoman.
‘M’sieur?’
Edward looked up. Celeste smiled and placed a white envelope on his table.
‘Celeste, how fresh you look,’ he said.
‘Oh, I am totally unspoiled, m’sieur. That has just come for you.’
He opened the letter, ordering coffee as he did so. Celeste went to collect other orders while he read the note.
Dear Mr Somers,
I hope you aren’t suffering from yesterday’s exertions, that you are well. Myself, I am very fit, and feel extraordinarily pleased with my powers of endurance.
I am at home tomorrow afternoon. For that matter, I am always at home, yes! Is it possible that I might have the pleasure of your company again, at the same time? I will understand if you are otherwise engaged, when I should like to suggest the following day. I am told the weather is set fair. I wish that it will bring the best of health to you.
Katerina Pyotrovna.
PS My love to Celeste.
Edward refolded the note.
‘You did say you wanted coffee, m’sieur?’ Celeste was back.
‘Yes, Celeste, a small pot, if I may.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Celeste, but refrained from despatching herself. She was in obvious expectation of information. Edward said nothing as he took up his pencil again. ‘M’sieur, am I to stand here and die of curiosity?’
‘I shouldn’t like that to happen, no, not at all,’ he said. ‘Will it save your life if I tell you I’ve been invited to call on the countess again, tomorrow afternoon?’
Celeste smiled happily.
‘Oh, already, you see, you are in tender accord,’ she said.
‘In tender accord?’
‘But yes, m’sieur, you and she. Already love is blossoming, already there are billets-doux. Write your answer and I’ll have Jacques deliver it. You will send kisses?’
‘Audacious girl, what’s all this you’re dreaming up?’
‘But I’m not dreaming it up, m’sieur, never,’ she said earnestly. ‘You are made for each other. Even I can see that.’
‘Even you? Only you, you mean. Off with your head, terrible infant.’
Celeste departed with a laugh.
Rosamund, finishing her coffee ten minutes later, closed her book and came to her feet. Colonel Brecht cast her a look of a drowning man. Rosamund gave him a little nod. Mademoiselle Dupont put a hand on the colonel’s arm to recall his attention. Mademoiselle Dupont, thought Rosamund, seemed a woman not disposed to let any man easily escape her. She also seemed set to have an affair either with Franz or Edward before she returned to Paris. How Edward would manage the vivacious lady in his state of health, only he knew. On the other hand, Rosamund doubted if he would fall for a woman so obviously a demi-mondaine. Poor Franz was a different kettle of fish. He would be netted while still clearing his throat.
‘Colonel Brecht,’ she called, ‘I’ll be down again in a few minutes to join you in our arranged walk. Will you meet me outside, on the steps?’
The colonel came to life and sat up. Since no walk had been arranged, he knew Rosamund was putting out a lifeline.
‘With pleasure, dear lady, with pleasure,’ he said.
He was on the steps outside the hotel five minutes later, waiting for her as she emerged.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said Rosamund.
‘Madam,’ he said fervently, ‘you are an angel of mercy.’
‘Yes, I thought you’d think that,’ she said. ‘You find Mademoiselle Dupont a little tiring?’
‘Charming lady, charming,’ said the colonel, ‘but I’ve been crushed – yes, that is the word – crushed by the weight of words, madam.’
‘An embarrassing position for a German officer to be in. Perhaps Mademoiselle Dupont is taking her revenge for your attempt to obliterate Verdun. Now,’ she said, as they descended the steps, ‘where shall we walk to?’
‘To the village?’ he suggested.
‘Enchanting,’ said Rosamund. ‘I shall buy some pears for eating in the bath.’
‘Madam?’
‘That is the only place to eat a juicy pear, in the bath,’ said Rosamund, the colonel upright beside her as they walked along the verge. ‘You may call me Rosamund, by the way. I’m no longer as sensitive about the war as Mademoiselle Dupont, who seems to think it was an imperialist plot. You and I must learn to live with its consequences. And you should tell her the theatre owes much to the patronage of kings, emperors and other imperialists. You must not sit and be crushed. You must strike back. Then she will fall into your arms. Women react lovingly to men who stand up to them. The day is delightful, isn’t it?’
‘Good God,’ said the colonel.
‘Mademoiselle Dupont is extremely good-looking, and most men, I imagine, would like her to fall into their arms.’
‘Ah – you have – madam, you have an incurable way of pulling the leg.’
‘Oh, I’m quite serious,’ said Rosamund, sailing along blithely in a cream dress and brimmed hat. ‘You must take the initiative with the lady, and describe in exhausting detail the battles in which you were personally engaged during the war. You must make them full of shot and shell, ignoring all full stops in your narrative, as full stops will give her the chance to interrupt you. When she finally realizes she has met her match, she may well be yours, Franz.’
‘Stop,’ said the colonel hoarsely.
‘That isn’t the advice you want?’ A bright figure of composure against the sunlit background of the Riviera, Rosamund pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘I’ve misinterpreted your feelings?’
‘I am not a ladies’ man – ah – Rosamund – as I am sure you realize, and to have Mademoiselle Dupont regard herself as mine is not the boot I want on my foot.
’
‘But you’re an upright man, Franz, and could be just right for some feminine boots.’
Approaching the iron gates of the Villa d’Azur, they heard the sound of loose stones and chips slithering amid shrubs above them on their right. The colonel briefly glanced and walked on. Rosamund came to a halt and looked upwards. She glimpsed a momentary flash of reflected sunlight.
The colonel, stopping, looked back at her.
‘A dog is up there, probably,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Rosamund, frowning as the reflected glitter flashed again. ‘Some beastly person has a spyglass on us. Whoever it is, what is he hoping to see? One would hardly canoodle on an open road, and in daylight.’
‘Canoodle?’ said the colonel, retracing his steps to stand beside her. ‘Canoodle?’ He had a little difficulty in pronouncing the word. ‘May I ask what that means?’
‘It’s the act of embracing with cuddlesome affection,’ said Rosamund, eyes still on the shrubs above them.
‘Himmel!’ breathed the colonel.
‘Aren’t you interested in that peeping Tom up there?’
The colonel seemed all of disinterested.
‘No one is there, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a dog, scratching away at the earth. No one would want to look at me.’
Rosamund smiled. Used field glasses, listed among second-hand war surplus, were fairly easy to come by these days, and one saw people carrying them about as casually as box cameras. The objects they observed were no doubt many and varied. It was not amusing to her to be considered an object. If people wanted to look at her, they could do so as she passed by. There was no need for the sick use of a telescope or binoculars, particularly as she was unlikely to take up any posture of a sensational kind.
She went on with Colonel Brecht. They enjoyed the walk in the sunshine, Rosamund inhaling heady draughts of an air laden with the scent of wild thyme, lavender and pine.
Monsieur Valery, apparently, was determined to cross the path of Mademoiselle Dupont with cheerful frequency. He believed, obviously, in the theory that to keep oneself in sight was more likely to pay dividends than sitting unnoticed in a corner. He intruded himself very affably into the billiards room that evening, taking a seat which enabled him to watch to advantage the svelte, red-gowned figure of the Frenchwoman at play. He was admiring of all her shots, whether good or not so good, and Rosamund thought it went without saying that he was also admiring of the lady’s figure. All in all, in fact, he seemed to have every small man’s infatuation for a woman taller than himself. Mademoiselle Dupont, however, appeared hardly aware of him. She was obviously far more interested in Edward. She was partnering him against Rosamund and Franz Brecht. The latter were well ahead, Rosamund a more consistent scorer of points than the Frenchwoman.
Mademoiselle Dupont maintained a possessive proximity to Edward whenever they were watching their opponents at the table. Her scent was delicate, her good looks enhanced by perfect makeup. Rosamund was her usual handsome self, and Colonel Brecht spent much time averting his eyes. Conscious, undoubtedly, of her valley of abundance and her off-shoulder gown, he gazed despairingly at the ceiling each time she made a shot.
She was in good form.
‘You’re going to run out,’ Edward said to her when she needed only to add two to her break to win the game. ‘Then I think I’ll take a turn in the garden. Get a little fresh air, you know.’
Rosamund, however, failed to add to her score, and Mademoiselle went to the table. Rosamund, excusing herself for a moment, slipped out. She found Celeste.
‘Celeste, my dear, Monsieur Somers is going to take a turn in the garden in a moment. Unless we’re careful, Mademoiselle Dupont will endeavour to be on his arm. I rather thought you might help him avoid that.’
‘Oh, yes. At once, madame. Immediately.’
Rosamund returned to the billiards room. She was just in time to see Colonel Brecht score the two points that won the game for them. The colonel was shaking hands all round when Celeste put her head in.
‘M’sieur,’ she said to Edward, ‘there’s a message for you. Could you come, please?’
‘A message?’ said Edward, and could think only of the countess. He went after the quick-moving Celeste.
Monsieur Valery was suddenly beside Mademoiselle Dupont.
‘Such an interesting game,’ he said, ‘and you were so unlucky to lose, mademoiselle. It would be a pleasure to have you all take cognac with me, or whatever else you might wish.’
Mademoiselle Dupont, looking slightly fretful at the disappearance of her partner, said that what she wished at the moment was to powder her nose.
Edward was taken by Celeste into the garden. The night was fresh, clean and silvery, the moon showing the first signs of its wane.
‘There,’ said Celeste, ‘now you may breathe fine air instead of Mademoiselle Dupont’s scent.’
‘What about the message?’ asked Edward.
‘Oh, the message,’ said Celeste, ‘is that you’re safer with me than her.’ She put her arm through his and they strolled gently around the garden.
‘I’ve a feeling,’ said Edward, ‘that my ability to resist Mademoiselle Dupont is being underrated.’
‘Ah, but should you be overrating it, that could lead to disaster. You’re so kind and trusting, m’sieur, that we must take no chances with a lady as hungry as she is.’
‘Angel of thoughtfulness,’ said Edward, ‘I’m touched by your determination to save me, but I think Mademoiselle Dupont would herself assure you I’m in no danger. She merely likes an audience.’
‘That’s what you think,’ said Celeste.
‘Precocious girl, at sixteen you should be engaged in the innocent pursuits of the young, not advancing into the mysterious realms of worldliness. Hello, who’s that?’
Someone came along the path between the hedge and the summer house, emerging into the moonlight.
‘Ah – Edward.’ Colonel Brecht was a trifle taken aback. ‘I thought you had gone to reception, to the telephone.’
‘At the moment,’ said Edward, ‘I’m being perambulated around the garden by France’s little mother. I thought you’d be having a cognac with Rosamund.’
‘The dear lady has retired,’ said the colonel.
‘And you’re off for a brisk night walk?’ said Edward. The colonel was wearing a hat and a lightweight dark blue raincoat.
‘Yes, quite so, my friend. A walk before bed-time usually puts me soundly to sleep. And it’s a fine night. Ah, cheerio, then.’ The colonel’s use of the English expression brought a smile to Celeste’s face.
Off the German went, reaching the front steps from around the side of the hotel. Thoughtfully, he was wearing rubber-soled shoes, so that when he returned he would not disturb guests asleep.
‘Breathe deeply, m’sieur,’ said Celeste, as she and Edward resumed their gentle meandering, ‘the night air is not too cold for you yet. You must be at your best when you visit the countess tomorrow.’
‘Did you get a good look at him?’ asked the senior member of the investigative team.
‘I was unable to see her,’ said number two, ‘but yes, I got a good look at him.’
‘You agree it’s Surgeon-General Boris Tchekov, once of the Imperial Army?’
‘From the photographs we have, I’d swear it.’
‘Good,’ said number one. ‘And where he is, she must be. He’s had her under his wing for years. A tenacious man, but not a brilliant one. He has kept her out of sight, but not himself. He has unwisely forgotten that he’s as recognizable as she is.’
‘But we still need to get a look at her?’
‘To fully satisfy ourselves, yes. One must consider he may be more cunning than he seems. In showing himself in the village, as he has done more than once, he might have been laying a false trail. The woman residing in the villa with him might not be the one we think she is. He might, perhaps, have sent her a thousand miles away months ago.’
‘He m
ight,’ said number two, ‘but I feel she’s there.’
‘Then make certain. Use your eyes. Discreetly and quietly. Clumsiness, comrade, could lead to our waking up one day to find the birds flown. That would be unfortunate. The villa now. We need to get into it sometime. There’ll be letters, papers and diaries, any of which could point us towards the others. You’re aware of the uproar being caused by that wretched woman who’s claiming to be Anastasia? They’re dangerous, all of them. The villa is a difficult place to enter?’
‘I examined the exterior thoroughly after getting over the wall the other night. The locks are formidable, and I suspect there’ll be bolts as well. To effect entrance it’ll be necessary to break a window.’
‘Break a window?’ said number one coldly. ‘Break a window? Are you serious?’
‘I withdraw that, comrade. We must use a glass-cutter.’
‘And quietly. Tchekov has firearms. But first, lay your eyes on her. Identify her.’
‘I will.’
Chapter Nine
Edward emerged from the pines adjacent the villa and walked up to the green gate in the high wall. The gate opened to his push. Katerina came down from the terrace as he entered, closing the gate behind him. She was hatless, her hair a deep-fired brilliance in the sunlight, her eyes warmly bright, her white dress summery.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she said.
‘I’m not late?’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, but she had been down a few minutes ago to look for him.
He laid fascinated eyes on her. She was not a shy or diffident woman, but his survey brought the colour to her face. Her blood was flowing a little fast.
‘You look remarkable,’ he said.
‘Healthy, you mean?’
‘Yes, that as well, Countess.’
Her colour deepened.
‘I am Katerina Pyotrovna. Will you call me Katerina, please? And I may call you Edward?’
‘I shan’t object.’
‘Then come, Edward,’ she said, ‘and we’ll play croquet and later have tea. Yes? That’s agreeable to you?’
‘Very,’ he said. ‘It sounds perfect.’
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