The choir sang, then the priest turned to the congregation, his arms out to entreat them.
“Dinamis!” he cried.
Once more with feeling, thought Sparks, but she dutifully sang along with the rest of the devout. The Thrice-Holy Hymn. Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal—have mercy on us.
Well. Too late for that, isn’t it? Better luck next time.
There was a buzz of excited whispers behind her, and she and Kat turned to see a man walking down the center aisle, a small coterie of people behind him. He had the look of someone who had been handsome when he was younger, but his face was wan, the portions below his cheekbones sunken and waxy, his lips compressed into a thin line. Yet he projected authority in the face of God and His servants, and most of the congregation nodded deferentially as he went by. Others continued to stare straight ahead, either markedly indifferent or outright defiant.
“Is that the king?” whispered Sparks.
“The twice-exiled George the Second in the declining flesh,” replied Kat. “Ridiculous to call him a king now. He’s not even king of Claridge’s. Nice of him to leave the mistress behind while coming to worship, though.”
“I like a church where the mistresses get to pray,” said Sparks.
“She needs Sunday morning to recover from Saturday night,” said Kat. “And the rest of the day to primp for tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“There’s a reception in support of the monarchist referendum.”
“Would he really bring his mistress to that?”
“No, of course not,” said Kat. “But he’ll want to celebrate before and after. I’m being harsh—I hear they quite adore each other. They have for years, but he can’t marry her.”
“Why not?”
“She’s British. Joyce Brittain-Jones. Lives out in the suburbs, did her bit in an arms factory during the war after they fled the Nazis. On good terms with the inner circles both here and there, but she wouldn’t help the cause if she showed up with a ring and a license right now.”
“Poor thing.”
Sparks turned her attention briefly back to the service and realised with dismay that they had come to the Credo. The very center of her disbelief, about to be chanted in unison by everyone there.
Say the words, woman. They’re only words, not magic. Saying them won’t make you believe. They’ll make others believe that you believe. You’ve said far worse things that you didn’t believe in the service of King and country.
She said the words.
She glanced up at the dome where Jesus watched over them, arms raised in exaltation. No lightning emanated from him to strike her down.
Missed me again, she thought.
The service continued through admonitions and prayers, hymns and appeals. They were collecting for a war memorial, which she donated to with a willing heart, but when it came time to receive Communion, she held back.
“Would you like me to hold Athanasios while you go up?” she offered Eleni.
“Oh, no,” said Eleni. “I like him to see this. Come with us!”
“I can’t, thanks,” said Sparks. “I’m a stranger here myself.”
The congregation queued up for the divine gifts. She was one of the few to remain in her seat, but there were enough similarly disinclined that she didn’t draw any undue attention. She kept her face down, pretending to read the hymnal, glancing up from under her hat.
The king didn’t assert any priority, she noted with approval. Torgos was also on the queue, behind his companion, still murmuring in his ear.
The service concluded, and the congregation was dismissed. Kat came back to where Sparks was sitting.
“Shall we go outside and listen to the gossip?” she asked.
“What’s the latest?” asked Sparks as they headed out.
“Mostly politics,” said Kat. “Does that sort of thing interest you?”
“I’m curious about everything.”
“Why are you here? Seriously?”
“I’m vetting a prospective groom for a client,” said Sparks. “Someone was going to meet me here so I could pump him for information, but it looks like he stood me up.”
“You go through all that for matchmaking?”
“Of course.”
“Sounds like Intelligence work.”
“It’s similar, but there’s much more at stake.”
“Well, at least nobody gets killed,” said Kat.
You have no idea, thought Sparks.
They emerged from the cathedral and stood on the top step, surveying the newly absolved crowd, which had split into several small groups.
“One could re-create the entire civil war in miniature with this lot,” said Kat. “That small noisy band on the left are the Communists, mostly ex-ELAS. There’s three or four Trotskyists—they’re the ones gesticulating a lot, but no one pays them much attention anymore. The Democratic Army supporters are that group in the front—they’re on the rise. The Royalists are the ones surrounding the king, of course, and the Anti-Royalists are over there, casting stern looks at the Royalists. And that—that’s just a group of young men flirting with young women while their mothers keep an eye on them.”
“That’s the group I should be handing cards to,” said Sparks.
She spotted Torgos and his companion, continuing their conversation near the Royalist group.
“Would you mind if I get a closer look at His Majesty?” she asked.
“What on earth for?”
“I’ve never seen a live king up close before. Come with me.”
“I’ve seen him.”
“Come on. Even a Kat may look at a king.”
“Oh dear.” Kat sighed. “Do you think you’re the first one ever to say that to me?”
Sparks slipped her hand through the other woman’s arm and nudged her towards them, taking care to keep Kat between her and Torgos. They took up position on the outside of the group circling the king, just in front of her target.
Sparks feigned interest in the sight of King George graciously interacting with his admirers with a politician’s skill while she tried to listen to the conversation behind her. It was in Greek, and she strained to pick up the words.
“Shall I translate for you?” said Kat sweetly.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, and shush, please,” muttered Sparks.
Pou einai i allilografía? Where is the—the what? she thought. Correspondence! The letters? Den gnorizo. I don’t know. That was a phrase she had used many times back in her school days, and Torgos’s companion was repeating it over and over. Torgos mentioned something—
“Tell me more about this reception,” asked Sparks. “Anything I could crash? Cadge a few shots of ouzo from some handsome olive-skinned men? They need some experienced party girls, don’t they?”
“Come with me right now,” ordered Kat. “Don’t make a scene, or I’ll make one for you and you won’t be happy about it.”
Her tone was soft but her expression was anything but. She took Sparks firmly by the arm and guided her away.
“I was under the impression that you left the Service when the war ended,” she said when they were on the sidewalk, safely out of earshot.
“Officially, I have,” said Sparks, arching one eyebrow.
“Oh, stop being mysterious,” said Kat. “I’m not one of your impressionable young men. What are you doing here? Why the interest in Torgos?”
“Why are you interested in him?” responded Sparks. “And what makes you think he was the one I’m looking for?”
“Only your entire course of conduct from the moment I saw you,” said Kat.
“Who was the good-looking chap he was dressing down?”
“No,” said Kat. “You don’t get anything from me until I know what you’re up to. Who were you planning on meeting here?”
“He appears to have stood me up. Tell me about the party.”
“You’re not invited.”
&nb
sp; “That rarely stops me from attending. You know that.”
“This one is by invitation only, and they will be checking.”
“So get me an invitation. I’ll wear a nice frock and everything.”
“No. I don’t know what you’re up to, and I’m not about to jeopardise—”
She stopped abruptly.
“Jeopardise what?” asked Sparks. “What are you working on, Kat?”
“Nothing that concerns you. Stay away. Stay away from the reception, and stay away from me. And Sparks?”
“Yes?”
“Stay away from Torgos, in particular. He’s in with a bad lot, funneling support to the White Terror groups. They say he’s not above continuing the war on British soil.”
“Was that what was going on with the other chap?”
“We’re done. It was good to see you, Sparks. We’ll have to catch up again sometime. Someplace less holy, I should think.”
She turned and walked away. Sparks peeked back at the gatherings in front of the cathedral, but both Torgos and the other man were gone.
But they would be at that reception the next evening. She had heard that much.
And Torgos had said Magoulias’s name.
Vres ton. Magoulias. Férte ton se ména.
Find him. Bring him to me.
Í tha se skotóso.
Or I will kill you.
CHAPTER 11
It was odd to be wearing gloves in bed, thought Gwen. As if one had suddenly transformed into a leper overnight, and was forbidden human touch for the rest of one’s wretched existence. Only this leper had arms that were prepared to go to the opera, sheathed in white satin nearly to her shoulders.
The packet of letters sat on the night table next to her bed. She had had a boiled egg and toast for her breakfast, brought to her on a tray by Prudence herself, along with another glass of bicarbonate. Ronnie, forewarned by Agnes, had tiptoed in with such a serious face and exaggerated attention to quiet that she had almost started giggling. She gave him a hug and reassured him about the state of her health, then sent him off, first to church and then to playtime with Tommy in the Wild West.
She felt guilty, both for missing services and for shamming illness, or hangover, if that was what the staff truly believed, but she could not deny the pleasure of wallowing in bed for a late morning. The greater guilt was for missing church. Even in the sanatorium, she would be wheeled to the chapel, and she would duly read the responses and sing along with the raucous chorus of the disturbed.
She knelt by the side of her bed and prayed, hoping that God would find that sufficient. She had much for Him to forgive over the past few days. And it wasn’t as if she were without purpose—she had letters to read.
She glanced first at the ones young Alice had penned to her great-grandmother. Ordinary accounts of ordinary events—parties, horses ridden, puppies embraced. The girlish scrawl was in English, complete with some misspellings. Well, one wouldn’t expect perfection of a woman kept in aristocratic isolation. Even Gwen herself had more freedom growing up in the twenties and thirties than Alice had had in the waning years of the last century. And Gwen had more access to schooling, albeit in a primarily female environment, than Alice had had.
On the other hand, Alice had lived in a palace with Queen Victoria for a while, and that wasn’t a bad deal at all.
The final letter was to her mother, written while on her honeymoon. She was eighteen, thought Gwen. In love with her handsome prince, discovering the unknown. One could sense the rush of the pen as she wrote of sights seen by day while trying to conceal the other sights seen at night that her mother must have known were hidden below the surface of her tale. There was a joy in this that Gwen remembered only too well.
She looked closely at the letter, examining the swoop and curl of each letter as it flowed into the next, how Alice had crossed her t’s, how she made her capitals.
Then she picked up the first letter from the packet obtained at such a perilous cost. She should get cards made up: Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge, Kidnapper, Conspirator, and Confederate of Spivs. No, that was too long. Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge, Spivette.
She was beginning to consider the consequences of failure. What if their prisoner turned on them? Or tried to blackmail them, which was his likely bent? Calling upon Archie for help seemed like a good idea at the moment, but she couldn’t help but think that rational thought was not what was taking place when the moment involved an unconscious man bleeding on Iris’s desk.
Nothing to be done about that now. It was the blighter’s own fault, wasn’t it? It was entirely self-defense. Except for the subsequent kidnapping and imprisoning of their attacker.
Maybe Patience could wangle them a pardon from the king.
To the task at hand, Gwen.
She examined the first letter, a folded piece of blue onionskin like the one previously sent to the princess. She held it to her nose. It smelled faintly of must and old wax and linseed oil. She opened it. It was in German, from a different hand. A man’s, she guessed.
My dearest A.,
You have looked so sad upon your arrival here that my heart breaks every time I see you. Be happy! We are all alive, we are all together, and our sojourn will not be forever. The family is everything, but if you find that there are empty spaces in your existence that cannot be ignored, please accept the enclosed gift as a beginning to a remedy. It is a work that I find provides remarkable insight into our lives in this world—and the next. Read it, and come talk to me any time you are feeling lost.
Your loving C.
C for Christo, the younger brother of her husband? There seemed to be a familiarity there that was consistent with the history. She turned to the next letter, written on cream-coloured stationery.
My dear C.,
I cannot thank you enough for the book. I have been so busy managing the girls while putting on a cheerful face for my husband, not to mention the King and his family, that I have spared no time for myself. M. Schuré’s work has opened my eyes—dare I say my soul? There is so much more to our existence than this world. I begin to see that now. If you can spare the time, I would dearly love to speak of this with you. My discussions with Andrea primarily consist of listening to him plot their return to power, and I find that sitting and nodding are all that he requires of me. My mind is starved for real conversation.
Your friend, A.
Poor thing, thought Gwen. Another woman trapped in a velvet cage. It’s so easy to withhold pity for someone living her exile at a first-rate hotel with a gorgeous view, but the lack of freedom was still oppressive.
The opportunity to escape, even if only through intellectual or spiritual means, must have been a heady temptation. If this was the beginning of a love affair, Gwen could well understand being toppled by the gift of a book.
My dearest A.,
Your beauty at dinner tonight made a startling contrast to the melancholy that I know you to be feeling. My brother’s behaviour was appalling—as was Constantine’s. If I only knew some way to give you comfort. Perhaps we could take a stroll along the lakeside tomorrow? I have yet to see the paintings inside the Kapellbrücke—will you accompany me? I am sure the girls will be amply cared for by their nanny. Say yes, I beg of you!
Your loving C.
The old “let’s take a walk and see the historic paintings” gambit. How many young men approached Gwen during her time in Geneva with some similar line? Yet Alice seemed to have taken the bait quite readily.
My dear C.,
The paintings were quite ordinary, the bridge was old and plain, yet the two of them in your company became something magical. My heart feels lighter than it has since we fled Greece, and I have you to thank for it. Let us make these walks a regular part of our existence!
Your friend, A.
Still friends, are we? When do we get to the good parts?
There were not many letters, which was not surprising when she thought about it. They lived in the same place, a
ttended the same functions, ate at the same tables. There were lapses of time between the letters as a result, but when each appeared, the intimacy of the tone progressed by leaps and bounds.
My dearest A.…
My darling C.…
Your most loving A.
Your devoted C.
Yes, get on with it, Gwen thought impatiently. Then she came to one dated May 1918.
My darling,
It was wrong of you to kiss me. It was wrong of me to let you. I cannot, cannot believe that I followed you to the roof while the others were dancing, but Andrea was so oblivious, and you were so kind. The touch of your hand on my waist as we danced was agony—that that, and mine on your shoulder and our other hands clasped were all the contact that we were allowed was a cruel jest. But then we slipped away and found ourselves high above the world, dancing on the roof, our bodies drawing ever closer, the strains of the music drifting up from the ballroom so far below. I could no more have withstood you in that moment than I could a hurricane.
Oh, my, thought Gwen. I don’t know if I could have held out under those circumstances, either. The trick is to not follow him to the roof in the first place, but Alice had gone, knowing full well what was coming. Knowing it was what she wanted.
She would have been, what, thirty-three then? Only a few years older than Gwen was now. Married at eighteen, so fifteen years into it, and with a husband who no longer cared for her.
Gwen would never have done that. Well, easy enough to say that now. She wasn’t much older than Alice had been when she got married. What if Ronnie had lived? Would she be living her life or his now? Would he have supported her desire to go to university? What would they have been like fifteen years later?
Would he have let her work with Iris at The Right Sort?
Nonsense, darling. Our life is perfect. I shall provide everything you could possibly want. Have some more children.
“He died before you learned all of his flaws … a paragon forever.”
Alice was married to Andrea long enough to see his flaws.
A Royal Affair Page 20