‘I survived the battle zones of one war for several years. I can dress a wound, splint a broken leg, trap, skin and cook rabbits, mice, pigeons, sparrows, and possibly hedgehogs, assuming that’s the same technique as rabbits, and my father taught me how to disable a dog if it attacks me. I can find my way by sun and stars, ride bareback, side-saddle, or with any saddle or horse I am offered, and swim beneath a duck undetected to pull it under and have it for dinner.’ An Australian stockman had taught the young Sophie that, though in fact she had been a woman. ‘I can also install and command a field hospital. I had not practised stabbing a man in the heart, but as you said, as it is likely to be messy and noisy I may have wasted your time and mine learning to do so.’
He eyed her. ‘Congratulations, Miss Jane. What can’t you do that you might need?’
She considered. ‘I need a refresher course in German. The more fluent I am the better, even if I pretend to know very little. But everyone subconsciously prefers those who speak their language well.’
‘That will be attended to.’
‘So I have been informed. I know the latest English fashions. I don’t know what might be worn on the Continent. I presume you can’t help me there?’
‘That is Miss Dorothy’s affair. What else?’
‘How to parachute. Or, rather, how to survive a parachute jump. I suspect I can do the jumping part.’
‘Which shows that you have never done it.’ He allowed himself a small smile at the thought of her attempting it. ‘That will be taught elsewhere.’
‘Excellent. A sky flowering with parachutes above us every few weeks would make Shillings a little conspicuous. May I have lunch now, Commander?’
She didn’t like the glint in his eyes. ‘You believe we are finished, Miss Jane?’
‘I believe you now intend to make me do fifty push-ups and various other exercises. However I live on a large property; I help with shearing, fencing and even chopping firewood since the war began. I find it relaxing after my other work is completed. I can bring down a stroppy fly-blown ram then dag it. I believe I can do without daily push-ups.’
‘You will, however, follow my orders.’
‘No, Commander. I am going to undertake a role where I will be the person who gives orders, rather than takes them. Learning to take orders might seriously damage the impression I must give. Would you like to join me at luncheon? No?’ She had only offered because she was extremely sure he would not accept. ‘Then I doubt I need another session with you, but I do hope we meet again, Commander.’
Sophie allowed her tone a touch of graciousness. She could almost hear the reply he did not utter: ‘Not if I see you first, lady.’ Though that was possibly not what he’d prefer to call her.
‘I was extremely badly behaved this morning.’ Sophie served herself a large helping of green peas, a small helping of roast duck in orange sauce — the orange trees must still be doing well in the orangerie, as England’s orange juice supplies were kept for children now, but even this attempt to recreate the glamorous life of the aristocracy for the trainees must be affected by meat rationing — and an enormous helping of potatoes baked in their jackets. They were dining in the Shillings library.
Emily’s plate was more moderately filled, her impeccable burgundy velvet austerity dress adorned by two rows of perfect pearls, with subtle embroidery at the cuffs. One changed for dinner, naturally. ‘What terrible faux pas have you made?’
‘I did not even try to charm the commander. In fact I enjoyed making him furious, which of course the poor man was unable to show.’ Sophie shrugged. ‘I don’t want to be here, but I can’t be angry with James . . .’ Or Nigel, she thought. ‘So I took it out on the commander. I should really have been practising “charm, effective on military personnel”.’
‘Not worth it. Minor public school,’ remarked Emily. She neatly tucked her last small mouthful into the pouch of her cheek just as they had been shown by Miss Lily — the best way to continue a conversation during a meal without long gaps between mouthfuls, or even worse, displaying food in an open mouth. ‘He’s a bit of an oik really. From a decidedly second-rate regiment.’
‘He does seem . . . out of place. But he also seems to know his job.’
‘He’s capable. He doesn’t want to be here either, but was wounded last year — he’s off to Palestine soon enough. He assumes our girls and women are going to act as temporary liaisons with the resistance groups in occupied Europe, hence all the garrotting and daggers. I hope when he is redeployed James will find someone a little more suited to our establishment.’
‘Who else is on the staff?’
‘Darling, you make us sound like chambermaids. There’s Madame and Fräulein for languages of course. Both have impeccable backgrounds, so don’t worry about their accents.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Of course, you deal with Continentals all the time, don’t you?’ The gentlest of digs at Sophie not just inheriting wealth from ‘trade’, somewhat more acceptable now than before the Great War, but also actually indulging in business herself. ‘You’ll have at least a half-hour with Miss Marcella tomorrow morning, instead of the commander. She was in a circus family before she caught the eye of her husband twenty years ago or so. I believe she was wearing a short pink skirt and spangles while standing on the back of a galloping stallion at the time. She is really quite delightful, despite her background. A half-hour will give her the time to judge whether you might be taught how to walk a tightrope between two buildings, or climb the ivy on a wall.’
‘I don’t think my role will need either.’
‘But your escape might. You may seem to be succeeding then suddenly . . .’
‘Tightrope time?’
‘Literally perhaps, as well as metaphorically.’
‘Point taken. How is your spouse?’
‘Visible. That is his job now. Gilbert is visible in the Home Guard, at regimental dinners, at war bonds rallies. Gilbert has always been superb at being visible.’ Emily helped herself to another slice of duck. ‘You were the great success of our year, darling. Poor Mouse, dead in childbirth, Hannelore’s estates lost, and not even married, not to mention under Nazi rule, and here you are a countess and now married to a man who is . . .’ she considered ‘. . . effectual.’
Which was possibly the most damning comment possible about her own husband, Gilbert Sevenoaks. And Emily must not have been told that Hannelore had been a Nazi agent, and then a British one. ‘You’ve been unhappy?’
‘Strangely, no. Having a nonentity as a husband — one hardly notices he is at the breakfast table, as long as one makes approving noises after he speaks — has left me free. I’ve had my salons, the odd dalliance. I have my own network now. No, not like Lily’s. Political. I intend to stand for parliament when the war is over and we have elections again. I will be the Conservative member for Little Worrington.’ This was the district of her family seat. ‘My future constituents will be horrified at voting for a woman, of course, but not as shocked as they would be at the idea of voting for anyone but a Conservative.’
‘What does Gilbert think about that?’
‘A trifle embarrassed, but he doesn’t want to stand himself — it would interfere with the hunt and the shooting. He’ll campaign for me. As I said, he is excellent at being visible. Ignore my waspish remarks. Miss Lily would gently reprove me. Gilbert and I are fond of each other, Sophie, when it occurs to us. Oh, an apple pie! Genuine pastry! Thank you for bringing our dinner all the way up to the Hall, Mrs Goodenough! Everyone else is getting tapioca pudding tonight.’
Emily waited till the cook had left. ‘I keep seeing echoes of Miss Lily,’ she said softly. ‘It’s hard. It must be worse to have lived here with Nigel, and to miss them both.’
Only a small number had ever known of Lily-Nigel’s joint existence. Emily was not one of them. Sophie simply nodded.
‘I miss her dreadfully,’ confessed Emily. ‘Dorothy too. We can teach grace, and manners. But Dor
othy and I don’t have Miss Lily’s insight into others, the ability to feel as they do that Miss Lily said is the true heart of charm.’ Emily smiled in memory. ‘She was the most graceful woman I’ve ever seen. The most beautiful too, though I could never work out why, as her features weren’t classically pretty at all. But when she smiled . . . somehow all my memories of her are smiling. Oh dear,’ she dabbed her eyes with an impeccable white handkerchief, ‘this will never do.’
Sophie found her own eyes damp. ‘She saw what was good and strong in us, and made us who we might be.’
To her surprise Emily rose. Sophie stood too, as Emily embraced her, then said, ‘We may not have a chance to talk again. Your schedule is going to be full and we never know when there’ll be the chance to get you across the Channel. You need to be ready fast, and my nose is kept to the grindstone. Just . . . always have an escape route, darling, even if you can’t manage a tightrope. You are my oldest friend.’ To Sophie’s slight shock Emily obviously meant that. ‘I’d hate to lose you to a firing squad.’
‘I have many reasons for staying alive,’ said Sophie quietly.
‘Good,’ said the woman who was no longer merely Mrs Colonel Sevenoaks.
Chapter 12
Change never happens as quickly as people of good will hope. But look at the past; the children who slaved in coalmines last century because they were cheaper than ponies are now educated; women have the vote, and are even allowed to study mathematics, both seemingly impossible when I was a child. I have seen so much change in my lifetime. What will change in yours, or in your daughters’?
Miss Lily, 1937
VIOLETTE
The woman was young, blonde, endowed with a bosom that was perfection and a waist that was tiny, and strolled into Maison Violette’s main salon with the aplomb of one who had spent two years using her attributes to hold the attention of men who would reward her with gifts and, just possibly, marriage, if one were free and she saw no better prospect.
This afternoon at Maison Violette was the occasion for arranging such a gift. It was, most probably in this case, a farewell one. Violette had enough experience to judge that from the young woman’s face, smiling, but also evaluating which dress might not just cost the most but which looked expensive too, to make the most of the time she had invested. Ruby beading around the neck and cuffs and in two rows about the hem — most noticeable indeed, and by far the most costly of all the ensembles mademoiselle had been shown. The man, a Gestapo colonel, merely seemed amused as he gazed around the room, until he saw Violette.
His gaze stopped, as if he had found what he had been subtly searching for. He gave an almost imperceptible smile. She herself was this man’s target, Violette realised, and the reason the gift was a Violette creation, rather than diamond earrings.
And she knew him. The Count von Hoffenhausen, the man Aunt Sophie called ‘Dolphie’, who had kidnapped Aunt Sophie and whose men she, Violette, herself, had killed. Pouff! They had deserved it. But this man had seen her then, though as far as she knew he had not known her name.
He knew it now. And not just as a couturier.
His young companion touched the colonel’s hand and pointed at the model in the ruby-embossed dress, as she slowly turned for inspection. The dress’s heavy silk was from a pre-war kimono, each a work of art in themselves, but turned into yet another work of art, which they deserved. Violette felt slight regret though each time she repurposed one of the kimonos. The Japanese treasured clothing for generations, its age as well as its beauty given respect. Sadly, this dress — though cut with such brilliance across the hip, its hem weighted with such perfection that it would hang straight no matter how its wearer moved or sat — would be discarded in a season if another admirer proved as generous, with only its rubies kept perhaps. But Violette had always accepted that for the ignorant, clothes were a transient art . . .
‘Mademoiselle Violette?’ Yes, he knew her, and not for her designs.
‘Yes, Kolonel . . .?’
‘I think you know who I am,’ he said softly. Handsome, even if his hair was scattered grey. But this man was not just a Boche but a most committed Nazi who had worked to bring Herr Hitler to power.
‘I think . . .’ Violette paused, considered, then smiled at him with almost full wattage. ‘Yes, I think I do remember you. Will you have coffee in my office perhaps, Kolonel? Madame Fleurette can deal with She let her fingers fly in a gesture that might have referred to the dress, the payment or his companion, giving equal unimportance to them all. ‘Gisette!’ she called to her assistant, ‘two coffees, please, in my office.’
She considered the essence of a certain mushroom, as she led him to her office. She had brought it from Australia and used it only once. It was most useful, for the first symptoms of heart failure did not occur until a day later, and few would know what substance to search for even if they suspected the death was not natural.
It would be so easy to slip a teaspoonful of the clear, only slightly bitter liquid into his coffee, this man who had kept Aunt Sophie who Violette, yes, loved, in a dark cellar, too drugged to escape. This monster had fed the fires of hatred until now the world burned. But it would be best not to poison him, she decided, till she knew exactly what he wished from her. She doubted it was dresses.
Her smile did not waver as she led him in and sat with him in her office that was as much a drawing room as an office. Her desk, created for the Versailles of a king called Louis — Violette could never remember which number he was — looked elegantly not like a desk at all as Gisette placed the silver tray upon a side table, then poured the coffee exactly as Violette preferred it — strong, sweet and black. The colonel shook his head to cream and sugar. He waited till Gisette departed.
‘Do you still correspond with the woman you call your Aunt Sophie?’
Ah, no pretence then. But no reason to give him more information than he had, either. Violette was glad now she had not drugged his coffee yet. This was . . . interesting. She smiled again, rather than reply.
He sipped his coffee, as relaxed as if discussing one of the Wagner concerts the Boche seemed to love so much. ‘I have followed your aunt’s life, you see.’
And Violette had met Aunt Sophie when a woman employed by this man’s niece had pretended to be sympathique, to help her find her long-lost mother, not from kindness but so that Violette might endanger the Vailes somehow.
‘You tried to use me as a weapon when I was a child.’ She sipped her own coffee. ‘Many have tried that. None succeeded.’
‘I hope I do not underestimate you now.’
Another sip. Had he guessed she was not just calmly designing jewels of silk and chiffon for collaborators? Now he knew who she was, including what he might assume about her connection to Mr Lorrimer, it would not be a difficult deduction. But what could he prove, if he suspected murder?
But then the Gestapo did not have to prove. They had only to accuse. Those who confessed vanished, and so did those who did not.
The problem then was to find out if he had told anyone about her. He had come here, and alone, when he might have sent an agent to fetch her, to make her a little readier to talk.
Why?
He put his cup down and watched her over steepled hands. Long fingers, and soft. Even his coat would be unbuttoned by his valet. Violette thought of Aunt Sophie’s hands, which washed up on Cookie’s night off, held her horse’s reins without bothering with gloves, built a campfire by the river and boiled a billy at a picnic . . .
‘Mademoiselle, someone like yourself, who has English parents, must always be under slight suspicion. Unless of course you are known to be under my protection. Perhaps we may be useful to each other.’
Violette smiled at him again over her coffee cup. Sometimes men were enchanted by her smiles. Just sometimes, she chose to terrify. This smile had all the charm of a sunrise. ‘Really, mon Kolonel? Please tell me more.’
Chapter 13
You would think that by having three dis
guises, I never would have had to pretend to be what I am not, merely select which aspects of myself to show to the world. But none of my public faces has been the entire truth.
Miss Lily, in a letter to Sophie, 1944, unsent
Dearest Daniel,
Townsville is hot, humid and strangely unchanged from when I last saw it. Much is changed of course, with the military presence, but I keep expecting that if I shut my eyes all will be as it was when I was here years ago.
As I mentioned in my cable, the problems here are not going to be easily solved, but it is vital that they are — corned beef is just too valuable to take chances with. I may also need to go inland to visit the suppliers — a factory can only be as effective as its materials. It will undoubtedly be difficult, uncomfortable and I very much wish I didn’t have to go, as staring at the rear end of cattle is only really interesting when they are your own or, possibly, if you are a bull. But I don’t have a choice or, rather, I do — to be where I most want to be on earth with you or heading into central Queensland to ensure that bully beef not just continues to be supplied, but that we can greatly exceed any production target we expected in the next twelve months.
I won’t bore you with details and I probably won’t be able to once I head into the outback. Communication has never been good there — one reason why I’m going — and it is probably far worse now. So you will be spared my adventures with bulldust, grass that either vanishes or grows to your knees overnight, and what is either drought or flood, because Queensland seems always to be in one state or another. So is Thuringa, of course, but it is different when it is your own drought or flood. The one person you might share some of this cattle misery with is Midge. I’d add Harry, but he wouldn’t hear you, and Midge will tell him anyway after you have gone, in that odd sign language and lip-reading they have developed. Darling, please do see Midge if you want to moan about my cattle adventures. Midge will always understand.
Legends of the Lost Lilies Page 8