‘Gold,’ whispered Sophie.
‘No, gold is the colour of the harvest, of mature womanhood. You are the silver moon, the virgin huntress, and no, I do not mean literally virgin. Feel the silver light shine from you, like the moonlight lighting a path for you. Always imagine your arms are wings. Watch the light in front of you and you feel it glow inside. You may sit now — no, do not look around at the chair. That is the caution of age. Just sit! Excellent. We will practise again tomorrow. You may make a Juliet yet. Now, show me your knees.’
Sophie lifted her skirt. Miss Portia sighed. ‘Your face could almost have passed for twenty-five, with no change at all, but not your knees. Knees always age with us. Luckily your role requires silk stockings, which will lift and shape your knees, as your hems must be at least two inches higher than they are now. You must begin to wear higher heels than you do now, too. Do not even change into low-heeled slippers. I don’t know if you realise it, but there is a slight stride as you walk, even in the heels you have on now.’
Years in low heels and riding boots, thank goodness, thought Sophie.
‘High heels will tilt your pelvis and make longer steps impossible. I want you to practise walking by placing one foot directly in from of the other, rather than slightly to one side, so your hips and upper body sway. We will also provide a corset that will nip your waist and hips as well as lift your buttocks,’ the smile became a delightful grin, ‘and make your breasts point upwards like an ack-ack gun about to assault the enemy, which sadly is the fashion these days in certain quarters. This will also eliminate any sag.’
Only as long as I am wearing it, thought Sophie regretfully. The downside of a bountiful bosom meant that gravity won a little sooner, especially when one had fed twins.
‘Now, if you would unbutton your dress a little, Miss Jane.’ Miss Portia peered at the portion of chest revealed. ‘Excellent, not tanned at all.’
Sophie was suddenly glad she always wore high-buttoned shorts in the paddock, though that was more to keep off flies than protect her skin.
‘A white bosom is far more seductive than a tanned one, especially if the face and arms are slightly darker. We must make sure your dresses are cut low at the back, too — the Japanese quite rightly find the nape of the neck extraordinarily attractive. Why do so many women cover theirs? Do not forget the perfume, a dab on each breast, your wrists, as well as behind your ears, a floral and civet one that breathes sex to you as well as others.’
‘I am seductive?’
‘Delightfully so, and with little subtlety. You will flutter your eyelashes, glance at men sideways, smile at men but not at women, unless you think they will be useful. You are also extremely wealthy and must use the black market if you are to sustain a pre-war lifestyle. Servants will be provided and a house has already been leased in your name. Your jewels will be the comtesse’s, genuine and ostentatious. Wear at least two rings apart from your wedding band and engagement ring, as well as a necklace, bracelet, brooch, perhaps a jewelled hair clip — always too many. Diamonds, even during the day, no matter what you are wearing. Diamond drops in your ears even when you wear your pearls, which are the extremely long double strands you were given before your wedding, not the single strand you wear now.’
‘Where will my clothes come from?’ Sophie felt a strange revulsion at wearing a dead woman’s garments.
‘We are having several old Violette creations shipped over to the leased house — you will pretend that you slipped to Paris while your husband visited his brother in Monaco in 1940. This will be the reason you can claim acquaintance with Violette now. A few of the comtesse’s favourites will be sent to Paris — it would be strange to abandon them all — and her usual dressmaker is making new clothes too. Don’t worry — she has a dressmaker’s shape for the comtesse, so fittings weren’t needed before, and she will not think the lack of them strange now.’ Miss Portia raised a perfectly shaped and coloured eyebrow. ‘You will also have new underclothes: silk, naturally. But you long for haute couture and for parties, which is why you have come to Paris now you can finally spend your late husband’s money. You may also possibly be hoping to lure a lover, but not a husband, as you enjoy your freedom.’
So a dalliance with German officers on leave would be logical for a woman of no scruples, thought Sophie, as most would be married, with no wish for a long-term liaison.
‘What else do I need to know about my life?’
‘Mr Green will give you a dossier with the basic facts, though it’s unlikely anyone will ask you where you were born, or to whom. You have miscarried twice, which you might just once confess to a female acquaintance to form a bond between you. It is also possible the count wrote to his family about the pregnancies, even if they refused to meet you. Burn the dossier once you have memorised its information. If the wrong person finds it they may wonder why there is a dossier on the Comtesse de Brabant.’
Sophie had assumed there’d be no ‘wrong hands’ at Shillings. But even the ‘right hands’ might be dangerous, if the information could be obtained under torture.
Miss Portia gave a shrug that contained a smile. ‘Your attitude will matter more than facts. You enjoy your title, but find French hereditary titles slightly amusing and far too recent. You will confess you find military rank more interesting, for it has been earned, and traditional German, Austrian or Hungarian titles impressive, even if they have ostensibly been abolished.’
‘I suspect German military rank is given to men who were simply born into the right families and went to the correct schools, just like high English military rank,’ said Sophie.
‘Ah, but the comtesse does not know that. You are scrupulous in paying, over-paying and over-tipping. You delight, in fact, in spending as much as you can despite the austerity of war. You live for the day and wish others to enjoy the sunlight too. You order a bottle of champagne and drink a single glass; you procure the most delectable meals possible under rationing and manage a few mouthfuls of each course. You never abstain from caviar and will go to great lengths to attain all this luxury on the black market. You are charming and fun and extremely obvious —’
‘And no one would expect so spectacular and obvious a charlatan to be a fraud?’
‘We hope not, my dear,’ said Miss Portia, patting her hand. ‘Would you like to slip into these?’ She produced shoes that were far more silver than grey, with heels almost as thin and high as chopsticks. ‘Shall we try a walk across the room? You are a swan about to take wing, and you glow silver. Remember that from now on you will flaunt your body, your wealth and your availability.’
Sophie looked at her sharply. ‘But I will not be available. I am prepared to flirt, to tease, even to promise. Small dinner parties, where the wine might be fortified with vodka to lessen inhibitions and make the conversation less discreet. Nothing more.’
‘That is entirely up to you, comtesse,’ said Miss Portia smoothly. She did not add, ‘And to the exigencies of war.’
‘I didn’t expect to like the comtesse,’ Sophie admitted, as she and Bob sat in armchairs by the fire in the cottage that afternoon, the dossier in her hand, a plate of Mrs Goodenough’s buttered teacakes — though far less buttered than before the war — on the side table, as well as the familiar silver teapot with its Vaile crest, and small jug for hot water to add to the pot. ‘I’m still not sure I do, but she had a rotten life. According to her maid’s report, her husband expected a son and was prepared to almost keep her prisoner till she provided one.’
‘Many men do consider themselves failures if they don’t have sons. They transfer that resentment to their wives.’
Sophie thought of her own son, probably counting the days at school till he was back at his beloved Thuringa. And not long after the Christmas after this he might be on his way to New Guinea, or even fighting in northern Australia if the Japanese invasion had begun. She forced her mind to the present. ‘What if some of the comtesse’s former friends try to contact her now? A wealthy wi
dowed comtesse might be useful.’
‘Instruct your staff to say you are not at home. You are unlikely to meet any of her former friends at Maison Violette, or any clubs German officers might take you to.’
‘The maid who provided all of this — she’s trustworthy?’
‘Totally.’ He did not tell her how he knew. ‘She will be in Spain by the time you reach Paris, however.’
Sophie nodded. The unnamed woman had already taken an enormous risk for this mission. ‘What will happen when the comtesse disappears after I come back to England? Won’t anyone I’ve been associated with be suspected?’
‘The comtesse will die in a car crash. The flames will leave her body unrecognisable. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘no one will be sacrificed to take your place. A body will be taken from the morgue.’
She did not ask by whom. ‘I’m not doing anyone out of an inheritance by spending her money, am I? No poor widowed mother?’
‘Part of the count’s estate was entailed and has already passed to his brother in Monaco. The bulk of his fortune was not entailed, so under French law it passes to his wife in the absence of children and as his parents are deceased. The comtesse’s father died on the Somme, as did her uncles and two cousins, all in the one week. Another cousin and a remaining aunt died of the Spanish flu. Her mother died of consumption a year after her marriage — the count did provide well for his mother-in-law — and she has no siblings. Her will left gifts to a local orphanage and to her servants, which have already been dispensed as farewell presents, though they will probably inherit the same amount again when her death is officially recognised.’
‘So French orphans will dine on turnips while I drink champagne?’
‘They have recently received a generous anonymous donation,’ he said gently. ‘All beneficiaries will be slightly better off, not worse.’
‘She really was alone, wasn’t she? I’m glad she thought of the orphans. Should I arrange Christmas presents for them this year?’
‘It would be out of character. She had no contact with the orphanage.’
‘Except she was an orphan herself.’ Sophie gazed at the flames in silence for a while, seeing the past, the possible future. ‘Will we have a Christmas tree this year?’ she asked at last.
‘There’ll be one at the Hall.’
‘But one for us here, before I go?’
He reached over and took her hand. ‘Yes, we will have a tree, and Christmas.’
‘Thank you,’ whispered Sophie.
The Parachute School at Ringwater, south of Manchester, had accepted that Miss Jane would train alone.
First the technique — falling with both legs together to the left or right, hands in pockets — then a series of progressively higher jumps while attached by a cable to a tower. The techniques were almost fun, reminding her of swinging on a rope tied to a branch above the river at home, then splashing down. This led to memories of swimming with Daniel, of teaching Rose and Danny to dog paddle, visions that wrenched the heart so much she had to firmly refuse the distraction.
James had somehow forwarded Rose’s and Danny’s letters to her from their boarding schools, not in their own handwriting, but via coded telegram, which was uncoded again by some unknown hand. Rose had dutifully knitted fifteen khaki socks, but doubted their shape would fit any known serviceman. Danny was glad cricket season had begun, and tactfully left out any details of the school cadet corps or weekend camps with the Militia which might disturb his mother.
She tried to tell herself she was no less their mother here, leaping on ropes, than she would be at Thuringa. But both obviously expected her to be home for the holidays. Christmas, without her children . . . without Daniel, whose letters were too full of local gossip, and too empty of himself.
She should not be here, and yet she irrevocably was.
The next stage involved three actual jumps from an aircraft, all at night, with a length of cable attached to the parachute so it opened automatically.
She had thought it would be terrifying, looking down. But all she saw was darkness and the faintest of lights to aim towards, the cold air sharp as tin against her face. The descent was peaceful, swaying, wind danced, a feeling of serene power as she tugged one cable and then another to direct herself. Was this what the eagle felt, or the powerful owl? She imagined parachuting above Thuringa, warm air currents sweeping her higher for a while, meeting the eagles face to face, after years of them soaring above her, but that brought desperate homesickness too: the smell of hot air and hotter rocks, the screaming of cicadas. Rose and Danny would be home by now . . .
The second time she landed well, but on a stone. Her thigh swelled with an egg-sized lump. She didn’t mention it.
‘You’re a natural, ma’am,’ said the instructor, leaving the warmth of the hut to join her as she gathered up her parachute, exactly on target after the third jump in the pink and grey of dawn this time, seeing the birds’ first flutters from the trees as she floated to earth.
The instructor was nameless, as indeed Ringwater was supposed to be, for she had come here by car, not train, and at night, but she had heard the name mentioned too often not to realise where she was. She wished she could tell him that her athletic skill came from being taught how to fall off a horse by the age of six — far more important than how to ride one — by the best stockwoman in New South Wales.
‘There’s a car waiting for you.’
Sophie laughed. ‘How lovely. I didn’t expect it till tonight. I must be needed to decorate the Christmas tree. I hope you have a merry one.’ And that you don’t spend it worrying about the safety of your family and your friends, she thought, and all the men and women you have trained. But who had the luxury of a carefree Christmas these days? ‘I’ll see you after Christmas, sir.’
‘Nay, I’m told you won’t be back again.’
‘But I thought there were five practice jumps?’
‘Your training has been cut short, it seems. But you’ll do.’ He held out his hand and shook hers. ‘It’s been a pleasure, ma’am, and it’s not often I say that. And don’t worry. They won’t send you down if there’s wind, or a storm. Good luck, ma’am.’
‘Good luck to you, too,’ she said. She hesitated. ‘Do you have a daughter?’
He looked immediately wary. One did not ask such questions at Ringwater.
‘Even if I confess to the Gestapo that my parachute instructor had a daughter, I doubt it would help identify you,’ she said drily. If she informed them he had a false foot, which he hid well, they might have more success. She had noticed it merely because her father had hid well the fact he’d lost a limb, too, though, in his case, it had been his leg on the North West Frontier. So many wars since his . . .
‘I have a daughter,’ the instructor admitted.
‘If I were to arrange a Christmas gift to her, marked simply To the Instructor’s Daughter, would it reach you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I may arrange it?’
‘There is no need —’
‘No, only a wish. If I survive the next week, it will be largely due to you.’ Though any skill of hers would not prevent the plane that carried her from being shot down, nor a sniper killing her before she landed, or thirty seconds after. Both knew it and knew the other knew it, too.
But he had been kind, as well as professional, sharing Thermoses of tea and slices of his wife’s boiled fruitcake with camaraderie, not flirtation, which she felt no need to practise till she reached France. Over twenty years ago she had left most of the jewellery she had brought from Australia as a gauche teenager — its flashily cut diamonds quite unsuitable for a pre-war debutante or, later, a countess — at Shillings. But there was a brooch of seed pearls, a stylised bird, that she would like this man’s daughter to have.
‘Thank you. My daughter will treasure it. Don’t worry about your skill, ma’am. You’ve a knack for it.’
For a moment Sophie wanted to ask if she might meet his family after the
war. But that would not be fair. Many, if not most, of the agents this man trained would not live to see the war’s end. Let the instructor imagine every one of them celebrating the peace with friends and family and not wait, wondering who might finally be the survivors.
Chapter 14
I have never had an unhappy Christmas. Tragic ones, desperate ones, frightened, but even when I had to scrabble for it in the corners, I have found a crumb of happiness as well. There were a few years when I don’t think I’d have endured life without it.
Miss Lily, Christmas, 1942
The car waited by a side gate. It was about ten years old, a well-kept Morris Minor, and Nigel was at the wheel, dressed as Bob in an elderly soft hat, a once-good tweed jacket sagging at the elbows and neatly darned at the cuffs, a shirt, faded tie and his usual ‘best’ moleskins.
She slipped into the seat next to him thinking, we must look like an old married couple, and nearly laughed for that was exactly what they were. She had changed into a yellow wool dress, its collar embroidered with green gum leaves, a pre-Occupation Christmas gift from Violette, the last she had received and her favourite, appropriate to wear in celebration today, under a waisted tweed coat in shades of gold to brown.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said to him, leaning over to kiss his cheek. It was slightly rough with whiskers, which as Nigel he would never have allowed. ‘You must have heard they let me out early for good behaviour.’
He did not kiss her back. ‘A change of plans,’ he said stiffly. ‘You fly out tonight, if the weather holds up. Everything you need has been prepared for you.’
Her stomach clenched, but she kept her face impassive too. ‘Ah. I see.’
So they would not have their Christmas, reading the cables and letters or presents from Australia Bob undoubtedly had to give her on Christmas morning. James had even promised to book a brief phone call to Thuringa. Just to hear their voices, to spend a day reminiscing with Nigel — for surely he might be Nigel again, not Bob, remembering Rose’s first steps, determinedly tottering even though Danny crowed as he crawled faster than her towards the table that held cake, a treat for nursery tea. And when Rose’s wet nappy had dampened the Vicar’s lap . . .
Legends of the Lost Lilies Page 10