Legends of the Lost Lilies

by Jackie French

  She smiled at the maid as she came to collect the tray, realising that whatever face or frivolousness she showed outside this house, no one would ask the servants, ‘Is your new mistress kind?’ ‘Thank you, Isobel. That was most excellent. Please give my compliments to the cook.’

  The girl smiled with obvious relief. ‘I will, your ladyship.’ She hesitated. ‘What would your ladyship like for dinner? There is chicken,’ she added delicately.

  Ah, a moment for tact. In pre-war days the comtesse could have demanded anything she wished for dinner. A footman or kitchen maid would have hurried immediately for the langoustes, the lobster, the noisette of lamb. But in these days even the chicken must have been procured with great trouble and enormous expense on the black market. Even a lamb chop could possibly not be obtained this afternoon, no matter how many francs were available to purchase it.

  ‘A breast of chicken, poached,’ Sophie announced, and saw Isobel’s face lighten even more, for now there would be leftover chicken for the servants to share. ‘A green salad, and after?’ Sophie shrugged, which made the fur tickle her neck, which was already itching. Why did women condemn themselves to this kind of garment? ‘Whatever else cook suggests after that.’ She had seen winter lettuces in the back garden, so a green salad would be possible.

  Isobel returned half an hour later to dress her. Sophie had already redone her make-up. She sat while the maid arranged her hair, not commenting on the hair pieces. She held her legs out one by one for stockings and more of those wretched mile-high heels, then stood for the dress to be carefully draped and fastened round her. Sophie found her skin was damp. She was more nervous now than on the journey. Then, the outcome had been clear: success or death. Now, she was about to enter a forest of maybes.

  A girl she had known for fourteen years, as she became a young woman. Impulsive, self-centred, so lacking in empathy that even Lily accepted that only self-interest would motivate her.

  And loyalty. Violette had that. But to whom was Violette loyal now? Surely, still, to Sophie, to Jones and Green and Lily, the only family she had. And yet . . .

  It had seemed so clear back in England. Violette would have all the connections needed. But Violette’s actions were not always . . . sensible? A little overdramatic, too. Violette would never be a lady’s maid, like her mother, or a quiet dressmaker, but must head the only fashion house to rival Chanel . . .

  ‘The car is here, your ladyship.’

  ‘Thank you, Isobel. May I have the lilies?’

  A short journey, with the same quiet elderly driver as before, the vast bouquet of lilies beside her on the seat.

  Tomorrow she must do the most obvious tasks for a comtesse newly arrived from the south, in a house stripped by its previous occupant: find a black-market source of champagne, of cognac, Burgundy, Bordeaux and moselle, perhaps, as well. Flowers, too, and chocolate and pre-war notepaper for the invitation list Violette would design for her, for those who liked wealth, fun, good food and most excellent wine, did not care particularly where they found them and wouldn’t question a new acquaintance who could provide them.

  The limousine drew up. ‘When do you next require me, your ladyship?’

  She smiled as he held his hand to help her out. ‘I will walk back, I think.’ And remember, perhaps, the ghosts of Nigel and Lily with her.

  The driver glanced at the height of her heels, then quickly looked away. Damn — she had not thought how tiring the high heels would be. ‘Or maybe four o’clock, perhaps. Thank you. But you may need to wait.’

  ‘It is no matter, your ladyship.’

  Nor would it be, for he was paid by the hour. But she smiled deeply at him. ‘Thank you. You are so very kind.’ Then gazed at the doorway in front of her.

  Elegant. Discreet. Expensive. Marble pillars flecked with gold, and marble steps as well, three, leading to a polished door of bronze and glass. She pushed it open, once more a swan taking flight, the bouquet of lilies in her arms. I am young, I am young, I am young, she told herself, for today’s performance here would begin to establish her Parisian identity.

  A woman approached: black clad, with a small violet embroidered on one lapel. Also elegant, discreet, expensive. And very expertly assessing. ‘Good afternoon, madame. How may I help you?’

  ‘I am here to see Mademoiselle Violette.’

  ‘But of course.’ The slightest hesitation. ‘You have an appointment?’ She used the tone of one who knows with infinite regret that no appointment has been made. ‘It does not matter. Even if Mademoiselle Violette cannot attend herself, I am sure we can provide all that madame desires.’

  ‘An evening dress,’ said Sophie dreamily. ‘And dresses for inordinate pleasure. Another coat, perhaps,’ she gestured at her fur, ‘as this is so sombre.’

  Another assessment: rich enough to bypass the rationing then, and intelligent enough to accept that it would cost a lot to bypass.

  ‘I will tell Mademoiselle Violette you are here.’ This tone indicated it was a gesture only to a promising customer, and that Violette herself would not appear. ‘Meanwhile if madame will come this way?’ She gestured to an assistant, another woman clad in black, younger, not as elegant nor as expensive. ‘Please tell Mademoiselle Violette that . . .’

  ‘. . . the Comtesse de Brabant is here,’ said Sophie, and watched the expressions of both women flicker into deeper interest at her title.

  ‘That the Comtesse de Brabant is in the lilac salon,’ said the first woman, with even more warmth in her voice.

  ‘Yes, Madame Ilcy, your ladyship.’

  ‘And would you give her these, too?’ Sophie handed the girl the lilies.

  ‘Certainement, your ladyship.’ A slight curtsey from the girl, a buttery deference now from Madame Ilcy. Sophie let them take her coat, appreciate that the dress was a Violette, and the emeralds extremely large.

  The lilac salon was exactly that, a comfortable room lined in lilac silk, two armchairs and a small table on a Persian carpet, the rest of the floor parquet. A plain room, expensive and elegant, where nothing would detract from the beauty of the garments to be displayed.

  ‘Coffee, your ladyship? A tisane? Or champagne?’

  ‘Champagne,’ said Sophie, adding an absent-minded flick of her fingers. Champagne so early in the afternoon was extremely nouveau riche, and perfect for her role . . .

  An ornate silver tray, etched with violets, a champagne coupe, a frosted silver casing for a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, it’s neck draped in a white linen napkin, a plate of macarons, another of small cheese gougères, steaming from the oven. Sophie took one and felt it dissolve in her mouth. Superb. Madame Ilcy poured a half glass of champagne, fizzing delightfully. Sophie sipped, then casually left the glass to lose its bubble on the table beside her. She hoped that the rest of the bottle — and the contents of her glass — would be enjoyed by the staff.

  The door opposite opened. A model strutted in, the white tulle frothing at her feet. Sophie shrugged. ‘Pretty, but I think not. I would like something a little more . . . exciting.’

  The girl pirouetted, retreated, no doubt to pass on the assessment to whoever chose the garments to be sent out.

  ‘The ration coupons . . .’ asked Sophie delicately. No civilian in France would have enough coupons for a dress with so much material, unless they had an exemption from the authorities.

  ‘Do not discompose yourself, your ladyship. It will be no problem.’

  A walking dress next, spring green with flowers embroidered on the hem, the fashionably slim lines breaking as the model strode and turned, a slit in the skirt showing her long stockinged legs.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Sophie leaned back comfortably and took another gougère.

  The next evening dress was black. Sophie shook her head immediately. The girl turned at once at the gesture.

  The door opened once more. ‘Ah,’ said Sophie, leaning forwards. That fabric! Green satin shot with gold, a fabric no one had sold since the war began, perhaps, with gold e
mbroidery in a subtle pattern across one side.

  The dress was floor length, its lines slim and sweeping to the floor, the collar buttoned high but the neckline open in a series of scallops which showed a daring amount of bosom without flagrant indecency, and cut deeply but narrowly almost to the waist at the back. The skirt was slit like the walking dress, but on either side rather than the middle, though each cut was overlapped with pleated chiffon so the model’s legs were tantalisingly glimpsed, rather than displayed.

  ‘This. It is divine! How soon can it be made? I must have it this week, earlier if possible.’ There was no need to pretend eagerness. It was far from her usual style, but Sophie found herself longing to wear it. Violette truly had genius to know that in war-time women yearned for a dress like this . . .

  ‘My dear Comtesse!’

  The woman who entered was not the waif of more than ten years earlier, nor the rebel of Thuringa. Violette had absorbed Paris, from the perfection of her short curls to the heels as high as Sophie’s, the violet dress that was a narrow sheath until she moved, once again showing the miracle of pleating.

  The scent of lilies. Sophie stood for an embrace and six kisses, three on each cheek. Violette stood back. ‘But you look younger every year, ma chérie!’ She leaned forwards and whispered, ‘Your hair colour! Magnifique!’

  ‘My darling Violette, that dress! It could have been made for me!’

  ‘I must have dreamed that you’d be here, Comtesse. There is another, too, that you must have, the softest froth of purple. Madame, the purple empire line for the comtesse and she must, must have the walking dress edged in gold. Few have the legs for a gold hem, or the poitrine for the empire line, but your figure — parfaite, always!’ Violette kissed her fingers and the air. ‘Now, my dear Comtesse, I must leave you for a little while to Madame Ilcy, who will take your orders and, oh, the boredom of the measurements, for I think perhaps you are slimmer than you were?’

  Sophie acquired the look of a woman who had desired slimness. ‘I believe I am.’

  ‘And then, madame, you must show the comtesse to my drawing room. You are free for an apéritif, Comtesse? Please? It has been so long!’

  Sophie inclined her head most graciously.

  An hour later, measurements discreetly taken in a comfortable warm room, nodding condescendingly as she passed a gaggle of women. Two of them were French and three had American accents. All of them over fifty, all rigidly corseted and rouged far too heavily. All were obviously envious of a much younger woman accompanied now by three madames, not the single one they shared, ushering the newcomer to a corridor they obviously knew led to the fabulous Violette’s own drawing room.

  The first madame knocked; the second opened the door to the ‘Entrez!’; all three madames inclined their heads and shoulders in what was almost a curtsey as they left Violette and the comtesse to their embraces.

  Violette waited four seconds after the door closed, her hands still lightly on Sophie’s shoulders, then gave a cry, hugging her, crying just a little. ‘Aunt Sophie! I hoped when I saw the flowers, and then I saw you! But Aunt Lily has not sent you to liaise with the resistance, surely? It is not right! That is for . . .’ she hesitated on the word younger ‘. . . those who do not do important work, like you.’

  ‘Is it safe to talk here?’

  ‘Always. The walls are thick. No one will interrupt.’

  ‘I am not with the resistance. But I need your help.’

  Violette grinned, the grin of the urchin singing on street corners. ‘I would have been most angry if you had not said that. Two years and Mr Lorrimer does not send a message.’ She shrugged. ‘So I have helped my country myself, me, moi.’

  ‘How?’ asked Sophie wryly.

  ‘Oh, removing those who should not exist, of course. They all come here, their wives, their mistresses. They arrange that I have whatever I need. And then one day, pouff! They are gone.’

  Murder? Oh my word. And this is exactly why James has never used you, thought Sophie. And what if Violette’s . . . activities . . . were discovered while Sophie was still in Paris or, for that matter, if the comtesse was known to be her friend? ‘Violette, what if —?’

  ‘You think I can be caught? I will not be. I make most certain of it. No method twice, no suspicion ever it is not a death most naturelle.’ She looked at Sophie seriously. ‘You think I just make dresses, me? But these are my family now, the cutters, the embroiderers, the girls who cook or clean, who make deliveries. I have over a hundred employees now and all can feed their families. You think I would risk them?’

  Sophie thought of Jones and Greenie. Violette had not even asked after her parents. Family indeed.

  ‘I do not think you would,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Good. Now you must tell me how I can help you.’

  ‘I need to be visible so I am invisible. I must become the comtesse so I may ask favours, meet people . . .’

  ‘A spy? There is information I can give you, information from those Vichy rats I would have given Mr Lorrimer but he does not ask, and if he does not ask I cannot send, not without contacting the resistance and that is too great a risk, for they might ask me for favours and the Boche might hear.’

  ‘Information about the Vichy government would be useful.’ She could put any useful information in the advertisements in the Paris Monde. ‘But I need information from Germany too. I want to meet high-ranking German officers, from the old military families, ones with aristocratic connections . . .’

  ‘The prinzessin has engineered this,’ said Violette flatly.

  Sophie hesitated. ‘Not directly.’

  ‘She would find a way back into your life, that one. She says she will spy for the English, no? But that is a show for Sophie.’

  ‘She doesn’t know I’m here.’

  Violette shrugged. ‘No? And yet you are here, where her countrymen are in power. She spies for Germany, she spies for England. Has she not shown she cannot be trusted?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ How could she make Violette understand how each of Lily’s girls had been chosen, trained, to put the good of humanity even above that of their own nation? Lily was a far better judge of character than Sophie could ever be, for Lily had been right. As soon as Hannelore had seen the evil of Hitler and his regime she had turned to the country that would eventually need to defeat him . . .

  Suddenly she longed to see Hannelore again. After the war there would be sunlight, and kangaroos, time to rekindle friendship, which had been more than friendship, till the enmity of their countries eroded it.

  Violette regarded her with raised eyebrows. ‘You know her uncle is a widower now? His rich American wife, she died in an air raid.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He is not.’

  ‘You have met him? He’s in Paris?’ Sophie tried to keep the alarm from her voice. James had seemed so sure Dolphie was in Germany.

  A hesitation. ‘He is not here now. He visits Paris sometimes, and buys his mistress dresses here. Not a mistress that he loves, of course, but a mistress for his arm, his bed. All Boche in Paris must keep a mistress. It is compulsory, even if they will not let us dance. But he does not love her.’

  ‘Violette, I am not interested in the Count von Hoffenhausen.’ Or not like that, she thought. ‘I have a husband I love . . .’

  ‘Ah, of course. How is your Daniel?’ Violette asked politely. ‘And Aunt Lily and Rose and Danny and my parents?’

  ‘All well,’ she lied. Violette did not need to know that Lily was supposed to be missing in France. Nor did Sophie know how or even exactly where Violette’s parents were. ‘They send their love.’

  ‘Sophie, please go home,’ said Violette bluntly. ‘You and the prinzessin — no and no and no. Even if she means good she will bring you harm.’

  ‘I did not say I will meet her,’ Sophie pointed out.

  ‘You did not say that you will not.’

  ‘Then I will say it now. As far as I know Hannelore is i
n Germany. I am based in Paris. I promise I have no intention of contacting her, nor any reason to think she knows I am here. But I can’t tell you more than that. Violette, if I am caught I will not mention your name, but that will be because I have met you here, once only — all the help you can give me must be by messages — and so they will not ask. And if you are caught, there will be little you can tell, except who I am and where.’

  ‘You think I would betray you?’

  ‘No.’ Sophie suddenly realised she meant it. Violette would be one of the few who torture could not terrify. She had grown up with violence, had endured it and had taken revenge.

  ‘Good. So, what do you wish first?’

  Sophie smiled. ‘The names of the best black marketeers in Paris. The names of five possible dinner party guests who would be likely to pretend they remember meeting the Comtesse de Brabant in the south of France in exchange for extremely good food and wine. But no one who has lived in the south of France, in case they ever met the real one. They must be the kind of people who will ask me to dine with high-ranking German officers, or to visit nightclubs where I might meet German officers, ones who do not bring their wives to Paris . . .’

  ‘Ha. Wives are not invited to Paris. Paris is where one finds a mistress.’ She made a fly-away gesture with her fingers. ‘There were more German wives when the Americans still flocked to Paris before they joined the war. But Boche-loving butterflies? Pah! I can name you all too many. But let us think who would be the most use . . .’

  Half an hour later, Sophie’s list temporarily complete, she stood. ‘Thank you. If I come to the salon again it’s best we don’t meet. Perhaps you could send an employee for my next fitting?’

  ‘Of course. It is done most often. I will think more, tonight, and ask, most discreetly, what Boche officers might soon be in Paris.’

  ‘Perhaps put the next suggestions in a gift of pastries? Use the old lemon juice or vinegar invisible ink trick, and I will send you chocolates, with the writing on the inside of the box. Violette, my very dear Violette, please stay safe . . .’