The Cavendon Luck

FIVE

The arrangement they had made was to meet in the conservatory just before dinner, but Diedre was not there when Cecily arrived. Walking across the terracotta floor, she went over to the French doors, stood looking out at the moors rolling towards the North Sea, admiring the view. It was familiar, but never failed to please her.

Twilight had descended and the sky was already growing darker. It was a deeper blue and the far horizon was streaked with a mixture of colours: lavender and apricot, and a deep pink bleeding into red.

Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning. These words ran through her head as she remembered how often her mother had said them to her when she was a child.

Turning away from the window, Cecily strolled over to the desk, ran one hand across the mellow old wood, and lovingly so. How often she had stood here, talking to Daphne, who had made it her desk, having commandeered it when she was seventeen and facing terrible problems in her young life.

The conservatory had soon become Daphne’s private place, her haven. None of the family ever used it, and so she had taken it for herself.

From here she had planned her marriage to Hugo, a joyful event, and later it had become her command post.

After a moment longer, lingering near the desk, she walked across to a wicker chair, part of a grouping, and sat down. Her thoughts turned to Diedre. Cecily knew that the best person to talk to about Greta’s family and their predicament was Diedre. In 1914 she had gone to work at the War Office and had remained there after the Great War had ended. Only when she became engaged to Paul Drummond did she resign.

Cecily knew how grief-stricken she had been when Paul had unexpectedly, and very suddenly, died; she had helped her as best she could through that devastating first year of widowhood. One day, quite unexpectedly, Diedre had confided she was returning to her old position at the War Office. She had explained that work would ease her grief and loneliness. Also, she had explained, there was going to be a war, a very bad war, and she would be needed.

Although Diedre had never discussed her job at the War Office, Cecily was quite positive she worked in Intelligence, and Miles agreed with her. Therefore, if anyone knew how to extract someone from a foreign country, she was sure it was Diedre.

Cecily’s thoughts now turned to Greta. She had grown very attached to her and cared about her, worried about her wellbeing. Her assistant was extremely sincere, had enormous integrity, and was a hard worker; certainly Cecily had grown to depend on her. She had great insight into people, especially those who were meaningful to her; Cecily knew how much Greta was suffering because of the situation that existed in Berlin.

Greta’s father was a well-known professor of philosophy. He had studied Greats at Oxford years ago, and become an expert on Plato. In fact, he ranked as one of the greatest professors in his field. Greta adored him. She was fond of her stepmother, Heddy. As for her two half-siblings, Kurt and Elise, they were almost like her own children, and she worried about them constantly. Cecily hated to see her suffer and was mortified that she herself could do nothing to help. Leaning back in the wicker chair, Cecily closed her eyes, her mind whirling.

The sharp click of high heels on stone brought Cecily up sharply in her chair. Diedre strode into the conservatory, looking elegant in a navy-blue silk dress, which Cecily had made for her.

It was cut on the cross and made Diedre look taller and even svelter than ever. But then, Diedre had long been known for her chic fashion sense, spending much of her time in London.

‘You always make my clothes look so much better,’ Cecily exclaimed, her face filled with smiles.

Diedre laughed. ‘Thank you for the lovely compliment, but it is the dress, you know that. And it’s become my favourite.’ Diedre sat down in a chair, and said, ‘You sounded anxious earlier. So let’s talk. What’s wrong?’ Like Great-Aunt Gwendolyn, Diedre got straight to the point.

‘Greta’s family is Jewish. They need to get out of Germany. I would like to help her if I can. But I need advice. Your advice, actually.’

When she heard these words, Diedre stiffened in the chair. She shook her head vehemently. ‘That’s a tough one. Hard. And there’s no advice I can give you, Ceci.’

‘Her father, stepmother and their two children don’t have the proper travel documents apparently. They’re at their wits’ end,’ Cecily said, and fell silent when she became aware of the look of dismay on Diedre’s face, the fear in her eyes.

Diedre, who was acutely observant, understood people, knew what made them tick, was aware Cecily was being genuine and sincere about wanting to help Greta. Yet she was unaware how hard a task that would be. Not wishing to be too quickly dismissive, Diedre now said, ‘You told me a bit about Greta, when she first came to work for you. Please fill me in again. I’ve forgotten most of what you told me.’

‘Greta is German by birth, like her father. But her mother, who died when she was a child, was English. Her name was Antonia Nolan. After her mother’s untimely death, her father sent her to live with her grandmother, Catherine Nolan, who’s still alive, by the way, and lives in Hampstead. It was she who brought Greta up.’

‘Now it’s all coming back to me,’ Diedre murmured. ‘She went to Oxford, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, following in her father’s footsteps. Eventually, her father remarried, but Greta stayed on in London, preferring her life here.’

Diedre nodded. ‘And I remember something else. Greta married an Englishman, an architect.’

‘That’s right, Roy Chalmers. Sadly he died of leukaemia about five years ago now.’

‘Just out of curiosity, is Greta a British citizen? It occurs to me that with an English mother and an English husband, she must have become one. Didn’t she?’

‘Yes, and she has a British passport.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, and that passport is important here, a necessity in wartime. It won’t help her family in any way, but I’m relieved to know she can’t be interned, anything like that.’

‘She could be if she were a German? Is that what you’re saying, Diedre?’

‘I am.’

‘Well, she’s all right, protected by her English nationality. Still, she has been talking about going to Berlin to check up on her father, assess the situation,’ Cecily murmured.

‘She mustn’t go! No, no, that’s dangerous.’

‘Perhaps I could go instead. What do you think?’

‘Absolutely not. I won’t let you. There’s something else … her father might well be under scrutiny. He’s a famous man, could easily be on a list of troublemakers, so called. Being watched and not knowing it.’

‘She’ll be very upset if that’s true,’ Ceci exclaimed.

‘Don’t tell her what I said. She must not know. And she certainly cannot go to Berlin.’ Diedre sounded stern as she continued. ‘Look, I’m sorry to be negative, but the situation in Berlin is worse than you can possibly know, or even imagine. It’s dangerous – full of thugs, foreigners and Nazis, a sinister city. No one is safe.’

Cecily nodded. ‘I understand. And I do make a point of listening to you. You’re the one who knows what’s going on there better than anyone else I know.’

‘A few months ago a new rule was made. Jews were forced to go and have their passports stamped with the letter “J” for Jew.’ Diedre said this quietly.

Cecily gaped at her, aghast. ‘What a hideous rule!’

‘Yes it is. Everything they do is hideous. No, horrific.’ Diedre leaned forward, coming closer to her sister-in-law, went on in a lower voice, ‘Hitler was made Chancellor of Germany in January of 1933, and only seven months later he built the first concentration camp. It’s called Dachau.’

‘Jews are interned in the camp. Is that its purpose?’

‘That’s right, it is. And so are others … Catholics, and dissident politicians, and anyone who doesn’t agree with the Nazi credo. Anti-Semitism is rife. Hatreds fester. Violence is paramount. And people are arrested for no reason at all.’ Diedre gave Cecily a long hard stare. ‘Hitler became a virtual dictator in January of 1933 and he means to swallow up as much of Central Europe as he can.’

‘Why? Power? Does he want to rule the world?’

‘Yes. But he also wants land, the blessed space, to breed his perfect race of Aryans. Lebensraum … that’s what he calls it … this dream of land, on which to create a master race.’

Cecily was pale, and her eyes were fastened on Diedre. ‘I don’t frighten easily, but what you’re telling me does make me worried,’ Cecily confided softly.

‘Worry if you want, Cecily, but don’t be afraid. We must all be brave and strong. And we must make sure not to have our necks under the German jackboot. That would be disastrous.’

Diedre paused. ‘Look, Ceci, please don’t repeat any of this to the family. I shouldn’t really have told you. I trust in your confidentiality and your loyalty to me.’

‘You know you can trust me. But could I tell Miles?’

‘Yes, you can. However, he must be discreet as well. No chitchatting with Charlotte and Papa. You must insist on that.’

‘I will.’ There was a slight hesitation before Cecily went on, ‘Yours is an office job, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not out there, are you? Out there doing … things?’

‘No, I’m not. I’m … well, let’s say I’m in management. Nevertheless, I have my own rules and I do not forget them.’

‘What are they? Can you tell me, Diedre?’

‘Believe no one. Tell no one. Remember everything. Walk alone.’

SIX

Instinctively Harry Swann knew that something was wrong. Pauline had not been herself since his arrival at four o’clock, ostensibly for tea. They did actually have tea in her elegant drawing room. But it was swift. She was anxious always to retreat to her bedroom for several hours of intimacy and extraordinary passion.

Now, as he lay next to her in bed, their sexual appetite for each other sated, he tried to figure out why she had been so strange. Not remote, not distant, as she often was, rather she had been distracted. Or perhaps ‘preoccupied’ was a better word. Certainly he had picked up on it the moment he had entered her house and when she had greeted him coolly in the entrance foyer.

Even when they first began to make love, she had been less fervent than usual; but once he had begun to arouse her in the way she liked, she had become more focused. She was a voluptuous woman, extremely erotic and sensuous, eager for sex, hungry for it, and she oozed feminine lust. Her craving for him was enormous and endless; she gave herself willingly to him, did anything he wanted. It had been this way since the beginning of their affair and they never failed to give each other enormous sexual pleasure.

They had done that this afternoon but, instead of lingering in his arms, touching him, stroking him, murmuring loving words, she had moved on to her side at once, her back to him.

Puzzled and slightly hurt, he finally spoke. ‘What’s wrong, darling? You’ve turned away from me, and you’re very silent. Usually you’re full of love for me … after we’ve devoured each other. And we certainly did that a short while ago.’

There was a moment of silence before she said, ‘I’ve misled you … and I’m feeling guilty.’

Pushing himself up on one elbow, Harry brought her face around and looked down at her. ‘Guilty in what way?’

‘I let you think Sheldon was coming home tomorrow. He phoned at lunchtime today. He said he’d be here for dinner tonight. You’ve got to leave; you can’t linger as you generally do.’

Genuinely taken aback, Harry gaped at her for a moment, then got up and hurried across the room, making for the chair where his clothes were laid.

Pauline leapt off the bed and rushed after him, put her arms around him and pressed herself close to his body. ‘I can’t bear for you to leave like this. We always make love again before you leave. Always. Let’s do it now, here, standing up. Come on, I’ll lean against the door.’ She reached up, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him passionately. He responded; he never failed to do so with her. He felt himself growing hard but, just as he was about to succumb to her red-hot desire for him, his common sense kicked in.

‘No, no, we can’t. It’s too risky,’ he said firmly, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s almost six fifteen. Sheldon could be here any moment and we’d be caught red-handed.’

Pauline shook her head. ‘No, he won’t make it before seven, I’m certain of that.’ She leaned against the door, staring at him, her desire running high. She was hot with longing for him, had never wanted anyone like this, never loved any other man before him. And she knew she could not have him. Unexpected tears welled and she moved back and into his arms so he would not see them.

But he had. He held her tightly, stroked her long auburn hair. ‘Why are you crying?’

‘Because you’re angry with me … because I didn’t tell you he was coming home tonight,’ she lied. ‘Say you forgive me, Harry. Please.’

He looked down at her and smiled, touched her face with tenderness. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, my Pauline, my dearest love. I was startled, that’s all, not angry, never with you.’

Reaching for his clothes, Harry rushed over to her bathroom.

Pauline stood watching him moving across the bedroom, struck yet again by the beauty of his lithe body, and the tears came back, rolled down her cheeks. Slipping into her dressing room, she closed the door, stood for a moment wiping away her tears. Then she picked up a towel, placed it on the padded stool before sitting down.

They had made love several times this afternoon and she was full of him. He might have made her pregnant. She hoped so. But she was forty-eight. Too late, wasn’t it? She breathed deeply. The scent of his cologne, Jicky, and the smell of him was all over her.

She reached for a bottle of perfume, was about to spray herself, but changed her mind. She wanted his smell on her. There was a knock on the door and she went to open it.

Harry stood there, gazing at her. A slow smile slid across his face. ‘You look beautiful.’ He took hold of her arm, tightened his grip and brought her closer. ‘You’d better get dressed,’ he said, and asked, ‘Will you be alone next week?’

‘I suppose so.’ She touched his face gently. ‘I’ll phone you as soon as I can.’

Harry nodded and let go of her arm. And he was gone.

Pauline turned away from the door, dressed swiftly, attended to her hair and makeup. Usually she bathed after their love-making but not today. She wanted his seed in her, wanted his baby, yearned to have part of him for the rest of her life. A son or a daughter. It didn’t matter as long as it was his.

Pauline Mallard went downstairs to wait for Sheldon Faircross, her husband, knowing he would be arriving shortly. Crossing the floor of the library, she went to the drinks table and filled a glass with sherry. She stood for a moment, staring down into the pale liquid, her mind still on Harry Swann.

In some ways she regretted meeting him and having an affair with him, because he had, in a sense, ruined her life. She had fallen in love for the first time. That was verboten. And now she knew she would have to let him go. A divorce and remarriage was not in the cards. Harry could never be hers. She was in a trap.

When she had married Sheldon fifteen years ago, she had agreed to play by his rules. He would sort out the mess of her finances, created by her first two husbands. Both of them had spent a great deal of her inheritance from her father, the late Allan Mallard, one of America’s greatest tycoons.

With Sheldon’s help, her financial affairs were in better order, but she was not quite the great heiress she had once been. Nevertheless, she was by no means poor. And neither was Sheldon; he was a millionaire many times over.

Sheldon’s rules were very simple. A self-made man, he wanted the prestige of her name, her beauty and elegance, on his arm and at the head of his dinner table. He also demanded her total loyalty.

However, because he had no interest in her sexually, preferring young men, he had told her she could have her love affairs as long as she was discreet. Also, he had made her swear she would never reveal his own sexual predilection.

She had willingly agreed at the time. Not only did she have her own money intact again, she had the legitimacy of marriage to a well-known tycoon, a wonder on Wall Street, but also Sheldon’s great fortune to spend as she wished. And permission to have as many affairs as she wanted. Sheldon had made it clear that her dalliances with other men must be only sexual. No emotional entanglements, he had insisted. And until Harry, it had all worked. Now she wanted to marry Harry, be his wife, have his baby. And have Harry all to herself. He was the best lover she had ever had. And a lovely man.

Still staring into the sherry, she thought: I could walk away from Sheldon. He manages my money and has control of it. But money doesn’t matter to me. Harry will look after me.

Bringing the glass to her mouth, she swigged some of the sherry, and reminded herself that the money did matter to her. She had been born into it, enjoyed spending it, and she would miss it. If she were honest, she would also miss her life on the international scene. Harry would never enjoy that life; he might well be genuinely besotted with her, but he was devoted to Cavendon and the Inghams.

No way out, she thought, I’m stuck. And then she swung around as Sheldon said, ‘Good evening, Pauline. I see you’re alone.’

‘Hello, Sheldon, and naturally I’m alone.’

‘Harry’s just left though. I’m certain of that.’

Pauline merely nodded and walked over to the fireplace. Sheldon joined her, kissed her cheek. He went and poured himself a single malt and strolled across the room.