“Oh, the poor man,” said Aunt Vivian. “I’d forgotten all about him.”
So now they tramped back down the lane, through the fragrant meadow that smelled of hay and wildflowers. Tonight the moon was new and invisible, but the stars were bountiful here in the country and they dusted the tips of the grass with silver. Iris listened to Aunt Vivian chatter with Philip. She was flirting shamelessly—probably planned to sleep with him, if only for revenge on her husband. The starlight glinted on his silver hair. His profile was pristine. He looked noble and wise, like a sage. His footsteps made no sound on the dirt.
They reached the cottage. Mrs. Betts had been looking after the children. She seemed surprised to see Philip—gave her report with many a nervous glance and then retired to her room. There was no sign of Sasha.
“I wouldn’t worry.” Aunt Vivian yawned. “I expect he went out with a friend or two.”
“That’s why I’m worried.” Iris turned to Philip. “Before you leave, I was hoping to have a word with you?”
“Certainly.”
Aunt Vivian gave Iris a wise look. “I guess that’s my cue, then. Good night, chums. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Philip laughed and said he imagined that left a wide range of possibilities.
When Aunt Vivian’s footsteps creaked up the stairs, Iris turned to Philip. “She’s so outrageous. I apologize.”
“Not at all. I worship your American characters. Shall we step outside? It’s a rare evening out there.”
He knew the cottage better than she did—guided her through the darkened sunroom to the French doors—knew the trick of opening the sticky middle one. The doors led straight onto the grass and a gentle salt breeze coming off the Channel.
“Come along. We won’t be overheard,” Philip said.
Iris glanced down the lane, where Sasha would be arriving if he were going to arrive. Nothing stirred. She walked on next to Philip, across the grass toward the sea cliffs.
“You’re right, it’s a beautiful evening. It’s a beautiful place—magical—I can’t thank you enough.”
He made a diffident English noise. Some seagulls squawked out of the darkness.
“I wanted to ask you about Miss Fischer,” Iris said.
“Nedda? What about her?”
“I found her photograph in Sasha’s desk.”
He stopped and said, Ah.
“She had brown hair instead of blond, and she was wearing a uniform. But it was definitely her. You can’t mistake her face.”
“No, you can’t.” Philip resumed walking. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t even know what to ask. But I thought—since she’s a friend of yours—I don’t know. Maybe you know how they might have known each other.”
Philip motioned to the left and Iris saw a stone bench, hardly visible in the starlight. She sat and he sat next to her, stretching out his legs with a sigh. “Of course you should ask your husband,” he said.
“I know. But he’s not around, is he? And I’m asking you instead.”
“You see, I don’t know how to answer you.”
“Then allow me to guess, and if I’m right, you can nod or something.”
“That seems fair.”
“I think Sasha may have been involved in some sort of intelligence operations during the war, when we were in Zurich, and Miss Fischer was a contact of his.”
“You’re very clever.”
“I’d have to be stupid not to figure that out.”
“Then why do you ask me?”
“Maybe I’m just wondering if you did the same thing.”
“And I suppose I’ve just confirmed your suspicions?”
“No,” she said, “I realized when you told me about the house being used for intelligence. I didn’t think you’d let them take over the family estate unless they gave you a piece of the action.”
He started to laugh. “How I love you Americans.”
The air smelled of night blossoms, of jasmine and the nearby sea. The wind sifted through the boxwoods. Iris put her face in her hands.
“Oh, my dear. I’m sorry.” Philip put a gentle arm around her shoulders. She turned her head into his chest for a moment or two, maybe thirty seconds—bliss. His shirt was unspeakably soft. Everything beneath it perfectly solid.
Sasha arrived at Honeysuckle Cottage at half past eight o’clock in the morning, in a taxi from the station. He walked into the breakfast room with the kind of exaggerated care that meant he was still drunk, had probably gone straight to Victoria Station from the Gargoyle Club or wherever he was. Though he reeked of cigarettes, his clothes were remarkably neat, and he greeted Aunt Vivian with a civilized handshake.
“Welcome to Honeysuckle, Aunt Vivian. I’m awfully sorry to turn up like this. Had a work session that went late.”
“So I see. Vivian will do.” She squinted at his face. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you look as if you wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”
He smiled, and for a moment he was like the old Sasha, hair swinging down onto his forehead, the bluest eyes you ever saw. “I’d be grateful,” he said.
After he’d drunk two cups of coffee, wolfed down half a dozen eggs on toast, and charmed the children, Sasha headed upstairs to bathe and change. Iris followed him. He spotted her in the mirror above his dresser while he unbuttoned his shirt.
“Go ahead. Deliver the lecture. I deserve it.”
“Where were you? That’s all I want to know.”
“Out. With friends. That’s all you need to know.”
“I was worried.”
“Were you?” He tossed the shirt in the hamper and stripped off his undershirt, his drawers. “I figured Beauchamp would be keeping you company.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He started out the door to the bathroom, where the water was already running into the tub, nice and warm.
“You can’t go out in the hall like that! The girls!”
He swore and snatched a dressing gown from the hook. Iris sat on the bed and put her face in her hands. She heard the opening and closing of the bedroom door and lay back across the bed to stare at the simple plaster ceiling. Outside the window, the children played some noisy game on the lawn, and Iris marveled at how easily they’d come together, these cousins who didn’t even know each other—how deep and instinctive is the human need for connection.
She lay there for some time, even though duty tugged her downstairs. She felt paralyzed, unable to move, let alone rise and do all the mothering things. She couldn’t confront Sasha about Nedda Fischer, because she’d have to tell him how she came to see the photograph in the desk. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. What was the point?
The door creaked open. Sasha’s voice, a touch ironic—Still here?
“Tell me about Zurich,” she said.
He moved to the dresser. “Zurich? Why Zurich?”
“You weren’t just working for the embassy, were you?”
“No. I was seconded to the OSS, under diplomatic cover. Liaising with our agents in Germany. Assisting the escape lines, that kind of thing. I assumed you knew.”
She sat up. “How should I know if you didn’t tell me anything?”
“Because you couldn’t possibly think I’d spend the war stamping passports, for one thing.” He had a towel wrapped around his middle. His cheeks were pink and smooth; his hair combed back wet from his forehead. He took a cigarette from the pack on the dresser and lit up. “For another thing, I wasn’t exactly home every evening at five o’clock, was I?”
“You were so happy in Zurich. I always wondered why.”
“Because I was doing something worthwhile. Fighting the right side.”
“Is that all?”
He sucked on the cigarette. “And I had you. And Kip. What more could a man ask for?”
“It’s funny, because I was miserable in Zurich. I had all those miscarriages, and you were hardly ever home, and the war was going badly.”
He stared at her a moment and turned to the window, where the children screamed around the lawn. “All’s well that ends well, I guess. We ended up with Jack, didn’t we, and we won the war. And now you’ve got me around all the time, a nice well-trained husband.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a drunken, irritable, unreliable husband who’s probably having an affair.”