In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“You’re never like a frightened rabbit, Pamma. You’re the strongest of any of us. Come on. Let’s go and surprise Jeremy.”

They passed through the gateway and walked up the broad gravel drive. The elegant Georgian house stood ahead of them, red brick with white trim, perfectly proportioned, with formal gardens on either side of the drive. The beds were a mass of tulips. Wisteria hung from trellises. The lawns were perfectly manicured. It was clear that gardeners were still at work here, war or no war.

As they approached the house, they saw an old bicycle, standing beside the front steps, looking out of place in the otherwise perfect scene. Ben was about to comment on it when the front door opened and Lady Diana Sutton came out.

“Of course I will. Thanks awfully. Bye,” she called, waving to an invisible person inside as she ran down the steps.

Then she saw Pamela and Ben. “Hello, you two. What a surprise!”

“What are you doing here, Dido?” Pamela asked in a clipped voice.

“Well, that’s what I call a warm welcome,” Dido said. “How about ‘It’s lovely to see you again after so long, dear sister’?”

“Well, of course I’m pleased to see you.” Pamela still sounded flustered. “It’s just that . . .”

“If you must know, I’ve been representing the family and visiting Jeremy to cheer him up.” She picked up the bicycle. “Somebody had to.”

Then she rode off without another word, her tyres scrunching on the gravel.





PART THREE



MARGOT





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Paris


May 1941



She had not realised before that fear had a smell. She had always been told that dogs can smell fear, but she’d never heard it said of humans. Yet, she identified it now—sweet and palpable—as she sat on the chair in a dark room. She was not sure whether the fear was coming from her own pores or was part of the building, oozing from the walls where so many people had felt terror and desperation. She had been blindfolded in the car that brought her here, but she did not need to be told where she was. She was in Gestapo headquarters, and they were leaving her alone in the darkness to break her spirit.

Lady Margot Sutton sat on the upright wooden chair, not moving, staring out into blackness. She had no idea how long she had been sitting there or whether it was light outside yet. Clearly, the room had no window because even with blackout curtains, there were always chinks of light. They had come for her in the middle of the night—two men, who said nothing more than “You must come with us, please” in English.

Her upbringing had kicked in. “What do you mean? Why should I come with you? I’ll do no such thing. It’s the middle of the night, and I was asleep.”

Then one of them said, “You will come with us now, Fr?ulein. We will give you one minute to put some clothes on.” He eyed her lacy robe with distaste.

It was the word Fr?ulein that did it. They were not in uniform, but they were Germans. That could mean only one thing. Gestapo. And one did not resist the Gestapo. All the same, she was not going to let them see she was afraid. Her aristocratic English background was her one trump card at the moment. The Germans respected the English aristocracy, having given up their own.

“This is most irregular,” she said, her voice becoming an imitation of Queen Victoria not amused. “On whose authority are you here? What can you possibly want with me?”

“We just obey orders, Fr?ulein,” he said. “You will find out soon enough who wishes to speak to you.”

“I am not ‘Fr?ulein,’” she said. “I am Lady Margaret Sutton, daughter of Lord Westerham.”

“We know very well who you are.” The man’s face was expressionless. “One minute, Lady Margaret, or we will be forced to take you wearing your nightclothes.”

She fled back into her bedroom, mind racing. What should she take with her? The pistol Gaston had given her? No, her best chance was to convey innocence and indignation. And after all, I am innocent, she told herself. I know nothing. I can tell them nothing.

Thus reassured, she grabbed a black suit that had come from the House of Armande and put on a white blouse and pearls. She was not going to let those bastards see that she was in any way afraid of them. Then the thought crossed her mind: What if Gaston comes back to the flat and I’m not here? How could she let him know where she was?

“Lady Margaret?” a voice called outside her door.

“I’m just brushing my hair,” she called back. “Do I need to take a toothbrush with me, or will I be returning home immediately?”

“I suspect that’s up to you,” the voice said.

As she ran lipstick over her lips, she noticed Madame Armande’s card lying on her dressing table. She took the lipstick, printed “CALL HER” on the back and left it lying there. Gaston was quick on the uptake, and Armande knew everybody in Paris. She’d know how to find a missing Englishwoman. If I’m still alive by then, Margot thought.

It was cold and damp in that dark space where they had put her, and she felt an urgent need to pee. But she willed herself not to. Rumour had it that certain royal persons trained their bodies to go without bathrooms all day when on tours abroad. She thought she detected a shout in the distance. Or was it a cry? She couldn’t tell if it came from outside the building or inside. She stiffened when she heard footsteps coming closer—heavy footsteps of booted feet. They came very close, then passed, and she let out a small sigh of relief as they receded in the distance. She turned her mind to other things: Farleigh in the summer. Tennis on the lawn. Strawberries and cream. Pah, red-faced and wearing that ridiculous white floppy hat. Mah always looking cool and composed, no matter what her brood was doing. “Farleigh,” she whispered. “I want to go home.”

She jumped as a door opened, letting in a beam of light. A man came in—a tall man wearing a German officer’s uniform. He turned on a switch with a click, and Margot blinked in the sudden light. For the first time, she saw she was in a featureless room, about ten-by-eight feet. In the corner was a bucket she could have used, had she known it was there. The officer pulled up a second chair and sat facing her.

“Lady Margaret, I must apologise for the rough and impolite way you were brought here. I’m afraid my order to bring in someone for questioning is sometimes misinterpreted. Would you like some coffee?”