In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

Coffee was something rarely seen now in Paris. She heard herself saying “Yes, please, that would be very nice” before she had time to consider whether she should remain aloof and defiant. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, she thought. Maybe they just want to ask me some small question about why I’m still here. Coffee was brought, with cream and sugar. It seemed she had never tasted anything so delicious. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

The officer nodded. “My name is Dinkslager. Baron von Dinkslager. So you see we are social equals. We just need to ask you a few questions, then you can return home.” His English was excellent, with only the slightest trace of accent. And he was extremely handsome, having an almost-matinee-idol bone structure and the arrogance of a German officer. “You are Lady Margaret Sutton, daughter of Lord Westerham, is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“And would you tell us why you are still in Paris? Why did you not go home before the occupation, when you could?”

“I was studying fashion design with Madame Armande,” she said. “I suppose I was na?ve, but I thought that life in Paris would be allowed to go on as usual.”

“But it is,” he said.

“Hardly. Nobody has enough to eat. We haven’t seen coffee like this in months.”

“Blame your English bombers for that. And the Resistance. If they destroy supply lines, then it is not our fault the Parisians don’t have enough to eat.”

He crossed his legs. He was wearing high black boots, perfectly polished. “So fashion design was the only reason you decided to stay.”

“No,” she admitted, seeing no reason to lie. “I fell in love with a Frenchman.”

“The Count de Varennes. A fellow aristocrat,” he said.

She nodded. “That’s right.”

“And where is the Count de Varennes now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for months.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Just after Christmas. He told me he had to leave Paris.”

“Did he say why?”

“I understood he had properties in the South of France that needed attending to. Also, his grandmother at the chateau was growing increasingly frail, and he wanted to see if he could do anything to help her.”

“His grandmother.” A smile crossed his lips. “You are either very na?ve or a very good liar, Lady Margaret. His grandmother has been dead for five years.”

“Then I’m obviously very na?ve,” she replied. “Our nanny washed out our mouths with soap if we ever told a lie. The threat of the soap has stuck.”

“Did it not cross your mind that your lover might be working for the Resistance?”

“Yes, it did cross my mind,” she said defiantly, “but Gaston would tell me nothing. He said it was better that way. Then, if I was ever questioned, I could truthfully say that I knew nothing.”

“And you have not seen him since Christmas?”

“No.”

“Would it surprise you then to know that he has been in Paris several times since then?”

Margot fought to keep her expression neutral. “Yes, it would surprise me. Perhaps he did not wish to put me at risk. He is a very considerate man.”

“Or perhaps he had found a new love?” The slightest of smirks crossed Dinkslager’s lips.

“Perhaps he has. He is also a very attractive man.”

“And if he has found a new love?”

“Then I suppose I’d have to get on with my life, go back to my fashion design, and learn to live without him.”

He chuckled now. “I admire the British, Lady Margaret. A French girl who loses her lover would weep and beat her breast.”

“Then we should be glad I’m not French. So much easier to deal with.”

He was still smiling. “I like you, Lady Margaret. I like your spirit. I am also from a noble family. We understand each other well.”

“Then you will understand that I’m speaking the truth when I say I have nothing to tell you. I lead a simple life in Paris. I go to the workshop. I do what Madame Armande tells me. I go back to my small apartment in the Ninth. I eat a simple supper and go to bed.”

“You would no doubt like to go home to England now, given the chance.”

She hesitated. Of course I’d like to go home, you idiot, she wanted to shout. But instead she said, “I understand life in England is no more pleasant than life in Paris at present, what with constant bombings and the threat of an imminent invasion.”

He uncrossed his legs, tilting the wooden chair backward as he looked at her. “You have not heard from Gaston de Varennes for months. That is correct?”

“It is.”

“So it would surprise you to learn that we have him in our custody at this moment?”

This really did jar her composure. He saw it in her eyes, the sudden flicker of apprehension before she said, “Yes. It does surprise me.”

“And alarm you?”

“Of course it alarms me.” Her voice took on a sudden sharp edge. “Herr Baron, I love Gaston de Varennes, whether he still loves me or not.”

“And you approve of his work with the Resistance?”

“As I told you, I had no idea he was with the Resistance until now. But he is a Frenchman. I can understand his desire to drive out invaders of his country. If the Germans invaded Britain, I’d expect my family to do the same.”

He let the chair legs fall with a sudden clatter as he leaned closer to her. “Gaston de Varennes is proving to be very stubborn, Lady Margaret. You can understand that his life is not worth that”—he snapped his fingers, and the sound echoed, surprisingly loud in the confined space—“unless he tells us what he knows.”

“You want me to persuade him to talk? That is ridiculous, Baron. I am flattered that you think I have that great a hold over him, but I can assure you I don’t.”

“You do realise, my lady, that if I snap my fingers right now, you will be dragged down the stairs to a room much less pleasant than this one, and down there you would be made to tell us every single little detail of your life.”

Again, she forced her face to remain composed. “I have heard about such things, but I really do assure you, Baron von Dinkslager, that I have nothing to tell that you would find remotely interesting.”

“Trust me, Lady Margaret, if you are taken to such a room, you would wish you had something to tell. You would invent things to tell us. You would betray your lover, your mother, anything to get out of there alive.”

Margot stared at him coldly. “If you are going to kill me, then please, do it now and get it over with. I see you wear a revolver. Shoot me now.”

“I have no wish to shoot you. You are much more valuable to me alive than dead. But I am surprised. Would you let your lover go to his death without fighting for him? Truly the British are so cold.”

“I assure you I am not cold, and I don’t want Gaston to die. But I rather suspect that nothing I can say will make you change your minds.” Then suddenly it dawned on her. “I understand now. You don’t think I can tell you anything important. I’m the bait, aren’t I? You are going to use me to make him talk.”