In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

When Phoebe had splashed cold water over her face so that nobody would know she had been crying, she went downstairs again and found the family in the drawing room. Lord Westerham looked up as she came in. “Had a good walk, then? Dogs behaved themselves?” he asked.

But Pamela noticed Phoebe’s face. “What’s the matter, darling?” she asked. “You look quite white.”

“It’s the Robbinses,” Phoebe said. “They’ve just had a telegram to say their son’s ship has been torpedoed, and he’s missing, presumed dead.”

“Oh, how awful for them,” Lady Westerham said. “Their one son and they were so proud of him.”

“We should do something, Mah,” Phoebe said. “We should have a service or a memorial or something. To let them know that we care.”

“He’s only reported as missing at the moment,” Lady Westerham said. “There may still be hope.”

“Mah, if his ship was torpedoed, and he’s missing in the middle of a great big ocean, there’s not much chance of finding him again, even if he survived,” Dido said, looking up from her magazine.

“Some chance, though. He might be in a life raft and have drifted away. Sailors have survived for remarkable periods of time before.”

“But we should do something, don’t you think?” Phoebe insisted.

“I’d hold off, old thing,” Lord Westerham said with surprising kindness. “Let them go on hoping for as long as possible.”

Pamela sat staring out of the window, fighting back the nagging worry that threatened to engulf her. Someone should have broken the U-boat code for that day. Someone should have been able to warn the convoy and send out planes to protect it. Until now, her work at Bletchley Park had seemed like an academic puzzle, unrelated to real events. But at this moment, the importance of what was being done in the huts there hit her with full force. She jumped to her feet.

“I should be getting back to work,” she said. “I can’t stay here drinking tea and enjoying myself when ships are being sunk and people we know are being killed.”

Lady Esme stood up and put her hand on Pamela’s shoulder. “You’re upset, my dear. We all are. George Robbins was a decent young man. But your little job in an office is hardly going to make a difference in saving lives, is it? It’s not as if you’re on the front lines. So I suggest you sit down and have another cup of tea.”

And, of course, Pamela could say nothing. She sat and allowed her mother to put a teacup in her hand.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Paris


May 1941



The occupants of the Rue des Beaux-Arts peered through their closed shutters at the big black Mercedes that had pulled up outside of number 34, early on that May morning. Strands of mist had curled in from the Seine. Those walking home with their morning baguettes crossed the street and continued on the other side, just in case. Those leaving to go to work or students on their way to an early class at the école des Beaux-Arts hurried past, eyes down. It didn’t pay to look. The motorcar was too obviously German, which was confirmed when the driver got out, wearing a military uniform. They all heaved a sigh of relief when no Germans headed toward their apartments. Instead, a slim young woman emerged from the car, followed by someone who looked remarkably like Madame Armande, the fashion designer.

Gaston de Varennes had bought this apartment for Margot when they first became lovers. He himself had been living in the family mansion on the Rue Boissière in the grander sixteenth district, between the Champs-élysées and the Seine, but in those days, he was strangely conservative in many ways. It would not have been right to bring Margot to live with him, especially when his mother sometimes arrived from the chateau unannounced. Marriage had been out of the question at that time. Margot was a Protestant. His grandmother detested the English, and he would not go against his family’s wishes when it came to a spouse. So he had set Margot up in a small apartment on the Rue des Beaux-Arts, close to the Boulevard Saint-Germain in the sixth. If she leaned out of her window, she could glimpse the Seine and Notre Dame. It was pleasant enough and suited her well, although the lively throng of students had all but disappeared these days.

When Hitler invaded, the Germans had taken over the family mansion as well as the chateau in the French countryside. Gaston had joined the Resistance almost immediately and found the apartment in a quarter of bohemians and students. It suited them both. He could come and go with little risk of being noticed.

The concierge poked her head out of the cubbyhole by the front door when Margot came in.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she said. “It promises to be a fine day, does it not?”

“One hopes so, madame,” Margot replied.

She pulled open the metal concertina door of the elevator, and Armande went to get in behind her. “Really, madame, there is no need for you to come up with me,” Margot said. “All I need to do is put a few clothes and toiletries into a bag. I will only be a few minutes.”

“I gave that obnoxious German my word that I would not let you out of my sight,” Gigi Armande said. “And it does not do to break one’s word to a German officer. Besides,” she added, “I have to make sure you do not throw yourself from the window in a fit of despair.”

“I promise I shall not throw myself from any window.”

“Or attempt to escape across the rooftops.” Armande pushed Margot into the elevator and stepped in, too. The elevator was just big enough for the two of them to squeeze inside, and Margot was conscious of the other woman’s deliciously heady perfume. The cage ascended, painfully slow, creaking and groaning. Margot’s brain was racing and not coming up with answers. They arrived on the third floor. She went ahead of Armande and turned the key in the lock. The apartment felt chilly and unoccupied. It was a three-room affair—a good-size living room and bedroom but a tiny kitchen, with a bathroom and lavatory off the small square of front hallway. Margot hesitated in the hallway.

“Would you mind if I made some coffee before we leave?” she asked. “I’ve been up most of the night, and I’ve a splitting headache.”

“My dear, throw a few things into a bag, and we’ll have breakfast at the Ritz, where I can assure you the coffee is real and not this dreadful ersatz chicory stuff.” Armande went through into the living room and seated herself on the sofa, looking relaxed and beautiful.

Margot was conscious that the place wasn’t particularly tidy, and the clothes she had worn the day before now lay on the floor. She picked them up, feeling embarrassed.