In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“Is there such a thing?” she asked. “I heard about your benevolent occupation of Denmark and Norway.”

“We must crush those who are foolish enough to resist,” he replied easily. “But I’m sure you are wise enough to want to spare further English lives and cathedrals and stately homes like yours. What a terrible pity if your great heritage were to be reduced to rubble.”

“What is it you want me to do?” she asked suddenly.

He stared at her long and hard. “There are those in your country who are in sympathy with our cause, who would welcome their German brothers with open arms. You would meet up with them and assist in their plans.”

“Plans?”

“To remove those who stand in the way of peace, of course.”

Margot stared out the window. Pigeons were sitting on the edge of the balcony. Beyond them, white clouds scudded across a blue sky.

“And Gaston de Varennes?” she asked. “Part of the bargain would be to release him? To have him safely transported to a neutral country?”

Herr Dinkslager tipped his chair back, as if contemplating. “Ah, yes. The French lover. His devoted mistress who would do anything to save him.”

“I need to know if he is still alive,” Margot said.

“Still alive but being most uncooperative,” he replied. “We believe he can give us a great deal of information on the workings of the Resistance. But so far he has remained silent, in spite of all attempts.” He looked up at her, his light-blue eyes holding hers. “You see, this puts me in a difficult position, Lady Margaret. We need this information. And trust me, we will get it somehow. My superior officers are never going to agree to release him unless he tells us what he knows. So you could help his cause . . .” He paused and rocked his chair again. Margot focused on his highly polished boots, which reflected the light from the windows.

“You don’t think that I could persuade him to talk?” In spite of her fear, she laughed. “I think you underestimate Gaston de Varennes. He is a very proud man. A very independent man.”

He rocked his chair forward suddenly, bringing his face close to hers. “You must see that things could not go well for you if you don’t cooperate, my dear. You lived with a leading member of the Resistance movement. He must have told you things, even small hints, things that he let slip. I could have you tortured or shot with one click of my fingers right now for aiding and abetting an enemy fighter.”

“But, apparently, I’m worth more to you alive than dead?” she said, sounding calmer than she felt.

The ghost of a smile crossed his face.

“You could be useful to us, that is true. But I should have no qualms in ordering your execution if you are not willing to cooperate.”

“But I’ve told you before, he shared no information with me.” Her voice had risen now, even though she fought to keep it even. “Not even that he was working with the Resistance. I have hardly seen him for months, and if we were together, then talk was the last thing on our minds.”

She heard Gigi Armande give a little snorting laugh as if she appreciated this touch of wit.

“But you suspected . . .” Herr Dinkslager asked.

“Yes, I suspected. But that’s all. He told me nothing. No names, no plans, nothing. He wanted to make sure I was safe, I suspect. That I could answer with absolute honesty should such a situation as this arise.”

“So we reach a stalemate,” Herr Dinkslager spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “I can’t have him released until he gives us vital information.”

“And I couldn’t consider carrying out any assignment for you until I knew he was safely far away . . . in Switzerland, or Portugal, maybe.”

“So you see my dilemma, Lady Margaret,” he said, studying his hands now. “I am under pressure to retrieve the information that your lover holds. But I personally would like to work toward peace—to have you as my ally in working toward peace. And I’m sure you would rather go home to your family alive and in one piece?”

A picture of Farleigh sprang unbidden into her mind—horse chestnuts blooming along the drive and herself out riding with Pamma and Dido, challenging them to a race, galloping across the grass. She wrenched herself back to reality.

“Of course, I would like to go home, but I can’t abandon Gaston. So you see my dilemma, Herr Dinkslager. You are asking me to betray my country to save my lover.”

“I am asking you to save your country from ruin. Think of your home. Think of Westminster Abbey. Do you want them all reduced to rubble? Thousands more people killed. Thousands more homeless. And in the end, those people will blame the ones who brought them to this misery. They will welcome the German army when it comes with rations and shelter and hope for a future.”

Margot didn’t want to believe this, but she had to admit that it was a possibility if the war went on long enough and the devastation continued.

“Let me see Gaston de Varennes,” she said. “Take me to him. I will do what I can.”

“Wise girl.” He nodded. “Get your coat. We’ll go now.”

Margot looked across at Madame Armande. She wanted to ask if Armande could come with them, but the designer said quickly, “Off you go, then. I have a fitting with Frau von Herzhofen.”

Margot allowed the German officer to escort her down the stairs and out to a waiting car. He opened the door and helped her into the backseat as if he were planning to take her to the opera. He climbed in beside her, and they drove off. Now that she was away from the safety of the Ritz, she fought back the rising panic. Was she being taken to Gaston or merely back to Gestapo headquarters where she herself would be questioned, or tortured, or killed? Had the pleasantries only been so that Madame Armande didn’t realise what was about to happen?