AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The meal was lavish, elegant, and in excellent taste. The triumph of Frau Beckendorff or Winifred? Or an uneasy alliance of the two?
Margot moved with ease among the guests, most of them speaking to each other in German, but also finding many British, from the embassy in particular. They were there as a courtesy to Cordell, and perhaps out of affection and loyalty for Cecily herself. It would not do to have an English girl marry a German and her own people not turn out in elegance and charm to support her, to pretend they were delighted and there was nothing to disturb their equanimity and self-assurance.
The clothes were gorgeous. Critical as she was, Margot was impressed and delighted beyond merely the styles; it was the confidence reflected in the women themselves, in their identity with the new Germany. Even possibly the alliance between Britain and Germany? It was more than coincidence that the bride was English. It was she who was now a member of the Beckendorff family, with its name, its heritage. She had promised to love, honor, and obey Hans, and he had promised to cherish and provide for her. But her worldly goods had become his.
Margot pushed that out of her mind and disposed herself to be as charming as possible, to speak to everyone, perhaps just a little bit, to make sure that all her old friends continued to keep in touch with her, invite her to their social events, keep the connections alive.
It was not difficult. Few people had forgotten her or failed to recognize her now. She kept the smile on her face wide and bright to fend off any attempts at sympathy. No one would inquire if she had married again.
It was, of course, easier to avoid the subject with strangers, such as Hans’s friends and family. She was used to polite and relatively meaningless conversation. It was part of her family’s life, her father’s professional skill, to seem to be interested, well informed, impressed by other people’s lives and cultures. She could do it; her knowledge of German served her well, allowing her to pick up the undertones as she watched faces. The thought flickered through her mind that had she been male, she might have followed in her father’s footsteps professionally. The new freedoms since the war, would they eventually extend so far as to let women be ambassadors?
She joined a conversation about current politics with Cecily’s new father-in-law. She offered no opinions, although there were questions she would like to have asked, questions to which the answers would have been very revealing, but they would have told her things she could not listen to without betraying her own beliefs.
“Of course, there would have to be some,” one elderly man observed.
The several moments Margot had been there, he had hardly moved position. It suddenly occurred to her that he was wearing a corset! Vanity? Or, far more likely, a serious back injury. She watched him as if she were listening to him intently, and saw the occasional wince of pain.
“Of course,” Herr Beckendorff agreed. “The one at Dachau is only the beginning. It is all part of finding our identity again.”
Margot opened her mouth to speak and changed her mind.
Herr Beckendorff saw and raised his pale eyebrows. “You were going to say something, Frau Driscoll?” His expression was courteous, but there was an expectation of criticism in his eyes.
Margot’s mind raced to find something to say that was not critical. She knew what the camp at Dachau was for. Cordell had mentioned it. What could she say that was not offensive to the three men around her, and yet not a betrayal of herself? “It is a task so vast, I cannot see the end of it,” she answered with a very slight smile. She bit her lip. “I hope Hans will not have to…spend time involved in that. I can see that it is socially necessary, but not the occupation for a brave soldier.” Had she said too much?
Herr Beckendorff lifted his chin a little. “Of course. You are very perceptive, Frau Driscoll. Hans is an excellent soldier. The army knows that. I think he’s due for a promotion quite soon. I think being in charge of camps like Dachau is a good position for those who have no actual military ability, not the courage or the decisiveness for leadership. Don’t you agree, Gustav?”
“Or someone retired from active service,” Gustav replied, easing his back a little by moving his weight from one foot to the other and wincing very slightly.
It was on the edge of Margot’s tongue to suggest that they move to one of the tables surrounded by chairs, so he could sit, but she thought he might take it as an insult to his dignity, and she said nothing.
The conversation moved to the possibilities of honor in active service, now that there was no serious fighting.
Margot remained silent, listening to the pride in Herr Beckendorff’s voice, the stiffness as he stood a little straighter and spoke of his hopes for Hans. She pretended to be listening to him and discreetly studied the other guests standing around with wineglasses in their hands, many with plates of food. Everyone seemed to be engaged, animated, many of the men in uniform, the women in the height of fashion, quite international. There was nothing provincial about the lines or the colors of their clothes. London, Paris, and Rome were all represented.
Cordell joined them, perhaps doing his duty as host. This was, after all, his daughter’s wedding. He was welcomed, thanked for the excellent hospitality, and complimented. As far as Margot could judge, it was all completely sincere.
“The most beautiful bride I’ve seen,” Gustav said.
“Indeed,” Herr Beckendorff agreed. “They make a perfect couple.”
“Indeed,” another young man concurred quietly. His name was Stephan; he appeared to be a friend of both Cordell’s and Beckendorff’s.
Cordell followed Stephan’s eyes, but Margot was looking at him and not the rest of the room. She saw perfectly controlled politeness, a gentleman caring for his guests on a happy occasion. She glanced down at his hand and recognized the clenching fingers too stiff to move. How far was he from breaking? Was it all because Cecily was marrying into this family, this culture, where he could no longer protect her from the day-to-day barbs and the unthinking cruelty of those who believed themselves superior? Or from the major tragedies that he feared—believed—might be ahead.
She looked beyond them to where Winifred was talking to a small group of people. She looked lovely, gentle and happy, a mother who had succeeded in marrying her daughter into a proud and privileged position, to a young man who loved her and was already several rungs up the ladder of success.
Cordell was speaking and Margot had missed what he was saying.
“…to the cart,” he finished.
She wanted to ask what they were talking about, but it would betray an interest she was not supposed to have. She stood there silently, being polite, decorative, and aching with fear of a future of which she could see only shadows. She was deeply afraid of what the darkest parts were hiding.
“Of course, Dollfuss is useless,” Gustav said, shaking his head. “Poor little beggar, he’s bitten off more than he could ever swallow.”
“That’ll be taken care of,” Herr Beckendorff said, dismissing the subject.
Cordell put his hand on Margot’s arm, outwardly a gentle touch, as if to guide her, but actually his grasp was hard, a warning not to say anything.
