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“That he wouldn’t betray you,” she interrupted. “You didn’t trust him.”
He stopped, his face bleak and angry. “Don’t be such a child, Elena. Grow up! They’ll have tortured him for everything he could tell them. This isn’t a game!”
She looked up at him, at his face, which was almost beautiful but for the anger in it. “I know that, Aiden,” she said with icy calm, although she was raging inside. But a show of temper was precisely what he would want. Contempt, a perfect control, would be far more effective. “We knew each other years ago, or thought we did. You’ve changed since then, or maybe not a lot. But I have, too. Don’t jump to judgment. It’s stupid and it’s dangerous. I’ve been caught by the Gestapo and tortured—not for long—but I’ll have the scars always. There were those who were not so lucky. I’ll get you out of here if I can, but don’t you bloody patronize me.”
He stopped exactly where he was, in the morning sun on the stones of the quayside. He let his breath out slowly. His eyes were bright. “You’re right, you have changed.”
She should not have told him. It might have been better if he had not known. Peter Howard had always said, “Don’t tell anyone anything you don’t have to,” but perhaps she did have to, or Aiden would not trust her. That could be fatal. Too late to do anything about it now. “We need to know what plans you had with Max,” she said, “because we’ll have to avoid those things and think of something else. I can’t do that if I don’t know what they are.”
For a moment his face was closed, unreadable, as if they were strangers. Then it vanished and he glanced back at her. “We’ll have to avoid the airfield and the railway station,” he said with a tight little smile. “Can you manage that?”
“I’ll have to,” she replied. “Pity about the railway. I’m rather good on trains.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and increased his pace along the stones, and she kept up with him.
CHAPTER
9
Margot slept restlessly. There was only one way for her to behave at this wedding, but it was going to be an effort to keep up the front of optimism and happiness. She was glad she had come, but not for the reason someone might suppose. No one here, save her parents, had known Cecily as long as she had and she felt a fierce protectiveness toward her friend. Roger was going to walk Cecily down the aisle and put her in the arms of a man Winifred did not like. She masked it well, and she would always do so. She had little choice.
Margot was angry with herself. She was tired and perhaps, at heart, also still grieving. She had been so sure of her own marriage: happy, secure in her decision, and certain of Paul’s love for her, as she was of her love for him. They had had one perfect week.
She must pull herself together and be happy for Cecily. If she loved this Hans, then Margot could at least like him.
She got up, washed, and dressed in the most casual clothes she had brought. She chose a summer dress in a dark brown that one would never have thought could suit her, yet it was marvelous. It was cut to skim the lines of her body, and on anyone less slender, less graceful, it would have looked severe, even dowdy. On Margot, it was both sophisticated and dramatic.
A hot cup of tea would make all the difference. There was bound to be a maid or a cook in the kitchen. She would sit in a corner to drink it, then perhaps go for a walk in the garden. It was small—the house was near the center of the city—but big enough for grass, flowerbeds, and what looked like a fruit tree of some sort. The first leaves were beginning to turn from green to gold, touched with pink.
But the kitchen was not empty. Roger Cordell was sitting at the scrubbed wooden table with tea, toast, and a boiled egg. A row of gleaming copper saucepans hung on pegs on the wall above him. There did not appear to be anyone else. Had he made his breakfast himself?
“I’m sorry,” Margot said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He rose to his feet, an automatic courtesy. “You didn’t sleep?”
She sighed. “Yes, I did. I just felt like a cup of tea. Please don’t let me spoil your breakfast.” She sat down opposite him so he would continue with his meal.
“Tea? Is that all?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you. I can wait for breakfast later, with Winifred and Cecily.”
He stood up and fetched a clean cup out of the cupboard, then sat down again and poured her tea. He did not ask her how she liked it. It appeared he remembered from the past. He put it beside her and resumed his seat. “What are you going to do today?” he asked casually, but with interest, even a trace of anxiety.
“I’ll be careful,” she promised with a wry smile. “I know it’s unwise to be too inquisitive, and certainly to criticize.”
“Very,” he said levelly, meeting her eyes over the rim of his cup. “Margot—”
“I will be very careful.” She looked at him more closely. “What is it? I’m not Elena, you know. I don’t have an instant reaction to injustice.”
“Yes, you do, my dear,” he said gently. “She is more like you as time goes by; she’s growing up, if you like. What happened in May was a very profound experience for her. She was badly hurt, you know, and it forced her to face a kind of reality she’d held at arm’s length until then. She’s a dreamer, she’ll probably never lose that. It’s what makes her such a good photographer. She sees things in a different light, and not necessarily a softer one.”
Margot drew in her breath to say she knew, but she wondered if she really did. Habit was strong, and she had expected Elena to tell her more about her experience here, in Berlin, in time, but her sister had mentioned it only in passing and quite skillfully had changed the subject. And then there was the extraordinary revelation that Grandfather Lucas had been head of MI6 during the war. She had asked him to explain, and after a few long, charming, interesting conversations, she felt happily closer to him. There was a warmth and a real understanding between them for the first time that she could remember, although she realized afterward that she knew very little more. But now she understood why: it was a subject that could not be discussed, for her sake as much as his. The stories he had told her were old, the issues long settled, the people concerned no longer alive. Elena had been sweet and friendly, and far more skilled than she expected in telling her nothing she did not already know.
She looked across the table at Cordell. “Yes, I’m beginning to realize that. Perhaps I’ve changed, too.”
“Not too much, I hope.” He smiled as he said it.
“If you judge Elena fairly, then you must be clear-eyed with me, too.”
