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“What have I got wrong?” He suddenly appeared quite nervous.
It made her think in a way she had not intended. “Not the outside, for a start,” she began. “I’m quite skilled at painting my face on and choosing carefully what I wear. But that isn’t all of me.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
“Yes,” she said honestly, “I do think exactly that.”
“Margot, my dear, I’ve known you since you w
ere a girl at school, with ink on your fingers, rather than nail polish. I’ve watched you grow up, both inside and out. I’ve seen you deal with grief, and watched your patience with Elena as she grew up, too.”
She found herself blushing. “Really? Has it been that long?”
“Since your father and I have known each other? Yes, in fact longer.”
He was looking at her gently and she found it a little disturbing. Had he really seen her so clearly, and for so long? It was uncomfortable to be perceived so well, and yet it seemed he still liked her. There was affection in his eyes, even a degree of pleasure. Or perhaps it was because she had come to support Cecily with her friendship, and not many others had. A wave of pity overtook her for a moment. Were there friends who had abandoned her because she was marrying a German soldier? A Nazi? Cowards.
“Do you like him?” she said suddenly.
In spite of the fact that she had not mentioned any name, Cordell’s eyes lowered to gaze somewhere toward the oven spreading warmth into the room. “No.”
The thought hung in the air, unfinished.
She was more aware of the daylight creeping into the corners of the room, showing details of shelves and cupboards in sharp outline, and cold still from the night.
Cordell looked up. “But if he makes Cecily happy, then I shall learn to. Winifred worries so much less now, and I could like him for that alone.” He looked rueful. “I suppose every father thinks that no man is good enough for his daughter, especially an only child.” The color washed off his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sure…”
She smiled genuinely. “It’s all right. Whatever my father thought, it wasn’t the time or place to show it. Paul was only home for a week or so on leave. You don’t tell a soldier home from the battlefront that he isn’t good enough for your daughter; he’s good enough for anything.”
“Of course. I’m…sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She meant it. “It’s natural you should worry about Cecily. Times are difficult. And although you know Germany well, you are English all through, and so is Cecily…in her own way. Although she knows Germany better than she knows England now. The only thing that matters is: Does he love her?”
“Didn’t Pilate say, ‘What is truth?’?” he asked. “Does it make sense if I say, ‘What is love?’?”
“No, but we’re not twenty-three; Cecily is. Falling in love is still magic for her. It can overcome all sorts of things.”
“And does that stop?” he said ruefully, but the amusement did not fade from his eyes. “Don’t give up, Margot. You’re still in your prime, if you are even there yet. And don’t expect anyone like Paul Driscoll to cross Cecily’s path. Young men aren’t like that anymore, but there’s room for a different kind of heroism: quieter, perhaps, and in many instances unknown. But of the highest order nonetheless.”
“Are you thinking of Elena and—”
“All sorts of things,” he cut across her. “Nothing in particular. Times are not as quiet as you think. Just enjoy the wedding, and be there for Cecily…and Winifred.” He touched her hand lightly, just with his fingertips. “You make a great difference.”
She was saved from having to think of a reply by the maid coming into the kitchen and offering to make Margot breakfast.
* * *
—
The morning passed pleasantly. Cecily, rather shyly, showed Margot her wedding dress, uncertain if she should or not. She knew Margot had had little time to prepare her own, and with wartime rations and restrictions, extravagance had been impossible, and, anyway, would have been in poor taste when there was so little to go around. Cecily’s dress was simple: plain white silk with a little lace appliqué at the throat.
“It’s absolutely gorgeous,” Margot said sincerely, surprised how happy she was to say that and mean it. “I hope the photographer is good. You will be one of the loveliest pictures he has taken.”
Cecily blushed with pleasure, then modesty made her bend her head. “Do you think so?”
“I do,” Margot said. “I really do.”
“Mrs. Beckendorff, Hans’s mother, is coming for luncheon. I can’t call her mother-in-law yet. My tongue slipped, and I did once. She gave me such a look. You won’t like her, but please try to see the best in her, for my sake. I dare say no one would be good enough for her son, but certainly not someone who’s English…and dark-haired.”
