The Diplomat's Wife Part 8

CHAPTER 10.

The bus screeches to a halt at the ferry terminal. The word Calais is painted on a large wooden board on the front of the two-story red-brick building. An hour earlier, my train from Paris arrived at a station bearing the same name. The air is different here, though, thick and salty. Behind the terminal I can make out several tall s.h.i.+ps, set against a wide swath of sparkling water. My breath catches; I have never seen the ocean before. But there is no time to marvel. The other pa.s.sengers are standing up, making their way to the front of the bus. I pick up my bag and follow them, stepping out onto the pavement.

The crowd shuffles toward the building. Inside, there are two lines leading to gla.s.s ticket windows. I hesitate, unable to comprehend the French signs above each. In the right line stands a woman carrying two large, worn suitcases, four children in tow. Their clothes are clean, but ill-fitting, repaired with crude st.i.tching in several places. To the left, the travelers are better dressed, their bags smaller. A sandy-haired man in a white suit with thin, pale blue stripes stands at the back of that line. Unlike the woman, I do not recognize him from the bus. I join the line of more shabbily dressed travelers to the right.

The line shuffles slowly forward. I look out of the corner of my eye at the other line to see if it is moving more quickly. But the man in the striped suit is still standing parallel to me, s.h.i.+fting his weight from side to side, tapping his foot impatiently. Suddenly, he turns, meeting my gaze. He smiles, revealing small, even teeth, then rolls his pale blue eyes. I look away.

A few minutes later, the woman in front of me reaches the head of the line and sets down her suitcases to give the frowning man behind the window a handful of papers. He stamps them several times, then gives them back to her. "Lower deck," I hear him say. "Next!"

I step forward, handing him my ticket and visa. He scans the papers, then speaks rapidly in French, pointing to the other line as though I've made a mistake. I shake my head, hoping that he will not make me go to the back of that queue and wait again. The ferry will be leaving soon. "Pa.s.sport?" he says. I shake my head again, my heart pounding. I do not have a pa.s.sport. Then I remember the identification card Dava gave me. I reach into my bag, fumbling and feeling the impatient stares of the people in line behind me. My hand closes around the card and I pull it out, then pa.s.s it to the man with trembling fingers. I hold my breath as he studies the card and papers. Is he questioning the extension, or whether I am really Rose? Finally, he stamps the ticket and hands everything back to me. I walk hurriedly from the window, clutching the papers, and proceed out the back door of the building as the other travelers did.

Outside, I stop. Twenty meters in front of me sits a row of six s.h.i.+ps, each larger than the last. As I catch sight of the green-gray water behind the s.h.i.+ps, I gasp. Growing up in southern Poland, hundreds of miles from the coast, I had only played by lakes and streams. I almost saw the ocean once during the war, when I had traveled to Gdansk with Jacob to obtain ammunition from a Danish contact. But it was nighttime, and though we met by the docks, I could not see the ocean, only hear the faint echo of the waves against the sh.o.r.e. Now sunlight sparkles on the water, which flows endlessly to the horizon.

Forcing my eyes from the ocean, I follow the other travelers down the dock to the third s.h.i.+p. I hesitate. Dava and Jacob had both mentioned taking a ferry across the Channel. But this looks like an ocean liner, its base stretching several hundred meters into the sea. There are three decks, each slightly smaller than the last, stacked like a wedding cake.

A horn sounds loud and low. I walk forward with the others toward the ramp that leads onto the s.h.i.+p. Then, at the base of the ramp, I stop again, losing my nerve. Crowds of pa.s.sengers push past me, eager to board. I s.h.i.+ver. Why am I doing this? It would be so much easier to turn around, go back to Paris and wait with Paul until he is discharged. Stubbornness rises up in me. I have to go to London. For Rose. Suddenly it is as if she is standing beside me. "Come on," I can hear her say, as she slips her delicate hand into mine. I take a deep breath and start up the ramp.

At the top, I give my ticket to the purser, who stamps it and hands it back to me. I take a step forward, pausing to get my bearings. Straight ahead, the deck is crowded, mostly with rough-looking men, laborers. Spotting the family that had been in front of me in line standing by the far railing, I start toward them. "Ma'am," the purser calls in English. I turn back, wondering if I have done something wrong. He points left to a staircase that winds upward. "Your ticket is for first cla.s.s. Two decks up."

"But..." I look down at the ticket. Dava could only have afforded a basic fare and she is too practical to have spent Rose's money on anything more. Paul, I think. He must have bought me a more expensive ticket when he changed the reservation. A warm feeling floods through me. "Th-thank you."

I climb one staircase, then another, finally reaching the top deck. It is a different world from the crowded galley below. The light wood promenade is open and s.p.a.cious. A building with large gla.s.s windows occupies the center of the deck; inside, I can make out several tables and chairs. Pa.s.sengers in fine linen dresses and suits sit in the chaise longues or stand in small groups around the perimeter of the deck, sipping c.o.c.ktails and talking, s.h.i.+elded by parasols from the bright sun. I feel eyes upon me, taking in my coa.r.s.e dress and thick, secondhand shoes. My face reddens. I don't belong here. I walk quickly away from the other pa.s.sengers toward the front of the deck.

Underneath my feet, I feel the s.h.i.+p begin to move. My stomach jumps. I am going to England. A few days ago, that would have meant everything to me. And I am still glad to be able to fulfill my promise to Dava and take the sad news to Rose's aunt. But now the trip means leaving Paul, too. It is only for a few weeks, I remind myself. But an uneasy sadness overcomes me as I look back over my shoulder at the sh.o.r.e.

Look forward, I think, remembering Dava's words. I force myself to turn away and keep walking toward the front of the s.h.i.+p. I am relieved to find that the deck is deserted here, perhaps owing to the lack of chairs or the strong breeze that blows off the bow. I stare out at the ocean, captivated. The water has grown choppier now, the green surface broken by hundreds of whitecaps. Seagulls dive to the water, trying to feed, then soar toward the sky once more.

The s.h.i.+p rolls suddenly, then dips to the right. Caught off guard, I stumble. My hands slam against the deck, breaking my fall. "Easy there," a male voice above me says in English. A hand grasps my elbow, helping me to my feet. "Are you all right?"

I straighten, my palms smarting from the blow. Standing in front of me is the light-haired man I noticed in the other ticket line. The orange drink he is holding has splashed across his hand and a single spot stains the fine seersucker fabric of his jacket. But he does not seem to notice. His thin lips are puckered with concern. "I'm fine," I reply, brus.h.i.+ng off the front of my skirt.

"Didn't want to see you go pitching over the edge," he adds, his hand on my elbow.

"Thank you." I pull back slowly, not wanting to appear rude. Up close, I can see that he is not more than about thirty, though his thin, side-combed hair and trim mustache give him an older look. He is nearly as tall as Paul, but slender, with a delicate frame matching his fine, almost feminine features.

"My pleasure." He extends his hand. "Simon Gold."

"Marta Nedermann." Should I have introduced myself as Rose? I wonder, too late, as I shake his hand.

The small, even teeth appear once more as he smiles. "Charmed." He holds my hand for several seconds, his fingers cool and moist. The boat lurches again and I pull back to grab the deck rail. Simon s.h.i.+fts his weight easily with the boat's movement. "The Channel is a bit rough today. You just need to get your sea legs."

I tilt my head. "Sea legs?"

He nods, holding his arms out perpendicular to his sides and leaning from one side to the other. "You know, balance."

"Balance," I repeat slowly. "I'm sorry, I've only recently learned English."

"Really?" He c.o.c.ks his head, appraising me. "You speak with so little accent, I never would have guessed. But if you would like to keep practicing, why don't we go inside and have tea?" He gestures with his head toward the gla.s.s enclosure.

I hesitate. The man is a stranger. And I do not have the money for tea. "Please join me as my guest," he persists. "It will pa.s.s the time until we reach Dover. The other guests are woefully boring," he adds, his smile small and odd. I cannot help but think of Paul, the way his cheeks lift and eyes crinkle with each grin.

"Come along," Simon says, starting for the enclosure. I did not, it occurs to me as I follow him, actually accept his invitation. I open my mouth to demur. But as Simon opens the door to the enclosure, the aroma of warm pastries fills the air, making my stomach grumble. I step inside as Simon holds the door for me. Then I stop. The cafe is so grand. Small tables, covered with white linen cloths and set with real china and silver, dot the room. A man in a tuxedo walks over to us and I half expect him to ask me to leave. But instead he escorts us to a table by one of the windows.

A waiter approaches the table with a pot of tea and plate of scones. As he pours the tea, I study Simon, still wondering if it was proper for me to accept the invitation of a man I do not know, especially now that I am engaged. He is just being friendly, I decide.

"So what brings you to England?" Simon asks after the waiter has left again.

I take a deep breath. "A friend of mine pa.s.sed away." I still cannot see Rose's face in my mind without my eyes burning. "I'm bringing the news and her belongings to her aunt in London."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

I nod. Talking about Rose with this stranger feels awkward. "And you?" I ask, eager to change the subject.

"I'm British," he replies, taking a croissant from the plate of pastries that sits between us.

"I guessed that. I meant, what were you doing in Europe?"

"I've been in Europe for several months now for work. I'm a diplomat, you see." Simon's English is different from any I have heard before, clipped and precise, not difficult to understand. "I was helping to restore our emba.s.sies in the various cities where they were shut down during the war." He works for the government. I worry again that I should have introduced myself as Rose, in case he sees my papers.

"Now I'm headed back to the Foreign Office. I'll be going back to the department where I was working before this trip, Eastern European affairs." He gestures to the plate of croissants. "You should try these, by the way. They're delicious."

I choose one of the croissants. "I'm from Poland," I offer, before taking a bite. The pastry is light and flaky, with delicious bits of chocolate inside. It is not as good, I decide, as the one I had in Paris. I remember the patisserie, my surprise at seeing Paul. Why could it not be him sitting here with me now, instead of this man?

"Really? I thought from your accent that might be the case, but I didn't want to ask. You know, if you're looking for work once we reach London, I could use a secretary, one who speaks Polish...."

"Oh, goodness no," I blurt out, my mouth still full. I finish chewing, swallow. "I mean, that's very kind of you, but I'll only be in London for a few weeks."

"I see." His brow furrows momentarily. "And then what?"

I hesitate. "I'm meeting up with my fiance and traveling to America to live. He's a soldier and he's coming for me as soon as he's discharged."

A strange look crosses Simon's face. He looks down at my hand. "I didn't see a ring."

"It was very last minute," I explain. "The engagement, that is. We didn't really have time to formalize things before I left for England."

"Of course." His voice is strained. Were his intentions romantic when he invited me to tea? I study his face, wondering if I had given him the wrong impression. He is not unattractive, with his smooth, even features and blue eyes. But when I think of Paul's rugged good looks, the way he takes my breath away, there is no comparison. "Congratulations," he adds, without feeling.

"Thank you."

He clears his throat. "It's too bad." My eyes widen. Could he possibly be that blunt? "I mean, I could really use your help at the Foreign Office," he adds quickly.

"My help? I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"The situation in Poland, throughout Eastern Europe right now, demands urgent attention."

"What do you mean?" I clutch my napkin in my lap. I heard little news during my time in Salzburg and none in Paris other than that the war had ended. "What's happening?"

Simon wipes a crumb from his mouth. "As you probably know, the Soviets liberated much of Eastern Europe." I nod. I had learned this much from some of the other Polish refugees at the camp. Simon continues, "The problem is now that the war is over, all indications are that the Soviets won't keep their word on restoring the sovereign leaders of those countries. Take Poland, for example." His voice rises slightly, his expression growing more intense. "The Soviets have certain eastern territories like Lwow outright and they've recognized the temporary government in Lublin, which is nothing but a puppet regime. It's the same all over Eastern Europe."

Anxiety rises in me. The notion of Russian tanks rolling through Krakow is only slightly less terrifying than the n.a.z.i occupation. "Why doesn't the West do something?"

"We're trying. During the war, no one wanted to upset the Soviets because we needed them to fight Hitler on the eastern front. Now that's all over, but the Soviets have gained a toehold in virtually every country in Eastern Europe, either directly or through satellite communist parties." I listen carefully, not understanding some of the English words he uses, but comprehending what he is trying to say.

"And because their troops occupy the region, there's little we can do about it. And it's not just in the east-even in places like Germany, the communists have strong political support. You're not a communist supporter, are you?" I shake my head. There had certainly been those among the resistance movement who leaned to the left, believing that socialist ideals were the answer. Jacob had believed in socialist principles but said that he could not support the way in which the Soviets had corrupted them. I had listened to the debate, not forming a view of my own. Simon continues, his voice rising slightly, "The battle with the communists is coming, Marta. It will be the next great war, maybe even bigger than the last." There is a sudden intensity to his pale blue eyes.

My head swims. "I had no idea."

The s.h.i.+p begins to rock more forcefully. I reach out to steady my teacup. "We must be getting closer to the coast," Simon observes, peering out the window.

I follow his gaze to a thin strip of land that has appeared on the horizon. "I should go freshen up for our arrival." I push back my chair from the table. "Thank you very much for the tea."

"My pleasure," he replies, standing as I do. "Would you like a ride to London once we arrive? My driver will be waiting for me. It's really no trouble."

For a second, I consider his offer. It would be so easy simply to let him take me to the city. But there is something about his attention, about the way he is looking at me that makes me uncomfortable. And I really do not know him well enough to accept. "No, thank you. I'm being met at the station," I fib. "But I appreciate your kind offer."

A look of disappointment crosses Simon's face. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small silver case. "My card," he says, handing me a square of paper. "In case your plans change."

"They won't," I reply, hearing the firmness in my own voice.

"Well, then, in case you need anything when you are in London." His fingers brush mine as I take the card.

I am suddenly seized with the urge to flee. "Th-thank you again." I tuck the card in my bag, then turn, feeling his eyes still upon me as I walk quickly away.

The coal-tinged air is cool and damp as I make my way across the tree-lined square toward the row of houses that sit on its far edge. It is dark now, the dim yellow light given off by the street lamps swallowed almost immediately by the thick London fog. The faded street sign at the far edge of the square reads Montpelier Place. The houses rise high behind tall iron gates, thick hedges obscuring their porches from view. Number 33, the address written on my visa, sits on the nearest corner, overlooking the square. I cross the street and stop in front of the ma.s.sive house. Rose was so quiet and una.s.suming, I had never imagined her family to be rich. My legs tremble.

Steeling myself, I walk up to the gate and peer through its bars. On the other side, well-tended gardens flank wide marble stairs leading up to a columned porch. I look at the windows, all of which are dark. It is not proper to be calling this late. But when my train pulled in to Victoria Station, I did not know what else to do. Except for my brief meeting with Simon Gold, I know no one in London and I have no money for a hotel. So I found my way here, following the directions a woman on the train had given me, taking the Tube to Sloane Street and then walking the last several blocks. Looking now at the grand house, I feel this was a mistake. Then my hand drops to my bag and an image of Rose's face appears in my mind. I have to do this for her.

I take a deep breath, then press the doorbell. A ringing sound comes faintly from inside the house. There is no response. My heart pounds. Perhaps Rose's aunt is away on holiday somewhere. I press the bell again.

"Yes?" a man's voice says loudly. I jump, then look through the gate, but the door is still closed. "What is it?" I notice that the voice comes from a small black box with holes in it, just above the doorbell.

I clear my throat. "I-I'm looking for Delia, I mean, Mrs. LeMay."

"This is the LeMay residence," the voice replies stiffly. "However, Mrs. LeMay is not expecting any visitors tonight."

"But..." I begin.

The voice interrupts. "It's late, miss. Come back tomorrow. Or better yet, call first." There is a clicking sound and the box goes silent.

I start to turn away, feeling my cheeks redden. Then I stop. I have to do this. I ring the bell once more. "What is it?" the man snaps. "I just told you..."

This time I speak before he can finish. "Please. It's extremely important. If you could just come to the door..."

There is no response. I stare at the box. Had he hung up on me again? I look down the street. I will find somewhere to sleep, I decide, then come back tomorrow. As I turn to go, there is a clicking noise on the other side of the gate. I look behind me to see a thin, vertical shaft of light coming from the porch. "What do you want?" This time, the man's voice comes from the door.

"If you could just open the gate..." The man does not respond but shuffles forward down the steps with great effort. As he emerges from the shadows, I can see that he is bald except for a fine ring of silver hair. He wears a dark pressed suit and ascot that seem formal, given the late hour. I try to recall if Rose ever mentioned an uncle.

The man reaches the gate but does not open it. "Yes?" I feel myself shrink under his sweeping glance.

I take a deep breath, choosing my English words with care. "I-I'm here to see Mrs. LeMay." I raise my hand. "I know it's late. I should have called first. I'm sorry. But I've traveled a great distance and I must speak with her. It's about her niece, Rose."

A look of recognition flashes across his face. "Rose?" he repeats. "What is it?"

I hesitate. Part of me wants to give the news and Rose's belongings to this man and be done with it. "Are you family?"

"No, I'm the butler, Charles," he replies. "But I will pa.s.s your message on to Mrs. LeMay."

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, but I must speak with Mrs. LeMay directly."

The man studies my face for several seconds, not speaking. Then he opens the gate. "Come in, and we'll see if Mrs. LeMay will receive you."

As I follow him up the porch steps, the thick perfume of honeysuckle rushes up to greet me. Suddenly I see Rose, playing in the garden as a child. Sadness wells up in me. She should be here now, too.

Forcing down my sorrow, I follow the butler through the door. Inside, there is a large foyer, its floor checkered with black-and-white square tiles. Straight ahead, a staircase leads up into darkness. "Wait here," Charles instructs firmly before disappearing through the doorway to the left. I stand in the middle of the foyer uneasily. Through a doorway to the right, a clock ticks, breaking the silence.

A moment later, I hear footsteps above me. A light goes on at the top of the stairs and an elderly woman appears. "Good evening," she says as she descends the staircase. "I'm Delia LeMay." Rose's aunt looks nothing like I expected. Barely reaching my shoulder, she seems nearly as wide as she is tall. Her round face, dominated by full cheeks, is topped with an enormous shock of white hair that has been corralled into a bun that seems ready to burst from its trappings at any second. But her violet eyes are unmistakably Rose's. She eyes me warily. "Charles tells me you are here about my niece."

"Yes. My name is Marta Nedermann. I-"

"Marta!" Delia exclaims. Her face breaks into a wide smile, lifting her cheeks until they threaten to eclipse her eyes. "I had no idea it was you." She waddles across the foyer more quickly than her girth would seem to permit, then reaches up and kisses me on both cheeks, her flowery perfume tickling my nose. "Rose wrote me all about you. I sent in the paperwork to extend her visa, and get you one, too." So Dava was right. Rose had wanted me to come to England with her. "But I wasn't expecting you girls for a few months yet. What are you doing here?"

I hesitate. "Do you suppose we could sit down?"

"Of course, how rude of me! You must be exhausted from your trip." She ushers me through the door on the right into a parlor. The furniture, a couch and two chairs, is covered in matching pink-flowered silk slipcovers. Framed photographs cover the coffee table, windowsill and mantel. "Charles," Delia calls loudly. The butler appears once more. "Two cups of tea, quickly, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

After he leaves, Delia gestures to the sofa. I hesitate, not wanting to dirty the fine fabric. "Come sit," she urges. "I'm sorry if Charles was rude. We've had so many people coming to the gate these recent months, beggars mostly. It's a shame what this war has done to people's lives. We try to help when we can, of course, but there have been some unsavory types, too. Hooligans who would just as soon cause trouble. We have to be careful." As she sits down at one end of the sofa, a large gray cat appears and leaps into her lap. "This is Ruff," she says, scratching behind the cat's ears. "He's nearly fifteen years old. Rosie named him. I tried telling her that the name was better suited to a dog, but she was quite a stubborn child."

I try to imagine quiet, gentle Rose as stubborn. The war must have changed her so. Then I notice a painting above the mantel of a young girl with a delicate face and strawberry-blond hair. "Is that Rose?"

Delia smiles. "Yes. In the summers when Rose didn't come here, we would meet at the family villa on the coast near Trieste. We had a local artist paint her portrait when she was nine. It's always been my favorite." Watching her eyes dance as she studies the painting, dread rises in me.

Charles reappears with the tea and pours two cups for us before leaving again. Delia hands one of the cups to me. "No sugar, I'm afraid. We're all out of ration cards until next week and there doesn't seem to be any to be had on the market." She means the black market, I realize with surprise. It was hard to imagine a woman such as Delia procuring things illicitly, but her tone is matter-of-fact, as if doing so is a routine part of life since the war. "So how is my dear Rose? And what brings you here?" She stirs her tea. "I mean, Rose wrote that you were going to be coming with her. Is she not well enough to travel yet?"

I take a sip of tea, forcing myself to swallow over the lump that has formed in my throat. "Mrs. LeMay, you know that Rose was terribly ill."

A grave look crosses her face. "Yes. She's suffered from her blood affliction for many years. But she wrote me from Salzburg that she was getting much better, stronger every day. Thanks to you and a nurse, Dana or something."

"Dava. She was very good to both of us." I pause. "Rose was getting better."

"Was?" Delia speaks slowly, a look of realization crossing her face.