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“Of course not,” he replied testily, hating himself for causing her consternation and bewilderment but unable to help it.
“Then what is it, Gavin, dear?” she asked, getting up. “Tell me. Something’s wrong. I can feel there’s something you don’t want to tell me.”
“It’s nothing. Nothing you’d understand,” he muttered, placing the poker back on its stand next to the fire.
“Why? Perhaps if you explained, I might.” She stood next to him, waiting for him to encircle her in his arms before raising her lips to his.
He pulled away and crossed over to the window. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said weakly. “You’re so innocent. A baby. You—you have no idea what it is like for a man to be close to you, day and night, and not—it doesn’t matter. The least said the better. I’ll get some wood in before dark.”
“No.” She stopped him, eyes glinting. “You are going to tell me exactly what it is I’m doing wrong. I won’t let you fob me off with excuses. I thought we were happy together. Almost as if we were married,” she added, blushing again.
“But married people don’t just—oh, forget it, Greta. You’ll understand one day.”
“No. I want to understand now, Gavin—there may never be a ‘one day.’ I know married people sleep together in the same bed. Is it something to do with that?”
He looked down at her, ashamed of himself, and reached for her hand. “They do more than just sleep together, my darling.”
“I had sort of gathered that. Could we do that other thing?” She came close, face flushed and eyes alight. “Would it make you happy?”
“No.” He shook his head firmly. “It wouldn’t be right. We’re not married, and well—you could end up having a baby.”
“Can you at least explain it to me, Gavin? Then I could decide, couldn’t I?”
“For Christ’s sake, Greta,” he exclaimed, embarrassed.
“Well, it can’t be that awful. After all, most women must do it, don’t they? I want to be yours, darling, all yours…whatever that means.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I would be betraying my loyalty to Franz.”
“Nothing’s wrong anymore, Gavin,” she said, drawing nearer as evening closed in and shadows bounced off the faded brocade walls. “That’s all the past now. We don’t know what will happen tomorrow or the day after, when the war will end, or…or anything. I want to feel married to you, even if we’re not. And maybe someday we can be.”
“No!” he exclaimed, Flora’s face flashing before him. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? Don’t you love me?”
“Of course I love you, Greta, but—oh, it’s too difficult to explain,” he said, pulling her close and casting Flora from his mind as his hand slipped to the small of her back and he pressed her body gently against his. She stiffened. “Do you understand, darling?” he whispered. “Are you sure you want to know, my Greta? Are you certain?” His senses dimmed as once more he made her feel his erection, barely hearing her whispered assent before leading her toward the large daybed.
One by one he undid the tiny buttons of her high-necked blouse, swallowed hard at her quick intake of breath when his hands reached her breast. Still he continued, unhurried, shedding each garment until she stood before him, her smooth, white skin gleaming in the shadows, her hair a burnished mane highlighted by the glow of the flames. Her eyes were misty now, innocent fear replaced by primeval female desire as she reached up, swept away the golden strands that had fallen over her breasts and stepped away from him.
“My God, you’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman on earth,” he whispered, awed yet somewhat hesitant. This was not one of the French whores at Paris Plage whom he’d paid to experiment with, a brief sexual fling like Annelise. He was about to make Greta a woman, and the knowledge was both frightening and exhilarating.
“Gavin,” she whispered, cheeks ablaze, her voice husky with desire. “I want to see you as you are seeing me.” It was as though the power of womanhood had suddenly been revealed to her, paralyzing him. Then she arched unconsciously and the need to feel her skin on his, to possess her entirely, overruled his fear. She watched, face flushed, as he undressed, diverting her eyes when he took off his underwear.
Eyes locked, they caressed one another, their bodies lit by the glow of the fire and a flame within, pure yet so intense it burned both flesh and soul. Then she was in his arms, his hands roaming down her back to the curve of her buttocks, delighting in the delicate texture of her skin, before laying her gently among the blue and gold brocade cushions of the daybed.
Her eyes closed as he trailed his fingers languorously, determined to savor the enchantment for as long as he was able. But determination grew thin when he reached the taut curve of her breasts and her eyes opened, turning from misty green to emerald as she gasped, her nipples hardening deliciously to his touch. And Gavin knew the sudden thrill of original male triumph. He was the first. To touch, to feel, to love her.
He lowered his lips to her breast, her soft moans empowering, instinct guiding him as he reached the soft golden mound between her thighs, feeling her body tense as he parted her. For a moment he was afraid, but her small cry of ecstasy had his thumb caressing and his fingers exploring until the need to possess her became unendurable and gently he parted her thighs, knowing he could wait no longer.
“I’ll try not to hurt you, my darling,” he whispered as her eyes flew open and he gazed down at her through the glimmering shadows, lips parted, her face framed by a sea of gold-flecked strands splayed across the pillow. Then he could wait no longer, and thrust relentlessly, her visceral cry bringing him to a thundering climax.
Later he held her, soothing her in his arms, Greta’s head tucked into the crook of his broad shoulder and her hair falling like a silken mantle over his chest.
Gavin woke shivering at dawn, realizing that Greta must be frozen. He rose, careful not to wake her, his body reacting immediately when she stretched like a kitten then curled among the cushions, a magical fairy princess wrapped in her golden mane.
He moved to the fire and placed a log on the dying embers. Soon one flame caught, then another, and as daylight crept stealthily through the window, he looked for something to cover her with.
It was then he saw the bloodstains on her thighs and belly. For a moment he reproached himself for acting like a brute. Then, as she gave a contented sigh in her sleep, he smiled despite his misgivings and covered her tenderly with a blanket that lay on the chair, realizing he’d better be ready to explain what had happened, for she evidently had very little clue about the facts of life.
He felt very mature and manly as he walked upstairs to the bathroom. Then he went to his room and put on an old velvet dressing gown forgotten by one of the kaiser’s entourage and came down again, armed with a damp towel and her long silk nightgown. She was still fast asleep, so he laid the things near her and went to the kitchen to make coffee, hoping she wouldn’t be upset when she woke. They were using the coffee sparingly, but today was special, so he added an extra spoonful before stoking the stove and putting the water on to boil, totally relaxed for the first time in ages.
Then, as the kettle began to simmer, he pricked up his ears, certain he’d heard an engine. It was far away, but in this silence you could make anything out. He took the kettle off the stove and rushed to the study.
“Greta, darling, wake up.” He shook her shoulder gently.
“Gavin,” she whispered, a lazy, satisfied smile curving her lips.
“Darling, wake up. I think I heard a car. It’s probably nothing, but all the same we’d better be prepared.”
She sat up instantly, pulling the blanket to her chin, then, glancing instinctively toward the window, she burst into laughter. “That’s impossible. It’s still snowing, look.”
Gavin smiled. She was right. There were at least three feet of snow outside. He sighed with relief, realizing it would be impossible for any vehicle to reach Schloss Annenberg under these weather conditions. It must have been his imagination. Perhaps the war was getting nearer. Who could tell? They hadn’t heard any news of the outside world for so long.
“Maybe the war is getting closer and it was anti-aircraft guns,” he said with a shrug, sitting next to her, stroking her hair. “My God, you’re lovely.”
“I feel lovely,” she said, blushing deliciously before sinking back among the cushions. Then all at once she winced, a dull flush darkening her cheeks, and he remembered.
“You—you may want this,” he said, picking up the damp towel hesitantly and handing it to her, embarrassed. “I brought your nightgown, too.”
“Oh!” Her cheeks crimson, her gaze remained riveted on the towel.
“Greta, darling, don’t worry. It’s normal. When I—when we—well, you’ve bled a little, that’s all, but it’s all right,” he finished in a rush, reaching for her hand. “Remember, it’s as if we were married now. We mustn’t be ashamed with one another.” She nodded, hair shrouding her face. “I’ll go and finish making breakfast. You join me in the kitchen when you’re ready.” He leaned forward and kissed her, ready to leave her in privacy. But when his mouth touched hers, her lips parted. Coffee was forgotten as they came together in a frenzied rush, the blanket and dressing gown thrown aside as they cleaved to one another, wanting nothing more than to prolong the enchantment.
He didn’t wait this time; he took her. And soon she was arching, nails sinking into his shoulders, fanning the blaze of their unleashed passion till it burst into flames and he let out a cry.
This time it was his head that sank onto Greta’s breast, tired and satiated. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Flora. But Greta’s fingers were massaging his neck, her nails coursing through his hair, driving him into a delicious stupor where all he could do was smile, sigh and mutter softly while his unshaved chin grazed her breasts and he fell fast asleep.
7
Etaples, France, 1918
The German offensive had intensified to such a degree during the past weeks that they could not help wondering how much longer the Allied forces would resist the massive drive from the east. Although no one ever expressed their doubts out loud, each day new villages and towns fell and more and more casualties poured in.
In one of the rare moments of quiet Flora was able to grab between shifts, she wrote to Angus, shipped home three months earlier.
It never stops. Day and night the wounded are pouring in and there is barely room to house them. The floors are covered with stretchers and they are treated there, for the beds are full. The operating theaters never stop and they arrive in everything from ambulances to cattle trucks. Bapaume, Beaumont Hamel and Péronne have all fallen and they are saying that the Germans are already in the suburbs of Amiens. Now there is very little left between us and the front lines…Angus dear, if I should not return…remember him for me, won’t you? I promise that if that should be the case, both he and I will be watching over you…
But the frantic activity, dealing with destroyed limbs, removing the stench-filled basins of bloodied gauze and cotton, and treating wounds, allowed her no time to think of Gavin as she prepared surgical instruments and rolled bandages in the hectic dispensary. Not even Arras or the battles of 1917 could compare to the current threat, as the enemy inched toward them, a relentless monster avidly seeking its prey.
Letters were few and far between, and one morning, when she was handed an envelope addressed to her in Angus’s neat hand, all she could do was stuff it into her pocket while she rushed through the chaotic ward to aid an agonizing patient whose blood had congealed, gluing his torn limbs to the hard canvas of the stretcher. She tried to remove it as gently as possible but finally had to cut the canvas away. The soldier’s cry of pain resounded against the ceaseless clatter of trucks, ambulances, ammunition wagons and trains filled with reinforcements, making their way to the front.
When she’d cleared the ward as best she could, she told the other nurse that she was taking quarter of an hour off before the next convoy arrived. Going to the kitchen, she grabbed a cup of strong tea and sat down, exhausted, at the makeshift table, between a harried doctor and the weary chaplain, to read her letter. Taking a sip, she skimmed the lines. All at once, her eyes filled with horror-stricken tears and her hands trembled.
“Are you all right?” the chaplain asked solicitously, laying a hand on her sleeve. “Can I help you, my dear?”
Flora put down the letter and wiped her eyes. “My Uncle Hamish died of a sudden heart attack. He was like a father to me,” she whispered.
“I’m so sorry,” he replied quietly, pressing her hand. “You look exhausted. Perhaps you should try and rest.”
“What? With this mess going on around us?” She glanced bitterly toward the corridor, where another trail of stretchers shuffled by, drenched in blood. The men didn’t even see the front-line stations anymore, but were brought straight here from the shell-blown trenches.
“Still,” the chaplain insisted, “I think you should take a break. If I remember rightly, you lost your fiancé as well.”
She nodded wearily. It all seemed unreal. Gavin gone, abandoned forever in the trenches. Uncle Hamish, dead of shock and unhappiness. Was there nothing this endless war would leave intact?
Taking the kind chaplain’s advice, she wandered aimlessly outside, seeking some solace in the fresh air, a contrast to the acrid stench of the ward. She walked over to a clump of trees and sat down, watching a lumbering horse-pulled cart bringing more injured soldiers.
She turned away, heart overflowing with sadness for Gavin and Uncle Hamish, for Angus and Tante Constance, for the life that had been theirs and that would be no more. Perhaps Angus was right after all. Perhaps the only way to survive was by creating an invincible barrier, pieced together out of painful but loving memories against which, united, they could build a future.
She gazed across the fields, her mind far away. If the war ever ended, she would go home and marry Angus. At least helping him through the ordeal of assuming a role designed for his brother, for which he had neither the nature nor the inclination, would give her life a purpose. She watched as the sun set behind the dark clouds, an ominous stretch of orange-streaked lead that seemed to foreshadow dark weeks ahead where, for the first time, the unmentioned possibility of defeat lurked.
Several days later, as she was sluicing the bedpans, Flora heard two V.A.D.s, Ana and Heather, calling her excitedly.
“Flora, come and see. They’re finally here.”
“Who?” she asked curiously, washing her chilblained hands.
“The Americans. They’re here. Come and see them,” Ana urged, and Flora followed her hastily to watch the long lines of tall, well-built, clean-cut young men marching swiftly along the road. It made her realize how tired and disheveled they must seem, after almost four long years without respite. But the sight infused her with both hope and excitement, tempered by sorrow. Gavin and the others had marched off the same way, full of strength and will…She wondered sadly how many of these young men would return, and how it must feel to come so far and fight for what must seem so alien to them. She commented on this to Ana.
“Just be happy they’re here,” Ana replied with the first grin Flora had seen in many months. “Now we stand a real chance of clobbering those bastards once and for all.”
Flora smiled and watched the First United States Army march into Etaples, filled with deep respect and gratitude toward these dignified, purposeful young men willing to endanger their lives in the name of justice, a sentiment that she was determined to remember always.
As she made her way back to the ward, she sent up an inner prayer of thanks for the hope these soldiers brought with them.
8
Pontalier, Switzerland, 1918
If the Americans were here, he was jolly well going to find them, Gavin decided, standing on the platform of the tiny station at Pontalier, a Swiss border town north of Lake Geneva. His false identity papers, which had been provided by a priest named Frère Siméon, identified him as Michel Rouget. He grimaced, not liking the idea of being named after a fish, but he knew he could pass perfectly as a young Frenchman.
It was barely six o’clock, and the station was empty, for the passengers departing to Nancy on the 6:40 had not yet arrived. He eyed the stationmaster, his crisp, blue uniform and brisk gait as pompous as his curled mustache, crossing the tracks in the chilly, damp mist, then peered through the window and shabby net curtains of the Buffet de la Gare, 2ième classe. The door swung open and a whiff of coffee and fresh croissants made his mouth water, bringing back poignant memories of Greta, who was never far from his mind.
He fingered the meager change in his pocket, wondering whether to invest in breakfast or wait till later. But there was no sign of the train, so he rose and went inside where a sleepy young waitress stood behind the counter, flicking a feather duster halfheartedly over a tightly packed row of bottles. She cheered at the sight of a young customer and laid down the feather duster, smiling.
“Is that real coffee?” Gavin asked.
“Yes. But you’d better order now, before the morning crowd comes in. After six o’clock it’s usually all gone. What’ll it be?”
“A café au lait and a croissant,” he replied, remembering the many coffees that Eugène, Angus and he had so often enjoyed in Ambazac, after an early-morning fishing expedition. It too reminded him of Greta and his hasty departure. He gazed down at the hard-boiled eggs, his mind far away as he remembered the sound of the approaching car, the two of them peering, unbelieving, from behind the heavy damask curtains; Greta’s terrified look as the vehicle finally entered the courtyard, coming to a slow stop in front of the pavilion.
“It’s an army car,” she said, voice trembling. “Oh my God. You have to flee, Gavin. You must go to the cellar immediately. God knows what will happen if they find you here.”
“That’s absurd. I can’t leave you. I won’t.”
“Wait,” she whispered, clutching his sleeve as the car door opened. “That’s General Meinz-Reutenbach, one of my father’s best friends. He tried to save poor Franz.” She turned, lips white and eyes pleading. “Darling, you must go. It’s safe for me, but not for you. If they find you here, they will be obliged to take us both prisoner. I would be hiding an enemy—they wouldn’t have a choice. Please,” she begged, seeing the other officers exiting the vehicle, stopping to admire the facade before they approached the front door. “Go.” She pushed him into the hall toward the cellar door, desperate.
“How can I leave you alone? What if you are wrong? What if—”
“Just go, Gavin, I implore you. You must,” she sobbed, her face ashen. “Take some money from the safe, as we planned, and go,” she said in a tremulous whisper, grabbing a jacket from the newel post and thrusting it at him. Gavin lingered reluctantly, part of him telling him to stay and defend her, whatever the consequences, the other knowing she was right, and that by staying he was placing them both in danger.
“But I can’t abandon you, for Christ’s sake,” he insisted as she pushed him relentlessly toward the top of the cellar stairs.
The doorbell clanged through the hall.
“Go,” she whispered, eyes wild. “I beg of you. Do it for me, darling.”
“I’ll wait in the cellar.”
“No.” She shook her head desperately.
“Greta, I won’t leave you to face this alone. I—”
“For goodness’ sake, go, or you’ll get us both killed.” She shoved him down the stairs, but he held her.
“I love you, Greta. Remember. I’ll be back, I promise.” He gave her a last tight hug. “Where will I find you?”
“My aunt’s—Louisa von Ritter in Lausanne.” She touched his cheek as the doorbell rang a second time, then tore brusquely from his hold, closing the cellar door and locking it firmly behind her. He stood, powerless, his ear glued to it in helpless frustration, hearing the voices. Calm, friendly voices. There was obvious relief in the officer’s tone. His heart beat fast as he debated what to do.
After what seemed like ages, he heard footsteps, the distant sound of shutters being closed and doors being shut. They’re closing the house, he realized, trembling. They’re taking her away. He raised his hand, about to bang the door down, but knew it was useless. The echo of the front door closing and the far-off rumble of the car’s departure left him sinking to his knees on the cellar stairs, besieged by guilt and frustration, praying she would be all right.
It was impossible to absorb that, in a few short minutes, their magical world had fallen apart, disappeared, whisked from beneath them like a tablecloth sending china flying in every direction. It seemed unbelievable that less than two hours earlier she had been lying comfortably in his arms, wondering whether or not to bake today. Now cold reality and doubt seeped through the damp stone steps. Perhaps he should have stood firm and taken her with him. They could have not answered the door, pretended no one was there, escaped together into the forest. He buried his face in his hands. Why had he allowed her to persuade him?
Because instinctively he knew she’d be safer without him. Slowly he drew his head up and rose, leaning against the wall, pulling himself together little by little. It was better for her this way. It was the right thing. He could manage on his own, but taking her with him would have made her a criminal. He reached up and tried the door one last time, knowing full well that it was locked and there was little choice left but to follow Greta’s instructions.
He felt his way numbly down the steps, lighting the small gas lamp at the bottom, his eyes seeking the safe tucked between two casks to his right. Should he take the money? Yet what choice did he have? He braced himself and, crossing the cellar, opened it as Greta had instructed him. Stuffing his pockets with French francs, German marks and British pounds, he then searched for a bag to carry some food with him. He found a sack of flour and emptied it in a corner. After giving it a good shake, he filled it with sausages, dried meat, a bottle of red wine and some cheese. At least that would keep him going for a while.
Reluctantly he picked up the loden shooting jacket Greta had thrown at him and put out the lamp, afraid it might set fire to the place. Reaching for the secret lock on the panel in the wall, he waited, his pulse racing anxiously. What if it didn’t open? He would be trapped alive in this dark, dank dungeon of a place…But it sprang open promptly and he delved into the blinding darkness.
Banging his head hard on the low ceiling, he saw stars and swore. After a while his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Thanks to Greta’s tender care, his thigh and hip were much better. Thank God, for the narrow passage was so cramped there were places he could barely crawl. But he ignored the musty, festering smell, the fleeting shadows and scuttle of vermin, determined to reach his goal.
“Voilà!” The waitress’s singsong voice brought him back to the present with a bang, and he blinked for a moment at the croissant and large, chipped cup of milky-brown coffee on the counter. Then he smiled and thanked her before dipping the tip of the flaky crescent pastry carefully into the beverage, relishing the moment.
“Are you from near here?” she asked coquettishly.
“No. I’m from Limoges. Ever been there?” He grinned, sinking his teeth into the soft, buttery texture, willing it to last, not knowing when he’d see another. The change in his pocket had dwindled to a few coins, just enough to get him to Nancy, where he hoped to meet up with a British or American convoy and rejoin his regiment.
“I’ve never been far away at all,” the girl answered wistfully. “Why aren’t you at the war?”
