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Cat turned and surveyed the room that she had claimed for her own, a small sanctuary in the Carlisles’ Kensington house. When she and Benton discovered she was with child the first time, they pulled down the gloomy wallpaper and washed the walls a charming shade of buttercup yellow, perfect for a child of any sex. But Cat had lost the child before the furniture had been ordered. In an abundance of caution, they hadn’t ordered furniture when Cat became pregnant for a second and third time. Those babies had not survived in her womb either. Now she had claimed the nursery as her own.
It was the sunniest room in the house. When Benton started to stay at his club – at least that’s what he told Cat; she knew he really stayed at Trudy’s flat in Belgravia – Cat moved in and decorated it to suit her own taste. She found she rather liked this small space. A tiny bed, an armoire to hold her clothes, and a writing table – with space between the pieces – were the only furnishings in the room. She had removed the dark Persian rug and left the oak floors bare, liking the way the honey-toned wood warmed the room. She had washed away the buttercup yellow and painted the walls stark white.
‘Miss?’ The maid stood in the open doorway of Cat’s bedroom. She was too young to be working, thirteen if she was a day, skinny and pale with a mousy brown bun peeking out from the white cap and sharp cheekbones that spoke of meals missed.
‘Who’re you?’ Cat asked. She forced a smile so as not to scare the poor thing.
‘Annie, ma’am.’ Annie took a tentative step into Cat’s room. In one hand she carried a wooden box full of feather dusters, rags, and other cleaning supplies. In the other she carried a broom and dustpan. ‘I’m to give you the message that Alicia Montrose is here. She is eager to see you.’ She looked around the room. ‘And then I am to turn your room.’
‘I’ll just finish up and be down shortly,’ Cat said.
The girl hesitated in the doorway.
‘You can come in and get started,’ Cat said.
‘Thank you, miss.’ The girl moved into the room and started to work away, focusing on the tasks at hand. ‘Do you mind if I open the window? I like to air the bed linens.’
‘Of course not,’ Cat said.
She reached for the box that held her hairpins and attempted to wrangle her curls into submission. Behind her, the child opened the window and pulled back the sheets on Cat’s bed. While the bed linens aired, Annie busied herself with the dusting and polishing.
Cat turned back to the mirror and wondered how she could avoid seeing Alicia Montrose. She couldn’t face her, not yet. The wounds, though old, were still raw.
The Montrose family had always been gracious and kind to her, especially in the beginning of her relationship with Benton when she felt like a fish out of water, among the well-heeled, tightly knit group who had known each other since childhood, and whose parents and grandparents before them had been close friends.
Many in Benton’s circle hadn’t been so quick to welcome Cat into their fold. Not the Montroses. They extended every courtesy towards Cat. Alicia took Cat under her wing and saw that she was included in the events the wives scheduled when the husbands went on their hunting and fishing trips. Alicia also sought Cat out for days of shopping and attending the museum. And when the Bradbury-Scots invited Cat and Benton for dinner, Alicia swept in and tactfully explained the myriad of customs involved.
‘They’ll be watching you, Cat. If you hold your teacup incorrectly, they’ll never let you live it down. And Lady Bradbury-Scott will load the table with an excess of forks and knives just to trip you up.’ Alicia had taken Cat to her home every day for a week, where they dined on course after course of delicious food prepared by the Montroses’ cook. While they ate, Alicia explained every nuance to Cat – speak to the guest on the right during the first course. Only when that is finished can you turn to the left. The rules were legion.
Cat credited Alicia’s tutelage for her success at the dinner. She had triumphed. The Bradbury-Scotts accepted her, so did Benton’s friends, all thanks to Alicia Montrose. One of these days Cat would need to make peace with Alicia, and talk to her about why she had resisted Alicia’s overtures. Cat didn’t expect Alicia to forgive her. How could she? But at least Alicia could be made to understand what motivated Cat to behave so shabbily. But not today.
She plunked her new green velvet hat on her head and pinned it fast without checking herself in the mirror. As she tiptoed downstairs, she wondered if she could sneak out the kitchen door and avoid the women altogether. With any luck, she could slip out unnoticed and avoid the litany of questions and criticisms that had become Isobel’s standard fare over the years.
‘I think the chairs should be in a half circle around this half of the room.’ Alicia’s voice floated up the stairs. ‘A half circle is so much more welcoming, don’t you agree?’
‘Oh, I agree.’ Isobel Carlisle, Cat’s domineering sister-in-law, a shrewish woman who made a career of haranguing Cat, spoke in the unctuous tone reserved for Alicia alone. ‘Move them back, Marie.’
Poor Marie. Isobel’s secretary bore the brunt of Isobel’s self-importance. Cat didn’t know how she stood it, but Marie Quimby had been Isobel’s loyal servant for years. Cat slunk down the stairs like a thief in her own home.
‘But we just had them in the half circle, and neither of you liked that arrangement,’ Marie said. She sounded beleaguered and it was only nine in the morning.
‘There you are, Catherine. Bit late this morning.’ Isobel stepped into the hallway.’
Catherine,’ Alicia said. She smiled as she air-kissed Cat’s cheek, while Isobel looked down her nose in disapproval. ‘How’ve you been, Cat? You’re looking well. We were worried about you. Good to see you’ve got the roses back in your cheeks.’ Alicia was resplendent in a navy dress and a perfect hat.
‘It was just a bout of influenza. I am fully recovered,’ Cat said. ‘And thank you for the lovely flowers and the card.’
‘Won’t you consider helping us? We could certainly use you. No one has a knack for getting people to part with their money like you do.’
Cat smiled, ignoring Isobel’s dagger-like glare. ‘Maybe next time. How’re the boys?’
‘Growing like mad. Hungry all the time. They’re excited about our trip to Scotland. The invitation’s open, if you’d like to join?’ Alicia let the question hang in the air between them.
‘I’ll think about it.’ Cat backed out of the room, eager to be outside. ‘It’s good to see you, Alicia.’
‘Come to the house for the weekend, Cat. If the boys are too much, I’ll send them to their gran’s house. We’ve some catching up to do.’
‘I’d like that,’ Cat said. ‘Must run.’
‘Perhaps we should get back to work?’ Isobel said.
A flash of sadness washed over Alicia’s face. ‘Please ring me, Catherine. At least we can have lunch.’
‘I will. Promise,’ Cat said.
‘Isobel, I’ll leave you to deal with the chairs. I’m going to use your telephone and call the florist.’
‘Of course,’ Isobel said.
Once Alicia stepped away, Isobel stepped close to Cat and spoke in a low voice. ‘I do not appreciate you being so forward. You practically threw yourself at Alicia. Don’t you realise what my association on this project could do for me, for our family, socially? This is very important, Catherine. Don’t force me to speak to Benton about your behaviour. I will if I have to.’
Cat ignored her sister-in-law, as she had done a million times before. She walked past the drawing room, where Marie was busy arranging the chairs – heavy wooden things with curvy legs and high backs. Marie looked up at Cat and gave her a wan smile.
Isobel, stout and strong with a mass of iron-grey waves, was the exact opposite of Marie, who was thin as a cadaver and obedient as a well-trained hound. Marie’s wispy grey hair stood in a frizzy puff on her head, like a mangled halo. Cat didn’t understand the relationship between the women. Isobel claimed that her volunteer work kept her so busy that she needed an assistant to make her appointments and type her letters. Cat didn’t believe that for one minute. Cat knew the true reason for Marie’s employment. Isobel needed someone to boss around.
Her sister-in-law surveyed Cat’s ensemble from head to toe, looking for fault. Cat dismissed her scrutiny. After fifteen years of living in the Carlisle house, she had become a master at disregarding Isobel.
‘What is it, Isobel? I really must go,’ Cat said.
‘Before you go, I’d like you to touch up the silver. And maybe you could give Marie a hand in the kitchen? I know it’s a bit of an imposition, but the agency didn’t have a cook available today. I’m expecting ten committee members for our meeting this afternoon. I wouldn’t want to run out of food. I need these committee members well fed. We’ve much work to do.’
‘I can manage, Izzy,’ Marie said.
‘I’ve asked Catherine,’ Isobel said. ‘And those chairs won’t move themselves.’
‘I’m going out.’ Cat paused before the mirror. She fixed her hat and fussed with her hair, taking her time as she drew the delicate veil over her eyes.
‘You should be grateful, Catherine. Benton has given you a home and a position in society. You’ve made it clear you’re not happy here, but a little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss. You and Benton may be at odds, but that doesn’t change things. You’d be on the street if it weren’t for us. You’ve no training. It’s not like you are capable of earning your living.’
‘I hardly think any gratitude I feel towards my husband should be used to benefit you. I’m not your servant, Isobel. I’m Benton’s wife. You seem to have forgotten that.’
Isobel stepped so close to Cat that their noses almost touched. When she spoke, spittle flew, but Cat didn’t flinch. She didn’t back away when Isobel said, ‘I suggest you take care in your dealings with me, Catherine. I could ruin you.’
Cat met Isobel’s gaze and didn’t look away. ‘Do your best. I am not afraid of you.’ She stepped away and forced a smile. ‘Silly old cow,’ Cat whispered.
‘What did you call me?’
‘You heard me.’ Cat picked up her handbag. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back. Have a pleasant day.’ She turned her back on Isobel and stepped out into the summer morning.
She headed out into the street and took one last glance at the gleaming white house, one of many in a row. Benton’s cousin, Michael Blackwell, Blackie for short, stood in the window of Benton’s study, bleary-eyed from a night of solitary drinking in his room. Blackie spent a lot of time in Benton’s study, especially when Benton wasn’t home. She knew why – that’s where the good brandy was kept.
Blackie had escaped Germany with his life, the clothes on his back, and nothing else. A long-lost cousin of Benton and Isobel, Blackie turned up on their doorstep, damaged from the narrow escape and desperate for a place to live. Of course they had taken him in. The Carlisles were big on family loyalty. Now Blackie worked at a camera shop during the day and spent his nights sequestered in his room with a bottle of brandy and his memories of Hitler.
Cat often wondered what happened in Germany to frighten Blackie so, but she didn’t have the heart to make him relive his suffering just to satisfy her curiosity. He saw Cat, smiled at her, and held up a snifter of Benton’s brandy, never mind that it was only half past nine in the morning. Everyone knew Blackie drank to excess. They didn’t care. He was family. Cat waved at him, anxious to get as far away from the Carlisle house as fast as she could.
***
Thomas Charles watched the watcher, sure now that the woman who had been lurking outside the Carlisle house for the past week was Marlena Helmschmidt, aka Marlena Barrington, most notably known as Marlena X. He thought back to the last time he and Marlena had been face to face. He thought of her husband, dead from a bullet. He thought of Gwen, his colleague at the time, huddled against a wall, a knife in her chest, clinging to life, and ultimately losing the battle.
Marlena X specialised in espionage. She was an extremely competent typist and secretary. She spoke French, German, English, and Swahili. It was rumoured that she could take shorthand just as fast as someone could speak. The last time he had dealt with Marlena, she had insinuated herself into a high-clearance position working for the navy. God knows what information she had accessed. Her bosses sang her praises.
When Thomas told them their darling was a spy, they shunned him, dismissed his accusations, and sent him on his way. Until documents went missing, and they came crawling back. Thomas never said I told you. That was most certainly not his style. Marlena was tough. She had the personal qualities of a well-educated sophisticate, but underneath the polished veneer, was a woman who knew her way around bombs and could street fight as well as any man. Her lithe and supple frame allowed her break into the most challenging locations. She also had a quick hand with locks.
Her appearance at the Carlisles’ was not a portent of good things. What the devil was she up to? He stepped close to the oak tree in the garden square, keeping himself hidden, as Marlena arrived to sit on the bench, just as she had done every day for the past week. His orders were clear – watch her; do not approach her. Find out where she is staying, who she talks to, anything about her day-to-day activities, and report back.
He’d been watching her for a week now. Her routine never varied: arrive at the Carlisle house and sit on the usual bench, the one that afforded the best view of the house, one of a neat row that had its own garden square.
Thomas had wanted to approach her, finish the business between them, but he knew better than to let his personal feelings interfere with his work. He sunk further out of sight and watched. Marlena reached into the large bag that sat next to her and took out a ball of yarn and knitting needles. She started to knit, her hands industrious as they wove the yarn over the needles.
Soon a girl in a maid’s uniform came out with a bucket of hot steaming water. She spent a good fifteen minutes scrubbing the front steps and polishing the brass plate on the front door. She made quick work of it and did a thorough job. Thomas watched as the girl went down the steps and stared up at the front door from the vantage point of the pavement, scrub brush in hand, surveying her work. She nodded, picked up her bucket and went back into the house. Still the woman sat on the bench.
At nine a.m. a long black saloon crept to the kerb. A burly chauffeur hurried around to the back of the car, surprisingly nimble for a man so large. Thomas noticed the driver’s meaty hands and the way his eyes roamed the area as he held the door for Mr Carlisle. Thomas had been briefed on Mr Carlisle’s firm and the work they were doing for the Air Ministry: something to do with detecting enemy aircraft, technology that would help England win the inevitable war. The chauffeur was more than just a driver.
After the car pulled away, the woman checked her watch, took out a tiny notebook, and wrote something in it. Yesterday she abandoned the bench after Mr Carlisle’s car pulled away. Not today. Another car came, a taxi this time, and an attractive blonde dressed in a navy blue suit alighted and went up to the front door. The woman on the bench didn’t even look up.
She’s planning something, Thomas thought. And it has to do with Mr Carlisle’s work for the Air Ministry.
Soon the redhead – Mr Carlisle’s wife, according to the dossier – came out of the house, just as she had done yesterday. Thomas watched as she pulled the door behind her and walked down the nine steps to the street. Even from a distance Thomas could tell that Mrs Carlisle was a beautiful woman: tall, slender, and with a mass of red hair. She moved like a dancer. Today she wore a green suit with a matching hat, a tiny thing with a sheer veil that covered her eyes. She stopped outside the front door and pretended to fiddle with the clasp of her handbag while she studied her surroundings, as if looking for someone.
Thomas stepped back behind the tree so he could watch Marlena X. If the German agent followed Mrs Carlisle, he would follow as well. The bench was empty. Marlena X was gone.
Damn.
Mrs Carlisle turned right and headed towards the high street, where Thomas knew she would enter the garden square, just as she did every day. Thomas followed, staying far behind so as not to draw attention to himself. He nearly missed Marlena X, who seemed to appear out of nowhere as she followed the redhead, keeping a safe distance between them, taking her time. Thomas tailed them both. Marlena kept the perfect distance from Mrs Carlisle so as not to arouse suspicion. Marlena knew her job.
Mrs Carlisle stopped at the gate to the entrance of the square. She pushed the veil up and tipped her face to the sun, as though she were making a wish or an offering of some sort. The angle of her face gave Thomas a clear view of her profile. He took in the well-shaped nose, the perfect cheekbones. He couldn’t help but notice the full lips and the woman’s long white throat. He wondered – once again – what she was up to, only to realise too late that he had been so focused on Mrs Carlisle he had once again lost sight of Marlena X. Never mind. She’s here. I can feel her.
***
The sun warmed Cat’s back as she walked, her tension easing with each step that led her away from the house. Benton would be furious if he knew what Cat was up to. He had wealth untold, but he was stingy with Cat’s pocket money. On more than one occasion over the years Cat had approached her husband about getting a job, but he forbade her. ‘A man in my position cannot have a wife who works.’
At one point, Cat volunteered at the hospital. She spent her day doing mindless things like arranging flowers, sorting books, and delivering magazines to the patients. The work hadn’t been challenging, but it gave her something to do and an excuse to get away from the house.
She came to a standstill as she stepped through the gates of the wooded garden square that had become her private sanctuary, a place to escape Isobel’s prying eyes and Alicia Montrose’s relentless pursuit to rekindle their friendship. She stood in the sunlight for a moment and tipped her head back, not caring that the sun would cause her skin to freckle. She said a silent prayer, I want to live my own life, be independent. How do I do this? Give me a sign.
She saw Reginald just as she stepped onto the sunny green in the middle of the garden square. The old man smiled and waved a hand at her. They had first met at this very spot on a spring day in 1932, when Reginald approached Cat out of the blue and said that he had known her father during the war. Over the next five years they bonded while cajoling the squirrels to take the food out of their hands. Reginald regaled Cat with stories of her father – a cryptographer, who worked for MI5 and served valiantly – and Cat’s mother.
Cat savoured those conversations about her parents, who died tragically in a motorcar accident in 1917 when her father was on leave. Now she considered Reginald a trusted friend, a small thread to a tapestry that didn’t involve her husband and sister-in-law.
For some reason, today Cat noticed the hand that grasped the walking stick had grown more gnarled, the hump between the shoulder blades more defined. Sir Reginald’s eyes hadn’t changed a bit, cornflower blue with a penetrating gaze that missed nothing. But his body had aged.
‘What’s wrong? You’re wound tight as a spring,’ Reginald said.
‘I’m a thirty-seven-year-old woman who cannot have children, lives in a loveless marriage, and sees no escape.’
‘Catherine –’
‘Sorry. I didn’t come here to discuss my problems. How are you? Lovely day.’
‘Can you not leave? Surely your aunt and uncle will help?’
‘I need to sort this out on my own.’ She didn’t give voice to her true feelings: I am terrified to leave him. What am I, if I’m not his wife? She put on a brave face and turned to face Reginald. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a woman on a blanket, her child in her lap. Near her, two blonde-haired girls chased each other, their dollies sitting on the blanket.
‘I’m grateful to you, Reginald. The work has been a great help, but I’d feel better if you told me what I was delivering and why everything is so secretive. Am I in danger?’
‘No danger that I know of,’ Reginald said. ‘I’m sorry. You’re going to have to trust me. Just know that you’re helping in ways that you will never understand. Keep your eyes open. If you need to reach me, just follow the instructions, call the numberand use the code word.’
‘St Edmund’s pippins,’ Cat said.
‘Just use it in a sentence. I’ll be there.’
‘All this cloak-and-dagger intrigue is affecting my judgement.’
Reginald rifled through the briefcase that rested on the bench between them. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Cat. ‘This needs to be delivered today. Hamer, Codrington, and Blythe again – same address as last week. The secretary will let you in and excuse himself, claiming an important meeting. You’re to go to the same office and insert the envelope on the top shelf, just like last time. There’s nothing to pick up today.’
‘Will they let me in the door today?’ Desperate for income of her own, Cat had accepted Reginald’s offer of easy employment – delivering packages and on occasion accepting something to return to him – without question. The work was easy, the money a boon. The Carlisle name allowed Cat access to the finest dressmakers, spas, hairdressers – any luxury she could imagine – but other than a small allowance she received from her parents’ estate, Cat had no money of her own. She hated being dependent on Benton, especially since he was so stingy. Her work with Reginald remedied that. The money – which she saved in an envelope hidden in her room – provided the promise of freedom.
The courier work had been easy enough, and Cat hadn’t experienced any difficulties, until last week. Her instructions had been to deliver a similar innocuous-looking envelope to the firm of Hamer, Codrington, and Blythe. By prearrangement, Cat would be let in the building and left on her own. She was to walk down a hallway to an empty office and deposit the envelope on the top shelf of an out-of-the-way bookcase.
Instead of being given entrance to the building, a new secretary – a supercilious young man who needed to be slapped – had ushered her out into the street and had asked her question after question, interrogating Cat and growing more and more suspicious when she refused to answer his questions. He wouldn’t even let her into the office. Luckily, after fifteen harrowing minutes, Mr Codrington’s secretary had intervened on her behalf and brought her into the building. As planned, he excused himself, leaving Cat to carry out her assignment.
‘They’re expecting you. There won’t be any trouble this time.’ He pulled out another envelope, this one smaller and full of notes. ‘This is for you. You did well last time. Codrington’s secretary told us that you handled the situation like a professional. There’s extra in there for your efforts.’
‘Thank you,’ Cat said. She tucked the money in her handbag.
‘Your father would be proud of you, Catherine. Never forget that. You’re doing a patriotic service for your King and country. Caution is the operative word, my dear. I’ll have something else for you in a few days. Look for my ad.’ Reginald stood, his arthritic knees popping from the effort. ‘Not as young as I used to be. I’ll do anything I can to help you get sorted, Catherine. I mean that. Not all women are destined to do what society expects of them. I’m sorry that you and Benton weren’t blessed with children, but that’s not your fault, my dear. And there’s certainly no shame in it.’ He touched a gentle hand to her shoulder.
‘I know. Thank you for that.’
She sat on the bench in the warm summer sun and watched Reginald walk away. He was keeping something from her. Every fibre of her being sang with that truth. She wondered where he went when he wasn’t meeting with her. He told her over and over again – more so during the past six months or so – that another war was coming. Hitler was rearming, while France and England were sitting by, doing nothing.
Cat wondered why there was no mention of war in the newspapers. She’d never been interested in politics until she met Reginald. Now she scoured the newspapers, looking for any hint of the things Reginald told her about during their meetings in the park. Cat had been too young to do anything important in the last war, and it had resolved by the time she could make some contribution. But she had seen the soldiers coming home from the battlefield with their arms and legs blown off. She had seen the women who had lost husbands and sons and soon came to recognise that look of sorrow and emptiness.
Cat had arrived in London as a seventeen-year-old country girl, with a northern accent and all the wrong clothes. In the beginning, she tried to embrace her new life. Moving from a small village in Cumberland to London required a bit of adjustment. Lydia took her shopping for the latest fashions and dragged her along to art openings, plays, and writers’ salons. Cat tried to fit in. Aunt Lydia went out of her way to help Cat find a set of like-minded friends, but the death of her parents had ripped a hole in her heart. Cat preferred spending time alone with her grief.
And that was why – Cat realised from the Olympian vantage point of one who looks at the past with a critical eye – she married Benton at twenty-two, when she was young and naive and thought that the passion he stirred in her was the type of love that would withstand time, the type of love her parents shared. Cat knew now that her judgement about Benton – and about love in general – was gravely flawed.
She shook her head, chastising herself for her sentimentality. This was not the time for wistful dreams of days gone by. Full of purpose, Cat set off at a brisk pace, her heels clicking in time to the beat of the city. She blended in with the foot traffic, savouring the feeling that she was part of something bigger than herself, that she was doing something productive. Every now and again Reginald’s words would pop into her head. Not all women are destined to do what society expects of them. She certainly hadn’t disappointed on that score.
