That was October. Now the trees were all bare, and the air had turned dark and cold. The Germans, enraged by the success of the Allied invasion into North Africa earlier that month, had seized back control of the Vichy free zone and cracked down ruthlessly on Resistance networks everywhere, but especially in Paris. And now Daisy was beginning to worry about Pierre.
Of course she could not have banished her husband from her bed, just because she’d taken a lover. She refused Pierre as often as she dared, but sometimes she allowed him his carnal rights, in order to keep his suspicions at bay, and also in order to chip little pieces of information from him. She treated these episodes like chores, like cooking dinner or polishing the silver, unpleasant but necessary. After all, you could think about something else while the unpleasantness was going on down below; you could simply imagine yourself elsewhere, in bed with someone else, or else occupy your brain by working out the logistics of a message drop.
Now, Daisy and Kit didn’t speak of any of this, hardly spoke of Pierre at all, in the way a prostitute doesn’t discuss her clients with her lover. But since October, Pierre hadn’t even attempted to have intercourse with her. He’d slept on his side, his back to Daisy, and moreover he spent most of his time at the office, anyway. Was he simply committed to his work? Or had he begun to entertain some inkling of what his wife was up to in her spare time? She tried to ask, but Pierre always answered her with some noncommittal remark, some evasive change of the subject.
So Daisy was feeling wary about Pierre, and the relative safety of the free zone no longer existed, and the Gestapo was tightening its noose, and the network was fast running out of money and resources, utterly dependent on the British and the Americans. Now she was pregnant with Kit’s child, due sometime around the middle of July. (She hadn’t yet seen a doctor, but she was quite sure she knew when she had conceived, a rare moment of carelessness.) That wasn’t all. Last week, she’d had the distinct sensation that she was being followed, and then news had reached them of a major Gestapo raid on one of their most important informants. Even her grandmother had warned her to be careful, that their luck was perhaps beginning to run out. Grandmère, in fact, had already laid down plans, in case Daisy should have to flee at a moment’s notice, with or without the children. (If necessary, Grandmère would take charge of Madeleine and Olivier, and they would all reunite in Spain or Switzerland or someplace.) Until now, Daisy had refused to listen to these plans. She didn’t want to consider that she’d have to give up her work, or Kit, or both.
But now, as Daisy made her way down the stairs to the workroom, nerves still buzzing from lovemaking, and considered just how many more weeks remained until her pregnancy became obvious to both the men in her life, she thought that maybe it was time to pay a visit to Grandmère, just in case.
Kit followed her down the cramped hatchway a moment later, fully dressed, hair combed back damply from his forehead. He dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck, sat down in the chair, and reached for his pipe. “Darling, I’ve been thinking—” he began.
“Shh!”
He looked startled but obeyed. Through the walls of the hidden workroom, they heard voices from the bookshop, muffled and indistinct but masculine in timbre. And as Daisy and Kit both knew, the customers of Le Mouton Noir in these troubled times were mostly female.
They sat in silence, staring at each other, listening to the noises through the walls and bookshelves. Daisy could make out the young soprano of Philippe’s voice, the firm tenor of Monsieur Lapin. But that deep, urgent, staccato baritone that answered him! This was a commanding voice, a voice that did not expect to be disobeyed. Daisy strained to hear the words, but all that wood and plaster—designed, after all, to blanket the sounds of Kit’s own activities in this room—made it impossible.
Kit grabbed her hand. “Go upstairs,” he whispered. “I’ll destroy the papers.”
“But if they search—”
“Go! I’ll close the hatch behind you. They’ll never see it, and even if they do, I swear they’ll have to climb over my dead—”
The doorway slid open. Daisy started from the chair. Kit moved even faster, jumping forward to block Daisy from the intruders, so that she caught only a glimpse of Monsieur Lapin’s haggard face and a long arm in a dark suit.
“Monsieur Legrand, I believe?” said a familiar, urbane voice.
Daisy edged out from behind Kit. “Lieutenant colonel!” she exclaimed.
He was not wearing his uniform, but the same suit of navy blue he wore on the rue Cambon side of the Hôtel Ritz to visit Grandmère in her suite and the trilby over his pale hair. He removed it now and begged Daisy’s pardon for intruding. Then he turned to Monsieur Lapin and asked for a moment of privacy.
“Yes, monsieur,” said Monsieur Lapin, and closed the door. They heard the soft thump of the bookshelf sliding into place, Philippe’s high voice asking a question, his grandfather shushing him. Von Sternburg stepped forward and laid a book of plain brown leather on the table. The Scarlet Pimpernel.
“Your grandmother explained that this book is like a password,” he said.
“Grandmère!”
“Who the devil are you?” said Kit.
“Compose yourself, young man. I come here as a well-wisher, nothing more. A certain piece of information has come my way, and I wished to communicate it to you without delay.”
Von Sternburg’s face was solemn and heavy. He put his hand to the scar on his face, as if it had begun to pain him. Daisy thought he looked like he had aged a decade or so since she’d seen him last.
“Lieutenant colonel,” she said softly, “are you well? Can I get you a glass of water? Or brandy?”
Kit looked surprised. Von Sternburg merely shook his head.
“My thanks, but I’m afraid we have little time. Your grandmother has asked me to summon you to her at once.”
“What’s the matter? Is something wrong? She’s not unwell, is she?”
“She’s as well as ever,” said Von Sternburg. “It’s your husband.”
For an instant, a terrible hope took hold of Daisy’s heart. “What’s happened?” she demanded. “Is he dead?”
“Not dead. I’m afraid I’ve heard word that he’s shortly going to be arrested.” Von Sternburg glanced at Kit, and then back at Daisy. “For crimes against the German state.”
Though the Ritz was only a few minutes’ walk away, Von Sternburg did not accompany her. “I have another urgent errand,” he said, glancing away, “and besides, it is perhaps best if we are not seen together, at the present time.”
So Daisy continued on to rue Cambon, while Von Sternburg hurried around the corner and out of sight. The streets were cold and bare, the few pedestrians hunched over with hunger and anxiety. When she reached the warmth of the lobby, Daisy drew in a long, relieved breath. Surely nothing terrible could happen here, inside the Ritz.
Upstairs, however, her confidence drained away. Grandmère paced across the rug in her kaftan of emerald silk, pausing only to add another splash of cognac into the glass she clutched in her hand. Daisy folded her arms. “Should you be drinking at a time like this?”