She thought she saw a face turn away and melt back into the throng of uniforms. But perhaps she was mistaken. Just nerves, she told herself. Now she was seeing Germans everywhere, even when they weren’t really there.
Chapter Four
Babs
The H?tel Ritz
Paris, France
April 1964
My nerves bounced and tapped on my skin like flies, but when I looked down to slap them away, I was surprised to see they weren’t really there at all.
“Really, Babs, this is so unlike you.”
I glanced at my sister, Diana, behind the wheel of her roadster, the wind rippling her headscarf. She met my gaze briefly—at least I think she did since her eyes were hidden behind very large white-rimmed sunglasses—then returned her focus to the road, which, considering how she drove, was preferable.
I didn’t want to argue with her, knowing I would lose and then agree that we’d best turn around and head back to Langford Hall. Instead, I remained silent as Diana continued to race toward the local train station, as I clutched the side of my door while surreptitiously checking my watch. I didn’t want to miss my train to London’s Victoria where I would catch the Night Ferry and its train to Gare du Nord in Paris, knowing if I missed it, I wouldn’t find the courage again.
I knew I was mad, throwing away caution and my good sense to meet a strange man in Paris. It was the sort of thing my sophisticated and incredibly beautiful sister would have done in her single days. And perhaps that was the main reason why I’d decided to go.
We’d slowed behind an ancient tractor whose driver seemed even older than the vehicle. Diana pressed down on the accelerator, the silk ends of her scarf fluttering like angry doves, and passed the tractor, moving back into our lane just as another car approached in the opposite lane. My stomach jumped, lurching up into the place where I needed air to breathe, and I was suddenly very, very sure I was doing absolutely the wrong thing.
Who would manage the upcoming gymkhana? And who would handle the auditions for the nativity play? It was all very tricky with the feelings of the children’s parents to contend with if their little angels weren’t selected for the roles of Mary, Jesus, the wise men, and the shepherds. Perhaps they should add more characters that might have been present but had merely been ignored in the Bible? And how could I abandon my eldest, Robin, who’d been sent down from Cambridge for drinking? Drinking! The scourge of the Langfords, really. Excessive drinking had been involved on the night he’d been conceived, not that I would ever admit to such a thing. Because then I’d have to wonder if Kit had needed to be inebriated.
“I don’t know why I’m aiding and abetting, but if it helps at all, Robin will be fine,” Diana shouted over the wind. I didn’t even blink at Diana’s apparent ability to read my mind. It had always been that way between us.
“He simply misses his father,” Diana continued. “But his uncle Reginald is more than happy to take him under his wing, I assure you. Reggie is thrilled to have a boy to take fishing and with whom to do manly things. I don’t think he’s fully forgiven me for giving him three daughters, so Robin is truly a balm to that sore spot.”
I only nodded, unable to speak past the ball in my throat. I wouldn’t cry. I was British.
Diana parked her car and despite my protests, insisted on accompanying me inside, although she allowed me to carry my worn valise. Diana, although four years my senior and a full head shorter, still maintained the grace and poise of the debutante she’d once been and had never handled her own luggage. She frowned up at me. “They might not let you into the Ritz, you know.”
“Whyever not? I have a reservation.”
Diana gave her familiar smirk, the one she’d been using since we were eight and four and I’d dared return to the house covered in muck acquired from playing with our brothers and Kit. “Really, Babs. Your valise looks like it was dragged behind a horse in battle. Why didn’t you ask to borrow one of mine?”
“Do you think they really notice those things?”
“At the Paris Ritz? I’d say so.” Diana frowned again. “Really, Babs. You have the most beautiful skin and such fine gray eyes. And most women would kill for your figure and bone structure. Why on earth do you hide behind all of those . . . tweeds? You dress like a ninety-year-old woman instead of the thirty-eight-year-old you are.” With a quick tug, she removed my wool scarf, the last one I’d knitted while Kit had been ailing, and replaced it with her silk Hermès with the beautiful blue pheasants strutting all over a pale yellow background. As she gently looped it beneath my chin, she said, “There. Much better. Now you don’t look like a refugee.”