I Can't Begin to Tell You (23 page)

She settled on the pale blue chiffon dress thrown over a silk shift that she had worn to a pre-war wedding. On putting it on, she discovered that she was thinner in the waist, with a flatter stomach and slightly bulkier shoulders. In the past … before their estrangement … Bror used to tease her about her
weiner-brød
, and she was delighted with her sleeker body.

Seated at the dressing table in the bedroom at the hotel, Kay dusted powder over her shoulders. There was a knock on the door.

It was Bror, resplendent in white tie and medals. ‘Ready?’

‘Just my earrings to fasten.’

Her hands trembled with nerves and she fumbled the process.

He was watching her – but there was no tenderness, nor indulgence in the regard.

‘Let me.’

He bent over her and she smelled the familiar cologne and the starch he favoured for his boiled shirts. Deftly, he hooked the earrings into place.

‘There.’

No extra loving, sexy touch.

She missed it. How she missed it.

Letting go was always hard, but this was the hardest thing Kay would ever ask of herself – the letting go of mutual delight, mutual trust, anticipation and intimacy.

She rose to her feet.

‘You look beautiful.’

Why
did Bror bother? The exchange was formal and underpinned with distrust and distance.

Last year, in this hotel room, it had been very different.

Then, she had looked at Bror and said, ‘You’ve hardly changed since I met you.’

Bror had touched her bared flesh just above the cleavage. ‘Will you marry me?’

She had given a soft laugh. ‘Of course. But I should point out we are married.’

‘But I like asking you, over and over.’ He’d slid a tender finger into her cleavage. Do you remember that first time?’

She did.

It had been before their wedding but they couldn’t wait. Bror undressed her and she trembled with the daring of what she was about to do. With each garment he dispatched to the floor, he paused to look. ‘You’re beautiful, Kay.’

So was he.

He’d drawn her close. ‘I never thought I would say this to anyone but I can’t live without you …’

Calling on memories was exhausting and a bad habit.

She looked around the comfortable hotel room, her eyes resting on the bedspread, puckered where she had sat on it, the half-open drawer of the dressing table and the sliver of the bathroom, with the towel thrown over the side of the bath, just visible through the door.

The coiffured, bejewelled and assured
Fru
Eberstern was still there. But she was only part of the story. The wife, mother and chatelaine now hid another being – a woman who was more than a little in love with the idea of being someone else. That had consequences.

Flicking up his tails, Bror sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘We haven’t talked, Kay.’

Kay eased a kid glove over her wrist and pulled it up her arm. ‘You mean about Anton.’

‘You
more or less told me you were having an affair. Are you?’

‘I’m not going to answer that.’ The blood thudded in Kay’s chest.

There was a silence.

‘I haven’t slept for weeks,’ he said at last.

That hurt. Inflicting pain on someone you loved did hurt. Of course. And this was to destroy their customary kindness to each other, their intimacy and the automatic assumption that the other was
there
.

‘But Anton’s only part of it, isn’t he? We should be clearer about how we deal with this war.’

‘You know what I feel about Hitler.’ She reached for the second glove and plaited the fingers. ‘Look, I’m here to support you tonight.’

‘You’ve made that clear.’ Bror’s hands dropped between his knees. ‘When we go home we must … we must sort out our lives. But I’m too weary and tonight let there be peace between us.’

The last tiny kid-clad button was wrestled through its buttonhole. ‘Oh Bror …’

Her sadness almost overpowered her. In all probability, she had lost a lover, a friend and a husband.

And the life they had made together.

He looked down at his shoes, polished to brightness. ‘It’s only going to get worse. Isn’t it? So tonight shall we be united?’

He rose to his feet.

She picked up her silk stole and draped it round her shoulders, contemplating the worst.

‘You haven’t said yes. Do we have a deal?’

She nodded. ‘Agreed.’

He bent down and kissed her on the cheek – a perfunctory, businesslike gesture.

Could a heart break? The way she felt, she supposed it could.

On entering the reception, she was cornered by an old friend, Clara Ramussen.

‘Kay!
You look wonderful. And you’ve lost weight.’ She sent Kay a look that asked:
Have you acquired a lover?
‘Tell me the secret.’

‘It’s all the walking, Clara. Petrol being so scarce.’

‘Goodness, I shall have to take it up,’ replied Clara. ‘I might get myself a new husband.’

The reception was crowded. There was the usual collection of Danes, and some German and Swedish businessmen. But, this year, the number of uniformed German guests had swelled noticeably.

Dashing in his dress uniform, Anton spotted Kay. Picking up two glasses of champagne, he came over and gave her one. ‘How are you?’

Kay accepted the glass. ‘For once, I’m really pleased to see you. I need your knowledge.’

‘Nonsense, you’re always pleased to see me.’

The odds were that Bror was watching and Kay raised her glass to Anton’s. ‘Tell me what I should know.’

‘Good idea,’ he said, without shifting his gaze from her face. ‘Most of the Germans are run-of-the-mill and probably of not much interest.’ He gave her some details. ‘But there is one, General Gottfried. I’ve arranged for you to sit next to him …’

The ballroom where dinner was served was impressively mirrored and panelled. The pennants and flags of the Knights of the Silver Sword, celebrating ancient battles and feats, had been brought in for the evening and hung up on poles. The effect was magnificent.

On Kay’s left was Aksel Fog, one of the stuffier knights whom she had known for years and just about tolerated. On her right, as Anton had promised, was the Abwehr general, General Gottfried.

General commanding Abwehr Signals Unit
… Anton had briefed her under his breath.
Almost certainly dealing with intelligence, too. Make friends. You know what to do, darling
.

Anton
was sitting further down the table and sent her a little smile.

The general proved to be charming. He had a long clever face, a dress uniform stiff with medals and ribbons, and excellent manners. He told her that he was commanding the København unit. He lived in Koblenz and, although he could not admire København more, he missed his home town very much. ‘I am very proud of its architecture and its fines wines. Both are essential for the civilized life, don’t you think?’

He spoke without irony which, given his obvious intelligence, surprised Kay.

Judging her silence correctly, he said, ‘You consider that invading other countries is uncivilized, but all empires come about because of invasion, including the British one.’

He went on to talk about the Romans, of whom he approved. ‘Their discipline and military ethos were vital elements in a highly organized operation. Without them, there would have been no empire.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘The British Empire is less a product of discipline and more the fruit of inspired amateurism, wouldn’t you say?’

This was his second reference to the British, which she took to mean the general had done his homework on her.

A cramp shot through her stomach.

‘I genuinely admire the British Empire,’ he added.

What could she say? Suddenly, the room felt sickeningly claustrophobic, the set-up very unsafe.

She managed to collect her wits. ‘I’m sure the British would be delighted by your compliment.’ She touched her own glass. ‘General, do you approve this Riesling? It has obviously been chosen with you in mind.’

He nodded. ‘This is very agreeable company. If I said it’s a privilege to be part of it would you believe me?’

Kay was startled but hid it. If her instincts were correct, the general spoke as the outsider wishing to join the inner
circle – and that was a psychological position about which she knew something.

After coffee, Kay rose to her feet and said, ‘Please excuse me for a moment or two.’ She made her way towards the ladies’ powder room.

But Anton ambushed her before she reached it. Tucking his hand under her elbow he pushed her into a small salon off the hotel foyer. ‘Come.’

‘Are you mad, Anton?’

He shut the door. ‘Have you learned anything?’

‘You’re right. He’s in Intelligence.’

‘Any proof?’

‘He’s done his homework. Knows who I am.’

They were facing each other, whispering.

Anton was facing the door. Suddenly, he reached out and pulled her to him.

‘What are you doing?’

He said very softly into her ear, ‘Someone is at the door.’ He raised his voice. ‘You know that kiss I have waited for?’

Who?

She slid into the role.

‘The kiss that would mean nothing?’

‘That one.’ He leaned over. His mouth on hers was confident and accomplished and quite, quite different from Bror’s.

‘Who was it?’ she murmured eventually, disentangling herself.

Anton shrugged. ‘No idea.’ His eyes reflected amusement, malice – and surprise. ‘Was it nice?’

‘Nicer than a cold bath. Not as nice as good champagne.’

Anton changed tack. ‘We’ve been in contact with London. They want more action and have sent over suggestions.’

‘Does Felix know?’

‘Probably.’

‘He won’t like it. He likes to do things his way.’

‘None of us are in a position to have our own way. Regrettably.’

She
laid a finger on his arm. ‘But you do, Anton.’

That amused Anton. ‘Not quite.’

She had barely set aside her breakfast tray the following morning when Bror appeared. He sat down on the bed. ‘The general has telephoned and invited us to the theatre.’

How should she play this? As the British-born wife? Given her anti-German stance, appearing too eager to meet the general might make Bror suspicious. Calculating her next move, Kay got out of bed and reached for her dressing gown.

‘You said no, I hope. You said that we’re going home.’

‘Didn’t you like the general?’

‘He’s a cultured man.’

‘You’re angry about the idea, though. Kay, I don’t often ask anything of you …’

She tied the dressing-gown belt tight round her waist. ‘True. But I performed for you last night. I don’t think I can do it again today. I’ll arrange to go home on my own.’

Bror made for the door. ‘Oh, go to hell, Kay,’ he said angrily, and vanished.

She dressed carefully. Rolling up the precious silk stockings and attaching them with the suspender, dropping the skirt of her navy-blue costume over her head, and fastening an Eberstern diamond onto the jacket lapel. Last, but not least, she tipped the Parisian hat over one eye. Before her eyes,
Fru
Eberstern of Rosenlund was reassembled.

She gave Bror half an hour to stew. After that, she went downstairs to the lounge where he was reading the morning papers.

He didn’t notice her and she was free to observe him for a moment. She loved him. There was no doubt about that, but the man whom she loved had signed the Declaration and was friendly with German intelligence officers.

He looked up. A light came into the blue eyes and she knew that her efforts to look nice had paid off.

‘I’m
sorry, Bror. I was over-hasty.’

That evening, the Ebersterns were ushered into a box at the theatre where the general waited with an elegant blonde woman. He kissed Kay’s hand and said: ‘May I introduce my wife, Ingrid, who arrived this morning?’

Ingrid was delightful and, in normal circumstances, Kay would have enjoyed meeting her. Speaking in German, they exchanged information. Ingrid was the mother of two boys, and her other passion was the local amateur opera company. ‘In the summer we give performances on the river,’ she said. ‘Last year I took the main role in
Grafin Mariza
.’

They chatted on.

Kay revealed that she went to the theatre and opera as much as possible but her responsibilities kept her at Rosenlund more often than she would like. She told Ingrid about the estate and its history.

‘We have much in common,’ said Ingrid at last. She glanced at her husband. ‘I often think that our insistence on being different nationalities is nonsense. In Europe at any rate we are one big family.’

Ingrid spoke sense.

‘I agree with you,’ Kay replied, before changing the subject. ‘Will you be staying in Denmark?’

Touching her husband on the arm, Ingrid replied, ‘For some time, I think.’

In the interval, champagne was served and the general turned to Kay.

‘
Fru
Eberstern, you’ve told me about your delightful daughter. What does your son do?’

Kay explained that Nils was an academic who was developing advanced mathematical theories. ‘He can read numbers as fluently as you or I might read a book.’ She couldn’t stifle the pride. ‘He’s quite celebrated in his way.’

Never offer details. Be drab. Be unremarkable
.

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said a little later, ‘how pleasant this is.’

She
felt a flicker of unease.

‘I’m glad you feel comfortable here, General. Are you going to travel in Denmark? For pleasure, perhaps? Some of the towns are very pretty and the scenery on Lolland is especially praised.’

The general’s gaze rested on Kay. There was a great deal of sharp and analytical intelligence and a trace of humour – which she hadn’t expected. ‘You know, and I know, that not everyone loves us,
Fru
Eberstern, and I won’t be welcome everywhere. But I will be visiting Jutland.’ He looked down his handsome nose. ‘If it’s safe. My friends in the SS tell me they’re fully occupied with terrorists and spies. I imagine you know what I’m talking about.’

How best to use this encounter? Very gently, she set down her champagne glass on the table. ‘I’ve often wondered what happens to spies if you capture them.’