Oriental Hotel (9 page)

Oh yes, now that she knew a Brittain of Cormorant had taken her room, it explained everything. The Brittains could manipulate anything and anyone – even a great hotel like Shepheard's. The only surprising thing was that he had been wearing the uniform of an officer in the Royal Air Force.

The lift purred to a stop and the Assistant Manager ushered her along the carpeted corridor.

This way, Mrs Sanderson. I am sure you will find this suite to be totally to your satisfaction …'

It was indeed every bit as luxurious as the one she had vacated, the sitting room furnished in cool restful creams and ochres, the bedroom beyond with its canopied bed, the bathroom with gold-plated fitments. Before dismissing the Assistant Manager Elise crossed to the wardrobe and threw it open to reveal her dresses, hanging neatly along the rail, her silk underclothes folded carefully in the compartments alongside.

‘Thank you,' she said crisply. ‘Everything seems to be in order.'

‘I trust so, madam. Again, I regret the inconvenience …'

She nodded. Her anger had gone now, leaving her empty and aching with tiredness. All she wanted was for him to go and leave her alone.

‘Is there anything you would like, Mrs Sanderson? Afternoon tea, perhaps?'

On the point of refusing she hesitated. Afternoon tea. Oh yes! How comforting!

‘Please,' she replied.

When the door had closed after him she kicked off her shoes and crossed to the telephone. She must speak to Gordon and tell him she had still been unable to get clearance. Not only that – she
wanted
to speak to him, though she certainly wouldn't mention being thrown out of her room by a Brittain of Cormorant. Her greatest comfort in the last months had been his voice, distorted usually by the bad international lines, telling her all was well in Hong Kong, bringing her the latest developments in the husbands' Protest Group, calming her fears and encouraging her to renew her own efforts. Dear Gordon, as protective and caring as he had ever been, in spite of the miles between them.

Tears ached in her throat suddenly as she lifted the receiver and asked for the call to be put through. Waiting, she pictured what Gordon would be doing. It would be early evening now and he would have had dinner. Perhaps he would be in his study, working on some papers. Or perhaps he would have gone to the Rose Room for yet another meeting of the Protest Committee. The thought made her catch her breath. Of course she hoped he was doing all he could to get her home, but just at this moment what she wanted most of all was simply to talk to him …

‘Caller …' The disembodied voice startled her.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm sorry, no lines are available to Hong Kong at present. Can I hold the call for you?'

‘Yes, please.' But as she replaced the receiver she felt weighed down once more by hopelessness.

No lines to Hong Kong. No passage to Hong Kong. Just the interminable warnings that it was not safe to be in the Colony just now.

Not safe! The ache of tears exploded suddenly to a bubble of hysteria and she pressed her fingertips hard against her lips. Didn't these officials understand that the more they told her it was impossible, the more fiercely she would fight to return? Didn't they realise that the greater the danger, the more determined she would become?

For it was not only Gordon who was waiting for her in Hong Kong. Alex was there also: Alex – her son, just five years old.

Despair welled up in her and the tears overflowed, running down her cheeks and onto her fingertips.

‘Dear God, I must get back. But how? How?'

It was an echo of a cry that had been repeated countless times over recent months.

But still she had no answer.

From where she was sitting on a deep red velvet chaise in the lounge of Shepheard's Hotel, the Comtesse Francpise du Pare saw Elise Sanderson cross the foyer and enter the lift.

A small half smile twisted her scarlet-painted lips and she raised an imperious hand to summon a boy. Instantly he was in front of her, his dusky face wreathed in smiles.

The Comtesse was almost an institution at Shepheard's. Every afternoon she took tea in the lounge, sitting in the same shallow alcove, and the splendid surroundings provided a perfect setting for her arresting and aristocratic appearance.

She was seventy years old, but the striking beauty which had entranced countless suitors in her youth was still evident. Her perfect features still commanded attention; her hair, glorious silver, she wore piled in elaborate swirls like a crown on her well-shaped head; her slender figure was a perfect foil for her gowns of hand-made black lace. Beside being beautiful she looked every inch what she was: a French aristocrat in exile.

When Hitler's forces had overrun France she had been travelling in the East, and had of course declined to return. Perhaps one day she would leave Cairo for Geneva or Lucerne, but for the moment she was ensconced in a luxurious suite in Shepheard‘s from which she tried to set the world to rights. And just now the object of her interest was Elise Sanderson.

As soon as she had moved into Shepheard's the Comtesse had taken a liking to Elise. To begin with, her appearance had satisfied the distinctive taste of the old Frenchwoman. So few girls could dress with true style nowadays she thought, except of course the French. Even those who patronised the great designers so often fell down on the little touches essential to complete the picture the moment they were left to their own devices. But Elise Sanderson possessed that elusive something which lifted her out of the ordinary.

The Comtesse, looking for a diversion, had sought her company and soon discovered there was far more to the young Englishwoman than a pleasing appearance.

She had courage and determination, both qualities that ranked high in the Comtesse's estimation. Time and again she had seen her return from a brush with the authorities on the very brink of despair; time and again she had seen her lift herself mentally for yet another effort.

The Comtesse sympathised; she knew what it was to be cut off from home and family. Often she found herself longing with almost the same intensity for her children and grandchildren and the turreted chateau in the rich green valley of the Loire that was her home.

And Elise had a special reason for wanting to return to Hong Kong – a son, a boy of five years whom she had not seen for seven months and whom she was afraid might be in danger if a threatened attack materialised.

In the long conversations they had had over a shared dinner table, Elise had opened her heart to the imperious old lady as she had opened it to no one else.

Their relationship at first had been tense. When the Comtesse had first suggested Elise should join her, the invitation had been more in the nature of a command which Elise had resented, as she had resented the Comtesse's arrogant dismissal of her refusal.

‘I too am an exile, ma chère, but do I sit alone in my room and mourn for my beloved France? Ah no! if I weep, I weep when no one can see. The world knows only of the courage of my people and so should it be with you, Elise.'

‘I do my weeping in private too,' Elise had retorted.

But that first confrontation had established a strange bond between the two women. As respect had built up between them, affection had followed and Elise had spilled out her doubts and determination, her hopes and the guilt she could not help feeling.

‘I would never have left Alex if I had known what was going to happen! Never! But he had his father and his amah and I thought it would be for a matter of weeks only. I never dreamed I would be unable to get back.'

The Comtesse had tapped scarlet-tipped fingers on the table top. ‘You say women and children have been evacuated from Hong Kong because of the possible invasion. Why has your son not been evacuated, ma chère?'

‘Gordon fought against it. The Australians refused entry to Chinese servants and he felt it would be bad for Alex to be evacuated without anyone he knew. And he's right, of course; it would have been a terrifying experience. But at least if Alex was in Australia I would have been able to join him there. As it is …'

The Comtesse had been silent for a moment, the china blue eyes that had once broken hearts looking thoughtful.

‘Do you not think if things become dangerous his father will see that he leaves for a place of safety?'

‘I don't know. Gordon can be very stubborn sometimes. I think he only sees what he wants to see.' She had broken off, fighting a losing battle against the torrent of desperation which overwhelmed her from time to time. ‘Oh, Comtesse, what sort of a mother am I?'

‘A caring one.' For a moment the slender white hand, translucent but unwrinkled, had covered the tanned one. ‘ It is too easy to waste energy on regrets, ma chère. You love your son. You are doing your best to return to Hong Kong to take him to safety. There is no point in blaming yourself for what has happened. None.'

‘But what am I to do?' Elise had cried and to that the Comtesse had no answer.

Like Elise, she was a woman who preferred to make things happen and it had irritated her that in this instance there was nothing she could do. In the long hours between her bridge parties and the small soirees she enjoyed giving, she had devoted much thought to considering what suggestions she could make to the younger woman and whether she knew anyone who might be able to assist, but so far without success.

However, today, for the first timeshe thought she had some concrete advice to offer at last.

‘I wish some writing paper,' she said to the boy. ‘At once, if you please.'

‘Madam.'

He inclined his head, crossed the lounge to the foyer where embossed notepaper was stacked neatly on leather-topped writing desks and was back before the Comtesse had extracted the gold fountain pen from her bag.

‘Merci. You may wait and take this note to Mrs Sanderson's suite,' she instructed him.

Her pen moved swiftly, forming almost illegible black scrawls on the thick writing paper. Then she folded the note, placed it in a crested envelope and laid it on the silver salver he extended to her.

‘Merci', she said again.

The boy hovered. ‘Does Madam wish me to wait for a reply?'

‘That will not be necessary,' the Comtesse said and as he glided away she relaxed against the velvet chaise with her lips curving in a satisfied smile.

She could have spoken to Elise Sanderson at dinner tonight, but she was impatient to see the effect her news would have and besides … If Elise agreed, dinner that evening would be an excellent opportunity for putting into operation the plans she had in mind.

While she waited, the Comtesse raised a hand and ordered a fresh pot of tea.

In her room, Elise was thinking about Alex. Dear God, how she missed him – with an intensity that was almost a physical pain.

At home in Hong Kong she did not like to think of herself as a possessive mother; possessiveness, she believed, was a weakness and she did not like weakness either in herself or in others. Nevertheless, there were occasions when she felt a. sharp jealousy at seeing Alex's chubby arms clasped around the neck of Su Ming, his Chinese amah, and his sticky face pressed against hers; times when she wished it was to her alone that he brought his joys and his troubles. Now, with the miles and the months between them, the sharpness of separation bore in on her unbearably and she ached to feel his firm roundness in her arms again.

After a moment she sighed wearily and rose to her feet, slipping out of the blue silk dress with the fine powdering of Cairo dust trapped in its creases. Then she went into the bathroom, splashing perfumed foam liberally into the porcelain tub and turning the gold taps full on.

A discreet tap at the door, just audible above the gushing water, caught her attention. She answered to a bell-boy bearing an envelope on a salver and when she opened it, she could almost hear the Comtesse's voice, smooth like silvered steel, in the brief but commanding message.

‘Please meet me in the lounge. I wish to talk with you.'

A small impatient sigh escaped her as she stood for a moment holding the note. She was fond of the Comtesse; without the Frenchwoman's support the last traumatic months would have been unbearable, but her habit of assuming that everyone would automatically fall in with her wishes could be irritating, to say the least.

One of these days I shall tell her exactly what I think of it, Elise thought, but not today. Just now a friendly ear would be a great comfort!

From amongst the Schiaparelli and Paquin models that hung in the wardrobe she selected a dress of cream linen, with slightly squared shoulders that were its only concession to the severe fashion of the day. Then she tidied her hair, touched her lips with gloss and fastened around her neck the heavy gold locket which had belonged to her mother and before that to her grandmother.

Few things meant more to her because it had meant so much to them. As a child she remembered climbing on to the grandmother's lap, begging for the locket to be opened so that she could see the miniature inside which depicted her mother as a young and beautiful woman. Now it contained the picture which her mother had always treasured – of Elise as she had been at seventeen when she was married to Gordon. She had decided that when she reached Hong Kong, she would replace it with one of Alex.

The locket and its traditions gave her a pleasing sense of continuity. Perhaps one day I shall have a daughter to whom I can hand it on, she thought as she retraced her steps to the lifts and made the slow descent to the ground floor.

‘Madam, tea?' A boy was at her elbow the moment she entered the lounge.

Too late she remembered that tea was being delivered to her room and would have to be taken away again. In any case, she could see the glint of polished silver on the table in the alcove where the Comtesse sat.

‘No, thank you.'

The boy moved away, disappointed not to be of service, and Elise crossed to the table where the old lady was waiting to greet her.