The Longest Winter (21 page)

Sophie’s smile was a little unsteady.

‘Mama, something has happened to me,’ she said, ‘and if it hasn’t happened to James too you had better pray for me.’

The baroness did not protest or make a speech, she simply said, ‘Is it so bad, darling?’

‘I’ve had a sudden thought, Mama. About James. I think it will all depend on what he says to me. Will you please tell him that if he isn’t required to go to Sarajevo immediately, I’ll be happy to receive him in fifteen minutes?’

The baroness, affected by Sophie’s obvious emotion, lightly touched her and said, ‘I’ll tell him now, darling.’

The maid went to fetch James twenty minutes later. Sophie received him in her room. Twenty minutes had not given her quite as much time as she would have liked, but there was really little more she could have done to better what she had accomplished, for she presented herself to him as an exquisite bloom of summer. She was slenderly, curvingly lovely in pale yellow. It set off the burnished brilliance of her chestnut hair and graced the aristocratic elegance of her form. She wished most desperately, after two days of feeling herself a dishevelled mess, to have James see her at her best. All the same, considering what was in her mind, it might have been a mistake, for to James she had an air of richness which somehow escapes those who may acquire wealth but are not born to it.

‘Sophie, how beautiful,’ he said. He took her hand and Sophie stared in almost horrified dismay as he lifted it and kissed it.

‘What are you doing?’ she said.

‘Paying my tribute to a lovely Sophie.’

‘Oh, are you indeed? I am thrilled,’ said Sophie, loving him despite her dismay because he was so darkly cool – and to her new eyes – devilishly attractive. She looked at her slim fingers. ‘My hand is very thrilled. But what is wrong with my face? Am I haggard? Are my eyes crossed? Has my nose taken a crooked turn? Have my teeth
dropped out? You look very refreshed yourself, and not at all repellent. Well, if I am no longer quite the most beautiful thing you have ever seen you must close your eyes, because if you will not kiss properly again, then I must.’ And she kissed him. It was a brief, almost angry kiss, but it destroyed James’s cautious front. He put his lips very decisively to hers and kissed her so warmly and positively that her dismay vanished and she shut her eyes tight to hold back sudden tears of intense relief.

‘James, oh, I thought – oh, I haven’t turned into a frog, have I? You did kiss me last night and say sweet things, didn’t you?’ Her eyes were dark with appeal. ‘I assure you, I am just the same today, only more so. That is, I am more exceptionally loving, and if you go to Sarajevo and don’t come back until tomorrow that is twenty-four hours for me of not being alive. James, do you understand what I’m saying?’

James considered her with the seriousness of a man who knew that her striking fascination was presenting him with his greatest problem.

‘I understand what I feel about you,’ he said. ‘On top of being irresistibly lovely, you’re given to the kind of talk I can’t listen to without realizing life could be very silent and empty for me if you weren’t there. However, my lovely Sophie—’

‘Oh, more of that, please.’

‘However, my very sweet Sophie, much as I love you, and have done ever since you put back your veil, we must be practical—’

‘Never,’ breathed Sophie, ‘never. I know what
being practical means to you. It means doing something which is going to upset me. I am not really disposed to cry about things but I am near to unleashing an ocean of tears this very moment.’ He was not sure whether she meant this or was just using words, except that underlying vibrations were making her voice unsteady. ‘I beg you, James, please don’t say we must be practical, because in this case I know it means you are going to find reasons why you should not propose to me. You are going to say you can’t afford me.’

He shook his head, caught halfway between a smile and a sigh.

‘Sophie, my father will pay me a very good salary. More than that if I have a wife to keep. But I could give you little of what you’re used to, what you’re entitled to. We’re not great landowners. You must realize—’

‘No,’ said Sophie passionately, ‘no!’

‘Sophie—’

‘No. I won’t accept your argument. It is so horrifyingly old-fashioned it would make some young ladies swoon.’ Sophie was flushed and emotionally purposeful. ‘No, I will not accept that at all. But I will accept your proposal. I wish to be proposed to. If you refuse, then I shall propose to you, and if you think that shockingly forward of me you only have yourself to blame. And if you turn me down I shall enter a convent.’

In the bright, sunlit room James eyed his glowing, dramatizing love a little hopelessly.

‘Sophie, be serious.’

‘You think I am not? I am very serious,’ she said intensely. ‘If you don’t wish me to be your wife I shall become a bride of Christ. That is how nuns are looked upon in some orders, I believe.’

‘Well, just look here,’ said James, putting his hands firmly on her shoulders, ‘there would only be one servant, two at the most, and a pony and trap – although a motor car would be no problem if you preferred—’

‘All that? For me? I would have all that and you as well?’ Sophie’s emotion burst into delight. ‘We should not have to live in a garret and exist on dry crusts? Then what is there to be so old-fashioned and practical about? Do you think I want a hundred mansions and a thousand servants? You do not know your Sophie, and I am your Sophie. You saved me from Avriarches and therefore you must claim me. James, do you have feelings and needs and desires? I do.’

‘So do I, and they all concern you.’

She pressed herself close to him, her body trembling.

‘Then please propose to me and marry me quickly.’

‘You know I must first speak to your father,’ he said, ‘I want your parents to be happy about this.’

‘Your responsibility is to make me happy, not my parents. Oh, this is quite frightening. My feelings, I mean. I am already thinking—’

‘What are you already thinking?’

‘That in between nursing our children I shall be able to sit in the garden and write some poetry.
We shall have a little garden too, won’t we? Of course, I should not make that a condition, only a negotiating point—’

‘We’ll discuss all that,’ said James with advisable gravity. ‘I think we can work it all out. But I have to go to Sarajevo now. We didn’t net Ferenac. He slipped us. As I know him so well the police think I can help to find him. I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after and I’ll see you then. I must see you then. Doing without you for a day or so is as much as I can manage.’

Sophie kissed him with warm passion.

‘James, saying things like that is much lovelier than kissing my hand.’

‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ said Anne. With Carl she was saying au revoir to James as they walked over the sanded drive to the gate. He was going to see the Austrian authorities in Sarajevo, and Major Moeller, hoping for more sport, was accompanying him. Baron von Korvacs, alarmed by the significance of James’s story, had departed for Sarajevo earlier.

‘Recently,’ said James, ‘I think I’ve learned to be very careful.’

‘I can’t comment on that,’ said Carl, ‘but I think you’re a damned good friend, James. The police have located the Benz, by the way. Found it tucked into some woods this morning.’

‘Oh, yes.’ James smiled. ‘I’m afraid the Benz slipped my memory a bit.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I really must go now.’

‘Find that man quickly,’ said Anne, ‘and come
back to us soon. We don’t feel quite complete without you now— Oh, who is that arriving?’

A cab drew up outside the house. Ludwig stepped out. He smiled and waved. They went out to him as the cabbie unstrapped his luggage.

‘Oh, Ludwig, how good to see you,’ said Anne, ‘we can do with you.’

‘Managed it earlier than I thought,’ said Ludwig cheerfully. ‘Sent your dear mama a telegram. Hope I’m not unexpected. James. Carl.’ He nodded to each of them in his friendly way.

‘Mama didn’t mention it,’ said Anne, ‘but things have been happening. I’ll tell you about them. Oh, thank you for coming.’

She felt happy as she looked at him. He seemed so debonair, so fresh, so much more the handsome, outgoing man than the dark brooding figures of her nightmare. Ludwig would never hurt her, never consider wrongs could be righted by tossing bombs that would injure the innocent. His eyes were laughing, his smile expressive of his pleasure at seeing her.

‘My dear Anne, I’m delighted to be here,’ he said.

‘So am I,’ said Anne, ‘and I am going to monopolize you because James has to go to Sarajevo and Sophie is—’ She stopped, glanced at James.

‘Ah, yes,’ said James.

Sarajevo. 28 June 1914. Sunshine, bunting, colour, crowds and the Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

The royal procession of motor cars had begun the journey to the city hall, where an address of welcome was to be given. The archduke and his wife were in the second car, a grey tourer flying the Habsburg pennant. Opposite them sat General Potiorek, Governor of Bosnia. The hood of the car was folded down to permit the cheering Sarajevo citizens a fine view of their distinguished visitors. It also allowed the conspirators to see their target.

They were seven. Among them were the three on whom the Black Hand pinned their happiest hopes. Cabrinovic, Grabez and Princip. All seven young men were positioned at different points along the Appel Quay, the processional route to the city hall.

An eighth man, a more independent and vainglorious assassin, sat up in the hills with the brigands of the captured Avriarches. He sat in fuming frustration, but he was not disposed to come down, for a Briton and two Austrian girls
had eluded him and his cover was blown. Nor were the brigands disposed to part with him. He was, they said, as much responsible for the capture of their chief as anyone. They would see what happened to Avriarches before letting Boris Ferenac leave them. Since Avriarches was due to be hanged, Boris Ferenac would never know glory, only an unpleasant and premature death.

Flags waved as the archduke’s motorcade entered the Appel Quay. In truth, the Bosnians were by no means as opposed to Austrian rule as the Serbians wished, and the Moslem population preferred an Austrian administration to the possibility of a Serbian one.

The conspirator first in line was a youth called Muhamed Mehmedbasic. He had all the hot desire of youth to destroy a tyrant, but not the nerve, and when the archduke’s car drew level with him he did nothing but rigidly gape.

Cabrinovic, next in line a little farther on, was made of more fiery stuff. He had boasted, and loudly, that all he needed was opportunity. It came. He drew the prepared bomb from his pocket and struck the percussion cap against a lamp post. He took careful aim, the archduke’s colourful helmet an emblazoned 12 o’clock point, and threw the bomb. But the driver of the ducal car had heard the sharp clear sound of percussion cap striking lamp post, and instinctively put his foot hard down on the accelerator as the bomb flew. It landed not in Franz Ferdinand’s lap, it struck his gloved fingers as, seeing it coming, he
threw up his hand to protect his wife. Deflected, the bomb hit the folded roof of the tourer and bounced into the road.

It roared into explosion, injured a dozen spectators and two men and a lady-in-waiting in the following car. The archduke was unhurt, although his wife sustained a minor scratch on her cheek as splinters flew.

The motorcade stopped. Confusion, loud and clamorous, came out of stunned silence. Cabrinovic, passionate with a sense of failure, swallowed a cyanide tablet. It was impotent from age and did him little harm. He leapt into the river. The water was extremely low and he lay in little more than a trickle. Four men, including a policeman and a plain-clothes detective, went in after him. One or two kicks were aimed at him before they pulled him out and hauled him off to the police station.

Franz Ferdinand, after making considerate enquiries about the injured, resumed his journey. His car sped past all other conspirators, and even Princip and Grabez were too confused by the sound of the bomb and their ignorance of the consequences to do anything but watch the archduke, very much alive, flash by. At the city hall Franz Ferdinand expressed himself angrily to the mayor, Fehim Effendi Curcic.

‘Herr Mayor, one comes here for a visit and is received with bombs. It is outrageous.’

And having said that he composed himself and requested the mayor to proceed with the loyal address of welcome.

About this time James and Major Moeller had managed to divorce themselves from the confusion in Appel Quay. They had been looking for Ferenac and the unknown quantity represented by any other men with similar motives to his in mind. The Austrian authorities in Sarajevo had received James’s story with interest, having been alerted by Baron von Korvacs. Uniformed police were everywhere, lining the route, and plain-clothes detectives were wandering keenly about. No one had been able to stop Cabrinovic throwing his bomb, but that did not mean others of his kind should be given the chance. Sarajevo was indignant at the attempt on the archduke’s life, and as the police brought order out of confusion the anger continued as a loud buzz.

‘Damnably close thing, James,’ said Major Moeller, ‘but it wasn’t your friend Ferenac.’

‘No,’ said James.

‘Is that it, do you think? An attempt, a miss, and peace for the rest of the day?’

‘Damned if I know,’ said James. It wasn’t his cause, or the major’s, but they felt involved. ‘The fact is I’ve been as uneasy as a woman about it all since I first met Ferenac, and my intuition won’t let it go away. I feel a sense of doom, and that’s an old woman’s feeling.’

‘Well, my young friend, apart from Ferenac, who I feel must have done the wiser thing and gone home to his mother,’ said the major, ‘what are we looking for? More people like him? A furtive face, the shape of a bomb, an unshaven desperado or what?’

‘Damned if I know,’ said James again, looking around at people standing and people passing.

‘Damned if I do, either,’ said the major. ‘Assassins, I suppose, try to look like ordinary people.’