The Very Thought of You (28 page)

Guy, who had seen and heard Della's mocking laughter, scowled. ‘What did she say?' he asked Catherine.

Beau rolled his eyes and looked daggers at Della, and was about to tell her off when Catherine said quickly, ‘She said she thought you should have a bath. She thinks you might have fleas.'

The grin that widened Guy's lips and showed up dirty yellow teeth broke the moment. ‘Yes, the lady is right. I do have fleas, and many sore places on my body, which are, I think, infected. Perhaps I smell? In the prison, everyone was the same – you stop noticing.' He smiled at Madame Farcy. ‘Lead me away, Manon. I need food and hot water.'

He looked at Beau. ‘In the morning, monsieur, we will discuss this further,' and nodding to the rest of the company, he turned and followed Madame Farcy out of the room.

‘Crikey,' said Tommy. ‘That's a turn up.'

‘Yes,' said Beau, looking worried. ‘Now I'm going to bed. We'll see what he says in the morning.'

As the girls climbed into their beds in the large room that overlooked the parkland at the front of the chateau, Frances said, ‘I bet this was the main bedroom. I bet his parents slept in here and now he'll want to do the same.'

‘He's welcome to join us,' giggled Della sleepily. ‘He's quite a looker under all that filthy hair.'

Robert drove in the next morning with more mail. Catherine, who was strolling in the neglected grounds, spotted him and waved. He hurried over to where she was standing beside a big oak tree and, dropping his briefcase, took her in his arms.

‘I've wanted to do this for days now,' he said, and passionately kissed her mouth and face, making her gasp with pleasure. She wound her arms about his neck, as anxious as him for this intimacy, and it was only when she began to feel her knees buckle and knew that at any moment they would be rolling on the grass that she stopped him.

‘It's too public,' she whispered.

‘We'll find somewhere quiet,' Robert said. ‘Come on.'

‘No.' Catherine gazed up at him, longing to be kissed again. ‘I have to tell you. The owner of the chateau has turned up. I don't know what his plans are, but he wasn't too happy last night when he found us here.'

‘Good Lord.' Robert looked quite surprised. ‘We were told he was dead.'

‘The father's dead. This is the son, Guy de Montjoy. It seems that he was in the Resistance and that he was captured. The Americans opened the prison some days ago.'

‘Interesting,' said Robert, all passion now forgotten. ‘I can't wait to meet him.' He started to walk back to the house, but Catherine grabbed his arm.

‘I'm going to ask him about Christopher,' she said. ‘He was captured by the Gestapo, and so was Chris. He might have met him.'

For a moment she hoped he would agree. Say, ‘What a good idea,' and that he would question Guy de Montjoy with her, but the words were hardly out of her mouth before he said with a voice hard as steel, ‘No, Catherine. Absolutely not.'

‘Why not?' She could hear the whine in her voice but didn't care.

‘Because your husband was on a secret mission. It must not be mentioned. Remember you signed the Official Secrets Act. There is a penalty to pay for breaking your promise.'

‘But—'

‘No “but”s,' he said, and took her arm to urge her along. ‘Come on, let's meet the new arrival.' He was smiling again now, as though nothing had happened, and she, confused, walked with him.

Strangely, and even after that cold and swift rebuttal of her suggestion, Christopher and his whereabouts were not uppermost in her mind. It was of Robert she pondered. How could he turn off his desire so abruptly?

Guy was in the dining room with Della and Frances. The boys had eaten and were in the large salon rehearsing new numbers. The rousing chorus of the drinking song from
The Student Prince
suddenly resounded through the rooms and Guy looked up in astonishment.

‘They are rehearsing,' smiled Frances. ‘We have to keep adding new things to our acts to keep them vibrant, alive.'

‘You can speak French,' said Della accusingly, spreading some of the American PX butter on one of Madame Farcy's bread rolls. ‘You didn't say so before.'

‘Nobody asked me,' said Frances.

‘What act do you do?' Guy asked her. He was wearing a clean shirt, one of Monsieur Farcy's, and a pair of blue trousers, courtesy of Tommy, who had offered them when the count had first appeared downstairs with a blanket wrapped round his waist. He looked clean, but was terribly thin and covered with small sores and scabs. Frances guessed that he was in his late twenties or early thirties.

‘I'm the administrator, really, and I drive the bus, which you will see at the back of the chateau,' said Frances, ‘although I do sing with the other girls at the end of the show.'

‘And Mademoiselle Della?'

‘She dances and sings. She's wonderful. The audiences love her.'

He grinned at Della. His teeth were cleaner now, as was his hair, and although his skin looked pale and there were lines of exhaustion around his eyes, it was possible to see the handsome man he'd been. ‘I'm sure they do,' he said. ‘And Mademoiselle Catherine?'

‘Oh, she sings too. She's awfully good.'

Della poured herself more coffee. ‘What's he saying?' she asked. ‘I heard my name and Catherine's.'

‘He wanted to know what you did. I said you sing and dance.'

‘Oh.' Della grinned at him and Guy smiled back. ‘Tell him he looks better this morning and that I've got some ointment for those sores on his arms. I'll put it on for him, and for any other patches he's got on his body.'

When Frances gave her the raised-eyebrow treatment, Della laughed. ‘It's all part of our job,' she said. ‘Bringing comfort to the troops.'

Frances was translating this when Robert came in, slowly followed by Catherine and Beau. ‘Monsieur le Compte,' he said, saluting and then putting out his hand, ‘I'm Major Lennox, liaison officer for this group.' His French was perfect. ‘Perhaps, if you've finished your breakfast, we could go into the small salon for a little chat.' He turned to Catherine and reverting to English, added, ‘We won't need you this time for translation, Mrs Fletcher. Major Bennett and I can manage quite well.' He handed her a bundle of letters. ‘Perhaps you'd like to distribute the mail?'

It was all said very formally, and although Robert smiled politely, Catherine gave him a bleak stare. She had been dismissed and didn't much like it.

‘That was a bit cheeky,' said Della, when the men had left the room. ‘Leaving you out like that.'

‘I suppose they're going to discuss something top secret,' said Catherine, undoing the string on the bundle, ‘that they don't want me to hear.'

‘With Beau?' said Frances. ‘I do hope not. If he's anything like the rest of his family, it won't be a secret for long. All the Bennetts are dreadful gossips.' She looked at the letter Catherine had put in her hand. ‘Oh goody,' she beamed. ‘Another one from Felix.'

‘Anything for me?' Della eagerly looked at the letters as Catherine riffled through them.

‘Mm, yes.' Catherine held up a flimsy airmail envelope. ‘This is for you.'

Della grabbed it and tore it open. ‘It's from Tim,' she said excitedly.

Catherine wandered through to where the boys were practising. ‘Post,' she called, and put the letters down on the table. She was keen to open her mail. There was one from Maman – she recognised the writing, but the other one she didn't recognise.

Sitting on the second step of the grand staircase, she opened the envelope. A single sheet of paper was inside with one line of writing:
Find Father Gautier somewhere south of Amiens. He'll tell you about your husband.

She flipped the sheet over and back again. There was nothing on the back, and no signature. I'll show it to Robert, she thought. He'll be able to explain. But then, would he? Looking at it again, she began to have doubts. This brief note was for her only. Not to be shared.

The door to the small salon suddenly opened and the men came out, smiling and shaking hands. Catherine hastily folded the sheet of paper and put it in her pocket, and then opened the one from Maman.

Robert was watching her, and taking a deep breath, she smiled at him. ‘Lili is well and growing,' she said, holding up Maman's letter.

‘And your other one?'

Had he been checking up on the post? On all the mail that came to the Bennett Players, or just on hers?

She swallowed. ‘It's from Bobby Crewe,' she lied. ‘The band leader. He wants to know if I'm interested in a show going on at Christmas. If we'll be home then.'

‘Oh.' Robert stared at her for a moment, his eyes narrowing, and then gave her a brief nod. Somehow, she thought, he knows I'm lying, and she put a hand in her pocket where the flimsy envelope, with the note inside, lay crumpled. Her fingers were slightly damp and stuck to the paper, and she felt a little sick. I ought to tell him now. Admit I've been telling a fib. But she looked at Guy, who'd been a Resistance fighter and suffered for it, and a wave of anger came over her. How dare Robert look at her letters, as well as everything else? she thought. I won't let him stop me searching for Christopher, no matter how hard he tries. She stood up, and refusing to look at him, she walked down the single stair and went into the large salon, where her friends had gathered.

Della was breathlessly reading out bits of Tim O'Brien's long letter. ‘He can't say where he is, but I'm sure he's at the front,' she said. ‘Listen to this:
We are hectic, here. Wounded arriving constantly, many of them in a bad way
. And what about this bit?' She turned the page and ran her red-painted fingernail down the close-written script until she found the place she wanted. ‘
I have a house in the west of Ireland, and after the war we could live there. They need a doctor in that town.
' She put the letter down and looked at Frances and Catherine. ‘Did you hear that?' she whispered, her eyes round. ‘He said “we”.'

‘He can't mean it,' said Frances. ‘After all, you barely know him, and more than that, he barely knows you.'

‘I know that,' Della said crossly. ‘Still …' She didn't finish the sentence, but half turned away and started to read the letter again.

Godfrey had three letters, all from his wife. After he read each one, he crumpled it up and threw it in the fireplace.

‘What's she say?' asked Tommy.

‘Oh, just rubbish, dear boy. Complaining that I've been away too long.' He gave a loud, barking laugh. ‘Not long enough for me.'

‘Do you have children, Godfrey?' Catherine asked.

He shook his head. ‘Sadly no. But' – he smiled gently – ‘it's maybe for the best. A child could have taken after me and she would have nagged it senseless, or, God forbid, it would have been like her and I'd have two harpies after me.'

Robert, Beau and Guy came into the room, and Beau rapped his hand on the table. ‘Listen up, everybody. The count has very generously allowed us to stay here.' He nodded his thanks to the young man, and the company murmured, ‘Hear, hear.'

‘So, we still have a busy tour in this area, but in a couple of weeks we'll be going further afield. As you know, several towns north-east of here have fallen to the Allies, and we'll be touring up there. Robert has been liaising with the army and has picked out some venues. Field hospitals again and camps similar to the ones we've already been in. So you'll know the drill. Tin hats at all times!' Everyone laughed and grinned excitedly at each other, before Beau held up his hand again for silence.

‘We're taking our bus,' he said. ‘It's more convenient, as we know, and, Frances, you will drive – they seem to trust us not to get in any trouble. But here comes the best news. We're going home in the middle of December. So you can have Christmas with your families.'

‘Wow!' said Della, and Catherine and Frances gave each other a hug. Colin and Tommy shook hands. Only Godfrey looked miserable.

‘Don't tell her, laddie,' said Colin. ‘Come away with me up to Glasgow. Ma wife and bairns will welcome you and we'll have a grand time.'

Later, when everyone was chatting excitedly and planning to write home, Robert asked Catherine to walk in the overgrown garden with him.

‘You'll be happy with that news,' he said. ‘Going home to see your mother and your little girl.'

‘Oh yes,' Catherine nodded. ‘It is so wonderful.'

‘And you might be able to join your old band leader for his show. Bobby Crewe, is it? Wasn't that what he asked you in his letter?'

She stopped walking and turned to stare at him. ‘Stop questioning me, Robert. I don't like it. Nor do I like you telling me what to do.'

His face flushed. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘It's become a habit. I exist in a strange world where I'm never sure of … But,' he said quickly, ‘I didn't mean to hurt you when I excluded you from the discussion with de Montjoy. The thing is, it might have been something that we needed to keep secure.'

Catherine shrugged. ‘I wasn't hurt,' she said coolly. ‘It meant nothing to me. Although, including Beau in your discussion might have been a mistake. Frances says he's a terrible gossip.'

‘Just as well, then, that there was nothing secret in what the count had to say.' Robert gazed at the sky. Grey clouds were rolling in from the west, threatening that rain would soon ruin what had been a perfectly sunny morning. ‘I'm paranoid, I think. Too long in my job.'

He reached to take her hand, but before he could touch it, she pushed it into her pocket and started walking back to the chateau. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘Tommy's waiting for me. We have to rehearse a new number.'

Catherine could feel his eyes on her back as she hurried to the house. I don't believe him, she thought, her stomach churning, that him questioning me was just a habit. He meant it, and despite all the kissing and pretence of love, he doesn't trust me.