England.'
Several thoughts shot simultaneously through Laura's mind as she listened: that her earliest memory of Peter Whiteside had been when she was a little girl of approximately five and Peter Whiteside, single, using a cane to brace a hobbling leg, had come along on a trip to Scotland with the Worthington family. That from what she knew about such things, Whiteside must carry a reasonable bit of authority within the M.I. 5 or 6 and that he made his own recruitments. That the rumors that always circulated about flirtatious Peter were probably true – he did like boys and girls. And that he was here now in front of her, poised like a spider in his own web, trying to recruit her to work for him.
'So I'm to be a spy,' she said in mounting wonder. 'Is that it?'
His eyes danced in an absurdly young way.
'Hitler has spies,' he said with a flicker of a grin. 'England gathers intelligence in the interests of her own defense. When were you thinking of sailing?' he asked.
'June the fifth,' she said.
Whiteside glanced to a calendar on his wall. Her eyes followed his and she saw the bold figures 1937. She thought to herself: What a failure I am! I’m already twenty-three years old. Calendars began to bother her.
'That would be excellent,' he said. 'Before you leave, today in fact, I can submit to you a list of families and individuals whom you could meet. Buy a new address book and write these names in among those whom you already know. File a report every two weeks. Anything that strikes you as interesting. Political sympathies are foremost, of course. We must know where pro-British or pro-Nazi sympathies lie in America. If a war comes, American assistance may be critical. For this, we will need public opinion on our side.'
There was a pause and Laura was aware of two men arguing in the hallway.
'And how would I correspond with you?' she asked, savoring the conspiratorial aspects of Whiteside's proposal. 'A coded telegram? A scribbled message slipped into a stone wall? A rendezvous at three A.M. at the New York waterfront?'
'A simple letter in the English language would suffice,' he said. 'Address it to me, your Uncle Peter. I will give you a postal box number in London. You will simply discuss your visit to America. And your friends.'
There was another long pause as Laura considered everything.
'Well…?' Whiteside finally inquired. 'This is, after all, for England.'
He nudged her along: 'I must say, Laura, you came highly recommended for this assignment by a former member of M.I. 6.'
'I was?' she asked in total surprise. 'I didn't know until today that I knew anyone who did this sort of thing.'
'You've known at least two. I'm one. The other recommended you.'
'Who?' she demanded.
Whiteside chuckled softly. 'I'll tell you over lunch,' he said, 'and only if you accept.'
'I have already accepted.'
'Then we can continue on to lunch,' Whiteside said merrily. He rose but Laura did not. 'The Ritz dining room is waiting.'
'This young Englishwoman,' she said, 'does not budge until she receives the promised information.'
Whiteside offered his hand to guide her. 'Portrait of a retired spy,' he began. 'Read Modern Language at Oxford in the teens. Joined First London Rifle Brigade, became an intelligence officer, attached to artillery. In 1916 became too valuable to risk at frontline fighting, so was transferred to the War Office in London.'
Laura's mouth flew open in amazement.
Whiteside continued, 'Spent eleven months running spies in and out of France, then volunteered again for the front lines. Returned to his regiment, awarded the Royal Legion of
Honor-'
'My father!' she exclaimed in a breathless whisper.
'You! The two of you… of course…!'
'I've always felt, Laura,' Whiteside concluded, guiding her to the door, then opening it for her, 'that talent, ability, and intelligence are hereditary traits. I think you'll serve His Majesty well in America. Don't you?'
*
Laura was filled with conflicting emotions when she saw Edward Shawcross again. It was one week later and upon a trip that they had long planned. They drove to London, where Edward had booked rooms on separate floors of the Savoy-Laura's suite overlooking the Thames and the Embankment-and took her to dinner each evening at the Savoy Grill. It was there, during dessert, that Edward set before her a small box from an Amsterdam jeweler. Laura opened it. An engagement ring with a diamond the size of a small pebble sparkled and winked at her.
'Don't say anything,' Edward said. 'Wear it if you like it. And you can give me your honest answer when you return from America.'
They went up to her chamber, toasted London with French champagne from 1926 and then tumbled into the deliciously sinful Savoy double bed. They made love until Edward fell asleep, still resting on top of her.
At 4 A.M. Laura awakened. There was a stream of soft moonlight from where the curtains were not completely drawn. On her hand Laura saw the glimmer of the diamond. She studied the stone for several minutes. Edward Shawcross, the front of his naked body against her back, snored softly. Then Laura was aware of his arm, tightly around her.
Perhaps she made too much of it. Perhaps the moment was too symbolic to be meaningful. But Laura felt smothered. Their romance had had all the expensive accouterments, but had it any soul? Or was an attractive willing young woman just another item in a wealthy young man's collection of objects?
One voice within her told her she was being unfair. Another voice urged her to flee. Then, as she stared at the dazzling stone on her finger, the sparkle diffused. There was moisture in her eyes. Tears. She was not in love with Edward Shawcross and now knew she never would be. And she wanted desperately to love the way Victoria and Nigel Worthington had loved. How could she ever tell Edward? He had showered so much upon her. How could she ever summon the courage?
A week later, Edward borrowed his father's chauffeur and Bentley for the day. He motored with Laura from her home in Salisbury to Southampton. Edward obtained a visitor's pass at the Cunard pier and accompanied the woman he loved to her stateroom. There she found four spectacular floral arrangements of his choosing.
He will suffocate me for the rest of my life, she was thinking.
At 11:30 the Queen Mary's thunderous horns blasted twice to signal all visitors ashore. Anchor would be lifted promptly at noon.
'Edward, it's time,' she said as gently as possible. He sat in a captain's chair and for one horrifying moment she thought he had booked passage with her.
He did not move. Oh, please, she thought, how I am coming to resent his presence! Why doesn't he get up? Why doesn't he leave?
'Edward, dear,' she said a second time. 'I'm sorry. But you must go now. We'll see each other in ten weeks.'
'Will we?'
There was a hesitation that was too obvious. She answered, 'Yes. Of course.'
A long pause followed. So did a gaze that she did not know how to interpret. Then he said, 'There's something that I need to know. I know I shouldn't ask. But I'm going to.'
She waited.
'That thing of yours,' he said. And instantly she knew. The proper Victorian, he always referred to her diaphragm as the 'thing.'
'Are you taking it with you?'
All the easy lies occurred to her and danced across her lips. Then all the hurtful implications of honesty also flashed before her. The truth won.
'Yes,' she said.
He looked at her in contempt, then anger. He fingered the arm of his chair but looked her directly in the eye. He stood. For one awful moment, she feared that he would strike her.
'You cheap, ungrateful little tart!' he said, with 'controlled rage, his voice bold but no louder than before. 'I should have guessed. Do you know how much I've spent on you?'
