We didn’t pass another car, another soul as we walked up the steep hill. The wind carried rose petals down to us, circling us before tumbling down the street.
A small church was tucked away around a bend. It was less ornate than some of the others, painted yellow with white trim and a large white archway. A square bell tower rose on the right side and the ground outside the double doors was strewn with more rose petals.
‘Someone must have got married today,’ I noted.
Eduard choked. I looked away, realising he’d read that as a broad hint. We’d been seeing each other for months, but there had been no talk of the future, much less one that was shared. I wouldn’t ask, and he hadn’t offered. It was something I shouldn’t want.
He looked awkward as he asked: ‘Would you like to go inside, Angel?’
I shrugged. If he wanted to say a prayer for the people we’d killed, that was fine with me, although I would struggle to muster any remorse for Köhler’s death.
Petals swirled around my feet and for a moment, I envied that bride, coming through the doors on the arm of a man she loved, safe, and secure in their future together.
Eduard took my hand and led me up the steps. Inside, the church blazed with the light of dozens of candles. Enormous bouquets stood as sentries just inside the door; smaller wreaths with white ribbons hung from the end of each pew leading the way to the altar, framed by more flowers and an enormous stone arch. The evening light shone on an old priest as he rose from his chair, hands clasped and head bent. He straightened his cassock and beamed at us.
‘You are late, my children.’
‘I’m sorry, we hadn’t realised the church was closed for the evening,’ I apologised.
The priest looked surprised, but Eduard froze. Panic flashed over his face.
Panic? Now, but not when a gun was pointed at him?
‘Eduard? What’s going on?’
He took a deep breath. His mouth opened once or twice.
‘Angel . . .’ he started, then bit his lip. Wiped one of his palms on his trouser leg and tried again. ‘Angel, you are a difficult woman. You are arrogant and opinionated. You drink too much, smoke too much and keep very bad company. You gravitate towards trouble with no care for yourself, and act with a ruthlessness that is not ladylike. But you fight for what you believe in and you make me want to fight with you. For you.’
My heart was pounding, the blood rushing in my veins.
‘Eduard? What are you saying?’
He looked pained and shook his head.
‘This is not coming out right.’ He closed his eyes and tried again. ‘Angel, you are a danger to yourself. And to me, if anything should happen to you. So I must do what I can to protect you.’
He rubbed his face, muttering to himself. Reached into his pocket. My heart was pounding, unsure what to expect. What did he mean by protecting me?
A black box was open in his hand. Inside it, a small gold ring. The candlelight danced off it as he uttered a single word, barely audible over my beating heart. The world shrunk, its entirety gleaming in that band. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, or the man who held it. All humour left his face. His dark eyes were serious and he slowly sank to one knee.
‘Angel?’
‘Eduard.’
I hadn’t realised I was crying until a tear dropped on to our linked hands. There was fear in his eyes – worry that he’d gone too far and would lose me. Was he offering to marry me for just that: to keep me alive? I loved him, desperately, but I wanted more. Needed more.
I dropped to my knees so I could look into his eyes.
‘Eduard. Do you love me?’
‘Haven’t I just said so?’
‘Perhaps somewhere in the catalogue of my faults.’
He looked at the ceiling, the stone balustrade that guarded a narrow catwalk. Did it remind him of another catwalk only a few hours ago?
‘Solange, Lisbet, whatever your name really is. I love you more than my life. Will you marry me?’
I couldn’t understand the words, asked him to repeat them. The word he uttered was one I rarely heard him use.
‘Please.’
A lump rose in my throat, and the tears, previously a trickle, now poured down my face.
‘My name is Elisabeth.’ I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand. ‘Elisabeth Daria Grace de Mornay. And yes, Eduard Graf. Even though that was the least romantic marriage proposal. Ever. Yes, I will marry you.’
Part 5
Lisbon, January 1944
Chapter Forty-six
Almost every pier was occupied, with ships of every imaginable size, shape and nationality. Bright flags crackled overhead while skiffs ferried goods and men back and forth from the larger ships. The breeze smelt of salt water and winter.
We weren’t far from Lourenço Marques – the restricted area where English ships docked and unloaded. Special precautions had been put in place by the Portuguese government to keep the Allied ships safe, including very visible police barricades. Bertie had unloaded the wolfram shipment there last October. He remained coy about how it was managed and how he continued to fox the Germans by ‘diverting’ shipments. He was making a small fortune from it, but as long as he kept the wolfram away from the Germans, the British government was happy to look the other way.
Under heavy security, an English frigate bobbed on the tide, safe from the Nazis’ wireless operators and the planes they commanded. Or as safe as we could make it.
Eduard squeezed my hand as a young sailor approached and saluted smartly.
‘Major Graf?’
The man displayed only respect, making me wonder, not for the first time, what exactly Eduard would be doing in Berlin, and why he needed to sail to France first.
‘At ease, man. Give me a few moments to say goodbye to my wife. I’ll be with you directly.’
The sailor picked
