reached out to touch her, a light, gentle stroke, as if to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming.
The cook prepared all her favorite recipes and she took long walks or rode across the fields with the dogs.
But after a few days she grew restless. It was wonderful to be home, to see the happiness in her father’s eyes, to be pampered and spoiled again, but her thoughts continually returned to Marco. Too frequently she found herself gazing blankly at a picture she didn’t see, or staring out of a window where there was no view. What was he doing right now? Was he thinking about her? Was he wondering if she would come back, or had he put her out of his mind? Her bed felt cold and empty and she found it hard to settle back into any of her old routines. At last she decided to travel up to town to fill a day with some shopping and have lunch with Gillian Westmarland.
Gillian had been at the last episode of the Game, before she met Johnny Westmarland and helped save his life. There was talk, too, that she had brought off some clever coup that was important to the country’s security, but the details had remained hush-hush and vague.
Whatever the truth of the story, Gillian had married Johnny as soon as he recovered from his wounds, the Game had been shut down, and a lot of the people who had joined in had discreetly retired from society. Including Emma herself.
She found Gillian waiting for her in the lobby of the Savoy. A silver tray sat on a low table with two cups and a silver coffee service.
As soon as she caught sight of Emma, Gillian sprang to her feet and gave her a hug and a kiss. “Thank God you’re alive,” she said. “We heard such terrible things about the fire on the ship.” She stepped back to look her up and down. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“It’s nothing. Just a little tired still.” Emma returned Gillian’s penetrating scan, taking in the loose-fitting and most unfashionable frock. “My God,” she said as she plumped into a large armchair. “Don’t tell me you’re-”
Gillian nodded excitedly and stroked the small bulge in her abdomen. “Just in time for Christmas,” she said. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
“Wonderful. Congratulations. This calls for something stronger than coffee-” Emma looked around for a waiter.
“No, no, thank you. This is quite strong enough for me.” Gillian stroked her belly again and gave it a little pat as if communicating reassurance to the baby. “But if you want…”
Emma caught the eye of a waiter at last. “Do you have a bottle of
“No, madame, that wine is not available to restaurants. It’s sold only to a select private list. I’m sorry. May I suggest something else? Or would you like to see the wine list?”
“No, no thank you. I’ll stick to coffee.”
She glanced across and saw Gillian watching her, a thoughtful look on her face. “Is that a special wine you found in Italy?”
“Yes. It’s rather nice, and I thought I’d like to try it here. Away from the sunshine and the hills, you know, it often tastes quite different.”
“Special memories, then?”
“In a way.” Emma took a sip of coffee, then looked at her nails, newly manicured and polished, and changed the subject. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”
Gillian gave a long sigh and stirred her full cup of coffee. “I’m quite sickening about it, actually. I keep telling all my friends they shouldn’t be afraid to do it.” She stirred her coffee yet again.
“Look, are you going to drink that, or just stir it to death?”
Gillian put the spoon down. “Sorry, I ordered it by habit. To tell the truth, it tastes horrible. Ever since I knew I was pregnant, my taste buds have gone haywire.”
“Have a glass of milk or something. Isn’t that supposed to be good for you?”
“Yes, but I’m starting to loathe the sight of milk. Johnny keeps bringing it to me.”
“Johnny? Gentleman Johnny in MI5, the swashbuckling hero?”
Gillian bristled. “He’s not like that at all. He’s very sweet and understanding-”
Emma reached out to touch Gillian’s knee. “I know, darling. He’s gorgeous and wonderful and I shouldn’t be teasing you. He adores you, I could see that.”
Emma finished her coffee, and they went in to lunch. She asked for a glass of Soave. It was nice enough, but not a patch on Marco’s wine.
“Tell me what happened in Italy,” Gillian demanded as they were served.
“Nothing to tell, really. I don’t remember all that much about the shipwreck, just that I was washed ashore and some Italian peasants found me. There was a doctor who helped me find my way back to Naples.”
“Hmm. That’s it?’
“That’s it.”
Gillian picked up the last lettuce leaf and sat back. “So, are you going to tell me about him?”
“About whom?”
“The man who gave you the wine.” She placed her elbows on the table and propped her chin on her hands. “Was it the mysterious doctor? I know there’s more. I want every detail.” She dropped her voice. “Or at least every detail that’s fit to print, as Sam Parfitt used to say.”
Emma laughed. “You don’t miss the newspaper, do you?”
“God, no. Sometimes I do some office work for Johnny. Typing and stuff.” Her face grew serious. “There’s a lot going on in Europe, you know, Emma. In Germany and in Italy…”
“I know.”
Reminded that Gillian and Johnny were associated with the British secret services, Emma launched into a modified account of the village hidden in the caves and Marco’s struggle with the government forces. She still wasn’t ready to share too much and refrained from giving details of the torture and death of Claudia. She only mentioned Marco in passing as the leader of the outlawed group.
Gillian listened wide eyed. “This is all so useful,” she said. “Would you talk to Johnny about some of this?”
“I suppose so.”
“So keep the political details for him and tell me more about this Doctor Marco.”
Emma smiled as she sipped her wine. “There’s not much more to tell.”
“Of course there is. I can see it in your face every time you mention his name. What does he look like?”
She had never realized how good Gillian was at worming information out of someone. She tried to describe Marco without making him sound like a Hollywood star.
Gillian sighed again. “He sounds dreamy. What was he like in bed?”
Emma choked on her last sip of wine. “Gilly!”
“You can tell me. I’m a married woman. How often, where?”
“Several times, wherever we could, and that’s all you’re getting out of me, Mrs. Gillian Westmarland.”
“So are you going to marry him?”
“Oh, Gillian, I don’t know.”
“Of course you know. I knew I was going to marry Johnny as soon as I met him, although I had horrible doubts at times. Did he ask you?”
“Well, not in so many words, but he wanted me to stay with him.”
“Hmm. Do you care about getting married?”
“I should, but I’d take him under any conditions.” Suddenly that truth was as clear as daylight to her. “I’m so torn. My father-”
“Your father,” Gillian said decisively, “would let you marry the local ratcatcher if that’s what you wanted. And he’d book St. Margaret’s, Westminster, for it.”
“Marco’s been on the run and could be again. I’ve been reading a bit about Mussolini since I came back. I’m worried about him.”
“You have reason to be worried,” Gillian broke in. “Rule of iron, but not as brutal as in Germany, although not far off. The Blackshirts enforce authority, those who disagree and speak out can be murdered. A lot of people have left, rather than face death or the prisons on remote islands. I quote from the revered leader, ‘ Italy wants peace and quiet, work and calm. I will give these things with love if possible and with force if necessary.’”
Emma felt a tiny, cold shiver snake through her. “You know a lot.”
