Never Leave Me by Margaret Pemberton Read Free Book Online Page B

the inky blackness of the Channel. If only the English would cross it! If only ships and planes and battalion after battalion of soldiers would bridge the narrow sea separating France from England! She pressed her fingertips against the icy coldness of the window pane. Such a narrow stretch of water and yet Hitler had not been able to breach it. England still remained unconquered and free. Her heart caught at the word. One day France, too, would be free.
    She turned away from the window, clasping her hands tightly, wondering if her father had already broached the subject of an additional member of household staff to Major Meyer. Would he give permission? And if he did so, would he permit her father to engage someone personally? Anxiety gnawed at her. Whatever else Major Meyer was, he was not a fool. She could quite well imagine him agreeing smoothly to her father’s suggestion that a cook be obtained and then, as her father thought the battle won, continuing in the hard, dark voice that sent shivers down her spine, that he himself would employ a suitable woman, thereby defeating the whole object of the exercise.
    â€˜Damn him,’ she whispered fiercely beneath her breath. He would know exactly what it was her father was trying to do and it would, no doubt, afford him cynical amusement.
    The hands on her small ormolu and porcelain clock stood at nine-fifteen. Surely by now the major would have left the breakfast-room where all meals were now taken? Enduring his presence at dinner must have been agonizing for her fastidious, well-bred mother. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, she opened her bedroom door and walked quickly along the landing and down the winding stone stairs that led to the hall.
    The door of the breakfast-room was ajar, the room empty. With a sigh of relief she crossed the hall and entered the main salon. For a moment shock held her motionless. The high-ceilinged room glowed in the light of the log fire and the oil lamps that her mother favoured. Her father was standing at ease in front of the fire, a pipe cupped in the palm of one hand, the other thrust deep into his trouser pocket as he said genially, ‘Lisette is the skier in the family. We have spent many vacations at Gstaad.’ He paused, looking up at her, his eyes meeting her shocked ones with sudden, crippling embarrassment.
    Major Meyer was sitting in the high-winged leather chair to the left of the fireplace, a glass of cognac in his hand, the top buttons of his tunic undone, a relaxed expression on his normally granite-hard features.
    For a moment there was a strained, taut silence with only the Major continuing to look at ease, and then her father said awkwardly, ‘Come in, ma chère. I was just telling the major what an excellent skier you are.’
    She sucked in a deep, steadying breath and moved forward. They needed the Major’s permission to bring a stranger to Valmy. A stranger who would defeat whatever end he was working towards. She sat down, straight-backed, at her mother’s side, her cool outward composure revealing none of her inner turmoil.
    Dieter’s eyes flicked across to her and then back, once again, to her father. He had been both relieved and disappointed that she had not joined them for dinner. He had known, of course, why she had not done so. Her father’s urbane explanation that she had a headache would not have deceived a twelve-year-old. She had been unable to face sitting down to eat with the invader of her home and country. He hadn’t blamed her in the slightest. If he had been in her position, he would have reacted in much the same way; possibly worse.
    Conversation at dinner had been, at first, stilted. The Comte had done his best to pretend that he was a voluntary host with an invited guest but the Comtesse had been unable to join him in the charade. Good breeding had determined that she be polite, but it was an icy politeness that would have frozen anyone less assured than