‘So do you have a theme for our Christmas extravaganza yet?’ asked Fitzroy.
It is rare for the spymaster to deprive me of words. I have known him a long time. Long enough to even know his Christian name is Eric, although I remain unsure about his surname. He promised me, near the start of our relationship as co-workers, that he would never lie to me. And he doesn’t. He does, however, frequently commit the sin of omission.
‘What Christmas extravaganza?’ I asked, injecting as much ice as possible into my tone.
Fitzroy brushed this off, as easily as water off the proverbial duck’s back. ‘Oh, your husband knows all about it. He’s totally on board.’
‘Bertram knows?’
‘Unless you have divorced and remarried without my knowledge, which is highly unlikely for multiple reasons I shall not enumerate. Yes, Bertram knows all about it.’
‘Will you kindly stop speaking nonsense and tell me what is going on?’
Fitzroy stretched his long legs out in front of the fire and positively lazed in his chair. A thing no gentleman should do in the presence of a lady, but he is, as he would remind me often, no gentleman. This, despite being the son of a duke – if that part can be believed. He has, after all, never told me which duke or even made the slightest attempt to introduce me to his family. This, despite the fact he often makes himself at home in my family.
We were sitting in the smaller saloon in White Orchards, an estate Bertram had bought without consulting me, and which was in all manner of ways quite awful. Bertram loves the wildness of the Fens, and the bleak flat open landscapes. I do not. I much prefer being in town, or really anywhere else. Fitzroy also seems to enjoy the environs and as he so often stops by between missions we have given him his own set of rooms, which he rather rudely locks up when he is not present. I have yet to tell Bertram that he not only locks the rooms, but has in fact changed the lock.
Before the war we worked together, but more and more he is going on solo missions that I suspect take him behind enemy lines. Our boss, Morley, who in most cases Fitzroy never heeds much, has taken to heart the idea that being of the female persuasion I must not go into hostile territory. It is quite ridiculous. I have often been in hostile lands, and faced hostile foes; why the outbreak of actual war should make this any different I have no idea. For now, more than ever, they need good field agents. As Fitzroy says, and this is true, espionage has two purposes. Ideally it prevents the outbreak of open warfare. When this fails, it is used to bring the conflict to a speedier end than the Top Brass (as Fitzroy calls them in a voice dripping with sarcasm) can manage.
‘Why am I hosting a house party? I hope you’re not expecting people to dance.’
‘Don’t you have a ballroom?’ said Fitzroy, frowning.
‘Good God, man, you’re here often enough to know the estate inside out.’
He blinked a bit at that. ‘I suppose I didn’t really think about it. I just assumed . . .’
‘That I had a ballroom lying around here somewhere in this nasty little—’ I broke off as my husband strolled into the saloon, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He bent down and gave me a peck on the cheek.
‘I was wondering if you might like a game of chess before luncheon, my dear?’
‘We are in the middle of a serious conversation,’ said Fitzroy with some impatience.
‘Talking about a nasty little what?’ said Bertram, standing up and raising an eyebrow at the spy. I gave Fitzroy a rather imploring look, and I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. He had me, as he might say rather crudely, over a barrel.
‘Your wife was referring to the edge of your south lawn. It has been afflicted with some virulent infestation, and she was concerned that it might look unfortunate during the house party.’
‘Infestation,’ said Bertram in a worried voice, as he flopped into a chair. His newspaper fell to the ground unheeded. He is something of a germophobe. Although, to be fair, he has a weaker constitution than most.
‘Little green flies or some such thing. Your gardener will be able to sort it out. Euphemia isn’t, at heart, a country girl. It’s nothing at all to worry about. Now what theme do you think we should have for the house party?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about that,’ said my husband, bestowing a condescending smile on me, and settling back against the cushions. ‘Did you say there was a budget, Fitzroy?’
‘A budget, not a windfall!’
‘Oh tosh, we’ll use our own people. Will hardly cost a penny. They’re damn good at doing such things – the ones who haven’t already gone to war, that is.’
Fitzroy gave me a look that clearly said, ‘They would need to be.’ I didn’t find it funny, and turned my gaze on the Persian carpet. It would need to be cleaned properly before we had proper visitors.
‘Anyway, I was thinking,’ continued Bertram, ‘that we could modify the doors between here and the drawing room, and turn it into a ballroom in case we want to dance. The other saloon and the morning room would suffice for the buffet and a resting area. Then people could spill over into the hallway.’
‘How many people are coming?’ I asked in horror.
‘Between thirty and fifty, I should think,’ said Fitzroy. ‘Plus your own family.’
‘We cannot house so many people!’ I said in horror.
‘Yes, well,’ said Fitzroy, ‘you’d be amazed where bachelors will sleep. One can always fit in more people than one imagines. All works out. Especially at Christmas. All good cheer and all that.’
‘We can’t,’ I protested.
‘Afraid you’ll have to,’ said Fitzroy. ‘Some of the invitations have already gone out.’
‘But we haven’t even decided a date!’
‘The thirteenth of December, with a couple of days either side for those travelling, and some general discussion. You should be free of them for Christmas itself. Just myself and whoever else of the family you choose to invite. Same as usual. It’s about time you did a Christmas dinner for the neighbours too, isn’t it? If you really don’t have enough room, you could cajole them into helping out with a special dinner later.’ He rose and smoothed out his jacket. ‘It’ll be fun. You’ll enjoy it, Euphemia. Must be ages since you and Bertram had a good dance.’
‘It’s another bloody diplomatic attempt to end the war, isn’t it? Last time we tried that, things went from bad to worse.’
‘Well, the body was a little inconvenient, I admit. However, this time there won’t be a politician in sight.’
‘Then who?’
‘Who else but people like us? Spies, Euphemia, spies!’
It was the most ridiculous and ill-considered scheme I had ever heard of – a spy party. What arrant nonsense.
Fitzroy, having announced the plan, promptly disappeared the next day, leaving me torn between worry that he had gone back behind enemy lines and annoyance that he was simply hiding from my ire. If the army had formally commandeered our home, I should not have been happy, but at least it would have been a straightforward matter. But this! Another crazy idea of my spying partner. It might be genius, but it was equally likely – or more likely – to be an utter disaster.
The consequences of this plot didn’t bear thinking about. How our boss, Morley, had been talked into this, I had no idea. But whether I wanted the thing or not, by the time the scheme was revealed to me, Fitzroy and Bertram between them had it well under way. Mrs T, my capable housekeeper, was already sorting out the accommodations. Our cook, Mrs Warburton, moaning loudly about so much work, had already stocked up on provisions, pickled everything imaginable, had the ice house checked, made pie after pie, and was now testing various recipes out on us with varying degrees of success. In other words, she was enjoyed herself enormously. Our butler, Giles, strode about doing some serious butlering preparation. This, I suspected, included sorting and rearranging not only our wine cellar, but the large crates of wines and spirits that had started to arrive at the house. Always immaculate, a sole strand of hair now bounced on his forehead as he made his way busily about the house. If he went on like this for much longer he would need a new jacket, his chest was becoming so puffed up with pride.
It was all as unstoppable as a steam train. My only recourse was an attempt to modify the damage. And even there I was thwarted. Griffin, Fitzroy’s major-domo, had arrived and was conferring with my housekeeper, Mrs T. Instead of being appalled by this excess during wartime, she, like my cook, had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the scheme and was suggesting even more things that could be pickled, poached and candied. Along with Giles, they spent evenings, from what Griffin told me, poring over dinner menus and seating arrangements. The latter was proving especially hard to do as they did not know who was attending. Instead, they spent time imagining possible guests and arranging them. Griffin told me it had become quite the evening parlour game below stairs.
We were still some weeks from the event when I entered the hall and smelt the distinctive aroma of Christmas cakes baking. Cinnamon, cloves and something subtly citrus. It was quite divine, and if I hadn’t known for whom they were being cooked I would have been quite cheered. As it was, I went to hunt down Bertram in the smoking room and give him a piece of my mind.
Obviously, a smoking room is for the gentlemen alone. It is an utterly disgusting habit, but Bertram had installed his room before he married me, and it was one of his few pleasures now that he had become too unwell to ride. Although it was barely past midday I found him ensconced behind a left-wing newspaper that he occasionally writes for, pipe in his mouth, puffing like a small dragon, and with a brandy at his elbow. I moved stealthily towards him.
‘I don’t know why you should consider yourself safe in here,’ I said. ‘I have been known on more than one occasion to—’
I got no further as Bertram started in surprise at being so accosted. The newspaper fell from his hands, and the pipe from his slackened jaw. His brandy, caught by the edge of his rising elbow, went wild and hurtled across the room spraying alcohol left and right. I managed to dart back so it missed me. ‘Dear God, woman, do you want to give me a heart attack?’
Obviously, I wanted to do nothing of the kind, but I said, ‘If that gave you a shock wait until you have a house filled with spies! You have no idea what they will get up to. There will be shocks around every corner.’
‘Dammit, Euphemia! I used to be involved in the spy-game too. Don’t you think I know what’s involved?’
I cast my eyes down and said, ‘Your paper is on fire.’
Bertram stood up and immediately trod on the offending article, but he had forgotten he was wearing soft slippers, which began to smoulder. I gave a cursory look around the room and located the soda fountain. I snatched this up and spurted soda water copiously over Bertram’s feet. ‘Are you hurt?’ I asked.
‘Those were my favourite tartan slippers, Euphemia. I had only just worn them in.’ He sat down again and began to examine the ruins.
These were not the most auspicious circumstances in which I could persuade my husband to cancel the party and repel all boarders (in the form of Fitzroy).
This was of course exactly what I wanted. Since Bertram’s health had forced him to take a back seat, I had gone on missions with Fitzroy where I had been shot at, was frequently in terrible peril and had even been forced on some occasions to take a life. I had been circumspect describing my adventures when I returned home, as I did not wish to cause Bertram extra worry. As I am a fully fledged agent of the Crown, he didn’t have the option of demanding his lady wife stay home. But now as I watched him picking mournfully at his slippers I knew I did not want to tell him the truth of what I experienced – ever. He had an image of me that not only he cherished, but I realised then and there I also cherished.
‘I do not want to bring the business into our home.’
Bertram looked up and frowned. ‘You have a secret office here. That man has his own rooms that he locks – locks in my own house. And we have had political parties before.’
‘Firstly, Fitzroy may lock the doors all he likes, but both Mrs T and I have master keys,’ I lied. Bertram opened his mouth to protest, but I caught the complaint before it was uttered. ‘You had one too, but you have misplaced it. And, yes, we had a party with diplomats and politicians. This is a far different event. These are spies, dammit! They might all be foreign Fitzroys!’
Bertram paled at the thought but shook his head like a hunting dog shaking off the miseries of lake water. ‘Don’t swear, Euphemia. It doesn’t suit you. Aping that damned man,’ growled my husband.
‘Look, Fitzroy is being opaque about this whole thing. He seems to think he has everyone under control, and yet he doesn’t even know who is coming.’
‘Of course he does,’ blustered Bertram. ‘Well, he knows who he has invited. There’s a war on, dontcha know! Not all of them might be able to get across.’
‘No, they might be preoccupied acting against the Empire!’
He coughed in an angry way that he knew I particularly disliked. ‘That man assured me that invitees are professionals, and no side events, such as an ad hoc assassination, will occur. He has their word.’
‘Fitzroy keeps his word on the rare occasions he chooses to give it,’ I said more gently. ‘But there is no reason to think another spy would do the same.’
‘Like yourself, you mean?’
I was so utterly insulted by this remark that I walked out of the room.
‘Ring the bell for the maid,’ Bertram called after me. I gave the bell-pull a short, firm grasp and the wretched thing came away in my hand. I left it on the ground and stalked off.
Which is how Bertram and I became on non-speaking terms for the longest time in our relationship. In all, apart from the occasional ‘please pass the salt’, I don’t think we spoke for the better part of two weeks. Perhaps, if I had been more patient and tried gently to explain the risks, he would have seen sense and closed the event down. As it was, I was angry at having my word called into question, and also contrarily so, because Bertram was completely right. I would not hesitate to break my word if I deemed it necessary. The whole male code of honour has always seemed of a childish nature to me. I believe in doing what is necessary and getting the thing done. I already knew that both Fitzroy and Bertram would be appalled if I explained my perspective. So instead of helping in any way with the preparations, I retreated to my office and continued with the logistical planning I had been assigned while Fitzroy was in the field. I was so short-tempered with everyone that the household began to avoid me. Thus, I became both offended and rather lonely, which only embittered me further. I shunned the marital bed, and Bertram did not come looking for me. I suspect he was scared.
‘Peace offering?’
A ginger-haired man with a short moustache popped his head around my office door. He held out an enormous bouquet of red roses that clashed quite hideously with his colouring.
‘You’ve stopped dyeing your hair,’ I said. I stayed seated. Fitzroy came into the room and shut the door behind him.
‘You’re lucky I had time to bathe and shave. Been in the field for three weeks – and I do mean the ruddy field. Apart from deploring the death, blood and general slaughter, I do so hate the mud that comes with warfare.’
I looked at him more closely. The skin on his face had paled to an unhealthy grey, and while it stretched taut over the lower half of his face, and was hollowed by his cheekbones, there were new lines around his eyes. I got up and took the roses. ‘You’ve had a bad time. Your face is full of shadows.’
Fitzroy sat down on my desk, dislodging and then ignoring the papers he knocked on to the floor. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I have ever bought you flowers before, have I?’ he said in a bright voice.
‘I shouldn’t imagine you have bought them for Morley either.’
‘Oh dear, do you think he will be jealous? Perhaps I shouldn’t put that in my report?’ He hit his hand on his forehead. ‘What was I thinking? If Dotty learns of this, I’ll never hear the last of it. I should send her some pansies. I think she’s more of an herbaceous border type, don’t you?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea what an herbaceous border is, but I understand you are not going to fill me in on what you have been doing.’
‘I might,’ he said, dropping his playful tone, ‘but only when I can face it myself again. The Christmas party, Alice, it has to work. The way things are over there – it’s unspeakable – hell on earth – and a waste of life.’ He got up abruptly and turned his back to me. I waited for him to get himself back under control. On a mission, Fitzroy was cold, focused an. . .
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