“Don’t say that.” She reached across the table and took his hand. He caressed her palm with his thumb, sending little shivers racing through her. She wanted to slide up beside him and lay her head on his chest and have him tell her everything would be all right. Instead, she let go of him, aware of the diplomatic staff sitting around them and pretending not to watch. She didn’t want to start any more rumors than their regular breakfasts might have already aroused, unwilling to face them or her deepening feelings for Robert.
“It’s worse. The Germans unleashed their thugs on the Jews last night in retaliation.” Robert added sugar to his coffee. “The reports coming in from Berlin are terrible. They destroyed businesses, set fire to synagogues, and killed a number of people.”
Amelia thought of the twisted rage on the faces of the soldiers who’d stood guard in front of the Jewish shops in Berlin. She could imagine them attacking their fellow countrymen. “Is anything being done about it?”
“International condemnation and outrage. President Roosevelt ordered the German ambassador home and there are rumors he won’t appoint a new one. The Germans are surprised by how quickly this has turned countries against them.”
“Let’s hope international pressure is enough to keep Herr Hitler in check.”
He shook his head to say he didn’t believe it any more than she did. So much for the bonne chance she’d wished him while he’d been in Italy. He might wear the tie tack but it hadn’t helped him or anyone slow down the wave of war threatening to crash over Europe. Despite Mr. Chamberlain signing the Munich Agreement with Herr Hitler at the end of September, the tension in Europe was increasing instead of simmering down.
What to do about Germany was the talk of the evening at Lady Williams-Taylor’s cocktail party in her impressive Paris townhouse. Amelia stood on the periphery of the guests in one of her pale pink Schiaparelli dresses shot with gold stripes along the wide skirt. She usually entertained a host of conversation partners at these events. Her status as Wallis’s cousin drew people to her but no one was interested in chatting her up tonight. They were too busy talking politics.
“Mr. Chamberlain was right to negotiate for peace,” the Duke insisted to Lady Williams-Taylor, Mr. Wenner-Gren, and a coterie of people in designer dresses and tuxedos. They held highball glasses and cigarette holders while debating the possibility of war as if speculating on a horse race and not something capable of ruining millions of lives. “He has the right idea. Give Herr Hitler the land he needs for his people and keep us out of war. Let the Germans have Czechoslovakia, it isn’t a real country anyway, simply something President Wilson created out of whole cloth with that damned Treaty of Versailles.”
“There’s no need to swear, darling,” Wallis reprimanded, smiling apologetically at the others.
“If there’s any time to swear it’s now. Those bloody fools in London will get us into a mess over this little bit of nothing. If I could’ve negotiated with Germany about Czechoslovakia ages ago and saved Mr. Chamberlain the bother, I would have. Herr Hitler is not a madman but a head of state to be reasoned with.”
“Mrs. Montague?” A voice pulled Amelia’s attention away from the conversation. “I’m Miss Heastie. Lady Williams-Taylor said I had to meet you.” A colored woman in a fine emerald-green satin sheath dress, her British accent tinged by a slight Caribbean flavor, shook Amelia’s hand.
“I’m glad to finally meet you. Lady Williams-Taylor has told me about you.” She understood why Miss Heastie hadn’t accompanied her employer to Berlin. Herr Hitler had no more love of colored people than he did of Jews. His fury over Jesse Owens winning the gold medal at the 1936 Berlin Olympics was legendary.
“How are you enjoying the party?” Miss Heastie asked.
“I’ve heard a number of very interesting things since I’ve been here.”
“They do love their gossip. Speaking of which, have you heard Mr. Dalí has taken up with Mademoiselle Chanel?”
“Madame Schiaparelli will be jealous.”
“Won’t she just. Tell Her Royal Highness as soon as possible. Employers love it when you give them juicy news, especially when they’re among the first to know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” It was good advice she’d never heard from Mrs. Bedaux but she supposed employers liked to believe their staff didn’t gossip about them. Another of the many illusions everyone maintained to keep society running smoothly.
“Want to get away for a few minutes? I know where we can take a breather.”
“I don’t know if I can. Her Royal Highness might need me.”
“They’re pretty well occupied and won’t miss us. One of the footmen will find us if they do.”
With Wallis deep in conversation with Lady Williams-Taylor and Mr. Wenner-Gren, now was as good a chance as any. “All right.”
Amelia followed Miss Heastie through the house, pausing at the study door to look at the large portrait of Herr Hitler staring menacingly out at her from over the fireplace. “Lady Williams-Taylor has interesting taste in art.”
Miss Heastie rolled her eyes. “That, she does.”
“How do you manage it?”
“The same way you and every other secretary does. We take the good with the bad, and there’s more good to Lady Williams-Taylor than bad. She was the only one willing to hire and train me after I graduated from high school. Most of society wasn’t as open-minded as she was.”
Odd, considering her political leanings. “I understand. Her Royal Highness isn’t perfect but she’s done more for me than almost anyone else.”
“I knew we’d get on splendidly.” Miss Heastie led Amelia into the kitchen, where the staff greeted Miss Heastie with happy waves and smiles. “Señor Garcia, let me know if anyone is looking for me. You know where to find me.”
“Sí, señorita,” the chef answered with a wink.
“He’s from Cuba, and the best chef this side of London, but don’t tell your Duchess that. These aristocrats are so particular about their chefs’ reputations. To hear them tell it they all have the best one but I’ve eaten at enough houses to know that’s not true.” Miss Heastie took two cola bottles from the icebox, popped off the caps on the wall opener, then led Amelia outside onto the narrow balcony off the kitchen. Miss Heastie handed Amelia a cold bottle, the moisture of it dampening the palm of her satin glove. “I don’t want to get you in too much trouble.”
“I haven’t had cola in ages.” Amelia enjoyed the sweet taste and fizz. It reminded her of long-ago summers with Father and Peter when they used to sit on the back porch of their lake house during the hot and humid evenings. She missed them and those simple days.
“Lady Williams-Taylor keeps it in stock for the maids and footmen. A little taste of home when we’re here.”
“Where’s home?”
“All over.” Miss Heastie set down the cola bottle and wrapped her gloved hands over her bare arms for warmth. The chilly fall air was preferable to the smoke-filled sitting room. “Lord Williams-Taylor is the Bank of Montreal manager so we spend time there or at their apartment in New York or here, but mostly at Star Acres, their estate in The Bahamas.”
“How long have you been with her?”
“Five years. I grew up in Nassau. My father owns a number of businesses there, but he really made his money running rum to Miami during Prohibition. I learned to read on his boat while we waited offshore for American clients.”
And Amelia thought she had a scandalous past. “Does Lady Williams-Taylor know?”
“It’s why she hired me. She used to buy from Pops.” Miss Heastie took a drink of her cola. “She looks like a proper English lady but when she speaks you’d better not be easily offended or a gentleman in tight trousers or you’ll hear about it.”
“No!”
