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Group Captain Montague's Mission By Vivienne Marcus One: The young British officer stood straight as a musket on the varnished wooden floor of the office on the seventh floor of the Whitehall Headquarters of the Secret Service. There were three other people in the room. Ahead of him, sitting behind an imposing oak desk topped with well worn dark green leather was a short gray-haired man in a dark brown tweed suit. He had a neatly trimmed moustache. A straight pipe was clamped in his mouth, unlit. Standing to his right was a tall, attentive man wearing the uniform of an Air Commodore in the RAF. He was carrying a brown leather portfolio of documents. To the left, in an easy chair by the empty fireside was an older man in dark clothes who regarded the proceedings over steepled fingers but said nothing. The room smelled of old libraries and pipe smoke. It was dimly lit from the walls, and from time to time the bulbs flickered slightly as if the electricity supply was not constant. The windows were blacked out with thick paper. An antique grandfather clock measured out the time in sonorous ticks. The officer looked ahead expectantly. The tweed-suited man removed his pipe and spoke first. He did not introduce himself. He looked down at a dossier on the desk and studied it for a few moments. "Group Captain Rupert Hawthorne Montague," he began. "Schooled at Repton. Educated at Oxford in European Languages. Is this so?" "Yes sir," confirmed the officer. "Old Windy still there, is he?" "Professor Windsor is the Chair of Languages, sir." "Tedious old bugger, as I recall. Still," he paused to take a deep breath. "You come highly recommended. First class degree. French. German. Italian, all fluently. Makes your subsequent training in the RAF a bit of a change of scene then." Montague said nothing. "Good job we did train you up, though. Explosives, firearms, sabotage, encryption. The Commodore here says that you are an excellent marksman and a fine officer." He paused again, and looked over at the dark suited man by the fireside, who nodded very slightly. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Devil of a business, this," he went on. "But we need someone of your talents for something of a special mission. Think you have the goods?" "Do my best, sir." "Fine, fine," he murmured absently. "The French resistance is, as you may know, doing sterling work to keep the Huns busy in occupied France. We do our best to keep them supplied with munitions and equipment but mostly they are struggling with precious little. There's this Countess, near Avignon. Seems her husband was captured by the Jerries, and might be dead. She is the local figurehead for the resistance and she keeps Whitehall up to date with intelligence by radio reports every week. Anyhow, it seems she has put in a request for a saboteur to help her local worthies, and that's where you come in." He went on. "You're a languages expert, nifty with a pack of dynamite, a trustworthy officer, and you're not married. We need you to parachute in there and meet up with this Countess and help her out as best you can. You'll be over there on your own for a few months. Find out what you can, blow up the odd bridge, and try to train up the locals to help you out. But it is imperative that you are not discovered as a British agent. Secrecy is paramount." "Can we trust this Countess, sir?" "Absolutely. She's been indispensable. Your orders are to do whatever she tells you, until you have the lie of the land and can act on your own. We'll get progress reports by radio. If things get a little tight we'll try to get you out. You are to tell no-one about this mission." "When do I leave, sir?" "Tomorrow night. There's a plane going over to drop off a crate with some supplies. You'll parachute out and be picked up by a local member of the resistance. The Countess will arrange for you to be kept hidden until the mission is over. The details are in these documents. Commit them to memory and then destroy them. Questions?" "None, sir." Montague had been trained not to ask questions. "Right then. Dismissed." Montague came to attention and saluted. He nodded to the other two men in the room, and marched smartly to the door. It closed behind him. The room was silent for a few moments. The coal in the fire settled, spitting a few sparks. The Commodore spoke first. "This is a suicide mission, sir. I've seen those papers." The tweed man inhaled deeply. "Perhaps. But this Countess is one of the lynchpins of the war effort. I know that she won't let us down. She has an excellent plan to keep him away from the Jerries. He fits her requirements exactly. And she's got that bloody great mansion of hers to hide him in." "Can we trust him to follow orders?" "Well, we have to. If he doesn't follow orders, he'll end up being captured and interrogated." He shuddered. "Bloody awful business." He looked across at the dark suited man by the fire who met his gaze and held it steadily. Two: The towers of the stately home were silhouetted against the dark sky. Montague hid in deep undergrowth by the side of the long driveway. He had been left here half an hour earlier by a local resistance member who had been watching and listening for his aeroplane. His drop had been straightforward, but his ribs ached a little where he had landed awkwardly in the dark. The crate, which had fallen a few hundred yards away, had been swiftly retrieved by a gang of four men and placed under a heap of straw on the back of a farm cart, and driven away into the night. His instructions were to approach the house and gain entry before daybreak. It was imperative not to be caught in the open in daylight. From studying the plans he knew there was a drawing room in the South wing which opened onto some lawns. He had waited until there was absolute silence before approaching. He crept on his stomach through the undergrowth. There was a large open area in front of the main entrance. It was completely dark with no sound. He crept over the gravel to the wall of the house, and backed up to it. He began to sidle round the wall to the south. His heart was pounding and his palms were slick with sweat. He caught his breath as he saw the faintest light from the windows in the drawing room. A candle, possibly. He glanced into the room, then retreated once again into darkness. The memory of his glance was imprinted in his mind. It was an elegant room, high-ceilinged, lavishly furnished in late Renaissance style with landscapes and portraits around the walls. A young woman sat in a chaise longue embroidering by the light of a triple candelabrum. She was tall and elegant with long dark hair draped luxuriantly around her shoulders. She was dressed in a cream silk nightgown. He glanced around again, and was surprised to see the chaise longue empty. His heart began to beat faster. He retreated once again into the darkness. He was sure that she was the Countess. His instructions had been to make contact as discreetly as possible, but he did not want to force an entry, which might frighten the girl. He waited, to consider his options. He did not have to wait long. With a gentle click the French windows were opened wide to the night. He caught a rush of warmth from the room with a hint of perfume. Between the windows stood the young woman. She was breathtakingly beautiful, with opalescent skin which seemed to glow in the moonlight. She did not look at him, but stood looking south over the clipped lawns and, beyond, to the orchards and vineyards he knew were there. Montague clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. In a voice as soft as silk, she whispered in French, "I have been expecting you, Group Captain Montague". He made no sound, but stood, bewildered. There was a pause. Then she said, still looking ahead, "Won't you come inside? The night is chilly." She turned and walked back into the room. Montague looked around. What if it were a trap? But the Countess had returned to her chaise and picked up her embroidery. Stealthily he walked around to the windows and stood just inside. "Please, shut the windows," said the Countess, without looking up. He did so. He turned back, silently. She looked up at him finally, and stood. She was tall, the same height as he. She exuded the poise and elegance of a lifetime's good breeding from fine French aristocracy, but Montague sensed a core of steel behind the soft exterior. She took a deep breath, appraised him coolly and without embarrassment, then wrinkled her nose. "You are filthy." She said, then softened a little. "But I am forgetting my manners. I am la Comtesse Sylvia Genevieve Lavoisier de l'Ancherre." Montague stood to attention and bowed slightly. "Comtesse. I am Rupert Montague, Group Captain, his Majesty's Royal Air Force." He spoke confident and unaccented French. She smiled faintly. "But, mon capitain, no longer. You realise that you must assume a disguise while you are here in order to hide you from our occupiers. It will be wise for you to forget who you are." Montague nodded. He had expected as much. The Countess spoke again. "We will begin immediately. Please take off your muddy boots. I will arrange for the mess here to be cleaned. I am not sure that I can trust all the servants, so we must be discreet. Come." She picked up the candelabrum. Montague took off his boots and followed the Countess through the cavernous building. She led him up a grand staircase and along a wide hallway. She stopped outside an elegantly carved doorway. She unlocked it with a small key which she kept under her gown. She led the way into a large bedchamber. She closed the door behind them. The room was not lit, and shadows from the candles danced gloomily across the walls. Montague could make out a bed, several large armoires, another chaise longue by the window, an escritoire and some other large furniture, but no distinct details about the room. "You will be my cousin who is visiting from Lyons," she said. "This is your suite. We will bathe you now, and we will begin the assumption of your disguise immediately. From now on you will speak only in French, and you will no longer refer to yourself as Rupert Montague. You will do exactly as I tell you at all times, or the charade will be over and we shall both be taken prisoner, and many more lives beside ours will be lost. Is that clear?" Montague nodded. "My orders are to follow your instructions without question." "Bon. You will now remove your clothes. All of them." Montague hesitated. "Come, come, there is no room for embarrassment here." Montague shrugged. He removed his black flying suit and his utility belt, then his long woolen underwear. Standing naked in the room, he was suddenly cold. He looked down. His arms were caked with mud. The rest of his body was grimy and sweaty. The Countess regarded him with no hint of shame. "There is much to be done," she commented. She led him to an adjacent room. It was a bathroom. A large marble bath was built into the middle of the floor. The bath was filled with hot soapy water. The room was warm and the air thick with perfumed steam. The water looked inviting. "Please, enter the bath, and wash," said the Countess. "Just before the war broke out we had piped hot water put in. It was the new fashion, my husband said." She looked straight ahead for a moment. "I heard that your husband was captured," said Montague. "Whatever you may think, mon capitain, my husband is alive," she retorted vehemently. She turned to face him suddenly. "Before his capture I was happy to live the life of the kept woman. But now I am forced to take charge here. I will not stand by while the Occupiers move into my land, confiscate my estate and capture my family." Her eyes flashed with passion. "And together we will make them suffer for it." Montague nodded. He stepped into the bath. The water was pleasantly warm, as a hot bath becomes when it has been waiting for a while. He sank up to his neck in the soapy warmth and gave a groan of pleasure. He began to scrub away at the dirt on his hands and arms. The Countess nodded. "And now," she said, "your new identity." "Your cousin, so you said," said Montague. He was relieved not to be kept as a farmhand and made to slop out pigs as part of his disguise. Still, the locals might not all be trustworthy, as the Countess had said. Masquerading as a member of the French aristocracy was a much more pleasant prospect. "Your name shall be Viscomtesse Violette Catherine de Chauvigny de Lyons." "I'm sorry, what did you say?" said Montague in English. He almost choked on the words. "Ah, but of course," said the Countess. "They did not tell you of this in London. I should perhaps have expected not. And please, speak only in French." "They told me there would be a disguise, but not as a bloody woman!" "But, my dear Group Captain, or should I say, dear Viscomtesse," she paused and laughed liltingly a moment, "this is the perfect disguise. No-one from even among the servants will suspect you, when your training is finished. Even our occasional visits from the Germans will not cause problems. You will rise above them all, or we shall both be killed. And lots of famous spies have dressed as women throughout history. You have no doubt heard of the famous Chevalier D'Eon de Beaumont." "But I can't - I mean, that is, I don't know how to -, and then there is all the -" spluttered Montague. "Do not worry. We will take care of everything. Tomorrow you will meet with Madame de Veuvray, who was my governess as a child. Her absolute loyalty can be assured. And she was the principal of a finishing school before the war. She will extensively educate you in matters of speech, of dress, of deportment, of etiquette. You will become a woman, in all ways. From now on you will dress as a woman at all times, even at night." Montague gulped, then shook his head slowly. The Countess opened a mirrored cabinet. From his position in the bath, Montague could only glimpse its contents, but there were several bottles and jars and what he took to be women's beauty aids. She took out a small bottle and two glasses. She poured a small measure into each and gave him one. "And now, a toast, Mademoiselle Viscomtesse," she said. "To the Maqui and their resistance effort." She drank. The liquid in the glass was honey coloured and syrupy. It was Chartreuse liqueur, enticing and sweet. He sipped gently. He felt suddenly exhausted, but his mind was spinning at the prospects before him. He opened his mouth to speak. "No more questions, Viscomtesse," said the Countess. She laughed softly and liltingly. "We will begin your training tomorrow. Sleep now." She stood and left the room. Montague got out of the bath and dried himself with a soft warm towel. He went back into the bedchamber, where a lighted candelabrum was beside the bed. By its light he could tell that the room was completely furnished as a woman's boudoir. His military equipment and clothing had all been removed. There was a generous four-poster bed, quilted with deep blue and scattered with pillows. Draped over it was a long creamy silken nightgown. By the window was a large dressing table, its surface covered with jars and perfumes, and a set of silver-handled hairbrushes. The walls were hung with elaborate tapestries. He picked up the nightgown, and it felt so soft and delicate in his rough hands. He could not bear to put it on. Still naked, therefore, he climbed into the bed, which was the most comfortable he had ever been in. A warming pan had recently been left in it, and it was deliciously cozy. He blew out the candle and listened. There was only silence. He put his head on the soft pillows which were faintly perfumed. He inhaled their scent deeply. It was not long before sleep claimed him. Three: The morning seemed to come immediately. Bright sunlight beamed into the room. Montague awoke, pleasantly unaware of his surroundings. Then the events of the previous evening came into focus in his mind. It all seemed so unreal, until he saw the nightgown draped on a chair by the bed. A silver tray stood on a stand beside the bed. In a small china pot was fresh hot tea. There were soft rolls, fresh butter, honey, and two boiled eggs. He made a swift and grateful breakfast. He wondered who the servants were and how they managed to come and go so silently. He heard footsteps outside the door, as of two people. It opened slowly. "Are you awake, ma cousine?" came the voice of Countess Sylvia. "I am," he replied. Through the door came the Countess together with an older woman. The Countess was looking radiant. Her hair was roped in a thick dark pleat which she wore over one shoulder. She was wearing a summery blue dress. She looked dazzling. She smiled. The older woman had silver hair fixed severely in a bun. She gave a polite but empty smile. She was dressed in black, reminiscent of a nun or a headmistress. She had clearly been very beautiful as a younger woman, and she was still handsome. "Viscomtesse, may I present Madame de Veuvray. Madame, the Viscomtesse, my cousin," began the Countess. Montague raised his eyebrows slightly. "Viscomtesse," nodded Mme de Veuvray. Montague nodded. He was still in bed, naked. "Madame de Veuvray," he responded. "You will rise now," continued the Countess. "We will begin the training today." Montague began to protest. "Of course, we know that you are naked. Do not feel ashamed. We know how it is for you British, but we French are considerably more at home with such matters," said the Countess. Montague got out of bed and stood in front of the two women. He felt embarrassed to be so on display. They regarded him impassively, as one would regard a horse for sale. "Mph," began Mme de Veuvray. "He is a little too hairy. And of course, there is the moustache. Thick arms. Rough hands. Good legs though. Not too big around the upper body. We can work with him, though there is much to do. We will begin with depilation. Come, mademoiselle Viscomtesse." She led the way back into the bathroom. Beside the bath there was what looked like a doctor's examination couch. "You will please lie down," said Mme de Veuvray. Montague complied. Mme de Veuvray went to the sink and began to run steaming hot water into it. She opened the mirrored cabinet and took out a black pot, which she put into the water. She then took a pair of silver tweezers from a small dish. "First, the eyebrows," she said. "This will hurt only a little." Methodically she began to sculpt his eyebrows with a practised hand. Montague began to wince and his eyes watered a little. She then transferred her attention to his moustache and his unshaven face, plucking out the hairs one by one. "Well, really, I say!" Montague began to protest, but she silenced him with a severe look. Meanwhile Countess Sylvia had gone to the sink. She removed the pot. "The wax is ready," she said. "I will begin." She took out an elegant spatula and began to smooth the creamy wax onto his legs. When the wax was set she peeled it off sharply. Montague cried out in sudden pain. When he looked down, there was a smooth pink area on one of his legs. "Lie down," the Countess commanded, "There is much more to do." The two women worked, between Montague's yelps and protests. Much to his embarrassment, they insisted to remove his pubic hair and wax his scrotum and around his anus. "It will prove easier in the long term if we start now," Mme de Veuvray had said. When they were finished, Montague looked down. His chest, his genitals, his legs and his arms and armpits were all completely smooth and hairless. The skin was inflamed and angry-looking. The Countess began to rub soothing salve into the irritated skin. "The pain will soon settle down," she told him. They surveyed their handiwork. They brought a small mirror for him to see his face. Already it looked softer and younger, and the delicate arch of each eyebrow looked much more feminine. Mme de Veuvray nodded approval. "Alors, we proceed to the next step," she said. "Corsetage." They led him back into the bedroom. An armoire was opened to reveal a series of corsets of all shapes and colours. Mme de Veuvray selected one carefully. It was white, and full length from neck to hips. The laces trailed on the floor. There were empty cups where the breasts should be. "You must step into the garment," she told him. He complied. She instructed him to turn around to face away from her and began to lace up the corset with ruthless tugs of the laces. "This is a training garment," she commented. "It will not be necessary to wear it constantly once the figure becomes established." As the corset tightened its embrace around him, Montague gasped. His RAF training had not prepared him for any of this. Still, orders were orders. It felt ferociously tight and already cut down his breathing. Mme de Veuvray expertly tied up the laces, wound up the loose ends and tucked them into a tiny pocket in the back of the garment where Montague knew he could not reach them. He realised that he would not be able to free himself from the corset. From a trunk in the bottom of the armoire she took out two gutta-percha breast forms. They were a delicate shade of pink, soft to the touch, and each had a small nipple tastefully protruding. These she placed in the empty cups of the corset. She adjusted them minutely, then nodded, satisfied. The Countess Sylvia brought a pair of white silk stockings from a drawer. Montague was unable to bend down, and they helped him put them on in the standing position. The sensation as she drew them up his smooth legs was exquisite, and he was quite unprepared for it. The Countess delicately fastened them to the bottom of the corset with delicate gold suspender clips. Finally the Countess brought a pair of white knee-high lace-up high-heeled kid leather boots. They had square but elegant toes and a small bow at the back on the heel. They were slightly too small, and it was a squeeze to get them on. These she tightened up and fastened the laces in a neat bow at the back. The transformation was astonishing. As Montague viewed himself in the full-length dressing mirror, he was awestruck. Gone were the square torso and heavy male posture, replaced by gentle feminine curves and a very shapely waist, with a delicately pronounced but definite bust. His heels were lifted by the boots, which made both his bottom and his breasts prominent. He could only walk in a clumsy half-stagger in the new heels. Any discomfort he felt was offset by the awe he took in his new appearance. "And now, dressage," said Mme de Veuvray. She went to another armoire and brought out an ivory dress, which, from sleeves to hem was flamboyantly embroidered. Delicate lace detailed every edge and hem. The skirts were lavish, and possessed several layers, which lent the dress a very pleasing profile and a slight train. The two women lifted the dress over Montague's head, and he obediently held up his arms into the sleeves. As the dress slipped over his body, and snuggled down around him, it seemed to fit perfectly. The Countess gently fastened the row of delicate buttons up the back. Mme de Veuvray nodded approval once again. "Hair and make-up," she said. She took a dark object from the depths of an armoire, and as she brought it closer Montague could see it was a wig of exceptional quality, of the same long dark hair that the Countess Sylvia possessed. "These are hand made in Paris," commented Mme de Veuvray. "Each costs half a million Francs." She slipped the wig onto his head and he immediately felt the weight of the dark tresses slide luxuriantly around his shoulders and down his back. The Countess brought him in front of the dressing table, and opened cases of make-up and jewelry. There was only the gentlest prick as she pierced each of his ears in turn and inserted a gold and diamond ear-ring. She began to gently powder his face, rouge his cheeks, and line his eyes as Mme de Veuvray began to manicure his fingers, and enamel them with a deep red lacquer. She put Belgian lace gloves on his hands, gold rings on his fingers and a string of pearls around his neck. Finally, a soft breath of heavenly perfume from a bottle on the dressing table to complete the disguise. When they were finished, Montague could barely believe it was still him. In the mirror gazed back a beautiful young aristocratic woman. He turned this way and that to enjoy the view. Clearly, no expense had been spared to complete the deception. Deep inside himself he began to feel a sensation he had not experienced before, that of pleasure, and a deep and bewildering sense of comfort in his new apparel. For the first time he was aware of an awakening, of a slight pressure in his crotch, which had not been present before. The Countess and Mme de Veuvray gave no sign of noticing. They smiled at each other in satisfaction. "The appearance is good, no?" said Mme de Veuvray. "But it is not enough to appear like a woman. One must also learn to walk, to talk, to eat, to act, to even think like a woman. We will begin with your elocution and deportment lessons this very day." "And what of the sabotage and my espionage activities, Comtesse?" asked Montague. "Tsch! This must wait until your disguise is complete!" said the Countess. "We cannot risk your activity until your deception is absolutely reliable. And you must address me as Sylvia. After all, we are cousins now, non?" Montague turned again to the mirror. It was remarkable, he felt, that indeed the Viscomtesse Violette Catherine de Chauvigny de Lyons had indeed come to life. For Group Captain Rupert Hawthorne Montague, things were never to be the same again. Four: There was a distant disturbance. Far-off sounds of shouting, of slamming doors, and of running feet could be heard. A maid burst into the room in. Her eyes widened in surprise as she saw Montague. She approached the Countess and bobbed a tiny curtsy before whispering rapidly into her ear in French. Sylvia's eyes widened a little. "Quickly, you must allow them to enter. Do not obstruct them in any way. We will meet with them in the arboretum: you must bring us tea and gateaux." She turned to Mme de Veuvray and the new Viscomtesse Violette. "The Germans are here. Sometimes they descend on us without warning. We must test your disguise sooner than we planned. Quickly!" She led the way out of the room and along the corridor to the back stairs. Violette gathered up her skirts in her hands and skipped clumsily along behind. Mme de Veuvray went in the opposite direction along the corridor and Violette could hear her shouting instructions to the staff. She teetered down the stairs, at the bottom of which were double glass doors leading out into a pleasant glass arboretum. In the centre of the arboretum was a Greek statue forming the centrepiece of a fountain. The Countess made Violette sit on the edge of the fountain, and carefully arranged her skirts around her in a state of pleasant repose. "Hold your hands together on your lap! Say nothing, even if they speak to you. We must not lose you so soon!" She sat in a wicker chair herself, and tried to look composed. Two German military officers, tall and blond and blue-eyed, entered the room in a brisk military march, carrying their caps under their arms. It was clear there were more German soldiers following behind. They were immaculately dressed in dark grey German uniforms, with red armbands. Each wore the sinister black badge of the SS on his lapel. The senior one stopped in front of the Countess, clicked his heels, and bowed sharply from the neck. She looked completely at ease and smiled pleasantly. "Heil Hitler!" he began. Violette stiffened. Her pulse was racing. She was finding it difficult to breathe in the corset and feared she might faint. That part of her that was Montague was terrified of discovery, and had never been so close to the enemy. "Oh, Herr Oberleutnant, how nice of you to visit us again. We must have tea." She picked up a dainty bell and rang it softly. "Fraulein Countess, this is not a social visit. We have intelligence that an enemy plane flew over near here last night and dropped something, possibly even a man, into the area. We are simply asking around the area if anyone has seen or heard anything." "Is it always necessary to bring a truck full of soldiers to ask a few polite questions, Oberleutnant?" asked Sylvia sweetly. "I can assure you there is no man here." "You will understand the difficult situation I am in," continued the officer. "I must be seen to be vigilant, or bad reports about me may get back to Berlin. And, if an agent were dropped, he might be a very desperate and dangerous individual. I would like your permission to search the house." "Once again?" she sighed. "Again." His smile was friendly but fixed. "And if I refuse?" "Then, dear Fraulein Countess, we will search anyway." "Oh very well then. But do try to stop your men from spitting on the floor this time." "They have done this?" His face wrinkled in distaste. "I regret to inform you that this was so, on your last visit." "I will personally punish any man who does. There is no need for such unpleasantness." He turned and issued orders in rapid German to the men behind him. Violette, who understood every word, could not see how many men were behind the door, but there sounded like at least twelve. The soldiers split up to search the rooms one by one as they had been ordered. She hoped that all her equipment had been safely hidden. The officer turned back to the two women. "And who is this charming creature?" he asked. "Oberleutnant Richter, may I present my cousin, the Viscomtesse de Lyons." The oberleutnant came over to stand in front of the Viscomtesse. He clicked and bowed. "My lady," he said. Violette was pale. She held out a trembling hand, gloved in Belgian lace. He took it, kissed it, and smelled deeply. "Ah, Parisian fragrances. How rare they are becoming in occupied France. So, what brings you here, Viscomtesse?" He looked into her bright blue eyes, which were wide with fright. Sylvia interrupted quickly. "The Viscomtesse is here to stay with me for a few months. Her husband is away on business." "Ah, business," said the officer. "What kind of business?" "The Viscomte is an exporter of fine wines. Since the war, he has had difficulty procuring new stocks, and his market has all but dried up," said the Countess. "But you, lovely Viscomtesse, why don't you speak?" said the officer. He leaned closer and scrutinised her intently. She tried hard to meet his gaze neutrally. "There is no need to be frightened of me. I am not a barbarian, you know." Violette indicated her throat with a trembling hand. "I- I'm afraid that I have a very bad throat infection," she began in a tiny whisper. She coughed delicately. "The doctors say I must rest my voice completely." "I am sorry to hear that, Viscomtesse," said the officer. He straightened, as the maid brought in the tea on a tray. "Well, perhaps we will have tea after all," he said, and smiled. He sat in another chair. His companion sat down also. There followed fifteen minutes of extreme tension. Violette tried to drink her tea as delicately as possible, with her little finger in the air as she had seen fine ladies do in England. But she felt clumsy and awkward. The corset was biting into her thighs, the boots were too tight, and the wig was hot and itchy in the warmth of the arboretum. She said nothing, but tried to follow the conversation in an interested manner. For her part, Sylvia looked as if she were entertaining old friends. Relaxed and happy, she chatted and joked with the Germans. Finally the soldiers returned. They had found nothing. The German officers stood up. In turn, they bowed to the ladies and kissed their hands. Then they thanked the Countess for the tea and turned to leave. "One last thing, Fraulein Countess," said Richter. "We are having a formal dinner reception on Saturday evening. We would be delighted if you would join us, with your lovely cousin here, of course." "But we already have plans for Saturday," said Sylvia. He clicked his tongue. "Very well. However, I know that you yourself have a very fine collection of wines in your cellar, from the Chateaux LaTour and Yquem in Bordeaux. They would make a fine booty to be sent back to Berlin as a gift for the Fuhrer and his staff." The Countess met his gaze intently. "Then Saturday it is, Herr Oberleutnant." "Splendid!" he grinned, full of bonhomie. "Seven o'clock sharp at the municipal buildings. We shall send a staff car for you. And I hope, Fraulein Viscomtesse, that your voice has recovered by then." He clicked his heels again, and left the room. Copyright (c) 2001 by Vivienne Marcus.