Fic: To Take is Not to Give (4/??)
Title: To Take is Not to Give (Part IV of ?)
Author: lareinenoire
Play: 3 Henry VI / Richard III
Characters / Pairings: The York family, the Neville family, eventual Richard/Anne, Edward/Elizabeth
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 4103 (Part IV only)
Warnings: Violence (mostly offstage), character deaths, profanity. In this section, graphic depiction of childburth, deeply dodgy politics.
Summary: Richard York and Anne Warwick are far more alike than either wishes to admit.
NB: Dedicated to rosamund and angevin2, who are the reason it exists. Part of the 'Sweet Fortune's Minions' AU, set directly after An Exchange of Favours. Left out of 3HVI presumably for reasons of space is Warwick and Clarence's disastrous flight to France in 1470, where their ship was refused entry to Calais even taking into account the fact that Clarence's wife was nine months pregnant. Warning for somewhat graphic depiction of childbirth.
i. Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son
ii. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity
iii. I do but dream on sovereignty
iv. Anointed let me be with deadly venom
Anne could pinpoint the exact moment when her life shattered. Precisely thirteen minutes past four in the morning on the second of September 1939, when Bel threw open the door to her bedroom, shrieking like a cat.
"We need to go, Annie! Daddy says we must leave for Paris now! Wake up!"
Blearily, Anne threw a pillow at her. "Go away."
"Didn't you hear me?" Bel shook her by the shoulder. "We need to go. Now."
Pregnancy had sharpened Bel's already mercurial moods, and Anne dragged herself out of bed if only to avoid the headache likely to result if she continued to argue. "I'm awake, I'm awake. Leave me alone."
But Bel hovered over her, hands clamped over her swollen belly, until Anne had finished dressing. She had barely enough time to shove her jewel-case and the few books scattered round the room into a bag before Bel grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the corridor.
Their father was pacing back and forth in the front hall, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. "It's about bloody time! We haven't a moment to lose." Without waiting for Anne's inevitable question, he threw open the door and stormed out, leaving the sisters staring after him in baffled silence.
"Girls! Stop dithering." Mother emerged from her bedroom, carrying a small suitcase and looking for all the world like she was heading out on holiday to some glamorous resort. "I've had your things packed since last night. Now, go on!"
It did not take very long for the situation in the rear seat of the Bentley, where Anne was squeezed between George and Bel--Mother having refused to even contemplate a seating arrangement that might damage her precious ermine coat--to become simply intolerable. Her father, a reckless driver on the best of days, barely lifted his foot from the accelerator until they'd roared through Maidstone.
Bel's hand was clamped so tightly around Anne's that she winced. "Bel, you're crushing my fingers. Bel?"
But her sister did not respond, eyes screwed shut as a shudder ran through her. Outside the Bentley's windows, snatches of scenery flew past, too quickly to see. As the car jolted over the latest pothole, Bel whimpered, burying her face in Anne's shoulder.
"My God, Richard, must you drive so quickly?" hissed Mother. "Think of your daughter."
"We haven't got time, Angela. But, look." Meeting Bel's eyes briefly in the mirror, not long enough to see her distress, he smiled, "Almost there, sweetheart. I promise."
Against the dawn, Anne could finally see the outline of Dover Castle and, beyond it, the harbour. "Dover? Father, what on earth is going on?"
"We're going back to Paris, Annie."
"But..."
"I'll explain everything later."
Bel shuddered again, splaying her fingers across her belly. "Annie, I think I'm going to be sick."
"Just a little while longer, Isabel. I'm very sorry for this, dearest. If there'd been any way to avoid..." Mother trailed off as she caught sight of Bel's face. "Oh, Lord, Annie. Open the window!"
Despite the threat of her stomach, Isabel seemed to calm down as the breeze wafted into the car. "Thank you, Mummy. I think I'm better now."
The worry lines did not fade from Mother's face, even as they spilled out of the car; rather, they deepened when she caught sight of the small fishing boat awaiting them at the pier. "Richard, you cannot possibly be serious!"
"We can't call attention to ourselves, least of all on a ferry and least of all today." Already the cherry-red car had been taken away by a man Anne vaguely recognised as having worked for her father for some time. "Look at the sky, Angela. We'll be fine."
"Your daughter is due in six weeks. She can't travel like this--"
"I'll be fine, Mummy," Bel whispered. "George..."
"Atta girl, Bel," her husband said with a faint smile. "We've got rooms at the Hôtel Meurice again. You did tell me you loved it the last time."
Bel returned the smile and slipped her arm through George's as they crossed the gangplank. Anne lingered on the pier, gazing back at the castle though she could not quite think why.
"Annie!" Her father's voice called her out of her reverie and she made her way slowly on board. She watched until the white cliffs had receded into the horizon.
They were within sight of Calais when the squall hit, buffeting the tiny boat like a toy in a whirlwind. In the cabin, Bel was huddled in a corner, supported on either side by Anne and their mother, her skin waxen beneath the single lamp.
The boat hit a sharp wave, pitching Anne across the room. It was only then that she noticed the dark stains on her stockings, red streaks beneath the light. As she looked back at Bel, her throat seemed to constrict.
"Annie?" Mother's voice had risen, grown slightly shrill. "Annie, what's the matter?"
"Blood..." Anne whispered, certain she could barely be heard over the wind. "There's blood!"
Bel, who had been silent all this while, suddenly let out a piercing scream. Mother jumped to her feet, keeping her balance by kicking off her shoes. "Annie, you need to help me. It's the baby."
"The baby? But you said--"
"It's coming, whether we're ready or not," snapped Mother. "Now, bring all the clothing you can find. We need to keep her warm. And fetch your father's flask. Quickly, Annie!"
Anne stumbled onto the deck and immediately stumbled, catching hold of the ship's rail to keep herself steady. "Father! Father, where are you?"
She could see vague shapes in the grey haze as the small crew darted back and forth, trying to keep the tiny vessel upright. Among them, she soon found her father, crouched beside one of the engines, intent on something she could not see.
"Father! Father, please, I need you!"
"Not now, Annie! Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Damn it all, Father, Bel's having the baby!" At the words, he turned sharply, eyes wide. "She's bleeding everywhere, Father. Mother sent me to fetch your flask."
Wordlessly, he handed it to her. "I'll come as soon as I can."
"Where's George?"
He shook his head. Anne turned and ran back to the cabin as quickly as she could, the slippery metal flask clutched in one hand.
"I found it, Mother. Father says he's on his way."
Bel was lying on a makeshift cot composed of ropes and nets, the priceless ermine draped over her like a blanket and liberally spattered with blood. "Much good may he do now," snapped Mother, the fury in her voice catching Anne off-guard. "The bloody fool. The damned, accursed, idiotic--"
Snatching the flask from Anne, she held it to Bel's lips. "Drink, sweetheart. It'll dull the pain."
Bel took a few sips before turning her head aside with a groan. "Mummy?"
"I'm here, dearest. I won't leave you. Annie's here too. Now, we need you to push. Scream as loudly as you need."
Anne had no idea how long she had been kneeling there, her fingers crushed beneath Bel's, listening to her sister howl in agony when the cabin door swung open to reveal her father standing there, his face a mask of horror.
Mother noticed first, her eyes narrowed like a cat's as she hissed, "Get out! Haven't you done bloody well enough?"
For the first time, Anne saw her father flinch, one hand rising to cover his mouth. "I didn't know..."
"We should never have left London! Do you honestly believe Ned York would have harmed a hair on Bel's head? That his mother would have stood by and let anything happen to her grandson?" Her voice rose to a harsh cry as she threw the empty flask at him. "This is all your fault, you and your ambition, your fucking plans. Well? What have they come to now? Your daughter--our daughter, Richard--is dying in this godforsaken cabin, and for what?"
"Angela, don't." His voice was shaking, like bits of glass rubbing against one another. "This wasn't meant to happen--"
"I told you to get out, Richard." Mother swept one hand across her brow, leaving a streak of red across her face. "It's over."
"What do you mean?"
"The baby's dead." Her voice was raw and Anne could see tears tumbling out of her eyes. "Our grandson, Richard."
"Isabel?" he whispered, stumbling forward to kneel beside her. "What of Isabel?"
Mother shook her head and thrust a bundle wrapped in one of Bel's dresses into Father's arms. "I don't know. But I don't want her to see him. Get out, Richard."
"I'll do it, Mother," Anne said suddenly, and they both looked up, as if only now remembering she was still here. "You both stay here, in case Bel wakes up."
Cradling what ought to have been her nephew, Anne slowly emerged from the cabin to find the rain had stopped. That was when she saw George huddled near the prow of the ship, his face tinged with green.
The entire world seemed to stop as she stared at him, unwilling to open her mouth lest every curse she could possibly imagine emerge to swarm him. But it would be no less than he deserved. Slowly, she approached, holding out the tiny, broken shape wrapped in bloodstained green linen.
"Don't you want to see your son?" she asked, fury sharpening her words to icicles. "Don't you care that your wife nearly died? Doesn't anything but your own damned skin matter to you?"
"Bel?" he murmured. Even soaking wet, he reeked of gin, and his eyes were unfocused as he looked up at her. "What's happened?"
Anne ignored the question. After picking up several stray bits of metal tackle that had come loose, she tucked them into the folds of the ruined dress to weigh it down. As it disappeared below the surface of the water, she began to speak, her voice low and hoarse.
"That was your son, George York. Your son. And you're too drunk to care."
"I was scared!" He buried his face in his hands. "God help me, I was fucking scared."
"And you think Bel wasn't?" Anne held out her hands to him, still smeared with blood. "Get in there, you bloody coward."
"But it wasn't my fault!" George protested as he groped his way to his feet. "It was your father--"
"You could have said no," Anne said quietly. "She's your wife; you could have found some other way, even if you had to leave her in London. You let this happen, George. I will never, ever forgive you, so long as I breathe."
She turned and staggered away before he could see her cry.
***
They stayed in Calais for a fortnight and in a small cottage near Boulogne a week after that before finally taking the train to Paris. Father had been travelling back and forth, readying the house in the Marais for their stay--a stay that Anne now realised was permanent.
More times than she could count, she sat down to write to her friends in Cambridge, to Cecily York, to someone, only to set down her pen without a single stroke. What was there to say, really? That her father had thrown the full weight of his fortune and influence behind Adolf Hitler? That Bel still cried out in her sleep for a baby boy she'd already named Ned? That George returned every night stumbling and smelling of pastis? No, these things were better kept to herself.
Bel nestled into the seat, drawing her sable-trimmed collar closer to her face. The dark circles beneath her eyes were finally fading, and her penchant for spending hours on the beach had given her some colour. "Stop worrying about me, Annie," she said, smiling. "I'm feeling better, I promise."
"I'm not going to stop," Anne retorted. "But I'm glad to hear that, Bel." After a few moments staring blankly at her book, she looked once more at her sister. "Do you want to stay in Paris, Bel?"
"You mean live there?" Bel frowned. "I do like Paris, Annie. I don't suppose it would be terribly different from London."
"But...wouldn't you miss England? Even a little?"
"Of course I'd miss England, Annie, but you know we're not going to be here forever. Daddy says once this silly war blows over we'll go back to London."
Anne didn't have the heart to argue with her.
Rather to her surprise, it was well into November before Margaret Lancaster appeared to cement the alliance Anne's father had clearly made. Before that, however, she had sent an emissary.
But for the swastikas on his uniform, he would have been very fetching. As it was, Édouard Lancaster revealed a shyness quite at odds with Anne's impression of the Hitler Youth, though she suspected that had more to do with the awkwardness of the situation. Her father didn't help, having drawn Anne aside while Mother and Isabel greeted Édouard.
"I hope I shan't need to explain this to you, Annie." He had been quieter of late, more thoughtful ever since the awfulness of the Channel crossing; indeed, he'd been treating Isabel like a porcelain figurine, much to her annoyance. "He's a bit...committed to his superiors, perhaps, but I'm certain you'll get on."
"I'm certain he'll get on very well indeed with my inheritance," Anne said. "That's all this is about, at any rate. I can't imagine he cares one bit for my opinion."
"Annie, really." Her father sighed. "Must you be so difficult? Édouard Lancaster is a perfectly suitable young man--"
"He's a Nazi," she hissed. "Aren't we at war with them?"
"He is what circumstance made of him. Had we--and I include myself in this, Annie--had we not forced his parents to leave England, he'd have been no different from any of the boys you met in Cambridge."
Anne did not dignify this speculation with a response, only watched the chestnut-haired young man warily as he laughed with her mother. "His mother...you know what she did, Father. To Ne---Edward's father, to his brother..."
"That's in the past, Annie. We can't afford to dwell on it now; our circumstances are precarious as it is."
"That isn't my fault."
"Annie, I'm asking you to give him a chance. Don't judge him by that uniform." And with that, he left her side, shook hands with Édouard Lancaster, and chivvied Mother and Bel away, leaving Anne alone by the window.
On reflex, she sat down on the window-seat and turned to watch the lady from three doors down who always walked her poodle at three in the afternoon.
"Do you like dogs?" His French was perfect, with only the smallest hint of a German accent. She could only imagine it was his mother's influence.
Anne shrugged. "When I was small, we had a dog but he died before I went to Cambridge. He was named Jasper and he was the laziest dog in all the world." Unexpectedly, she laughed. "Father told me he was a hunter, but I didn't believe him."
"Your father...he wishes us to..."
Smile fading, Anne held up her hand. "I understand. But you must understand too that it's rather awkward for me. It must surely be for you."
"It is, yes," he confessed, sinking onto the seat beside her. "They do not teach us about girls at the Ordensburgen. It is all Germany and war." With a laugh, he added, "A bit boring, I think."
"Do you remember England?" The question popped out before Anne could stop herself.
Édouard thought for a moment. "Not very well. But I will be returning there soon."
"Truly?" Anne had to suppress a shudder. "Are you so certain?"
"Mademoiselle Anne--"
"Just Anne, please," she sighed. "Might as well get used to it," she added in English.
"We can speak English if you prefer," he replied in that language. The accent was more pronounced but she could understand him perfectly.
Oddly moved, Anne nodded. "You're very kind."
"I want things to be..." Édouard searched for the word, "easy. For us."
"I know you do," she said, looking at the ground. "And perhaps they will be, in time."
He folded her hand in his. Anne did not pull away and it seemed as though the distance between her and England had grown even greater.
They announced--or, more accurately, Father and Margaret Lancaster announced--their engagement on Christmas Eve. As a passing waiter refilled Anne's empty champagne glass, she could not help but think that it did not seem as though France was at war at all, at least not amongst the glittering crowd her parents had invited.
"Drink while you can. There will be no champagne when the Germans turn our way." She found herself looking into the dark, snapping eyes of Margaret Lancaster, both like and unlike those of her son. The older woman studied her coldly. "You disapprove."
"I don't know what you mean, belle-mère," Anne said, rather relishing the grimace that prompted. "Surely no girl would disapprove of anything at her engagement party."
"You have your father's tongue, fillette, and would do well to learn to muzzle it." Pulling a Gauloise out of a mother-of-pearl case, she lit it and exhaled a small cloud of smoke. "I did not ask for this, but beggars cannot be choosers and Édouard seems to find you tolerable enough. Ça suffit."
"I did not ask for this either, Madame."
"No, indeed. I know more of you than you think, Mademoiselle Warwick. Perhaps even more than you, yourself, know." One corner of her red-painted mouth twitched upward in a half-smile. "You should thank God, mademoiselle. Your father would have married you to a murderer, but instead, you shall marry my son."
"A murderer?" echoed Anne, frowning. "I beg your pardon?"
"I have spies of my own. And you may tell him this. I know he angled for Richard York--a man after his own heart, no doubt--but the cripple turned him down. If you want to know why your sister went through such agonies on the sea," she lowered her voice to an intimate murmur, "it was Richard who gave your father's name to the authorities."
Anne had to laugh, bitter as the sound was. "Of course he did. My father was a traitor and they both knew that. One must, according to Father, always look out for oneself." She had briefly considered revealing all she knew, but it hadn't been nearly enough to be useful. This is larger than my father and Ned. What surprised her was that Richard had listened.
Margaret made a sharp noise of disapproval. "I warned you to guard your tongue. Der Führer has ears in many places."
"I'm sure Mr Hitler has better things to think about than me." With her sweetest smile, Anne inclined her head to her prospective mother-in-law and turned away to look for Bel. Instead, she found her fiancé, cheeks flushed from champagne.
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
Anne shrugged, raising her glass. "Why shouldn't I be?"
"Maman can be a little..." There was something oddly endearing in his smile. "I do want you to like one another."
"Of course," was all she could say in response. "Time will tell, I daresay. What was my father saying?" A glance over his shoulder revealed Anne's father, apparently deep in conversation with a clutch of guests, at least three of whom were wearing strategically placed swastikas. "You all seemed quite amused."
"Oh, nothing of consequence." He could not hide the snicker. "Just a story about Edward York."
"Oh?"
He muffled his laughter in another sip of champagne before responding. "It would appear that, when your father found him before he left London, it was in quite the compromising position." After a dramatic pause, he added, "Tied to a bed with a pair of ladies' stockings."
Anne couldn't hide the smile that prompted. "Can't say as I'm surprised. It being Ned."
Édouard's smile visibly faltered. "You knew him well, then."
Anne wanted to retort that Ned York was hardly dead and to be spoken of in the past tense, but she bit her tongue. "Bel and I have known them all our lives. Much as you and Father may wish it, we can't simply forget that."
Draining the rest of her champagne, she set the glass on a passing footman's tray and made her way across the room, conscious of his disapproving eyes on her until she'd closed the door behind her.
***
Anne wondered what it meant that the first letter to congratulate her on her forthcoming marriage came from Cecily York. It was more a note than a letter, its sparse, unadorned phrases glinting like ice shards amidst the bouquets and incomprehensible cards from Father's friends.
I had hoped for better things for you, but I wish you nothing more than the strength to endure whatever is to come. You will always be welcome here. Do not forget that.
Anne tucked the note into her jewellery box and stared at her new engagement ring until Isabel appeared at the door to call her to supper.
"Bel?" Anne met her sister's eyes in the mirror. "You can't possibly approve of what Father's doing. George can't possibly approve."
Bel pretended great interest in her ring--a ridiculous thing purchased from Cartier for a small fortune. "Would it matter if I didn't, Annie?"
"That's not the point, Bel--"
"I asked you if it would matter." Bel finally looked at her, thinned lips making her look years older. "We both know the answer to that. Might as well make the best of it."
Anne, catching both herself and Bel completely by surprise, threw herself into her sister's arms.
As the Reich's forces advanced inexorably across Belgium, Anne began to notice more and more eyes on her whenever she accompanied Édouard anywhere, as if the uniform were a beacon--or, perhaps, more appropriately, some sort of scarlet letter. She learnt to keep her eyes ahead and pretend she did not see the stares. She even began to understand what drove George when he drank so much that he needed to be carried home from parties, much to Father's embarrassment. Bel just withdrew further and further into herself, except for the nights when she crept into Anne's room just as Anne had when they were young girls.
She knew that, if she truly wanted, she could leave. Though Father had taken to making certain she never left the house unaccompanied, servants and guards were easily bribed and Bel had a small fortune in jewellery. Of course, once she did leave, she had nowhere to go. The railways and roads out of Paris were clogged with people trying to outrun the SS, and not even all of her jewels and Bel's combined would buy passage across the Channel now.
Bel, when she admitted to having considered this, just gave a brittle bark of laughter. "Has it never occurred to you, Annie, that the Germans might win? And that, if they do, Father is like to make his fortune twice over?"
"It never occurred to me to care."
The Germans entered Paris three weeks before Anne and Édouard were to be married. In fact, Édouard had left her in the Lancaster appartement at the Ritz before dashing off at his superiors' request. Even from this distance, they could hear the announcements from the Champs-Elysées, barked through megaphones perched upon tanks.
They had won. Father had won. And yet it felt as though everything inside her had been hollowed out. As she watched Margaret Lancaster standing by the window, the ubiquitous cigarette in its ivory holder, she heard herself say out loud, "You must be satisfied with how it's all turned out."
Margaret turned from the window. Without seeming to see Anne at first, she said aloud in her own softly accented German, "Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird. Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein."
Anne shivered as the older woman's face came into view. Margaret's cigarette had long since burnt out and her cheeks was streaked with kohl-black tears. "He who battles monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze too long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." The smile that followed was ghastly. "Look with me, Anne Warwick. The abyss is just outside this window."
Author: lareinenoire
Play: 3 Henry VI / Richard III
Characters / Pairings: The York family, the Neville family, eventual Richard/Anne, Edward/Elizabeth
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 4103 (Part IV only)
Warnings: Violence (mostly offstage), character deaths, profanity. In this section, graphic depiction of childburth, deeply dodgy politics.
Summary: Richard York and Anne Warwick are far more alike than either wishes to admit.
NB: Dedicated to rosamund and angevin2, who are the reason it exists. Part of the 'Sweet Fortune's Minions' AU, set directly after An Exchange of Favours. Left out of 3HVI presumably for reasons of space is Warwick and Clarence's disastrous flight to France in 1470, where their ship was refused entry to Calais even taking into account the fact that Clarence's wife was nine months pregnant. Warning for somewhat graphic depiction of childbirth.
i. Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son
ii. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity
iii. I do but dream on sovereignty
iv. Anointed let me be with deadly venom
Anne could pinpoint the exact moment when her life shattered. Precisely thirteen minutes past four in the morning on the second of September 1939, when Bel threw open the door to her bedroom, shrieking like a cat.
"We need to go, Annie! Daddy says we must leave for Paris now! Wake up!"
Blearily, Anne threw a pillow at her. "Go away."
"Didn't you hear me?" Bel shook her by the shoulder. "We need to go. Now."
Pregnancy had sharpened Bel's already mercurial moods, and Anne dragged herself out of bed if only to avoid the headache likely to result if she continued to argue. "I'm awake, I'm awake. Leave me alone."
But Bel hovered over her, hands clamped over her swollen belly, until Anne had finished dressing. She had barely enough time to shove her jewel-case and the few books scattered round the room into a bag before Bel grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the corridor.
Their father was pacing back and forth in the front hall, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. "It's about bloody time! We haven't a moment to lose." Without waiting for Anne's inevitable question, he threw open the door and stormed out, leaving the sisters staring after him in baffled silence.
"Girls! Stop dithering." Mother emerged from her bedroom, carrying a small suitcase and looking for all the world like she was heading out on holiday to some glamorous resort. "I've had your things packed since last night. Now, go on!"
It did not take very long for the situation in the rear seat of the Bentley, where Anne was squeezed between George and Bel--Mother having refused to even contemplate a seating arrangement that might damage her precious ermine coat--to become simply intolerable. Her father, a reckless driver on the best of days, barely lifted his foot from the accelerator until they'd roared through Maidstone.
Bel's hand was clamped so tightly around Anne's that she winced. "Bel, you're crushing my fingers. Bel?"
But her sister did not respond, eyes screwed shut as a shudder ran through her. Outside the Bentley's windows, snatches of scenery flew past, too quickly to see. As the car jolted over the latest pothole, Bel whimpered, burying her face in Anne's shoulder.
"My God, Richard, must you drive so quickly?" hissed Mother. "Think of your daughter."
"We haven't got time, Angela. But, look." Meeting Bel's eyes briefly in the mirror, not long enough to see her distress, he smiled, "Almost there, sweetheart. I promise."
Against the dawn, Anne could finally see the outline of Dover Castle and, beyond it, the harbour. "Dover? Father, what on earth is going on?"
"We're going back to Paris, Annie."
"But..."
"I'll explain everything later."
Bel shuddered again, splaying her fingers across her belly. "Annie, I think I'm going to be sick."
"Just a little while longer, Isabel. I'm very sorry for this, dearest. If there'd been any way to avoid..." Mother trailed off as she caught sight of Bel's face. "Oh, Lord, Annie. Open the window!"
Despite the threat of her stomach, Isabel seemed to calm down as the breeze wafted into the car. "Thank you, Mummy. I think I'm better now."
The worry lines did not fade from Mother's face, even as they spilled out of the car; rather, they deepened when she caught sight of the small fishing boat awaiting them at the pier. "Richard, you cannot possibly be serious!"
"We can't call attention to ourselves, least of all on a ferry and least of all today." Already the cherry-red car had been taken away by a man Anne vaguely recognised as having worked for her father for some time. "Look at the sky, Angela. We'll be fine."
"Your daughter is due in six weeks. She can't travel like this--"
"I'll be fine, Mummy," Bel whispered. "George..."
"Atta girl, Bel," her husband said with a faint smile. "We've got rooms at the Hôtel Meurice again. You did tell me you loved it the last time."
Bel returned the smile and slipped her arm through George's as they crossed the gangplank. Anne lingered on the pier, gazing back at the castle though she could not quite think why.
"Annie!" Her father's voice called her out of her reverie and she made her way slowly on board. She watched until the white cliffs had receded into the horizon.
They were within sight of Calais when the squall hit, buffeting the tiny boat like a toy in a whirlwind. In the cabin, Bel was huddled in a corner, supported on either side by Anne and their mother, her skin waxen beneath the single lamp.
The boat hit a sharp wave, pitching Anne across the room. It was only then that she noticed the dark stains on her stockings, red streaks beneath the light. As she looked back at Bel, her throat seemed to constrict.
"Annie?" Mother's voice had risen, grown slightly shrill. "Annie, what's the matter?"
"Blood..." Anne whispered, certain she could barely be heard over the wind. "There's blood!"
Bel, who had been silent all this while, suddenly let out a piercing scream. Mother jumped to her feet, keeping her balance by kicking off her shoes. "Annie, you need to help me. It's the baby."
"The baby? But you said--"
"It's coming, whether we're ready or not," snapped Mother. "Now, bring all the clothing you can find. We need to keep her warm. And fetch your father's flask. Quickly, Annie!"
Anne stumbled onto the deck and immediately stumbled, catching hold of the ship's rail to keep herself steady. "Father! Father, where are you?"
She could see vague shapes in the grey haze as the small crew darted back and forth, trying to keep the tiny vessel upright. Among them, she soon found her father, crouched beside one of the engines, intent on something she could not see.
"Father! Father, please, I need you!"
"Not now, Annie! Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Damn it all, Father, Bel's having the baby!" At the words, he turned sharply, eyes wide. "She's bleeding everywhere, Father. Mother sent me to fetch your flask."
Wordlessly, he handed it to her. "I'll come as soon as I can."
"Where's George?"
He shook his head. Anne turned and ran back to the cabin as quickly as she could, the slippery metal flask clutched in one hand.
"I found it, Mother. Father says he's on his way."
Bel was lying on a makeshift cot composed of ropes and nets, the priceless ermine draped over her like a blanket and liberally spattered with blood. "Much good may he do now," snapped Mother, the fury in her voice catching Anne off-guard. "The bloody fool. The damned, accursed, idiotic--"
Snatching the flask from Anne, she held it to Bel's lips. "Drink, sweetheart. It'll dull the pain."
Bel took a few sips before turning her head aside with a groan. "Mummy?"
"I'm here, dearest. I won't leave you. Annie's here too. Now, we need you to push. Scream as loudly as you need."
Anne had no idea how long she had been kneeling there, her fingers crushed beneath Bel's, listening to her sister howl in agony when the cabin door swung open to reveal her father standing there, his face a mask of horror.
Mother noticed first, her eyes narrowed like a cat's as she hissed, "Get out! Haven't you done bloody well enough?"
For the first time, Anne saw her father flinch, one hand rising to cover his mouth. "I didn't know..."
"We should never have left London! Do you honestly believe Ned York would have harmed a hair on Bel's head? That his mother would have stood by and let anything happen to her grandson?" Her voice rose to a harsh cry as she threw the empty flask at him. "This is all your fault, you and your ambition, your fucking plans. Well? What have they come to now? Your daughter--our daughter, Richard--is dying in this godforsaken cabin, and for what?"
"Angela, don't." His voice was shaking, like bits of glass rubbing against one another. "This wasn't meant to happen--"
"I told you to get out, Richard." Mother swept one hand across her brow, leaving a streak of red across her face. "It's over."
"What do you mean?"
"The baby's dead." Her voice was raw and Anne could see tears tumbling out of her eyes. "Our grandson, Richard."
"Isabel?" he whispered, stumbling forward to kneel beside her. "What of Isabel?"
Mother shook her head and thrust a bundle wrapped in one of Bel's dresses into Father's arms. "I don't know. But I don't want her to see him. Get out, Richard."
"I'll do it, Mother," Anne said suddenly, and they both looked up, as if only now remembering she was still here. "You both stay here, in case Bel wakes up."
Cradling what ought to have been her nephew, Anne slowly emerged from the cabin to find the rain had stopped. That was when she saw George huddled near the prow of the ship, his face tinged with green.
The entire world seemed to stop as she stared at him, unwilling to open her mouth lest every curse she could possibly imagine emerge to swarm him. But it would be no less than he deserved. Slowly, she approached, holding out the tiny, broken shape wrapped in bloodstained green linen.
"Don't you want to see your son?" she asked, fury sharpening her words to icicles. "Don't you care that your wife nearly died? Doesn't anything but your own damned skin matter to you?"
"Bel?" he murmured. Even soaking wet, he reeked of gin, and his eyes were unfocused as he looked up at her. "What's happened?"
Anne ignored the question. After picking up several stray bits of metal tackle that had come loose, she tucked them into the folds of the ruined dress to weigh it down. As it disappeared below the surface of the water, she began to speak, her voice low and hoarse.
"That was your son, George York. Your son. And you're too drunk to care."
"I was scared!" He buried his face in his hands. "God help me, I was fucking scared."
"And you think Bel wasn't?" Anne held out her hands to him, still smeared with blood. "Get in there, you bloody coward."
"But it wasn't my fault!" George protested as he groped his way to his feet. "It was your father--"
"You could have said no," Anne said quietly. "She's your wife; you could have found some other way, even if you had to leave her in London. You let this happen, George. I will never, ever forgive you, so long as I breathe."
She turned and staggered away before he could see her cry.
***
They stayed in Calais for a fortnight and in a small cottage near Boulogne a week after that before finally taking the train to Paris. Father had been travelling back and forth, readying the house in the Marais for their stay--a stay that Anne now realised was permanent.
More times than she could count, she sat down to write to her friends in Cambridge, to Cecily York, to someone, only to set down her pen without a single stroke. What was there to say, really? That her father had thrown the full weight of his fortune and influence behind Adolf Hitler? That Bel still cried out in her sleep for a baby boy she'd already named Ned? That George returned every night stumbling and smelling of pastis? No, these things were better kept to herself.
Bel nestled into the seat, drawing her sable-trimmed collar closer to her face. The dark circles beneath her eyes were finally fading, and her penchant for spending hours on the beach had given her some colour. "Stop worrying about me, Annie," she said, smiling. "I'm feeling better, I promise."
"I'm not going to stop," Anne retorted. "But I'm glad to hear that, Bel." After a few moments staring blankly at her book, she looked once more at her sister. "Do you want to stay in Paris, Bel?"
"You mean live there?" Bel frowned. "I do like Paris, Annie. I don't suppose it would be terribly different from London."
"But...wouldn't you miss England? Even a little?"
"Of course I'd miss England, Annie, but you know we're not going to be here forever. Daddy says once this silly war blows over we'll go back to London."
Anne didn't have the heart to argue with her.
Rather to her surprise, it was well into November before Margaret Lancaster appeared to cement the alliance Anne's father had clearly made. Before that, however, she had sent an emissary.
But for the swastikas on his uniform, he would have been very fetching. As it was, Édouard Lancaster revealed a shyness quite at odds with Anne's impression of the Hitler Youth, though she suspected that had more to do with the awkwardness of the situation. Her father didn't help, having drawn Anne aside while Mother and Isabel greeted Édouard.
"I hope I shan't need to explain this to you, Annie." He had been quieter of late, more thoughtful ever since the awfulness of the Channel crossing; indeed, he'd been treating Isabel like a porcelain figurine, much to her annoyance. "He's a bit...committed to his superiors, perhaps, but I'm certain you'll get on."
"I'm certain he'll get on very well indeed with my inheritance," Anne said. "That's all this is about, at any rate. I can't imagine he cares one bit for my opinion."
"Annie, really." Her father sighed. "Must you be so difficult? Édouard Lancaster is a perfectly suitable young man--"
"He's a Nazi," she hissed. "Aren't we at war with them?"
"He is what circumstance made of him. Had we--and I include myself in this, Annie--had we not forced his parents to leave England, he'd have been no different from any of the boys you met in Cambridge."
Anne did not dignify this speculation with a response, only watched the chestnut-haired young man warily as he laughed with her mother. "His mother...you know what she did, Father. To Ne---Edward's father, to his brother..."
"That's in the past, Annie. We can't afford to dwell on it now; our circumstances are precarious as it is."
"That isn't my fault."
"Annie, I'm asking you to give him a chance. Don't judge him by that uniform." And with that, he left her side, shook hands with Édouard Lancaster, and chivvied Mother and Bel away, leaving Anne alone by the window.
On reflex, she sat down on the window-seat and turned to watch the lady from three doors down who always walked her poodle at three in the afternoon.
"Do you like dogs?" His French was perfect, with only the smallest hint of a German accent. She could only imagine it was his mother's influence.
Anne shrugged. "When I was small, we had a dog but he died before I went to Cambridge. He was named Jasper and he was the laziest dog in all the world." Unexpectedly, she laughed. "Father told me he was a hunter, but I didn't believe him."
"Your father...he wishes us to..."
Smile fading, Anne held up her hand. "I understand. But you must understand too that it's rather awkward for me. It must surely be for you."
"It is, yes," he confessed, sinking onto the seat beside her. "They do not teach us about girls at the Ordensburgen. It is all Germany and war." With a laugh, he added, "A bit boring, I think."
"Do you remember England?" The question popped out before Anne could stop herself.
Édouard thought for a moment. "Not very well. But I will be returning there soon."
"Truly?" Anne had to suppress a shudder. "Are you so certain?"
"Mademoiselle Anne--"
"Just Anne, please," she sighed. "Might as well get used to it," she added in English.
"We can speak English if you prefer," he replied in that language. The accent was more pronounced but she could understand him perfectly.
Oddly moved, Anne nodded. "You're very kind."
"I want things to be..." Édouard searched for the word, "easy. For us."
"I know you do," she said, looking at the ground. "And perhaps they will be, in time."
He folded her hand in his. Anne did not pull away and it seemed as though the distance between her and England had grown even greater.
They announced--or, more accurately, Father and Margaret Lancaster announced--their engagement on Christmas Eve. As a passing waiter refilled Anne's empty champagne glass, she could not help but think that it did not seem as though France was at war at all, at least not amongst the glittering crowd her parents had invited.
"Drink while you can. There will be no champagne when the Germans turn our way." She found herself looking into the dark, snapping eyes of Margaret Lancaster, both like and unlike those of her son. The older woman studied her coldly. "You disapprove."
"I don't know what you mean, belle-mère," Anne said, rather relishing the grimace that prompted. "Surely no girl would disapprove of anything at her engagement party."
"You have your father's tongue, fillette, and would do well to learn to muzzle it." Pulling a Gauloise out of a mother-of-pearl case, she lit it and exhaled a small cloud of smoke. "I did not ask for this, but beggars cannot be choosers and Édouard seems to find you tolerable enough. Ça suffit."
"I did not ask for this either, Madame."
"No, indeed. I know more of you than you think, Mademoiselle Warwick. Perhaps even more than you, yourself, know." One corner of her red-painted mouth twitched upward in a half-smile. "You should thank God, mademoiselle. Your father would have married you to a murderer, but instead, you shall marry my son."
"A murderer?" echoed Anne, frowning. "I beg your pardon?"
"I have spies of my own. And you may tell him this. I know he angled for Richard York--a man after his own heart, no doubt--but the cripple turned him down. If you want to know why your sister went through such agonies on the sea," she lowered her voice to an intimate murmur, "it was Richard who gave your father's name to the authorities."
Anne had to laugh, bitter as the sound was. "Of course he did. My father was a traitor and they both knew that. One must, according to Father, always look out for oneself." She had briefly considered revealing all she knew, but it hadn't been nearly enough to be useful. This is larger than my father and Ned. What surprised her was that Richard had listened.
Margaret made a sharp noise of disapproval. "I warned you to guard your tongue. Der Führer has ears in many places."
"I'm sure Mr Hitler has better things to think about than me." With her sweetest smile, Anne inclined her head to her prospective mother-in-law and turned away to look for Bel. Instead, she found her fiancé, cheeks flushed from champagne.
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
Anne shrugged, raising her glass. "Why shouldn't I be?"
"Maman can be a little..." There was something oddly endearing in his smile. "I do want you to like one another."
"Of course," was all she could say in response. "Time will tell, I daresay. What was my father saying?" A glance over his shoulder revealed Anne's father, apparently deep in conversation with a clutch of guests, at least three of whom were wearing strategically placed swastikas. "You all seemed quite amused."
"Oh, nothing of consequence." He could not hide the snicker. "Just a story about Edward York."
"Oh?"
He muffled his laughter in another sip of champagne before responding. "It would appear that, when your father found him before he left London, it was in quite the compromising position." After a dramatic pause, he added, "Tied to a bed with a pair of ladies' stockings."
Anne couldn't hide the smile that prompted. "Can't say as I'm surprised. It being Ned."
Édouard's smile visibly faltered. "You knew him well, then."
Anne wanted to retort that Ned York was hardly dead and to be spoken of in the past tense, but she bit her tongue. "Bel and I have known them all our lives. Much as you and Father may wish it, we can't simply forget that."
Draining the rest of her champagne, she set the glass on a passing footman's tray and made her way across the room, conscious of his disapproving eyes on her until she'd closed the door behind her.
***
Anne wondered what it meant that the first letter to congratulate her on her forthcoming marriage came from Cecily York. It was more a note than a letter, its sparse, unadorned phrases glinting like ice shards amidst the bouquets and incomprehensible cards from Father's friends.
I had hoped for better things for you, but I wish you nothing more than the strength to endure whatever is to come. You will always be welcome here. Do not forget that.
Anne tucked the note into her jewellery box and stared at her new engagement ring until Isabel appeared at the door to call her to supper.
"Bel?" Anne met her sister's eyes in the mirror. "You can't possibly approve of what Father's doing. George can't possibly approve."
Bel pretended great interest in her ring--a ridiculous thing purchased from Cartier for a small fortune. "Would it matter if I didn't, Annie?"
"That's not the point, Bel--"
"I asked you if it would matter." Bel finally looked at her, thinned lips making her look years older. "We both know the answer to that. Might as well make the best of it."
Anne, catching both herself and Bel completely by surprise, threw herself into her sister's arms.
As the Reich's forces advanced inexorably across Belgium, Anne began to notice more and more eyes on her whenever she accompanied Édouard anywhere, as if the uniform were a beacon--or, perhaps, more appropriately, some sort of scarlet letter. She learnt to keep her eyes ahead and pretend she did not see the stares. She even began to understand what drove George when he drank so much that he needed to be carried home from parties, much to Father's embarrassment. Bel just withdrew further and further into herself, except for the nights when she crept into Anne's room just as Anne had when they were young girls.
She knew that, if she truly wanted, she could leave. Though Father had taken to making certain she never left the house unaccompanied, servants and guards were easily bribed and Bel had a small fortune in jewellery. Of course, once she did leave, she had nowhere to go. The railways and roads out of Paris were clogged with people trying to outrun the SS, and not even all of her jewels and Bel's combined would buy passage across the Channel now.
Bel, when she admitted to having considered this, just gave a brittle bark of laughter. "Has it never occurred to you, Annie, that the Germans might win? And that, if they do, Father is like to make his fortune twice over?"
"It never occurred to me to care."
The Germans entered Paris three weeks before Anne and Édouard were to be married. In fact, Édouard had left her in the Lancaster appartement at the Ritz before dashing off at his superiors' request. Even from this distance, they could hear the announcements from the Champs-Elysées, barked through megaphones perched upon tanks.
They had won. Father had won. And yet it felt as though everything inside her had been hollowed out. As she watched Margaret Lancaster standing by the window, the ubiquitous cigarette in its ivory holder, she heard herself say out loud, "You must be satisfied with how it's all turned out."
Margaret turned from the window. Without seeming to see Anne at first, she said aloud in her own softly accented German, "Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird. Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein."
Anne shivered as the older woman's face came into view. Margaret's cigarette had long since burnt out and her cheeks was streaked with kohl-black tears. "He who battles monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze too long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." The smile that followed was ghastly. "Look with me, Anne Warwick. The abyss is just outside this window."